Chapter 2: Chosen
Salem fidgeted with the loose strand of thread hanging from one of the brown buttons on his shirt. Again and again, he twirled it around his finger, hardly listening to the commander's speech. Even the crowds frequent cheers seemed muffled by the flood of air rushing in and out of his chest. The only thought occupying his mind was that of his Author. He wondered if he had yet laid eyes on him, but there was no way of knowing. Their appearance was no different from any one else in Emery, but their powers were far greater. No one could ever fully understand all that they were capable of, and no one ever dared to.
Salem felt a nudge at his side. He looked over to Reagan who was sitting up promptly with her hands folded in her lap. Though she often only played with the boys, she knew how to be a lady.
"This is it!" She squealed, turning her face back toward the audience, her smile even wider then before. Just at that moment Salem heard the commander's closing words echo throughout the stadium. "Authors," his voice rose in demand, "come forth and choose your subject's!"
Starting with number one, the Authors greeted their chosen one and lead them off the platform. Then what seemed only seconds later, Salem's number was announced. He found himself wishing Reagan would not have chosen such a small number for him, whether or not it was his favorite. "Number eight," those frightening words rang though his ears. Salem took a stand but kept his eyes fixed on the planks of wood beneath his feet, they looked just like the ones in his own home. He deeply wished he were there, that he would look up and find himself in the place his father had built for them.
Suddenly, Salem's thoughts were shaken by a pointed pair of black leather shoes that now stood before him. His eyes slowly began to trace past the dark velvet cape up to the face that was shaded by a wide-rimmed black hat. The large man tilted his head up toward the sun, just long enough for Salem to catch a glimpse of him. His piercing blue eyes were set above a very sharp nose that clearly overpowered a small set of lips beneath it. His skin was pale and flawless, it seemed as though it had never been touched by the sun. There was a wooden cane in his left hand, the top of it was carved into a ram's head. His ink stained fingers gripped it's horns tightly, his knuckles were white.
Salem began to shake as he recognized the man towering over him. It was the Author. The very Author who struck Waver to his death the year before. He must be the one who kills those with no purpose, Salem thought to himself. He knew then that these were his last breathes, and that the Author had come to finish him. His story would end before it ever began.
"Do not be afraid my child," The Author said in a cunning tone, sending shivers down Salem's spine. "I have made plans for you." He lifted Salem's chin with his long pointy nail, forcing him to look into his eyes. "Come."
Salem had no choice but to obey.
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He followed close behind his Author as they continued deeper into the forest. His eyes watched the hem of his long black cape ripple over the the dirt trail beneath it. It reminded Salem of how the waves pull away after crashing onto the shore. And just as the sea washes away the wrinkles in the sand, the velvet leveled out the grooves in the path, as if preparing way for Salem. He glanced over his shoulder at the trace of footprints that disappeared somewhere in the vast forest behind them. They had been wandering for quite some time, and Salem began to grow tired, and with every step more curious and confused.
Without notice, the Author stopped suddenly in his tracks, nearly causing Salem to bump against him. As if he were a curtain, he stepped aside to allow Salem to look upon the place that he had lead him to.
Salem's eyes grazed over the forest trees that had grown in a way that nearly formed a large circle. It seemed as though they had purposefully grown around this barren patch of land. Without the dark shadows from the trees, the warm sunlight to fell from the sky. Just a few feet ahead of them, the path disappeared into a deep chasm that had somehow formed in the land. About thirty feet down, sharp rocks shot up from the floor, ready to sever anything that fell onto its surface. That is why they call it the "Hungry Fall", because it looks much like a mouth opening wide, ready to swallow anything that should fall into it's void.
He had been here before. Salem and a few of the other children had once passed the time by throwing branches and pebbles into the chasm. They would watch as the object fell almost slowly through the air and and then the second it hit the ground, it would shatter in all directions. Of course Regan was in the middle of it all, ordering the boys to find bigger rocks and bigger branches to toss into the pit. Salem did his best to impress her. Last time he was here, he was with his friends, he felt safe. He had not feared it like he did now.
Salem's thoughts were interrupted by a cold pair of hands that slowly creeped onto his shoulders. His long pointy nails pressed into his skin.
"Do you trust me?" The Author whispered, leaning close to Salem's ear. It sent shivers up his spine. Never, Salem thought to himself, scoffing silently at the idea of trusting such a man.
"I can hear your thoughts..." He said, now whispering into his left ear. Out of the side of his eye, Salem could see his face appear just an inch away from his own. He stared straight ahead, not knowing how to answer and fearing if he did, there would be consequences if it did not please him.
Suddenly, the Author's grip tightened, and Salem began to feel himself being shoved straight towards the drop. Panic struck through his veins and he quickly realized what was happening to him.
"No!" He begged, digging his heels into the ground, praying desperately that he would stop. But the Author was much stronger, and continued to force him ahead.
"No! No! No!" Salem screamed, as his feet reached the edge of the cliff.
The Author spun him around to face him, and looked him dead in the eye. "You have to trust me boy." For a moment, they just stared straight at each other. Terror was clear in Salem's eyes, but the Author's were impossible to understand. They were fierce, yet calm. Crazed, but not evil.
"You have to trust me!" The Author growled, grabbing the collar of his shirt, as he hung him over the edge. Salem dangled helplessly, as tears began to roll down his cheeks.
"I trust you!" He blurted in terror. But the Author remained silent, piercing him with his glare. Salem knew deep inside that he could not be convinced. He read right through him, this man could not be lied to.
"I can't!" Salem wept, "I can't..." He said again, knowing that The Author knew the truth, that there was no way in hell he could trust the same man who now held him over the edge.
The Author unraveled his fingers from the fabric that was now tearing from the seams, until only one finger was keeping him from falling.
"What are you doing?!" Salem pleaded breathlessly, with sweat dripping from his temples.
"I'm going to write your story." The Author replied, as a crooked grin appeared on his face. Then, he dropped his hand down to his side and let him go. Salem's heart stopped as he fell through the air. Breath no longer filled his lungs.
That was all Salem remembered before he shut his eyes.
