Mission Beyond The Stars: Book #1 of "Saga Of The Lost Worlds" by Neely and Dobbs

by Neely Dobbs

CHAPTER 43: Cronul

   

  His senses swam sluggishly up through the depths of his subconscious. Strange images and patterns floated from the edge of his troubled consciousness, ebbing into and out of his mind.  He felt himself floating in a turbulent sea with his face barely above the water's surface. A sense of constant danger intruded as small waves repeatedly threatened to lap over his face.

  Suddenly the threatening sea was gone, and he found himself transported to a brilliantly sunlit garden.  He was vaguely aware of people swimming and frolicking in the deep pools and around the splashing fountains in the background.

  A sudden cry, a voice shrieking in terror, echoed from the distance.  He desperately wanted to rush to that panic stricken person's aid, but his feet and legs were so heavy that he could not move.  A subsuming feeling of helplessness flowed over him.

  The scene vanished, leaving only the chill echoing mists of the singing fountains.

  Slowly, through a shimmering, dissipating haze, patterns and images intruded.  Oddly distorted at first, they gradually took on abstract clarity, as though materializing in deep space.  Strange objects, some great and some small, swirled at the edge of his vision.  A massive object— a sort of vessel?— grew larger and still larger until it filled his view wherever he looked.  Quickly he was dwarfed and encapsulated, as a gnat might be stiflingly entombed by flowing amber.  The claustrophobic fear of being surrounded and engulfed gave way to a soothing peacefulness as the amber transformed into a soft and embracing glow, filling him with an uplifting sense of great and noble purpose.  That sense of mission warmed him to the core of his being, imbuing him with the driving urge to fulfill his purpose.

  Before he could act on that desire, the entire scene faded.

  In measured segments, he regained a tenuous connection with reality, became aware of something whispering across his face, and tried weakly to brush it away.  It persisted.  Gradually, imperceptibly, the balance between sleeping and waking tilted.  A figure loomed over him, removing the tickling corner of the pillowcase from his face.  Jerking to wakefulness, Jazon recognized Hoga's smiling face.

  “Yes!  Oh, yes! Very good.  You are rested now?  Do you not think you should now arise?  You have questions to ask. Yes? Answers to discover?”

  Jazon was instantly alert.  Yes! So many questions must be answered!

  Hoga smiled his assurance and said, “We will discuss important issues shortly.  We have placed toiletry articles on the table.  When you have refreshed yourself and attended to your ablutions, follow the path back to the garden where we first met.  Food will be ready for your breakfast.  When you have broken your fast, we will visit further.”  Casting another reassuring smile over his shoulder, Hoga departed.

  Jazon sifted through the already extraordinary experience of this trip.  Our arrival on Hoga's planet…an uncannily familiar train station…a carriage ride… my meeting with Hoga…an impossibly spacious cottage…the confrontation with myself as a youngster…the harrowing escape from the encounter…my initials carved in a headboard…the sense of overwhelming purpose.

  Obviously, at some point, I surrendered to fatigue and slept.

  Trying to sort it all out, he pondered, confused.  How much was reality and how much dreams?  Are they entirely separate from each other? The events of yesterday already seem to be a part of my remote past.  He rubbed his chin and felt short stubble.  He recalled that Hoga had said time did not pass in this place, yet his beard seemed to have grown the right amount for one night.

  He looked at the bed and then the “other” door.  Do I dare to go exploring again?  Did I, in fact, explore last night, or was that also a dream?  He moved to the door and hesitantly put his hand on the knob.  I'll just open the door silently, tiptoe down the hall, slip into that kitchen, and peek through that door.

  But what if, just behind that door, his other self still waited? He promised himself he would look into it after he had cleaned up. Once he had shaved and dressed, he decided it would be best not to go back through that door until after eating. He quickly exited through the cottage's front door.

  Following the familiar path, he realized that the eerily dancing night scene reflected by the sconces' flames had been transformed with the coming of dawn.  Delicate shrubs and towering trees — much larger than he had thought— bordered the path, enclosing and overhanging it to form an arboreal tunnel. Muted sunlight filtered through the dissipating mist above the lushly verdant enclosure.  Blooming flowers— some growing on the ground and others depending from climbing vines— were everywhere. They painted the landscape with an artist's palette from purest whites to palest pastels to the deepest night indigo and they scented the fragrant air with a pleasant sweetness.  The setting's natural beauty swept through him like a refreshing breeze, gently urging him to release the unsettling tensions of the previous night.

  Hoga again waited at the rough wooden table in the lush clearing.  He smiled cordially.  “Ah!  Yes! You are now fully awake.  Did you sleep well?”

  Jazon could detect no shade of hidden meaning in that voice, but the depths of Hoga's knowing eyes hid the suggestion of some hidden mirth.  He stifled the urge to blurt out a string of questions.  No, not yet.  First he would attempt to approach the matter obliquely. Patiently. Calmly. Logically..

  “Oh, I believe I slept well enough.  But I…” He searched for the right words.  “I had some very strange dreams…from my childhood.”  He hesitated, unsure, and stared down at his hands.

  Hoga smiled broadly and prompted, “Yes?  And…?”

  Jazon's thoughts raced.  What does he want?  Does he just want to hear about my night's dreams, or does he really long to savor the anxiety and discomfort they caused? Could he allow himself to focus on the consuming dread he had experienced in coming face to face with himself?  Or the chagrin of being unable to get himself to open that door again this morning?

  His feeling of embarrassment exhumed and revivified a deeply buried memory.

  Jazon was four years old, laughingly soaring toward the overcast sky.

  He had slipped secretly from his own room and into his favorite hide-away in all the world: the much used swing attached to the high limb of a towering tree, behind the barn, at the far corner of his home's back yard.

  Two older boys— all of nine or ten— swaggered into Jazon's private domain.  Rather than being disturbed by their arrival, he was delighted.  He idolized them, was enthralled by their superior knowledge, and awed by their greater abilities.  He longed to be accepted by them.

  He launched himself from the swing, landing somewhat awkwardly but unhurt— except at the point of his pride.  He tried to cover his embarrassment by emulating the swagger of his heroes, striding up to meet them with every ounce of bravado he could muster.  He planted his feet firmly, standing as tall as his four-year old body could stretch.  Then he called out to them, hoping they had come to play with him.

  They immediately confided to Jazon, with quavering voices, that they had accidentally created a fearful “Star Demon” which had escaped, was now approaching the sun, and was about to eat it.  Jazon began searching, peering intently at the heavy cloud cover in the vicinity of the sun.  He searched anxiously for several minutes, but could barely see the sun and could find no Star Demon…whatever one might look like.

  Nor could he see the covert smiles and jesting winks shared by the older boys standing behind him.

  Then dimly, through the high thick clouds, Jazon saw that the sun. It did seem strange.  Concentrating on that largely obscured circle, he saw— to his horror— that it was no longer a full disc. A curved chunk was missing from its side.  He shouted his alarm, waving his arms wildly and frantically pointing to make sure the older boys saw it.

  They assured Jazon that the terrible sight was the result of their Sun Demon's monstrous bite, and that soon their sun would be completely devoured by the beast's insatiable appetite.  After that, they mou
rnfully intoned, the demon would move on relentlessly toward another star.  But it would be too late— their world would be left forever dark and horribly cold.

  Awestruck by the sight of the progressively dwindling sun, he considered the implications: forever dark (and he didn't much like the dark), always night (and Mom wouldn't let him play outside at night) and forever cold (Jazon shivered).  For the rest of his life he would be miserable and afraid, and never again be allowed to go out and play!

  Only a thin slice of the sun remained, and his world was being shrouded by an eerie darkness.  Panic-stricken, he cried and begged the boys to do something— ANYTHING!— to make the demon stop, to bring the light back.  Never had he felt such terror.

  Then, incredibly, these boys he had so admired were laughing and jeering at him.  They called him names: dumb kid…mama's boy…crybaby.  They further wounded him with the sneering jibe that anyone smarter than the dumbest animal would know it was just the moon moving in front of the sun, hiding its light, and that the sun would soon return unharmed.  They taunted him, ridiculed him for falling for such a silly story, saying he must be too stupid to live!

  Jazon was humiliated, desolated, crushed.  Tears rolled acidly down his cheeks as he ran for the house, desperate to escape from the cruelly taunting boys who had uncaringly made him feel such a fool.

  He returned to the present, quivering with suppressed fear and anger. He focused on Hoga.  Has this simpering little fool of a senile old elf somehow created all my confusion, taunting me, hoping I will confirm the efficacy of his technique?  Does Hoga view me as nothing more than an interesting lab specimen to use and dispose of at his whim?

  He tamped down his frustration and rage, unwilling to give Hoga any such perverse satisfaction. “Oh, just a couple of dreams related to some childhood experiences,” he answered as offhandedly as possible.  “Just a remote part of my past that probably wouldn't be of any interest to you.”

  He could detect neither surprise nor annoyance in Hoga's placid countenance, but that voice had lost its usual lilt and the ever-present smile had faded. “Jazon, this inaccurate image you hold of us— of a silly little pointed-eared being past his prime, physically non-threatening and verging on senility— this misplaced image reveals that you have severely underestimated us. This must change!”

  Jazon twice sputtered in shock. First, at Hoga's ability to snatch the image from his mind and, next, at the sudden brutal force of the words.  Hoga merely raised a hand to quiet him, but inexorably resumed.  “In no way do we mean to threaten you, but we must indelibly impress upon you the fact that we have powers... powers you must appreciate and trust in, if they are to sustain you through future ordeals.”

  Jazon glanced away, hoping to hide his sudden fear and confusion.  Before he could order his feelings, Hoga barked with commanding authority, “Jazon, look into our eyes!” It came so suddenly and with such compelling force that no resistance could be offered.  He simply looked, as he had been ordered.

  The usually placid face had degenerated and morphed into a unyielding scowl of indignation and regret. Hoga closed his eyes. Then slowly, gradually, those eyes opened again.

  As those lids mercilessly parted, Jazon's body snapped bowstring tight. His breath caught in his throat. His heart raced. Every nerve fiber was electrified.  Hoga glared with piercing red-rimmed, flaming eyes, the malignant eyes of a demon, eyes filled with ravenously caustic malevolence. Those nightmare eyes scorched straight through Jazon.

  For an unbearable eternity their gazes remained locked.  Every cell of Jazon's body writhed in insufferable agony:  the sweet, cloying smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose; the sizzling of his crisping skin crackled in his ears; drops of melting fat from his already seared hands splattered painfully on his legs; wild arcs of ripping electricity tortured and shredded every neuron of his brain.

  Hoga slowly closed his eyes, then reopened them again.  The familiar cool gray eyes of gentle patience and alert intelligence had returned, and Jazon's form returned to undamaged normality.  No trace of agony or disfigurement remained.

  Hoga smiled sweetly and spoke softly.  “Jazon, none of the raw malice you have perceived was real.  Nor were the destructive physical results of that apparent venom.  It was merely a minor effect we created as a small lesson to modify your impression of us.  We could offer even more convincing demonstrations.  Do you require additional convincing?”

  Jazon gave no response.

  He was capable of none.

  Although the physical agony had passed and his body was impossibly free of injury, the horrific intensity of the experience had inflicted utterly devastating psychological damage.

  Hoga's bright smile quickly dimmed.  He tilted his head slightly to the left, closed his eyes briefly, and opened them again. “Perhaps," he murmured, "this aspect of the HOGA has overestimated Jazon's strength."