by Steven Novak
Lifting his head slightly, Walcott stuttered into the darkness toward Pleebo’s cell. “Ju-just a-a little lon-longer …he-help on way ….”
Again he lied, because there was no other choice.
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CHAPTER 20
UNWANTED VISITORS
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The group consisting of Krystoph, Tommy, Staci, Donald, Nicky, Nestor and five of his toughest battle-ready soldiers set off in the wee hours of the morning. Two of Fillagrou’s three suns had only just begun to peek over the horizon of its seemingly endless Red Forest. The air smelled thick, clammy and unusually fresh, as if it had only recently sprung from the birth canal of the universe. High above the tops of massive trees that had stood for eons lay an infinite, cloudless sky made up of various shades of red, purple and yellow, colors so breathtakingly amazing that the fourteen year-old Staci Alexander could scarcely pull her eyes from them for even a moment. During her time away, Staci believed she remembered the beauty of this place, but staring at its majesty once again, she realized just how much she had forgotten. When not dragged downward by the chaos of battle, the land called Fillagrou was reminiscent of something from a storybook or a dream; every part of it remaining untouched by war was a revelation awaiting discovery. Housing hidden doorways to a hundred other worlds, in many ways this wonderful, strange place was the center of the universe. Staci could think of no world more worthy of the title.
With Krystoph leading the way, the group steadily trudged through the forest for the better part of the day. Utilizing his extensive knowledge of Ochan patrol routes, the former general managed to keep the travelers a safe distance from potential dangers. At the edge of a vast clearing created by the Ochan army long ago, the group finally stopped to rest. Immediately Nicky dropped to his rear in the dirt, pulled off his shoe, and began massaging the soles of his feet. For at least an hour, they had been bothering him. Not wanting to slow the group, he decided to keep his mouth shut.
From behind him came the voice of his older brother. “Nicky, are you all right?”
Stumbling over his words, Nicky searched for a suitable answer. “I’m fine, just fine. Just airing out my feet …sweaty socks …should have worn different ones.”
It had been his idea to follow Roustaf to Fillagrou in the first place. If he hadn’t threatened Tommy the way he did, neither of them would be there. No matter how badly his feet might hurt, there was no way he was going to let Tommy know about it – he couldn’t. Besides, what did a couple of sore feet matter when so much was at stake?
From a few feet away, Nestor noticed the conversation between the boys. When Tommy eventually moved away, returning his attention to Staci, the Tycarian patiently approached Nicky. The boy was once again wincing, and resumed the covert massaging of the sensitive muscles on his soles. For Nestor, the decision to send Roustaf to retrieve the children came under much duress. To willingly bring creatures so young into a situation as dangerous as the one they now faced seemed irresponsible at best. Incredible powers or not, Nestor firmly believed in his heart none of them belonged here, despite Zanell’s insistence to the contrary.
The war had created many moments, many images, not a single one of which were suitable for the eyes of children.
His enormous body casting an even larger shadow over Nicky Jarvis, Nestor looked down at the boy seriously. “Are you sore, child?”
Slowly Nicky’s head turned upward, gazing over the Tycarian’s massive shell at the dark green head peering down at him with cold, subterranean eyes.
Swallowing deeply, he stumbled forward while mumbling, “No, no, no, I’m fine, just fine, fine, fine, never better.”
Quickly slipping his shoe back on, Nicky stood, only to be shoved back down by the massive three-fingered paw connected to Nestor’s right arm.
Nestor kneeled down and leaned in close to the boy, the almost comical differences in the sizes of their bodies more apparent than ever. “There is no shame in admitting discomfort, child. In fact, to keep it a secret could prove more a hindrance to the group in the long run. Fate has seen fit to lump us together, and we are a team. As a team, you must learn to rely on your teammates. Without them, this forest and its hidden dangers will undoubtedly swallow you whole.”
Realizing that his mouth was hanging open, Nicky quickly closed it.
“Now tell me honestly, are you injured?”
Staring into Nestor’s wrinkled, deep green, scar-covered face, Nicky found himself frozen, unable to move. His mouth was dry and his lip jittered wildly as he attempted to slow the untamed beating of his heart long enough to formulate something resembling a coherent sentence. “My feet …my feet are …they’re just a little sore.”
Having spent all of his adult life buried deep within the trenches of war, there had been few opportunities for Nestor Rockshell to smile. Gazing at the innocence in the eyes of the strange alien boy sheepishly spread out before him, he found it difficult not to. Though it seemed so far in the past, he too was once a child; he too remembered fear.
A barely there grin creeping up the side of his face, Nestor glanced briefly from side to side to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation. “Your secret is safe with me, child. For the next leg of our journey, you’ll ride atop my back. It should afford you proper time to heal.”
His heartbeat relaxed and the quivering of his lip came to a measured halt. Nicky nodded his head.
The sound of little Roustaf’s voice broke the moment shared between the two. “All right, kiddies, this is where we part ways.”
Pulling the latch on his dusty overalls tight, the tiny man tossed an even tinier backpack over his shoulder. Fluttering so fast they quickly turned invisible, his tiny wings lifted him off the ground and into the air. The confused heads of the rest of the group turned in his direction one by one.
An annoyed, noticeably angry Krystoph swiftly closed the distance between himself and the miniscule winged man. “Part ways? What are you babbling about?”
Moving closer, Roustaf came to a hovering stop no more than a few inches from the Ochan’s massive face. “Don’t worry, big guy, the plan isn’t changing. You’re going to take the group and find your magic amulet thingy. I, on the other hand, am heading to Ocha to break Pleebo and Walcott out of that Ochan death camp you call a jail.”
Krystoph smiled slightly. “You’re going to Ocha to rescue your friend and the Tycarian king?”
“That’s what I said. While you’ve got a butt-load of muscles, your hearing is just a little crummy, isn’t it?”
“Hrmph. Foolish plan — stand no chance — destined for failure.”
“Maybe so. I can’t just leave them there tough and I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t at least give it a shot.” Turning from Krystoph, Roustaf began to glide in the opposite direction. “Besides, you’ve got a good group here, Slick; you aren’t going to miss little ol’ me that much and I sure as hell ain’t gonna miss your witty conversation.”
The Ochan held his position, his muscles tight, his brow furrowed deep. “Never should have approached any of you — mistake to believe in the Fillagrou female’s magic — unprofessional, the lot of you, unprofessional.”
Stopping in mid-air, Roustaf turned again to Krystoph, a sarcastic smile peeking from beneath his bushy mustache. “You’re right, it’s pretty unprofessional of me; then again, I never claimed to be a professional. I’m just a little guy caught up in a big situation who just happens to sport an impeccable heft of facial hair to boot. Look, lead the rest of the group, find what you have to find. It’s important, I know that, I just can’t go with you.”
Wide-eyed and gap-jawed, Donald Rondage listened intently to the conversation while seated atop a small rock ten feet away. His mind wandered back to Prince Valkea’s courtyard, to fending off an army of Ochan soldiers, to an arrow cutting through the flesh of his shoulder — to nearly dying. It was Walcott who saved him. Not the father he’d never met or his absent mother or hi
s annoying brothers, only one person in Donald’s fourteen years of life had ever cared enough to do anything for him. As strange as it might have seemed, that person just happened to be a six-foot tall elderly turtle. It was at that moment, in spite of his better judgment, that Donald made a decision: if someone was going to rescue Walcott, he was going along.
“Wait a minute!” Rising from the rock under his rear, Donald moved quickly past Krystoph and toward the tiny red man with the transparent wings. “I’m going with you.”
Hovering near Donald, Roustaf pressed his palms against the boy’s forehead in a vain attempt to hold him back. “Oh, no, no, no you aren’t, kid. You’re going with them like you’re supposed to, like Zanell said!”
“Oh, yes I am, and you can’t stop me,” Donald responded defiantly, brushing the tiny man away with one hand.
“You’ll just slow me down, kid! No offense, but I can sneak into an Ochan fortress unnoticed a hell of a lot easier by myself! You come along and you’ll just muck up the works; besides, I’ve already got some help lined up, meeting them on the way. You need to stick to the plan!”
“Listen, you little red turd, I’m going. I have to go, whether you want me to or not!”
“Turd? Who are you calling a tu—”
“Shh! Shut up, the both of you!” Krystoph’s serious voice cut into the conversation like a cold steel dagger through flesh.
Instantly the group turned toward him, their mouths locked shut. His body hunched behind a relatively thick patch of foliage, the Ochan extended his arm behind him, motioning for the remainder of the group to get down as well.
Kneeling next to Staci, hidden behind the grayish-brown trunk of a tree, Tommy noticed what Krystoph was looking at. From the tree line on the opposite end of the clearing, a pack of seven massive-bodied Megalots had stepped into the open air. Despite being adorned in elaborately decorated saddles, the creatures were without the Ochan riders generally accompanying them. Huffing, the beasts lifted their horned heads into the air, sniffing with simplistic wonder at the mid-day sunlight.
Crawling on his stomach, Nestor moved beside Krystoph, pulled a device vaguely resembling binoculars from his belt, and lifted them to his face. “Where are their masters?”
Scanning the surrounding trees for movement, Krystoph saw none. “These creatures shouldn’t be here. Most likely they’ve escaped — riders will be looking for them and they will not be far behind. This is not good, not good at all. Mindless beasts will lead an Ochan regiment right to us.”
“We will stay low, wait for them to leave,” Nestor responded, lowering his binoculars.
Hoisting himself to one knee, Krystoph pulled a pair of medium-sized, double-edged blades from either side of his belt. “No, wasted enough time already.”
As Krystoph turned to leave, Nestor reached out and grabbed hold of the Ochan’s muscled forearm. “Wait…where are you going? We are better served waiting them out.”
Krystoph’s face was a mask of iron seriousness, his eyes the blackest of possible blacks, and hidden behind them were things that would leave most sane creatures with unrelenting nightmares for the remainder of their lives.
The grip on his weapons tightened as he breathed in deep, grinding his dangerously sharp teeth together. “All of you, stay here, keep down, and remain quiet. I will do what needs to be done.”
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CHAPTER 21
ANGRY ACCUSATIONS
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In the last six months, Chris Jarvis had reluctantly learned to forgo the luxury of sleep. Free of the mind-numbing, problem blurring liquids that once clouded the whole of his brain, Chris’ perception of the world he inhabited had grown frighteningly sharp. Every memory he thought buried away slowly bubbled to the surface, the shimmer of its reflection proving to be blindingly harsh. Sleep had once been deep and quiet, even uneventful and peaceful; now there were only nightmares. A ghastly jumble of frightening mismatched memories, half-fact, half-fiction, assaulted his senses every time he closed his eyes. Chris made the choice to avoid sleep unless entirely necessary. The first scheduled meeting with his sons the day before proved a bittersweet affair. While hugging his younger son Nicky was an amazing experience, it did little to negate the fact that his elder son Tommy made the conscious decision to avoid him. When it was over and teary goodbyes exchanged, the social service woman, Amber Frye, tried to explain to him that such reactions were quite normal. Reminding him that Tommy would need time to come around, that first and foremost patience should be practiced. Later that evening, during a session with his personal therapist and sponsor, this point was reiterated. If Chris stayed the course, if he continued on the path he set down six months before, forgiveness in some form would eventually come, when truly earned. Though Chris understood this fact going in, a part of him wished it would be easier. For all the work he’d done and for all he’d accomplished, there remained so very much still to do and so far yet to walk. The hole he currently found himself in had been dug by his own hands, and dug deep. The process of climbing out was going to take time. Earning the trust of his first-born son again wasn’t going to be easy. In his weakest moments, he often wondered if he would even have the strength.
With the hectic, emotionally draining nature of the day behind him, quite surprisingly for the first time in a very long time, Chris Jarvis met with sleep and became one with it.
So uncommonly deep was his slumber, in fact, that it wasn’t until ten o’clock the next morning that he awoke. Were it not for a heavy, insistent knocking on the front door of his house, he might have slept even later. Wearily rolling from his bed and onto the floor, Chris groggily made his way downstairs, the knocking at his door becoming more insistent. Pausing at the full length mirror near the foot of the stairs, he ran his hand through his messy bed hair, smashing it down and trying his best to make it seem mildly presentable. After wiping the final bits of sleep from the corners of his eyes, he opened the door and was greeted by the stern, youthful face of a uniformed police officer. For a brief moment, Chris’s heart stopped.
The young, dark-haired officer looked up from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyebrows lifted, his lips down-turned. “Christopher Jarvis?”
Chris hesitated to answer, an unorganized bevy of possibilities flooding his brain, most of which were negative in nature. During the disappearance of his boys with a few other neighborhood kids, not to mention the investigation into his mental health as it pertained to parenting his children, Chris believed that he’d seen enough police officers to last a lifetime. To wake and find one standing on his doorstep for the first time in months could, under no circumstances, be seen as a good thing.
Swallowing deeply, he stuttered, “Yes? What-what’s wrong?”
“My name’s Sergeant Alvarez. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?” the officer quickly responded while pulling a notepad and pen from his breast pocket.
Though he was overcome with an undeniable anxiousness to find out why a police officer was standing on his doorstep so early in the morning, again Chris hesitated to respond, and was notably cautious when he finally did. “Sure. Can I ask though—what is this about?”
“Well, sir, I’m sorry to tell you this, but at about three o’clock this morning, your neighbors reported their daughter and your son Thomas run—”
Sergeant Alvarez was cut off in mid-sentence by the screaming, angry voice of Dale Alexander. “Dammit, Jarvis! This is all your fault!”
Glancing over the sturdy shoulder of the officer, Chris spotted his enraged neighbor bounding full speed in his direction, fists shaking wildly in the air. “I swear to God, if your weird little kid has done anything to my daughter, I’ll kill you! You hear me, I’ll kill you!”
Tears in her eyes, a frantic Janet Alexander charged from the front door of her home toward her infuriated husband; wrapping him up in her arms, she attempted to keep him at bay. “No! Dale, stop it!”
From a position a bit further down the
stone walkway leading to Chris’s door, a second uniformed officer quickly made his way to the frantic couple, insisting that they calm down and return to their home.
Wiggling free from his wife’s grasp, Dale lunged forward, only to be wrapped even tighter in the arms of the officer. “My little girl, Jarvis! My little girl, you son of a bitch!”
Watching as the police wrestled Dale to the ground, still frothing at the mouth and barking obscenities in his direction, Chris realized his body was frozen in place. Up and down the block, window shades and doors opened. Like moths attracted to a flame, the commotion brought the inquisitive residents of the normally quiet street to the ends of their driveways dressed in their early morning housecoats.
“Mr. Jarvis?”
A second police car pulled in front of the Alexander’s house. Two more officers quickly exited and made their way toward the frenzied couple.
“Mr. Jarvis?”
Confused, Chris told himself that this was all supposed to be done with. The healing process had begun— this was all supposed to be over.
“Hello? Mr. Jarvis? Can I get your attention please, sir?”
Pulling his gaze from Dale Alexander, who was only now beginning to settle down, Chris returned his attention to the officer three feet in front of him who had been trying to get his attention for nearly a minute.
Free from his trance, Chris muttered, “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m what?”
More than a bit annoyed, Alvarez breathed deeply, folded his notepad and deposited it back in his pocket. “Look, apparently your son Thomas was seen climbing out of the bedroom window of the Alexanders’ daughter around three o’clock this morning. The pair of them, along with two other children that we believe were your other son, Nicholas, and a local boy named Donald Rondage, took off into the forest. Were you here last night?”
