Chaos in reverse

Prologue

July 20th 2007 late at night in a dark corner of Hyde park London. Patrick Ness, a 35 year old American born writer, is on his way to a secret meeting.

*Patrick*
It is a warm evening and the park has a kinda magic glow to it in the not complete darkness of a british summer night. I am once again wondering what I am doing here, I mean I am usually not the type to go strolling through parks at this hour and especially not on the reason of an anonymous letter promising me fame and fortune.

First I had crumbled up the letter, when I received it three days ago, wondering who was playing a prank on me.. but something about the old pergament, the very fancy penmanship, that looks like it was written with a feather and ink.. and just the wording and the promise it held, it made me pull it back out of the trash, smoothing it carefully.

Little puffs of mist roll over the lake, adding that fairytale touch to the scene. Turning a corner I see the spot, a tree and a row of butterfly bushes. My heart rate picks up as I walk closer.

The branches slide over me like the touch of a longing lover and I hold my breath, as I step through to the meeting place.. I can't help it.

I let out the pent up air and close my eyes for a moment. "No one.. of course.. what did you expect..".

"So you doubted me". A slightly muffled voice sounds behind me.

I whirl around, facing a cloaked bulgy figure, realising the hood is why the voice sounded slightly distorted.

"Uhm.. a bit.. I mean who wouldn't when receiving a weird letter with no sender". I say hesitantly, letting my eyes search over the figure, trying to find out who it can be and what this is really about.

"Oh ye of little faith". The figure says.. I am now almost certain it is a woman.

I make a small motion with my hands, not really knowing what I want to say with it. "Sorry.. what is this about ?"

"I thought my letter was quite clear on that point".

"It said something about building worlds and my wildest dreams.. I am not sure..". I start.

She cuts me off. "You want to write something special right ? Something that will make you immortal in the literary world.. right ?"

"Yes.. but how do you even ..".

"Silence". She opens her rope and I realise the bulgy look was due to an ornate wooden box hidden there. "This box will grant you everything you want".

I plaster on a stiff smile, this woman might be crazy after all. "Okay.. Maybe you should just keep it".

"Fool". She booms. "This box, the legend tells, was first granted by the gods to Homer.. helping him write his epic tales.. Some say it was carved by the muses, some say it came from Apollo.. others again swear it is even older and was magically created by Loki".

"Loki.. like Nordic God of mischief". I blink. "That sounds.. not good".

I look closer at the box, it is polished wood, with carvings and different colours of gemstones.. the lid has golden inlays that look like letters. It looks old.. like very old, but at the same time in perfect condition, like it has been picked out of time.

The figure shrugs. "So far it has granted every owner exactly what you wish for".

"Every owner.. really". I bite my lip, not able to control my curiosity. "So how does it work ?"

"If you read the incarnation on the lid, the box will grant you what you need to write your masterpiece.. notes, pictures, ideas, characters.. if you read the one on the inside.. and beware of doing that.. it will take you inside your story".

I try not to show how crazy I find this. "Inside my story.. great.. isn't that every writer's dream ?"

She laughs. "I guess that depends.. on who you are and what you write".

"So who has owned it.. beside Homer I mean ?"

The hooded figure seems annoyed with me and all my questions. "I do not know everyone who had it through time.. but in roughly the last century, it first spent a long time with a guy named Tolkien who used it to write some amazing books".

"Oh so Tolkien pulles Lord of the Rings out of that thing ?"

She ignores my question. "When he felt his life was coming to an end, he passed it on to a Mr King from Maine.. he used it to write some very scary stories.. and when he felt he did not need it anymore.. he passed it on to me.. and now with the last book in the world I found within coming out tomorrow.. I pass it on to you".

"How do you know who to pass it too and when ?" I have totally forgotten that I do not believe this.

"No worries.. you will know when the time comes". She says, as are steps forward and holds out the box. "Be careful, and never tell anyone except the person you pass it on to".

I nod. "Okay... thanks I guess". I accept the box, and she steps back to leave. "Wait.. who are you ?"

"Words are, in my not so humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic, capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it". She says softly. "So use it wisely".

A small gasp escapes me when she lets the hood fall. "But.. does this mean you will stop writing ? What will you do without the box ?"

She gives me a knowing smile. "Do not pity the dead, Patrick. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love".

And with that she leaves and I look at the box, knowing my life will never be the same.