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The Autumn Assignment
Chapter 3: Number Twenty
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Daniel lingered in his room for as long as he dared the next morning, finding menial chores to do rather than risk coming face to face with his mom. The problem was, he thought, that he was too conscientious to have anything to do before school. He'd already finished all the homework that was due today- basic English essays and math questions that no amount of imagination could stretch out any further. He thought about starting the history assignment, and remembered the torn cover. Glad at having found something to do, he took the book from his bedside cabinet and examined the tear again.
If he took the wedge of paper out, he figured, he could just glue the flyleaf back on. And maybe rub out some of that graffiti while he was at it...
He took the scrap of notepaper out of the book and scowled at it. It smiled back at him. The numbers were written in a strange way, curving around in a happy crescent. It was folded carefully, as if it was very important, but then the writing on it seemed so childish.
He bit his lip thoughtfully. The handwriting... it looked the same as the graffiti writing. Why would someone take so much care over a scrap of paper and then leave it in such a scruffy book? It was so tempting to put it down to mindless idiocy, some bored sixth-former laying a paper chain to nowhere, but something about it nagged at him. He examined the notepaper more closely.
It was a list of numbers, right? Maybe they were page numbers for the book- things that contradicted one another. That would make sense, and explain the random message underneath them.
He checked his watch- ten minutes until he would only be slightly late. Time enough to check. The first number was... 20.
Page twenty was a diagram demonstrating the theory behind the legendary dominion jewel. A fanciful drawing of a shining gem in an ornate golden clasp headed the page. Underneath it was a diagram of a man, the symbol that meant the gift, a crown and a photograph of an idyllic country scene. Arrows littered the page, drawing circuits between one and the other and back again. Idly, he traced the lines with a fingertip. Below the diagram was another, this time demonstrating the carbon cycle and how it paralleled the dominion diagram. The scientists theorised that the dominion jewel was a metaphor for the reign of mage kings. Daniel felt his mind wandering even as he started to read the theory.
Why would the strange graffiti writer want him to see this?
"Daniel!" His mother screamed right outside his door, making him jump. "It's nearly nine-o-clock! What in the name of all that's divine are you doing?"
He threw the book into his bag and ran out of the room, nearly knocking her over as he ran past. He almost made it to the front door before she yelled, "And don't think you've escaped having that chat about your babysitting! You come straight home after school! You're grounded!"
"What?" He skidded to a halt and glared at her, "For how long?"
"Forever!" She shrieked. He rolled his eyes and slammed the door on his way out, raising another volley of yelling. He zipped up the open backpack as he jogged down the street, raising a furious chorus of beeps as he ran across the main road, and made it to his desk just before the bell rang.
The rest of the day carried on as well as schooldays usually did when he arrived slightly late. Everything seemed to go slightly wrong, the questions were much harder than usual, and the customary biro leaked all over his homework, making it illegible. By the end of the day, even the teachers were giving Daniel strange looks.
"Are you alright?" Katy asked at the end of maths, giving in her own pristine homework. Daniel rubbed at the sticky ink that covered his work, glumly knowing it would just make it worse. "You could copy my answers, you know."
"Yeah, but eighty percent of the marks are working-out marks. I'll fail whatever I do."
Katy pursed her lips and waited, then let out a sigh of frustration. "You're welcome!"
"Sorry." Daniel rubbed his eyes tiredly, leaving a blue smear. "Thanks for offering to let me cheat."
"I thought it'd help! What's wrong with you today?"
Daniel thought about telling her, then decided against it. "I... I need to speak to Miss Jensen."
Damn it! Where did THAT come from? He cursed mentally, then shoved the homework back into his bag. He left the classroom quickly, before his friend could ask any more questions.
But the thought made sense. Now he thought about it, he did have something to ask the history teacher. He headed for her classroom quickly, suddenly desperate to ask her before she left. Some of the teachers escaped from this school almost before their students.
She looked up from her desk when he knocked on the door, frowning slightly. "Mr. Kitwake? What are you doing here? Even you can't have finished that assignment already." She steepled her fingers together and peered over them. "And you never, ever ask for help. So why are you here?"
Daniel blinked- why was she asking so many questions? It wasn't like he'd done anything wrong! He swung his bag from his back and pulled out the book, making sure the scrap of paper didn't fall out. "This book..."
"What have you done to it, you horrible child?" She said, sounding bored rather than angry.
"It was like that when I got it!" Daniel replied, trying not to sound defensive. "Look, I need to know..."
"It wasn't like that when you got it." She said sharply.
"Look, the person who had this book last year must have written all over it. I just want to know who it was!" He said, irked. "They wrote something in it that I want to use in my project, but I want to talk to them about it first."
"Mr. Kitwake, I don't know how far you're prepared to continue in this story, but I should tell you that you owe the department money for that book. It's falling to bits, for Hag's sake!"
"Didn't I just tell you I didn't do it?" He asked. She shook her head and stood up, shooing him to the door. He tried again, turning around in the doorway to face her. He made his voice reasonable: "Look, I don't mind paying for the book, just please tell me who used it last year?"
She glared at him through the doorway. "Those books were all new. When I gave them out they were spotless. No-one used it last year. If you want to get in touch with the person who wrote in it, I suggest you find a psychiatrist."
She slammed the door, glared at him one last time through the glass, and stalked back to her desk.
Daniel scratched his head. Maybe someone in the class had picked up the book and written on it? They could have taken it when it was on the floor. He doubted it, though. It was very odd.
He glanced at the book. It lay in his hand quietly, the pristine cover gleaming in the artificial light. He was holding a spotlessly clean, new book. The only thing that was wrong with it was a torn back cover. Not a trace of the heavy graffiti was left.
He sat down heavily on one of the benches that lined the school corridor, running a finger along the spine.
"What the hell is going on?" He muttered. The book didn't answer. It seemed heavier- the cheap pages were thicker, as if they had changed into rich grained paper. The cover let off the soft, bitter perfume of leather. It was everything an elegant piece of literature wants to be when it grows up. The book almost seemed to emit an air of smugness. It was infuriating.
"Books don't do that." He hissed accusingly. As if in reply, the scrap of paper fell out of the flyleaf, smiling up at in him with its crescent of numbers. Curious despite himself, Daniel picked up the scrap and turned to page twenty. And gasped.
The diagrams had disappeared. In their place was a beautiful gilded painting, the detail so clear it was almost like a photograph.
The picture showed an immense, dark forest, untamed and overgrown. The ground was covered in twisted roots and trailing briars. The trees grew gnarled, twisting their way up towards the light. It was autumn, the trees glowing gold and scarlet in the grey sunlight. Some of the leaves were gilded, heavy and shining. One of them was falling from a tree, coming to rest in a tiny brook that sang through the silent brushstrokes. It was the most beautiful place Daniel had ever seen.
He stared at it. The more he looked, the more sinister the painting appeared. What had appeared to be patches of quiet shadow turned into black pools that could be hiding anything. Sunlight dappled the ground, but it wasn't until he looked closely that he realised that patches of the ground were slightly too dark, slightly too red, as if someone had bled onto them. The trees retained their dignified appearance, but the bark was split in places. Broken arrowheads, almost concealed by the briars, rested in some of these splits.
And there was the girl.
She walked through the shadows of the forest, almost invisible in the shifting light. She was painted lovingly, the artist drawing the smallest detail into her hands, her face, her eyes. She stalked through the forest confidently, ignoring both the beauty and the horrors that surrounded her. Perhaps, though, she was aware of the danger- a longbow was strung across her back with a quiver full of arrows, a dagger hung from her belt.
The weapons didn't make her seem threatening, though. Even though she was the most dangerous figure in the painting, even though she could well have spilt the blood that stained the ground, she didn't look threatening. She looked like she belonged in the forest, knew who she was and what she was capable of, and was determined to do it.
Daniel jumped when he heard the door click. The history teacher scowled at him as she walked past, saving most of her glare for the book. He held his breath, wondering what she would say about the picture.
"If you write an essay on the carbon cycle I will personally make sure you fail every history class you ever enter, ever again." She said poisonously. Before he could answer, she stalked away.
He looked back at the book, and to his dull surprise it was, once again, a rather boring black-and-white diagram. All the colour and beauty had disappeared.
Maybe I need to get help. He thought, Maybe I'm going mad.
And then he saw the writing. Scrawled in large, round letters across the face of the jewel were two words that had not been there that morning.
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