From the unedited manuscript, herein lies the fifth chapter from The Breaking of Worlds I: The Wedge in the Doorway, my first novel.  (Reformatted for web presentation).  This is posted as much for your review as it is for your comment—good or bad.

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Since convenience supplies available inside Perenson’s fulfill my shopping requirements, The Food Bin won’t receive my business this day. Sweets will subdue my craving while I finish the novel. Approaching the end of a new book holds no promise of success if not powered by vices. That’s true for me and I believe it’s true for any artist.

Sugary foods happen to embody my weak spot. For the last pages of the text my mind spews, Twinkies, Hostess CupCakes, Mrs. Baird’s Apple Pies—Or was the name changed to Fruity Apple Pies?—and a short list of other goodies must remain on hand. This custom doesn’t change.

As my agent and my publisher know, my writing habits allow me to finish my novels without blathering mindlessly through the last few chapters, although they don’t concern themselves with the specific mechanisms involved. With thirteen published novels and a munificent advance pocketed for the latest, I need no additional proof that the sweets work. Brody Wojtaszek, my literary agent, and his counterpart at Penguin give not a single thought to what it takes; they know the process works and makes the cash register bells ring, and they have no interest in knowing more.

But empty calories need assistance seeing me through the end of my fourteenth book. Additional aid comes in the form of beer. Essential to feeling accomplished, a drunken exploration of everything that follows the last word of a novel must take place. Call it a celebratory revel that begins prior to THE END hitting the final page. I can’t send the manuscript to Brody in the morning without first waking with a hangover. While illicit drugs aside from marijuana rarely involve themselves lest I ramble aimlessly and ruin the tale, sugar and alcohol must participate.

Of course, prior to Beth’s accident the process didn’t include as much drink and drugs since THE END led directly to the beatific rapture of passionate lovemaking. We got our workouts those nights—sometimes through to the following afternoon. When I finally climbed out of bed or off the couch or up from the floor—wherever we finally ended our romp—I would shake off postcoital distraction and rush to the computer to Hail Mary the electronic document to Brody. He would receive it with some cheap explanation for why he obtained the text a day late. Each excuse involved its own original fiction. I take pride in that creativity.

He cares little for my pretexts and equally cares little about taking delivery of the work a day late. It always arrives a day late. And it always makes a profit. He cares only about getting his mitts on it so he can begin the editorial-to-publication process.

***

Bronze and battered from years of abuse, the trusty cowbell above the door clangs its declaration that someone has entered Perenson’s. Adding to the ringing announcement, I toss a wave across the store and peal, “Good afternoon, Eli.”

“Howdy, Mr. Crichton,” he responds from behind the counter.

“I wish you’d call me Dave.” I don’t look at him as I head toward the beer coolers at the rear of the store.

“That ain’t right proper seein’ as you’re a customer. Outside you’re Dave but in here you’re Mr. Crichton. Hell, son, even your ma is Mrs. Crichton when she rings that bell.”

I smile. The same old conversation. Inside, he easily becomes Eli Perenson, purveyor of convenience items and gasoline, yet he can step outside and become Eli, neighbor and friend. The world could use more of that service attitude.

Labels in his beer cooler have the appeal of a drought-ridden Midwest field—bleak. Little of the hops-and-malt crop behind the glass doors tempts me. The sucking noise I hear while trying to find the adult beverage most suitable to the occasion comes from the cash register draining my pockets of currency willingly exchanged for second-best alcohol.

Gazing at the sparsely populated refrigerator makes clear Eli has little interest in procuring anything besides what already sells. American swill crowds the coolers, the kind of drinks I think of as reconstituted camel piss. Though I lack firsthand knowledge for the comparison, I’ve tasted many American beers and consider them no better than how processed and bottled dromedary urine must taste.

When it comes to beer, I drink something complementary to my meal. Chinese food requires Tsingtao, Japanese means Saporro, Italian demands Moretti, and Mexican deserves Negra Modelo, though Sol or Corona will do in a pinch.

If it needs not match the repast, I seek the embrace of my beloved Negra Modelo, a heavy dark ale with strength that tells you it means business. I now search for that darling drink in Eli’s less than stellar selection. He didn’t sell it when I relocated to King’s Hope and began shopping in his fine establishment. But he sells it now. Produced by the same company that makes Corona, which he carries, it didn’t trouble him to start ordering it.

I never asked him to stock it though. After buying Corona a time or two due to lack of interest in driving to the liquor store at the other end of town, Eli asked me what I wanted. He could see disappointment on my face.

Despite protestations that he need not worry, that Corona was a fine beer indeed, he pestered me into admitting that Negra Modelo would make a pretty good choice and, oh by the way, the same company makes it that makes Corona. On my next visit I found it in the cooler. He has since told me no one else buys it. “Hell, son, they don’t know what it is,” he explains. But he keeps a supply available and I buy it when I visit.

At first I suspected terribly shallow reasoning behind the move. You know, as a lure to bring the famous rich author coming back repeatedly since it provides bragging rights. Eli has no superficial tendencies however. He orders it because he’s being friendly and is keeping in mind a commendable service attitude.

And there it is!

The cooler opens by its timeworn handle and cold air spills out as I grab a twelve-pack. The glass door swings shut as I head for the register where Eli stands. Though he watches as I hoist the beer and settle it atop the counter, he doesn’t move like a man with a job to do. Instead he waits.

With momentarily empty hands, I realize twelve beers won’t suffice. Several beers end most days for me, a nightly habit sometimes started by noon despite calling it a nightly habit. When one lives “in the sticks,” one takes advantage of the chemical supplements one can find.

Twelve beers suffice for several routine days, but at end-of-book-and-in-a-writing-crunch time? No, twelve won’t cut it. With that realization I perform a quick 180 and wander back to the beer cooler. I can feel Eli’s knowing smirk though I don’t see it.

I grab the other twelve-pack with a crooked grin. He might be friends with my parents—Of those I regularly encounter, who isn’t?—but Eli is old school and respects a person’s right to live a life free of prying eyes. Perhaps he’ll give me that look that says I drink too much, but he’ll keep that opinion to himself when it comes to other people.

The second twelve-pack placed on the counter next to the first, fully cognizant of his stare and his lack of motion, I tell him before roaming away from the cash register, “I need a few more things.”

You know, you sly codger. Don’t think I miss the significance of a second twelve-pack already in the cooler. That and you knowing I haven’t finished shopping.

Like convenience stores around the country, Perenson’s comes replete with a double-aisle display of confectioneries, from cookies and cupcakes to pies and donuts, lodes of sugary mayhem, not one bit of it healthy. I grab several pies, some donuts, some cupcakes, something that resembles flattened dog droppings but identifies itself as a bear claw, and a couple honey buns. A cloud of crinkling cellophane and plastic wrappers surrounds me on the way back to the register. Thankfully none of the junk food leaps from my full hands before I dump it next to the beer.

Finally he moves. Eli rummages through the exuberant collection of confections as he pushes aside the beer. His fingers tap various keys on the cash register and it responds with little beeps and clicks, spitting out a tongue of paper as he rings up my purchases.

“You knew I was finishing a novel, didn’t you? You had two twelve-packs in the cooler.”

He gives a look of shock so fake it makes me chuckle. Through his mocking affectation he responds, “Just ’cause a chicken’s got wings don’t mean it can fly.” His Texas drawl comes straight from a Louis L’Amour tale.

“Play coy if you want.” His country bumpkin façade makes his sly fox personality too delightful for words.

He sure as hell knew I was nearing the end of the novel, otherwise he wouldn’t have made the second twelve-pack so easy to grab. And he wouldn’t have waited for the sweets.

I add, “Then I confirmed it for you. Yes, I’m finishing another novel.”

“It ain’t my first rodeo, son.” Ah, he confirms it. He knew. Of course he knew.

With my own affected look of concern I ask, “You’re going to carry it, right?”

Pulling a plastic bag from under the counter and placing edibles inside it, he smiles and nods. “You betcha. Them books sell here, y’know? People’re happier than pigs in shit havin’ a famous writin’ fella in town, and you and your folks are right good neighbors ’round these parts. Bein’ fine townfolk and all makes you kin.”

Heat rises in my cheeks as I flush at the sentiment. Small towns wear their makeup thin, for what you see as an insider often differs from what you see as an outsider as long as you don’t look too closely. Lean in and open your eyes and you find the thin veneer washes away. It provides a dose of realism that cities too often lack. If you want to know where you stand with the world, go ask a small town.

That he called me kin—family&mdadsh;makes me blush. That embodies the life I want, the simple out-of-the-way existence where I can write books and sell them whilst maintaining a sense of community. Out there in the big bad world I want to be David A. Crichton, Mr. Crichton if I say so, master storyteller to the literary unwashed; here in town I want to be Dave, neighbor and friend, no different from Jim Bob up the street or Billy Jean out the way a bit. It feels good to hear some confirmation that I’ve neared my goal.

“That’ll be forty-eight and forty-two cents,” he announces while placing the sack of sweets atop one of the twelve-packs of beer. Then he takes the three twenty-dollar bills offered.

“I appreciate that you carry my books.” My words sound puerile. How propitiating they must sound to him. The sentiment comes from the heart though. He’ll hear as much.

“Don’t go frettin’ ’bout it,” he responds with a smile that reveals a mouth occupied by yellow teeth. Tobacco and alcohol have robbed him of a white grin.

The Perensons have owned this establishment for four generations, nurturing it from its life as a general store built of wood and stone warmed by a single stove until it became a convenience store with central heat and air and electronic gas pumps that manage themselves. That stained smile cutting through his wrinkled craggy face implies his carnal dependencies will kill him long before he reaches his eightieth birthday. He looks much older than fifty-seven.

Proof of a hard life, I’m sure. But who am I to talk given the way I live?

As he hands over my change he continues, “Them books sell like hotcakes, y’know? Folks ’round here like readin’ whatcha got to say given you’re a famous local and all.”

With not too small a pinch of pride I note he called me a local, a noteworthy accomplishment. First kin, then local. Today has turned out to be a fine day indeed.

“Some of ’em get conniptions ’bout the violence and evil and all, even goin’ s’far as to say there’s somethin’ devilish in ’em, somethin’ un-Christian-like.” His contemptuous smirk shows disregard for such an idea, as if speaking about voodoo practitioners spooking at the sight of a pin-poked doll. “But you’re famous and you’re local and you and your folks are right good people, so it don’t matter none. They’re gonna read you come hell or high water.”

“Thanks.”

Not that Perenson’s has a library for sale, but Eli keeps a few racks of trade paperbacks near the door, a hit list of current bestsellers. Though I release novels in hardback first then some time later in paperback, he never fails to order a case of the hardcovers so he can display them on the counter with the requisite handwritten announcement declaring them the newest work of “famous local author David A. Crichton.” They sell, too, rather quickly. Later he orders the paperbacks and adds them to the revolving metal cages that give people a chance to grab a bit of entertainment along with their gasoline, bottled water or beer.

His eyes grow wide as he gapes over my shoulder, his features mixing reverence with agitation. Ominous gloom settles inside the shop, a sense of grave danger, the impression of peril at hand. And a smell wafts into the atmosphere, peculiar and slight, neither malodorous nor pleasant, the mixed aromas of dead flies gathered on a musty windowsill and canopic jars unearthed and opened and heady spices both ancient and new.

Before I fully realize how severely the mood changed, someone behind observes, “A dark day ahead, Mr. Crichton, yes?”

***

The voice startles me because it emanates from right behind me, right over my shoulder. The store had no other shoppers and the telltale cowbell didn’t announce someone entering while I collected my bounty. So I swing around as much with interest as with surprise.

“Mr. Hat! I didn’t see you in here.”

“What people look for determines what they see, Mr. Crichton, yes?”

“That or they see what gets through the filters of preoccupation.”

“You are a clever man.”

Breathtaking gray eyes stare beyond me toward the counter where too much beer and too much junk food remain stacked. I remember his initial statement—his initial question rather, since he seems inclined to add an interrogative to the end of his declaratives, a forceful means of asking a question while making an observation. I deem it a belittling practice since it implies you should respond to what otherwise represents a statement of fact. I hate it when people do that.

Understanding what he looks at I clumsily respond, “Oh. Dark day. No, it’s not what you think.” I find myself a touch shamefaced by the sudden tremble in my voice. His words hit me where it counts given my nightmares. “No, uh, not a dark day, but I am finishing a novel and I do have my rituals.”

“Of course, Mr. Crichton.”

His intense look causes a flinch. I meet his direct gaze and wait a moment. For reasons beyond my immediate ken, he holds my rapt attention as I anticipate something needful only he can provide. The sensation washing over me feels uncomfortable yet necessary.

Eli stands motionless behind the counter, the cash register silent and the rattling bag stilled while the remainder of my unhealthy haul rests in place. I hear the wee bit of traffic moving along Main Street and the occasional car veering down Allen Camp Road. The sounds of my heart beating and blood coursing through my veins pound in my ears. For some reason I note these sounds in the split second before Mr. Hat looks toward Eli and speaks once more.

“Heed my counsel regarding the wacani, Mr. Perenson.”

Without further ado he turns with a flourish of his long coat and walks to the entrance. We watch Mr. Hat with the pensive consideration—perhaps fascination—of children witnessing the performance of a master magician.

He intrigues me beyond measure. And he casts a similar spell on everyone else in town.

I call after him as he opens the door, the cowbell ringing above his head. “Mr. Hat, would you consider—”

“Things are not always what they seem, Mr. Crichton,” he interrupts.
My mouth snaps shut with the force of a bear trap, the clack of slamming teeth making a noise too audible to ignore. His stare mesmerizes and disturbs. Somehow he appears both real and unreal.

“You are a visionary, Mr. Crichton, yes? A visionary dreams in the light and shares those revelations with those who dream only in the dark. And darkness cannot stand against darkness.” Without pausing he says to Eli, “Tend to the wacani, Mr. Perenson, yes?”

I no longer breathe, my mind unable to assimilate what he said and my mouth unable to produce words. Visionary? Dream? Darkness? What the hell? Where does that come from? How? Why? My mind stumbles over itself trying to navigate the situation.

Before I can speak Eli responds, “You betcha.”

Then Mr. Hat looks at me afresh with heavy bluntness that could unarm the most brutal tyrant. In ways I cannot comprehend I suddenly know Mr. Hat is more than an oddity or curiosity, more than he seems. Something unseen lurks within, something hidden, something nameless, something formless. He is not a man and he is beautiful and he is terrible. He reminds me of my dreams, of the disembodied voice and the flipping coin and words spoken as Beth and as something other.

Yes, tell me. You know. Somehow you know. So tell me already!

His eyes burning holes in me, Mr. Hat continues, “Those who dream only in darkness dream vainly, Mr. Crichton, for at night their eyes are blind. Those who dream in the light with their eyes open wield visionary strength, and visionary strength is potent strength, yes?”

My body trembles. His focus could slice through the thickest armor. His stare blazes in a way I have never seen.

With the door held ajar he adds, “All men do not dream equally, Mr. Crichton.”

With that he turns and leaves Perenson’s, the cowbell offering forth its tinkling declaration of ingress or egress, you decide which. I cannot steal my eyes from the wall of glass that fronts the store. Mr. Hat strolls away, moving west toward Main Street. Both Eli and I watch him until he vanishes around the corner of the building.

Trembling—No, not trembling but shaking, a rabbit under the wolf’s paws, I look at the store’s owner. His eyes slowly drift from the windows until they meet mine. I see something there, whether humility or fear or worship or what I cannot say. No matter what Mr. Hat brings to the table, Eli knows something.

Such an odd encounter. Such strange words. And the feeling—The smell!—that came and went with Mr. Hat. Yes, he is something else, a mystery.

“Wacani?” I mumble, an attempted echo of what Mr. Hat said. The word rolls from my lips quietly, under my breath to myself, although I say it loud enough for Eli to hear. I hope he thinks I contemplate the word internally with confusion, thus he will feel compelled to explain it.

He ignores it. Sans elaboration Eli inquires, “What’re you gettin’ up to tomorrow, Mr. Crichton?”

Taken aback by this sudden change in topics and moods, I rearrange thoughts. The uncanny presence of Mr. Hat gets swept away by Eli’s words and tone, the whole experience already forgotten in light of the day’s continuing business.

I cast off the spell of weirdness that drapes me and stammer, “Uh, tomorrow …” Then my mind clears enough to think about it and I reply, “Tomorrow’s cleaning and cutting day, so the boys will be over to do the yard work and the girls will be over to do the chores, which means probably a group lunch.” I place one hand on the beer resting on the counter before adding, “And I’ll be nursing a hangover assuming I get the book finished tonight.”

His smile tells me any such hangover can be our little secret and no one else need know, but beneath his easy humor something else lurks, worry perhaps, or maybe real fear, something resting just below the surface and struggling to rise up through the placid waters of normalcy. The Eli standing before me represents an Eli with whom I have no familiarity, a distressed and concentrated man. My mind turns back to Mr. Hat. Wacani?

“Mayhap the missus and me’ll head on out to the lake for a spell. Might stop up to your place for a little visitin’ if that’s all right.”

A beam arrives on my face unbidden and rife with real warmth. Enthusiastically I invite, “I’d love to see you both, and you’re welcome at Carr Beholden, Eli. Please feel free to visit, tomorrow or whenever you like.”

Mentally I chastise myself for having ulterior motives. After today’s encounter with Mr. Hat, hunger for information about the town’s mysterious visitor and about the word wacani might feed itself a bit on a visit with Eli and Svetlana Perenson.

***

Before additional words can manifest, a car pulling up to the gas pumps diverts our attention. We both look out the windows in response.

Old Stu arrives—Stuart McCreary for non-locals. Not once have I felt grateful to see him, but after the strangeness of the past few minutes his appearance and the swift kick in reality’s ass it represents please me.

His ’83 Cadillac Sedan DeVille screeches to a stop between the store and the petrol with a dusty skid on concrete. Stu exits the rusted black car before it stops rocking.

How can anyone in Texas own a black car? It must absorb a great deal of heat.

But Old Stu can handle anything, or so he boasts. He can give the devil a run for his money when it comes to who can tolerate the most heat. Stu McCreary is King’s Hope’s most popular and successful politician. That means a lot of heat.

The McCrearys have lived in this small town since they settled the area in the mid 1800s. King’s Hope does not require a city council or aldermen. It also has no interest in calling its chief elected official a mayor. As an alternative, we have a town manager, along with a sheriff and a handful of deputies, one bank, three churches, one library, and no schools—the kids travel to Marshall for their educational needs, a thirty-minute commute for the lads and lasses.

Elections for the town manager position occur at Town Hall, which represents not so much the seat of government but rather the community meeting house, an emergency shelter, the town’s records vault, the town’s courtroom, and the place where civil services are administered. Being from one of the oldest families in King’s Hope, the one representing its historical administrators, Old Stu McCreary scarcely needs campaign every four years to ensure his election victory. A McCreary has held the position of town manager throughout King’s Hope’s history. It falls to them with ease regardless of competition.

The McCreary clan moved here on the heels of Joseph King for whom they were administrators and lackeys and gophers. When the town came to official life, the McCrearys found themselves pushed into managing the busywork, holding the town manager position where they could shuffle paper and respond to inquiries and conduct affairs that keep a town running; meanwhile real authority—real power—stayed with the King, Carr and Camp families. But over time those families shrank from the spotlight and stopped running the show, so it fell upon the shoulders of Stu McCreary’s forefathers.

Since then, whether from habit or respect for a name that kept the town afloat for so long, the McCrearys have held the town manager position. That makes Stu the most important politician in town, a fact he thinks also makes him the most important guy in town. That reference enters most of his conversations.

Since his administrative station pays a pittance in such a small hamlet, Stu’s wife runs a cleaning business for homes and commercial properties alike, and Stu owns the bait and tackle shop and the canoe rental facility at Lake Potisesse in addition to the hunting supply store at the corner of Pine Street and Carr Avenue—Carr as in the Carr dynasty and Carr Beholden. In addition, the McCrearys live on a working farm. They raise and sell donkeys, cows and pigs, along with some chickens and rabbits thrown in for good measure.

As Stu slams the car door and plods around its ebony bulk toward the store entrance, Eli says, “Always runnin’ like the dogs was after him. He’ll be plowin’ townfolk under before too long.”

I chuckle at his contrariness. Eli definitely fits my father’s description of him—full of piss and vinegar. The old bloke possesses a surprising and delightful reservoir of character.

Besides, the importunate Stu makes for a worrisome driver, fueling much derisive talk in town. Even if Stu himself participates in the conversation! General ribbing insists he aims his Cadillac and punches the accelerator, God help those who get in his way. His near-screeching slide to a stop in front of Perenson’s confirms that impression.

Stu approaches the doors as Eli grabs a cigarette, puts it in his mouth, lights it with the unconscious skill of an addict, then flips his lighter back on the counter near the register. Knowing he holds my surreptitious gaze, the proprietor of this little shop offers the briefest and sincerest of smiles before turning from the windows. He steps away from the cash register and finds a place where he can rest against the counter and look disinterested.

Smart man, I opine to myself while grabbing the bag of teeth rot and tucking a twelve-pack under my arm. I grab the other with my free hand. My indirect stare remains on Eli as his lips purse around the filter and drag on the cancer stick as though it offers fresh oxygen. His eyes shift toward the back of the store with the look of a man watching something wonderful, a miracle happening right there in his coolers.

Very smart man indeed.

The glass door clangs open with the predictable cowbell noise. Stu lumbers in on his monolithic frame, though he glides effortlessly as though built of air.

Stuart McCreary is a large man. Standing six-feet-seven-inches tall and weighing a good two hundred forty pounds, I would not call him fat so much as bulky. People sometimes refer to him as a “big boned man.” How unfair that term sounds when used for women. With Stu it produces a chortle, but any King’s Hope lady worth her weight would respond with dismay and a quick backhand for such insolence.

Unwavering friendship bridges my parents with the McCreary family. Old Stu has seen Mom and Dad through some rough times and characterizes the kind of neighbor people dream of having when they live in the middle of nowhere. He helps them and they help him, and both families keep tabs on each other to make sure no one wallows in need.

Not a metropolis, King’s Hope’s population hovers around 2,000 souls. The town lies hidden a short distance from the Texas-Louisiana border and nestles between Caddo Lake to the south and east, Clinton Lake to the west, and Lake Potisesse to the north. While one might assume residents of towns this small know and befriend each other, the majority actually live rather lonely lives because they reside so far apart. About half the population dwells in King’s Hope proper—where the streets have names—and the other half lives on farms and ranches and other remote properties surrounding the barely-passes-for-downtown area. While some—Eli and Stu for example—make for known quantities, most have less than passing familiarity with the majority of their fellow citizens.

The senior Crichtons live on a farm where reaching Glen Boskey, their nearest neighbor, requires three dirt roads and one paved road. When you live in the sticks, that equates to a long drive. So sure, most denizens can name a respectable number of other locals since that signifies part of the essence of small town life, yet they know only cursory facts about the majority of other citizens.

Due to his ongoing and close friendship with my parents, I try to think of Stu in avuncular terms. Inescapably that leads to two possibilities: (a) the kind of uncle nieces and nephews shy away from because he touches them in that funny way, though no one believes or suspects Stu engages in pedophilia, but he has a violative personality that declares your business is his business because it’s town business; or (b) the kind of uncle nieces and nephews shy away from because he’s a popinjay, never wrong and forever imperious and perpetually finding ways to demean you so you don’t forget your place.

This means I maintain a love-hate relationship with Old Stu. I cherish him for the friendship he gives and for the close relationship the Crichtons and McCrearys maintain with each other. And I detest him for his conceit and assumed superiority. Mostly I put my dislike aside though. My parents matter more than my umbrage.

***

Standing just inside the store, a human-shaped wall of granite, Stu asks, “How’re you likin’ it out this way, Davey? Findin’ plenty of time for writin’?” His Texas drawl lacks the molasses thickness of Eli’s, but it still oozes with viscous regional clarity.

“I find King’s Hope relaxing and marvelous, Stu, and it affords me plentiful time to write.”

And don’t call me Davey!

“Glad to hear it. So what’re you scratchin’ up now? It ain’t another one like that fella up from Maine, is it? You know who I’m on about, don’t you? That somethin’-or-other King fella up from Castle Rock?”

A giggle bubbles up but I pop it before humiliating myself by deriding the town manager for appearing a tad unknowledgeable. “You must mean Stephen King, right? I thought so. It’s a funny thing that people think he’s from Castle Rock, Maine, because he often writes about it.” Playing politics seems wise—share knowledge without making him look dumb. Besides, literature is my world and I prefer to keep it neat and tidy. “But the place doesn’t exist. He invented that town as a fictional locale where his stories can take place. I once considered doing the same thing. Maybe I will in the future if I empty my font of ideas that fit the real world.”

His broadening smile betrays a hint of irritation at the correction, but that denotes normality for Stu. In the town manager’s world, he never falters and anyone correcting him commits sedition or worse. Yet in the end he appreciates not looking foolish, so my gentle correction and earnest desire to help him learn come across as intended—to smooth feathers while assisting him with a realignment of facts. He will not repeat the error.

“Right you are, Davey, that there’s the fella. Irregardless of where he’s stayin’ at, I hope you ain’t writin’ another story like he writes. I can’t say as I cared much for your last one, though I gotta admit Margaret done ate it up like cows on molasses.”

Cringing at use of irregardless as a word—one of my linguistic pet peeves—I wonder if he read my last book or if he relied on his wife’s review, perhaps even comments from others. Eli reads my books, that way potential buyers get an earful of facts. Having a “famous author” in town does oblige one to partial familiarity with his works. Besides, a good salesman knows his goods.

Of course Mom repeatedly explains that having the parents of said “famous author” living in said town for many years practically cements a reading requirement into the town charter. Though her joke delights, the premise doesn’t escape me. Living in King’s Hope has given me about 2,000 new readers.

“As for my new book, it’s different, with a bit of science fiction and not akin to my last one.” Knowing how the book will end makes me feel less than candid. It should confront every Christian soul in town. “But keep in mind I enjoy being edgy in my writing.” This makes me feel somewhat better about my blatant dishonesty. Not much, but a wee bit better.

“If you say so, Davey. I’m just concerned, y’know. Folks ’round town talk about such things. They like havin’ you here, a famous writin’ fella and all, don’t you think otherwise. You bring good business to town and give us a mighty fine claim to fame. And don’t let folks kid you about what you done with Carr Beholden. People’re happy to see it alive instead of that fallin’-down disaster on the shore. Still, some of your writin’ comes across a mite bit dark and folks talk about it is all.”

“I understand. You can let them know the new book is science fiction and has no devils or demons in it. There are plenty of aliens, though.”

It seems implausible that Compassion in Annihilation’s Caress will enjoy any more popularity here than did my last novel. I doubt Twilight Insurrection can boast as King’s Hope’s favorite since it spotlighted a small town where fiendish residents lured in unsuspecting newcomers and ate them, especially savoring children, handling the cannibalistic containment, cooking and conveyance tasks in a local baking factory. Think Hansel and Gretel meets Mrs. Baird’s.

Then again perhaps more than a few did appreciate it. Entertainment need not represent a person’s life view. Reasonable people don’t think it unacceptable for a Bible-thumping conservative Christian to enjoy the beautiful images and moving poetry in the Qur’an, and doing so doesn’t lessen that person’s Christian zealotry. People around the globe of varying faiths and ideologies and moralities spend hard-earned greenbacks to watch murderers and rapists, carnage and mayhem, vampires and werewolves, and devilry and destruction on television and in movies, not to mention in the books they read. Why should my novels not entertain irrespective of the readers’ spiritual lives?

Two twelve-packs of beer and the bag of empty sugar calories begin feeling heavy. My arms have become lead weights dangling from shoulders ready to discard the abusive limbs. Remembering this morning’s workout, my chest thanks me for not having to hold the loot.

Nevertheless the fatigued sensation reminds me that I must go, so I excuse myself by saying, “If you’ll pardon me, Stu, I should head home. I have a book to finish, you understand. Take care of yourself.” Then turning toward the store counter where Eli stands coddling his lit cigarette as it burns nearer the filter I add, “Thanks, Eli. I hope to see you and Svetlana tomorrow.”

With the store owner nodding and Stu offering a simple “Yep” in response to my farewell while holding the door open for me, I step into acute Texas heat, the feel of its blistering humidity quickly blanketing my skin.

Prior to beating a hasty retreat toward my car, I spin on my heels and ask, “By the way, Stu, did you see which way Mr. Hat went?”

In the moment after I spoke, I take mental note of Stu’s reaction because it strikes me as disproportionate to my inquiry—and as important. His eyebrows lower enough to give him a look of either intense deliberation or sudden worry, his body straightens abruptly as a heretofore unseen rigidity spears through his spine, his mouth purses into a sour expression, and his face flashes the quickest indication of anxiety. The town manager looks as though I slapped him.

Then in the blink of an eye everything about him returns to the characteristic visage of a jovial bear ready to pat you on the back, kiss the baby in your arms, and promise you the world on a silver platter. His political dexterity reasserts itself.

“Uh … Well now, Davey, um …” he mumbles, then in a voice that sounds more sure of itself, “No, I can’t right say as I seen Mr. Hat. Sorry, young fella, can’t help you.”

“No problem. I’ll catch him around town.”

“Mayhap you will.”

“Thanks again, Eli. I’ll see you fine gentlemen later.”

From the unedited manuscript, herein lies the fourth chapter from The Breaking of Worlds I: The Wedge in the Doorway, my first novel.  (Reformatted for web presentation).  This is posted as much for your review as it is for your comment—good or bad.

— — — — — — — — — —

Head resting against the kitchen door, I fumble through my keys. Only a dozen jangle on the key ring, but my mind hiccupped and those dozen keys became a dealership pegboard with the one needed hidden somewhere in a mix of hundreds.

Taking a deep breath to clear my thoughts, I locate the appropriate key after a second and push it into the lock. Twisting the bolt closed, I wonder why Beth’s grandmother Irene spoke of the Dreamdarkers, and I wonder what she meant when she said they were coming for all us dreamers.

Sweat beads over my entire body before I can walk down the steps to the parked cars. Heat and humidity leave a smothering blanket even inside the garage.

“It’s going to be a scorcher,” I tell the automobiles.

The combination garage and storage building stretches away from Carr Beholden’s southern flank, the extension jutting along the clearing under the drip line of surrounding forest. Shadows of massive oaks and hickories and pines lay over it. The trees’ collective canopy full and green, they barter shade for minor care and every bit of sunshine they can grab. Let them consume their fill and then some. The more they take, the less that falls to my level.

The first garage door hums open in response to the wall control. Stepping to the IS 350 parked nearest the house, the key fob gives up the right button and the Lexus chirps its unlocking approval.

A cardinal sings in the distance, its high-pitched whistle greeting with unmistakable charm. Many other birds vocalize in the surrounding trees. Falling into the car and shutting the door, the argumentative call of a blue jay says goodbye.

Nestled behind the steering wheel, I press the push-to-start-button and the motor purrs to life. My left hand hits the button to roll down the windows while my right hand turns the environmental knob to AUTO. Unbearable heat will force the car to rightly choose blowing ice cubes.

Despite its place in the shade, the Lexus’s interior cooks with the fervency of a toaster oven on bake. Sitting outside, it would already broil on its way to vaporize.

Vents quickly transition from stale hot air to fresh cold air. Meanwhile open windows allow some trapped heat to escape. I hit the button and the four windows slide silently upward, sealing their respective doors. The torrid day outside becomes little more than a navigable medium, a simmering atmosphere held at bay by the wonders of automotive manufacturing.

Reversing out of the garage and closing the door once clear, a brief pause reveals half a dozen buzzards circling above a possible meal on the far side of the lake. They glide in wide loops over the treetops. The casual disks they draw in the sky slowly tighten. Scavengers interested in the regular servings of carrion found in the woodlands, vultures have the local sobriquet of “carcass cleaners.” They provide a useful service. While not exactly revered, they elicit respect for their roles. Secondary to cleaning up messes, they can serve as homing devices leading to misplaced livestock and people, generally those subject to recovery as opposed to rescue. They will squander no time getting their share of the meal their noses have detected.

Leaving them behind with their lunch, I drive away from the lake, wending along the private lane that connects Carr Beholden to State Highway 49. After traveling the quarter mile to the end of the drive, the journey having happened seemingly without my participation, I turn left on SH 49 for the mile-long trek to FM 727. There I take a right toward King’s Hope proper.

My destination is Perenson’s, Eli Perenson’s gas station and convenience store at the corner of Main Street and Allen Camp Road. The necessities on my mental shopping list require nothing more than Perenson’s can supply. I fuel the cars and do my odds-and-ends shopping there. I buy my beer there despite a liquor store huddling on the same block as The Food Bin at the far end of town. What can I say? I like Eli and his wife Svetlana. And I adhere to strict canons about living in King’s Hope.

As a known commodity for anyone who watches movies or reads books, and as King’s Hope’s wealthiest citizen, I make a sizable target for those who enjoy digging in the personal lives of public personalities. But I’m a private man. Not a recluse by anyone’s standards, I still prefer living my life away from the limelight. I want my privacy respected. I cherish that premise more in King’s Hope since my parents live here.

So I maintain strict rules about my residency. Do as much business as possible with locals and maintain a give-and-get relationship with the town. Keep that relationship amiable and personable. Don’t be or become the rich schmuck who lives by the lake but otherwise plays no part in the community. The town can bill itself the home of the famous David A. Crichton. Both the hamlet and its citizens can pocket coin from me and from my fame. In return they treat me the same as any other King’s Hope citizen, which includes respecting my privacy and my parents’ privacy. Precepts in place, this relationship works well.

Most can’t refrain from calling me Mr. Crichton, which I hate unless it comes from strangers or the media. But not calling me Dave seems the one noticeable bump in an otherwise smooth road.

A bit of hero worship abounds at times, those unable to see beyond “knowing” David A. Crichton. Indelicate opportunists sometimes make an appearance briefly importuning me to subsidize a business venture or to underwrite a personal endeavor. Mostly women and girls but also a few men, a number of romantic admirers pine for my affection since I’m an eligible bachelor with sophistication and means whose status as a widower grants him much understanding and leeway in his affairs; many of these people have more interest in the means than the man. Some look down their noses at me because I write “those books” they dislike or because I acquired the old lakeside hotel but refused to make it a lucrative bed and breakfast as they wished. I can’t satisfy those people, but I can be a part of the town and drop some currency with locals as much as possible, and I can use my fame to bring business here when suitable. In return I ask for nothing more burdensome than treatment as a person and a part of the town, and I ask King’s Hope to give me the same respect its citizens give the rest of their neighbors. This creates a win-win scenario.

Thus I don’t normally use the Texaco or the 7-Eleven or the Valero, cold and heartless big-business establishments with only thin ties to locals. Instead I buy my gas from Eli. I shop locally as much as I can, meandering the aisles of The Food Bin right along with everyone else. I eat in local restaurants, chatting with townsfolk about the weather or the price of hay or the scuttlebutt making the rounds. I attend community events. I treat residents friendly so in the end I can stroll the downtown area from time to time without an entourage. Despite fame and affluence, I get to be a normal person.

For I love what I do—writing—and I love that my books succeed domestically and internationally, often becoming bestsellers, and I love that half of them have become movies that became blockbusters, and I love that my short stories, novellas and articles appear in anthologies, newspapers and magazines around the globe. Yet my job as my passion doesn’t negate my desire to live without constant hounding, to be another joe, an everyman in the street. David A. Crichton has fame and wealth, and he has ties to studios and publishers and a name that can elicit headlines, whereas Dave Crichton has neighbors and friends and family, and he wants to live in peace.

***

Attaining status as the town’s richest person comes without difficulty given hardly more than two thousand souls live in King’s Hope. Additionally, the old money, the Carr, Camp and King dynastics, pretty much shriveled and vanished.

The Doubledays maintain a presence in town, Doubleday and Associates the oldest law firm in the area with the most respected lawyers one can imagine, but they never possessed the wealth bandied about by the three primary families. Stu McCreary stands in for the McCreary line who came with the Doubledays to serve a purpose, not to lord over the manor.

With regards to the Camps, their descendants turned the estate into a bed and breakfast following the loss of the family’s fortune. Morgan and Cynthia Camp enjoy the weight their surname carries in town but otherwise work for a living.

One King remains, Lawrence, and he lives in the old estate at the end of Joseph Drive, but that family consumed its fortune in the 1980s and 1990s as though wealth had become the last edible thing on the planet. That left poor Lawrence the sole heir of a once vast and impressive fortune that became a huge house, lots of land, and a paltry inheritance that barely keeps him afloat. He could sell the property and find himself set for life, but he hangs on to the cursed thing with white knuckles. Of course most think he has sources of income if one credits the ample hearsay about his “extracurricular activities.” But those are hushed town secrets we either don’t believe or don’t repeat, at least not in polite company.

And of course I own Carr Beholden, the last bastion of the once powerful Carr family. I wouldn’t reside here if they lived and wielded some fraction of the fortune and power they once represented. But the King’s Hope Carrs passed away more than thirty years ago, the last of their line dying from old age.

As for the majority of residents, a good number of them are get-your-hands-dirty working class, most owning or employed by farms and ranches and supporting industries. The rest fill in the customary town workforce, restaurants and stores and such.

***

One shouldn’t confuse real-world novelists with the rich-and-famous depiction of romantic fantasy. Most literary wordsmiths ply their inscriptive trades on the side while holding down day jobs to pay the bills; most whose livelihoods rest entirely within the book world scrape by at best. In the United States, about a handful of novelists make of it a livable career. It pays an infrequent pittance unless you kick out hits and keep them coming, or you augment narratives with other paid writing, or both. And to date my writing has accomplished both.

Income from my novels has remained in the low six-figure range year over year since 1999 when my first book, Gifts from a Quantum God, landed on store shelves. I’ve published twelve more novels during the intervening fourteen years, each earning advances, foreign language rights and recurring royalties. Better yet, two of my novellas and seven of my books have made the leap to the big screen, so movie money adds to my revenue.

On top of literature and films, authoring short stories and novellas puts greenbacks in my wallet, and article work for magazines and newspapers continues unabated. Most writers who build a successful brand for themselves find paid gigs from time to time, such as speaking engagements, lecturing and guest teaching; these things I do as well. All told however, working with words represents generous though not excessive funds. It makes for secure living; it does not equate to true wealth.

Beth pushed me into the rich category—both her life and her death, more so the latter. Her six-figure earnings soared above mine. While she lived, we had an impressive pile of gold stacking up in the corner. We lived frugal lives thinking we would someday have children, and we tucked away as much as possible and invested smartly but unstintingly. I drove an old Chevy Blazer, which I still have by the way, and she drove a Toyota Camry. Our house on White Rock Lake was comfortable and roomy without being bourgeois and extravagant. In basic terms, we saved more than we spent and what we saved earned its own way.

Then she died. Tragedy pays, you might infer, since two double-indemnity life insurance policies, one through her workplace and one we purchased jointly as personal protection, both coughed up big checks. Then along came accidental death and dismemberment, vehicle loss, and other insurance payouts I never knew existed, each dropping more on the growing pile. What a racket! But in the end I had a pretty penny.

Following rapidly came the shipping company that owned the truck that ran the red light and hit her. They feared the Mighty and Powerful David A. Crichton, a known commodity who received an outpouring of public sympathy following his wife’s tragic death. The trucking firm and their insurance carrier knew the court of public opinion would decimate them, and they knew the driver of that deadly truck made the biggest possible on-the-scene-of-an-accident blunder: he admitted to the police that he couldn’t remember approaching the light, not to mention running it, and perhaps he’d fallen asleep, though by golly he’d slept like a rock the night before and didn’t feel a bit tired. He admitted his guilt, maybe he wasn’t paying attention as he approached the intersection, maybe he zoned out. Liability clearly established. And since he drove a commercial vehicle …

With the deck stacked against them in more ways than one, the shipper and its insurance company dealt out settlements, bigger checks—much bigger checks in fact—than the already received insurance payouts. And to think I hadn’t talked to a lawyer, let alone filed a lawsuit. With no interest in a legal battle—avarice didn’t enter my mind and wealth could never fix what broke—I accepted the reparations and promised not to sue them or vilify them. In my opinion, if it refuses to be a bad nightmare, it should hasten into history.

Yet everything related to the accident equaled excess but not vulgarity. Pushed into the millions by unsought redress, the dollars added to lack of fear with regards to financial ruin. Still dwarfed by the stock options of internet entrepreneurs in the ’90s, what I banked from death didn’t make me rich, not in the intellectual sense and not in the societal sense. It made me wealthy but not loaded. The final nail in the not-rich coffin came from an unexpected source—my wife’s personal contribution.

***

An only child, Beth never mentioned what her mother and father did; both died before their daughter’s eighth birthday. Therefore I assumed she didn’t know about her parents’ livelihoods, as children often don’t at those ages. Or possibly she stowed away that early part of life in some memory vault where she no longer looked, a child casting away hurt and anger and loss in the best way possible—forgetting.

Either way, she intimated with everything she said that she knew of no relatives. A measure of the people in her life revealed only friends and acquaintances and colleagues. Whatever her family history, it vanished when her grandmother died.

Three days after the accident, unbidden tears obscuring the world and raw emotion clouding the path ahead, I received a surprise visit from two starched-and-pressed individuals, tailored Armani suits, brilliant white shirts, expensive silk ties and polished leather shoes.

“My name is Jean-Marie de Vérité,” one said as he offered his hand, gesturing toward the second gentleman with his other hand as he added, “and this is Pierre de Savoir.” Then handing me a business card materializing out of nowhere in his free hand he added, “We are from the law firm of de Vérité et de Savoir of New Orleans, Louisiana. We represent the de la Roche family.”

His French accent soothed. Not the blinding spotlight of harsh and incomprehensible diction, but instead the soft candlelight of culture and refinement. I shook his outstretched hand, then the other’s, then invited them in, my reeling brain having somehow waded through surging emotions to discover the nexus between de la Roche, Beth’s maiden name, and New Orleans, her city of birth. While I didn’t know a great deal about her pedigree, I suspected these gentlemen aimed to remedy that deficiency to some extent.

To call them vampiric would do the blood-sucking undead justice in the best possible sense. Handsome to the point of untouchable beauty, both men had mocha hair and the chiseled features of Baltic States or Caucasia, traits softer than Russian yet harsher than European, that distinctive middle ground that spits out stunning good looks without trying. They stood tall and broad-shouldered, dapper for sure, finely cut wears resting against strapping frames. While their overall impressions gave me a geographic reference as to their provenance, I couldn’t help but be struck by the luminescent skin that seemed untouched by sun, untouched by time, flawless and radiating inner light almost to the point of translucence. Both men represented enviable combinations of genes, graced with unending youth that bordered on unnatural. I wouldn’t have dared guess their ages because neither looked old enough to drink alcohol, yet both had made it through law school and served as senior partners in their firm.

After taking seats in the living room, before either of them spoke, I made note of the business card. Thick, fine texture, embossed writing felt as much as seen, ivory stock and charcoal ink. An ornate emblem emblazoned the right third of the card, an archaic design reminiscent of the lines and curves of medieval religious artwork adorning ancient texts and not too few churches. Yet the pattern also held a certain Celtic design: not too curvaceous or gaudy, somehow geometric, symmetrical with sturdy lines. Evidently an old signet, maybe of an order.

A mix of Druidism and Christianity wouldn’t have surprised me, combining the two a widespread practice as Catholicism swept the world and consumed and integrated pagan faiths to make conversion easier for the great unwashed. Heathens would come to church more often if it looked, sounded and tasted familiar.

Covering the other two thirds of the card, to the left of the compelling logo, the name of the firm appeared printed in a gothic copperplate font—de Vérité et de Savoir, Attorneys at Law. Recognizing it as French but never having learned the language of love, I breezed over it knowing it stood for partner names.

Before I could speak, my eyes fell below the firm’s name to their motto. I mumbled the words absently, “Ex Scientia Vera …”

While I don’t know French, I took four years of Latin in high school because words are power, I’m a writer, and linguistics and etymology fascinate me. The moment I read it I knew ex scientia vera roughly meant “from knowledge, truth.” My eyes returned to the name of the firm—de Vérité et de Savoir.

“de Vérité,” I said more firmly, “possibly from Latin veritas from Latin vera.” Not knowing French and having no clue of the etymology of vérité, my mind couldn’t verify the connection it made. Nevertheless I suspected the French word had a similar meaning to the Latin word—truth. This meant little for names are just names, especially old surnames which have rather obvious links to their formation: Wise coming directly from “wisdom” and describing someone learned, Rector coming from “rector” and describing someone involved with a church, and on it goes. Contemporary surnames represent centuries of linguistic evolution for titles made up as needed to differentiate people with the same first names.

de Vérité could easily mean “of or from truth” and could betoken descent from soothsayers, priests, investigators, wise men, prophets, or any number of other functions that imply seeking truth. That would include—Heaven forbid!—attorneys, judges, lawyers. The name made tangential sense.

Acknowledging I wasted time on wordplay since I partly feared their visit’s purpose, I looked at the two men. They sat upright, impeccable posture, two pairs of crystal blue eyes focused on me with compassion and sharp interest.

Pierre de Savoir said, “Your interpretation is correct, Monsieur Crichton. The French word vérité stems from the Latin veritas and means truth. And savoir means knowledge and comes indirectly from Latin sapere meaning ‘to be wise’ or to have taste.” He smiled, though not a bragging smile declaring his name meant more than a name but rather the happily satisfied smile of a presumption now proved. His comrade had the same approvingly pleased smile on his face. Unbeknownst to me, I had passed a test.

“So what is this about, Mr. de Savoir and Mr. de Vérité?”

“Monsieur Crichton,” de Vérité replied, “please call me Jean-Marie.”

“Please call me Pierre,” de Savoir added.

“Then please call me Dave.”

Pierre immediately responded, “That would be improper, Monsieur Crichton.”

“Why might that be?”

“Please, Monsieur Crichton, let us not cloud this discussion with the fog of propriety. We come at this time of deprivation not to bother you with such pedantries. First let us offer our sincere condolences on the loss of your wife.”

Both men set their mouths firm and their eyes soft, Pierre giving a small shake of his head. Sympathy, a precious commodity so long as it doesn’t become pity. Sympathy comes from the heart, a sincere feeling of shared pain and loss. Pity, on the other hand, comes from the intellect, a sense of detached mercy felt by the strong for the weak.

Pierre offered, “A calamitous mishap indeed, Monsieur Crichton. A senseless tragedy.”

“Oui,” Jean-Marie included. “I am truly sorry for your loss, Monsieur Crichton. But come, your time is precious, your bereavement real. Mon Dieu! Let us not tarry. Our visit is Pavlovian, yet hopefully it also is propitious and edifying.”

“Of course!” Pierre interjected before continuing, “As we said, our firm represents the de la Roche family. More specifically, our firm serves as paladin-in-absentia and guardian-in-aeternum for the de la Roche Legacy Trust. Established in 1658, the Legacy Trust represents the interests of the combined estate formed by the marriage of the Mademoiselle Simone du Pont de Nemours to the Baron Charles-Édouard de la Roche de Châteauguay.”

de Vérité appended, “A primary function thereof is to act as benefactor in the furtherance of economic assurance for the trust’s licit beneficiaries—rightful male members of the de la Roche de Châteauguay family. However, Monsieur Crichton, rightful male members of the de la Roche family ended with the life of Louis de la Roche. At that time, according to the Monsieur de la Roche’s previous instructions, exhaustive rights, resources, funds and information from the Legacy Trust transferred en bloc to his daughter, the Mademoiselle Elizabeth de la Roche.”

“Clearly, Monsieur Crichton, we speak of your late wife,” de Savoir clarified.

My eyes had already glazed over from understanding and from disbelief. I had no comprehension of this trust, but already it seemed bigger and more powerful than what I could associate with Beth. Why had she not shared news of a centuries-old lineage and her name’s untold antiquity? Stories of her childhood intimated poverty, minimalist survival. But that came from the maternal side with Irene. Her father however … Too much buzzing confusion.

Pierre carried on, “In 1994, lacking a rightful male heir for the first time in more than three centuries and acting upon the binding directives provided by her father the Monsieur Louis de la Roche, representatives of de Vérité et de Savoir made personal contact with the Mademoiselle Elizabeth de la Roche upon her twenty-first birthday to inform her of her birthright and its resources.”

His partner picked up the trail and said, “At that time, Mademoiselle de la Roche initiated a stay upon rightful and due annuities from the Legacy Trust and directed our firm to retain said moneys, reinvesting them according to the trust’s due and proper objectives, accepting that she could from time to time call forth a dispensation in those forms most prerequisite to fulfill her needs.”

“Having made no further contact and no petitions since that time, Monsieur Crichton,” de Savoir continued, “in March of 1998 the Madame Elizabeth Crichton, formerly the Mademoiselle Elizabeth de la Roche, contacted our office following your matrimonial vows. She filed appropriate changes, including a commandare post obitum, which continued her previous stay of annuities and enjoined de Vérité et de Savoir to supplant her rightful authority and privilege by naming you, the Monsieur David Allen Crichton, rightful heir to the Legacy Trust should she not rescind, alter or otherwise subvert her mandate prior to death.”

March 1998. The month we married. So soon …

“Additionally,” Jean-Marie stated, “Madame Crichton, via her commandare post obitum, properly and suitably instructed our firm to make available to you forthwith upon her death the heretofore unpaid annuities, including gains therefore realized, and to make accessible to you resources, information and funds from the Legacy Trust.”

“Ergo, Monsieur Crichton,” his partner added as he reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a white envelope and handed it to me, “we present to you, as instructed, the hereunto unclaimed and reinvested annuities, including realized gains, originating from the Madame Elizabeth Crichton’s repudiation of her annuities.”

I held the envelope in shaking hands, unsure of the world in which I found myself. Two men, two lawyers, by name chief partners of their firm, had traveled from New Orleans to Dallas to hand me that envelope. Their story traced heredity stretching more than three centuries into the past, the heredity of my wife, deceased, dead no more than three days. It scared the shit out of me, left me bemused and engendered a multitude of questions.

The envelope had the same emblem, name, motto and address in the upper left corner that appeared on the business card. My full name, David Allen Crichton, filled the address space in neat type akin to the copperplate font. Fingers roaming the surface reported heavy cotton bond; eyes scanning what I held reported more ivory than white; mind looking for comprehension reported something reminiscent of vellum. I briefly traced my fingers over the sigil and discovered it both a visible and a tangible stamp.

Before opening it, before seeing what it held, the envelope represented a secret past, a vast story Beth hid during the eleven years of our marriage. I felt deceived. Slicing and dicing the facts, I deduced a story overflowing with misdirection and untruths. Had I known her? Or did the fresh grief of loss selfishly yet falsely infer malfeasance, perhaps because I felt betrayed somehow by her death?

Had she felt impartial to, embarrassed by, or uninterested in her past? Had she ignored it, finding it unnecessary, somehow prohibitive to her ongoing happiness? She didn’t know about it until she reached twenty-one years of age. Maybe by then she had decided the future held the hope of her life, not the past, so when the past jumped in her face she pushed it aside, uncaring for the intrusion and already beyond the implications. I wished she could help me make sense of the situation.

de Vérité looked at me with a deferential gleam in his eye as he stated, “And ad rem, Monsieur Crichton, in addition to the meager assets you hold, please understand the whole of the de la Roche Legacy Trust, en bloc, now belongs to you and waits at the ready to assist you, three centuries of resources, information and moneys available as your need demands. Annuities will commence henceforth, paid quarterly. de Vérité et de Savoir stands compelled and bound to tender riposte as you call upon us.”

Both men stood as if on cue, prepared to leave with their business concluded. I had questions. They had answers. And I had yet to open the envelope.

“We have taken the liberty of forwarding germane information and documents to your attorney, the Madame Lydia Hagerup, providing her our contact information should she have inquiries not already addressed in the materials provided,” de Savoir offered as they turned in different directions and walked around the couch.

“Ad interim,” de Vérité said as they reached the door and faced me, “de Vérité et de Savoir will, faute de mieux, continue conducting the business of the trust and achieving the goals of the trust according to the wishes of the Mademoiselle Simone du Pont de Nemours and the Baron Charles-Édouard de la Roche de Châteauguay. Meanwhile, we shall await your behest or request.”

Thinking it polite to show them out, I stood, though already they had opened the door and paused in the anteroom, ready to leave, looking back as if awaiting permission to depart. The unopened enveloped trembled in my hands, continued to tremble, weighing heavily upon me. I could scarcely look away from it.
“En rappaport, Monsieur Crichton,” one of them said—I could no longer see them or tell them apart, tears misting my eyes, my heart heavy, my mind spinning out of control—”wealth does not wash away the distaste of death, but I hope Madame Crichton’s intent shines as clearly for you as it does for us.”

“We offer our heartfelt condolences for the loss of your wife. Madame Crichton’s spirit will be missed,” the other said.

“Take the path that leads up from the cavernous abyss of loss, Monsieur Crichton, up from here sans worry or concern. Trials await and death is only the beginning.”

“With respect, mon cher, we take our leave. We await your word.”

The door closed. Silence filled the living room, the house, the emptiness of solitude, the reality of aloneness. They had gone. The house sheltered only me. And the envelope continued shaking in my hands. How surreal the meeting, how surprising, how strange their parting words.

The men and their business card and the packet I held reeked of expense. Money. From the sound of it, old money.

They had sealed the enveloped with a wax stamp using the design of their logo, that odd conflation of lines that represented an amalgam of ideologies or a blend of different eras. The garnet wax looked like blood, crimson and dry yet fresh and wet. Not wanting to touch it, I shook away my apprehension—Don’t be daft!—and slid my finger beneath the flap. The wax separated from the paper, clinging to the flap, a stain of red where it once held the packet closed.

Removing a folded sheet of paper from within, I smoothed it open with one hand, finding it contained another piece of paper, this one a third the size of a page. A bank name at the top left, my name in the middle, numbers and details scattered across the remainder.

The main sheet had the same symbol, firm name, address. At the bottom of the page, stretching from margin to margin, a bulleted list of cities indicating where de Vérité et de Savoir had main offices: New Orleans, London, Paris, Beijing, New Delhi, Tokyo, Pretoria, Moscow.

“Wow …”

Those represented some serious places, though New Orleans hardly fit with the others. The capitals of England, France, China, India, Japan, South Africa and Russia, led by New Orleans, the powerhouse capital of—capital of naught since Baton Rouge is the capital of Louisiana. Capital of Mardi Gras? Capital of the French Quarter? Likely the firm started in New Orleans and grew into a global legal empire from there, ignoring of course that New Orleans didn’t exist three hundred years ago. More confusion for later, I supposed.

Quickly scanning through the letter—To the estimable Monsieur David Allen Crichton—it read as both explanation for the check and declaration of my incipient relationship with this law firm. Knowing what a letter of intent means, creating the legal paperwork to retain an attorney’s services, the missive struck me as incongruous because it performed the same function except in reverse. Rather than showing I had retained the representation of de Vérité et de Savoir, Attorneys at Law, the text spelled out that, according to the wishes of the late Elizabeth Crichton, de Vérité et de Savoir represented me as a course of ongoing management of the trust. In essence, you need not do a thing, Dave, because we already work for you. No signature required.

And the check … The letter explained it represented the funds previously refused by Beth, annuities and their reinvested gains, about fifteen years of automatic payments she declined. The annuities came automatically, the larger trust tapped at any time. Beth renounced both options.

de Vérité had called the check “meager assets.” So I finally pulled it into view.

Pay to the order of David Allen Crichton …

My eyes slowly meandered toward the value. On the right. In a box.

I tried to clear confusion and frustration, tried to make sense of the numbers. No zeroes, a lode of digits, need to find the decimal.

Still not clarified, the sum not meager. Look at the text.

Four hundred twenty-seven million five hundred ninety-nine thousand one hundred eighteen dollars and forty-seven cents.

Huh? Look at the numbers again, in the dollar box.

427,599,118.47 …

Brain circuits short and fizzle. Thoughts try to comprehend.

Memory: “the hereunto unclaimed and reinvested annuities, including realized gains …”

Memory: “in addition to the meager assets you hold, please understand the whole of de la Roche Legacy Trust, en bloc, now stands at the ready to assist you …”

Memory: “Annuities will commence henceforth, paid quarterly.”

Memory: “we shall await your behest or request …”

***

“They didn’t include a complete accounting of the trust’s worth, but the overview implies a value at least in the many tens of billions,” Lydia Hagerup explained.

It had taken me a few days to call her about the visit from the French lawyers. No avoidance involved, though shock played a part. Mostly I delayed since Beth had died a few days prior, my life remained in chaos—mental, emotional and otherwise—and the voice of logic said Lydia would need some time to do her homework on the information they sent her. And she would definitely do her homework, forever a thorough and tough attorney.

“As long as you don’t make withdrawals, your financial ramifications stay limited to investment income from annuities. When you deposit the check you already have though, you’ll want to claim it as inheritance. They’ve already paid the taxes.”

“I figured as much,” I replied. “But what interests me more is the overview of the law firm, the trust, all of it. Is this real? Do you have any idea how unbelievable it is, Lydia?”

“Without a personal frame of reference, I can only imagine it strikes you as so out of left field and so incredible that it must be a bad joke or a bizarre accident of identity. But it’s real, Dave. Let me tell you what I found.”

She proceeded to explain that the law firm in question, de Vérité et de Savoir of New Orleans, Louisiana, with offices spread around the globe, appeared to have no clients aside from the de la Roche family, a vast, nebulous estate with a centuries-long history. Beth’s directive to transfer the trust to me legally bound the firm. But more than cash—obviously a great deal of that—the trust represented centuries of history, a private version of the Vatican’s collection of information, artifacts, texts, art and such.

Lydia made clear the trust took financial care of the de la Roches, not to mention legal care; yet also, according to the firm’s documents and the trust’s charter, the law firm had responsibility to conduct the business of the trust and to achieve the goals of the trust, both rather ill-defined objectives in the available and public records.

“They’ve worked in secrecy for more than three hundred years, Dave. Since they seem to have just one client, the court documents I’ve found thus far show them involved in matters somehow connected to those goals, though how is anyone’s guess. I discovered property acquisitions, ownership disputes for artwork and ancient texts and heirlooms, and various odds and ends that look rather innocuous.

“But it doesn’t end with that. There are court records either sealed or heavily redacted that indicate other matters that hardly look related. For example, there’s a case from about fifty years ago when the trust fought a lengthy battle to obtain remains buried beneath the Vatican. The Vatican, Dave, the heart of the Catholic Church. And the trust won! They got their remains, though the records are so blacked out that it’s impossible to determine why the trust had interest in retrieving remains interred in the Vatican’s catacombs.”

“How weird.”

“Right. And there’s more of that. As I said though, these records are hard to find and harder to understand because they’re either completely sealed or they’re edited heavier than documents coming out of the Department of Defense. It would be easier to learn the secrets of the stealth fighter with a Freedom of Information Act request than it would be to figure out what madness lies behind these expurgated records. At least for me …”

“What do you mean?”

“As the trust’s sole beneficiary, you might have access to information that no one else can access save those working for the firm.”

“True. I intend to ask some questions. I can’t help but be curious about this, given its strangeness and unexpectedness.” I paused for a breath, weighing options, then inquired, “What about the firm itself?”

“The firm is a private company. The most you can find comes from tax records. Otherwise they file no other revelatory paperwork save the bureaucratic kind. The tax records tell the story we already suspect—a lot of money. The firm’s income, tied exclusively to the trust, trends per annum toward a global value around a billion dollars. It tapers off the further back you go, as you’d expect.

“But a billion annually?” She sounded incredulous. “I’d say that’s excessive since there’s only one client. Nevertheless, if that one client, the trust, has a lot of business to manage and a lot more money than the firm’s income …” She let her words fade, leaving me with the striking allusion.

“The trust must be massive.”

“Precisely. Property, art, investments, cash, who knows what else. This law firm’s tax records clearly indicate the trust has material assets in the many tens of billions at minimum, though it wouldn’t surprise me to learn it’s a hundred billion or more. That is if they’re not sucking it dry.”

“This check signifies otherwise.”

“I agree.”

We paused to consider the magnitude of what we wanted to understand, the remarkable secrecy behind the firm’s practice, the suddenness of it.

After letting my mind rove a few moments I asked, “Is depositing the check a wise move?”

She laughed a warm and gentle laugh as though I had inadvertently told an amusing joke. Finally she answered, “If you want to be rich.”

“Thanks, Lydia!” I shot back with good-humored sarcasm.

“From your perspective it’s an inheritance, nonbinding and noncommittal with regards to the trust or the firm. In fact, given the paperwork they forwarded for my review, the obligations created from Beth’s directions are entirely one-sided—theirs. As with all such relationships, they’re now legal counsel for you, bound by the trust to serve your interests as though you’d hired them. No signature required to make that a reality; it’s already a reality. That entire law firm is now dedicated to you via the trust, and the trust now belongs to you in toto. In every legal way conceivable, Dave, you own the trust and you own the law firm of de Vérité et de Savoir.”

My breath caught as I grappled with the inference. My wife bequeathed the de la Roche Legacy Trust to me. The legal practice handled no work save managing that trust, tending its business, taking care of its rightful owners. I had inherited the untold wealth of the trust; I had also inherited the organization that saw to its care and feeding.

“Wow,” I finally gasped as it settled into place. “Just … Wow.”

“That about sums it up, my friend,” Lydia responded.

As I near completion of my second novel, End of the Warm Season, and as I near a decision on how to publish its precursor, The Wedge in the Doorway (see introduction, chapter 1, chapter 2 and chapter 3), I thought it would be interesting to give some details about what was—is involved with such an endeavor: a first novel that starts a series of novels at least six books long, in this case The Breaking of Worlds.

First, some technical details about the unedited manuscript:

The Breaking of Worlds I: The Wedge in the Doorway is over 227,000 words long, not including acknowledgements, dedications, epigraphs, about the author, and other typical pieces and parts found in a novel.  Accepting the standard average of 250 words per page, the tome weighs in at a hefty 909 pages.  But that industry average assumes certain printed font sizes, margins, line spicing and other tricks publishers use to manipulate book lengths.  Therefore, despite the word count, the manuscript will probably equate to a shorter novel, albeit still a healthy volume.

In addition, final editorial changes have not been made, thus content shortening will still take place.  As someone who believes the story is more important than someone’s idea of appropriate length, don’t expect a great deal of cutting.

As the manuscript now stands, the book is 60 chapters long—with an epilogue, so technically 61 chapters long, and it’s broken into three major sections, currently parts one through three (though I’m considering calling them acts or something else since I intend to carry this practice forward throughout the remainder of the series).

Second, some general details about the initial manuscript:

Although a weighty tale, The Wedge in the Doorway is a beginning rather than a whole.  It not only narrates a story, but it establishes a much larger mythology whilst simultaneously presenting questions without answers.  These questions and others as yet unasked will be answered in the continuing series.

In addition, the book offers more than a few clues about what to expect in the remainder of the series, although many of these clues are disguised, ambiguous and obscure, most included as pertinent details of the book and therefore not obvious foreshadowing (which I hate—obvious foreshadowing, I mean—though I’ll use it when and if appropriate).

And finally, some interesting facts and figures about what it took:

When I reintroduced its predecessor, the digital novella “Darkness Comes to Kingswell,” I explained that the original story had 50,000 words and spanned 90 pages, but that it grew from those humble beginnings into something else.  But what it grew into could not stand alone since the epic would consist of at least six novels.  So here’s what I had to create to support this endeavor.

(1) A relational database of character names.  At 3.5 MB in size and containing over 2,100 records, this has more than paid for the time it took me to develop the application.  The database not only contains names and descriptions of my characters, but it also links records based on how the characters are related.  For example, I can look up the main character, Dave Crichton, and from his record I can jump to the records of his parents, Sam and Monica, his dead wife Beth (under both her married name and her maiden name), and even to those not in his nuclear and extended families, relationships like his housekeeper Bea Alten and his attorney Lydia Hagerup.

But the database provides more than just data about existing characters; it also provides a running list of available (unused) names as well as names based on where they were used (by novel and by series), since I don’t want to reuse a name in the same series but can certainly reuse it—or something similar—in a different work.  And since the application provides references according to actual name as well as phonetic name (how it sounds) and similar name (how it’s spelled), it simplifies managing a large cast of characters by ensuring I don’t duplicate names or use very similar names whilst also ensuring I have ready access to each character and their descriptions, like who they’re related to and how they look and sound.

(2) Architectural diagrams of Carr Beholden.  If you’re not already aware, Carr Beholden is Dave Crichton’s home, an old lakeside hotel turned into a residence.  It has secrets, only a few of which are revealed in the first book.  To keep me consistent on which way someone should turn when exiting the kitchen while heading to the sunroom, I found it necessary to draw the entire home from top to bottom, basement to roof, as well as the surrounding grounds and the other buildings on the property.  This also ensured I was consistent in speaking to size, to where things were, to referencing features and directions, and so on.

At 5.7 MB and containing fifteen separate drawings, these diagrams are quite detailed with regards to the structures and their contents.  They show where every piece of furniture sits, where every door and window are located, where every wall connects and where every step leads.

Yes, I intend to post those diagrams at a later time as means to show you Carr Beholden as it exists in the story (to augment descriptions in the narrative).

(3) Map data for King’s Hope.  Having created a new East Texas town in which this series will take place, it behooved me to ensure—like the house—that I spoke consistently about where things are in the hamlet and how to get from point A to point B.  Every neighborhood, every farm-to-market road, every business and every residence is painstakingly mapped within the confines of the real world (existing state highways and natural features surround the town while the imaginary world is drawn precisely inside those walls).  Want to know how to get from Carr Beholden, Dave Crichton’s home, to the Crichton Farm, his parents’ home?  The map will tell you precisely what roads and what directions are necessary, as well as every home and business and town feature you’ll pass along the way.

At 1.5 MB and containing three separate drawings, this map will continue to grow as need arises to create new places, new businesses, new areas.

And yes, like the Carr Beholden diagrams mentioned above, I intend to share the maps of King’s Hope.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if a simplified map is included in each of the novels so a frame of reference is available (because the whole series takes place in the town with only a few exceptions, so it might help to have a visualization included).

(4) Story notes.  For The Wedge in the Doorway, the notes document is 131 pages long.  The first 13 pages contain various tidbits, like timelines, brief descriptions of various groups and factions, suggestions about potential subplots and character interactions, and other factoids, linguistic references and mental detritus.  The remaining 118 pages contain scraps—bits of the story originally written into the manuscript then later removed for one reason or another.  At least 15 pages of these scraps have already been removed and added to the second manuscript, End of the Warm Season, thus my reluctance to simply delete them and move on as though they never happened; they contain elements of the mythology, back story, character histories and such that could end up in future installments of the overall tale.

(Of note: Each of the six novels has its own notes document, with the documents becoming progressively more sparse the further into the epic you go.  Mind you, I roll the notes forward if I don’t use them, and I also add to them as ideas come to me—regardless of where in the narrative those ideas fit.)

(5) Odd & ends text documents.  The Wedge in the Doorway has three extraneous text documents: epigraphs (where I originally made note of the epigraphs I wanted to use and continually changed them until I was happy), King’s Hope roads (which simply lists the various road names and FM, CR and RR numbers), and lucid dreaming study (which I used as I brainstormed about how to write the news article about lucid dreaming).

End of the Warm Season already has one text document—presidential speech—though I’ll spare you the details about what’s in that one (though you can feel safe in assuming it contains a speech from the President of the United States).

(6) Manuscript copies.  Each novel has its working life as a valid manuscript: Times New Roman 12 point, double-spaced, margin formatting only to offset special areas, no extra fonts … Well, you know, the usual.  But each manuscript also gets converted into two additional copies: a review copy and a formatted copy.

The formatted copy gets extra treatment.  Additional fonts are introduced where appropriate (e.g., to indicate handwritten text) as well as paragraph and page formatting.  In essence, it’s the typesetter version were I doing my own desktop publishing.

The review copy is the formatted copy with pertinent sections redacted or removed, such as dedications, acknowledgements and about the author.  This is the copy I share with friends and family who wish to read the manuscript.

(7) Bookmarks.  And I mean a lot of bookmarks.  The web is my playground, most notably as an investigative and research tool.  For instance, King’s Hope is inserted into East Texas history as a renegade sister town of Jefferson.  In order for that to work, the history of Jefferson is essential so a history for King’s Hope can be made real and believable.  In The Wedge in the Doorway, our beloved attorney Clement Doubleday launches into that history before Dave cuts him off—a section of the book you’ll see at a later time, either here or in the published work.  Though Clement doesn’t get the opportunity to finish his historical narrative, the entire thing is written and ready, either to be used in full or as reference material.  But for that history to make sense and to fit in with Jefferson’s real history, I had to fully understand Jefferson.  The web provided that.

Another example is mythology.  The Breaking of Worlds is based on a simple premise which I have shared before: “If Greek mythology teaches a single unflinching truth, it is that mortals and gods never live peacefully together.  Most people have forgotten this lesson, but the gods have not.  The war against humanity has begun.”  And while it might imply my mythology is based on Greek mythology, that impression is false, for this description only uses Greek mythology as an example.  What The Breaking of Worlds will do is take a myriad of mythologies and scramble them together into a completely new mythology, all the while relying heavily on what we think we know based on the original mythologies.

Although The Wedge in the Doorway only touches on this lightly, it becomes all the more evident in End of the Warm Season where Native American and Celtic mythologies play central and combined roles.  This practice will grow steadily throughout the series (and is briefly touched upon in the first novel as we are introduced to some gods who use several mythologies to describe themselves).

On and on the list goes …  The point being that the web is a major tool for me, from science and technology to mythology and history.  Without it, suspension of disbelief would be hard to accomplish without significant investment in research time at the local library—amongst other places.

And there you have it, poppets.  That’s what it took to get where we are today.  The Breaking of Worlds moves ahead at a steady clip, writing taking place at every opportunity, the first novel complete and looking for a publishing home, the second novel near completion, and the series growing according to plan.

Is this series the crux of my novelistic endeavors?  Hardly!  I’ve already started a separate novel about a supercolony of ants, though that’s all I’m going to say about that.  I’ve also started a comedic novel entitled Poison Ivy and the Broken Throne, something my family knows about and endorses, though they don’t know how I’ll treat the final tale.  Two other ideas are bubbling up in notes documents, one about aliens and one about death.  So The Breaking of Worlds is only the start and other works could pop up while I finish that series.  Only time will tell.

And now I have to go back to The Wedge in the Doorway … to see if I should post more after the third chapter.  I’d considered up to ten chapters—even the whole thing—but I have to figure out what I’m doing with it and how much I’m willing to share while I’m considering its disposition.