Sketches 3
Super Lunas is a book I’ve been working on since 2012. It’s gone through several drafts, but should be ready for release later this year. The following is an unedited, uncut sample. Always bear in mind, these sketches are rough comps, just like an artist’s sketchbook.
3
In the golden half-light of a dying summer day, Ben and Jake Luna stumbled across the sword on the beach. The twin brothers—each of them fourteen, lanky, and curious—looked with eyes filled with wonder, first at the glistening artifact, then at one another. The Pacific roared behind them. They were alone.
“Where do you think it came from?” Jake asked.
Ben shook his head. “No clue. But it’s incredible.”
That much was true. Handle, hilt, and blade all possessed an impossible shade of black—a darkness so rich and complete it snared all light and life—it’s secrets seemingly never to be known, shared, spoken or pondered. Such was its singularity. Its alien holiness. It stared at the boys, Jake with his shock of black curls and green fire eyes simmering beneath thick framed glasses. Ben, wriggling his freckled nose, scratching his matted blonde hair, being cautious where his brother paced like a caged lion.
The double-edged blade was short and powerful, but the triangle shaped hilt, hollowed out in the center, demanded their attention most of all. Clean. Elegant. Dark. Jake smiled. He reached out, almost touching the handle, but withdrew. He reached out again.
“No, let me,” Ben said. “I’m older.”
“Barely. By seconds.”
“Watch it.” Ben extended his trembling hand, his index finger running along the handle. A tingle shot down his spine to his feet, but he did not take his hand away. They knelt on the cool rocks as the waves pounded against the shore. The excitement of early summer, coupled with their newfound freedom, lay spread out before them. Free from schoolwork and schedules. Free from the glaring eyes of classmates. No more neckties and black slacks and itchy sport coats. For the months ahead, the shackles had been taken off, falling to the ground with loud victory clangs. Days filled with beaches and bicycles and comic books, capped off with firefly evenings and promises of endless tomorrows. At fourteen, Ben and Jake desperately clung to the foolish hope that their childhoods would be endless, while trying to navigate the rickety bridge to manhood, which meant seeing the cracks in the world—the imperfections, each growing in number faster than the boys could tally.
School was waiting for them, yes, but also, beyond that, something else. Summer nights don’t last forever. Fireflies lose their magic. Neckties remained tied around necks well into manhood, nooses choking away the restless mystery of boyhood, pulling and pulling and pulling.
And yet, here the sword lay, catching the mystic glow of the setting summer sun, the rays tracing its contours, setting it ablaze in brilliant golden light.
“Ben, be careful.”
“I am.” Ben wrapped his hand around the colorless handle, his fingers digging into the stone and sand. His body surged with the hum of the weapon.
Ben climbed to one knee, lifting the midnight sword from the ground. It was lighter than it looked, but solid. The boys stared in awe.
“Jake, it’s shaking.”
“Maybe it’s just you. You’re scared.”
“No, I’m telling you. It’s vibrating. Here, feel.” Jake took a jerking step forward, reached out, and took the sword from Ben’s hand. He was so startled, he almost dropped it. “Careful,” Ben urged.
“What is this thing?” Jake turned it over in his hand, taking in its majesty and power, soaking it in like a sponge. “Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said, wiping the sand from his hands on his shorts.
“Maybe the ocean. You know, got washed up,” Jake offered.
“I don’t think so.”
“Someone dropped it?” At this suggestion, both boys looked over their shoulders, scanning the beach. They’d been so enchanted by their discovery, they’d almost forgotten their surroundings. To the north, the coast ran zigzagging along the ghostly beach, fading into a haze of blotchy forms. To the south, almost a mile down the shore, the oceanside amusement park—the boys’ original destination—blinked its golden lights, the Thunderbolt’s train rising slowly into the air one click-clack at a time. The boys were safe. Jake walked to the water, letting the cool tide crash around his ankles, the chilly water misting the front of his body. He bent low and let the water rush over the sword, which was still clenched tightly in his hand.
“What are you doing?” Ben asked.
Jake didn’t answer. Ben almost cried out, for fear of the newfound totem being lost. But Jake brought it up out of the ocean, the sand washed from its surface. It shone heroically in the dying light, the last gasp of golden beams climbing over the horizon, being sucked into the blade like some kind of cosmic vacuum. The handle fit into Jake’s hand perfectly, as if it were made to have the boy’s fingers wrapped around its cool steel. But after a moment, the handle grew warm. Then hot. Jake cringed.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Ben asked.
Jake’s face tensed. He gripped the sword more tightly. “I don’t know. Nothing,” he lied. Jake’s face tightened. The handle grew hotter in his hand until he couldn’t take it any longer. Stinging pain spiked through his palm and he dropped the sword. His molars ached. His hand, though it showed no signs of damage, throbbed.
“Careful!” Ben yelled. Jake wrung his hands together. Ben watched him. “You all right?”
“Said I’m fine.”
Ben watched Jake carefully, trying to read his brother’s face.
Jake pulled his eyes from the sword and looked at Ben. “We should take this with us.”
“And do what with it?”
“Not sure. But I don’t want to just leave it here, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then, what?”
Ben thought. “We can’t bring it with us—so we hide it. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
Jake looked at the sword longingly. Ben’s plan made him uneasy. “But, where?” Jake asked.
The boys turned, looking for a safe location. “There,” Ben said, pointing to a section of twisted fence jutting out of a small cluster of rocks, the only marker on the otherwise desolate beach. “We’ll bury it there.”
Ben bent down to grab the sword.
“Ben, no—” Jake started.
Ben looked up. “What?”
Jake looked at the sword. He shook his head. “Just, be careful.”
Ben lifted the trophy from the ground. Jake waited for him to drop the sword, shaking his hand in pain, but he never did. The boys walked over to the broken wooden slats and knelt in the sand. Jake looked around, confirming their seclusion. They each grabbed sharp chunks of rock and plunged their tools into the earth, digging—making short order of their work. The brothers took the sword—Jake cupping his hands under the blade, while Ben held the handle—and they stared at the thing for a long while, neither boy wanting to let go or to be the first to urge the other to place it in its temporary grave. Ben traced his thumb over the triangle hilt. “It’s only for a little while,” he said.
“Yeah, just a couple of hours.” The boys looked at each other. Jake opened his mouth to say something further, then thought better of it.
“Jake—you’re bleeding.”
“What?” Jake had been lost in thought. He looked down at his bloody hand. He’d cut his thumb along the edge of the blade. “Oh, man—it’s so sharp, I didn’t even feel it.” He wiped his hand on his shirt. “It’s all right—I only nicked it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s not deep,” Jake said, sucking the blood from his cut. Again, their eyes met—a look of uncertainty—then they placed the dark weapon in the ground and quickly covered it with sand, so as not to be tempted to change their minds. The wind ripped across the beach as they stood side-by-side, each of their tall, wiry frames swaying in the breeze.
Ben shoved the long knots of blonde curls from his forehead and looked down the beach toward the park. “We should head over there. Bucky and Ryan are waiting for us.” Jake didn’t move. “Come on, little brother—we’ll come back in the morning.”
“Don’t call me that.” Jake said, pushing his thick, brown-framed glasses up his nose. His brilliant green eyes flashed wildly underneath the scuffed lenses.
Ben smiled. “Let’s go. We’ll count our paces to the boardwalk, then, in the morning, we’ll come back.”
“All right. But, first thing.”
“First thing.”
The sun dipped below the horizon, but the image of the midnight sword burned fiercely in the minds of the brothers as they made their way down the beach. Overhead, the sky screamed a bloody red, and the salty sea air tickled their noses, ushering them back to familiar surroundings. A world where life in North Haven, Oregon carried on, alive with the false promises of endless summer nights and days filled with freedom and wonder. Even if it were fleeting. Even if it were a lie.
They counted their steps to the amusement park, saying nothing more of the sword for the rest of the evening. Neither of them needed to—it was alive and well in their imaginations. Poking. Prodding. Not letting them forget. Tomorrow they would claim it for good.
