The executive’s hands unfolded and sat palms-down on the table. His attorney stiffened.
“And in any case, they’re part of what happened to my grandfather and me. And that we own.”
Like a confused puppy sensing things are not going well, Mel interrupted. “Cadence, look, I’m sure there’s a modest but still meaningful price you’ll accept to turn all this over, all the copies, everything. Perhaps an amount that would save your grandfather’s property.”
Cadence turned to face him. “Mel, I know you got something out of this already. I checked the Les Inspecteurs website. They got a one-season deal on French TV off of the pilot made about me. The money was probably a bluff. Like reality TV. Like you. Anyway, I know your motto. You’re opposed to any deal you’re not part of. But there’s just not a deal here. We don’t want to relinquish this. I think someone, maybe, might care about what happened to us.” She gestured to her grandfather and herself. “And I’m damn sure a lot of people
The words sounded odd in this conference room, but they were exactly right. The executive’s eyes opened like an imposter revealed.
Cadence slid a page across the table. “Part of her story may be lost, but not all. She lives.”
The lady attorney was fidgeting, getting ready to do her thing. “I’m afraid, Ms. Grande …”
Cadence cut her off. “Excuse me. We’re leaving. We withdraw our … Mel’s query. Thank you and good day.”
She rose. Jess looked at her and followed.
The suits didn’t have a chance to stand. As Cadence and Jess left the room, the gauzy, yellow morning light of L.A. dressed them, still-sitting in silhouette as they gazed down at the single page left by Cadence. On it was sketched a large inscription of Ara’s Rune.
“Who were those guys?” Cadence asked in the elevator.
“Depends on your point of view. Some people see suits. You and I might see an evil wizard and his entourage. In this town, who knows who’s right?”
“So what should we do? How are we going to make sure Ara survives?”
Just as the elevator doors began to close, Mel ran up. He put his chubby hand out and the doors backed open. “Cadence, isn’t there some way to get this done?”
She looked at him, remembering his frustrated inner-writer, the fragile bit of Luke Skywalker hoping to have a chance. “You know, Mel, you’ve given me an idea. A really good idea. I’ll call you.”
He backed off and the doors came together and sealed the elevator for its passage down to the real world.
Chapter 46
1973
The man who walked the beach that morning was still the adored Professor. Even with his retirement, he had more than enough to do. His step was light and his cheeks were ruddy with the complexion of a brisk walk in the wind.
Later he sat at his desk, the little electric fireplace once again settled near his feet. He was finishing a letter.
Jack,
Though you are gone these years, I still find it comforting to address an undeliverable missive to you, old friend. I find that for all my labours I have collected only a few leaves, many of them now torn or decayed.
But then I look upon this northern sea, and I know these same waters have borne to long voyages many of those that I have imagined. The world continues much as you and I have discussed. New leaves will come from those that seek that Tree of Tales.
And with that I am happy.
Ah, but that we could rejoin the sluggards at the Bird and Baby!
Your friend,
J.R.R.T
Chapter 47
HOME
In a small town in Wales there is a one-room museum. In it are various archives, including a clipping from a local weekly newspaper dated May, 1880:
There is a view from the town center to the west, where a long gentle valley meanders from the uplands down to the sea. At the top stands a rock the size of a modest manor house. The rock is unique, a stone from an outcropping over twenty miles distant. Whether brought to that resting place by the ancients on an errand of folly or great purpose, or dropped by some giant on his way elsewhere, the facts are unknown. It has always been a resting place for those bound to the sea to take a journey.
The rock is roughly pointed at the top. On its sides are carved uneven steps that wind about and stop just below the crest. At that spot is fashioned in the stone a small seat that espies the view to the sea.
And what a view it is. Like a framed painting, one can see the forested cleft of the hills descending to the vivid green expanse of an estuary, and the sea with crashing waves breaking on scattered rocks offshore. Beyond lie white capped rollers and the deep blue of the boundless ocean.
Behind the seat, on a spot plainly visible but precarious to reach, was long ago carved an inscription followed by two name-runes. One of the names has been partially obliterated where a fragment fell. The other remains clear and distinct. It is a unique letter A, whose owner’s tale has been lost in time.
The spot to this day is a favorite for lovers as well as those that gaze at the sea, think of tales and legends, and wonder “Are they true?”
From the Topanga Times
May 24, 2009
The rite of passage from spring to summer in Topanga Canyon is nominally the Memorial Day Parade. It winds from near the canyon crest, down the two-lane road, to the little town center where San’s Grocery and the Mirkwood Forest huddle between road and creek. In it flow goofy cars, every form of person-powered cycle, baby buggies, middle school and elementary school bands. There are also arrays of clowns and mimes, surely enemies of the blood, eyeing each other warily. Crowds, basically everyone in the canyon and a lot from neighboring communities, line the road.
“Nominally” is the apt word because the real rite of passage is the accompanying Great Water Balloon War. Since inception in the hazy days of the 1980s, with a few prank balloons lobbed at friends, it escalated faster than most third world arms programs. There were, of course, unwritten rules of engagement. Only certain paraders and certain watchers were legitimate targets. No moms with babies, no one with a disability. Common sense rules. Unless, of course, they attacked first.
That’s the way it progressed, mostly the paraders enduring the assault, until the unveiling of a tarp-hidden water cannon rigged on a truck of quasi-nudists who had gotten tired of just throwing back their own, limited supply of jiggly water bombs.
The water cannon sprayed the crowds with the shocking efficiency of a new technological weapon. And that changed the complexion of the engagements. The next year, scores of water hoses showered down on the paraders from strategic bluffs. In good
