Taylor Davis: Flame of Findul Episode One (Serial Adventures, 1.1)

by Michelle Isenhoff

Lesson #4

  Angel Choir Dropouts Have Serious Identity Issues

  Davy reached down and snatched the creature’s tail. With a flick of his wrist, the tail was a sword hilt again.

  I slumped in my chair, panting heavily. “You certainly know how to convince a guy.”

  Davy went on as though diabolical monsters erupted from antique weapons everyday. “Your opponent is invincible save for the sword of Findul the firesmith. The only way to kill him is to rekindle the flame. That is your mission.”

  The pirate gave over the two-handed broadsword.

  I stood to accept it—and promptly dropped it on my toe. “This is the sword of Findul?” I managed to gasp. It was forged of an odd red-tinged metal, as if Findul’s fire had permanently stained it.

  “That ought to be a cinch to sneak through airport security.” Even Elena’s bravado seemed a little shaky, but she was recovering fast. “So where exactly do you go to rekindle heavenly weapons anyway?”

  “On this matter, I only know what’s been given me to know,” Davy told us.

  “That means you have no idea, doesn’t it?” I asked, gingerly picking up the sword. It was surprisingly heavy. I rested it on its point.

  Davy shrugged. “You, too, will be given all you need to know,” he said, indicating his widescreen TV.

  I paused. “Wait a second. Your ‘knowledge of all things’ comes from watching television?”

  “Most of it.”

  I glanced at Elena. “We are in so much trouble.”

  “Speak for yourself,” she snapped. “I’ve got nothing to do with this.”

  “It’s too late,” Davy disagreed. “There can no longer be any question of your involvement. Far fouler creatures than serpents will seek you if you abandon the quest now.”

  Elena crossed her arms irritably. “I’ll never eat another cheeseburger again.”

  Davy handed me a pasteboard DVD sleeve with words inscribed on it: For the One of Two Names. “Where’d you get this?” I asked.

  “’Twas sent by special courier. Very special courier.”

  “You mean, like Netflix from Heaven?”

  “Aye. I think you and the shrew should both take a look.”

  Elena shook her head hopelessly. Davy slid the DVD out of the sleeve and popped it into the player. The television glowed with life.

  A slight man with thin hair and glasses appeared on the screen. He could have passed for your average bean counter—if he hadn’t spoken. When he did, a deep, authoritative voice rolled from his skinny body like the note of a tuba blown from a piccolo. He aimed his words directly at me and Elena, commanding our attention.

  “Greetings, children,” he said in a thick English accent. “The purpose of this communication is to set you on a mission of great importance. Forces from the Abyss have been set in motion. Powers are stirring that have long lain dormant, and one who calls himself the Gray Admiral is rising. The protection of the Tree of Life has been compromised, and we fear now for its safety. We cannot allow its destruction before the appointed time.

  “You, Taylor Davis, have been hand-picked from generations of individuals to combat these forces, your name predicted centuries ago,” the anchorman continued. “Likewise, your partner has been chosen with care. A great task is now being set before you, that of relighting the mighty Flame of Findul. It is the only way to thwart the plans of the dark one. You must find a way to succeed.

  “I realize this is a heavy assignment to place on two children. As with any quest, the experience will be as valuable to you as the knowledge you gain. Therefore, you will only be given these brief initial instructions: Start at the beginning. If you have any hope of success, you must fully understand your adversary.

  “You may be feeling overwhelmed at the newness and enormity of your situation. That is understandable. But please realize you have been assigned additional help that will be arriving momentarily. I have every confidence that the mission given to you will be successful.”

  The screen went dark.

  “Now you know as much as I do,” Davy said. He slid the DVD back into its case and handed it to me.

  I stared at the blank screen. Half of me just wanted to wake up, to return to the world of pimples, peer pressure, and puberty that I had grown accustomed to. But there could no longer be any question about the veracity of Davy’s claims. I had the feeling that everything I’d ever known was about to change, and that I’d beg for biology textbooks and overweight PE teachers before the end.

  The quiet of the moment was interrupted by a knock on the door. Davy moved to answer it, his bulk blocking my view of our visitor. “You!” he thundered.

  A cheerful voice answered the greeting. “Ah, Davy. So good to see you.” There was the sound of sniffing. “I see you still haven’t adapted well to the rules of modern hygiene, have you, my friend? Stand aside. Stand aside. I’ve an engagement to attend to.”

  “Impossible!” Davy cried out. “They couldn’t have sent you!”

  A fellow wearing a stringy black wig, leather pants, and a glittering military style jacket strutted into the room. A white sequined glove covered his left hand. “Ow!” he crowed and spun in a tight circle, ending with a flourish on his tiptoes. It was the worst Michael Jackson impersonation I’d ever seen.

  “Who are you supposed to be today?” Davy muttered with extreme distaste.

  The fellow flipped a black fedora over his wig and held the pose. “Do you not recognize the man who changed rock and roll for all time?”

  Davy cocked one eye skeptically. “No.”

  The man performed a dance move reminiscent of an old woman with a broken hip and burst into song:

  “Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it

  No one wants to be defeated—”

  “What in the name of Blackbeard’s boots are you going on about?” Davy bellowed. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  Elena broke in with a groan of disbelief. “You have 538 channels and you’ve never heard of the King of Pop?”

  The young man gave Elena a beaming smile. “You seem to be a young lady of rare intelligence. My name is Amikim, but you can call me Mike.”

  He held out his hand and she shook it automatically. “Elena.”

  Mike turned to me. “And you must be young Davy Jones.”

  “Uh,” I stuttered as he pumped my hand, “actually my name is Taylor Davis.”

  Mike turned to Davy in confusion. “He’s the one, isn’t he? The big kahuna? The VIP? The top cat?”

  I never met Michael Jackson, so I can’t testify to his personality, but I think he might have been appalled at Mike’s representation. Mike was, however, doing a killer performance of an idiot in a bad wig.

  “If by that you mean to ask if he is the One of Two Names, of course he is, you dunderhead,” Davy burst out, his left eye flicking ominously again. “Would he be here if he wasn’t?”

  A wisp of confusion crossed the fellow’s face. “I thought when the two names met they’d be a bit more recognizable.” He turned to me. “But it’s cool. We’re going to have a swell time together, you and I. I’ve been assigned to your case.”

  Davy slammed the door. “Heaven help us all!”

  I was beginning to get a horrible suspicion. “Can I ask how you two know each other?”

  “Davy and I have been swinging together for at least four hundred years.”

  Davy turned to me with a black look. “This here is the jackanapes that let me eat of the tree. He’s the one that caused all the trouble you and I are both in.”

  Oh man! I knew it. I just knew it.

  “Chill out, sailor boy,” Mike told Davy. “This is no time to hold grudges. I have a job to do and I intend to see it done.”

  “What are they thinking,” Davy lamented, “sending a screw-up like you out on assignment? You couldn’t even make it through the music program without dropping out.”

  I glanced at Mike questioningly.

  “Hey, have you ev
er tried out for an angel choir?” he asked defensively. “You think the competition in band class is tough…”

  Davy waggled a finger in my face. “It falls to you to be the brains of this operation. Don’t trust to the dunderhead’s judgment.” He lifted his eyes skyward. “Thank heaven the lass seems to have some sense. Focus on your objective, watch your back, and above all, never let the sword out of your sight.”

  I remembered the weapon in my hands. “Won’t people get just a mite suspicious if I go about the countryside dragging this thing with me?”

  “Of course they will!” Mike declared. “That’s why I packed this little cherry.”

  He rummaged around in his jacket and produced a pink cloth cosmetic case, the kind girls carry to the bathroom to put on lip gloss and powder their nose. He handed it to me.

  I looked at it suspiciously, not taking it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Put the sword in it.” He shook it a little, enticing me.

  “It’s, like, four inches deep,” I said, still not taking it.

  “Makes it easy to hide.” He grabbed my hand and forced the case into it.

  “You want me to put the sword in here?” I asked doubtfully, dangling the thing between my thumb and forefinger. It was quilted, I noticed, and covered in little red hearts.

  Elena was making no attempt to hide her amusement.

  “I thought we’d established that already.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever.”

  I flipped the sword over, bracing the hilt between my feet, and positioned the case upside down over the point. Then I jerked it downward, fully intending to slice out the bottom, but the top third of the sword disappeared.

  I froze in shock. Carefully, slowly, I raised the bag. The sword reappeared.

  Elena smirked. “Nice trick,” she said. “What is it, some kind of telescoping blade?”

  Without a word, I handed the bag to her. She took it and shrugged, a little cockily, and pulled it over the point. The sword encountered no resistance. It simply vanished.

  Elena faltered and the bag slipped from her grasp. It drifted effortlessly over the blade and rested on my feet, a few inches of sword hilt visible beneath it.

  We glanced at each other. Elena’s face had gone completely pale. I think she figured out her algebra exam really would be taking place without her.