A World's Curse

Atlas stared at the book, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. Should he do it—should he open the book? He wanted to, kind of. He wanted to get his grandfather back; he wanted to get rid of the old tome and go back to spending his days in the old Victorian home, reading with his best friends. Sadly, it looked as if there was no going back.

Looking behind his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he quietly slipped off of his bed and picked up the old book. He remembered the notes and what they’d said. There was no way to know that, once you dove in, if you could get back out—let alone get everyone else out.

His fingers brushed across the cover, feeling the worn surface. He imagined what it would be like, getting sucked into a book. Would you just live out the rest of your life amongst the pages, or would you be sucked into the story illustrated by words? Would you just die or would there actually be some hope for you?

Atlas tried to convince himself it wasn’t real, to just open the book and read it, but there was something holding him back. Call it petty fear, a hope, but it was something making him hesitant. He brushed his fingers along the binding, the letters of the title, the rips and tears on the edges. He brought the volume close to his face and sniffed, smelling the lingering aroma of Dean’s library.

He snapped.

He had to know, he had to find out, he had to at least try.

His fingers curled around the cover and he tore the book open; he flipped pages and pages, tearing some, skipping others. At first, nothing happened. It was like there was nothing wrong—that his grandfather really was gone—but then, something happened.

There was a bright light, rainbow and pale, and he felt himself go weightless. Slowly, like a lightbulb, his senses overloaded and blew. He felt immense pain and pleasure; he smelled the musty smell of old books; he heard a whoosh take over his ears; but then, all at once, everything blew, and he was left in darkness.


Atlas’s senses returned one-by-one. First he could feel—bed sheets, soft cotton—then he could hear. It was a low rumbling, like a giant was murmuring a lullaby. After, he slowly regained his ability to see; he was laying on a bed, in a wooden cavern. There were florescent overhead lights, porthole windows, and a large door shaped like one you’d see in a submarine, but wooden. The walls were wood, too—planks lined neatly in long rows.

He pushed himself out of the bed, feeling the hardwood floor on his bare feet. He’d changed clothes from jeans and a t-shirt to a white tunic and brown cotton pants. Around his neck was a small emerald amulet, though he didn’t know where it had come from. The only thing that remained on his skin was the (now faded) plutonian mountainscape on his forearm.

Atlas didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know where he was, what was going on, and what was making the low humming sound. He walked up to the window, which was a bit taller than him, and stood on the tips of his toes to look out the porthole.

He was in the sky. Below was a small island chain of rock, but then there was nothing but water. It was a vast sea of blue stretching out under him, but where was he? What was he inside? A ship, a plane, a blimp? He pushed himself back from the window, stepping softly on the wood. He turned to the door and walked towards it. His hand curled around the peg of the wheel and turned. A latch released, so he pulled open the door and exited the room into a short hallway.

He tip-toed down the hall, past doors and windows, a frightful breath escaping his lips in small puffs. He could hear muffled speech, arguing maybe, as he approached a corner.

“What do you think of the new volunteer?” a deep, gruff voice asked. The accent was foreign—a mix of European.

“I say he’s a dud,” another voice said. This one was lighter, high-pitched yet aggressive. “We should just drop him right now, I say.”

There was a sigh as Atlas pressed himself against the edge of the wall.

“At least he’s willing,” someone said. It was the soft voice of a female, lower than most. There was an air of condescension in her tone. “Usually we get ‘em and they go running as soon as we reach Sio.”

“Bet he’ll do the same,” the deep-voice said.

“Yeah!” the high-pitched voice said in agreement. “We’re not even to the Peak yet! Don’t count on him staying.”

Atlas was curious. Who were they talking about? Who was this volunteer? Judging by the amount of doors lining the hall, there had to be more people in here. It could be any one of them.

“Speaking of the volunteer,” the woman said, “I’m going to go make sure he hasn’t died of shock. I’ll be right back.”

There were footsteps approaching the hall and Atlas panicked. He pushed himself away from the wall and raced down the corridor until coming back to his room. Quickly but silently, he closed the door and ran over to the bed. Just as he sat down, the door opened and a tall woman poked her head through. She had dark hair, a small nose, freckles, and gray eyes. She pushed herself into the room, wearing knee-high leather boots and purple tights with a black shirt and leather vest. Hanging from a sheath on her hip was a curved sword, one that Atlas would usually give to pirates.

“You ready?” she asked him.

“I—uh—ready for what?” Atlas asked.

The woman sighed, smiled, and put a hand to her face, ashamed of Atlas. “You’re going far in life,” she insulted softly. “Have you really forgotten already?”

“Forgotten what?” Atlas asked. “I can’t remember what I forgot if I forgot what I’m supposed to remember,” he reasoned, trying to sound comical. He knew this wouldn’t work—whatever he was trying to do—he knew that his accent stood out, that she’d know he wasn’t who she thought he was and she’d drown him in the ocean soon.

“You’re a funny one,” she commented, turning away from him and walking over to the window. “But wittiness isn’t going to save you. Nothing will, actually.”

“What do you mean? Save me from what?”

She turned around, still not facing Atlas, and began pacing. Her hand brushed loosely on the hilt of her sword. “Well, I could kill you now, but I don’t think the gods would appreciate their sacrifice prematurely dying.”

Sacrifice? Atlas was now shaking. He didn’t fare well when being pressured, and now more than ever was he being pressured to be calm. He had to act as if he knew this was going to happen.

“Oh, that,” Atlas said with a false sense of ‘I-knew-that’. “Of course, I remember. I kinda forgot a little, though.”

Under her breath, the woman huffed, “Thank the sun the gods don’t care about who gets sacrificed.”

“Um… am I going to be the one getting sacrificed here?” Atlas asked.

She turned to him, heaving another sigh. “Of course! Who else would get sacrificed? You volunteered, it’s not like we’re taking you along to be a spectator.”

I didn’t volunteer for this shit, Atlas wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. She was angry, he could tell by her aggressive tone and clenched fist. Atlas guessed she didn’t deal with incompetence well.

Walking over to the door, she said, “We hit the first stop tomorrow morning. We’re going to stay there for a day, so prepare to be cold.” With that, she opened the door and slammed it shut in her wake, leaving Atlas alone on his bed.

---

Dinner time rolled around soon after. The woman came and escorted Atlas to the table, which was out his door towards the middle of the hall and through another door on the right side. There were only four people on the ship: himself, the woman (her name was Yurvina), and two men—the pilot and the guard, Escealous and Brimure. Escealous was an aggressive, puny elf with long ears which he kept hidden under a pointy leather hat. He wore tiny, leather boots, green tights, a black undershirt, and a leather vest. At his side was a gun; it resembled a flintlock pistol, but would have stood out in a museum. Upon seeing it, Atlas began to wonder where and when he was.

Brimure, the guard, was a big gruff non-human. He barely fit into his chair. When he came into the room and sat down at the table, Atlas was—admittedly—shocked, but he had to act like he was used to big, purple ogres walking around and wielding axes.

Awkwardly, Atlas ate a spoonful of his soup and asked, “So, uh, why do you guys have weapons?”

Yurvina tore a piece of bread and dipped it in her bowl. She said, “Because, if you run, you are deemed an inadequate sacrifice and we kill you,” and Atlas came to the conclusion that he was doomed. He was either going to be sacrificed, like Yurvina had said back in his room, or he was going to get stabbed. Either way he was going to die and he had to act like it was all okay because he ‘volunteered’ for it.

“So, where are we going? Like, where will I be sacrificed?”

“Are you really this clueless?” Yurvina asked.

“Yes,” Atlas admitted on instinct.

“Wel—”

“We’re going to make a stop at the Peak of the Kurl mountains,” Brimure said, cutting the girl off, “then we’re going refuel and rest at Ari and Sio cities before departing for the Host House in the Dalor foothills. You’re going to be sacrificed at the peak of the Dalor mountains.”

It went quiet after that. Atlas looked down, kind of ashamed and sad that he was going to die, and picked at his food.

“Sorry,” Brimure said, embarrassed. “I just hate when people fight.”

Atlas didn’t fully understand this—he didn’t understand why he was going to be sacrificed or where they were, but it was going to happen, all because he’d opened the damn book.

He only hoped Dean would be on this trip.