by Steven Novak
The hum of a car engine picked up to Owen’s right side, followed by a deep, yet partially whispered adult voice. “Owen Little?”
Readjusting his glasses, Owen glanced up from the sidewalk. A car was creeping alongside him on the street. Its engine was as old as its paint job, clanking and whirring, crying out for a tune-up that had been put off for months or maybe even years. Leaning out the driver side window, sporting somewhat wild early-morning hair and a five o-clock shadow, was Tommy Jarvis’s father. Though Owen had never met the man personally, he had seen him from afar and heard any number of wild stories. He’d also been warned on numerous occasions by his own father to keep as far away from Mr. Jarvis as possible. Everyone in town knew what he did to his sons. Secrets such as those tended not to stay secrets for long.
“Owen Little? I’m Tommy Jarvis’ father. Look, I was wondering …I just want to ask you a couple quick questions.”
Lowering his head Owen quickened his pace and mumbled, “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Just a couple questions—”
“I’m not even supposed to be talking to you,” Owen answered back quickly, moving from a brisk walk to a light sprint, Chris Jarvis’ old car matching his speed precisely.
Frustrated, Chris ran his freehand though his hair. It was crusty, unkempt and a bit wild looking. He suddenly realized he should have cleaned himself up a bit better. He had been in a hurry this morning, and things like shampoo are too often forgotten when in a hurry.
“I won’t even get out of the car,” Chris added, realizing that they were getting closer to the school with every passing second. In a few minutes he would be forced to turn around and go home. “My sons are missing again, Owen. I just need to know if you have any idea where they might be. If you know anything, anything at all …I won’t tell anyone, I promise. It’s just between you and me. Just tell me and I’ll turn this car around and drive home. You’ll never hear from me again.”
More than a little uncomfortable with the situation, Owen’s heart began to pound in his chest. Glancing ahead of him, he noticed that the school was less than five minutes away. If he began running at full speed he could be there in three. Beside him, the engine of Chris Jarvis’ car continued to pop, clonk and whir. Owen knew he should stop talking to Tommy’s father. The most reasonable reaction to the situation would have been to run as fast as he could to school, jog directly to the principal’s office, and let him know exactly what had happened.
Again Chris pleaded, his voice lost and dejected, reduced to a desperate whimper, “Please, Owen. Anything, just tell me anything you might know, anything at all.”
Sighing deep, Owen’s legs stopped moving. This wasn’t what he should be doing. In fact, this was the exact opposite of what he should be doing. It was stupid, it was dumb and it was idiotic, moronic and stupid, yet again. If this were a single question quiz, he’d be getting a big, fat zero.
His father was going to kill him.
“He took them to the fort,” Owen muttered, still unable to look Chris directly in the face.
“The fort? The tree fort? Who took them to the tree fort?” Chris asked quickly, stomping on his breaks and leaning further out his window.
Owen shook his head; reaching under his glasses, he rubbed the corners of his eyes with his fingers. Once again, he was going to have to tell this story, and once again the adult listening to him was going to stare back like he was a babbling idiot.
It was a mistake to stop. His father was going to kill him twice.
Staring at the ground, Owen continued, his voice thick with fear and annoyance, “Roustaf took them to the fort. Apparently something is wrong in Fillagrou. He said he needed our help. I told him to find someone else, which—no offense—is exactly what Tommy should have done. I mean, who do these people think we are? How dumb is it to think a bunch of middle school kids can save the universe? It’s stupid! It doesn’t make any sense!” Realizing he was rambling, Owen breathed deep in order to regain control over his emotions briefly. “That’s all I know. Now please leave me alone. My dad will wring my neck if he finds out that I said anything to you.”
The look on Chris Jarvis’s face was one of complete confusion. The boy standing on the sidewalk across from him had answered with what could only be interpreted as gibberish. What the hell was a Fillagrou or a Roustaf, and why was he sneaking into the bedrooms of a bunch of teenagers in the middle of the night? What in the world did Tommy’s tree fort have to do with it? Yet, despite the nonsense of it all, there was something in Owen’s voice, something about his accelerated breathing and the way he was shoving his hands so deep into his pockets he threatened to tear through the interior lining while sweat poured from his brow, that made Chris think that, at the very least, the boy believed what he was saying, nonsense or not.
“I really have to get going,” Owen added, resuming his walk to school.
For Chris Jarvis, there were no more options. His sons had been taken from him—again—and now they had disappeared—again. So many times since the death of their mother he had failed them. So many awful things he’d put them through. Chris didn’t want to be that man anymore. He couldn’t be that man anymore.
With what he believed to be the final link to his children walking away from him and ignoring logic, Chris was compelled to speak up. “Owen, wait. I need you to show me exactly where this tree fort is.”
*
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CHAPTER 32
DECISIONS, DECISIONS
*
“No! I told you I would show you where the tree fort was and that’s it! I shouldn’t even be here! I should be sitting in school right now, not getting mixed up in this crap again!”
Moments away from an onslaught of tears, Owen Little buried his head in his hands, his body slumping into the soil directly underneath the Jarvis brothers’ fort. He knew he should never have stopped to talk to Tommy’s father. He shouldn’t have told the man about the stream and the doorway to Fillagrou, and he most definitely shouldn’t have agreed to accompany him to the fort. What started out as a relatively average morning for the boy had quickly degenerated into a nightmare. His father was going to ground him, scream at him until his face turned red and that weird vein appeared on his forehead, and then ground him again. After that, he’d kill him for the fifteenth time.
“I never should have come here. I never should have come here. I never should have come here,” Owen began to mutter to himself, salty tears streaming down the sides of his face and into the cracks between his fingers.
From the edge of the stream, Chris Jarvis stared into the murky water with a look of absolute confusion. During the short car ride and subsequent trek to the tree fort, Owen regaled him with an outlandish, incredible and utterly impossible tale involving doorways to other worlds, strange creatures, and a number of other things that simply couldn’t exist.
The kid had to be lying, right? He had to be lying—lying or insane.
There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the stream water moving slowly below him—nothing odd, or for that matter, even slightly disconcerting. For all intents and purposes, it seemed at first glance little more than a normal, average body of water, likely less than five feet deep. The idea that it could somehow lead to another world seemed idiotic on levels that made the definition of the word idiotic seem pale in comparison. Owen’s story made no sense, no sense at all. Turning away from the water momentarily, Chris glanced at the boy slumped over and sobbing behind him. Owen was terrified, his skinny little hands shaking like delicate leaves in the wind and covering his face entirely as he sobbed into his soaking wet palms. No doubt a good deal of this reaction was the direct result of Chris approaching him on the street and convincing him to disobey his father, miss school and to take a strange man he barely knew deep into the woods. There was something about the severity of his reaction though, something that made Chris believe there was more going on here than met the eye. The horror that had overtaken Owen’s body was
undeniable, and it wasn’t directed at Chris so much as it was at the stream.
“Please, I just want to go home. Please let me go home,” Owen mumbled through a mouth soaked in his own tears.
Seeing the boy broken down the way he was instantly brought back memories Chris had no interest in reliving. He promised himself many times that he would never again do this to a child, no matter the reason—and yet, here he was.
He’d done enough to this boy—done too much.
Lowering his head in shame, Chris said softly, “Go home, Owen. I’m sorry I brought you here. Thank you for your help.”
His lip quivering, Owen lowered his hands, wiping the tears from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. His glasses were foggy, transforming Chris Jarvis, the forest, and the stream into barely more than a blur. Awkwardly, he pulled himself into a standing position and readjusted his backpack. Across from him the blurry Chris Jarvis had turned away, now staring blankly at the stream while rubbing his head.
For Chris, none of what had come from Owen’s mouth made sense. It couldn’t be possible, not a single, solitary word of it. It just couldn’t be. Despite being so sure that it was little more than nonsense and nothing else, Chris leaned forward and dipped the tip of his shoe into the freezing water. Behind him, he could hear Owen shuffling away, the child’s tears slightly more under control.
“Owen,” Chris added while never turning around, “Before you go, am I supposed to just walk in? How does this work?”
Coming to a stop, Owen turned to face the older man while wiping the remnants of crusty tears from his cheeks. Through slightly less foggy lenses, he watched the grown man again dip the tip of his boot into the water. It had been six months since Owen was here, and the memories of the world hidden beneath the dark waters had come rushing back in all their awful detail. He never wanted to see this place again. He shouldn’t be here. He should have been anywhere but here. There was something in the air, something thick, heavy and forbidding, something telling him that he needed to leave as soon as possible.
“Walk in; dive in …I don’t think it matters,” Owens responded with a huff, starting back up the small hill away from the fort, the stream and all of the nastiness accompanying it.
What’s the worst that can happen? Chris wondered to himself. If he were to walk into the stream and nothing magical happened, he’d wind up wet and feeling stupid, that was all. On the other hand, what if, despite logic, common sense, and everything he knew about the way the universe worked, Owen was actually telling the truth? Could he afford to take that chance? Could he afford not to? Stepping forward, Chris carefully lowered one of his legs into the water. The liquid was bitterly cold, instantly sending a chill across the entirety of his body and making him shiver slightly from head to toe. After another couple steps, he was almost fully submerged in the muddy-dark drink. Walking forward, he cautiously moved to the center of the stream, the water now up to his waist, the soil beneath his feet loose and slippery. As the moisture began to seep into the fibers of his shirt, it started moving upward, transforming the light colored fabric into something noticeably darker. Standing with his arms outstretched for a moment, he waited for something, for anything to occur. Nothing happened.
Through the trees about twenty feet away, Chris spotted Owen and called out: “It’s not working!”
Upon hearing the man’s voice, Owen sighed deep. He was halfway up the hill, a tenth of the way back to town. If he moved quickly, he could be back at school in little less than half an hour. After apologizing for being late, he could bury his head in a book or a test and try to forget about the fiasco the morning had turned out to be.
Again came Chris Jarvis’ voice: “Owen! Nothing’s happening!”
“I don’t know! What do you want from me? Try going under!” Owen screamed back angrily, his visible annoyance rising in direct proportion to his distance from the stream.
More than a little frustrated, the boy resumed his eager journey up the hill, his feet stomping with every step. At last reaching the top, he came to a stop once more and turned briefly to look in the direction of the fort. At the base of the hill, everything was silent. From this distance both the stream and Chris Jarvis were hidden from view by a thick line of trees. Did the man go under? Did it work? Was he gone? Was he popping up at this very moment, utterly confused in the red forest of Fillagrou?
Owen had so many questions, yet so few answers.
Shaking his head, he turned to walk away, then, again, stopped. There was still no sound from the base of the hill. Did Tommy’s father drown? How could a grown man drown in barely four feet of water? He couldn’t—could he? Looking behind him, Owen gazed longingly in the direction of the town, his school, and his house. Turning back again, he glanced toward the fort, the stream, Mr. Jarvis, and the doorway to Fillagrou. The decision of which path to take was so simple and obvious that it seemed barely worth asking. Yet, if this was in fact the case, why was he finding it impossible to decide which way to go? In the most logical recesses of his mind, he understood that he should go home. In fact, he believed he should go home and never come back to this place. Let’s take that one step further: that he should go home now, never come back to this place, and try his best to forget that it even existed. Instead, moments later, he was walking back down the hill.
His father was going to kill him.
*
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CHAPTER 33
THE EIGHTY-NINTH WORLD
*
The group had been traveling non-stop for much of the day. Krystoph allowed the children the exact amount of rest he promised, and not a minute more. Having become quite accustomed to traversing long distances on foot over the course of the long war, the former Ochan general and the Tycarians were showing not an ounce of wear. Krystoph’s even-keeled breathing hadn’t altered in any manner whatsoever. As it was at the outset of the journey, the Ochan’s stride remained confident and strong, his dead eyes as alert and ready for any possibility as they’d ever been. For the children, the long, tiring trek had proven significantly more difficult. Though Tommy was managing for the most part, his legs were slowly growing sore, and his calves burned. Staci’s face was covered in a thick sheen of salty sweat, helped into existence by the eternally balmy Fillagrou weather. Occasionally she reached forward to rest her weary arms on Tommy’s shoulders, letting the boy carry a fraction of her body weight. Tommy didn’t mind this at all, mostly because it was Staci. While Nicky attempted to walk on his own at first, the sharp pains traversing the soles of his feet eventually forced him to relent. He had since spent the last two hours dangling from the rear of Nestor’s bulbous shell with the aid of a few conveniently placed leather straps. The ride was bumpy. Bumpy, however, had proven far preferable to the achy-foot alternative.
From the front of the pack, Krystoph raised his arm high enough into the air for the rest of the group to see, his massive deep green hand forming a tight fist. His voice was a deep, yet hushed whisper. “All of you: down.”
Immediately the children and the Tycarians dropped to the soil, each holding their breath and awaiting further instruction. Releasing the strap securing Nicky to his back, Nestor let the boy slide to the forest floor, then motioned for him to stay put. With the underside of his shell dragging along the dirt, Nestor crawled quickly to the front of the group alongside Krystoph. Lifting himself momentarily, the Tycarian scanned the area ahead, most of his body hidden behind a particularly thick patch of foliage. Less than a hundred yards away, the forest opened up to an area created when the Ochan army hacked the trees away many years before. Just beyond that, stretching out for at least two miles in every direction, was a vast lake filled with a liquid so deeply brown and impossibly thick that one might easily mistake it for quicksand.
“The doorway to Aquari.” Nestor mumbled, more to himself than to the Ochan lying on his belly in the soil beside him.
“Indeed,” Krystoph grumbled back, glaring in the direction of the muddy lake with a
slightly confused expression on his heavily scaled face.
Pulling binoculars from his pack, Nestor scanned the area ahead carefully. “There are no guards.” He whispered with some surprise, “I expected some sort of resistance.”
“As did I,” Krystoph responded simply.
“What do you think it means?”
“Hurm. Unsure. Many possible explanations. None promising.”
Lowering his binoculars, Nestor turned back to the group, briefly glancing at his remaining soldiers and the three children huddled among their massive bodies. Nothing about this mission had gone according to plan. From the Megalot encounter to the desertion of Roustaf and Donald, and now this. None of what had occurred was sitting well with the Tycarian. If there was one thing war had made Nestor keenly aware of, it was that such occurrences were not uncommon in these situations. Like emotions, war was anything if not unpredictable. There was a feeling, however, that he couldn’t seem to shake, something nagging at him like a nasty blood-sucking Tycarian swamp tick: an awful feeling of dread he was trying his best to ignore and failing.
“The Ochans are ahead of us, heading to the Rongstag.” Krystoph interjected, at last turning his gaze from the pasture. “There can be only one reason to pull so many soldiers from this end of the doorway. They are needed elsewhere. Needed on ships.”
In a single fluent movement, the massive Ochan rose to a standing position and removed two swords from the sheaths hanging on his hips. “We can no longer afford patience. Must move now. Move quickly.”
