Behold the Eye: Braumaru
Book 1
By Veronica R. Tabares
Illustrated by Tara Tabares
Copyright © 2008 Veronica R. Tabares
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published by Sun Break Publishing at Smashwords
ISBN: 978-0-9815557-5-1
Publishers note:
This book is a work of fiction and a figment of the author’s imagination. Similarities to actual characters, places, names, or events are purely coincidental.
To discover other titles by this author visit
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/veronicatabares
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Braumaru
Land of the Brown-Eyes
Dear Librarian,
I am in your library all the time, so you might remember me. I check out several books every week, and I always return them on time. (Except for those two books I’m still paying for. I really didn’t know that my little brother was using the books to build a dam. I don’t mix books with water, but I guess my little brother is too young to know any better. He’s also pretty sneaky. My mom says that it was my fault for leaving the books where he could find them, so I’m paying out of my allowance. I should be finished paying next month.)
Anyway, the real reason I am writing is because I found a mistake in your library. I found “Behold the Eye: Braumaru” in the fiction section, but it isn’t fiction.
I know that you probably get a lot of people telling you that they think things should be done a certain way, like the library should be decorated a particular way. Or maybe they think it’s open the wrong hours and things like that. And I know all about people not wanting certain books in the library, I always pay attention during Banned Books Week.
But this is different. I really, really know what I am talking about when I say that “Behold the Eye” is not fiction. I know it is true because it is MY story.
To be honest, I can’t say that it’s just my story, because it is also the story of my friends. (Tricia, Cathy, and Karen have been my friends forever. Micah and Shanti are newer friends. And of course there are also a lot of other people who are important to the story, some are new friends, some are old, and some are most definitely not friends.)
You probably wonder why, since it is my story, that I didn’t write the book myself. Well, I tried, but it was too big of a story. Writing a book is a little harder than I first thought. I even tried to get together with my friends to write it. But it turned out that they were too busy. So my friends and I found an author who agreed to write our story into a book for us.
The author warned us that no one would ever believe that it is a real story. She said that everyone would call it a fantasy.
I guess she was right.
But trust me, this stuff really happened!
Sincerely,
Vickie Sutton
Chaos.
Everywhere is chaos. I am scared, tired,
and hungry. No one cares if I have fresh water
in which to bathe, a warm place to sleep, or even
food. No one is in charge, people are missing,
and there is no law.
Yet still, it is better than the day of the
tragedy. The fires in the forests have finally
stopped, and the putrid smell of burning vegetation
has begun to go away. I do not know what caused
most of my people to disappear, nor do I know
how an entire city can vanish without a trace.
But I suspect that it has something to do with the
shooting stars that hit my city.
Chapter 1
Micah bounded up the stairs two at a time, and leapt into his bed. Gone were the slow, controlled motions that usually characterized all his actions.
Who could move slowly after a day like today? Especially since, or so it seemed to Micah, lightening was coursing through his body instead of blood. Every heartbeat sent energy clear to the tips of each finger, and moving slowly was just not an option.
It had been a very exciting day, although a tiring one. His heart still raced as he thought about the task he had successfully accomplished during the Rite, followed by the ceremony, laughter, games, and light-heartedness he had enjoyed on this day … his day.
But even with the excitement of the day coursing through his body, he could not stop yawning as he snuggled under his covers. It felt so good to relax. The anticipation was finally over. He was now a man, a happy but tired man.
Micah could not believe that this day had finally come. He, Micah Zomorah, was at last a man!
During the ceremonies today, every member of his community had acknowledged his maturity. Every child, woman, and man had hugged him, shaken hands with him, or, as with most of his friends, playfully punched his arm.
He did not even mind that the punches of his closest friends would probably leave bruises for weeks. It was worth it. The Rite of Passage was over, and he had accomplished his chosen task.
Of course, in the minds of many people, he would not be a full-fledged adult until his birth gift manifested itself. But he was not worried; he had only just now turned fifteen. Birth gifts have been known to show themselves at ages as early as 10, and as late as 25. He cared little that he was not going to be one of those early bloomers. It was probably for the best. He had heard of several children whose gifts arrived well before they were old enough to know how to handle them.
Even so, he hoped he would not have to wait until his 20s to discover the nature of his gift. It would be torture to wait that long! Life was always more exciting when you knew what you were supposed to be doing. Waiting was boring.
Still, even though he was not yet prepared to move on to the next phase of his life, he was excited. Childhood was over, even if adulthood had not fully begun. The future was full of unlimited opportunities. All he needed now was to know the form his natural talents would take.
Feeling his body getting heavier and heavier as he relaxed into his mattress, Micah knew he was about to drift off into sleep. Tonight he was happy, and he was not afraid he would have one of his frequent nightmares. His spirits were so high that he knew that even if his dreams were exciting, they would still be pleasant.
He would sleep well.
There is a silence in the air that I cannot
become used to. All my life, I have been
accustomed to the steady hum of a busy city.
I have felt the vibrations of many
footsteps, heard the murmur of many
voices, had my thoughts cushioned
by the presence of the educated.
Now, there is an overwhelming stillness,
broken occasionally
by the presence of the lonely few
who have
survived.
Chapter 2
Out of the corner of her eye, Vickie saw a movement outside the fence of the playground.
“I bet that’s a dog,” Vickie said under her breath. “I just love dogs! If I get to the fence in time, I’ll get to pet it.”
Vickie turned her head quickly, trying to get a better look at her potential new canine friend before she jumped up and raced to the fence.
“Darn,” Vickie mumbled to herself, “no one is there. I guess it’s just as well; it probably would have been a snappy little dog instead of a friendly big one.”
“But right now,” Vickie continued mumbling under her breath, “even a little dog with an inferiority complex would be better than nothing. All we ever do at recess anymore is sit.”
It was late in the school year, and the 6th grade girls of Westwood Middle School were tired of all the normal playground activities. Kickball made them sweaty (boys don't like sweaty girls), basketball always messed up a girl's hair, and swings and the Jungle Gym were just too babyish. There was nothing to do at recess!
"I'm bored," said Vickie aloud to her friends, "does anybody have a game we can play?"
When none of the other three girls answered, Vickie decided to take charge of the situation. What she really wanted was excitement, something that not only reflected a sixth-grader's status of near-adulthood, but an adventure so great that it would make a good book.
That was it! Forget about games, she needed to write a book. Vickie devoured books like most kids devoured pizza, and one of her goals was to write a best seller when she grew up.
Well, she thought, why wait? Adults wrote best sellers all the time, and why should they have all the fun! And besides, writing a book sounded like an exciting adventure! At least it could be exciting if she could convince her friends to write it with her.
"Hey guys,” Vickie shouted with excitement, “how about we write a book? You know, one of those real life books, about all the cool things that happen in our lives?”
The other girls, shocked out of their lethargy by the extreme loudness of Vickie’s voice, looked at her as if she had suddenly grown an extra head. Write a book! Was she nuts? Writing was work, not fun.
“I bet,” Vickie continued, lowering her voice to a more normal level now that she had her friends’ attention, “if the four of us get together, we could write something so great the whole world would want to buy it. It would be fun, and we could be rich and famous!”
The girls had been sitting in a stupor for most of recess, so no one even thought to speak as the minutes ticked by. Each girl—trying to be fair to her friend—decided to weigh the work of writing against the joy of becoming rich and famous.
The idea of fame and fortune was so appealing, and the dream of becoming world-renowned writers so strong, that the playground around them started to fade off into the distance. They no longer heard the laughter and screams of their fellow classmates enjoying recess all around them.
“I’m so glad you liked my book, your majesty,” Tricia mumbled with a bow, as her imagination took her to England to become fast friends with the royal family.
Karen shivered and whispered, “Are there many more ghosts here?” In her mind’s eye, fame opened doors to the darkest dungeons and the scariest haunted houses.
“I just love having so many servants,” Cathy sighed in contentment. She was thoroughly enjoying her daydream, in which she watched as a retinue of servants cleaned up after one of her many star-studded parties. Cathy’s parents believed in the value of chores, and Cathy had quite a few she was expected to do around the house.
“My good fellow,” Cathy commanded softly to a member of her imaginary staff as she pointed off into the distance, “you must not forget to dust underneath my diamond tiara.”
When she became rich and famous, the first thing Cathy was going to do was hire enough help that she would never again be required to lift a finger for housework.
“Alfred, bring me the phone so that I can call the president,” Cathy serenely instructed her butler. “I am having a party next week. I shall need you to—ouch!” Her very important call to the president was interrupted when a stray ball from a nearby kickball game crashed into her back.
A ball in the back is as good as a bucket of water over the head to end a daydream. And of course, Cathy wasn’t going to let her friends enjoy their daydreams if she wasn’t going to get to enjoy hers. She grabbed the ball and tossed it to Tricia, hitting her in the head. The ball bounced off Tricia’s head and over to Karen, who came out of her daydream quick enough to catch it and throw it back to the waiting kickball players.
Just as some people wake up in the morning cranky, Tricia woke from her daydream in less than a good mood. A hit to the head with a kickball will sometimes bring out the crankiness in a person. Besides, she had been enjoying her time with the royalty of Europe.
"Writing a book is a cool idea, but I don't see what we would write about," scoffed Tricia as she gingerly rubbed her head to see if she had a bump where the ball had hit her. “Nothing exciting ever happens to us.”
Tricia, as Vickie's best friend, should have been enthusiastic about the book idea. The problem was that Tricia hated anything that resembled schoolwork, which she thought was a waste of her time. She was much more likely to spend her energy figuring out which boy in class was the cutest, smartest, nicest, etc.
Karen, who practically lived for scary movies, had been imagining herself living in a haunted castle. A tingle of anticipation raced up and down her spine at the thought. There was no way she would let this opportunity pass her by. Her parents certainly would not be purchasing a haunted castle any day soon. If she wanted to live in one, she would have to do the purchasing. Other than by writing a book, how else could a sixth-grader earn enough money to buy an entire castle!
“Nothing ever happens to us? Are you kidding?” Karen challenged Tricia. “Scary stuff happens all the time. Why just last night I felt the chill hand of a ghost brush across my forehead as I was drifting off to sleep.”
“Come on,” replied Tricia with a sneer, “Vickie suggested a true life book, not one of your fantasies.”
Tricia looked at Karen with disgust. She knew that Karen’s vivid imagination could supply many exciting adventures for a book, but none of them would be true adventures. Karen’s imagination was even better than Cathy’s, and she tended to live in a dream world, one that was over-full of ghosts and goblins.
“I think true life books sell better than fiction books,” explained Vickie. “And what we really want to do is sell a lot of books! Karen, do you really think the book should be about spooky things?”
“I know you all think that I imagine things all the time, but I don’t,” said Karen. “I know there is enough real creepy stuff going on around us that we could write the spookiest book ever. We could write a book that people would buy! People love scary stories, and Vickie, you’re right. People love real stories. A book that is scary and real would have to be a best seller.”
"Yeah, I read this really great ghost story the other day, and it’s a true story. It was so creepy that I had to sleep with my lights on for a week," chimed in Cathy. “Most of the people I know are buying that book, just because it’s scary. And I have an aunt that collects books about true ghost stories. You should see how many she has!”
Vickie thought about all the scary books she had read, all the scary movies she had trembled through, and all the scary stories she and her friends had terrorized each other with at slumber parties. A spooky book probably would be a best seller; it seemed that everyone liked to hear about haunted houses, ghosts in the graveyard, and dogs barking at sounds people could not hear.
"Well, it sounds like a really good idea. I’m okay with the spooky book thing, but I really, really, want it to be a real-life story. Now, the truth—does anything scary ever really happen to us?" Vickie questioned her friends sternly.
I dreamed of my brother and sister last
night. It seemed so real that it hurt when
my sister pinched me. I even have a bruise in
the same spot!
It was so comforting to once again feel
that I belonged. We played games and
teased each other, just like old times.
Only after I awoke did I recall that they were truly gone,
and have been for 2 seasons.
My dreams are now the only place where I
will be able to see my loved ones. How will I
learn to live with my loneliness? How will I
continue to survive, all alone, no
family, no friends, and none of my
servants to take care of me?
Chapter 3
With a start, Micah sat up in his bed, his heart pounding in his chest. The moonlight shining in his window, as well as the cool night air, let him instantly be aware that it was still the middle of the night. Why had he woken up, and why did he feel so frightened?
Micah tiptoed into his parent’s bedroom and gently shook his father’s shoulder. “Father,” Micah whispered, “I have had a dream that is very strange.”
Normally, Micah would not have awakened his father for anything as trivial as a dream. But Micah’s parents had stressed that they needed to immediately know about anything unusual that happened after the ceremony.
Yawning, his father sat up in bed. Looking at Micah’s sleeping mother, he motioned Micah to move into the next room. There was no reason for both parents to get up in the middle of the night.
“Was it another of your terror dreams?” the sleepy Zebulan questioned his son.
“No, it was not a terror dream. In truth, it was a very boring dream. There were four girls just sitting on the ground talking. I was … I was quite a distance away, so I could not even hear of what they were saying. Nothing really happened except one girl got hit in the head with a ball, and she was not even hurt.”
Zebulan stretched both of his hands over his head as he yawned, and tried to keep his eyes focused on his son. He had enjoyed the day of activities celebrating his son’s maturity, but he was exhausted. He tried to push the thought of the comfortable bed waiting for him in the next room out of his mind.
“Micah, it is unlike you to awaken me from my slumber, unless you have a good reason. What of this dream makes you worry?”
“In truth Dad, I do not know what of the dream bothered me. But when one of the girls looked at me, I sensed a kinship with her. She seemed to see me no more than she would see the wind on an open field, yet I felt a shock of recognition. I should know this girl. I was disappointed that she failed to see me.”
“A shock of recognition? Mayhap this girl has a gift similar to your own, whatever your gift turns out to be. Do you think that you have seen her before? Was she at the ceremony?”
“No Father, I am certain that I have never seen any of those girls before. Their dress and mannerisms were funny, and very odd to me. And this dream felt like no other. I had no ability to interact. I was there to watch, but not to take part. Never before have I been restricted thus in my dreams, even in my terror dreams.”
Zebulan knew that Micah’s terror dreams usually featured either himself or Micah’s mother, and usually they ended with the death of a parent. Zebulan also knew that children often had terror dreams of this sort; it was just a way to work through fears.
Micah looked at his father. It was only fair, after waking him from a sound sleep, to tell him what was really bothering him about these dreams.
“Father, I have never before had a dream such as this one. All my dreams are of familiar places and people. Tonight I dreamed of strangers in a strange place. But this somehow did not seem odd to me, instead it felt comfortable and real. I fear this change in my dreams. I fear the unfamiliar feeling familiar, and the unreal feeling real.”
Zebulan listened quietly to his son. Micah had never been the type of child to worry unnecessarily. He had always been an easygoing, even-tempered, rather serene child. There was no reason to think that the Rite of Passage would change the nature of Micah’s personality. If something was worrying Micah, there was probably something to worry about. Zebulan struggled to try to understand what was bothering his son.
“There is more, Father. When I suffer through a terror dream, I awake sitting up in my bed and breathing quickly, as if I had been running a great distance. The fear I feel during the dream makes it so. Tonight I awoke in just such a manner. But there was nothing to fear in the dream. No terrifying cliffs to fall from, no loved one in danger, no burning buildings in which to be trapped. Why would I awake from a dream, a boring dream which has nothing in it to fear, as if it were a dream full of terror?”
“Micah, my son,” Zebulan replied with a sigh, “I do not have the answer to your question. Let us go back to sleep for this night, and talk of this again on the morrow. In the morn, our minds will not be as cluttered with the cobwebs of slumber. Maybe then I will be able to answer your question.”
Micah nodded in agreement, hugged his father, and returned to his room, deciding not to worry any more for that night. Lying back down, Micah rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. He was so exhausted that he knew that going to sleep was not going to be a problem.
As he drifted back to sleep, the picture of the four girls sitting in a circle talking kept intruding into his thoughts. Was he going to dream of them again?
Every day that goes by makes the weight of my loss just
a bit lighter. The pain is lessening, but slowly, oh
so slowly. Each day, it is a struggle to rise and face the day.
Nevertheless, I have learned to accept that I will no longer
be able to challenge my brother to a game of Chomka,
or tease my sister about her hair. My parents, I miss not
as much. I had accepted the loss of my parents long ago. I
so rarely saw them. They were at all times much too busy to
play with their children. I know I should rejoice that I was spared.
But sometimes I wonder was I really fortunate to be out of the city
on that day. I feel so alone, so different from everyone around me.
I think I am the only one remaining of my status,
the only one with any sort of education.
If I had not gone out to check on the workers and
update the logbooks, would I have disappeared
like everyone else?
Where did all my family and friends go?
Chapter 4
Professor Melissa Jamison stopped suddenly, disrupting the river of students rushing down the hallway. She was so intent on her discovery that she did not notice that the students were now forced to flow around her much as water flows around a stone placed in the middle of a stream.
“How could I not have seen this before,” Professor Jamison whispered to herself, as she often did when she needed to concentrate in a noisy environment. “I’ve looked at this book a thousand times, but I never noticed this writing in the margins.”
Of course, Professor Jamison knew why she had never noticed the writing before. The writing was so faint that it could only be seen in bright sunlight. No archaeologist in their right mind would expose an ancient artifact like this book to the destructive rays of the sun. Only a chain of unusual events had led to the discovery.
The book had been unearthed during an archaeological field school more than 60 years ago, but had lain untouched in storage until its discovery three months ago. The field school had ended abruptly due to the mysterious disappearance of the professor in charge of the field school, and all the other archaeologists at the university at the time had been much too busy with their own work to want to take on the work of another professor.
Three months previously, a water pipe had broken in the archaeology lab, leaving two inches of water on the floor. The pipe was fixed and the water cleaned up quickly, but not before the moisture had created the perfect growing environment for several types of mold. The mold proved so difficult to get rid of that the only option was to move everything out of the lab and into a dry storage area.
It was during the move that the forgotten artifacts from that long ago field school were discovered. Professor Jamison, as the head of the archaeology lab, felt that it was her responsibility to clean and catalog the artifacts. After all, she thought, if no one knows that the artifacts exist, they are rather hard to study.
Books are a rare find at an archaeological site, so Professor Jamison began her cataloging under the assumption that the book had belonged to the professor in charge of the dig. It was only after she was through with all the other artifacts that she even took the time to open the book. She quickly became excited because of its obvious age, and not in the least disappointed in its content. Books of this age, of which there were very few, were quite often dry texts listing supplies owned by a community. These lists provided useful information about the day-to-day lifestyles of that community. Archaeologists simply love to discover books of this sort.
That had been a month ago, and the book would have still been protected in the new location had not a second pipe burst, this time in the temporary archaeology lab. Once again, all the artifacts needed to be moved.
Professor Jamison left much of the moving to her students, but decided to personally transport the rare book to her dry-as-a-bone office. It was as she walked down the sunny hallway that she made her discovery, a discovery that would not have been made under the artificial lights commonly used throughout the labs in the university.
The words, written in the margin next to a list of seashells that had been traded for baskets, seemed to have no relation to anything else on the page. Professor Jamison reread the words aloud, and continued onto the next page to read the message she discovered there in the margin, her voice rising in excitement. She ignored the mass of humanity rushing past her just as most of the people in the sunny, but crowded, hallway ignored her.
It is odd that of the people that disappeared,
there remains no trace. And it is not only
people who have vanished. Whole
buildings, along with everything in them,
are now as if they had never existed.
Professor Jamison did not notice the eavesdropper that overheard her every word. She was so focused on her discovery, that she was unaware of the intent attention directed her way as she continued toward her office, her eyes never leaving the pages of the ancient text.
And so, because of a chain of unforeseen events, lives were about to be drastically altered. If the water pipes had not burst, the ancient book might have lain in the lab undiscovered indefinitely. If the sun had not been shining or Professor Jamison had not continued to study the book as she walked down the bright hallway, the hidden message might have remained hidden forever. If Professor Jamison had taken the time to lift her eyes long enough to notice the figure that now shadowed her down the hallway, many of the events now set in motion might not have occurred at all.
Later that night, as the moon shone full and bright on the campus grounds, a shadow moved noiselessly through the darkened hallways of the college. No one was around to see the shadow approach Professor Jamison’s office door, or to hear the scrape of metal against metal as a key was inserted into the lock.
As the door of the office creaked open, the silhouette exposed by the dim nightlight in the professor’s office gave no clue to the intruder’s identity. All that would have been seen, if anyone had been crazy enough to be in the campus building at 2 am, was a figure in a hooded sweatshirt and baggy blue jeans.