The Indigo King by James A. Owen

shall tell.”
    “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” said Uncas. “There’s nothing but crackers in here, anyway.”
    The others turned back to the table to see the box, top flung wide, spilling over with oyster crackers. Uncas was happily shoving them into his mouth with both paws, while Fred stood a few feet away with a horrified expression on his face.
    John took a bowl from a cupboard and emptied the box into it, then closed the box and replaced it on the mantel, higher than a badger’s reach.
    “Oh, great,” Jack groaned. “We have one chance each to get something miraculous from that box, and Uncas wastes it on crackers.”
    “It doesn’t work like that,” Bert said with a chuckle. “It isn’t a magic genie’s bottle that you rub to get three wishes. It gives you, and you alone, one time, what it is that you need the most. So,” he finished, rubbing Uncas on the head, “it’s likely that it doesn’t matter when or where or how Uncas opened the box. It would probably have been full of oyster crackers just the same.”
    “Forry,” said Uncas through a mouthful of crackers. “I juff willy wike ‘em.”
    “I think you might be correct,” Bert mused, turning to John. “I think perhaps Jules had planned ahead for something only he was privy to. Something that’s happening right now.”
    “Hold on, you old goat,” Chaz said, still glancing out the window and fidgeting nervously. “Don’t go gettin’ any ideas.…”
    “But don’t you see?” Bert exclaimed. “If all of this was fore-told—was anticipated—by Jules, then that changes everything!”
    “What are you talking about?” asked John.
    “The Serendipity Box was left for you, John. Jules left it for you, and Jack, and Charles. He said you’d come for it. I just never imagined it would take fourteen years.”
    “I’m surprised Mordred didn’t take it for himself,” said Jack.
    “He did,” Chaz answered, gesturing to his face. “He opened it, then flew into a rage at whatever it was he saw inside. Then he tried to burn it, but I managed to steal it back. That was the day I got these scars.”
    “Mordred didn’t know the box can’t be destroyed,” said Bert. “I’ve kept it here since, waiting.”
    “He does have a habit of trying to burn things that can’t be burned,” said Jack, clapping Chaz on the back. “Well done, old boy.”
    “We met,” Bert said, indicating Chaz, “using the same logic you used to come here. I went looking for you, as you came looking for me. For better or worse, I found him .”
    Chaz made an obscene gesture and looked out the window again. “Sky’s brightening. Sun’ll be up, soonish.”
    “We’re together again, is what matters,” said Jack. “Any reunion of friends is a good happening.”
    But John was not nearly so pleased. He was putting together parts of the puzzle that made more sense to him than he liked, and he was slowly realizing that as safe as they felt at that moment, they might in fact be in greater danger than ever. There was a connection of some kind between Chaz and Mordred that had not been revealed. But there was one question on his mind that was even more terrible.
    “Bert,” John intoned dully, “why were you spared? Why was Verne killed, and not you?”
    Bert closed his eyes and sat silently for a long moment before answering.
    “Because,” he finally said, “it was what had to happen.”
    “Practicality,” said Chaz. “You did what you had to do.”
    John stood up and backed toward the door. “What did you do, Bert?”
    “What I was destined to do,” Bert replied, his face gone cold. “I just never got thirty pieces of silver.”
    “You sold him,” Jack whispered. “You sold Verne to Mordred, to save yourself.”
    “I won’t argue that on the face of it,” Bert said plaintively, “but I take exception to your implication. I did what I had to do to survive to this point in time—but it was not of my own volition, and I