Farsighted (Farsighted Series)

Farsighted

by Emlyn Chand

An Imprint of Novel Publicity, LLC.

www.novelpublicity.com

Ann Arbor, Michigan

FARSIGHTED Copyright 2011 by Emlyn Chand. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews. For information, contact Blue Crown Press or e-mail [email protected].

Farsighted
is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Place names and any resemblance to events or actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

For Mom.

Thank you for all the bedtime stories.

I hope you’ll enjoy this one.

A Note to Readers

You are about to embark on a journey along with the characters in this novel. At the beginning of each chapter, you’ll find a rune and a corresponding prophecy. When taken in precise order, the runes tell the story of a hero’s journey from unassuming
Fehu
to battle-weary
Opila
. Alex’s story follows this same proud trajectory.

Put your powers of divination to the test by trying to predict what each chapter holds based on the hints provided. Conversely, you may choose to ignore the runic prophecies altogether and dive right into the story. Either way, happy travels.

The First Aett

Thou standest on fate's fine edge.

If thou wouldst learn the meaning of my words,

heed the warnings of mine art.

-spoken by Teiresias-

in Sophocles’s
Antigone

Chapter 1

Our hero is about to embark on a journey. Life as he knows it is quiet, boring, and predictable, but it’s also comforting and familiar. That will soon change.

Today is the last day of summer, but I’m not doing anything even remotely close to fun. I’m just lying here in Mom’s garden, running my hands over the spiky blades of grass—back and forth, back and forth, until my fingertips go numb. Until everything goes numb. I sigh, but no one’s around to hear.

“Alex,” Dad yells from the kitchen window. “Dinner.”

Already? How long have I been out here? I spring up from the ground and the grass springs up with me, one blade at a time—boing, boink, boint. The sounds would be imperceptible to any normal person, but they tickle the insides of my ears. I picture an army of earthworms raising the blades as spears in their turf wars and smile to myself.

Dad opens the back door and calls out to me again. “C’mon, Alex. What’s taking you so long?”

Grabbing my cane, I shuffle over to the house, brushing past him as I squeeze inside. The kitchen reeks of fast food restaurants and movie theaters—butter and grease. That means it’s breakfast for dinner. We do this every Sunday night, because Mom goes out to garden club and Dad doesn’t know how to cook anything else. Plus it’s cheap.

Breathing heavily, Dad plunks some food onto both our plates and collapses into his chair. He groans and asks me to pass the butter, or rather the “bud-dah.” He grew up in Boston and every once in a while the accent works itself into his speech.

I slide the tub to dad; he reaches out and stops it before it glides clear off the table.

“What’s this?” Dad asks.

“Uh, the butter. Obviously.”

Dad’s voice raises an octave. “I know it’s the butter, so don’t get smart. Why’d you give it to me?”

“Because you asked me to.”

“No, I didn’t.” He exhales as if the wind has been knocked out of him by an ill-timed punch to the stomach. “Guess you must’ve read my mind.” He chuckles to himself and slides the cool metal knife into the butter and scrapes it across his toast.

Dad and I don’t usually talk to each other unless Mom is around, asking about our days, chatting on, working hard to create those warm and fuzzy family moments we don’t seem to create naturally. Even though Mom has reassured me a million times, I know Dad resents me for being born blind.

I can tell he would have much rather had a son like Brady—the same guy who insists on making my high school experience as difficult as possible. Ugh, Brady. I shiver at the thought of dealing with him tomorrow.
Nothing’s
worse than knowing that your own father thinks you’re a loser.

Dad and I finish our meal in silence and my mind wanders.

He rises from his chair, breaking apart my thoughts. “Let’s get this table cleared before your mother comes home,” he says, without pronouncing the
r
in
cleared
.

I stand, too, and pick up my plate and glass. Guess I’ll pass on that fifth biscuit.

“Your mother has a surprise for you.”

I smile for Dad’s benefit. My parents are horrible at keeping secrets. Last night, I overheard them talking in their room. Mom was bragging about how she found some “cute” new shades on Wal-Mart’s clearance rack.

About ten minutes later, the tires of Mom’s van crunch on the gravel in our driveway with lots of little pings and a big
cuh-clunk
. As usual, she steers directly into the pothole we don’t have the money to repair. Sometimes I wonder if she does it on purpose.

The door creaks open, inviting a comforting floral fragrance into the house. Mom always smells like flowers—today it’s tulips and jasmine. She tiptoes across the floor and places a wet kiss on my cheek. When she turns to greet Dad, I wipe at the left-over moistness with my shirt sleeve. I’m getting too old for this kind of thing—been too old for a while now actually, but it doesn’t seem to matter to her.

“How was your day, my little sapling?” she asks. I
really
wish she would stop calling me her “little sapling.”

“Hi, Mom.” I hug her, because it makes her happy.

“Are you excited for tomorrow?”

I snap my fingers, which is how I say “yes” without actually saying it, kind of how most people nod their heads. I’m excited to learn, to have something to do other than lie in the grass, to possibly make a friend. More than likely though, things won’t change. I’ll still be an outcast. I’ll still be all by myself, but at least I’ll know where I stand. No more wondering.

“A sophomore already! I hope I can keep up enough to help you with your homework,” Dad says, acting like a completely different person than he was just a few minutes ago. He has this way of being nicer to me whenever Mom is around. I know it’s for show, and it pisses me off.

Ignoring him, I turn toward Mom. “So, Dad told me you’ve got a surprise for me?” I’d rather get this over with before they try too hard to build up the suspense.

“Oh, yes,” she chirps, fluttering over to the other side of the living room, pulling out the drawer of the small table in the corner, and rustling the unpaid bills inside. She comes back over to me and places a small bag in my lap.

“Wait,” Dad says as my hand is about to reach inside the bag. “Before you open that, I just want to say that I know we haven’t been able to give you as many back-to-school supplies as you need this year. Your backpack is starting to tear and your boots are scuffed…”

I had no idea my boots were scuffed, but now that he’s pointed it out, it’s all I can think about.

“And all of this is my fault,” Dad continues as I wonder how badly my boots are scuffed. Where? On the heel? On the toe?

Mom clicks her tongue and rubs Dad’s shoulder sympathetically, dragging her fingernails across his thick shirt. The scratching sound draws my attention back to his melodramatic speech.

“I want to make you a promise. As soon as I get a job we’re going to buy all of those things for you. Okay?”

“It’s okay, Dad. I don’t
need
anything.” Except for you to be nice to me even when Mom isn’t around, and, oh yeah, a friend or two.

“That’s my brave little oak tree,” Mom says, giving me another hug. I swear, sometimes I think she’s from another planet, or at least another time period. Still, she loves me, even if she’s constantly saying stupid things like that.

When they seem to have nothing more to say, my left hand reaches into the bag and brings out a pair of sunglasses. I run my right hand over them, trying to make out their shape. They’ve got hard plastic frames and cushiony rubber ends for where they sit on top of the ears. They’re broad in front; the rim goes in a straight line all the way across about a half an inch above the nosepiece. These aren’t the normal bookworm glasses. They’re cool guy glasses.

“We thought you deserved a new pair of cool guy glasses since you’re practically sixteen,” Mom says.

Ugh, I hate when she uses the same words as me. I make a mental note never to say, or think, the words “cool guy glasses” again.

“And they’re even your favorite color!” Mom shouts, unable to contain herself.

Then they’re green. I “see” color through my nose and like green most of all because so many of the best-smelling things are that hue, like grass, leaves, vegetables, and limes. But with green glasses, I’m afraid I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb—a sore green thumb. I smile and reach out my arms. Both my parents come in for a hug. I whisper a quick prayer for tomorrow and head to bed.

***

The next morning, my alarm starts yelling at six o’clock. Is it excited or trying to give me a warning? Well, time to get this over with; time to see if this year will be any different from all the crappy ones before. I reach over to flip the
off
switch and stumble about in a sleepy haze, getting ready for the first day of the new school year.

On the way to the bathroom, I stub my toe on some bulky object that’s just sitting in the middle of the hallway, not even pushed up against the wall. I kick it to the side—
clunk
, straight into the wall—and continue to the bathroom. I shouldn’t need my cane to get around my own house. That had to be something of Dad’s. What, is he actually trying to kill me now?

I turn the shower knob and wait for the water to get warm. It’s taking forever since I’m the first one up today. Aggravated by the wait, I go back into the hall to find the object again. Stooping down, I attempt to work out the shape. Rectangular, with a handle, made of leather or something leather-like, with little metal clasps. A briefcase, I guess. But Dad’s a contractor, why would he need a briefcase? Why now? I flip the clasp, eager to find out what’s inside. The case doesn’t open. Brushing my fingers across the top again, I find a twisty-turny thing on either side. A combination lock. If it’s so important, why’s it laying here in the middle of the hall like a discarded sock?

A wall of steam pushes into my back, calling my attention to the running shower. I return the case to its original position in the middle of the hall and go to wash up for school. Afterward, I towel off and put on my favorite shirt, which is soft and made of flannel. I wear my favorite pants, too—they’re baggy with big pockets on the sides. As I’m pulling them on, I feel a tickle at my ankles where the hem rests two full inches above where it should be. I groan, realizing I must’ve grown over the summer. How much taller can I get? I’m really tall now, at least a couple of inches over six feet, but we just don’t have the money to keep buying me new clothes every time I grow another inch.