Three

THREE

Saturday

“Here he comes,” Kevin Ellison muttered as we browsed over a table filled with used comic books at the Commons Trailer Park Yard Sale. I glanced up and, sure enough, there was Jake Burns peddling his clunky old bike down the fairway toward us.

I snorted and returned my attention to an issue of Rom: Space Knight. “Peachy.”

“Y’know, he really seems to dig you,” whispered Gary McNamara from the other side of the table, where he was perusing an issue of Thor. “I mean really. Like you’re best buds or something.”

I shook my head and sighed, trying to lose myself in Rom battling these blobby aliens whose tongues turned into drills that bored into a person’s skull and ate their brains so the aliens could become them. It was a little cruel but as Jake clattered to a stop I wondered if that’s why he didn’t fit in. Maybe he was like one of these aliens. After eating the brains of the “real” Jake Burns a few years ago, he’d never learned how to act like the rest of us.

His sneering grin exposed slightly yellow teeth. “How’s it hanging, bitches?”

Kevin, standing next to me and rummaging through some old issues of The Hulk, murmured, “If we’re bitches, then nothing is hanging, Jake.”

I snorted and glanced at Jake. As usual, when one of his one-liners fell flat he just looked confused. “Screw off, Ellison. Why dontcha go dribble your balls somewhere?”

Kevin’s laugh was quiet but somehow gentle. He was easily the kindest of us, definitely kinder than me. Why couldn’t have Jake latched onto him instead?

Of course, Kevin was too different. He got good grades; read a lot, played basketball, had both parents and an older sister who excelled at track and cross country. Plus, his dad taught English at All Saints, the Catholic School across town.

My dad and Jake’s were more alike, however. They’d grown up together out in the hills, fought in Vietnam together and had worked together at the lumber mill until Jake’s dad got fired last month for showing up drunk once too often. They both enjoyed the stock car races at Five Mile Speedway, occasionally hunted together and had both lost their wives.

So I suppose Jake felt closer to me than anyone else, maybe even thought we were connected somehow. I did my best to humor him but it was hard because I couldn’t shake him. He was always there. For whatever reason, Jake had clearly picked me as his favorite, and that wasn’t changing anytime soon.

“So whatcha all lookin at?” He leered over the table hopefully. I swear he licked his lips. “Titty mags?”

“Nope,” said Gary, “but I think I saw some Playgirls somewhere. Ain’t that your thing?”

Jake scowled. Real anger flashed in his eyes. He clashed with Gary a lot. Gary’s dad was a lawyer, school board member and a deacon at the Baptist church. Mr. McNamara had butted heads with Jake’s dad over many things. It was rumored that Mr. McNamara was the only person brave (or stupid) enough to report Jake’s dad to Webb County Protective Services. Jake and Gary picked up the vibes between their fathers and bad blood had always simmered there.

“Suck it, Macky. Don’t need no Playgirls cause I got naked pictures of your momma.”

Gary made a noise in the back of his throat, dropped Thor and muttered, “Whatever. You guys deal with him. I’m not in the mood today.”

Jake frowned as Gary moved away. “Oh, c’mon Macky. I was only kiddin’! Don’t be such a fuckin’ baby!”

And that was Jake right down to the ground. He’d say something crude or offensive, then wouldn’t understand when someone got pissed. Again, like an alien who’d never quite learned how to act human.

Gary’s only response was to flip Jake the bird over his shoulder as he left. Jake snorted and waved. “Whatever. Baby. Like anyone’d wanna see his mom naked anyway.”

Jake turned and offered us his crooked grin again, a little more carefree and a little less malicious, which of course meant one thing. “So, we goin’ fishin’ today or what?”

“I dunno,” Kevin said. “Maybe.”

I shrugged, but we were merely delaying the inevitable. The only way to get rid of Jake Burns was to hang out with him for as long as we could stand, then claim pressing engagements elsewhere. That was the way of things. Sadly, he lapped it up like a dog dying of thirst.

“Bullshit. Ain’t that your fishin’ gear sittin’ out front next to your bikes?”

Luckily, I at least had an excuse for leaving early. “Yeah, but I gotta ditch before noon. Amy nagged me into stopping at Mr. Trung’s for some blueberries on the way home.”

“I’ve got basketball over at the Utica Y tonight, so I have to leave early, too,” Kevin added smoothly. As usual, his excuses slipped gently into the conversation.

But Jake ignored Kevin’s excuse and spat on the ground. “Mr. Trung. Fuckin’ gook bastard. Get blueberries somewhere else, why dontcha? Wouldn’t trust that gook sumbitch with my fuckin’ shit.”

I glanced up from Rom and, as always, shivered a little at Jake’s reaction to Mr. Trung. He’d always hated the old guy. It was weird because Jake had never seemed racist or anything. Clifton Heights was (and still is) a small Adirondack country town, mostly white. However, a few black folks and Indians lived in and around town and Jake didn’t seem to mind them at all. The year before, he’d taken no notice of our Chinese exchange student.

Why he hated Mr. Trung none of us knew. A while ago, Kevin had made the connection between Mr. Trung’s nationality (Vietnamese) and Jake’s dad fighting in Vietnam. But my dad fought in Vietnam, too. He liked Mr. Trung just fine, said his blueberries were the best.

So like everyone else, I felt no sympathy for Jake’s unexplained wrath. “C’mon, Jake. Nothing’s wrong with Mr. Trung. He’s a nice old guy who’s got the best blueberries around. Plus, if we’re hitting Black Creek Mr. Trung’s place is on the way home.”

“Well fine,” he mumbled. “Y’all can quit early. I’ll just stay’n keep fishin.’”

Of course, he wouldn’t do that. If we left early he’d tag along, even if we stopped at the hated Mr. Trung’s, because he clung to us like crazy glue. Again, it was only years later that I fully understood: as rough, crude and unpleasant as Jake was, he couldn’t stand being alone.

A few minutes of silence passed. Kevin and I read comics while Jake straddled his bike, industriously picking his nose. Then we heard:

“Hey, girls. What’s shaking?”

We turned to see three guys our age approaching. The one who spoke was a redhead named Mike Fitzgerald. Everyone knew him as Fitzy. He played basketball with Kevin. Second was Fitzy’s best friend since Kindergarten, Bill Ward, and the third was Gavin Patchett, whom I didn’t know very well. He was new. Moved here two years ago.

Fitzy slapped Kevin’s shoulder and nodded at me, smart enough (like most everyone else) to ignore Jake. “So what’s up? Perusing the fine assortment of treasures here at the Commons Yard Sale?”

Kevin shrugged. “Yeah, for a bit. Gonna fish a little after.”

Fitzy clapped Kevin on the shoulder and said with a brilliant grin, “Ditch the fish and come with. We’re initiating old Gavin here. Finally making him an official townie.”

Kevin and I groaned. Fitzy meant they were off to explore old Bassler House, a rundown Victorian farmhouse out in the middle of an old cornfield just down the road. Every small town has a ‘haunted house’ and I suppose Bassler House was ours. Every boy (and a few intrepid girls) in town had braved Bassler House once or twice. In the end, even though it had a spooky vibe, it was just an old abandoned house and nothing else.

Fitzy mock-scowled. “Oh, c’mon. Set a good example for Gavin, why dontcha?”

Kevin shook his head and grinned. “Nope. Been there and done that, Fitzy. We’re good.”

Bill, who’d been quiet up until then, smiled at me and said, “Creature from the Black Lagoon is showing Wednesday night at the park, Nate. You down?”

I grinned. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Cool. If you get there first, save me a spot.”

Fitzy snorted, rolling his eyes. “But don’t you Holy Rollin’ Baptists got church Wednesdays?”

Bill shook his head, wearing a long-suffering look of patience. “Youth group is out for the summer.”

“Oh, well. Thank goodness for that. How could you stand to miss all that praying and singing and hallelulah! Praise the Lord! Anyway,” he flipped us a jaunty two-fingered salute, “we’re off to brave the dread mysteries of Bassler House. If we don’t come back, remember us, okay?”

I grinned. “Sure. I’ll even inscribe your tombstone. It’ll say: ‘Here Lies Fitzy, Who Died of Embarrassment over Pissing Himself When He Jumped at a Shadow.’”

“Nice. Very touching, numb-nuts.” He spun away, grinning ear to ear. “All right. Enjoy the yard sale. Treat yourselves to something nice, ladies. I think there’s some cute little girl skirts in aisle five.”

They waved and left to the sound of our catcalls and booing. I tossed my issue of Rom back onto the table. “All right. Where’s Gary? We wanna get any fishing done before I hit Mr. Trung’s, we gotta get going.”

“Still don’t know why you wanna stop at that stupid gook’s place. He probably poisons them berries of his.”

Jake’s snarl startled me. I’d completely forgotten he was there. That happened a lot, partly because he clammed up when others came around, but also because we usually did our best to ignore him.

Kevin sighed patiently, offering Jake a very parental look of quiet exasperation. “Obviously not or else the whole town would be dead by now, seeing as how pretty much everyone picks their blueberries there, Jake.”

Jake’s scowl twisted his face into an ugly expression that chilled me, despite the summer heat. “Not me, no sir. Me an’ my Pa ain’t buyin’ nothin’ from that gook sumbitch. No way, not a chance in hell.”

I shook my head, trying to ignore how uneasy his gleaming eyes made me. “Stow it, Jake.”

Jake’s eyes flashed. His lip curled. “Why? He’s a stinkin’ gook bastard who—”

“All right. Enough.”

Jake blinked at Kevin’s flat command. Even I glanced at him, a little surprised at his tone, though I suppose I shouldn’t have been. Kevin didn’t often get mad but like everyone else he had a line. Usually anything like racism or prejudice pushed him over it.

“We get it, Jake. You don’t like Mr. Trung. Let’s stop now, okay? Or we can go fishing without you from now on.”

Silence.

Jake looked shocked and maybe a little awed. All the nastiness fled his face, red freckles burning against his suddenly pale skin as he stammered, “Geez, Kev . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . honest . . . ”

Kevin shook his head. “We’re done, okay? No more about Mr. Trung.”

“Okay. Shit, yeah. I was just . . . I mean, I was just . . . okay, yeah, shit yeah, no more.”

Kevin nodded. I spoke quickly, trying to defuse the tension that had built so suddenly between us. “Where’s Gary? Never gonna get any fishing done at this rate.”

Kevin turned and peered down the fairway deeper into the Commons. “Dunno. Probably should track him down, though.” He tossed down his issue of The Hulk and moved away, deeper into the yard sale. We followed him.

The Commons Yard Sale boasted a pretty impressive spread of assorted novelties and knickknacks. About twenty years ago the Commons served as home for white trash, squatters, hippies and more than a few druggies. But according to my dad it came under new ownership in the seventies and got mostly cleaned up.

The yard sale started about five or six years ago. A few folks living in the Commons decided to hold yard sales at the same time, putting signs out on Bassler Road. They did that for a few years and lots of people came. Pretty soon almost every trailer put a table up, selling all sorts of things. Kids living in the Commons took advantage of the crowds and sold lemonade and homemade cookies. Then one year the trailer park owner Phil Seward broke out his grill and hotdogs and Shasta and Penguin Soda. A year later he got the bright idea of letting townies set up tables along the fairway for a small fee, and the Commons Yard Sale was born.

We always found the neatest things there. If you’ve been to many yard sales you know what I’m talking about. Some tables offered nothing but boring grown-up junk, like tools or plates or old drinking glasses. Other tables, though, boasted stacks of board games and children’s books, boxes of action figures, Legos, Lincoln Logs, and all the useless things kids loved.

Like tins filled with assorted colored beads, marbles and rubber bands. Vintage soda bottles, like the kinds Kevin collected. Bottle caps and plastic buildings for model train sets. We wasted most of our meager allowances there and never once regretted it because the Commons Yard Sale offered everything imaginable.

In fact, we might’ve spent the whole day there and never gone fishing at all (despite Jake’s urging) if we hadn’t come across Mr. Trung. We’d worked our way to a table with a bunch of hand-held electronic games. You remember—the ones with green LED lights that blipped over black screens and were nearly impossible to play? I was trying to figure out how to pass on a football game while Kevin was tinkering with a hand-held basketball game. Jake had been playing some sort of baseball game but it wasn’t long before he lost patience, rudely dropped it onto the table and moved on.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft, cultured and intelligent voice with just the slightest accent.

A voice I’ll never forget as long as I live.

“Hello, Master Jake. Good to see you again. How are you this fine day?”

Mr. Trung.

I looked up from the football game to see Jake standing motionless before Mr. Trung’s table, feet rooted to the ground . . . looking afraid, of all things. While Kevin rummaged in his pocket for a few bucks to buy the basketball game, I tossed the football game onto the table and joined Jake, a little surprised by a vague concern . . .

No.

That wasn’t it, exactly.

It was fear. I was afraid for Jake, though I had no idea why. Such an unexpectedly empathetic notion felt strange, indeed.

Mr. Trung saw me and smiled kindly. “Ah, Master Nate. So good to see you.” He nodded at Kevin, who had joined us. “And you also, Master Kevin. How is your father doing? Well, I hope?”

About ten years ago Kevin’s dad helped Mr. Trung with his English so he could pass his citizenry test. Because of that, Mr. Trung always let Kevin’s family pick from his blueberry patch for free. He and Mr. Ellison had remained good friends. They and my dad occasionally went fishing together.

But never with Jake’s dad.

I wondered if that had anything to do with Jake’s hatred of Mr. Trung, though he didn’t appear so hateful, now. More like scared witless.

Either not noticing Jake or playing it straight, Kevin said, “Yeah, Dad’s good. Happy it’s summer, though. Had some rough classes this year, I guess.”

Mr. Trung’s small eyes twinkled in amusement. He waved dismissively. “Bah. I’m sure he had them—how do you say?—eating from his hand by the end of the year.”

Kevin laughed. “Yeah, I guess. Kids always seem to like his classes. But he’s just Dad to me, so . . . ”

“Of course. One often forgets that their parents have other faces besides the one they show us every day . . . ”

He turned and looked at Jake, his expression suddenly blank, unreadable. “Isn’t that right, Master Burns?”

Jake shivered and blinked rapidly, as if waking from a bad dream. “Huh? Uh . . . yeah. Whatever. Guess so.” He turned toward me but kept his eyes on Mr. Trung, as if afraid to look away. “Let’s get outta here, man. Fish’re waitin.’”

“Yes, the fish,” Mr. Trung continued, voice emotionless, face still weirdly blank. “Master Burns has quite the skill, doesn’t he? Has a knack for knowing where things hide. Much like his father.”

A chill crept down my neck. Mr. Trung had always acted polite and kind to us. This bland look and odd manner seemed so . . . alien.

And it hit me.

Taunting.

He was taunting Jake. Needling and prodding him about something.

But what?

Something’s wrong, whispered a little voice inside my head. Why is Mr. Trung acting so weird? Why is Jake afraid of him?

I had no answers but now felt as uneasy as Jake looked. I glanced at Kevin again and tried to sound relaxed. “Y’know, Jake’s right. We should get going.”

Kevin opened his mouth to reply but before he could say anything Mr. Trung said, “Please, before you go, boys. I have some very special things for sale this morning. If something catches your eye . . . ”

For some odd reason I didn’t want to look at his table. But it was Mr. Trung, after all. Kind, gentle, amiable Mr. Trung, who always offered a warm smile to everyone. There couldn’t possibly be anything harmful there. Whatever Jake feared, it had to be in his imagination.

When I looked down, I immediately felt stupid. There wasn’t anything to be afraid of. Just the usual types of yard sale items, though with a decidedly Oriental bent. Jade figurines of tigers and dragons, paper fans with Chinese calligraphy on them, small little statues, and polished jade spheres.

“See anything that strikes your . . . what do you call it . . . ? fancy, boys?”

When I raised my head to say, “No,” my mouth dropped open a little. His eyes. Mr. Trung’s eyes looked like little pools of glimmering black oil. It looked like he was hungry, and he wasn’t looking at me or Kevin at all . . .

He was staring at Jake like Kevin and I didn’t exist.

“Anything, boys?”

I looked back down and frowned, seeing something I hadn’t before. A small, rectangular black box made of smooth wood with intricate, silver-embossed designs engraved into the top. It looked old and worth a lot of money, not something you’d find at a yard sale.

I pointed. “What’s that?”

Though I could’ve sworn my ears were playing tricks on me, I thought I heard Jake rasp, “No. Please.”

Something passed over Mr. Trung’s face when I spoke. A slight frown, as if he were unhappy I had asked about the box instead of Jake.

But, prodded by curiosity, I coughed and spoke a little louder. “What is it, Mr. Trung?”

Mr. Trung shook his head slightly as he faced me, as if disappointed in something. When he smiled, however, some of his strange spookiness seeped away; leaving the nice old man I’d known my whole life.

“A game, Master Nate,” he said, delicate-looking fingers gently lifting the lid. “A game and, according to legend, much more.”

He opened the box, revealing neat stacks of shining white, polished ivory squares inscribed with exotic designs that looked like the calligraphy. Except these looked different, somehow. I certainly couldn’t read them but they didn’t look right, though I couldn’t say how.

Kevin whistled. “Neat. What’s it called?”

Mr. Trung glanced sideways at Jake, almost as if he expected him to answer, but maybe for the first time ever since I’d known him Jake Burns had nothing to say.

Mr. Trung spoke while still gazing at Jake, his face unreadable. “It’s a game reaching back generations to the Ancients of my people. Its purest name is ‘Sốphận.’ It means fate.”

Ever the sportsman, Kevin asked what he obviously thought was the most pertinent question. “How do you play? Like . . . how do you win?”

Mr. Trung folded his hands before him and looked at me, then returned his gaze to Jake, narrowing his eyes a little, as if measuring him. “Really, ‘game’ isn’t quite right. There are winners and losers but it’s also a test that reveals character, uncovers secrets hid beneath the surface, revealing destinies that are to be.”

“You mean like the Magic Eight Ball?” Kevin deadpanned, smiling slightly.

Amazingly all the eeriness seeped out of Mr. Trung. He offered a kind smile and replied in a much lighter tone, “In a way, though it is much more accurate. There are no tiles for ‘Ask Again Later’ or ‘Future is Hazy,’ you see.”

Both Kevin and I chuckled at this. I felt some of my unease fading, though I still sensed Jake’s fear.

“All of this, of course, is a legend handed down for generations.” He gestured casually at the opened box and those gleaming white tiles inscribed with those exotic designs. “Really, it is now nothing more than a curious pastime, a clever . . . how does one say . . . parlor goof?”

“Parlor trick,” Kevin offered.

Mr. Trung laughed. It was the same laugh I’d known my whole life: relaxed, unrestrained, slightly cackling and somehow musical at once. He clapped his hands and nodded. “Yes, yes, that is it. An intriguing parlor trick, nothing more.”

Next to me, this time I knew Jake whispered, “That’s not true.”

I glanced at him but had to force my gaze back to Mr. Trung because I’d never seen Jake like that: completely intimidated. As I looked at Mr. Trung and met his gaze, I saw something flash there . . .

And somehow I knew. I didn’t understand how I knew, but I did.

Mr. Trung was lying.

The game was a lot more than a ‘parlor goof’ and not only was he hiding that from us, but also . . . Jake somehow knew the game was more, too.

I piped up. “How’dya play? Can you show us?”

Again, an innocent smile from Mr. Trung. “You don’t play this for sport or money, like Mahjong. According to the Ancients, you don’t play against an earthly opponent at all . . . you play against Sốphận, or Fate, itself.”

Kevin nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “Okay,” he said. “What’s the object of the game?”

Mr. Trung’s smile widened. He looked very pleased as he raised a finger. “Ah. Now that is the correct question.”

Mr. Trung proceeded to gently remove several tiles from the box. They clinked together lightly as he spoke. “The legends of my people say that these tiles were made from the bones of high priests who served Khong-Lo, the god whom—according to our Legends—separated the sky and the earth. He then erected four columns to support the sky. To guard those columns, Khong-Lo created four sacred beasts.”

Without looking at either of us, Mr. Trung laid down one tile, which sported a finely inscribed image of a dragon. “Long, the Sacred Dragon, guards the Eastern Column.”

The next tile’s engraving depicted something that looked like a tiger crossed with a lizard. “Lan, the Haunter of the Wastes, guards the Western Column.”

The next was a turtle of some kind. “Quy,” Mr. Trung whispered, “who guards the Northern Column.”

The last looked like an eagle or vulture. “And Phung, the Sky Hunter, guards the Southern Column.”

Mr. Trung looked up at us, face too somber for a summer morning at a community yard sale. “The object of the game, Master Kevin, is to reach enlightenment, the Gateway to Understanding. That is what a player hopes to win.”

Without taking his eyes off us, he laid down another tile offering two plain, etched-in-black characters . . .

“This means ‘gateway.’ It is what Sốphận players seek, the Gateway to Understanding.”

Kevin folded his arms, looking interested. “Understanding? Of what?”

Mr. Trung smiled but it wasn’t his same, kindly-old man expression. This smile seemed enigmatic . . . maybe even a little threatening. “Of everything, Master Kevin. Understanding of the self, of the surrounding world. Of the Ancients, even the universe. But the Gateway is guarded by the Four Sacred Beasts and one . . . other. Encountering any of these in the course of the game carries great consequences. According to myth, of course.”

Jake said nothing but shifted uneasily next to me. Again, it struck me as an oddly amazing thing that he’d remained quiet for so long.

I looked at Mr. Trung. “Consequences?”

Mr. Trung looked at me. Again his eyes glimmered like bottomless black pools. He gently touched Long, the dragon, with his fingertip. “If you encounter Long, he shall consume you with fire.” Next, he touched the iguana-tiger thing. “Lan will rend your body limb from limb. Quy will drag you to a watery grave. Phung will steal your spirit to the heavens, leaving an empty husk here to wander the Earth.”

For an eerie moment, the yard sale disappeared. I didn’t hear kids running around and screaming at the top of their lungs, didn’t hear the murmuring chatter of the milling crowds, didn’t hear dogs or birds or even cars driving on Bassler Road. For a moment there was nothing but Mr. Trung and his strange, resonant voice. The unease I’d felt only moments before returned.

Kevin grunted. “You said something about an ‘Other.’”

Oddly enough, Mr. Trung looked regretful at that, as if he didn’t want to show us the other tile he held. “Yes.” He nodded slowly, then laid the tile down next to the others.

I looked at it. My unease grew, because it looked like a bullfrog crossed with a man. Oddly enough, it looked like . . . The creature from the Black Lagoon.

“The ‘Other’ is Chiao, the Water Demon. According to legend he capsized boats, devoured men, and ravished women. He was . . . different from the Sacred Four.”

I cleared my suddenly dry and tight throat. “How?”

Mr. Trung tipped his head. “The Four exact a price for attempting to reach the Gateway, but they are sacred, honorable, bearing your essence away to be judged accordingly. Chiao is an Abomination. It consumes your very essence, making you part of it for all eternity.”

A whisper, from Kevin. “How do you play?”

Without ceremony, Mr. Trung tipped the box and dumped the rest of the tiles onto the table. He began stacking them with deft movements. “Legend has it that once the tiles are put into play they become imbued with Khong-Lo’s essence, pitting the player against him . . . against Fate.”

As he talked, Mr. Trung’s pile grew into a strangely angled yet oddly-symmetrical pyramid. “To enter through the Gateway of Understanding you must collect eleven matching pairs of tiles, twenty-two tiles in all. You must match four Wind tiles—from the north, south, east and west—four Season tiles in spring, summer, fall, and winter, and three Dragon tiles; red, green and white. Red stands for courage, green stands for prosperity, and white stands for purity.”

Kevin nodded, eying Mr. Trung’s movements intently, fully in the grip of his love for competition, especially against something as ephemeral as fate. “So it’s a matching game, then.”

“Yes, but you can lose your matches along the way. That’s part of the game’s mystical legend: that the tiles shift and change because they read you. As you play, they come to know your fears and dreams and strengths and weaknesses.”

He paused and held up a blank tile. “Legend says that these blank tiles—called Nha tiên tri, most closely translated as ‘reader’—could change according to who drew them. If you were pure of heart, they would change to a spring or a White Dragon tile. If courageous and brave, a summer or Red Dragon tile. If wise, a fall or Green Dragon tile. If not . . . ”

Mr. Trung gazed thoughtfully down at the blank tile lying in his palm. “If a person lacked these things and was instead ruled by fear, the blank tiles could instantly change into Downfall tiles—ones marked with signs for Pestilence, Downfall, or Misfortune. Drawing one of these tiles forces you to return all your tiles back into the pile. Then you must start again.”

He looked back up at us, his gaze somber, eyes intensely black and probing. “Of course, if your soul is plagued by deeper, blacker things—cowardice, jealousy, envy, greed, hate, or evil—the blank tiles could summon any of the Four Sacred Beasts or even worse, Chiao, ending the game and exacting the Price.”

Silence.

I glanced sidelong at Kevin and saw something in his eyes, a strange longing of some kind, an aching need I’d never seen there before. For a moment, Kevin wasn’t just the affable, easy-going basketball jock who liked to read. He looked much older, suddenly. Almost like my dad. “Could I hold the blank tile? See what it . . . says about me?”

Mr. Trung smiled. Once again he was just the nice old man who grew the best blueberries around. He held out the tile and dropped it into Kevin’s outstretched hand. “As I said, these stories are legends, the tiles nothing more than interesting items for a curio cabinet or knick-knack shelf.”

I glanced at Jake.

Still silent, he now glared at Mr. Trung with an expression of hateful rage I’d never seen before, every inch of his face screaming liar.

Next to me, however, Kevin was turning the smooth, blank white tile over in his fingers. “How much is it? I’ve only got a couple of bucks . . . ”

Mr. Trung bowed his head, exuding an air of regret. “Alas, someone gave me a down payment for it this morning. But you are wise, Master Kevin, for wishing to purchase it. You are an honorable young man, one worthy of owning the Sốphận.”

Kevin nodded, frowning slightly as he continued to work the blank tiles with his fingers. “Right. Okay. Yeah, I figured. It looks pretty expensive. Stupid question, but you don’t have anything else like it . . . ?”

A regretful headshake. “I do not, I’m afraid. But if you’re interested in any of these other items . . . ?”

The spell faded. Kevin returned the blank tile to Mr. Trung. We glanced over a few other items (Jake standing silent through it all), but eventually we said our goodbyes, nodding to Mr. Trung as we moved on.

As we left, Jake in the lead and scurrying away, I looked back, maybe for one more glimpse of that black box and its strangely exotic white ivory tiles. But I saw something else, something far more disturbing, an image that has stayed with me since that day.

Mr. Trung, standing behind his table, holding the box open before him, its white tiles gleaming in the sun. There’s no way I can be certain of this, but I could’ve sworn he had the box pointed at Jake. It seemed as if Mr. Trung was ignoring Kevin and me, focusing entirely on Jake’s quickly receding back.

And though at the time I figured I was seeing things, I thought for sure Mr. Trung was talking, murmuring, maybe even quietly chanting something, and not to himself.

But to the box and its tiles.