Sphereshifters: Aleph (Story Arcs 1, 2) Read online

It's dumb here.”

  Dumb, right. That wasn't the word Lancer would have used. Gloomy, maybe. Depressing, sure. The Umbral Stand was all of those, and a few more, too. The place wasn't so bad once you got used to it, as long as you didn't go too far in, closer towards the Archaic's workshop.

  Lancer remembered the stories. The Archaic used to make toys for the village children, distributing them twice a year during summer and winter solstice. It caught on and parents bought their kids presents for those two occasions, too. Then everyone started exchanging gifts. That stopped a year before he was born.

  The Archaic never showed himself, preferring isolation. The gifts just appeared, with a note. Then one year a toy automaton sparked in its paper wrapping and caught fire. The fire spread, burning down one of the villager's houses. Blame grew, until the house owner involved accused the Archaic of lighting the fire intentionally. The man went to exact revenge, never returned, and no one saw or heard from the Archaic again. Stories circulated throughout the village about an evil man in the woods, growing to huge proportions until everyone either believed them or said nothing against them.

  Lancer had believed. Except on a dare(and a child's whim) he'd infiltrated the Archaic's workshop when he was ten. The only horrible doom that met him was a plate of fresh cookies and a glass of milk across from a middle-aged man wearing an oily frock. He never visited again, but the Archaic didn't seem so bad.

  Why would he kidnap Rei, then?

  “Lancer, there's bugs,” Francine whined.

  Why had she come again? “Squish them.”

  “Ew, there's a gross vine over there.”

  “We aren't even going in that direction.”

  “It's so dark I can't see my feet.”

  “It's not that dark! Please, quiet.”

  Inky dusk was seeping into the sky, but the Archaic's workshop loomed ahead of them, lantern light creeping through dusty windows and offering them a guided path towards their destination.

  “I'm scared,” Francine said, latching onto Lancer's arm. “I heard he eats people. He ties them up and puts them on a spit and spins them over a fire or he gags them and puts them on a platter and shuts them in an oven or--”

  “Does he?”

  “He doesn't do any of that,” Lancer said, matter-of-factly. “I'm pretty sure he doesn't, anyways.”

  Lancer didn't understand why his consolation made Francine squeeze his arm harder and practically throw herself into him until he looked over his shoulder. Following her gaze, he saw the shady figure of a man wearing patchwork clothes and a mottled fedora. The skin on his face and hands(the only skin bare) gleamed silver from the far-off shine of the workshop lanterns and his eyes glimmered dark red like conflagrant coals.

  “I'm sure he doesn't either,” the man said, his voice filled with amused curiosity. “People, I've found, lack substance. No amount of spices can remedy that.” Lancer recognized him, the Archaic.

  Francine screamed bloody murder. The Archaic approached with a smile on his face.

  A Recluse's Baubles

  It took everything Lancer had to stop Francine from screaming. The Archaic watched, saying nothing, smiling, while Lancer held Francine's arm as she tried to run away. Eventually she gave up, calmed to the level of a skittish squirrel, and hid behind Lancer.

  The Archaic, noting this change of attitude, invited them in for tea.

  Lancer sat at the far end of a long wooden table, Francine at his side, while the Archaic boiled a pot of water on a metal grate hanging over a spherical iron stove. Francine pouted, nervously tapping her foot against the floor in an unstoppable and incessant beat.

  Lancer, on the other hand, was content. The Archaic had provided a plate of cookies before excusing himself to make tea. Being the amiable sort, Lancer took full advantage of his host's hospitality, crunching into one of the sweet sugar cookies and waiting. He checked around the dusty room, eying an assortment of cast-iron pans hanging from hooks on the walls. A little odd, and he didn't remember this many pans last time he'd visited, but maybe the man liked pans. Who was he to judge?

  In a side room, visible through a small door with its curtain pulled to the side, was a smelting station situated around a large furnace. Gusts of hot air whooshed through both rooms whenever an automated bellows stoked the fires of the furnace. After being in the Archaic's workshop for only a few minutes, cookie long since devoured, Lancer began to sweat.

  Francine pulled at his shirt sleeve. "Lancer? Can we go? Can we find Rei and go?"

  "Shh," he said. "Let's accept his tea and then bring it up. I'm sure it was a misunderstanding."

  The Archaic whistled a catchy tune while he boiled the water. When the spout on the side of the pot whistled along with him he stretched his hand into an industrial strength safety mitt. Taking the pot from the grate, he swooped it around towards the table. Free hand procuring cups from somewhere below the tabletop, he clinked three down, dribbled hot water into them, then set the pot on the table. A half second later, from out of the half apron he wore, he grabbed and tossed three bags of tea, one for each cup.

  He sat at the table, taking the seat farthest from them. "Hello, children."

  "Hey there," Lancer said.

  Francine stared at her tea like it might sprout limbs and throttle her. She said nothing.

  "I imagine you're here for your friend," the Archaic said, almost casually. His silvered fingers picked up his teacup and he tilted it towards his mouth. Water dribbled out, onto his lips, and splashed across his shirt, none going into his open mouth. "Oh, dear."

  "What did you do with Rei!" Francine demanded all of a sudden.

  Lancer bit into another cookie, talking with his mouth full. "If you could please tell us where my sister is, we should probably get going soon. It's a little late. Maybe we can come back tomorrow?"

  "The master should finish with her shortly," the Archaic said. His bright red eyes flared, intense. "Do you know what he's done all these years? He has figured out where he went wrong. Would you like to know how?"

  "Master?" Lancer asked.

  "The Archaic," the Archaic(or apparently not the Archaic) said. "I look like him, but I am a mere replica. The eyes and skin should give it away."

  Lancer choked on his cookie. He'd thought the man was sick in the dim light: tired red eyes and dust covered skin, not glowing gems and silvered plating.

  "What went wrong?" Francine asked, the words coming out slow and quiet as she looked at the simulacrum with renewed fear. Her foot stopped tapping the floor, only the constant, gasping bellows in the other room making any noise now.

  The leaden Archaic smiled with glee. "Crafting a toy and then giving it to someone has too many steps. Error can leak its way in if you aren't careful, and sometimes even if you are. Then how should we make someone happy, you ask?" He waited; neither answered. "Simple. Remove the step of giving. Person and toy become one. No need for messy wrapping paper or worrying about the person losing their gift. They have it always with them."

  "You're turning my sister into a toy?" Lancer asked, choking on his tea and swallowing hard to force a cookie chunk down his throat.

  "Lancer." Francine's fingers threatened to stop the flow of blood in his forearm. "I'm scared."

  "A doll," the false Archaic said, ignoring Francine's terror. "Isn't that pleasant?"

  The Archaic's Introduction

  Jonathan Douser was knocking on his door. Sanford, or the Archaic as the villagers called him because of his propensity towards antique toys, frowned. What did he want? The fire was an accident, not his fault. Some impatient child must have went searching for his gift on the night he knew Sanford delivered, toggled with the toy before reading the user's manual, and lit the package aflame with sparks from mismanagement.

  Sanford loved children, he did, but sometimes they acted so ill-mannered he wished he could refuse them gifts. A ledger, he often thought, with lists for good children and the less-than-exceptional, would work wonders. He couldn't do tha
t, though. Playing favorites, no matter the reason, caused resentment, which would ruin the good children's fun. A person couldn't enjoy a gift if hooligans, who wouldn't receive any, bullied them about it.

  Jonathan knocked again, insistent. Sanford rose from his chair, grimacing. This better be quick, he had business to attend.

  Jonathan was preparing another knock when Sanford opened the door. Fist raised, the pounding he intended to inflict upon the door evident from clenched, white knuckles, Mr. Douser shot a look of contempt at the Archaic before lowering his hand.

  "Yes?" Sanford asked. "What is it?"

  Jonathan's fury grew, hands restrained at his side, tense and ready for action. "Burn my house, ask what I want? Whatcha think, Sanford? Recompense. You owe me."

  "I do? What for?"

  Jonathan blinked. Sanford enjoyed this, knowing he irritated the man. Let him repeat himself, hear the folly in his accusation, then perhaps they could come to an understanding.

  "You burned my--" Jonathan started to say.

  "Stop there," Sanford interrupted. "By you, you mean one of those brats you fathered, correct? Because I--and I know this for truth--burned nothing down, let alone your house, as you intended to say. The mistrained and impudent children you and your wife are rearing in that--let's not mince words--wretched shack ransacked my pile of presents and knew not what they dealt with. It's hardly my fault if a child burns their house down, is it? Would you blame me if--what's your snotty older daughter's name?