Tearing The Shroud (6 page)

He found himself nodding in agreement. ‘Of course, I can get them next time.’ The words seemed to come out on their own.

‘Good, that’s settled. Very well, let’s see what the dice have to say.’

Flea leaned on the counter and spoke in a stage whisper. ‘Mr Brown thinks the dice talk to a player.’

‘Not to everyone, Flea, only to some.’

‘Mine must be speaking a foreign language then. I can’t seem to ever roll a twenty.’

‘Maybe you’re not listening, Flea. Such is the way of things.’ The pipe had returned to Mr Brown’s hand and he pointed it at Flea’s chest. ‘Many times, the message is there; we just fail to hear.’

Vincent expected Flea to laugh off the comment. Instead, he grew thoughtfully silent.

Mr Brown produced a red cloth and spread it on the wooden counter; then he turned to a cabinet with multiple square drawers, each about four inches across. His fingers hovered over them as he chose which to open. None was marked, so Vincent wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but he waited patiently. The shopkeeper’s hand stopped, his fingers touching the small brass knob, and then moved back two drawers to the left.

‘This one, I believe,’ he said, his voice just above a whisper. He pulled the drawer out and placed it on the counter. It was a couple feet long and filled with dice of various dark shades: blues, purples, greens, browns; some that looked like granite, and others that were black. They were marked in a variety of ways, from dots to words written in flowing script. Vincent started to reach into the pile, when Flea gently grabbed his elbow, stopping him.

‘Don’t be hasty, Vincent.’

‘I see you remembered the protocol, Flea. You’re learning,’ said Mr Brown.

‘Of course. That, and I like the drama.’

Mr Brown sighed and smiled. ‘At least I’m having
some
effect. Vincent, run your finger through them and see what seems right. When you find one you like, take it out and place it on the cloth. Simple enough?’

‘Works for me,’ Vincent said.

He felt a little foolish but figured it couldn’t hurt to humor them. As he moved his finger about in them, different dice came to the surface. He paused at a dark purple one, and nearly took it out. ‘Which kind am I supposed to have? Do I need one of each shape?’

‘For now, a twenty-sided, a four-sided, and four six-sided, will get you going. Pull out what catches your fancy; then we can thin the herd,’ Flea said.

Mr Brown remained silent with his arms crossed; pipe in hand, tapping it against his upper arm.

‘Okay,’ Vincent raised his eyebrows.

Many of the dice seemed rough, while others were sharp-sided. His finger hit against something soft, and he worked his thumb around it, pulling the object out. It was deep maroon, and the edges were gently rounded, the multiple sides marked with ivory-colored numbers. He set it on the cloth. Back into the drawer he went, moving his finger against the various dice, and again they felt somehow harsh, until he once more happened upon another that felt right. As he worked to bring it out, his finger seemed surrounded by the same softness, so he stopped. ‘I think I have something here but don’t want to lose them, can you pull these others away?’

Flea looked to Mr Brown, who nodded once, so Flea started moving them back from Vincent’s finger. After a few moments, he said softly, ‘Will you look at that.’

There, nestled around Vincent’s finger, were four identical six-sided dice. They were black, with deep red dots, and had the same gently rounded corners of the first one he’d found. Vincent set them on the cloth. ‘I think I have the hang of it now,’ he said as he pushed his finger back into the drawer. He searched the length of it carefully, but found nothing and was about to give up. He moved once again to the rear, and pushed his finger down expecting to hit the bottom, but instead found more dice. In an inexplicable way, the drawer somehow seemed deeper this time.
Nah, that can’t be, it’s just Flea and all his dramatic-moment talk.
Then he felt something soft.

‘Oh...there it is.’

He looped his finger around the die, easing it to the surface. The four-sided die was about an inch long, and made with the now characteristic edges. It had a hand-carved look, and was made of mahogany colored wood, with silver slash marks painted on its surface. Vincent set it on the cloth with the others.

‘Is that all I need?’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Brown with a smile. He uncrossed his arms and took a closer look at Vincent’s choices, tapping his pipe on his chin as he did. ‘Hmm, interesting.’

Flea leaned in. ‘Nice choices, Vincent. I really like these d6’s and the look of this d20.’ He pushed it around with his finger. ‘Wait...that’s weird; it’s not a twenty, it’s a double ten.’ He showed it to Vincent. ‘Usually a d20 is numbered one through twenty. This is zero to nine, but done twice. I’ve never seen that.’

Mr Brown spoke up, ‘Vincent’s seems to have found not one, but two rare dice. I’ve only seen the double ten once before and thought it to be an aberration. This little gem,’ he said, picking up the four-sided die, ‘not even
I
have seen.’

‘What?’ Flea and Vincent said at the same time.

Flea continued, ‘You’re kidding right? You, Mr Brown, keeper of all things...game,’ he waved his arm toward the store, ‘...have never seen one like this?’

He shook his head. ‘Never.’

Vincent jumped in. ‘Wait, but it’s your shop. You know what’s here; you buy the stuff. I...well you know — ’

Mr Brown carefully set the die back on the cloth. ‘I mean exactly that. I have never seen a die like this, and have no idea how it came to be in my shop.’

Vincent concentrated on finding the road as the Celica’s lights struggled to pierce the fog. Flea was more energetic than usual. Vincent expected him to jump from the car and run alongside it at any moment.

‘I can’t believe it. You actually stumped Mr Brown. Never,
ever
, seen one before. And those sixes are too cool. Then there is your d20.
Once
, he’s found one,
once
.’

‘Yeah, about that,’ Vincent said. ‘I thought I had to have a twenty-sided dice.’

‘D20,’ Flea said. ‘We call them d20’s, d10’s, 6’s, and so on.’

‘Okay then, don’t I need a d20?’

‘Heck, it has twenty sides, and Mr Brown said it was rare; how could you
not
get it.’

‘So what do I do? I can’t just color ten of the numbers with a marker or something.’

‘Sure you can,’ Flea said. ‘Just take a marker and color one set of the zero through nine to show they’re the ten’s. Do them in red — they’ll match your d6’s.’

‘I can do that?’

‘Who’s gonna stop you? The dice police?’

‘Well, you know, I didn’t want to break any of the rules.’

‘Vincent, it’s a one of a, well, two of a kind. You gotta use it.’

‘Okay.’ Vincent laughed. ‘Don’t twist my arm.’

‘Yeah, like I could do that. Pfft. Anyways, I am sure Knife will be good with it, and since he is the DM, he runs the show.’

‘DM?’ Vincent asked.

‘Dungeon Master, the person who runs the game.’

‘Ah, okay, I get it. Am I gonna have to get a
Cliffs Notes to Game-speak
or something?’

‘Nah, it’s pretty easy to pick up on, and most of it makes sense; don’t worry, you’ll get it. Remember, these are nice, friendly, easygoing people. Don’t get all worried about offending them.’

‘Even Emily?’ Vincent grinned.

‘Well, yeah, her you can worry about. But the rest are pretty cool peoples. Just relax. You’re gonna have a blast.’

Vincent nosed the little white car into a parking spot, and they made their way into the dorm.

Chapter 5

A Morning Run

Vincent reached over and shut off his alarm two minutes before it went off; no matter what time he set it for, it was always the same. He rolled quietly out of bed, not wanting to wake Flea. Time to play another round of ‘How quietly can I move?’ He’d gotten to the point where he could maneuver soundlessly around the room. He dressed in his martial arts pants, t-shirt and windbreaker, put his wrestling shoes on, grabbed his toothbrush and was out the door without Flea changing his breathing pattern. After a quick visit to the bathroom for what his dad called ‘morning absolutions,’ he headed down the stairs; yet another game: ‘How fast can I descend and still touch every stair?’

He was from the land of the self-amused
. Vincent smiled.

The fog’s predawn glow soothed him as he did preliminary stretches in front of the dorm.

He jogged lightly up the staircase that climbed the hill near the dorm, letting his muscles warm up. His heart pounded gently, pulsing in the bridge of his nose by the time he reached the top. His body came more fully awake and responded to his morning routine. Today he bypassed the track when he saw groups of joggers plodding around it in their over-padded, uber-shoes. Vincent wore thin-soled wrestling shoes, to protect himself from glass and metal objects. He preferred to run barefoot. He eased into his stride keeping his long legs from extending too far and within a few yards he hit it.
Keep it short and smooth.
The balls of his feet absorbed the shock of his weight, his leg bent letting his heels only briefly graze the ground. That was it.

A few years ago he’d found a book on the Tarahumara people of northwestern Mexico. They regularly ran over one hundred miles in a session, sometimes while kicking wooden balls, in what they called foot-throwing competitions. The paths they covered were all rough, and they did it shoeless, or in only the simplest sandals. He’d practiced martial arts for so many years barefoot the idea intrigued him, and he made a study of it. He dug up every scrap of information he could about them. The result surprised him. He could now run effortlessly for hours. His feet never hurt like they used to, and the shin splints that had plagued him disappeared. Running. Gliding through the world. No one to account to, no expectations. Peace. His thoughts floated to the visit with Mr Brown. He’d felt more relaxed since then.

He blinked and he was somewhere else. His mind had wandered, as it often did when he ran, and he was nearly five miles off campus, passing a secluded, neighborhood park. He turned into it for the next part of his workout. Finding a private section of the park, he slowed to a stop. The last thing he wanted was someone asking questions about the Tai Chi they thought he was doing.

He stilled himself, circled his arms up from his sides, inhaling as he did until his hands met over his head and brought them down, palms pressed together, exhaling. He repeated this until he felt completely calm then slid smoothly into one of the many forms he knew. They were such a part of him they no longer required conscious thought. Once again, his mind floated as his muscles moved. After a half hour or so of forms, he balanced on one foot while extending the other in slow-motion sidekicks. Low hits the shin; low mid, the knee; next, the thigh; groin, solar plexus, chest, throat, mouth, nose, forehead. Finally, his foot went nearly vertical in standing splits. Switching legs, he repeated the motions. He ended this morning’s session with strength work. Bending at the waist, he placed his hands on the ground and went into a handstand. He started doing push-ups, continuing until his arms quivered and sweat poured from his face, finally rolling forward and coming to his feet.

Nice, didn’t even get light-headed.
He jogged out of the park, looking forward to the relaxing run back to the dorm.

The next night after dinner, they headed to the dorm to get their gaming gear. Vincent started to drop the soft bag containing his dice in his coat pocket, but something stopped him. Opening the little sack, he glanced in. The wooden d4 was on the top of the pile; he plucked it out and looked at the reddish wood once more. The little die felt good in his hand, so he slipped it into his pants pocket and closed the bag. Maybe he’d carry that one, like a good luck charm.

Flea pulled several large, hardback books off the shelf and slipped them in his backpack.

‘Weird Donahue show today, huh?’ Vincent asked.

Flea shrugged. ‘Talk shows are designed to be sensational.’

‘True. But what are the odds of people, from all over the US, having the same dream?’