The Serpent King(64)
She was sapped. She lay on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed.
Ugh, drama with Patrick. So over high school boys, Dahlia texted.
Lydia felt actual physical revulsion at the banality of Dahlia’s problems in the great scope of things. Not that it was Dahlia’s fault. Lydia realized she hadn’t told her. Not telling anyone about Travis was just a reflex.
Can’t talk right now. Lost a friend, she texted.
OMG, as in died?
Yes.
OMG, so sorry, love. You ok?
Don’t know.
What happened?
Well, Dahlia, not that I ever mentioned him to you (or anyone else, really), Lydia thought, but I had a friend named Travis Bohannon who sold firewood to make extra money to pay for writing classes and a new computer so he could write fantasy novels. And someone killed him for one hundred and twenty-three dollars. But he didn’t dress right, so I was embarrassed by him. And that hurts on top of all of the pain of losing him. Then Lydia felt a compulsion.
Check Dollywould in a bit, she texted Dahlia.
She went to her desk and began typing. She balked for a moment. She knew she was venturing into the belly of the beast. But that’s where she needed to go.
This is both a eulogy and a confession. But first, the eulogy.
I had a friend. His name was Travis Bohannon. A couple of days ago, while he was selling firewood, two men shot him and left him to die while stealing his money to buy drugs.
Travis was utterly comfortable in his own skin. He was who he was, and he was never afraid of what anyone would say or think. When the world wasn’t big enough for him, he expanded it with the force of his imagination. He was one of the bravest people I ever knew. One of the kindest. One of the most generous. One of the most loyal. You probably didn’t wake up this morning sensing that the world is poorer, but it is.
He deserves to be remembered. Please look at his face. Know that he lived and he was beautiful. And that I will miss him.
And now for my confession. I am a fraud. I pretend to be all of the things Travis was: comfortable in my own skin. Brave. The anonymity and disconnectedness of the Internet allows me to present that persona to you. But the reason you’re only now finding out that I had a friend named Travis Bohannon is that I was a coward. Travis wasn’t “cool” in the conventional sense. He didn’t wear stylish clothes or listen to cool music. He loved fantasy novels. He wore a cheap dragon necklace and carried around a staff. I thought it would be bad for my blog if you knew about him. I thought it would make me seem less cool if you knew that he was my friend, so I kept him a secret. But no more. I would rather live authentically and take whatever consequences may come of it than live a lie. Travis, please forgive me. You deserved better.
She clenched her fists and wept. When she finished, she went through the photos of Travis from their school-shopping trip to Nashville. She found one of him gazing into the distance, leaning on his staff.
At the time, she thought he looked ridiculous. A child playing dress-up. As she posted it, she thought he appeared majestic. Noble. Kingly.
She completed the post and closed her computer. It wasn’t that she was afraid of a bad reaction. She knew she’d get an outpouring of love and support. People would line up to offer absolution. And it was that mercy she feared most. She didn’t feel worthy of it. She couldn’t bear being told she’d done nothing wrong.
Deathstorm came out three weeks after Travis died, to nearly universal rave reviews. The New York Times said:
G. M. Pennington faced a daunting task in tying together the dozens of disparate threads in the Bloodfall series to bring things to a satisfying conclusion. With his 1,228-page opus, Deathstorm, he has succeeded in a manner that should satisfy even his most critical and demanding fans. Epic in scope, violence, and imagination, Deathstorm is a new benchmark in the fantasy genre and cements forever G. M. Pennington’s status as the American Tolkien.
Dr. Blankenship hired a private grief counselor to come to their house to meet with Lydia and Dill. After one of their meetings, Lydia and Dill set out the few blocks to Riverbank Books. It was warm, and the sickly sweet rot from winter’s thaw and a coming storm perfumed the air.
“Are these meetings helping you?” Lydia asked. Dill looked gutted and spectral. Sleep-deprived. His eyes had retreated into his skull. He seemed much, much older than he was.
“A little bit. More than if we weren’t having them, I guess.”
They walked for a while in silence.
“Lydia?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I’m the reason Travis is dead? Like my name is so poisonous that bad stuff happens to anyone who gets close to it?”
“No, Dill. I do not think that. Not even a little bit. I take it you do?”
“Sometimes.”
“I want you to stop, then. Right now.”
They passed budding trees shading lush green lawns behind black wrought-iron fences. Crocuses, daffodils, pansies, and hyacinths sprouted from beds. Whirring, humming life everywhere.
Lydia tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “How’s…the darkness?”
On cue, the faraway peal of thunder.
“You planned that,” Dill said, with a faint smile.
Even that cheered her heart for a moment. “You overestimate my abilities, but only slightly. And you didn’t answer my question.”