Chapter 8 Finn Feenbart and the Scribe of the Nightshade

More about Chapter 8 Finn Feenbart and the Scribe of the Nightshade

It all started when, in the small town of Knisterwinkel, no one was suddenly sure if their to-do lists were really their own. People would wake up in the morning, glance at their refrigerator notes, and find things like: “Remember: Cats are sometimes portals.” or “Please ALWAYS water the houseplant counterclockwise so it doesn’t tip over into other dimensions.” At first, they thought someone was playing a prank. But then they discovered the strange, bright blue fingerprints on the notes. And eventually, around 2:00 a.m.-plus-a-touch-of-the-unusual, Finn Feenbart got wind of it. He was out for a nighttime stroll to tell the moon that it really did look beautiful and didn’t always have to try so hard, when he noticed a strange shimmering coming from an open window. And there, at a desk in a room piled high with papers and half-drinked tea, he sat. The Scribe of the Nightshade. He was a skeleton. So… yes. A skeleton. Wearing a hoodie. And blue magical smoke swirling around him like a cross between fog and bad Wi-Fi. His eye sockets glowed a warm, yet utterly supernatural blue. And he typed. He typed very fast. Finn stood in the window frame and cleared his throat politely, the way you do when you interrupt someone rewriting reality. “Um… excuse me?” The Scribe didn’t stop typing. “If you’re here thinking I’m hacking into bank accounts, I can put your mind at ease,” he said in a voice that sounded like wind rustling through old books. “I just write to-do lists. For people. Free. Public service.” “That… sounds okay,” Finn said cautiously. “But people are confused. And a little nervous. Someone accidentally swung their plant into another dimension. It’s now, uh… everywhere at once.” The writer paused. “Oh. Yeah. That was perhaps a bit ambitious.” He took his bony hand off the keyboard and sighed, which was impressive considering he had no lungs. “You know, I used to be a librarian in the Realm of Forgotten Thoughts. My job was to write things down that would otherwise be lost. But at some point, I started… suggesting them. Slightly. Just a little. And that turned into tips. And that turned into…” “Compulsive, metaphysical reminders?” The writer clicked his jaw. That must have been a laugh. “Exactly.” Finn sat down on a stool that looked as if it might politely crumble to dust at any moment. “I think people need help. But gentle help. Nudging. Not… you know… ‘water that plant or you’ll tear the spacetime tapestry.’” The writer frowned—well, imaginarily. He thought. Smoke swirled. Then he nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “I can do this. I can be gentler.” He raised his hands over the keyboard, and the keys began to glow of their own accord. Finn looked over his shoulder. A new note appeared on the screen, being sent to someone in the city: “Remember to breathe deeply.