That first ride on the train proved to be one of the most horrible, and most fascinating, experiences of Atticus Fletcher’s life.

Now, certainly, he would never admit to feeling queasy as the train rumbled along the tracks, but let us just say that he… made a few trips to the bathroom. For reasons yet undisclosed to the public. No, I’m not going to describe it to you. So don’t even ask.

Aside from those fun little excursions, the story of Atticus Fletcher’s first train ride is unfortunately a frightfully boring one. As such, while I certainly could detail every (extraordinarily dull) moment of his journey, I would much rather skip ahead to his arrival in the city. And as I am the author, I may do as I please.

When the train finally screeched to a halt in the inner-city station, Ash helped him to disembark. This wounded his pride, naturally, but he did still have a job to do. And he still was not entirely certain Ash would live to tell the tale. Yes—I know that sounds rather morbid. But you must understand, it did look suspicious from Atticus’s point of view. For all he knew, she was leading him directly into a trap, and he did not intend to be taken by surprise.

As he (warily) followed the curly-haired woman through the unfamiliar territory, his heart quickened pace. Imagine, for a moment, that you have put on your shoes, gotten into your car, and begun the drive to work, only to find yourself on another planet entirely. Internalize that bewildered, overwhelming feeling. Internalize the inevitable discomfort and fear.

And now you have a taste—just a taste, mind you—of Atticus Fletcher’s situation.

In every direction, buildings sprawled farther than his eyes, the sharpest eyes in all the Valley, could dream to see. These were not ‘buildings’ as he was used to applying the word; they stretched a hundred times higher, clear glass windows set into exteriors so bright they blinded him at too long a glance. And he saw moving… things all around, traveling in lines down what he could only assume were roads—things bearing striking similarity to the one with which Ash had hit him. Some were red, like hers; more were black, or white, or silver. They whistled by with a speed that caused his heart to race. Why, that had to be faster than a flying arrow, faster than even a running horse!

Atticus suddenly realized Ash had moved ahead without him, and hurried (at a quick walk, just slow enough to maintain his dignity) to follow her.

And as he began to accustom himself to the sight of the buildings and the fast-moving objects on the roads, he began to notice them.

The people.

There were so many of them. Atticus didn’t doubt that the people on this street alone could populate the entire Valley several times over. And they all looked so… different from one another. There was another curly-haired woman, like Ash, but she was taller, and her hair blacker. There was a short, wide man, like Reuben the steward, but he lacked Reuben’s mustache, and he walked differently. No two people in this place were the same height, nor the same age… some of them were not even the same color! Atticus found himself unable to stare too long at any of the people on the street, as there was always someone else pulling his gaze away.

“You okay?”

It took a moment for Atticus to realize Ash’s question was directed at him.

“Fletcher?” she repeated, tugging on his sleeve. “You okay?”

He merely nodded, still barely processing that she had spoken.

She frowned. “You sure?”

He tried to think of a response. In that moment, his mind went entirely blank, and what came out was, “Their clothes…”

Yes, that was the other thing about the people. Atticus Fletcher had arrived dressed in a brown tunic and leather jerkin, the sort of thing you might imagine when picturing a rogue medieval forest warrior. Here, the outfit attracted a number of stares.

Let us be perfectly clear—Atticus Fletcher was very used to being stared at. He had even enjoyed it, back in the Valley, although he never would have admitted even noticing such trivial behaviors of lesser people. But here, the stares were different. Less admiring, and more confused, even hostile.

For the first time in his life, he, Atticus Fletcher himself, was the outsider.

The people passing him on the street wore smooth shirts with buttons, and cloth hats with brims, and shiny skirts, and baggy pants, and all sorts of other garments foreign to him. Such diversity of clothing, and yet somehow he was still an outlier here… somehow everyone else seemed to fit together, like the pieces of a puzzle, and Atticus Fletcher was a piece of an entirely different puzzle that had somehow wound up in the wrong box.

“Don’t worry,” said Ash, firmly taking him by the arm to force him to keep moving, “my brother will have some clothes for you.” She sniffed the air with a grimace. “And a shower.”

“And a… what?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Then she referred to her small, flat box—which Atticus had seen her pull out several times on the train, and still was baffled by—and pulled him around a street corner. “Here’s his building.”

His building? Did her brother own the entire—

“It’s the building he lives in,” Ash clarified, reading the question on Atticus’s face. “Not strictly ‘his’ building.”

That… made more sense.

As it turned out, Atticus was rather fond of the concept of a ‘shower.’ He was also rather fond of Ash’s brother, though he worked very hard to hide his fondness for both and largely succeeded in doing so. Bridger was a good-natured, tall strawberry blond man with thick glasses—the glasses being yet another oddity of this place. Ash introduced him to Atticus and he immediately set to work, showing Atticus the workings of the shower and pulling out a fresh set of clothes for him. The clothes were strange, deep blue pants with a strange texture and buttons all the way down the front of the shirt.

“This, my friend, is what we here call ‘business casual,’” Bridger had explained as he handed the stack of clothes to Atticus. “Jeans and a button-down, timeless look.”

Atticus didn’t dare stoop so low as to ask what any of that meant. Though it did seem to be a good thing, whatever it was Bridger had said, as Ash’s response to the initial sight of him cleaned and clothed was, “Golly, Fletcher, you look good.” Then again, that may have been sarcasm. Atticus couldn’t be sure.

Of course, that was nothing unusual. One rarely could tell, with her.

At this point, the greatest knight in the Valley had spent far too long being led around like a child by two foreign common folk. Atticus decided it was high time he asserted his superiority.

“All right,” he said, standing before the two siblings in his most commanding posture. He felt rather ridiculous in the jeans and button-down, but did his best to overcome the lack of intimidating armor with his voice and stance. “I’ve cleaned in your shower. I’ve dressed in your… clothes. Now where is the princess?”

“She isn’t here right now,” Bridger said, “but—”

“That much is obvious. Take me to her.”

“Look… Atticus, she’ll be back—”

Atticus stepped forward and, in a flash, grabbed hold of Bridger’s collar. Ash let out a gasp of alarm but was quickly silenced by the Valley knight’s steely glare.

“I command you,” Atticus said, “to take me to the princess. Immediately.”

For a long moment, the three of them stood frozen in place, Bridger trapped in the grip of Atticus, who stood threateningly mere inches from him with his collar in his fist, both of them looking to Ash, one with apprehension, one with cold fury.

“Was this part of the plan?” Bridger chuckled weakly at last.

“No.” Ash shook her head. “But it looks like we’re modifying the plan. Bridger, get your keys.”

Pause.

As Atticus Fletcher is whisked off through the city in pursuit of his princess, let us take a short breather, and discuss a subject that has not been talked about nearly enough over the course of this story so far.

Me.

Call it arrogance if you like. Narcissism, if you’re feeling extreme. But the truth of the matter is that in the context of Atticus Fletcher’s tale, I truly do matter a great deal. Why is it that I have said I am ashamed of my role in the story? How is it that I know all that happened to Atticus, and in such detail?

If you are exceptionally bright, I suppose you may already have guessed.

I am the villain.

Please, hold your tongue. I already know the objections you will raise. “But there is no villain!” you will say. To which I respond plainly: You are wrong.

It may not yet be visible to you, but there is very much a villain in this story. I, as the villain, have been telling the story since the beginning. It is true that I may be difficult to spot, but I have been a part of this tale all along. And I do not speak merely of my whimsical narration.

Keep in mind, we are but seven chapters in. I am, beyond a shadow of a doubt, our favorite protagonist’s greatest enemy. No, Atticus Fletcher does not know it yet, not at this point in the story—but he soon will. Give it time.

And with that I return you to him, as he stands on a street corner, all alone, waiting outside a low-quality salon. He had requested, at the conclusion of the ride in the car, to be left alone for his conversation with the princess, and graciously Ash and Bridger had agreed. In turn, Atticus himself had agreed to wait outside rather than barging through the door, so as to let Tiffany finish… whatever she was doing in there.

Of course, if Ash and Bridger hadn’t been stuck in traffic on that very street, with Atticus and the salon well within their sight, make no mistake—Atticus would absolutely have barged through the door, scooped up Princess Tiffany, and run off.

Thank heavens for city traffic.

And so he waited.

Every few minutes, a woman would exit the salon. Each time, Atticus examined the woman’s face, searching for the one he was sure to recognize, and each time, he came away without a princess.

Yes, that was the new Atticus Fletcher. Business casual dress, standing on a street corner without a princess to his name. A bit pathetic, isn’t it?

Between each woman’s exit, Atticus kept his eyes focused on Bridger’s small car. Slowly it inched forward… more, and more, and more… and at last, it turned the corner and was gone from sight. And as far as Atticus was concerned, that freed him from his promise. He marched up to the salon door and reached boldly forward to push it open—

Only to fall forward, his hand never meeting the door. Somebody had opened it in those final moments; with a scowl, Atticus stood to confront the one responsible.

And found his own shock reflected in a familiar face.

Tiffany.

Back to Episode 6

Forward to Episode 8

Tune in next Friday, November 1 for episode eight…