Yves, or the Man Who Wasn't

By L.N. Mayer

The sequel to TELL, OR THE ADVENTURES IN THEMIDDLE.

Some want Tell dead, others want to exploit him. Most want him to go away and never return. Can Tell claim what’s rightfully his in order to abolish the decree that made him an outcast in the first place? Or will his quest for power be his own undoing? It will take more than just another adventure. It will take resolution, willpower, and mastering the one thing Tell has yet to control: his imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.N. Mayer
• Release date: Oct 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9782956946373

L.N. Mayer

L.N. Mayer (1986-Present) was born in Dallas, Texas and grew up in Kansas City, Kansas. Mayer graduated from the University of Kansas, Phi Beta Kappa, with a degree in Economics and a minor in French. She has a master’s degree in Mathematical Models in Economics and Finance from the Sorbonne, as well as a master’s in Supply Chain Management from Université Paris-Dauphine. Mayer is the author of TELL, OR THE ADVENTURES IN THEMIDDLE and its sequel, YVES, OR THE MAN WHO WASN'T. She is currently working on the third book in the Tell Trilogy. Follow her on Instagram: @lnmayerofficial

Book preview

Prologue

The only constant is change and the only thing that changes is how much you hate something. That’s what my daddy, Beau, used to mumble beneath his breath whenever he felt displeased. I took his advice—if you can call it that—and found it has served me ever since. While my daddy was what some Thependingers referred to as stupid, he was far from naïve, and he made sure us kids knew it.

People hating each other find comradeship in people they hate, is what he’d say when the neighbors would come complainin’ about him hammerin’ up a storm. Hammerin’, he said, was his way of doing Mä’s business since it brought the townsfolk together. He just made it easier by giving them a reason.

Though my daddy would have denied it, I guess you could say that he and William Teller were alike in that way—givin’ people a reason to come together over something they hated. Unlike William Teller, though, my daddy wasn’t naïve. He had the right sense to be skeptical and suspicious of everything and everyone. I guess you could’ve called him skepspicious. In fact, he made it his personal mission to scare the living daylights out of every child whose path crossed his by recounting the story of William Teller. By the age of nine, all of us kids had heard the story a thousand times, and so, knew the consequences of being a fool.

You don’t need to hear the story, however, to know its conclusion: struggle is a fool’s chore. If a man has to struggle, my daddy would begin, he didn’t understand the necessity of that which was necessary. If something was too troublesome for a man, why, Mä made it so. There was no need to go on fightin’ like a fool against it. And if ever there was a foolish boy, William Teller was it.

After all William Teller went through, you would think he might have developed an adversity to trouble. If he would have had any common sense, he would have understood there was no point in insisting on struggling in a place he didn’t belong.

But enough of my yappin’. Once you hear the story, I’m sure you’ll be saying just the like to yourself.

Some Ninety-Nine Years and Three Hundred and Sixty-Two Days

Before Right Now

Chapter One – A Ghost in the Greenhouse

At the foot of Thefolds, beyond the shallow canyons and shaded valleys, past the winding river and pebbled brooks, a red-tailed hawk surveyed its prey. The grass had grown long behind Thethrows, the large stone manor on the southern cusp of the gnarly brown forest known as Thebackspaces. This made it easy to hunt from the ground, and the hawk, having realized this, studied the slanted red roof of the manor from below. The bird was, of course, unaware that beyond the patch of wild lawn dotted with yellow buttercups and wild lilac, his luck was linked to the finest gardener Themiddlers had never known—a quiet butler named Pavot.

Mouchoir, a mousy man who lived in the village, was recognized by the townsfolk as the only expert on all things plant-related. However, it wasn’t Mouchoir who dug out the dandelions and regularly trimmed the lawn nor tended the flowers and sculpted the shrubs. Pavot, who had once done all of these things at Thethrows, was now forbidden from leaving the manor. Worse, he could neither resew a hem nor take a bath in private.

As punishment for the neglectful disappearance of The Man With No Hands, the butler of Thethrows had spent the last two days folding napkins and washing floors under the mindless gaze of a sentry pigeon. So when early the third morning he lifted his head to see a red-tailed hawk snatch his pigeon guard from the windowsill, he wasted no time. Leaning his mop against the wall, he descended the marble staircase and slipped out the back door to visit the greenhouse he had abandoned years before.

As he pushed opened the door and entered the glass house, a shiver ran up his spine. After years of neglect, the greenhouse was not as he had left it. Between the crowded tables covered in dead plants, creeping ivy ran rampant up the wooden columns. Only a few foggy windowpanes remained intact, but not unscathed, due to disrepair. Most of the windows had been shattered—perhaps in storms, perhaps by crows or perhaps by something more mysterious yet. Mysterious, Pavot thought, since as he crossed the cracked tile floor embossed with the Fontaine family crest, he felt the unmistakable presence of someone or something there.

He stopped and peered into the dim light, tinted green by wild ivy, and cleared his throat.

Whatever you are, he whispered, show yourself.

Silently, he waited. Nervously, he raised his voice.

If you don’t show yourself this instant, I’ll—

You’ll what?

Despite expecting an answer, Pavot shrunk back in fear. To his left, standing next to a ficus tree was a man in a white double-breasted jacket. The butler’s eyes wandered from his red silk sash to the gold buttons adorning the man’s cuffs. Beneath the moving shadows of the trees shading the glass roof overhead, he made out the long, slender nose and bushy white beard of the former king, Pierre Fontaine. Before he could open his mouth to reply, however, Fontaine grunted.

So? What do you have to say for yourself?

A bleak expression washed over the butler’s face. He clutched his chest, his eyelids fluttering. Though his conveyances were as powerful as ever, his heart had grown weaker with age. He groped behind him, searching for something with which to steady himself, and clutched the edge of a wooden table.

Sire—

Where is he? demanded the ex-king. Where’s my boy?

Pavot swallowed hard and straightened himself. He searched the floor, his mind turning inward. Ashamed, he stared listlessly at a dead fern.

He’s gone.

"Gone? What do you mean gone?"

Closing his eyes, Pavot wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He was unable to look even a conveyance of the former king in the eye.

Disappeared, kidnapped—I don’t know.

Pah! None of this would have ever happened had you killed the beast!

The butler’s ears pricked in anger, and he stared at the ex-king in loathing.

"You mean killed Magnif. An imagination can’t be killed, not while its host is still alive."

At that moment, Pavot heard another noise and tightened his grip on the table. The apparition of Fontaine instantly disappeared. The butler scanned the empty greenhouse. Straining his ears, he listened carefully. Somewhere on the far side of the room, a pigeon warbled. Somewhere to his left, however, he could hear a faint scraping on the floor. Silently, he moved toward it. Extending his neck, he peered over the edge of the table and blinked in bafflement.

Lying on a pile of broken glass was William Teller.

The butler reached out to touch the boy’s arm. Tell cringed and jerked back in terror.

No, Tell murmured. Stop!

Tell awoke suddenly and opened his eyes. Panting heavily, he looked around. The shadow stooped over him was not Thebackspacer. He was no longer in Theampersand. He gazed up at the dappled sunlight on the glass roof overhead and the gaping hole above him. He became aware of a throbbing pain in his head. Something was pricking his body. He looked down to see broken glass clinging to his pale arms then looked up at the butler in bewilderment.

Where am I? Tell asked, squinting. He shielded his eyes from the sunlight pouring through the glass roof.

Pavot sighed.

In my workshop, of all places, the butler muttered, annoyed at having his newly regained privacy interrupted. And where you are doesn’t matter so much as how you got here.

Moving toward him, the butler held out his hand.

Who are you? asked Tell.

Peter Ishmael Pavot, the butler replied.

Taking the butler’s hand, Tell stood up and swayed for a second. He clutched the wooden table to keep his balance. Pavot. He had heard that name before. But where?

Tell rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye socket and looked around. Between the wooden pillars holding up the dilapidated glass structure, he noticed different types of plants—large and small—scattered about. He gazed around at the large ferns that had turned greyish brown, the shriveled palm trees, and leafless saplings. Turning his head, he recoiled in fright. A long-snouted creature with short hair and long ears stared back at him. Where its eyes should have been were two empty sockets. Realizing that it was only stuffed taxidermy, Tell relaxed.

Retrieving the eyeless creature by its stiffened tail, Pavot blew off a thick coat of dust that had settled on its rigid skin. Wiping its long, immobile ears, he set it on the table and examined it with a frown.

What is that thing? Tell asked.

Pavot crossed his arms and studied Tell over the rim of his glasses.

The Vice Heads found out I was rather good at sewing. So they gave me the task of creating taxidermy out of the animals they hunt. He screwed up his mouth and shifted his studious gaze to the dead animal. "It’s an Orycteropus afer, he sighed. Or aardvark, as it’s more commonly known. I never found the right type of glass for its eyes, which is why it’s still here. Otherwise it would have long ago been mounted in the Vice Heads’ trophy room."

Trophy room, Tell repeated, trying to comprehend what Pavot was saying. He studied the man. He was short, about his own height, and he had seen him before… but where? The voice of Weekend and Weekday, the two-bodied man whom he had come to trust in the days since he had found himself in Themiddle, rang in his ears.

Still don’t trust him… mysteriously reappearing as the personal servant of those two ponies…

Suddenly, Tell remembered. It was the butler, whom he had seen in the servants’ kitchen the night he came to Thethrows.

Glancing apprehensively back at Tell, Pavot slowly moved toward a large water tank and rolled up his sleeve.

I would ask you how you found your way into my greenhouse, he said, raising his eyes, but it seems by all logic that you came through the roof.

Keeping one eye on Tell, Pavot stood on his toes and dipped his arm into the tank. Plucking a pinkish-purple flower, he carefully lifted it from the water.

Slouching forward, Tell pressed the knuckle of his thumb into his eye once more in an attempt to relieve the pain. Found my way through the roof—but how? He tried to recall what had happened to him when suddenly his eyes widened.

Weekend, he murmured. He shut his eyes and gripped the bridge of his nose. The images—jumbled yet clear in his mind—came rushing back to him. Jumping into the water off the coast of Thecliffs, meeting Vostochonse, seeing his father… It must have been a dream. Weekend brought me to the cliffs, Tell murmured. He fought his other—I mean, his other self, or whatever.

Using both hands to wring the excess water from the flower into a nearby pail, Pavot dropped the plant onto a table. He quietly examined it as Tell continued.

I went to Theampersand to look for my mother… Weekend and my father, they followed me there… We had this plan, but Thebackspacer attacked me, and I—

Laying the damp flower in the middle of a piece of parchment, Pavot snapped up his head.

Thebackspacer? he interrupted. He stopped what he was doing and stared at Tell. That’s not possible.

Tell angrily narrowed his eyes.

"It’s the truth. I fell through this… pit of rotting earfruit. I saw my mother, at least I think it was her. But Thebackspacer attacked me, and I… I don't know—I flew back out of the tunnel."

Even as he said it, Tell realized how ridiculous it sounded. But he wasn’t lying. It was the truth. Carefully folding the parchment into a small package, Pavot placed the flower in his pocket.

Imaginations don’t attack people, replied the butler. Not unless they’re protecting something.

Tell shook his head. But hers did. He attacked me.

It’s not a he, the butler corrected him. It’s an it.

But Tell, who had began to pace the greenhouse, was only half listening, however. His anger mounted.

And you think that thing was protecting my mother? he shouted. It buried her alive!

That thing, Pavot replied, is the only thing that ever mattered to her.

Tell stopped pacing and faced the man. The words cut through him like a sharp knife. So the butler had known his mother—including the fact that her own son hadn’t mattered to her. He hadn’t mattered. At that moment, Tell noticed a strange change in Pavot’s demeanor. The butler became incredibly still. His eyes darkened and his mouth turned down.

Pavot stepped toward him and lowered his voice.

"William Teller, this will surely be hard for you to understand, but there are certain people who wish to see your head stuffed on a wall. I must advise you to go back and forget about Themiddle."

Go back? Tell laughed. To where?

But Pavot was already striding toward the greenhouse door.

Where am I supposed to go? Tell shouted. He stumbled after him, when suddenly, the butler swung around and gripped Tell by the shoulders.

Just do as I say, he whispered, shoving him backward, and forget about Themiddle!

Tell felt a gush of hot wind hit his cheeks. Shielding his face with his elbow, his eyes suddenly stung, not from the sun but from what felt like… sand?

Lowering his arm, he looked around.

He was in the middle of a desert.

Stupefied, he took a step back. He turned in a circle and stared at the flat sandy desert that stretched out into the horizon. The throbbing in his head returned as he tried to make sense of what was happening. His nostrils flared as he breathed in and out rapidly. Tears began to flood his eyes. He felt the acidic warmth of rage spread through his veins. Surprised to realize that he was crying, he fell to his knees. What was he doing in a desert?

Suddenly, something tickled the back of his throat. A giggle escaped through his nose, and he snorted, stifling a laugh. Falling to his side, he gripped a handful of sand and watched as it streamed through his fingers.

I must be crazy… Yes, that’s it. I’ve gone crazy!

It was hilarious, after all. Him, of all people, as crazy as his former classmate Levy Wallace who used to shout at ceilings. Him, William Teller, seeing things that didn’t exist—like a man in a greenhouse in the middle of the desert. He, William Teller Fontaine, was officially crazy.

Nearby, the wind whipped up a small sand cloud that skirted across the sand. A low croak sounded to his left, and he turned to see a toad. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Snorting, he covered his mouth—then burst out laughing.

Gulping back a giggle, he pointed at the toad.

And you, are you real?

Tell watched as the toad’s throat bulged. Flopping forward onto his stomach, he reached out and grabbed it. It croaked in protest as he threw it into the air. Tell imagined it exploding, and no sooner had the thought entered his mind when it erupted in a shower of slimy confetti. Howling with laughter, Tell fell back then suddenly cried out in pain.

Wrestling around on the sand to try to grab whatever had pierced his back, he took hold of something sharp and freed it from his skin. Panting, he held it to his face and examined it.

It was a shard of glass.

Letting it fall from his hand, he jumped to his feet and stumbled back. All around him, the sand sparkled with fragments of broken glass. Suddenly, what had happened in Theampersand came flooding back to him.

The frightening clashes of his fight with Thebackspacer, the hideous sound of metal scraping against metal, the feeling of immense power sweeping through his bones as he catapulted out of the dark cave that reeked of rotting fruit. He had escaped through the tunnel in The Machine Junkyard, an overwhelming fatigue mixed with dread propelling him through the air before he understood he was flying. His mother’s imagination, a shape-shifting beast called Thebackspacer, had chased him into the sky. A swirling mass of iridescent tentacles had coiled themselves around his arms and legs, and, desperate to escape, Tell had imagined a sword. He swung and chopped only to watch as more tentacles unfurled, twisting toward him.

In his terror, he had dropped his imagined sword. Then, out of desperation, he had imagined a glass wall—only to watch as the swarm broke through it. He imagined a succession of glass walls. But one by one, the purplish swarming mass of iridescent tendrils smashed through each one before suddenly, everything stopped.

Thebackspacer had disappeared, evaporating into the pale blue sky.

Stunned by the sudden silence, Tell had felt the wind lashing his face only to realize he was falling—and fast. His heart pounding in his throat, he must have not noticed the junkyard was no longer below him and that in his struggle against the shape-shifting monster high above the clouds, he had flown beyond the desert. That, at least, explained how he had fallen through the greenhouse.

But what, then, explained the fact that he was now back in the desert?

Slowly lowering himself, he collapsed face down, panting into the sand. Gripping his temples, he rocked back and forth. The butler’s words echoed in his ears. Go back. Forget about Themiddle.

Tell’s neck contracted, and his arms turned rigid.

What if I don’t want to go back? he screamed and slumped down, exhausted. However, the presence of something more terrible than exhaustion filled him—a hopeless void; a nothingness that pained him more than the glass that had punctured his back.

The truth was he had no reason to go back to Thepending or his boarding school. How could he, now that he knew who he was? Tell thought about what Weekenday, the two-bodied forest-dwelling man, had told him. That unlike every other imaginer whose conveyances were temporal, the things Tell imagined didn’t go away. How was he to have known that anything he imagined became permanent? If the proctor at Theffects School for Troubled Boys knew what he was capable of—that the things he imagined became permanent—surely they would lock him away. At least here he was free. Here in Themiddle, despite the fact that imaginations were not only feared but outlawed, he had somewhere he belonged. He was William Teller Fontaine—heir to the throne of Themiddle. All he had to do was change the rules that made him an outlaw in his own kingdom.

At that moment, the voice of Vice Head Y rang in Tell’s ears. He recalled what the man had said about his father.

Your father sent you away as a child. He was ashamed of what you are. He sent you away to rot in ignorance.

He wiped his eyes and nose and looked around as the arid heat whipped his hair. His father had tried to sever his imagination when he was a child. But Thepat hadn’t been severed—only suppressed, by pills that were supposed to prevent his imagination from torturing him, as Thebackspacer had supposedly tortured his mother. His father had abandoned him, and his mother didn’t care. Not didn’t care but couldn’t care. Even if he had saved her, she most likely wouldn’t have recognized him. Abandoned to the terror of her own imagination, she might as well have been dead. And after the frightening airborne battle with Thebackspacer, he never wanted to go back to Theampersand again.

Wiping the tears from his face, Tell sniffed and shook his head. Perhaps then again, it was only a dream. Perhaps nothing in it had actually happened. Grimacing, Tell shut his eyes. The only thing that matters is what you believe yourself. That’s what Weekend had said. And Weekend was right. Tell was in control—not his imagination. All he had to do was remember that.

Conscious of the painful emptiness in his stomach, he pushed himself to his feet and took a step back, when the earth fell away beneath him. He gave a startled shout and seconds later hit solid ground. Groaning, he opened his eyes. He seemed to have fallen into a rocky pit—one that had appeared out of nowhere.

He wiggled his fingers and toes, wondering if he had broken anything in his fall. He looked at the jagged gash on his right upper arm that snaked like a river up to his shoulder.

He struggled to his feet, his anger consuming him. How stupid and ridiculous he felt. Tears began to bunch once more in the corners of his eyes. Kicking at the rock, he let out a shrill yell and listened as his angry voice echoed over the pit, when he looked up at the tall, ashen rock surrounding him and caught his breath in surprise.

Perched on top of a nearby boulder, a humongous black crow silently watched him.

Tell held his breath and backed away. The fatigue that had been plaguing him evaporated in an instant. Recognizing his imagination, Thepat, he balled his fists.

What do you want? Tell yelled.

But the bird remained motionless. A breeze ruffled the thick tuft of feathers around its neck. Tell stamped his foot in an attempt to scare it away.

Go away, he shouted, shaking his head. I didn’t convey you. You’re not Thepat—

A low gurgling sound, like that of a bass note trying to breathe under water, echoed over the rock. Tell felt his heart beating in his throat as the bird advanced toward him.

Everything out of order. What a chaotic mess, an unruly jumble!

Thepat cocked its gargantuan head. Its beady eyes stared down at Tell.

How very tumultuous, not to trust your imagination!

Is that what you are? Tell retorted. Drying his eyes with the sleeve of his torn shirt, he clenched his fists. Then of course I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you a single bit!

The creature blinked and contracted its humongous black claws as it stepped onto a boulder.

"Forks with the forks, knives with the knives. Order on order, order on order. We must put things back in order."

Order? Tell repeated angrily. "You want to talk about putting things in order? Well, you’re the one who made James disappear, not me. It’s your fault I’m in this mess!"

At the thought of James’s disappearance, an overwhelming sense of guilt singed Tell’s conscience. But he pushed it down. It wasn’t his fault, after all. Thepat had made James disappear—not him.

If you are my imagination, he said, clenching his fists, then you will do what I say.

Tell bit his lip. He hardly understood how to convey, or control the things his imagination did. Thepat was as unruly and uncontrollable as it had been before he was aware