WINTERMORE
BY
ARON SETHLEN
Copyright © 2015 by Aron Sethlen. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons living or dead, business, events, or locales is coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
A Station Press book.
WINTERMORE
AEON OF LIGHT
BOOK ONE
CONTENTS
MAP
ONE
NOCKLIN CREEK
TWO
THE LIGHT
THREE
THE BOYS
FOUR
A SILVER SURPRISE
FIVE
THE WEIGHT OF THESE STRAPS
SIX
EVERYBODY DIES
SEVEN
SALTY TREAT
EIGHT
THE CRAZY RED EYE
NINE
THE ALLEYS
TEN
THE LONG NIGHT
ELEVEN
WISDOM BROUGHT TO LIFE
TWELVE
THE BEAR SLAYER
THIRTEEN
A FLOWER IN BLOOM
FOURTEEN
WHISTLE WHILE YOU WORK
FIFTEEN
A GIFT REVEALED
SIXTEEN
THE ANIMAL WITHIN
SEVENTEEN
YOU’LL GET WHAT YOUR OWED
EIGHTEEN
NOT ALL LOVE AVAILS
NINETEEN
CAN’T WIN THEM ALL
TWENTY
STRENGTH TO MOVE ON
TWENTY-ONE
THE YELTON
TWENTY-TWO
SEEING GHOSTS
TWENTY-THREE
A GOOD LAUGH
TWENTY-FOUR
ONE IN THE SAME
TWENTY-FIVE
GOODBYE
TWENTY-SIX
A NEW FRIEND
TWENTY-SEVEN
MORE LIKE ME
TWENTY-EIGHT
FIVE-CARD DRAW
TWENTY-NINE
A BETTER ROAD
THIRTY
REMINDERS OF HOME
THIRTY-ONE
NOT WHO THEY SEEM
THIRTY-TWO
A REAL CHARMER
THIRTY-THREE
THE ONE & ONLY YAZ
THIRTY-FOUR
LET’S DO THIS
THIRTY-FIVE
PRETA PRETA PENTER
THIRTY-SIX
UP IN SMOKE
THIRTY-SEVEN
LOST & FOUND
THIRTY-EIGHT
WORDS & WITS
THIRTY-NINE
A DEAL IS STRUCK
FORTY
HONOR AMONGST FRIENDS
FORTY-ONE
UNDERESTIMATING YOUR FOE
FORTY-TWO
ACROBATS OF THE SEA
NOCKLIN CREEK
An adolescent boy with shaggy brown hair sidesteps a puddle. Cool misty air clings to his skin as he races through a hollow of thinning trees, lining the patchy grass-covered road. Wet multicolored leaves plaster the muddy ground.
A decrepit wooden sign pokes out of the overgrowth. Nocklin Crossing 12 to 5 is etched between the dirt and the moss.
“They’re on us and closing fast,” the boy says, frantically turning his head to look behind him.
A hooded man on a motorcycle quickly approaches. His dark-brown leather duster flaps in the breeze. Trailing him, another motorcycle and six men riding horses. The motorcycle engines hum and sputter as a brownish-grey cloud plumes in their wake.
I’ve got to get to the crossing or no escape, the boy says to himself, out of breath. He glances back at an old man skipping and hobbling, balancing his weight on a crooked walking stick. We move too slow, we move too slow, come on.
The old man’s weak bones unable to keep up, he slows to a crawl. “Glynn, slow down,” the old man says, gasping for air.
Glynn skids to a halt and waves for the old man to move faster. “Iago, come on, they’re gaining on us.” He eyes a steep jagged cliff rising above the pine trees. He shakes his head in frustration and turns in the opposite direction toward a large creek. A rickety wooden dock extends out into a dark, calm section of the water. Two flimsy signs hang from a thick post reading: Nocklin Crossing—Gone.
“No!” Glynn scans the creek for another way to cross. It’s too wide, it’s too wide. He spins toward thick bushes on top of an embankment rising away from the road and leading up to the forest’s edge. Glynn stutter steps and moves toward the giant pines.
“Wait,” Iago says, thrusting his walking stick into the rain-saturated ground.
Glynn peeks at the old man while still inching toward the forest. “But they’re almost on us.”
“Wait, Glynn,” Iago says with a steady voice.
“We’re done.” Glynn lowers his head in defeat. He faces the old man and searches for any sign of hope.
Iago’s leather face is dark and wrinkled, grey hollow eyes that forgot remorse long ago stare back at Glynn.
Glynn glances amongst death approaching, the old man, and his escape into the forest. Again he steps toward the pine trees and the embankment.
“I said wait.” Iago raises and thrusts his walking stick back into the ground.
Glynn flinches to a stop and draws a dagger with unsteady hand. He glances back at Iago. “Please, they’re gonna kill us.”
“Steady yourself.”
A hazy aqua-blue light forms under Iago’s feet. The haze suddenly sucks together, morphing into two thin glowing strings of light inching along the ground away from him.
Glynn’s eyes widen, staring at the electricity arcing toward him. “What the heck?” He takes a shaky step back. “Iago?” Glynn turns away to escape into the forest, and the light shoots toward him in a blink of an eye, latching onto his ankle. The dagger falls out of his hand, and Glynn’s body goes rigid. I can’t walk, I can’t walk, Glynn says, though his lips don’t move.
“Calm yourself,” Iago’s voice says inside of Glynn’s head.
Glynn’s arms rise to his chest with palms inward. His eyes closed, Glynn’s a spectator of his own body; he feels yet can’t control.
“Aquadiam-Maidauqa,” Iago says.
Feet planted, energy surges through Glynn’s body in pulsating waves building in his chest. Through his extended arms, energy rushes out.
“Aquadiam-Maidauqa,” Glynn says, and his palms turn over and arms thrust toward the oncoming riders. A luminescent bluish orb bursts out of his hands; it lingers in the air for a split second and then disappears.
Glynn’s legs collapse, and he falls to his knees. He clutches his stomach—the wind knocked out of him. “What the hell was that?” Glynn’s head wells up in a fierce throb, and he presses his palm against his forehead.
The hooded man and the seven riders continue closing in on them.
“Get up,” Iago says, “into the forest, go and don’t stop, go, go now.”
Dazed with blurry vision, Glynn staggers getting to his feet.
Iago scowls. “Now boy, into the forest, don’t look back, don’t stop, don’t you ever stop!”
Glynn scrambles up the embankment and crawls on all fours into the bushes and pine trees. His head throbs harder, and his legs wobble. Brushing aside a whip-like branch, he takes a few steps deeper into the thick underbrush. He huddles behind a large rotting stump and peeks over the top back toward Iago. “Come on, move, old man.”
Iago stands motionless on the open path, staring down the oncoming riders, no words, no escape, no fear.
Rapids form in the creek and rushing water echoe
s off the cliffs. Swift currents cascade over the large boulders lying on Nocklin’s bank.
The hood’s black-and-chrome motorcycle skids to a stop, and he kicks out the kickstand. The other motorcycle sputters as it slows, and the rest of the riders dismount their horses a hundred paces away from Iago. All the riders hand their reins to a burly bearded man with a red sash around his waist, and he corrals the horses and leads them to the creek side of the road.
The motorcycle engines continue sputtering on idle, and the hooded man points at Iago as his men draw their weapons and move forward laughing and joking.
One of the men, bushy mustache and wearing a black leather duster similar to the hood’s, clashes two metal blades together in rhythm.
Glynn’s fingers pulse, and he digs his fingernails into the dank tree bark with every clash. “What are you doing? Run, old man.”
Fifty paces, forty paces, thirty, they close in.
With every step, the metal blades clash louder.
Leaves rustle and flutter across the road from a wind gust. Cascading water rumbles. Trees near the creek sway, and the branches shake. A gentle mist rises from the creek’s surface, creating a light fog drifting toward the men.
Iago shuffles his feet and props himself up on his walking stick.
The men stop talking and gaze at the creek and then to each other.
Shapes the size of a man’s head barely pierce the turbulent water’s surface.
The men stand still in confusion. Their laughing ceases, and the striking metal transitions to a weak, shaky grind. They eye the hooded man still standing by his cycle.
The hood slowly raises his arm and points at Iago. His long brown duster ripples from another wind gust. Only his pointy chin exposed—his face obscured by his hood.
Glynn peeks back toward Nocklin Creek.
Linear translucent mist columns ascend from the water. The columns mutate into twisted giant hands, then arms. The creek rises high in the air, hovering thirty feet above the road. The hands oscillate, the water flows through the arms as if blood giving them life.
The shaky men point at the creek floating above them. Some drop their weapons and take awkward steps toward the forest while others stand in place unsure of what to do next.
The hands go still, and with a violent twitch, each hand points at a man.
All the men freeze in place, shaking in their boots.
Then the creek’s hands spring toward their targets.
The men mutter and squeal, scurrying about like frantic rats on a sinking ship.
All six horses jump at the same time and pull the burly man holding the reins to the ground. The reins rip out of his sweaty fingers, and the spooked horses scatter.
The creek’s hands relentlessly chase their targets through the hollow, and hysteria ensues, men cuss and grunt and scream incoherent words, waving their arms and running in every direction looking for a place to escape or hide.
Iago stands firm, seemingly unafraid of the horror developing in front of him.
The hooded man drops to a knee and calmly tilts his head toward the ground.
The creek’s hands stalk their prey, grasping the air like steel traps until they find flesh.
Shrieks make Glynn shiver, and he digs his nails deeper into the spongy bark.
The men crawl and squirm, kicking and digging their fingers into the dirt as Nocklin Creek grips them tight, not letting go. The hands hoist them high above the road as they shake the men violently, until finally plunging them straight into the creek’s bubbling, black waters.
Another hand emerges from the depths and points at the hood. It shoots in his direction and crashes on the road, flattening with a watery splash. The water unnaturally sucks back together and morphs into a hand. Fingers spread wide, water spurts and drips off the ends. Five fingertips lower to the ground and gallop toward the hood like a bounding beast. The hand springs off the dirt like a long jumper toward the cycle.
The hood flinches and propels his body over the motorcycle seat with a cartwheel, landing on the other side. He hugs the dirt tight, cheek and stomach flat on the ground.
The creek snatches the motorcycle and jerks it high into the air.
The engine roars and sputters, white smoke billows from the exhaust as the wheels spin racing on full throttle.
The mist slowly dissipates, and the crashing waters calm.
Without a trace, all seven men and motorcycle disappear into Nocklin Creek’s depths.
Iago, still standing in the same spot and motionless, he stares down the hooded man.
The hood presses off the ground and rises to his feet. He flings open his duster with a flurry and his left arm shoots forward with a silver pistol in hand.
Bang—
Glynn flinches from the gunshot, and a flash of light makes him blink. His eyes find Iago just as a bullet strikes the old man in his chest, lifting him off his feet and propelling him onto his back.
“Iago…” Glynn can’t believe his eyes; his heart races. Blood courses through his veins, making his head pound even more. He grips a branch to steady himself.
Iago lies motionless—gone.
The hood slides his pistol into the holster and strolls toward Iago’s body.
Tension in Glynn’s hand builds and breaks the branch.
Crack—
The hood flinches to a stop and pivots toward Glynn’s hiding spot.
Glynn twitches, and without thinking, he just reacts, pushing off the stump and bounding into the forest. Without mercy, the unrelenting branches scrape and swipe his body as he darts through the thick pines. He rips through the vines tangling around his ankles. He feels no pain, his body numb in flight. His thoughts race. He’s dead, he’s really dead. What to do? Don’t look back, keep going. Where is he going?
The adrenaline burst suddenly wears off, and he weakens from the exertion.
Pain travels through Glynn’s body, beaten from the forest’s abuse, and his legs fail. He trips over a root and stumbles into a small clearing and stops while bending over, sucking in deep breaths to alleviate the harsh sensation building in his lungs. He scans every direction for the danger or the way ahead. He turns toward a faint light peeking through the trees. The setting sun reveals his escape, the valley. He gives a quick glance behind him, seeing nothing but black, and runs toward the light. Another root catches his foot, and he loses his balance, tumbling forward into a tree. “Shoot.” He bounces off the bark and touches his bloody cheek.
“Hey, boy!” a girl’s voice says. “Over here, over here.”
Glynn spins toward the voice. “Who’s there?”
THE LIGHT
From rock to rock, a girl, fair and wearing a charcoal sweater and tan wool trousers hums as she skips over a small winding creek. Her light body strides with ease through the cattails, and her innocent but sharp hazel eyes dance with the creek’s ripples. The girl’s reflection blurs as she picks up speed, her long dark-auburn hair floats in the breeze with the swaying grass.
“Hurry up, Preta,” she says to her reflection flickering off the water’s surface. “I’m late.” Making the leap from the last stone to the creek bank, she falters, her legs unsteady from the long bicycle ride home from school.
Preta’s belly growls, reminding her it’s that time of day. It’s Friday, Yaz and Deet always bring home something good to eat. She focuses on her destination ahead, her gaze locks onto the trees rising in a multitude of autumn colors: crimson, orange, yellow, and green.
Her backpack bounces as she skips through the field, and she drags a stick behind her.
Winds gust, swaying the long yellow grass across her path.
The grass whips Preta’s body and wraps the wheat around her stick, pulling her to the side.
Preta battles the grassy obstacles with purpose and exacting fury. She rips the stick from the tangle and swats aside her foe with accomplished skill.
The trees draw closer, and Preta slows down. Defeating the last of the field, sh
e hops over a small mud-laden ditch and stops at the forest’s edge.
The mixed deciduous and pine are thick yet permeable, revealing secrets within the forest’s fall foliage.
It’s getting darker, and Preta turns to the setting sun’s warm embrace. The dimming orange radiance meets her face with content satisfaction from across the valley. Her skin tingles with warmth yet it dissipates by the second. Chills run through her body, and she gives a shake from the sensation rising from the base of her neck. Preta tilts her head and sighs. “Let’s go, Preta Penter, move.” She takes a deep breath and turns away from the sun.
Entering the forest, Preta hums as she advances deeper into its mysterious realm. She stops and blinks; the dark surroundings blur her vision. Preta drops her stick, swings off her pack, and bends over to inspect the white-speckled mushrooms dotting the dank floor. She plucks the fungi from the pungent ground. “These will do nicely,” she says, gently placing each mushroom into a white cloth.
Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1) Page 1
