Lillooet was the type of town where the Olen family could say to the post mistress that she and her family were all welcome over whenever a bonfire was raging in the backyard and from then on every neighbor, family of the post mistress or not, would watch eagerly out their dusty windows for the first flicker of flame to announce their fortune. The families that had settled in the region were mostly small, beginning families; most of the households were occupied only by a couple that had come to the green valley to start their life peacefully. Despite the inescapable connections between households which were facilitated by the ease and frequency of communication in public places such as the grocery store, the town certainly was peaceful enough to please them all. Though gossip flew more rapidly than the goshawks common around the region, it never blossomed into foul feelings or betrayal – it was more a passage of knowledge than a gathering of material for malicious intent.

To the south of the town ran a small stream that was labeled on official maps as Lurtenbard Stream. The locals, however, referred to it more affectionately. Visitors found it odd that it was commonplace for the youth of the town to claim they were heading out to pay a visit to “Old Man Lurtenbard” when they were later seen to be heading away from all dwellings of any sort. Certainly there was no residence on the banks of the oft turbulent waters of the town's only water source. Surely the son or daughter was headed only for trouble, a meeting with some shady sort of character, if with a person at all. Then the visitor, with a worried but self-satisfied expression, would half-chastise and half-interrogate the father, wondering if he was aware that his child had just thrown the wool over his eyes, so to speak. Hearty chuckles would then erupt, signaling that the joke did not lie where it seemed to lie.

“No, my friend,” the father would speak, attempting to keep his voice void of both insult and amusement to best pay regards to politeness, “Old Man Lurtenbard is the river just yonder. I'm well aware of where my child is going, thank you. Now, would you care for another cup of coffee?”

Indeed it seemed the same way with everything in Lillooet. Outsiders would rush in, eager to experience and to pass judgment upon the small town life. They'd bring their shiny cars filled with fancy baggage and would walk the dusty streets with an air of charity and disgust. Within hours, however, their steps would carry the rhythm of a different tune. Appropriately shamed by one townsperson or another, the outsider would be forced to accept the truth that the people of Lillooet were no less civilized than anyone from a larger city. They handled themselves well. They didn't need the extensive social ladders and backstabbing competitions of large cities, and yet they weren't victim to the ignorant and bumbling pace that some small towns had adopted through lack of progress.

To the north of town was a curious grouping of hills and caves that were a stark contrast to the perfectly flat fields that Lillooet was built on. In the cold dawn-light of winter, the snow-topped caps of the hills seemed to mirror the crests of waves crashing upon themselves in a frigid, diamond-like ocean. In summer, the hills seemed only a protective kind of wall around the town, carpeted with lush green bushes, trees, and flowers that swayed in the cool evening breezes. Despite these beautiful appearances, the hills had been named for the dangerous and ever-enticing caves that were contained within the domes of earth. Too often had young people run off to the caves for sport and never managed to find their way home. It was for this tragic reason that the hills were known as the Vanishers. Just as Old Man Lurtenbard had an official name, so the Vanishers were known as the Southern Small Alps on government-issued maps. Jinksonville, to the far north of Lillooet, laid claim to the Northern Small Alps, and had the fortune of possessing the less dangerous set – the Northern Small Alps had no caves at all.

Completing the circle of security, forests flanked Lillooet on both the east and west boundaries. Unlike the forbidding Vanishers, these forests were open and friendly to adventurers who wished to explore their reaches. For this reason, they had no significant names – they were known only as the friendly woods or the inviting forests of the west or east, respectively.

“They're mighty easy to navigate, stranger. I don't know why you're making all that fuss. The forests of the west are filled with berries and mushrooms that you might find useful and tasty and I can guarantee you won't get lost even if you get distracted by these bounties,” the Lillooetian would say, attempting to comfort the hesitant visitor, “My great-grandfather, an explorer of sorts, even went through to mark paths on the trees in the case that a visitor such as yourself might wish to take a day hike.” More often than not, however, consolations were met with stubborn fear. In rebuttal to whatever excuses the visitor might conjure up: “Alright, then. I can't force you to explore the woods, but at least stay away from the hills then. They're not as friendly as you're making them out to be.” True Lillooetian manner: not forceful, not vengeful, truly concerned with others though the 'others' may not have shown the same concern for any Lillooetian.

These varied surroundings were the reason that most visitors kept strictly to the road through the East Woods and to the buildings in town. Lillooet was not a place that tourists came for outdoors activities. The buildings gave adequate entertainment as it was, though, so there was no real disappointment at this fact. Main Street was the focal point of the town even when it was first being settled. Small shops selling books, groceries, flowers, clothing, and trinkets lined the sole paved road and met the lone sidewalk in the community. Dirt or gravel roads branched off of this thoroughfare towards small circles surrounded by old, unique houses. Each house had its own, sprawling backyard, though families often made pacts that allowed their singular properties to overlap and mingle with the others, creating a rather confusing patchwork of backyard ownership. Lillooetians who'd kept their backyards to themselves were normally quite proud of the way their lawns were kept, especially Mrs. McGrew who lived on Rice Street, a road branched off the south west of Main Street. Mrs. McGrew, who had been a widow for many years by the time Frank Maveo was born, spent most of her days outside on her lawn either gardening or trimming, fertilizing or watering, landscaping or tending to the small pond she'd manufactured.

Off the north west side of Main Street, a little closer to the inviting woods than Mrs. McGrew's house, Mourning Dove Lane stretched back towards the hills. George Maveo, a resident on this very lane, often claimed the Vanishers as part of his backyard in jest but everyone in town knew he'd never really want to be responsible for such desolate features of the land. For such a majestic backdrop, the Maveo family home was rather mediocre and unassuming. Shabby blue shutters covered tarnished windows that never shined no matter how hard Mrs. Lily Maveo scrubbed the glass. The white paint on the body of the house was chipping and peeling and the stairs to the back porch were missing a step, but the family did not feel it necessary to expend extra money on renovations – they had a new baby to take care of.

It was into this modest house, modest town and with modest announcement that Frank Maveo was born. Indeed, as his mother said, his first week of life was eventful and wakeful, but he did manage to doze off in the arms of strangers every now and again. When he was awake, he did not cry. At first, this worried his mother and caused every neighbor that came to bless or examine the child to question his health. After a week without any other physical manifestations of any sort of trouble, however, the questions and worries died off and it was assumed that he was simply a very well behaved child.

In truth, Frank Maveo was more than simply well behaved. The first moment he emerged from his mother, Frank recognized the light and identified it as light. He somehow associated this light with goodness, most likely gaining this viewpoint from the words he heard muffled in the womb. Thus, he did not cry when he was born into a cold and bright world. He was able, without explanation, to see the faded wallpaper that hung in his mother's bedroom through his newly opened eyes and to identify it as part of her when he was only days old. The faces that blurred before the baby's face were also etched into his mind and the newborn found himself able to judge the haptic reaction each visitor would have based on their facial expressions. Those with darting eyes and shifting lips often held him gingerly and briefly, while those with parted lips and bared teeth chose to tuck him close to their bodies for more extended visits. Luckily these special skills were not things that Frank could express except in the absence of tears, and so his first weeks slipped past uneventfully.


Excerpt Two

“And so it is with unending, ever-flowing pride and most joyous pleasure that I open the doors this day to Nevestory Academy in all its unrealized splendor.” The pair of scissors that the man held were poised to tear through the shining red ribbon that had been hung across the doorway into the large, imposing building. Behind the ribbon, the doors were ornately carved with delicate depictions of two griffins – one on each of the wooden planks, heads facing each other. The beaks were sharply defined, both half crescents that began in a row of small feathers and ended in a vicious apex. Sparkling spherical eyes of deep ruby were slightly chipped, telling faded stories of passing robbers mostly foiled by the enduring strength of those intransigent jewels. In the sunlight of late afternoon, each stained feather of the griffins' bodies seemed to glint as if made of precious hematite rather than of dark pine. Wings unfurled, the griffins emanated intense pride and protectiveness over the livelihood that was set to pass beyond their threshold.

Frank's eyes glistened to match the shimmer of the doorway behind him. This moment had not come without months of work based on the impetus of countless, experience-filled years. Memory of the past brought tears with it. Memory, however, was fading in favor of the fast-approaching future. The crowd was waiting with bated breath, and they would not let the ribbon cutting be stalled much longer. Frank wished to savor the moment, but knew that he could not keep himself in one moment for eternity.

Time always rushed on and he'd been too often left behind to repeat such a mistake at such a crucial moment. It seemed to Frank as if this temporal assault bent at his volition, revealing diamonds of lasting perfection hidden in every element of the scene at hand. From the glitter of the doors to the beam of light that reflected off the silver scissors and onto the joyous, healthy faces of those gathered to witness the ceremony, each detail flashed and engraved itself onto the eager and willing canvas that was Frank's memory. Then, as each facet left its imprint, it rushed on to meet the falling pieces of ribbon. Both halves fell into elegant bunches at the sides of the doorway.

A muted cheer rose from the gathered mass of people as they all moved forward, advancing as if to receive a reward rather than to walk into the empty entrance hall of a school that had only been approved for operation the previous week. Frank stepped sideways into the center of the top step to block the flow of people and indicate that the first step inside was reserved for him. It wasn't a reservation made out of selfish motivation or disdainful greed; it was only a sort of sentimentality tinged with sadness and loss that urged the aging man to go against his kind and generous reputation for a fleeting moment and to save first entry into Nevestory Academy for the spirit of its past.