Nathaniel headed back to the library and went down the secret ladder, ever watchful for prying eyes. Time wouldn't matter so much this visit, since he had until dinner to do whatever he wanted — a full six hours to sketch, nap, and relax in his mysterious hidden place. After reaching the secret room and turning on the second lamp, he inspected the drawings on the wall once more, fascinated by the detail in each of them. The style resembled his own, except that he thought these drawings were better. He wondered where the inspiration for them had come from as he walked around, pondering the meaning of the door with three hinges.

  He later settled down in the chair with a comforter swaddling his waist and legs, and for the first time, he took a good, long look at the pen he'd received from PaPa. At first glance, there didn't seem to be anything special about it; it was a normal-sized, silver fountain pen with some old style markings etched into it. Black calligraphic lettering branded the side:

  Another cryptic message, he mused. "What does that mean? Fine by the train, fine by the train. Fine by the train?" Nathaniel repeated it over and over, shaking his head in bewilderment because he hadn't noticed the lettering the night PaPa gave him the pen.

  He finally pulled its cap off, filled with excitement and curiosity. He slowly put the nib to an open blank page of his sketchpad, drawing a line. He added another line and another, in no form or fashion, just to check the quality of the pen and to be sure the ink flowed properly. He knew fountain pens could be temperamental.

  To his utter astonishment, the three lines started to move! As he watched, openmouthed, they wriggled across the page like inchworms and came together to form a triangle. Nathaniel jumped to his feet with a strangled cry of, "Holy cats!" The sketchpad and pen went clattering to the floor. Chills ran up and down his back, and he could feel them rising on his arms as he pulled his hair in fear.

  Then he remembered what PaPa had told him: the pen had power and magic beyond normal understanding. Nathaniel had thought himself too old to believe in magic anymore… he'd thought PaPa had meant magical in an abstract sense, the way that fireworks or a good Christmas could be magical. He hadn't dreamed that the old man meant literally.

  Well, he wasn't so old as to deny the evidence of his senses. He reached down and collected his sketchpad and the pen — or the Pen, as he thought of it now, capital letters and all. He sank back down in the chair and looked at his drawing, turning his sketchpad to see if the triangle would move again while he rotated it. But the triangle remained intact, just as if he'd drawn it that way.

  Hmmm. Solemnly, Nathaniel drew four more lines of equal length in another quadrant of the page, in no specific order or orientation.

  The lines moved across the page to form a square.

  "Wild!" Pursing his lips, he drew a tight spiral that collapsed in on itself until it resembled a whirlpool. Immediately, the whirlpool began to unravel itself into four straight lines that bordered the paper.

  Nathaniel glanced up to see if anyone was watching him, looking all around and craning his head upward to peer at the ceiling. He thought perhaps that somehow, someway, someone was fooling him with smoke and mirrors. He got up and looked up the shaft that he'd climbed down from. No one was there; he was alone, just as he'd been the whole time.

  "This can't be really happening," he expressed. "I've never heard of a pen that does this kind of thing. This is just too strange."

  Strange as it might be, he could sense the excitement fluttering inside him. "Magic pen, eh? Just how magical are you?" He sat back down and got comfortable again, then looked the Pen over. "You look like every other pen. Here, let's try this, Mr. Fine By The Train."

  He flipped to the next blank page in his sketchbook and quickly drew a simple house with a couple of windows and a chimney — the same house everyone sketches in kindergarten when told to draw a house. In the window he drew a small fireplace with a fire going. He threw in a few clouds in the sky for fun, then sat back and watched.

  To his amazement, a thin line of smoke curled up from the chimney, even as the little fire danced around in the fireplace and the clouds moved along with an unseen wind. Goosebumps crawled over his skin again: this was far more elaborate than a few lines unraveling or coming together to form little geometric shapes. This was beyond anything imaginable… and yet, he suspected he'd barely tapped the potential of what the Pen could do. Chills marched up and down his backbone again. After watching the happy little scene for a few moments he closed his sketchpad and took a look around the room one more time. This time he intended to look at each Masterpiece close up, in detail.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked over to the first one. Like all of them, it was about four feet square, and depicted a graceful bridge arching over rocks in what looked like a shallow creek. Vines climbed over the stone pillars on each end of the bridge, vigorous and profuse. Ferns grew in clusters between the rocks, giving the scene a bucolic, woodland look. The stone steps had furry moss growing in the cracks where the mortar had split due to age.

  The trees in the backdrop must have been tall, because only the main trunks were visible. The canopy above blocked out the sun, making the bridge and stones dark with shadows. The artist had done an excellent job of capturing the filtered light as it lanced through the trees, lighting up a few sections of the bridge, sketching in the necessary highlights with the ease born of great skill. It was signed: Masterpiece – E.H.

  The next one was very similar in style. It appeared to be part of the same forest, except large stones with flat surfaces were spread out unevenly throughout a horseshoe shaped ravine, giving it the appearance of offering multiple performance stages. Large ferns provided a lush carpet across a meadow stretching to both sides of the ravine. A wide waterfall in the background cascaded onto the rocks below. The artist had been able to capture the mist coming off the rocks and pond with a technique Nathaniel recognized as stippling. It provided a very realistic effect. In the branches of the trees, the artist had inconspicuously placed half-concealed birds. It too was signed: Masterpiece – E.H.

  Nathaniel examined all the other drawings with a growing sense of fascination. Maybe E.H. really did mean "Edwin Hancock." The question that continued circling in his head was why his drawings moved, and these didn't — if indeed the same Pen had been used on all of them. He suspected it had. He stared at each in turn, trying to make them move with his mind, but to no avail. Maybe the pictures activated themselves only for a short time after they were drawn, like his lines had.

  The door with the three hinges threw him off completely. All the other landscapes were perfect down to the last detail, all serene and peaceful. The image of the door stood jarringly out of the stonework, somehow way out of place. It just didn't make sense for it to be there… and why did PaPa say it meant trouble?

  He sat back down, got comfortable, and began to sketch. This time, he decided to take a little more time, and use his creative talent more extensively. "Now, let's see what you can do. Should I call you Mr. Fine, or Mr. Fine By The Train? How about Mr. Fine?"

  He began with a single flame; then he added a small candle and wick for the flame to dance upon. He drew the candle slightly melted, with the wax dripping down its sides to a hand clutching it. Some of the wax nearly dripped onto the hand, so he drew a candlestick to one side. It was a typical candlestick; it had a wider top, with a tall, slender body flaring down to a wide base. He added three bands on the sides for some extra detail, and a few scratches to give it that aged look. He used a technique called cross-hatching for the shading; this always worked well for him in his pen-and-ink drawings, because he could keep adding more cross-hatches as needed. He then drew a small, round table like the one beside him, and his excitement grew as he finished the picture. Nathaniel sat back and watched to see if anything would happen.

  He didn't have to wait long.

  The little flame came to life, swaying and guttering as candle flames do. The hand moved over to the candlestick, and carefully put the candle on it. Then it grabbed the candlestick, put it on the table, and withdrew. Nathaniel sat there for the next half-hour watching the candle burn. Occasionally, he would move his hand over the candle to create a little wind, and the flame always moved with the direction of the breeze. As it burned down to almost nothing, wax continued dripping down the sides of the candlestick and onto the table. Then, out of instinct — before it got too late — he blew toward the candle and, to his surprise and disbelief, the flame went out.

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  "How is that possible?" he hollered. "I don't believe it! I just don't believe it!"

  This had been what he wanted the picture to do, so when it happened he wasn't entirely surprised — on some level, at least. At the same time, he gawked in disbelief. Unbelievable, he thought. How could this happen? What happened to the real world of cause and effect? Drawings just don't come alive in the real world!

  Nathaniel glanced down again at the phrase inscribed on the side of the Pen. The letters had changed their order; it now read RAIN BY THIN FEET. "What! This is too crazy." He dropped the Pen on the table and shook his head. "This can't be, this just can't be. What am I supposed to do with that thing?" He paused, staring at the Pen, imagining, even feeling it staring back at him. He suddenly sensed a magnetic pull between them that made him feel they were inseparable now. Nathaniel was too hardheaded to dismiss the evidence of his senses without a fight, so he reached over and picked it up. This time it read: THIN FEET BY RAIN. "Okay Mr. Fine, or Mr. Feet, or whatever you want to be called. I'll admit that you're great for drawing, but I have no idea what you're talking about, and you really don't make any sense whatsoever."

  He flipped his sketchpad over to a clean sheet, and carefully sketched a small lemon tree in a container. He then drew a pair of hands; one held a knife, the other a small glass. When he finished, he sat back and watched. The hand calmly put the glass down on the table, then picked a lemon from the tree. It held the lemon with one hand, while the other cut it in two with the knife. The left hand then squeezed the lemon over the glass, and out came a dribble of juice. This series of actions was repeated, again and again, until all the lemons had been squeezed, the glass was full of juice, and the used lemons lay in a pile at the corner of the page. The hands withdrew.

  Nathaniel swelled with excitement now. He felt he could draw anything, and it would come to life! He flipped the sketchpad over to his first drawing. He saw the now-static triangle, square, and straight lines that bordered the page. He flipped to the next page, and saw a plain little house with an unmoving fire visible through the window, motionless clouds floating above. He then looked at his last two drawings. "Simply unbelievable," he said aloud.

  Nathaniel looked up at the Masterpiece drawings again. "I just don't get it…I guess the drawings really do stay active for only a little while, and these are finished moving for good…" he shook his head. No, that can't be it. How can a waterfall stop in midstream? Clearly, something was going on down here in the basement that defied normal reason.

  He stood, and examined one particular Masterpiece. This one displayed large stepping stones beside a two-foot stone wall that ran almost parallel with the stones. There were large trees sprinkled throughout the landscape. Moss and vines and honeysuckles grew on the wall, covering it completely in places. Hummingbirds and butterflies were transfixed in mid-air. I wonder… has this one already finished moving? Or maybe none of them ever moved… maybe it's only mine that move.

  Sighing, he looked down at his watch and saw that he still had plenty of time until dinner. He curled up on the bed and pulled a comforter over his body, determined to think about this new situation for a while. He stared for a long time at the Pen, conversing with it silently; and without really meaning to, he soon fell into a deep sleep. Dreams of places he had never seen paraded before his mind, captivating him. He found himself interacting with drawings that came to life, populated by creatures from fantasy novels. The Pen seemed to have unlocked his imagination, allowing access into worlds that hadn't existed before… at least for him.

  He dreamt of a beautiful woman who came out of a waterfall. Her voice sounded like a symphony echoing throughout the forest, calling his name. "Nathaniel… Nathaniel… Nathaniel!"

  The distant sound of his name being called woke him up. By then, his older sister McKenzie had been calling him for about five minutes. Dinnertime was just around the corner, and apparently she'd begun to gather the family together. After looking around the room to see if he could find the woman in his dreams, hoping that, indeed, it wasn't a dream, he realized he was there alone. Man, that was so real. He gathered his things, turned off the lights, and climbed up the ladder. He waited at the top until he couldn't hear anyone close, then stepped out.

  As he strolled into the kitchen, his mom demanded, "Nathaniel, where have you been?"

  "Well, um, I was drawing in an upstairs closet and I kind of fell asleep."

  PaPa glanced at Nathaniel out of the corner of his eye. He didn't say anything, but a faint grin crept across his face.

  "Okay, I think everything's ready," Tommy's mom said.

  "Let's dig in, then!" Tommy cried.

  "At least wait until PaPa's situated in his chair," his mother said.

  "Oh, yeah, just… I'm ready."

  Tommy was a little anxious to get started. His current mystery novel must have gotten him all in a rue.

  "Everything looks wonderful," PaPa said as his eyes widened.

  Dinnertime during the holiday felt more relaxed than breakfast or lunch. It was close to dark, and the family began to wind down for the day. Everyone ate a little slower and conversed a lot more. By the time dinner ended, the sky had grown quite dark. It looked unusually cold outside, and with some more flurries visible, it appeared that a snowstorm might be brewing. The wind howled, and some of the tree branches scraped the windows like fingernails do over a chalkboard — which caused some of the younger children to crouch lower and sink their heads farther down into their shoulders. It was the perfect Christmas Eve for Nathaniel.

  "What's the weather say for tonight, anyone know?" Nathaniel's dad asked, as he pushed aside his dessert dish.

  "More of the same. The newscaster said we're supposed to get as much as an inch tonight," Aunt Susan replied.

  "Doesn't look like we'll be going anywhere tomorrow," McKenzie pointed out.

  That was okay with Nathaniel: he already knew where he was going after they opened presents. Snow or no snow, sun or rain, it didn't matter. He'd found his hangout for the rest of the holiday.

  After they retired into the den, PaPa rubbed his hands together and asked, "Can someone stoke the fire for an old man?"

  "Sure, PaPa, I'll get some wood out of the cellar," replied Nathaniel.

  "After you're done, why don't you sit with me for a while?"

  "Of course!" After Nathaniel had returned from the cellar with his load of split oak, his dad stirred the old wood and made room for the new logs. "How many do you want on tonight, PaPa?"

  "Oh, just a few, maybe three good ones," PaPa replied.

  Everyone catered to Papa's needs. No one minded, though; the holiday was as much about him being pampered as it was about the kids opening presents. He loved it, but hated that he couldn't get around like he once had. If you didn't know him, you would guess him to be about seventy-five, when in fact he was almost ninety.

  "Nathaniel, come here, Son," PaPa requested. When Nathaniel sidled close, he asked in a low voice, "Have you had a chance to try out your new pen?"

  "Yessir, I did today."

  "Well what did you think?"

  "It works very well… I mean, it's a top-quality pen… um, you know what I mean."

  "Can you show me what you've drawn?"

  "Oh, sure. See check this out." He flipped open the sketchbook.

  "A picture of a candle that's melted down…that's interesting," PaPa said.

  "Well… I didn't actually draw it like that. I mean, I sorta watched the candle melt."

  The old man raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean, you watched it melt?"

  Nathaniel blushed. "I know it sounds crazy, PaPa. I don't know, I just watched it melt. Like you said, the picture came alive, and took on its own meaning."

  "Hmmm." PaPa flipped to the next page. "What about this one, a glass that's been spilled of all its contents, with two hands and a knife?"

  "Hey, it spilled! That's strange." Nathaniel looked on the floor and the surrounding furniture to spot any juice… nothing. "The same thing, though: that's not how I drew it. Something strange happened after I finished my drawing. It's like it knows what I want it to do. You did say the Pen was magical… didn't you? And see, look at this writing." Nathaniel gave the Pen to PaPa.

  "I don't see any writing."

  Nathaniel looked at the Pen and where the inscription once was but now was blank, like it had vanished or been erased. "That’s weird. It was just here when I was down in the… I mean, I saw it right before dinner."

  "I don't see anything. Why? What did you see?"

  "It said, THIN FEET BY RAIN."

  "Thin feet by rain? That doesn't make any sense. Hmmm. I don't ever recall drawing thin feet or rain. Sometimes artists see things they want to see. You have a big imagination, Nathaniel; perhaps you wanted to see something."

  "That's strange," Nathaniel said again under his breath, more to himself than to PaPa. Then he resumed to saying, "It said something else before, and then something else before that. I wonder if it's trying to tell me something — you know, like a secret message."

  "Tell you something?" Papa remained silent as he looked back and forth from the drawings to Nathaniel. He puffed on his pipe, his face grave. Finally, he leaned in and whispered, "Why don't you keep this between you and me, Nathaniel?"

  "Oh, I wasn't going to tell anyone. I promise."

  "Any ideas for a Masterpiece yet? And don't you tell me about a door with three hinges."

  "No sir, not really. Maybe a nice landscape or something. We'll see."

  "I'm sure whatever you draw me, it will be perfect." PaPa grinned widely and patted Nathaniel's hand, as encouraging as ever. They sat together, both knowing something the other didn't, and at the same time not knowing something the other wanted to say but didn't. They kept this quiet communication going throughout the rest of Christmas Eve, while all the other family members sang songs and read from various books and laughed and talked about this and that and so on.