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When Byron was 8, he discovered he could burn holes through leaves with the lens of Nan’s reading glasses. After a week the backyard was covered in dead leaves filled with tiny scorchmarks and black rimmed pin pricks.

But eventually Byron tired of leaves. One day he decided to burn something else.

He sat in the back of Nan’s old house, under the hot sun, and held the glasses above a line of ants as they marched to and fro across the patio. The glass caught the sunlight and cast two bright squares onto the cracked concrete. The ants continued to march through the two spotlights, unbothered.

Byron twisted the glasses in the air, raising them up and lowering them, until one square of light turned into a line, and then a circle, and finally a single, searing point.

Byron chose an ant from the line and carefully maneuvered the tight spot onto the tiny black creature.

The focused sunlight struck the ant like a physical blow. It reflected off the three black segments of its miniscule body with such intensity that it seemed as if the light was emanating from within the ant itself.

The tiny creature, confused and in pain, broke rank and walked out of the orderly marching line.

Byron did not let it escape. Instead, with minute adjustments of the lens, Byron followed the ant, searing it with condensed sunlight until it began to sizzle visibly.

Byron only stopped when the ant began to burn and a miniscule plume of smoke rose up off its scorched body.

When the deed was done, Byron allowed the murderous beam to expand back into harmless light. Then he bent down low and peered at his handiwork.

Examining the dead ant, Byron was struck by its stillness. It had been moving only moments ago, minding its own business, and now it was motionless.

Not just motionless. The ant, Byron internalized, was dead – and Byron had killed it.

All of a sudden Byron felt a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. Many things he had not considered before now came to mind.

What if the ant had a family? What if it had a Nan of its own waiting back at the colony? An ant-Nan to whom the dead ant would now never return.

Byron looked up at the cloudless blue sky and imagined a giant boy crouched way up there with his Nan’s glasses. Byron tried to imagine what it would feel like if that gargantuan, cruel boy focused a beam of light onto Byron.

Byron imagined being burned alive in the condensed rays of the sun. He imagined the way his skin would bubble and brown, like cheese in the toaster oven.

This so frightened Byron that he burst into tears.

He looked back down at the little ant through bleary eyes and begged it’s forgiveness. Eventually, he lifted its little corpse, rolled it onto a leaf with a twig, and deposited it back where the line of ants continued to march. A fellow ant broke away from the line, took hold of the dead form, and walked back the way they’d all come.

Byron watched his victim disappear into the relative distance. When he could no longer make out the sad procession, Byron went back inside.

He placed Nan’s glasses back on the kitchen counter and waited in stoic silence on the couch for her to return from Walmart.

When she did, as Byron helped her unload the sedan, she asked Byron if he was alright.

“You look like you told a lie, Byron,” Nan had said, ” ‘cept you haven’t said a word. You alright?”

Byron just nodded and carried a bag of groceries into the house.

From then on whenever Nan put on her reading glasses, Byron cringed a little. He never told Nan what he’d done – he was too mortified by his thoughtlessness – too embarassed by his callous use of strength.

Still, he could never shake the feeling that, somehow, Nan knew what he did. That she only kept quiet because she also knew how hard he was on himself and that the lesson had been learned.

It was sort of ridiculous to think Nan knew – she wasn’t even home when it happened. But, then again, that’s just how Nan was.

As he stumbled along Route 12, in the scorching present, Byron felt a renewed empathy for that poor, long dead ant.

The sun beat down upon Byron’s head with relentless heat. He grew dizzy beneath its glare. His head ached something terrible. Each heartbeat made his brain reverberate like a bass drum, as if his blood had turned into hammer blows.

Once he was past the sand dune’s at the beach, the pick up truck of beachgoers out of sight, Byron had tried to use the Cantos to quench his thirst. He reconfirmed the words for water manipulation, spoke them, and, with the ocean near to mind and body, aimed his hand straight into the air, thinking to make a small water fountain.

This was a mistake. An impossible plume of icy sea water shot out of his palm and reached up several meters into the air. Byron could not control the flow and the jet of water fell back down to the ground, right on top of Byron.

Byron managed to stopped the flow from his hand just as his personal tidal wave crashed back to earth. The water dragged him almost fifty feet before dissipating into the sand. Byron was left sputtering on the ground having swallowed what felt like gallons of salt water.

After that, Byron decided to forego using the Cantos until he met the Preceptor – who or whatever he might be.

That was twenty minutes ago. It felt like he’d been walking for hours in the blazing heat by the time Route 12 opened up and the first sign of Ocracoke township appeared.

Ocracoke might best be described as the love child of Cape Cod and a western frontier town. Several hundred raised beach houses, ranging in size from mansions to shanties, are nestled there in stands of oaks and cedars. These homes abut paved roads which mark a rough network across the island’s surface.

Inland from the beach, cutting deep between stands of old growth trees, calm briny streams and channels lead out to the ocean or into ponds. The air is crisp and sweet over these cool rivulets, nestled between banks of luscious plant life. Complex tangles of roots provide shelter to fish and crustaceons. Dragonflies and waterstriders flit about, dodging hungry fish who leap from the water’s crystalline surface in search of a snack. The fish, in turn, must evade diving blue herons, or the long necked stabs of great egrets.

Several businesses thrive on Ocracoke, the bulk of them located at the town’s entrance at the end of Route 12, or surrounding Silver Lake. Raw bars and ice cream stands dominate the culinary landscape, alongside sundry souvenir shops and sellers of over priced snowglobes and baseball caps.

Six months out of the year Ocracoke was packed to the gills with tourists and seasonal residents. Only about a hundred people lived their year round.

But no matter which group you fell into, no matter when you found yourself there, everyone on Ocracoke island had to rely on supplies brought in on the single ferry that connected to the mainland. And, as often happened in small frontier towns, there was only one place to buy these supplies.

Stumbling past the Sheriff’s office – past Howard’s Raw Bar, and Jason’s Raw Bar, and Gaffer’s Raw Bar – his feet dragging through the pervasive sand drifting across the asphalt, Byron made an addled beeline for The Ocracoke Variety Store.

The exterior wooden slats of the old store were painted red. A series of dilapidated crates sat right outside along the length of the floor – piles of firewood, jugs of water, boogie boards and beach umbrellas. Several large, dusty windows revealed the interior.

As Byron approached the store he saw over it toward the distant sky. Dark clouds rolled in from the east. The clouds were still quite distant, but rolling in quick over the ocean towards the island. Byron estimated he had about forty minutes before the rain started.

An old bell connected to the glass door jangled as Byron pushed the door open and stepped inside. Even though it had been several years since he’d last been there, the Variety Store looked remarkably unchanged.

An old man with an all white, crisply manicured beard walked out with an armload of groceries just as Byron entered. He gave Byron a pointed once over with his eyes before walking out to a pickup truck.

Feeling irritable, Byron watched the man start his truck and drive off. Only when the man’s car was gone and Byron’s eyes refocused on his own reflection in the glass of the door did Byron realize the old man’s suspicious look had been completely warranted.

Byron looked like the vision of a young madman. His clothes were soiled, stained with dirt, sweat and a variety of cephalopodic fluids. His once green pants were torn in several places, stained purple in others, red in yet others, and brown with filth everywhere else. His t-shirt, which had started off gray, was similarly accoutred, with the bizarre addition of the shifting, bright neon blue stain across the abdomen. Both garments had dried stiff with salt, and were an excellent compliment to the frizzy mop on top of his head, which was now equal parts hair, salt, and various forms of grime.

All and all Byron looked like a man who just got done walking across Death Valley after being left for dead weeks ago.

Unable to muster even the spit necessary to wipe the muck off his cheeks, Byron ran his hands through his stiffened hair to no effect whatsoever and walked further into the store.

Despite the circumstances of his present visit, Byron couldn’t help but feel a pleasant sense of nostalgia as he walked through the Variety Store. How many times had Nan sent him here to collect supplies for dinner, always with an extra couple of dollars for ice cream? How many pairs of sunglasses had she bought him here after losing yet another to the surf?

As Byron walked over to the refrigerator filled with cold bottles of soda and water, he looked around for Mary the owner. Mary was personable and an excellent business person. In a profession where it paid to be good with people, Mary was the best. If you went to the Variety Store more than twice, ever, Mary would remember your face for the rest of time.

Byron didn’t see Mary. As far as he could tell there was only one employee in the entire store.

Thirsty beyond belief, Byron tore open the door to the refrigerator and took out the largest bottle of water he could find. He opened it immediately, twisting off the cap with a plastic crack and drank deep.

Ice cold water streamed down his throat and gave him a terrible case of brain freeze. Byron drank through it, chugging the water until the bottle was half empty. Lowering the bottle from his lips Byron shut his eyes tight against the sharp frozen pain and at the same time sighed in audible relief.

Feeling worlds better, holding the Cantos under one arm, Byron began collecting supplies. Clumsily grasping with his free hand and balling items up in a pile against his chest, Byron walked through the store. He picked up a cheap “Ocracoke” t-shirt and a matching pair of “Ocracoke” shorts, as well as a basic first aid kit, an umbrella and a banana.

His arms full, Byron walked over to the single register and got on line to pay.

Three people were ahead of him in line. Directly in front of Byron was a middle aged, truck driver looking man in unseasonal red plaid, with an unkempt beard and no hair on his head. In front of him was a clean shaven college student, tall and muscular, with a perfect swoop of blonde hair and chistled, smooth shaved facial features. He wore a varsity football T-shirt from Alabama State University. In front of him an older woman was paying for her groceries and chatting jovially with the woman at the cash register.

“You ever wonder why you don’t see Harry in here more often? It’s cause he’s about the laziest man you’ve ever met!” The older woman shook her head and took out her purse. “Good luck getting Harry to go food shopping – unless he’s running low on beers and I’m at the church.”

The cashier was a fairly short, somewhat stout woman. Her hair was light gray and fell down past her shoulders. Her facial features were somewhat flatter than Byron was used to, with a subdued, flat nose and thin, slightly slanted bright blue eyes. At the corners her eyes bore well worn smile lines, which creased even more as she smiled abashedly in response to the older woman.

“Harry’s not lazy,” the cashier replied as she rang up an assortment of vegetables, “I see him working on the house all the time. Maybe he just has different priorities?”

The customer rolled her eyes, “sure, he’s got priorities alright: football and beer.” She waved a hand at the cashier light heartedly. “Don’t you fall for that ‘working on the house’ trick – Harry’s been fixing the same broken gutter for the last twenty five years, hand to God.”

The cashier laughed at that, and even the big truck driver looking guy gave a chuckle. The college student didn’t even seem to be in the same room. His face was glued to the screen of his phone.

“Well, tell Harry if he comes next time I’ll throw in a free beer.” The cashier loaded the groceries into several plastic bags. “Think that’ll get him moving?”

The customer gave a light laugh as she paid for the groceries. “It just might, Tilda. I’ll be sure to let him know.” The woman took up her three plastic bags. “Have a good one sweetheart.”

The cahsier gave her a final smile as she went out the glass front door. “You too Lil.” Then she turned to the distracted college student. “How’re you today?”

The young man began unloading his mini-cart of several cases of beer onto the conveyor belt. Then he looked up from his phone for the first time since getting on line. “Took you long enough, I’ve been waiting for—” the young man cut short as he saw Tilda for the first time. After a moment a look of frustration washed over his face and he rolled his eyes. “Oh Jesus, a retard. Great. I don’t have time for this – get me a manager.”

All the air in the store seemed to suck out the windows. No one else had been speaking, yet it seemed to become dangerously silent. Byron, head still swimming, gaped at the young man.

The enormity of the insult registered, and Byron was about to speak when a though a loud “Hey!” exploded from right in front of him.

The trucker guy ahead of Byron seemed to grow several inches taller, and several more inches wide as he stood up straight and flexed his shoulders out.

“No way I just heard what I think I just heard.” He growled.

The man’s voice was deeper than a salt mine and as sharp around the edges. He had been reading a tabloid but now carefully reshelved it and rounded on the young man.

“Sounded to me like you just insulted Tilda.”

The man took a big step forward, bringing him so close to the college student that the bottom of the tall man’s beard nearly brushed up against the young man’s hair. Standing toe to toe with the paling student, the bearded giant craned his neck and peered down his nose.

“If that’s what I heard, you’ve got a problem. A big problem.”

The college student visibly blanched and almost seemed to shrink under the lumberjack mass of the other customer.

Before the situation got further out of control the cashier – Tilda – walked out from behind the cash register, and stepped up beside the tall bearded man. Next to her the man seemed impossibly large, like a real life giant.

Tilda reached up and placed a single small hand onto the big guy’s shoulder. His poised muscles slackened and he looked down at her with warm eyes.

“It’s alright, Roc,” she looked at the college student calmly, “the man wants to speak to the manager. I’ll go get him the manager.”

Roc hesitated for just a second before backing down. Then he smiled. “Sure thing, Tilda. I’m here if you need me.” Roc gave the student one more scathing glare – which ellicited a small jump backwards – and then returned to his place in line and picked up the tabloid again.

The student swallowed a lump in his throat and turned toward the register, the color slowly returning to his face. After just a couple of seconds, Tilda came back the same way she’d gone and stood back in front of the cashier.

“Sir, I’ve been told you wanted to speak to a manager,” she said, totally deadpan. Roc chuckled like a schoolboy, peaking over the top of his tabloid, “can I help you?”

This was too much for the college student, who’s frustration overwhelmed his fear. “What the hell is this?”

Tilda remained stoic. “I’m the manager of the store, sir. How can I help you?”

The student scoffed audibly. “The owner let’s you manage the store? What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, let me ask.” Tilda turned around in place, looked left and right, and then turned back. “Oh wait, I’m the owner.” Tilda smiled at the student, who gaped in confusion. “And my problem is that you’re still in my store. Hey Roc?”

Roc, who had been snickering as if he’d put a firecracker in the school urinal, composed himself. “What’s up Tilda?”

Tilda looked the young college student dead in the eyes as she spoke. “This young man seems to be lost. Could you show him the exit?”

Roc carefully replaced the tabloid on the rack again and cracked all his fingers one by one. “Gladly.”

It only took a single step by Roc to set the student running toward the door. As he pulled it open he turned back in the doorway. “The hell with this place! You just lost a customer!”

Tilda leaned easily on the bagging counter. “Honey, when word gets round you won’t be able to give your money away on this island.” Tilda shooed him out the door with her hand. “Now get – if you hurry you might be able to buy some toilet paper from one of the hotels before Roc tells them what’s what.”

Confused and angry, but mostly confused, the young man shook his head and slammed the door shut. Tilda, Roc and Byron watched through the dusty glass as he hesitated for a moment outside the store before running off in the direction of the lake.

Tilda turned back to rock with a broad smile. “Thanks Roc.”

Roc stepped up to the register, put the several cases of beer back into the cart, and placed a single Snickers bar down on the conveyor. “Tilda, there ain’t ever gonna be a day you need to thank me for anything.” Roc placed a dollar down.

“Well,” Tilda said, pushing the dollar back toward him, “thanks anyway.”

Roc picked up the Snickers bar, tore off the wrapper in its entirety, opened his mouth and took one easy, heaping bite. Half the bar disappeared.

Leaving the dollar on the conveyor,lRoc lumbered out of the store and spoke through a mouthful of nougat. “Later Tilda,” he said, raising his right hand in a backward wave.

Tilda shook her head and turned to Byron. “Sorry about all that – not usually so exciting in here.”

Byron couldn’t take his eyes off Roc as the huge man downed the other half of his candy bar and heaved himself onto a mean looking motorcycle parked outside the store.

“Big guy,” Byron said.

Tilda turned to follow Byron’s gaze and watched Roc roar out onto route 12. “Nice guy. Aw, he’s big, but there isn’t a violent bone in Roc’s body.” Tilda looked down at Byron’s stomach. “Cool shirt.”

Byron didn’t know what she meant at first, and then remembered the neon blue stain on his T-shirt. He looked down at it, abashed, and gave a curt nod. “It’s, uh, real old.” Byron muttered and emptied his armful of supplies onto the conveyor, keeping the Cantos firm under his right arm, held against his side.

“That kid,” Byron said, eager to change the topic, “He really had it coming.”

Tilda picked through each item, swiping them under a criss cross of lasers. “I suppose so,” she said as her computer chirped each time, “though I’m not sure violence would have helped the situation.” Tilda looked Byron in the eye. “It almost never does.”

Byron’s gaze lingered for a beat too long on Tilda’s features. When Byron realized that he instinctively pulled his eyes away, too quickly, which only highlighted that he’d been staring in the first place. That made him ashamed and he blushed ferociously in response.

Tilda pursed her lips and then gave Byron a half smile. “It’s alright.”

Byron felt hot blood coursing through his cheeks. How had he botched this simple interaction so completely? “I’m sorry, that’s not — I didn’t mean to —” The apology died on Byron’s mouth. What didn’t he mean to do – stare for a moment too long? Avert his gaze a smidgen too quickly?

As Byron struggled to find the right words, Tilda broke through his tension directly. She leaned over the conveyor and patted Byron on the shoulder twice. Each pat was firm and assured and, after the second one, Byron was suprised to find his tension had disappeared entirely.

Tilda smiled again, an easy smile, and she caught sight of the Demon’s Cantos. Her eyes’s widened and, for a moment, Byron felt a surge of panic. Did she see it for what it really was, glowing golden at his side?

“That’s quite the book you have there. What is it, an encyclopedia?”

Sort of, Byron wanted to say. Instead he lifted the book up and showed her the cover directly, gambling that its camouflage would hold. “Actually, it’s a cookbook.”

Tilda raised her eyebrows, “oh, a cookbook.” She gave him a quizzical glance, “A cookbook? That’s a strange thing to be carrying around with you.”

Byron shrugged a little. It was a strange thing to be carrying around. “Well, it was my grandmother’s.”

“I see…” Tilda began, pausing for Byron to continue.

At first Byron didn’t know what to say. But then he considered another possibility. “You really own this place?” He asked.

Tilda blinked at the sudden change of topic. “I said so, didn’t I?”

“What happened to to Mary?”

Tilda frowned and her sadness seemed earnest. “Did you know Mary?”

“Not really, I guess. I just used to come here a lot and Mary was,” Byron considered the word to use, “memorable.”

Tilda nodded and looked down with a sad smile, “she sure was.” When Tilda looked back at Byron she had a sheen of tears on her eyes. “Mary passed away. We were good friends, she and I.”

Something about Tilda’s emotions and Mary’s death struck a chord with Byron – he struggled to contain a sudden wellspring of emotion. Without thinking he began to talk, “I’m sorry. I lost someone recently myself.”

Tilda cocked her head to one side, awash in empathy. She said nothing, so Byron continued. “It was my Nan, um, my grandmother…” Byron almost burst into a detailed explanation of the last few days and the insanity that had consumed his life. He was just so happy to be talking to someone who wasn’t a giant sentient octopus.

“That’s why I’m here,” he continued, beginning to formulate a simple lie – a half truth really. “Actually, this was her cook book. She wrote it. Before she died she, uh, asked me to bring to someone on Ocracoke.” That was mostly true. Mostly. “An old friend of hers.”

Tilda seemed absolutely captivated by Byron’s brief tale. A tear streamed from her right eye and she swiped it away. “You came all the way to Ocracoke just to fulfill your grandma’s dying wish?”

Byron considered that for a quick second. “Well, yeah, actually. I guess so.”

Tilda shook her head in astonishment. “That is the most honorable thing I’ve heard in years. You are quite the young man.” Tilda slapped her hand softly onto the conveyor. “Well, what’s the name of your grandma’s friend? I know just about everybody on the island, so I reckon on could point you in the right direction.”

Byron scratched his stiff, salt crusted scalp. “That’s the thing, she didn’t give me a name, exactly. I guess she, maybe, forgot it or something.”

Tilda placed the fingernails of her thumb and pointer finger on either side of her two front teeth, consterned. “She must have given you something to go on. A description maybe?”

Byron thought back to the vision of his Nan after he passed out on the kitchen floor. He couldn’t remember her giving any real details whatsoever. Only that strange title. “She had a weird nickname for him – um, real weird – she called him Preceptor.”

Tilda considered for a second in silence. Finally she nodded. “A preceptor is just a teacher – we’ve got a bunch of those on the island. You said ‘him’, is it a man?”

Byron realized he had been thinking of the Preceptor as a man. Nan hadn’t actually said as much but for some reason Byron just assumed. “I don’t really know – I guess I thought it might be.”

“And your grandma, she was an older woman?”

Byron nodded at that, “yeah, she was almost a hundred when she died.”

Tilda nodded and seemed to run some figures through her mind before chiming in again. “Well, almost every teacher at the Ocracoke school is under forty. They’re good teachers and all, but ‘preceptor’ implies a certain maturity. You could ask around at the school, but I think the best place to start is with Kevin McNally. He’s a retired professor from one of the ivy leagues I think. He’s lived on the island, on and off, for almost thirty years. Only just retired.” Tilda nodded firmly, “Yeah, I think Kevin’s a good candidate.”

Byron felt a jolt of anticipation. “He sounds like a good fit – where can I find him?”

Tilda pointed to the front door. “He was here just a fews minutes ago, left right around when you came in I think.”

Byron’s mind flashed back to the old man who had shot Byron a stern look as they passed in through the door. That was him, the Preceptor, and Byron had walked right past him.

Byron started to bag the stuff he’d bought. “Do you know where I can find him, Mr. McNally?”

Tilda spoke as he helped him bag. “Lives down on Seabreeze Road, number 134 I think. ‘Mysteries of the Deep.'”

That made Byron pause. “What do you mean?”

“That’s the name of his house,” Tilda said, “people name their houses here. His is Mysteries of the Deep.”

Right, Byron remembered that quirk of island life. He’d always found it strange, like naming a boat that never went out to sea. “Perfect, thank you.”

“Happy to help,” Tilda said, then looked back at her screen, “that’ll be twenty four dollars.”

Byron stuck his hands in his pockets and blanched. He felt inside his pockets, then outside, front and back. Empty. His wallet was gone, along with all the emergency money he had taken from Nan’s dresser in the flooded remains of her bedroom. It must have fallen out during the chaos in the car or while he slept on the beach.

The loss of the wallet was a substantial blow, but rather than have a meltdown Byron felt himself collapse inward. He no longer had the energy to panic. Of course it was gone – just like the sedan and the house and Nan herself. All gone. Just like Byron’s entire life. What else did Byron even expect at this point?

Resigned, Byron let go of the plastic bag and picked up the Cantos to leave. “Nevermind, sorry, I lost my wallet, I guess.”

Tilda’s expression didn’t change, and she didn’t say a word. Instead she picked up the dollar bill Roc had placed back onto the conveyor, opened the cash register, and placed the bill inside. Then she printed out a receipt and handed it to Byron.

“Looks like Roc’s got you covered.” She said.

Byron found himself moved near to tears by the gesture. Under normal circumstances he might have protested Tilda’s generosity. But these were not normal circumstances.

“Thank you,” he said, “really.”

Tilda waved a hand at him. “Please – business is good and you’re on a mission. Consider it my small contribution.” Then Tilda became a bit more serious. She made eye contact with Byron again and this time he held her gaze comfortably. “Good Luck. . . I didn’t catch your name.”

“Byron.”

Tilda looked up and to the left for a moment, as if considering a new idea. When she looked at Byron again she nodded. “Byron. Well, good luck Byron. Come back anytime.”

With another smile she went off toward the coffee machine. Byron watched her for another moment, emptying the old coffee grinds into the garbage, before running outside.

On the rickety wooden patio of the Variety Store Byron tore off his old shirt and threw it into a garbage pale. Taking his new one out of the bag he pulled it over his head, tugging it down swiftly to cover the effervescent blue stain across his stomach.

The storm clouds were closer than they were before, and a very dark gray. The air had begun to smell of the musky anticipation before a strong rain. It would be a real squall when it hit.

Perhaps he could avoid being out in the storm. The Preceptor awaited.

Byron set off toward the center of town in search of Seabreeze road.

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