Sapientia Arcana

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. It was a sight few had ever witnessed, and those who had were left with a sense of wonder and awe. Some believed it was a sign from the gods, while others claimed it was a trick of the light. But for Lila, the sight was something more. It was a reminder of the magic that still existed in the world, a promise of the mysteries that lay hidden just beyond the veil of the ordinary. And tonight, Lila knew she was about to discover something that would change her life forever.

"Where's the rest?"

Heat started rising in my chest, creeping into my suddenly red cheeks as my agent gave me the look.

The look I dread more than any other look. The look that says, "Why have you once again let me down?"

Before I could form any words of reply, the heavy sigh of disillusionment coming from the other side of the aggressive desk brought my shoulders to my ears and dropped my stomach straight through the floor underneath me, heading for the center of the earth.

"Maya," the voice was so patient and supportive it bordered on psychological abuse. "Your writing is undeniably brilliant. Your fans send letters so full of love, Rowling herself would be humbled to read."

My heart gave a thud and the weight of the whole, entire world crushed me into the hard wood of the rolly chair reserved for errant, failing authors. There is nothing quite like the exquisite torture of self-loathing and soul-crushing self-disappointment.

"But we need a book. A complete book. Something we can publish to give those fans of yours more to rave about. One paragraph, no matter how exceptional, will not buy you much more time with your publisher."

I knew this. I knew all this. I knew the extended deadline for the next book was long passed. I knew I had no good excuse for why it wasn't written yet. My break-out trilogy wrapped up 2 years, 6 weeks, and 3 days ago. The first book for the next series I promised my publisher was supposed to hit the shelves in just over a month.

I spent the advance.

I wasn't sure how, exactly, because when I got it, I was fairly certain it would be enough money to live off for the rest of my life. But it's gone now. I wrote the single, lonely paragraph I submitted to my agent in the hallway, seconds before I crept through her door.

"Maya," she used that begging tone that turns my skin into a chalkboard and her voice into nails raking down my arms. "Maya, please look at me."

My heart raced. I used the momentum of my chest inflating from a deep inhalation to tilt my head up, just enough to make eye contact. My eyes started to water instantly, betraying my determination to make it through this meeting portraying the adult my ID promised I was.

"I know—" I had to gulp around the rock in my throat. "I swear I'll get it done. Nothing was right, but this…this is right. This is the story. It's been coming to me in bits and pieces but I couldn't figure it out and then finally I wrote that introduction and I could feel it there. It's all there now. I just need to put it on the paper but I will, I promise you I will." I was begging. It was embarrassing.

All my life, people told me I need to focus more and apply myself more. But I do focus. I do apply myself. It just isn't always to the things the people who hand out the money want me to apply to. But until it's the exact right moment, nothing—not even a gun to my head—will work. But when it's right, writing is the easiest thing in the world to do.

The stories are always there in my head and when the time is exactly right, they flow through my fingers. It's like magic I can't explain, and all the other days when it's not right, it's horrible. Terrible. Like Alexander's day, it's very, very bad.

I can't even count the number of people I disappoint and let down daily, and it's the last thing on earth I want to do. I want to puke thinking about it. I want to shrivel up in a corner and crumble to dust so no one ever needs to wait on me again.

But that never happens.

Instead, I mumble and bumble about, making promises to do better. The words tumble out of my mouth like Skittles falling off a rainbow, pelting unsuspecting bystanders below with sugary hail stones of worthless excuses.

My agent smiles and nods and believes in me as my heart shatters into a thousand shards of glass that course through my veins.

I knew I was being dramatic. That's what I do. That's who I am. You cannot make it 22 years in this world, riding the roller coaster highs of fame and wonder and then crashing through the abyss of shattered high expectations and not be dramatic.

Throughout my life, I had many labels: a gifted child, a disruptive child, a prodigy, a lazy good-for-nothing, a world-class best-selling author and now, an imposter. A dreamer who got lucky and then bottomed out.

Every day in the past two years that I sat in front of my computer, my brain hid all the characters and stories and dreams behind a thick, completely opaque fog. The days I said, "screw it!" and adventured out into the world, I discovered knights and warriors, devils and lovers, deaths and births of the most fantastical creatures.

More than once in my life, teachers who thought they were psychologists accused me of being schizophrenic or, when they really thought they knew stuff, of having Dissociative Identity Disorder. Vivid imaginations are only acceptable when they serve a higher calling. Like writing fantasy.

But not all my fantasies were stories. Some were just…moments. Or characters. Not enough to write a book about.

There was something to the purple sky, though. Scribbling down that passage in a desperate attempt to redeem myself, the first tingles of my muse coming back to life spread through my fingers.

Since leaving my agent's office, full of promises and gut-clenching anxiety, I wandered aimlessly. I rarely paid attention to my direction because it's impossible to get lost in this bustling metropolis of less than 4000 people total. I've walked every street and been to every building. I learned the history behind every mural painted and begged verbal memoirs from every shop owner with an "Open" sign hanging in their window.

Chemainus brings out the warm and fuzzy feelings of nostalgia at every corner, but nothing new ever happens here.

Nor anything dangerous.

Which was probably why I flinched in confusion, rather than fear, when the sharp point of a feather pierced my scalp like a dart.

"What the…" I searched the sky for the offending animal and saw nothing but fluffy, happy white clouds billowing through an otherwise clear blue sky.

The rich, golden hue of the feather shimmered in the sunlight as I ran my fingers over the silky surface. The quill was as sharp and strong as a steel blade, yet oddly flexible. If I had to guess, I would have thought it came from a golden eagle, but I knew for a fact they prefer the Rockies to the coast, and it was unlikely one would be flying around here.

I read the mythology of golden eagles when I was younger. It was many years after seeing The Rescuers Down Under I learned Marahute wasn't actually a golden eagle, but that didn't dampen my appreciation for them.

In some myths, the eagle's spirit is imbued into each feather, granting those who hold one the power to see beyond the veil of the mundane and tap into the magic of the world. The feather is a portal to a realm of possibility, where the impossible becomes possible, and the most improbable dreams come true. It's a treasure that fills the heart with wonder and the soul with a longing for adventure, a symbol of hope and promise that anything is possible if one only dares to dream.

My own soul was vibrating on a much higher frequency as I spun the feather on my fingertip and brushed its smooth silk across my cheek.

A giggle burbled inside my chest, set free from the restriction of my earlier angst.

A new internal flush of warmth washed away the agonizing self-pity I had been wallowing in and gave way to the sparkling electricity of inspiration.

Something hard as a rock interrupted my steady gait, replacing the grin that had been spreading across my face with an expression of horror I'm sure would be the height of slapstick comedy for anyone watching. Gravity pulled rank and I barely yanked my hands up in time to prevent shattered teeth and pulverised facial bones.

I curled up in the fetal position, trying to will my heart to stop panic-pumping. My hands throbbed and both my shoulders had the slightly dislodged ache that makes you want to either pop your joints or rip your limbs off your body in frustration. But my ego was my biggest concern. The lion's share of the anxiety coursing through my body was fear of being seen through this mortifying experience.

Seconds ticked by and I didn't hear any snickering or good Samaritan offers to help, so I bravely lifted my head to assess the physical damage. Rolling my shoulders back and around assured me they still worked. My hands were a mess of grey dust with pinpricks of red peeking through, making my stomach roil unhappily. Black noise filled my head, and I scrunched my eyes shut, pressing both damaged hands firmly against my jeans. The bright flare of pain was nothing compared to my queasiness at the sight of blood.

Groaning, I took a few deep breaths and pushed myself up off the cement.

In front of me was a stone lion. A stone lion I would swear on my life did not exist in Chemainus before today. It had a Chinese art aesthetic to it that made the feral showing of teeth appear to be laughing at my pain. The feather I had been holding before my Cirque de Soleil performance had settled on the statue's back, mocking me with its magical, shimmery beauty.

Shaking my head to dislodge the surreal feeling of the moment, I glanced up to see what store owner could be so cruel as to place a new statue directly in my path.

The building in front of me was a grey stone I had never seen before in town. Aside from a few brick buildings right downtown, all our buildings were wood. The logging and sawmill community was the heart and soul of Chemainus culture; giant murals covering almost every building in town are evidence of this pride.

Grey stone was out of place.

Disorientation set in, making me dizzy. This building would have been impossible to miss, and yet I had never seen it. I had walked down every street in this tiny humbug town thousands of times. A towering stone behemoth could not have escaped my notice.

An old-fashioned, archaic looking sign above the door read "The Arcanum." It was an artifact from another time, with a weathered surface and faded lettering suggesting exposure to the brutal coastal winds for decades, if not centuries. The ornate design and elaborate flourishes gave it an almost regal appearance; metal rusted in places, and paint long since chipped away, leaving behind a patina of age and wear.

Everything about the building was out of place in the modern world, particularly my hometown, like a relic from another dimension had somehow found its way into the present. Something meant to be hidden; something that didn't belong in the world I knew.

I felt like I had stumbled into the Twilight Zone. Looking up made me want to fall backwards, so instead I glanced back down the street I had come up, trying to figure out how I had gotten to this place that shouldn't exist.

Unable to stop myself from throwing shade toward the obnoxious stone lion, something shiny pulled my attention back toward the scene of my accident. Looking at my sprawling dust angel imprint left on the sidewalk, I noticed a faint outline of my hands, pocked with red streaks where they left blood on the sidewalk. All around my handprints was a purple glow emanating from the cement underneath.

"What tha…" Functional sentences were not coming easily to me.

I shook my head again, thinking I must be hallucinating. I angled my head up, hearing a bone-aching hum coming from behind the door. The lion was grinning maniacally at me, stone mouth curving to a point in its harassing glee. The feather, the same feather that had fallen out of the sky and skewered my head, was now growing out of the statue's back. And it had friends.

"What the hell is going on here," I muttered out loud, mostly to hear myself speak and verify the humming noise wasn't the sound of my ear drums dying.

At a loss for how to react, I continued to stare at the building. I took a step toward the door, oddly compelled to touch it.

I should not touch the creepy, spontaneous ghost building. I should turn and run. I should check myself into a hospital and demand scans for brain cancer and head trauma. I should not touch the creepy building.

My hand reached out to push against the wood of the door. I winced at the connection, belatedly remembering my torn up palms, but my pain faded quickly as a purple light began spreading across the wood. I jumped back and caught sight of the sign rearranging the letters. It was no longer written in English. "The Arcanum" had been replaced with "Sapientia Arcana" in elegant script. The giant door was now pulsing with a strange purple energy.

Breath non-existent in my lungs, I took a step toward it. The door silently swung inwards, matching my body movement, as if it were tethered to me, or I was tethered to it.

Do not enter the creepy horror show building, echoed in my brain as my feet moved forward, propelling me through the door against my will.