The Jar that Holds the Universe

By C.S. Tjandra

"The Jar That Holds the Universe" captures the unforgettable quirks and adventures of Quinn Parker, an eleven-year-old girl who was sent as a newborn to Earth from a hyperspace called Alkaa. Growing up as an Earthling in Toronto, Quinn has never known where she is really from, why she looks strikingly different from everyone else, and why she has a unique red marking on her left arm. Exactly three days before her twelfth birthday, Quinn begins to experience strange incidents which lead her to a thrilling journey back to Alkaa. She quickly learns that the universe as we know it is contained in a jar and is kept as an important mystical artifact that keeps the land of Alkaa alive. The problems begin when the jar is stolen by Vrad the Dark Lord and is at risk to be destroyed in the Dark Forest. With time running out, the fate of our universe and Alkaa is in Quinn's hands, as only she is welcome to enter the forest. Will the Alkaanians accept Quinn as one of their own? Can she locate the jar and save us all? An adventure is about to begin!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350920666

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The damp, dark, musty, hollow log cradled me as if I was in the safety of Ma’s womb. At least, that was the lie I told myself; playing a make-believe game so I could steal a few seconds of silence and hope. My cold and sweaty hands trembled. Clenching them didn’t make them stop. My breath penetrated the rays of light that seeped from an elongated crack on the wood, bold and abrupt from the chase. I carefully placed my palms on the patches of moss and brought my eyes close to the opening of the narrow crack. When the tip of my nose was about a finger width away from the log, I smelled the sharp reek of scorched wood. Not the s’mores and campfire kind of smell, but the smell of rage and terror.

From the opening I saw a dark cloud approaching—the same dark cloud that chased me about half an hour ago. Like a blanket, the forest was slowly tucked into darkness. On the ground I saw the dark, thick, tar-like liquid slithering underneath the cloud of blackness. It too was like a blanket; a sticky pungent-smelling blanket. As it crept toward my direction, it made no more noise than an occasional rustle on the ground. I quietly crawled away from the opening and hid in the dark corner of the log.

There was silence.

A sudden flutter of wings preceded a loud thump right above me. Must be that ugly bird, I thought to myself. I was right, it was the ugly bird. At the end of the hollow log popped a balding bird, his head dangling upside down from his long neck. His enormous red eyes studied me before he disappeared from my sight. Suddenly, he made a screeching, deafening, chilling shriek that echoed right through my flesh to my bones. It seemed that he was giving a signal that he had successfully located me. Usually, loud noises like this would overwhelm and upset me, but my body was frozen in fear, unable to react.

The blue tie-dyed fanny pack was secured tightly across my chest. But I felt it wasn’t close enough. I brought it closer to my body until I felt the jar inside pressed tightly against my ribcage. I pressed it so close against me I could swear it left a mark on me. The jar—yes, the jar—brought me here; to a secret land you might not believe exists.

The rustling noise got closer, and the pungent smell became sharper. It almost smelled like the newly laid asphalt in road work, but it was hard to say. The forest turned darker. The temperature dropped, more so inside the damp log. A rustling noise sounded on the outer side of the log, to my right. You can’t die here, you can’t die here, you can’t… But before I could finish my thought, a hand gripped my right ankle and pulled me right out of the log. It dragged me out so quick I felt my blood rushing down from the top of my head.

The image of the universe collapsing crossed my mind. There, I said it: the universe was about to collapse. And I am not saying this figuratively. It is literally going to collapse if he gets to break the jar. The galaxies, planets, stars, and every unseen matter in between will be sucked out of its time and space. It will be nothing but collisions, chaos, and destruction. What we know about our universe will disperse into darkness, into his eternal world of darkness.

If you ever wondered how I, Quinn Parker, a 6th grade loner from Tyndall Public School, ended up in such situation—well, that’s because the Alkaanian prophecy states that it was only me who could save the fate of the universe.

FRIDAY

FIRE ON QUEEN STREET

It was a cold and wet Friday in September, three days before my twelfth birthday.

I was raised by the Parkers, and they decided that September 15th was the day I was born. It’s the day you came to our hearts—that’s what my mom always says. Let’s be frank, at that point in my life, nobody knew when I was born, where I was from, or why I looked so uniquely different: black jet hair, dark green feline-like eyes, full pillowy lips, sharp jawline, and an unusually shaped nose—narrow with a pointed tip accompanied with an exceptionally thick nose root—that set my eyebrows wildly apart. I also have a red linear birthmark that runs from my left elbow crease, down to the tip of my ring finger. In school I stand out like a sore thumb.

Carrying my navy-blue backpack, I walked swiftly through the park that separates my school and home. The ground was muddy, and the occasional potholes were filled with standing water. It had been raining heavily throughout the day and we had to stay inside for both recesses, but I didn’t mind. I like being inside because I can spend time drawing or reading at the comfort of my own desk, minding my own business without having to worry about making any small talk. When I must go outside for recess, I feel differently: lonely, overwhelmed, and confused. I usually sit at the far end of the soccer field where it is quiet and I can observe others playing. I am not particularly good at making friends nor having social conversations; I’d rather be by myself. The world tends to be less confusing.

I finally reached Queen Street, a relatively busy street filled with shops and heavy pedestrian traffic. I crossed the street and walked toward the teal building. Above the street level entrance is a big, yellow sign that spells Pages. Pages is a second-hand bookstore owned by my dad, Benjamin Parker. We live above the store, on the second and third floor. Before Pages was run by my dad, it was owned by my grandpa, Arthur. He ran the store pretty much until the day he went missing, about three years before I was adopted by the Parkers. Accounts said he was last seen while closing the store on an evening Toronto was hit with a terrible snowstorm. He was jolly and cheerful, as he had always been. Grandpa Arthur went missing with no trace; for many detectives, it’s still a big mystery waiting to be solved.

I guess there have always been mysteries that have been taking place in Pages. About twelve years ago, at around three o’clock in the morning, my dad found me wrapped in a cloth by the cash register. He brought me to my mom before I was eventually taken away by a fireman. I guess in that split second when our eyes met was the day I came to their hearts. From the hands of the fireman, I was quickly handed over to the paramedics because they thought I had poor lungs. Turned out, I had a very strong set of lungs, better than average. I circled through the police officers as they did some detective work to figure out who I was. Unfortunately, nobody could figure out my past, and so I was fostered and adopted by the Parkers. They thought I was mysteriously sent specifically for them to raise. As they explained to me, after a decade of trying to have a child of their own, there I was, presented to them wrapped like a present.

I pushed open the entrance door of the store. The bell jingled.

Oh, there you are! How was your day? my dad greeted me while placing a stack of books down on a table.

As usual, but I really enjoyed my time inside all day! I walked behind the cash register and dropped my backpack down, sitting sloppily on the floor and stretching out my legs. Exhausted.

Ha! I knew you’d like that! By the way, it’s Friday. Scrabble night tonight, reminded my dad as he was making his way down to the basement.

I like Scrabble. It makes me think. It’s good for my brain. And I am actually pretty good at it.

Honey, is that you? said my mom as she walked toward the storefront. There you are! She peered at me from the other side of the cash register.

I gave her a smile, took a book out from my backpack, and started reading where I left off before leaving school.

My mom doesn’t actually work in the store like my dad. She is an artist, usually spending most of the day in her painting studio up on the third floor. However, on busy days, she helps out.

It’s Scrabble night! Don’t forget. Make sure you bring your juicy brain to the game tonight. Mom walked around the cash register, crouched down, and gave me kisses on my left cheek.

THUMP! A loud fall echoed from the basement, followed by my dad sighing. Quinn, could you come down and help me out? I dropped all these books.

Okay, I think your dad needs you, said my mom, letting go of my face.

I stood up reluctantly.

The basement was the one place I avoided going. It was not very well-lit, messy, and I often heard unsettling noises and creaks that I couldn’t explain. And don’t get me started with the sprinting little shadows that always caught the corner of my eyes! I made my way down slowly, as if I was entering a cursed dungeon.

I found my dad kneeling on the concrete ground picking up books scattered across the floor.

Could you give me a hand with these books, please? I need to take them upstairs.

I walked toward him and helped him place the books in the overflowing box.

Thank you, said my dad while propping himself up. Here, how about you take these five books upstairs. I’ll take this heavy box. He handed me a stack of thick books and firmly held the box in his arms and walked to the stairs. I’ll meet you up there!

I stood still.

At the back corner of the basement is my dad’s little office. Through its glass wall I saw framed newspaper clippings nailed to one side of the brick wall. I placed the stacks of books down on the table and walked to his office to give them a closer look.

As I said, I did not like the basement, but that room is special. It carries memories and writings documenting my arrival. I ran my eyes through the newspaper clippings headlines hanging in a chronological order:

‘FIRE DESTROYS QUEEN STREET

NEIGHBOURHOOD BOOKSTORE’

‘MISSING MAN ARTHUR PARKER’S BOOKSTORE

CAUGHT IN FIRE.’

‘DETECTIVES ARE INVESTIGATING THE FIRE ORIGIN’

‘MYSTERY BABY FOUND IN TORONTO

BOOKSTORE FIRE’

‘QUEEN STREET FIRE MYSTERY BABY: WHO IS SHE?’

‘KEEPING OUR HOPES UP: PARKER FAMILY IS

REBUILDING PAGES’

‘PARKER FAMILY CONTINUES FIGHT TO KEEP

MYSTERY BABY’

‘PARKER FAMILY: SHE’S HOME!’

I threw myself into the leather office chair and let the wheels take me to the other end of the wall passing my dad’s messy desk. I kept my eyes on the framed news and sighed.

My birthdate is the day I was found in the fire in Pages, next to the cash register, on a big pile of books. How did I get there? No one knows. Putting the mystery aside, I must say that my birth was quite extravagant: fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, reporters, people in uniforms rushing in and out of Pages, many neighbours out on the street in their pajamas and robes observing as the story unfolded in the wee hours.

The police department reported that the fire started in the middle aisle facing the front of the store. A large, round burn mark was found on the wood flooring and on the tin ceiling. The surrounding shelves were engulfed in fire, eaten away, leaving a big round emptiness in the middle of the store.

The detectives had several suspicions. At first, they thought it was some type of electrical issue because my dad had rather old string lights running above the bookshelves. But they dismissed that suspicion quickly; low voltage string lights do not cause a fireball, and besides, it’s my dad’s habit to turn off all the lights at the end of the day. Second, the detectives suspected that my parents played some sort of trick, ranging from stealing a baby to burning their own store. And third, they suspected Mr. Wong, the owner of the antique shop two doors down from Pages, as someone behind the trouble. He was a suspect because the street camera captured him walking his puppy, Pilot, at 2:57 in the morning, three minutes before the fire started. He was seen standing in front of the store and peeping through the glass before walking away. However, all the detectives’ suspicions were inconclusive. In the end, they decided it was something done out of mischief by whomever left me in the store. Twelve years later, the whomever is still an open investigation.

I scanned my dad’s desk. Under the pile of papers and folders, I saw a silver metal box labelled QUINN, handwritten with a black permanent marker.

Is it my birthday present? I wondered.

Without much thought, my fingers reached out and opened the lid without moving the pile of mess above it.

Inside the box I saw a neatly folded brown cloth, with a folded piece of paper ripped from a spiral-bound notebook laid on top.

I carefully slid my fingers into the box and unfolded the paper. It read:

She will be coming back home on her 12th birthday

STRANGE STRANGER

Coming back home.

What home? I couldn’t breathe. The words left a sinking feeling in my stomach.

My puzzlement was cut short when my dad swung the basement door open. Quinn, I’m waiting for those books. Are you all right down there?

I quickly folded the paper just like the way I found it. It was hard to do because my hands had started to shake, but I managed. I closed the box and rushed out of the office, grabbing the books, and running up the stairs.

On the fifth tread I felt an unseen force telling me to stop. I heard one of those unsettling noises from the dark corner of the storage room. It sounded almost like the whispers of two people having a conversation. The hair on the back of my neck began to rise. I saw two little black shadows scuttling from one dark corner to another. It took me by surprise, and I sprinted toward the light.

Quinn, are you all right? My dad stood tall at the landing of the stairs.

I’m fine.

Is it the shadows again?

I handed him the books and grabbed my backpack behind the cash register without uttering a word.

Well, thank you for taking these up. He looked baffled and had not moved since I dropped the books in his arms.

I walked past him. Dad, I’m tired. I think I need some quiet time.

All right, he said with no judgement, aware that sometimes I do need my quiet time.

I punched in the secret code on the keypad—1 3 2 4—and entered through the black door at the back of the store and ran up the stairs where I was greeted with the sound of the dryer running. I took off my boots and placed them on the rack before walking through the kitchen and dining area, passing all the pots, pans, and green tiles, heading for my bedroom.

I’m never good at describing my feelings, but I know I did not feel good. I must say that it was more complicated than sad. I was unsure how to express it, but a funny feeling lingered in my stomach.

When I stepped inside my bedroom, I threw my bag on the chair and crawled in bed. I reached for my noise-cancelling headphones and placed them on my head, letting the cushioned earpads hug my ears tight, protecting me from outside noises. The silence calmed me down. I rested my head on my arms as I looked out the window at our small backyard. I ran my fingers in a windshield motion on the condensed window, leaving a perfect frame to see the world.

The sky was grey, the rain starting to pick up again. As I was staring at the planters by the deck, I realized there was a set of big, round, black eyes staring back at me. Its body was hidden inside the immaculately trimmed hedge, but I could see something that looked like quills protruding between the branches of the shrubs. What is that? I asked myself. A porcupine? In the city? It was rather tall and lean for a porcupine. Perhaps it’s standing on its two feet and hasn’t been eating. Its big black eyes observed me. It didn’t blink, not even once.

Still locking eyes with the creature, I slowly removed the headphones off my head, slowly crept my way off the bed, slowly reached my polaroid camera, slowly hung it around my neck, and then in one swift motion, I ran to the stairs, grabbed my boots, and dashed down the stairs. I ran through the store toward the back door that spit me out to the yard.

Hey, hey, hey! Walking, please! There are many customers here. And where are you thinking of going? said my mom. She tried to grab my hand but missed, following behind me.

I unlocked the backdoor and stepped out in the rain.

What are you doing? It’s raining!

I saw a creature, I mean…a porcupine! It has big black eyes, and it was staring at me!

My mom frowned and shook her head. There are no porcupines in the city.

I walked closer to the bush where I saw it from my bedroom, but couldn’t find its trace.

Quinn, please, come inside— Mom paused, and waited but I didn’t move. —Now!

I walked to the door with a frown plastered on my face.

Make sure you take those muddy boots off, she added.

What’s going on? Dad asked as he approached the door.

She thought she saw a porcupine.

…but I did see it, Mom! It was right there! I pointed to the hedge by the deck.

Look, there are people waiting at the cash register. I have to go, said my mom as she threw her hands in the air.

I took my boots off and stepped inside. My dad was standing by the door waiting for me.

I saw it. I frowned.

Why don’t you grab a book and read it down here? Store’s closing in a couple of hours.

My dad shut the door behind me. I dropped my boots on the mat and dragged my body to look at the children’s books on the display table. I glanced at my dad. He was still standing by the door, carefully observing the yard.

Do you see the porcupine?

He turned the lock on the door. Just stay inside, he said as he walked away.

I grabbed a book from the display table and sat in the grey armchair tucked in the corner between a wall and a shelf. I didn’t have the drive to flip through its pages, let alone read it. There were too many things on my mind. I left the book on the chair and let myself stroll around the store while staring blankly at the rows of shelves.

Old charm. This place has an old charm, I thought to myself. Pages is always lit with warm yellow lighting, its walls covered with floor to ceiling pine shelves. I swear I could still smell the forest. The shelves are stuffed with all kinds of books, ranging from Shakespearean plays to Japanese carpentry. The only wall surface you could find is perhaps behind the cash register where my dad hung some old family photographs. The wooden floor of Pages is covered with various colours and designs of Persian rugs laid out one after another. I remember the day when I helped lay them down about six years ago, it took us all day. Up to this day, my mom still thinks that the rugs reduce the creaks of the floor, but I don’t find much difference.

My steps brought me to the red basement door. She will be coming back home on her 12th birthday, said the voice in my head. A certain unsettledness gripped me again. The door was calling me to further investigate the letter. But I was too afraid.

Suddenly, my eyes were pulled to the Employees Only plaque hanging on the door. Watching the plaque, I saw each of the letters disappear with new words forming before my eyes:

See you during Scrabble.

I gasped. Like a hawk I stared at the words while simultaneously prepping my polaroid camera for a picture. I pressed the shutter release button. KA-CHICK.

Then the words disappeared and turned to its original form: Employees Only.

CHURRR. A film spit out from the top of the polaroid. I pulled it carefully and waited for the image to form. But it captured nothing! The film was