Chapter Five: When we meet a boy....

You can learn a lot in a library- particularly a library full of books you’ve never even heard of before, on subjects you could hardly even fathom.

I was really wishing I’d brought a paper bag to breathe into as I set foot in the shinily gilded and marble floored library of Camp Trilogy. Bookcases reach up to the ceiling like those really devout christians who just drop to their knees in public and start screaming prayers….until a bus comes. Well, I imagine there would be a bus. That’s always how it happens in my imagination at least.

“I want this one, and this one, and this one, and this one this one this one this one- Ooooh! And THIS ONE!” I chirrup, striding down the aisles and dragging as many books off of shelves as I could bear to carry- and when my arms got full? No need to fear! I just deposited them all nice-like on a table and went back for more. One of the librarians looks ready to faint when she stumbles upon me and my hoard-o-books. I felt like a dragon guarding its big-ol-giant heap of treasure! (It might not have helped that I made dragon sounds as I plundered through the aisles….which only served to give librarian number two a successful heart attack as ‘The Best of Bard Tales! -Volume Number Seven-’ teetered at the top of my latest stack)

At long last, after rummaging and pillaging for the greater part of an hour (better than any viking in history ever could have, mind you), I got to sit down amid my great stacks of literary treasure and delve into the unknown. I didn’t really know how many tomes I had with me- I sort of lost count after two hundred (And honestly I’m surprised my attention span lasted until two hundred). I pulled Sir Snuffles from my besparkled backpack and propped him up on the shortest pedestal of KNOWLEDGE I could find, which just so happened to be a few inches away from my right arm.

“Ready?” I ask excitedly, like a driver in nascar about to zippidy-doo all the way down the track. He doesn’t respond, so I reply with increasing energy.

“Are you ready?! Huh, Buddy!? You ready for this EPICOSITY?! Well- are you?!”

“Yeah….” Snuffles mumbles, at least he does in my mind. He’s always talked to me in my mind.

“I can’t hear you! C’mon you can be louder than that! Let’s do this thing! Don’t be such a pansy you rainbow ball of fluff- GET READY! ARE YOU READY?!”

“Yeah!!!” Snuffles cries in his adorable high pitched voice.

“Good! Cuz there’s no backing down from this level of awesome ADVENTURE! Let’s DO THIS THING!” I pummel the air with my fists before cracking open a giant leather bound book. It’s eerily silent, particularly after such an animated pep-talk so full of hype. I can practically feel the librarians staring at me with quizzical looks.

“This is so cool- how’s your reading going?” I peek over at Sir Snuffles every few minutes or so, just to see how his learning adventure is going (and to help him turn the pages of course, like any good bestie with opposable thumbs would do).

“Good? Ok, great! My reading’s going good too…..”

* * * * *

A considerable amount of hours and a reasonable amount of awe-stricken-mouth-gaping later, I had at last somewhat sated my incredible thirst for magical knowledge.

You remember that ‘Specialization’ thing Macy told me about for? Well, it, like everything else it seems, is super cool! There are so many categories! But I’m getting ahead of myself- in order to perform magic a bard must memorize ancient words of power (which are some pretty complicated scribbles, let me tell you), and learn how to conjure them through their scriva- which is the cool looking glass fountain pen thing I’ve been seeing everywhere, the scriva takes the magic from a bard’s blood and concentrates it into a sort of ink, without hurting the bard. This ink-like substance can then be used to write in the air, and on solid objects of course, but the bard has to be careful to “balance” these conjurings, or results could be catastrophic. You can’t just slew a bunch of random words together, as tempting as that might seem- there are a LOT of rules. Certain symbols can’t touch each other, certain vowel sounds have to be repeated with an exact pattern, oh yeah- and there’s no such thing as bad handwriting- because if you screw up a symbol, you’ll usually implode (ok, so I paraphrased a little bit, but the point is it would be super bad!).

But back to specialization, sure- a bard can learn any word they want, but there will be some they’ll have an inclination towards, some will strike a chord with them and they’ll just be naturally….better with that genre of words, like a super cool talent you’re born with. The book I read, Bard Anatomy and Technicalities by Gordono  Balenski, says that there’s an energy within bards, like sorcerers- but somewhat...different. They’re born with this energy and when they start learning words, it sort of….wakes up. This energy will synchronize with their determinable genre of ancient words, and it makes them far more powerful than just a regular bard trying to use those words because….because that’s what they were destined for, and destined to do. They were meant to be great at something, to do it better than most other people.

Specialization is something bards are rather proud of, and I figure they would be with how hard it must be, and so it is displayed every day. In those cloaks I keep seeing everywhere, not only are they a sign of a bard that has had training, but the color will tell you the bard’s “talent” too. For example, Freya’s black cloak means she fits into the destruction category- she can summon wildfires and earthquakes and tornados (probably not a good thing that she hates me….), Macy’s soft pink cloak means she fits into the category of “Harmony”, she can influence emotion and calm people using her words(though if she was trying to use it on Freya the first day we met, it really didn’t work so well….),  and Professor Nitwit’s burnt orange cloak means that he’s best with words concerning fire in general, kind of like an elemental sort of bard.

But unfortunately….without ancient words of power….without a scriva….and without any magic whatsoever, I was-

“More useless than a crayon in a marble sculpting contest.” I sigh, thwunking my forehead against the hardback cover of ‘The History of Castle Garfafle; Home of the Infamous Camp Trinity, by Janette Creeker’ (No wonder nobody ever told me the name of the castle- Garfafle is such a hilarious name!), which was indeed just as hard as a hardcover book should be, depressingly so- because it actually hurt a lot more than I was willing to let on.

“More useless than a crayon in a marble sculpting contest, eh?” A voice teases playfully, I look up- and abruptly wish I hadn’t.

First off there’s a giant red bump mark on my forehead and I have Sir Snuffles propped all proper-like on his pedestal of intelligence right beside me.

And secondly- this guy is the hottest thing since that time I accidentally ate a chili pepper (which was less of an accident and more of a personal dare….but as far as mom knows it was an accident. That trip to the emergency room was….not very fun). He has eyes the color of sunlight filtering through fresh leaves in the summertime, and he has the sort of crooked smile you only ever read about (or at least, I’ve only ever read about), there’s a little splotch on the side of his right cheek that looks like a scar from an injury long ago, but if you’re on the brink of hyperventilating (as I was….) sort of looks like a panda….or a heart. I guess that depends on how far you shut your eyes….and which direction you tilt your head. I wish I had a scar as cute as that….

His auburn hair falls in his eyes in a way that makes me want to huggle him and never let go until he stops breathing. Wait…..no wait…..that came out wrong…..that came out really wrong.

“Are you ok?” He scrunches up his eyebrows slightly, and I do the only thing any completely rational girl would do.

I throw a pillow pet at his face and shriek like an idiot.