Billy's thoughts began to race. All of his life he had waited for something like this. Fantasy novels promised that resourceful children, despite being raised in poverty and hardship, would one day find a magic ring, talking animal or monstrous beast that would help them discover their true destinies.
Every moment when he wasn't reading, he was on the look out for his big chance. In fifth grade, he had closed his eyes, spun three times, and then jumped off the roof, hoping to discover an innate flying ability. All he got for his troubles were a broken leg and a loud and embarrassing lecture from his mother, who was never happy to be taken away from her programs.
In seventh grade he had taken to chasing after frogs and other wild life. He didn't want to find a prince, but an enchanted frog might know where to find a witch or wizard. But after weeks of no success, kissing frogs lost its appeal.
Also, cats could always talk in stories, they just had to be given the right incentive. He was forced to give up this idea when his neighbor, Mrs. Pierce, called the cops on him after he kidnapped Mr. Mittens. Even after he explained that he just wanted to dress him up in boots and make him walk around a bit she was still furious. Some people just did not understand cleverness.
Recently he had taken to drawing pentagrams in his notebooks, and making wishes on them. He was always tormented by the other boys, so he would wish for terrible deaths, or at least a bad case of acne. But for all his troubles, the other boys continued to live on with perfectly immaculate skin when he would have a new zit every other day.
So for fifteen years Billy had been thwarted at every turn from his destiny. Every day was just like the last. Take the bus and be tormented by teasing and occasionally thrown fruit, just to arrive at school where teachers annoyed him and told him to pay attention. He could memorize and regurgitate their information all day long, but they wanted him to worship and obey them, and he wouldn't bow down like the other sheep.
Then he would get home and find his mother glassy eyed, hypnotized by the glowing metal box. She would turn to him, mouth slack, and say, "Oh Billy. You're home. Come watch some TV." And he would sigh, take out his current book of choice, and go back to ignoring his miserable life.
But not today. The words echoed in his head. A mermaid. Here. In Mizuma Valley. Whatever it took, he had to find out if it was true.
Every moment when he wasn't reading, he was on the look out for his big chance. In fifth grade, he had closed his eyes, spun three times, and then jumped off the roof, hoping to discover an innate flying ability. All he got for his troubles were a broken leg and a loud and embarrassing lecture from his mother, who was never happy to be taken away from her programs.
In seventh grade he had taken to chasing after frogs and other wild life. He didn't want to find a prince, but an enchanted frog might know where to find a witch or wizard. But after weeks of no success, kissing frogs lost its appeal.
Also, cats could always talk in stories, they just had to be given the right incentive. He was forced to give up this idea when his neighbor, Mrs. Pierce, called the cops on him after he kidnapped Mr. Mittens. Even after he explained that he just wanted to dress him up in boots and make him walk around a bit she was still furious. Some people just did not understand cleverness.
Recently he had taken to drawing pentagrams in his notebooks, and making wishes on them. He was always tormented by the other boys, so he would wish for terrible deaths, or at least a bad case of acne. But for all his troubles, the other boys continued to live on with perfectly immaculate skin when he would have a new zit every other day.
So for fifteen years Billy had been thwarted at every turn from his destiny. Every day was just like the last. Take the bus and be tormented by teasing and occasionally thrown fruit, just to arrive at school where teachers annoyed him and told him to pay attention. He could memorize and regurgitate their information all day long, but they wanted him to worship and obey them, and he wouldn't bow down like the other sheep.
Then he would get home and find his mother glassy eyed, hypnotized by the glowing metal box. She would turn to him, mouth slack, and say, "Oh Billy. You're home. Come watch some TV." And he would sigh, take out his current book of choice, and go back to ignoring his miserable life.
But not today. The words echoed in his head. A mermaid. Here. In Mizuma Valley. Whatever it took, he had to find out if it was true.
