by Kevin C Noel
Garrick didn’t say anything. He looked around cautiously before he sat down with her. He still hadn’t figured out the best way to tell her to elope with him. Staring at her dewy eyes had robbed him of all volition.
He opened his mouth to speak when Arianne interrupted him. “Something terrible has happened, Ricky.”
“What?” asked Garrick, not entirely sure anything worse could have possibly happened that night.
“My parents… they told me we’re leaving.” Garrick wasn’t sure what to say. The perplexed look on his face was enough reason for Arianne to explain. “They tell me we’re leaving the country. But I don’t want to go. I want to be with you. We’re going to Dartmouth together!”
He began to nod when he recalled why he was there. “Something happened,” he started as he rubbed his aching head. “My father has killed our initial plan.” Arianne gasped in disbelief. “But no, don’t worry. I have another one… another plan,” he reassured her. “I’ve recently been offered a place to stay, away from Reading—far away, I hope. And I still want you to come with me.”
“A place? Where? With who?”
He swallowed spit. “Mr. LeGrey.”
She was silent for a while. She regarded him for some minutes, waiting to be sure he wasn’t joking. “Mr. LeGrey? The substitute History teacher?” Garrick nodded. “You two have a … relationship outside class?”
“Yes…, I mean, no,” Garrick stumbled. “He just knows of my predicament. And you know he isn’t from around here. He travels all over the world and his time in Reading is done. He offered me the chance to follow him and start over far from here. But, I cannot imagine myself starting over without… without you.”
She knew he wasn’t making any sense. He was so determined to leave Reading he would follow a stranger to parts unknown. Yet, she couldn’t help but smile at the boy who beamed at her passionately. She loved him—his stupid ideas could never phase her.
“Okay,” she finally said. “Wherever you go, I go.” Garrick had suddenly dismissed the pain coursing through his body and kissed her as he held onto her tightly. Not long after, a sudden cough from behind them made them stop. As Garrick looked over his shoulder, he saw Octavius glowering toward the front porch of Arianne’s house. Garrick looked over to examine what he had fixed his eyes on and saw Ms. and Mr. McMahon walking toward them ominously. Her father, with a pretty nice build for a middle-aged man, and her mother, slim figured with long strawberry blonde hair identical to her daughter’s, both looked absolutely miffed.
“I think it’s time you finished saying goodbye to your friend, Garrick,” said Octavius, his eyes still fixed on the suspicious parents. Garrick had walked up to Octavius to explain his intention to bring Arianne along, when he heard Mr. McMahon yell “NOW!”
What followed happened too quickly. Someone—a man wearing a black shirt, pants and shoes—had sprung up from behind the fence and grabbed Arianne. She screamed for Garrick. Octavius didn’t seem particularly moved by this as he instantly put his hand inside his jacket pocket while fixing his gaze on the McMahons. Garrick, on the other hand, had already aimed to run after Arianne who had stretched her hand hoping he’d pull her away from her strange assailant, but he was tugged toward Octavius, who had grabbed him by the neck.
“What are you doing?” Garrick protested, half choking. “Let go of me!” It was then that he noticed other men and women, dressed in a similar fashion and brandishing swords, running toward them from the other end of the block. Octavius pulled out a handful of blue powder from his pocket and spread it all over their feet. A blue flame had begun to engulf them. Garrick screamed in terror, yet Octavius still stood unfazed. It was then that Garrick noticed one of the men had thrown his sword at them and when it almost struck Garrick’s chest, the flame had engulfed him completely until he was consumed by complete darkness.
Jacob Kal sat still, his eyes shut, as he processed the new information. The emotion building up within him was too great and difficult to contain. Indeed, he hadn’t felt this way in decades. And the last time he felt strongly about anything, it involved the same person—it involved him.
Kolten regarded his Questioner with quiet distaste. By reporting back to Kal, he felt like a traitor. Regardless of what he felt, he could not keep the news from his Questioner—at least, not when his Questioner was the powerful Lord Jacob Kalder, Son of the Originator and High Lord of Terraincardia.
“So…” he began. His tone was calm and measured, taking extra care to shroud his true feelings. “Octavius believes he has found him? He thinks he has Volant?”
“He seemed convinced, yes,” answered Kolten.
Kal chuckled as he stood up from his throne-like chair. “It’s obviously nonsense. Volant has been dead for years. We all saw it happen!” Kolten nodded. “Yet, Octavius has been known to stick to his… obsessions, has he not?”
“I trust if he believes he has found the Ambler, he’ll follow it through.”
Kal bit his bottom lip and smiled at his loyal Assenter. He turned away from him and paced a while before facing him again. “That will be all, Kolten. Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”
Kolten bowed his head uneasily and walked out of the dimly-lit room.
Alone, Kal took a moment to consider the implications of such a discovery. Then he took another moment to plot out his next steps. He would perform his duty.
He would kill this fake Volant.
‘My eyeballs explore my eyelids. I’m awake but not quite able to move. What happened to me? I struggle to remember. Where am I? How did I get here? Am I dead? Maybe I am—after all, last I remember, a sword was thrown at me. Wait a moment, I do remember! I was with Arianne, and then her parents showed up, followed by some strange people in black. I wanted to run away with her, but someone overpowered her and dragged her beyond my reach. She screamed for my help… she stretched out her hand. But… but I was held back by someone much stronger—Octavius! Octavius dragged me and he… he burned us? I remember a blue flame covering our bodies. What happened?’
Gasping for air, Garrick sat up from the bed. Cold droplets of sweat slid down his neck; his eyes were sore, and his head thumped painfully. He felt like he was awakening from an intense dream which, as usual, he could not remember. As he had begun to slide off the bed, he realized it wasn’t his. His bed was short and narrow, this one was long and wide; his bed was hard and rough, this one was soft and smooth. Where was he?
The room was massive. Bigger than any he had ever seen. There was an affluent air to it and a striking prevalence of red and yellow in its decor. But the most notable feature of this mammoth bedroom stared at him from opposite the four-poster bed. Before him was a portrait of an aged man with bright green eyes; his countenance bespoke a malicious, yet noble disposition. Garrick wasn’t sure who he was, yet he regarded him with curious familiarity.
Garrick jumped out of bed and walked up to the massive portrait. The man’s pose was reminiscent of King Henry VIII’s in Holbein’s portrait. Noticeable on the left lapel of his top was a medal of a lion, and behind him was a blue flag with a fire-breathing lion in its center. At the bottom of the portrait’s frame was a golden inscription.
Volant Aurimas Kesgaila.
The name sent a familiar shiver down his spine. Who was he and why were his name and face so familiar?
“Good evening, Master Kesgaila.” Garrick looked over his shoulder and noticed a skinny young man standing by the door with his arms crossed behind him and grinning affectionately. He wore a black three-piece suit and his head drooped in a vulturine manner as he regarded Garrick elatedly. “I trust you had a pleasant rest. You’ve been out cold for almost 3 days.”
Garrick gawked at the beaming man. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, Master Kesgaila.” He continued smiling as though he had seen an old friend for the first time in years.
“Master…?
“Pardon my excitement, sir. I’ve never been afforded the privilege of addressi
ng you in person. Would you prefer I called you Lord?”
“Listen, man,” Garrick was backing away. “You’ve got the wrong guy. My name’s Garrick Hartmann. I’m not your Master or Lord Kesgaila.”
The man’s expression could easily be translated as a mixture of utter bewilderment and fascination. Despite Garrick’s protests, however, the man still seemed utterly convinced he was grinning at Volant, albeit a rather young and lanky version of him. “In that case,” he said. He bowed his head as he introduced himself: “Rumsfeld Choirhall the Seventh at your service. I have served the Kesgailos as my father did before me and his father did before him. I have been instructed by Master LeGrey to invite you down for dinner. The bathroom is over there, and fresh clothes are available for you in the closet. I did, however, take the liberty of picking something out for you,” he pointed at a pile of clothes neatly folded onto a chair beside the bed. “See you downstairs, sir.”
As Rumsfeld walked out, Garrick did not remember to ask where he was. It was a question that should have mattered the most, yet, for a reason he could not explain, he was focused on the portrait of Volant. Why did the young Rumsfeld man confuse him for a person on an ancient portrait? Or maybe he thought he was a descendant? But Garrick was a Hartmann, not a Kesgaila.
Kesgaila. What sort of a name was Kesgaila? It wasn’t one he had ever heard. Yet he still couldn’t understand why it struck him as familiar. The name lingered in his mind like a faded childhood memory struggling for renewed prominence. And the more he pondered on it, the further into obscurity it went. The feeling frustrated him. But he had to halt this strenuous exercise of forceful retention to attend to more immediate and pressing matters. His tummy had begun to sing an all too familiar song. It was wise to take up Rumsfeld’s offer.
The questions would come after his hunger was sated.
Wearing the blue shirt and plain grey trousers Rumsfeld had picked out for him, Garrick found his way to the dining hall. The long table could have easily accommodated nearly fifteen people. One end was fully stocked with food Garrick had only seen on television or magazines. A massive turkey stood out amid the other sumptuous dishes. He’d had turkey before, but he always ate it in secret whenever his mother cooked one for Thanksgiving. Garrick would damn the consequences of stealing some and usually ate some hurriedly in the basement. The rush made it hard to savor. So, he was visibly excited to see a steaming one right in front of him.
Rumsfeld pulled out a chair and gestured for Garrick to sit down. Not accustomed to being served, Garrick eyed him suspiciously as he did so. “Master LeGrey says you may begin without him,” Rumsfeld announced. “What would you like to start with, sir?”
“T…turkey, please,” he said.
Rumsfeld expertly carved up a piece of Turkey and served it to a drooling Garrick. “Feel free to eat as much as you’d like, sir.” Rumsfeld walked up to a corner of the dining room and stood there quietly as Garrick ate voraciously. From the turkey, he switched to the steak; from the steak, he switched to the lamb; from the lamb, he switched to the duck. He had never been blessed with so much meat in his life. At this rate, he would no longer be a lanky teen.
Once Garrick stretched to grab a bottle of red wine at the head of the table, Rumsfeld said: “that is for Master LeGrey, sir. You’re underage. Consider a glass of cold soda.”
Slightly embarrassed by his own gluttony, Garrick drank the glass of orange soda instead. “Do you work here alone, Rummy?” he asked.
Rumsfeld flinched. “Er… yes sir.”
Garrick noted his reaction. “No one’s ever called you Rummy?”
“My grandfather used to be called Rummy, sir. Never me.”
“So, you’re alone here? How do you cope? This is a mansion. Shouldn’t you have a team of maids and cooks at your disposal to help with the cleaning and cooking?”
“I can handle it. Besides, the owner of this mansion is rarely around. I haven’t had to make such a big meal in years. It was fun for a change. It can get pretty boring here.”
“And why isn’t the owner usually around?”
A voice from behind Garrick said, “because he’s forgotten he owns it.” Octavius walked into the dining room wearing a stylish three-piece suit. “You started without me, excellent. Allow me to join in,” he said as he sat and began to dish out some food, mostly vegetables.
“Good evening, Mr. LeGrey. You have a lovely house. Why become a substitute teacher if you can afford this?”
Octavius chuckled. “No. this place isn’t mine. I’m merely house-sitting.”
“House-sitting for who?”
“An old friend.”
Garrick fell silent for a moment. There was something to ask but he had completely forgotten. What was it? It felt like it was at the tip of his thoughts.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” asked Octavius.
“Being tied up in my basement. Everything else is blurry.”
“Yes,” said Octavius, his eyes fixed on the young man. “You were rather delirious.”
The question suddenly came to him. “Where are we, Mr. LeGrey?”
“Rumsfeld hasn’t told you?”
“He wasn’t making any sense. He called me Kesgaila. Who is that?”
Octavius glanced at the corner where Rumsfeld still stood at attention. “Yes,” he began, “Rumsfeld isn’t entirely up to speed, I’m afraid. He and I haven’t done much talking since we arrived. He was busy attending to your wounds.” Octavius filled a glass with some red wine and took a long satisfying swig, draining the glass almost instantly. “I see you let yourself go,” he said as he gestured toward the empty dishes on Garrick’s corner of the table. “When was the last time you were treated to such a meaty marvel?”
“Never,” said Garrick without a thought.
Octavius simply smiled reassuringly. “I, for one, have lost my appetite for meat. Although occasionally I allow myself to indulge. I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a vacuous vegetarian.”
Garrick raised an eyebrow as he noticed a rather subtle change in Octavius’ mannerisms. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he figured it had something to do with him being much more comfortable in this environment. “Mr. LeGrey, where are we?” he asked again. “I’m fairly certain this isn’t Reading.”
“It isn’t.”
“So where?”
“Would you care for some more lamb?”
“Mr. LeGrey stop changing the topic,” said a visibly irritated Garrick.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me…?”
“Octavius, where the hell are we?”
Octavius hesitated for a moment before dropping the silverware and standing up from his chair. “Very well,” he sighed as he paced around the table as though he were contemplating the best possible way to explain things. “Garrick, we’re in Kaunas, Lithuania. This manor is just one of many residences owned by the noble Kęsgailos.”
Garrick said nothing for a lengthy period. The words ‘manor’ and ‘Lithuania’ replayed in his head repeatedly. He examined Octavius carefully to determine the slightest sign of jest in his eyes. He was in no mood for games. “I believe,” he finally said, “that you know exactly what I’m going to ask you. So how about we save time and I let you go on with your explanations. I’m not going to pretend that piece of information isn’t shocking. But, I do not intend to slow us both down by becoming hysterical.”
Octavius raised an eyebrow upon hearing such an unnatural response. The harsh nature of Garrick’s life had turned him into a stoic, he thought. As soon as he had taken a moment to compose himself, he said, “We flew in.”
“I don’t have a passport,” Garrick interjected, still with an abnormally calm demeanor.
Slightly irritated, Octavius continued. “I had one made.” As he said this, Rumsfeld placed an American passport on top of the table. “At considerable expense, if I might add.”
Garrick examined it and saw an old class picture of himself. “How long have
you planned this?” Octavius did not answer this question. This irked Garrick. The situation was not only peculiar, but troubling. Who was this man and what did he want with him? “I don’t remember flying,” he muttered.
“Are you sure about that?” Octavius asked.
Garrick ignored Rumsfeld’s objections as he filled his glass with red wine and paced the dining room. If he could not remember flying, he must have had one of his disarming panic attacks which often led to short-term memory loss. But why couldn’t he remember anything from after their encounter in the basement? He could not help but feel a huge chunk of his memory had been wiped.
Eventually, he remembered one crucial detail. He turned to face Octavius who was still eating his dinner. “Where is Arianne?”
“I’m afraid she couldn’t make it. “
“What do you mean?”
“Her parents left town. You don’t recall her empty house when we got there?”
Garrick bit his lip in frustration. His mind raced. Could it be because of his fight with Dennis? He couldn’t fathom how an altercation between teenagers for the affections of their daughter would motivate the McMahons to leave town in such a hurry. And Arianne… how could she leave without telling him? She could not have done that to him—he was certain. None of this made sense.
“Please, Garrick,” continued Octavius. “Don’t ask me anymore questions about Arianne. Her issue confuses me as much as it does you.” Octavius was not lying when he said this. He was concerned about the Shimshonites who attempted to ambush them at the McMahon residence. How did they find him?
“But it doesn’t make sense, Octavius. I need to find her.”
Octavius sighed in frustration. “All in good time, my friend. When we are done.”
Garrick flinched. “Done with what? I only needed an out. Somewhere to stay until I was on my feet. I never expected to be dragged behind the iron curtain!”
“You’ve never considered visiting this part of the world?” Octavius jested. A scowling Garrick had begun to walk out of the dining room, clearly fed up with the inutile conversation.
