Before and After the Curious Appearence of Barnabus Lansky (Installment #2)

    June 14, 2013 Either 10:00 a.m. or 5:28 a.m. (depending on how you look at it)
    Barnabus waited. He felt The Story being written again.
    As he sat in the darkness, he thought about what he had called home during the last century: The Story. His story. The Pen-Maker should have chosen a more unique or intriguing title than The Story. Perhaps The Tales of Barnabus Lansky. He chuckled at his vanity, but he had been the first character, after all, to join.
    A faint light appeared from his window. He crept toward it, groping as to not trip over his accordion. The sunrises were lonelier recently. He remembered his first sunrise shared with another character. When asked how The Story worked, Barnabus had told his friend that living here was like swimming in a river. If you go with the current, it’s easy and smooth, but if you fight it, you will fail and it will hurt.
    But Barnabus was now swimming the river alone. Just like the old days, he thought. Just me and my accordion.
    This was not strictly true, but Barnabus kept to himself in between the writings of The Story.
    The sunrise was beautiful, just as it was any time someone wrote The Story. The light blushed a pale rose, and then, as it gained more confidence, a blazing yellow. Barnabus was able to make out the familiar lumpy, green hills and criss-cross farm patches. Sometimes it reminded him of quilt work, and other times, of a mosaic. The green was so bright a vital, it seemed that it was lighting up the sun, rather than the other way around. He never tired of watching this same sunrise. It meant another job- he loved his jobs. It meant another visit to the Real World.
    The current of The Story pushed him away from the window. Barnabus obediently dressed in a smart, green three-piece suit. I think I’d look more dashing in red, he thought, while oiling his handle bar mustache. Green makes me look like a leprechaun. Next time he had the pen, he would have to try again to make a few more edits. Changing the course of a river is a monstrous task, but if one is clever enough, it can be done. Barnabus had done it once before, but at a horrendous cost. Since then, he hadn’t been able to make the slightest change to The Story. But someday, very soon...
    His thoughts were interrupted when he remembered the lederhosens. He picked them up, wincing. He hated the things. The Pen-Maker must have written them in as a joke. He always did have a strange sense of humor. According to The Story, this was the first day since he was sixteen Barnabus had decided to not wear lederhosens. In reality, he had never worn them in his life. Today must have been somewhere around the sixty-seventh time he had first decided to not wear lederhosens.
    He stuffed his wrist watch in his pocket and his pocket hankerchief up his sleeve. The full circle of the sun could almost be seen over the furthest hill. Barnabus would have to hurry if he were to be on time. He climbed through his bedroom window (because it was faster than using the front door) and sauntered to the red speck several hills eastward.
    It was a fairly quiet walk, with only one rooster in the distance crowing every thirty seconds. It must have been in the west because the further Barnabus walked, the more distant its cock-a-doodle-doo sounded. The air smelled of manure and mist. He didn’t mind. It smelled almost pleasant in the morning. The fresh, young sunlight filled his spirit like a breath of cold, fall air fills a person’s lungs. He felt particularly cheerful about this job. He would get it done right. Not like last time... Barnabus shook his head. The past was the past. No need to dwell on it.
    “Good morning.” He said to a tan cow. The cow blinked its large brown eyes in return and swished its tail indignantly. Good morning indeed! She seemed to say. Don’t flatter yourself, sir. I’ve know all you’ve done and you are going to do it again now. Oh, no. This is not a good morning.
    Barnabus wondered how the Pen-Maker had gotten all that into a blink of a cow. He couldn’t have. The Pen-Maker didn’t know what he had done, did he? Barnabus stiffened at the terrifying thought. Luckily, he arrived at his destination before he could entertain that idea any longer. The red speck in the distance was now a smoldering fire only three feet in front of him. It gave off hardly any light or heat, so it must have been burning all night. The glowing embers were hundreds of blood-shot eyes, blinking at him, accusing him.
    Why so paranoid, Barnabus? There is nothing of which to accuse you.
    He rubbed his hands to warm them in the chilly morning air. “Is everything ready?” He whispered, right on schedule.
    A brown mouse scurried from behind a lone tree. It sniffed along the ground until it was opposite Barnabus, across the fire. It stood on its hind paws and slowly began to glow a light as red as the fire, though stronger than the fire and even stronger than the sun. It was a strange sight, except he was used to it now. He closed his eyes when the light became too bright and when it faded away, the mouse had transformed into a magic druid. Instead of fur, the druid wore a tattered brown cloak. The former mouse threw a red crystal into the fire, which blazed a little, sending sparks shooting into the air.
    “Of course it’s ready.” A melodic, high-pitched voice sung. The priestess threw back her hood to reveal tanned skin, dark hair and two different colored eyes: one as brown as the rich Irish earth and the other red like the embers. She was young. Her eyes were always opened wide. It made her brown eye look innocent, but her red eye angry and accusing, just like the embers. “You know what to do, Barnabus. Have fun.” Her mouth smiled, but he could hear a harsh voice in his head. Don’t let it happen again.
    Barnabus winced. He had only failed once- once in over a hundred years! Now all of a sudden he couldn’t do anything right? He twirled his mustache impatiently as the beautiful morning faded away. He wondered who had written the story this time. Who would he have to kill?