The Trials of Lance Eliot (35 page)

There were my parents. “Let me take your suitcase,” said my father. “It's good to see you, kiddo.”

“You've gotten so thin!” exclaimed my mother. “Aren't they feeding you at the college? Have you been exercising?”

“I've done some walking,” I told her. “Lots and lots of walking.”

The Christmas holidays were the same as they had always been. My father read the newspapers and pretended to listen to my mother, who talked endlessly and fussed about my hair.

I spent a lot of time scribbling in a little notebook, trying to preserve as many details as I could of my adventure in Rovenia before my memories faded. My plan to piece together Rovenia's history by reading the books I had brought was a failure—Linguamancy apparently didn't have any effect in our world. I could no more read Rovenian than ancient Sanskrit. It was rather a disappointment.

The figurine went on my bureau, the map and crystal star on my wall.

“That's an interesting map,” said my mother one day. “It looks like no country I've ever seen. I can't read the writing. Is it some ancient language?”

“It's an old form of, er, Indo-European.”

“And that star is so lovely, dear. I didn't know your college gave its students such nice awards. How did you earn it?”

“Exemplary sportsmanship.”

As the holidays ended, I gathered my possessions and returned to Oxford. I went dutifully to the Skeleton's office the next day for our long-delayed discussion. It was a beautiful morning. The sun sent a thousand tiny lights sparkling in the snow underfoot. The sound of passing cars was friendly and familiar, and I felt the warmth of a cup of coffee as it sloshed about inside me.

Trailing tobacco smoke, I entered the Skeleton's office and found him slumped in his chair. A look of dour annoyance crossed his face as he looked up and saw me.

“Put away your pipe,” he said. “I detest tobacco smoke.”

I extinguished the pipe and put it in my pocket.

“You've come for our discussion, I presume?”

I nodded.

“I want you to explain yourself, Eliot. You are not stupid. Your work in literary criticism, however, is artless and idiosyncratic to an alarming degree. Why do you not apply yourself to your studies?”

What little bravery I have is buried very deep, but I brought it forth and answered my accuser.

“I don't agree with the established methods, sir. I believe critics are pointing out things that aren't there. One critic says Hamlet is a radical socialist; another says he's infatuated with his own mother. It seems silly to me, sir. Those critics are like those chaps in the story of the emperor's new clothes, who convince him he's dressed in fine garments when he's stark naked. I think someone needs to stand up like the child in the story and shout, ‘He hasn't got any clothes on!'
That's all, sir.”

The Skeleton did the last thing I expected. He smiled—humanely.

“I cannot agree, Mister Eliot, but I admit your position is not entirely without merit. It is certainly worth developing. I want a paper explaining how you
think literature should be examined, to be handed in this time next week. Twenty pages, typewritten, adhering to the usual formatting standards. All clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Excellent. Good day, Eliot.”

I emerged from his office, hardly able to believe it. The Skeleton had smiled like a living human being—I hadn't imagined he was even capable of doing so—and he had actually assigned an academic paper. The assignment gave me creative freedom, and creativity was usually anathema to the Skeleton. Why the change? Perhaps his holidays had been as formative as mine.

I dispelled these thoughts, intriguing though they were, and tried to focus on the task ahead. After all, I had a paper to write.

This brings my first adventure to an end. I hope you don't think too badly of me after reading about it, my friend. I was to make many more mistakes, of course, but the worst of them were over. I could finally return to the rhythm of a peaceful life, not to be disturbed by further adventures.

At least that's what I thought.

EPILOGUE

[EXCERPTED FROM THE LANCELOT MANUSCRIPT]

AS I WAS IN the garden on the Lord's Day, I was overcome by a vision. The light vanished. I was taken to a dark place where a roaring wind scattered the stars like autumn leaves. I hid my face. Presently, as the sound of the tempest diminished, I ventured to open my eyes.

Lo! About me, the fittings of a bedroom; before me, a maid of fair countenance. She spoke in a strange tongue. A man, in appearance one of the Far East, drew near and set his hand to my arm. I felt a biting pain. Taken thus by surprise, I cried out.

I said: By the Twelve, what manner of witchery is this?

As the maid spoke, the meaning of her words was made manifest to me.

Said the maid: You are not Lan Selliot. Who are you?

I answered: I am Lancelot, late of Camelot, now a humble mendicant.

Said the maid: You cannot be the Lancelot of the stories. I mean no offense, good sir, but you have not the look of a knight.

I said: I was a knight until my sins cast me down. Only by the grace of Our Lord through earnest repentance do I stand. Now tell me and do not delay. What is the meaning of this vision? What message have you to impart?

The maid turned with a downcast face to the man of the Far East.

Said the maid: Twice have I failed. When I call for Lancelot, I am answered by Lan Selliot. When I call for Lan Selliot, I am answered by Lancelot.

Said the man: Peace, my child, fret not. Send back our guest and try again, if you have the strength.

Said the maid: Forgive me, Lancelot.

She set a hand upon my breast.

There was again a mighty roar. When I awoke, I found myself in the garden. One of the brothers stood over me, worried lest I were ill. I assuaged his fears and recounted my vision.

Though we have sought its meaning with much meditation and prayer, we have found no answer. I despair lest the meaning of this vision be forever lost. Thus I record this remembrance before time, the leveler of all men, snatches me from this world to join the saints that have gone on to their reward.

Acknowledgements

The Trials of Lance Eliot
would never have been published without the assistance and support of many people.

Thanks to Robert Quiring, Marvin Baker, Paul Trittin and PeggySue Wells, among others, for helping an aspiring author get a start. Thanks to Jason Chatraw for being the most patient agent ever. Thanks to the readers and writers whose advice, encouragement and criticism improved the novel considerably. Thanks to my family and friends, who compassionately refrained from smacking me every time I rambled about my writing, and special thanks to Tim Stück for his invaluable assistance with the media related to the novel. Thanks to all the people who helped promote it; your support has been not only useful, but endlessly encouraging.

Last of all, thanks to you, dear reader!

Adam Stück (M.L. Brown)

About the Author

By the time Adam Stück (writing under the pen name of M.L. Brown)  turned 16, he was already an international award-winning author. And his future writing career is very much in front of him as he begins on his most ambition project yet with book one of The Eliot Papers: The Trials of Lance Eliot.

Adam has a unique view of the world, which he gained growing up in Quito, Ecuador, as the son of missionaries. He is a graduate of Bethel College and after spending a brief time in Uruguay after college has returned to the U.S. and is living in Indiana.

You can connect with him on his blog:

www.TypewriterMonkeyTaskForce.com

or on Facebook and Goodreads.

The Trials of Lance Eliot

Copyright © 2012 by 
Adam Stück

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9840095-7-2

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