Noah Aitel

Back in Black

            Shadow awoke suddenly.  In one swift motion he slid to the ground, rolled across the floor, grabbed a concealed dagger, and threw it at his would-be assassin, all before the arrow intended for him lodged itself in the headboard of his bed with a crack.  Then he stood up, dusted himself off, and went to find out who had tried to kill him this time.  He sighed.  He had been having such a nice dream.

            He looked at the body of Cromwell with a sigh.  Of course it had been him.  The boy had hated Shadow since their first day at school, and Shadow knew it was just a matter of time before one of them ended up killing the other.  Still, he had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.  He would have preferred a chess match.  But everyone at the assassin’s school was so violent.  None of them appreciated the value of a good book, except maybe to bludgeon someone with.

            Shadow pulled his knife from Cromwell’s body, cleaned it swiftly, and sheathed it in the hidden pocket of his cloak.  Then he pushed the body out of his room and rang the bell for room service.  He glanced out the window.  It was nearly sunrise.  Oh well, he thought.  No use in trying to sleep now.  May as well get an early start.  He dressed, making sure to avoid stabbing himself with any of his concealed weapons, and opened the window.

* * *

            Shadow strode along the cold, damp grass of the school’s campus, keeping an eye out for any traps left out by his fellow students.  He reached the end of the field and stood before the ten foot high sheer stone wall intended to keep outsiders out and insiders in practice.  He ran his fingers over the familiar grooves of the wall, slipped on his climbing gloves, and made his way up the wall, over the spikes, and down the other side, avoiding the carefully concealed pits that looked like perfect places to land, but that were actually ten foot deep holes filled with poisonous snakes.  (Well, a poisonous snake.  But really, how many snakes do you need?  One did the job just as well as a hundred, and it was much cheaper to feed.)

            After a short walk through the forest surrounding the school, Shadow was on the road to town.              He ducked down off the road every time a cart came by, not because he was hiding from anything, but just because every bit of practice helped.  After about an hour of walking and hiding, Shadow arrived in town.  He passed by some of his favorite shops: “Poisons for all Occasions,” “Cloak and Dagger,” and “The Black Hat,” (a store specializing in black clothing with numerous hidden pockets) and made his way to an old stone building with the word “LIBRARY” engraved on it.

            Shadow entered the library and selected a large, black volume entitled Vile and Deadlye Poisones.  He then quickly passed through the fiction section, carefully sliding a copy of The Adventures of Horace Bartleby, Detective off the shelf and in between two pages of the larger book before finding his favorite chair (in the corner, and away from any windows) and sitting down.  You can never be too careful, he thought.  Anyone who saw me reading this would think I wasn’t a bloodthirsty assassin.  You have to be careful with your reputation.

* * *

            Shadow was born to Sir Jonathan and Lady Drusilla Blackheart, two of the most famed assassins of their time, and as such, had grown up in a rather violent environment.  From an early age, his parents had flung practice knives his way, testing his reflexes and forcing him to think quickly.  He was dodging real knives by age three, and at age five had learned how to catch and return them with deadly accuracy.  He had spent many long hours in his family’s garden, learning the names of the numerous deadly plants and the correct ways to handle and process their leaves, seeds, and stems into a variety of useful poisons. 

But though Shadow had progressed quickly in all of his lessons, the only ones he had shown real enthusiasm for were his history lessons.  He would sit for hours reading about famous assassins from across the world, imagining himself in their foreign lands, hidden in the recesses of a sultan’s palace, waiting to poison him, or disguised as a crocodile, swimming upstream to find his target.  He loved those books—even the dullest, driest accounts of murder throughout the ages—because they took him to new places, far from the expansive grounds of his parent’s house, to somewhere foreign and exciting.  In his free time, he would sit in his parents’ library, reading every book he could get his hands on. 

It wasn’t long before he discovered fiction, and he loved it immediately.  It opened up a new world for him: the fantastical lives of everyday people, who didn’t kill anyone on a daily basis.  The idea that people could have jobs other than being assassins or victims came as a bit of a shock to Shadow.  He had been vaguely aware that there was a large world out there, with cities full of people who must do something else, and that somebody had to make food, clothing, and weaponry, but he had never really been able to really picture them as humans with their own lives and families.  Books made Shadow yearn for a normal life, where he could go to school with other boys his age and learn about math, and spelling, and penmanship.  And on his tenth birthday his wish was granted.  Well, sort of.

His parents enrolled him in Mme Desdemona’s Academy for Young Assassins, where he put his skills to the test, competing against the other students, showing off his weaponry and poisoning abilities, and attempting to survive.  He graduated (along with his significantly reduced class) after four years, and was then admitted into Deadfalls, the most prestigious assassin’s finishing school in the world.  It was headed by Dr. Vesuvius, a strict and formidable man with no relatives and no background.  In his first week there, Shadow learned not to cross Dr. Vesuvius and had remembered the lesson ever since.

It had been on his third day there that a senior from the school had told him that in order to be initiated, he had to sneak into Dr. Vesuvius’ office, spike his tea with a mild sedative, and then hide in the closet, wait for him to drink it, and steal the locket he always wore around his neck.  Shadow had agreed to do it, and had waited until the headmaster had left his room and walked nearly a mile away across the grounds, then entered the room.  He quickly spiked the tea brewing in a blue and white porcelain pot, and then hid in the closet to await his return.  After a few seconds, he became aware of a knife at his throat, and heard Dr. Vesuvius’ voice whispering in his ear, “One strike, Shadow.  Don’t get a second.”

Ever since then, Shadow had been a model student, achieving nearly perfect grades in all his classes, being kind, courteous, and always observing the gentlemen’s rule: Never kill another student unless they attack first.  He was now in his fourth and final year at Deadfalls, less than two months away from graduation, when he would get his diploma and his license to kill.  With that, he would be entered into the international register of assassins, obliged to answer the call whenever his services were needed.  He would be trapped in a life of service, and he shuddered at the thought.

* * *

Shadow found the carefully marked page in his book and began to read, ears pricked for the slightest noise, eyes darting up every few seconds to keep watch on the silent, nearly empty room.  But there were no interruptions, no attempts on his life, nothing but the ticking of the large grandfather clock in the corner and the movements of the hawk-eyed librarian as she re-shelved books, muttering under her breath about their condition, and silently cursing those who actually read her books, instead of just being awed by their presence and worshipping them, which she felt was the proper thing to do.  Every now and then she would glare at Shadow, as if daring him to turn a page too loudly.  But he just sat there, quietly reading, and she could find no reason to scold him.  So she left him alone, as she did every time he came here, allowing him to stay as long as he wished without comment.  He never said a word to her and never checked out a book, but he would sometimes sit there the whole day, leaving only when she announced to the room (empty, save for him) that it was closing time and that everyone had better make their final checkouts and get going.  Then he would carefully mark his page, put his books back on their shelves, and disappear silently into the dark night.

Today, Shadow read for only an hour before putting away his books and striding out the door, looking preoccupied.  He passed by his favorite stores again, making a mental note of the sale on nightshade at Brosco’s Herb Emporium, before ducking down a small alley, pointedly ignoring the shady man holding a knife who was waiting near its entrance.

“Oi, you,” said the mugger. “Yeah, you in the black.  Come over ‘ere.  I’m tryin’ ta mug ye!”

Shadow turned around casually, smiling wickedly.

“Now then, yer money or yer life!” said the mugger.

            The man keeled over slowly, a look of disbelief on his face as he stared at the dagger in his chest.

            “I believe this is where I’m supposed to make a witty remark,” Shadow said, frowning.  “But they never seem to come to me.  I’m sure I’ll think of one later, but I dare say it’ll be too late by then, eh?  Oh well.  Sorry about that.”

            Shadow continued along the alley, turning onto another street.  From here, he ducked through several more alleyways and shortcuts, before arriving at a metal ladder going up the side of a tall, brick building.  Shadow climbed it quickly, swinging his legs onto the roof and pulling himself up.  He then carefully counted bricks from the ladder.  Let’s see, fourteen left, eighteen forward, here we are.  He pulled out a small knife and cut the mortar holding the brick in place, then pulled it out to reveal a small hole.  He threaded some string through a small hook, lowered it down the hole, swinging it until it caught, and quickly pulled it up, taking a long tube from the end.  He opened the tube, and pulled out roll after roll of paper from inside.

This was it, his masterpiece.  It had taken him almost four years to write, but now here it was, nearly complete.  All it needed was the end.  He had been struggling with it for nearly a month already and had gotten nowhere.  He needed to send it at least a month before his final exam to get an answer from a publisher in time.  He was sure that if he could get it published he’d be able to prove to his parents that he was good enough, and that he didn’t have to be an assassin.  But if he didn’t get an answer before his final exam, he’d either have to be locked into the job or run away.

As much as Shadow hated the idea of being an assassin for the rest of his life, he depended on his parent’s finances, and would rather do it than go without money.  It wasn’t that he had anything against assassination per se; he just found it terribly boring.  There wasn’t much creativity in killing someone; sure, you could use poison, or knives, or any of various other tools and abilities, but at the end of it all, the victim always turned out dead.  With writing, there were any number of possible outcomes, and numerous ways to arrive at each.  Each story was unique and had its own details that separated it from any other.

* * *

The month passed quickly, and every day Shadow went to his hidden story and tried to finish it.  He wrote and rewrote, coming up with twists he hadn’t planned, complicating his novel endlessly.  It seemed like every attempt he made to finish it only made it longer without tying it up.  He tried cliffhangers; abrupt ends; long, winding conclusions.  Nothing fit his story, and it was driving him mad.

One night, only three days before he had planned to send the story, Shadow was sitting on the roof with his manuscript.  He was rereading it for what felt like the millionth time, looking for any clue as to how he could end it.

When he had started the story, he had had a clear plot in mind, but as he wrote, the story took on a character of its own.  The characters had transformed from the one-dimensional plot points he had started with into deep individuals, with rich pasts and details he didn’t remember putting in.  At points, the writing had flown through him, leaving him with pages of text to read for the first time.  His story had become more than he could have imagined.  The simple resolution he had planned no longer fit, and whatever spirits had inspired him to write had deserted him now, leaving him empty of ideas, with a nearly finished story hidden under a loose brick.

As he stared at the pages, words finally crept into Shadow’s mind.  He grabbed a pen and paper, and began to write, his hand a blur, trying to get everything down before it slipped out of his mind.  He wrote and wrote, long into the night, and as the sun rose, he put the final words onto the paper.

He spent most of the day reading what he had written, marveling at the writing he had produced without conscious thought.  He reread the whole story, making sure all the details fit, and making small revisions where they were necessary.  He found little to change, and as he read through it a final time, he felt a sense of pride at his accomplishment.  This is it, he thought.  My story is finally complete.  My years of hard work have come to fruition.  Joy surged through him as he carefully placed the story back in its hiding place.  It was as if a crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  The dread of spending the rest of his life as an assassin was gone.  He was free now, and all he had to do was to wait for the letter that would seal his fate.

* * *

The final month of school vanished in the blink of an eye for Shadow.  While his classmates were busy preparing for their final exam—practicing at every opportunity, reciting the names of poisons under their breath, and getting in their final attempts to trim down the competition—Shadow relaxed and patiently awaited word from the publisher he had sent his story to.  He ignored his bloodthirsty brethren, allowing his mind to wander to dreams of a small villa in the countryside, where he imagined himself writing in a sunny garden, while birds perched above him in the trees, and cats prowled along the collapsing wooden fences, these assassins of the animal kingdom silently approaching their prey, ready to pounce, as he had once had to.

As the days passed, Shadow became more and more anxious for news from the publisher.  In his mind, thousands of scenarios played themselves out, each more improbable than the last.  He pictured his manuscript lost by a careless postman, set ablaze by lamp oil, stolen by highwaymen.  He imagined his classmates setting out to ruin his dream by killing the letter carrier.  He even saw Dr. Vesuvius himself, creeping out in the dead of night to stop the manuscript from reaching its intended target, to force Shadow into graduating.  He knew these reveries were ridiculous, but that didn’t stop him from coming up with more each passing day.

* * *

Finally, the day of his final exam came.  Despair filled his body as he awoke, sure that something had happened to prevent the letter from reaching him, or perhaps even the publisher.  His future flashed before his eyes, images of countless assassinations to perform, with no freedom and no rest until old age.  He dressed slowly and purposefully, his movements deliberate, as if he was proceeding to his own funeral (which, of course, would be the case if he wasn’t careful).  The final exam was a test of all the skills that students at Deadfalls learned in their four years, with an oral examination followed by a practical one.  The pressure should have filled Shadow with excitement, or dread, but instead he only felt depressed.

Shadow proceeded to the waiting room, where he joined his trembling, pale-faced classmates.  One by one, they left the room and proceeded into the examination chamber.  None of them reappeared, and at points, Shadow was sure he heard screams of pain from behind the solid, oaken door.  Finally, the door opened a crack and a voice called out:

“Blackheart, Shadow.”

Shadow stood up calmly, brushed off his clothes, and strode through the door, sweeping his cloak in a way that only looked good on one in a thousand people, of which he was one.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness of the room, and he saw a dark figure standing a few feet in front of him.  It spoke, in a cold, chilling voice that Shadow recognized at once.

“Welcome, Shadow,” said Dr. Vesuvius.

“Greetings, sir,” Shadow replied coolly.  He was not scared, not even nervous.  Nothing seemed to matter to him anymore; even Dr. Vesuvius was merely a strange old man in black.

“Let us proceed, then,” replied the headmaster, his voice betraying no surprise at Shadow’s composure.

The oral test went by in less than ten minutes.  Shadow gave the correct answer to each question as soon as Dr. Vesuvius stopped speaking.  Again, Dr. Vesuvius showed no astonishment at Shadow’s skill, but the air was filled with unspoken tension.  The headmaster began to ask more and more obscure questions, but as Shadow continued to answer perfectly, he finally conceded defeat and marked a perfect score down on his clipboard.

“Let’s move onto the practical portion, then, shall we?” he said eventually.

He asked Shadow to demonstrate his skills one by one, and grudgingly awarded him perfect scores in poison-making, knife-throwing, camouflage and disguise, reflexes, athletics, and stealth.  Shadow knew he had done a good job when Dr. Vesuvius glanced around the room with a puzzled look, and then opened the door back to the waiting room to look for him.  Shadow had coughed politely from the darkness, and Dr. Vesuvius had declared that he was just checking how many more student were left after him.

At last, Dr. Vesuvius gave Shadow his evaluation, and released him through the hidden door to the graduate’s room.  He was greeted by cheers from his fellow students, who, now that they had passed the test, felt no more desire to kill him (other than the normal sort, anyway).  But although Shadow smiled and laughed with the rest of them, inside, his dream had been crushed.

* * *

The graduation ceremony was magnificent, with all the surviving students on stage, and their extended families in the audience.  Nearly everyone was wearing black, except for a timid, frightened-looking couple in the center, the man wearing a tweed suit and the woman a flowery dress.  One by one, the graduates walked across the stage, receiving their diplomas and their embossed silver licenses, which allowed them to kill outside of Deadfalls walls.

As Shadow’s name was called, a commotion broke out at the gate.  Riding on a swift black steed, a man sped past the guards and towards the graduation ceremony.  As he drew closer, Shadow saw a shining white letter in his hand.

In one motion, the crowd, the faculty, and all the students stood up, reached into their hidden pockets, and released a flurry of blades, darts, and arrows at the man.  Shadow saw it happen in slow motion; all the weapons hit the messenger at once, launching him backwards off the horse, but the gleaming letter was caught on a gust of wind, and flew through the air, straight towards Shadow.  He leapt forward and caught it, tearing it open with joy, and began to read:

Dear Mr. Blackheart,

We regret to inform you that although we enjoyed your story, it is not up to the caliber that we at Lionsblood Publishing require for our authors.  With refinement, your story could some day be published, if not by us, then by another fine publishing firm.  We urge you to continue writing and wish you luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

J. Oswald Grant

Lionsblood Publishing