DAILYSOMETHING

Gem

Love in the castle of Xanadu is a marble thrown down the steps of the old fortress, each bounce an image of the loved one’s eyes changing. At the last bounce one is to unsheathe the standard issue children’s sword and align it with the direction of the marble and trace its would be path with the sword on the soft soil all the way to the market, where amid the legs of tall shoppers a world completely separate breathed, due to the large difference in heights, where children roamed through passages known only to them, and where rules were set by the leading boys and only the most beautiful of girls and where magic was practiced behind the darkest of stalls. Love in the castle of Xanadu could start with a punch to the nose outside Moishe’s, where, if one was small enough, a passage could be found through mountains of watermelons in the basement to an old bag of secrets. But I never made it there that day, because I got punched in the nose.

Reading was a pretty small fellow, but he carried two standard issue swords, a rare feat for a kid, he had to be a very good fighter. I was running from a gang of his boys when another group cornered me next to Moishe’s.

“We heard you’re in love with a girl from the north side,” one of the kids said. I ran for a random door on the right, but it was locked. Reading came toward me, his walk very fox-like, holding both of his swords by the handles. His hands were fluid and I, caught staring at them, was punched in the nose, by Reading himself.

And no, I wasn’t in love with a girl from the north side. I was only more mad at her than. I was throwing tiny stones at the broken vials nailed to the top of Granma Black’s stall, hoping that this tunnel lead I got from a tin box from a boy in the fish stall was true, and one of the stones fell in her cup of water. She laughed and ran away, now I have to get beaten up for it. To be honest, girls don’t interest me at all, it is a tunnel or even a portal I really want to find, because all I ever want to be is a Freelancer. Freelancers are famous, you can spot one immediately around a castle. Their long black worn coats, or some other jaded or ridiculous outfit stand out amid a crowd, or in an eatery, like no other. To me, they even smell different.

They can take the smallest clues to find a portal. Last winter, I was trying to arrange icicles, because a series of books were lined up at the library to form the word Ice Castle among a shelf, and when I got out of the library there was a building totally covered with ice - a freak wave from the bay had reached over the castle walls and hit that one building and now it was frozen. As I was stringing the two together I saw long letter-like icicles all round the building and decided to give the lead a chance. I spent what must have been hours rearranging icicles on the ground, spelling names of places and people when a Freelancer with a bloody boot stooped over me an asked:

“Whats this one start with?”
“A line of books at the library,” I answered
“What was the first book?”
“JOT,” I said
“And the second?”
“Tyrannia,” I answered and continued with the titles of all nine books and their authors.
“This is a tough one for a kid, but I’m going to solve it and take the portal. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

I moved to the side and he built a castle with icicles, hundreds of them, elaborate and beautiful. A small portal shined in one of the windows. Before he touched it with the tip of his finger he said, “Two things could solve this puzzle - lots of reading, and a heart of ice - and you already have one of them.” He disappeared, and I inspected the castle carefully. I didn’t read all that much, but I started to after I met him