Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia

Chapter 6

Once when I was very young, I was being driven to the public swimming pool by my foster mother. This was a long time ago, so far distant in my memory I can barely remember it. I must have been three or four years old.

I recall an image: a group of strangely shaped buildings beside the road. I’d seen them before, and I’d always wondered what they were. They looked like small white domes, three or four of them, the size of houses.

As we passed, I turned to my foster mother. “Mom, what are those?”

“That is where the crazy people go,” she said.

I hadn’t realized there was a mental institution in my town. But it was nice to know where it was. For years after that, when the topic of mental illness came up, I would explain where the hospital was. I was proud, as a child, to know where they took the crazy people when they went … well, crazy.

When I was twelve or so, I remember being driven past that place again with a different foster family. By then I could read. (I was quite advanced for my age, you know.) I noticed the sign hanging on the domed buildings.

It didn’t say the buildings were a mental institution. It said that they were a church.

Suddenly I understood. “That’s where all the crazy people go” meant something completely different to my foster mother than it had to me. I spent all those years proudly telling people where the asylum was, all the while ignorant of the fact that I’d been completely wrong.

This will be relevant.

I stepped into the ice cream shop, trying to be ready for anything. I had seen coolers that turned out to hide banquet rooms. I had seen libraries that concealed a dark hideout for cultists. I figured a place that looked like an ice cream shop was probably something entirely different, like an explosive crayon testing facility. (Ha! That’s what you get for writing on the walls, Jimmy!)

If the ice cream parlor was fake, it was doing a really good job of that fakery. It looked exactly like something from the fifties, including colorful pastels, stools by the tables, and waitresses in striped red-and-white skirts. Though said waitresses were serving banana splits and chocolate shakes to a bunch of people dressed in medieval clothing.

A sign on the wall proudly proclaimed the place to be an AUTHENTIC HUSHLANDER RESTAURANT! When Aunt Patty and I entered, the place grew still. Outside, others were clustering around the windows, looking in at me.

“It’s all right, folks,” Aunt Patty proclaimed. “He’s really not all that interesting. Actually, he kind of smells, so you probably want to keep your distance.”

I blushed deeply.

“Notice how I keep them from fawning over you?” she said, patting me on the shoulder. “You can thank me later, hon. I’ll go fetch Folsom!” Aunt Patty pushed her way through the busy room. As soon as she was gone, Free Kingdomers began to approach me, ignoring her warning. They were hesitant though; even the middle-aged men seemed as timid as children.

“Um … can I help you?” I asked as I was surrounded.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” one of them asked. “Alcatraz the Lost.”

“Well, I don’t feel that lost,” I said, growing uncomfortable. To have them so close and so in awe … well, I didn’t quite know how to react. What was the proper protocol for a long-lost celebrity when first revealing himself to the world?

A young fan, maybe seven years old, solved the problem. He stepped up, holding a square piece of glass five or six inches across. It was clear and flat, as if it had been cut right out of a windowpane. He offered the glass to me with a shaking hand.

Okay, I thought, that’s weird. I reached out and took the glass. As soon as I touched it, the glass began to glow. The boy pulled it back eagerly, and I could see that my thumb and fingers had left shining prints. Apparently this was the Free Kingdomer version of getting an autograph.

The others began to press forward. Some had squares of glass. Others wanted to shake my hand, get their pictures taken with me, or have me use my Talent to break something of theirs as a memento. The bustle might have annoyed someone else, but after a childhood of being alternately mocked (for breaking things) and feared (for breaking things), I was ready for a little bit of adulation.

After all, didn’t I deserve it? I’d stopped the Librarians from getting the Sands of Rashid. I’d defeated Blackburn. I’d saved my father from the horrors of the Library of Alexandria.

Grandpa Smedry was right; it was time to relax and enjoy myself. I made thumbprints, posed for pictures, shook hands, and answered questions. By the time Aunt Patty returned, I had launched into a dramatic telling of my first infiltration with Grandpa Smedry. That day in the ice cream parlor was the day I realized that I might make a good writer. I seemed to have a flair for storytelling. I teased the audience with information about what was coming, never quite revealing the ending but hinting at it.

By the way, did you know that later that day, someone was going to try to assassinate King Dartmoor?

“All right, all right,” Aunt Patty said, shoving aside some of my fans. “Give the boy some room.” She grabbed me by the arm. “Don’t worry, hon, I’ll rescue you.”

“But—!”

“No need to thank me,” Aunt Patty said. Then, in a louder voice, she proclaimed, “Everyone stay back! Alcatraz has been in the Hushlands! You don’t want to catch any of his crazy-strange Librarian diseases!”

I saw numerous people’s faces pale, and the crowd backed away. Aunt Patty then led me to a table occupied by two people. One, a young man in his twenties with black hair and a hawkish face, looked vaguely familiar. I realized this must be Folsom Smedry; he looked a lot like his brother, Quentin. The young woman seated across from him wore a maroon skirt and white blouse. She had dark skin and her spectacles had a chain.

To be honest, I hadn’t expected the Librarian to be so pretty or so young. Certainly none of the ones I’d met so far had been pretty. Granted, most of those had been trying to kill me at the time, so perhaps I was a little biased.

Folsom stood up. “Alcatraz!” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m Folsom, your cousin.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “What’s your Talent?” (I’d learned by now to ask Smedrys that as soon as I met them. Sitting down to eat with a Smedry without knowing their Talent was a little like accepting a grenade without knowing if the pin had been pulled or not.)

Folsom smiled modestly as we shook hands. “It’s not really all that important a Talent. You see, I can dance really poorly.”

“Ah,” I said. “How impressive.”

I tried to sound sincere. I had trouble. It’s just so hard to compliment someone for being a bad dancer.

Folsom smiled happily, releasing my hand and gesturing for me to sit. “Great to finally meet you,” he said. “Oh, and I’d give that handshake a four out of six.”

I sat down. “Excuse, me?”

“Four out of six,” he said, sitting. “Reasonable firmness with good eye contact, but you held on a little long. Anyway, may I present Himalaya Rockies, formerly of the Hushlands?”

I glanced over at the Librarian, then hesitantly held out my hand. I half expected her to pull out a gun and shoot me. (Or at least to chastise me for my overdue books.)

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, taking my hand without even trying to stab me. “I hear you grew up in America like I did.”

I nodded. She had a Boston accent. I’d only been away from the United States for a couple of weeks, and I had been very eager to escape, but it still felt good to hear someone from my homeland.

“So, er, you’re a Librarian?” I asked.

“A recovering Librarian,” she said quickly.

“Himalaya defected six months ago,” Folsom said. “She brought lots of great information for us.”

Six months, eh? I thought, eyeing Folsom. He didn’t give any indication, but if it had been six months, I found it odd that we were still keeping track of Himalaya. Folsom and the king, I figured, must still worry that she was secretly a spy for the Librarians.

The booths around us filled quickly, and the parlor enjoyed quite a boost in business from my patronage. The owner must have noticed this, for he soon visited our table. “The famous Alcatraz Smedry, in my humble establishment!” he said. The pudgy man wore a pair of bright red-and-white-striped pants. He waved to one of his waitresses, who rushed over with a bowl filled with whipped cream. “Please have a bandana split on the house!”

“Bandana?” I asked, cocking my head.

“They get a few things wrong here,” Himalaya whispered, “but it’s still the closest you’ll get to American food while in Nalhalla.”

I nodded thankfully to the owner, who smiled with pleasure. He left a handful of mints on the table, though I don’t quite know why, then went back to serving customers. I glanced at the dessert he’d provided. It was indeed a large bandana filled with ice cream. I tasted it hesitantly, but it actually was kind of good, in an odd way. I couldn’t quite place the flavor.

That probably should have worried me.

“Alcatraz Smedry,” Folsom said, as if taking the name for a test drive. “I have to admit your latest book was a disappointment. One and a half stars out of five.”

I had a moment of panic, thinking he referred to the second book of my autobiography. However, I soon realized that was silly, since it not only hadn’t been written yet but I didn’t even know that I would write it. I promptly stopped that line of thinking before I caused a temporal rift and ended up doing something silly, like killing a butterfly or interfering with mankind’s first warp jump.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, taking another bite of ice cream.

“Oh, I have it here somewhere,” Folsom said, rummaging in his shoulder bag.

“I didn’t think it was so bad,” Himalaya said. “Of course, my tastes are tainted by ten years as a Librarian.”

“Ten years?” I asked. She didn’t look much older than twenty-five to me.

“I started young,” she explained, playing idly with the mints on the table. “I apprenticed to a master Librarian after I’d proven my ability to use the reverse lighthouse system.”

“The what?”

“That’s when you arrange a group of books alphabetically based on the third letter of the author’s mother’s maiden name. Anyway, once I got in, the Librarians let me live the high life for a time—buttering me up with advanced reader copies of books and the occasional bagel in the break room. When I was eighteen, they began introducing me into the cult.”

She shivered, as if remembering the horrors of those early days. I wasn’t buying it though. As pleasant as she was, I was still suspicious of her motives.

“Ah,” Folsom said, pulling something out of his pack. “Here it is.” He set a book on the table—one that appeared to have a painting of me on the cover. Me riding an enormous vacuum cleaner while wearing a sombrero. I held a flintlock rifle in one hand and what appeared to be a glowing, magical credit card in the other.

Alcatraz Smedry and the Mechanic’s Wrench, it read.

“Oh dear,” Aunt Patty said. “Folsom, don’t tell me you read those dreadful fantasy novels!”

“They’re fun, Mother,” he said. “Meaningless really, but as a diversion I give the genre three out of four marks. This one here was terrible though. It had all the elements of a great story—a mystical weapon, a boy on a journey, quirky sidekicks. But it ended up ruining itself by trying to say something important, rather than just being amusing.”

“That’s me!” I said, pointing at the cover.

If Bastille were there, she’d have said something pithy such as “Glad you can recognize your own face, Smedry. Be careful not to wear a mustache, though. Might confuse yourself.”

Unfortunately, Bastille wasn’t there. Once again I found myself annoyed, and once again I found myself annoyed at myself for being annoyed, which probably annoys you. I know it annoys my editor.

“It’s a fictionalized account, of course,” Folsom said about the book. “Most scholars know that you didn’t do any of these things. However, you’re such a part of the cultural unconsciousness that stories about you are quite popular.”

The cultural what? I thought, bemused. People were writing books about me! Or at least books with me as the hero. That seemed pretty darn cool, even if the facts were sketchy.

“That’s the kind of thing they think happens in the Hushlands,” Himalaya said, smiling at me, still playing idly with the mints. “Epic battles with the Librarians using strange Hushlander technology. It’s all very romanticized and exaggerated.”

“Fantasy novels,” Aunt Patty said, shaking her head. “Ah well. Rot your brain if you want. You’re old enough that I can’t tell you what to do, though I’m glad you kicked that bed-wetting habit before you moved out!”

“Thanks, Mother,” Folsom said, blushing. “That’s … well, that’s really nice. We should—” He cut off, glancing at Himalaya. “Um, you’re doing it again.”

The former Librarian froze, then looked down at the mints in front of her. “Oh bother!”

“What?” I asked.

“She was classifying them,” Folsom said, pointing at the mints. “Organizing them by shape, size, and it appears color as well.”

The mints sat in a neat little row, color coordinated and in order of size. “It’s just so hard to kick the habit,” Himalaya said with frustration. “Yesterday I found myself cataloging the tiles on my bathroom floor, counting the number of each color and the number of chipped ones. I can’t seem to stop!”

“You’ll beat it eventually,” Folsom said.

“I hope so,” she said with a sigh.

“Well,” Aunt Patty said, standing. “I’ve got to get back to the court discussion. Folsom should be able to give you the information you want, Alcatraz.”

We bade her farewell, and Aunt Patty made her way from the room—though not before pointing out to the owner that he really ought to do something about his bad haircut.

“What information is it you wanted?” Folsom asked.

I eyed Himalaya, trying to decide just what I could say in front of her.

“Don’t worry,” Folsom said. “She’s completely trustworthy.”

If that’s the case, then why does she need a guard to watch over her? I didn’t buy that Folsom was needed to accustom her to life in the Free Kingdoms—not after six months. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any getting around talking with her there, so I decided to explain. I didn’t think I’d be revealing anything too sensitive.

“My grandfather and I would like a report on Librarian activities here in the city,” I said. “I understand you’re the one to come to about that sort of thing.”

“Well, I do have a good time keeping an eye on Librarians,” Folsom said with a smile. “What do you want to know?”

I wasn’t honestly sure, as I was still kind of unused to this hero stuff. Whatever the Librarians had been up to lately probably had something to do with their current attempt to conquer Mokia, but I didn’t know what specifically to look for.

“Anything that seems suspicious,” I said, trying to sound suave for my fans, in case any of them were eavesdropping. (Being awesome is hard work.)

“Well, let’s see,” Folsom said. “This treaty mess started about six months back, when a contingent from the Wardens of the Standard showed up in the city, claiming they wanted to set up an embassy. The king was suspicious, but after years of trying hard to get the Librarians to engage in peace talks, he couldn’t really turn them down.”

“Six months?” I asked. That would be a little bit after Grandpa Smedry left for the Hushlands to check in on me. It was also about the length of time a frozen burrito would stay in the freezer without turning totally nasty. (I know this because it’s very heroic and manly.)

“That’s right,” Himalaya said. “I was one of the Librarians who came to staff the embassy. That’s how I escaped.”

I actually hadn’t made that connection, but I nodded as if that were exactly what I’d been thinking, as opposed to comparing my manliness to a frozen food.

“Anyway,” Folsom continued, “the Librarians announced they were going to offer us a treaty. Then they started going to parties and socializing with the city’s elite.”

That sounded like the kind of information my grandfather wanted. I wondered if I should just grab Folsom and take him back.

But, well, Grandfather wouldn’t return to the castle for hours yet. Besides, I was no errand boy. I hadn’t simply come to fetch Folsom and then sit around and wait. Alcatraz Smedry, brave vacuum cleaner rider and wearer of the awesome sombrero, didn’t stand for things like that. He was a man of action!

“I want to meet with some of these Librarians,” I found myself saying. “Where can we find them?”

Folsom looked concerned. “Well, I guess we could head to the embassy.”

“Isn’t there somewhere else we could run into them? Someplace a little more neutral?”

“There will probably be some at the prince’s lunch party,” Himalaya said.

“Yeah,” Folsom said. “But how will we get into that? You have to RSVP months in advance.”

I stood up, making a decision. “Let’s go. Don’t worry about getting us in—I’ll handle that.”