“Bind him,” the rider said. He still sounded bored but there was an element of urgency in his voice. “We shall leave before we run into Hanstein’s guards.”
The revolting stink of blood wafted across. I swallowed bile. I kept seeing the blood flowing from the man’s hand, the empty spot where the middle finger had been. Do NOT puke. I began to tremble once more as the terror of being discovered turned my stomach. I was sure the prisoner had seen me. What if he told his captors?
I wiped my clammy hands on my jeans to distract myself. The guy had said Hanstein. The Hanstein ruins were just up the street from my house. I’d seen them when my Uncle William visited from the States. Funny how much Americans loved medieval castles. Jimmy’s dad had invented a game with his neighborhood castle. Not too creative to use the next best castle you could find. But how could this feel so real my mind whirled.
The back of my head stung. An acorn bounced to the ground, followed by a pinecone hitting my neck. I turned.
Less than ten feet away, a boy about my age cowered in a pile of dried oak leaves. He had placed a rather grimy forefinger on his lips, his eyes wide with alarm and fury. I blinked again. Maybe this was all a dream and I’d simply fallen asleep while playing.
The boy gestured for me to come closer. While the thug dragged the prisoner to his feet and kicked leaves across the blood-soaked ground, I turned and crawled. Without a word the boy spun around and, head ducked low, ran into the shadows. I followed. My neck tingled as I imagined the soldier with the evil blade attacking from behind. Still, I never turned, afraid to stumble and crash.
This had to be part of the game.
The boy was surprisingly fast and I had trouble keeping up.
At last, he stopped. “What’re you doing in Hanstein’s forest?” He waved a dismissive hand. “They’ll slay us. You’re not supposed to be here.” The boy rolled the Rs, speaking fast.
I struggled to keep up. “What?”
“Are you daft, too?”
I stared at the filthy face. What was the guy talking about? Maybe it was best to start with the basics.
“Who are you?” I said, digging deep to remember my German. Strangely, it came out easy.
“Bero. Who are you?”
“Max.”
“What name is that?” Bero glared. “Are you thick or what, spying on the Duke’s men?”
“What duke? What are you talking about, man?”
I gaped at Bero who looked as if he hadn’t combed his hair in a year and whose skin was crusted with filth. He was barefoot. The pants, with several holes and shredded at the bottom, barely reached past his knees. His shirt and neck were covered with more grime. A nasty odor surrounded him, attracting flies. They swarmed around his head, but he didn’t seem to notice. I stepped backwards. Better to keep my distance in case the flies wanted another meal.
“Duke Schwarzburg’s henchmen. They’ll destroy us for watching them. So will the Lord.”
“Who’s Schwarzburg? What lord?”
Bero grunted in an obvious attempt to suppress an insult. “The Lords of Hanstein. They own these woods,” he said slowly as if I were a moron.
Just as I formulated a snappy retort, the bushes behind Bero moved, followed by grunts and snorts. I stared in disbelief, a new wave of fear taking over my legs, my mouth too dry to speak. A dozen or so wild pigs with black, coarse bristles were heading my way.
Bero looked behind him and shrugged. “My sows...”
“Your pi...sows?” I stumbled. “Aren’t they dangerous?”
Bero looked at me in disbelief. “Ach, you’re chicken-hearted, too, and slow to boot.” He clucked with disdain. “Everyone knows they’re farm animals. I thought you were a brave lad, sneaking around the Duke’s men.”
If I hadn’t been so confused I would’ve hurled back an insult. Domestic pigs were supposed to be pink.
“What’re you doing in the woods, if nobody is allowed?” I managed.
A slow grin spread across Bero’s face. “Harvest is short and my sows got to eat. Woods have plenty of acorns, beech nuts and roots for all of us.” He shrugged. “The Lords won’t miss them.”
“I see,” I said, though I didn’t, not really. “Where do you live?” I said to change the subject. Maybe I was supposed to ask questions so I could get the heck done with this stupid game. I wasn’t playing to get jerked around by a stinking pig herder.
Bero pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Yonder, the village.”
“What village?”
“Bornhagen. You?”
“Same.” It was out before I had time to think. Bero stepped backwards, shaking his head in apparent alarm.
His face, which had been full of scorn, turned to outright suspicion.
“Nay, impossible. I’d know you.” He slowly looked me up and down, his glance ending with my Nikes, shimmering white and silvery in the fading light. “You look nothing like us. Your robes are...” Bero seemed to have run out of words as he stared at my T-shirt and jeans. “Unless...”
“What?” I asked. “I’m playing the game.” What was I saying? I was in the game and telling one of the invented figures of Jimmy’s father that I was playing. Duh. “I mean I’m from nearby. I’m not sure.”
Bero kept staring as if he were trying to make up his mind.
“Nearby? Ha!” He spat into the oak leaves. “Nay, you look odd, your boots... Maybe you’re working for Hanstein after all. A spy. You’ll tell the Lord. They’ll seize me and I won’t ever be a squire.”
“Squire?” I had trouble following Bero’s rambling. It sounded like German, but then it didn’t. More like a distant dialect. Even weirder, Bero seemed to understand me. That had to be the game.
With a sigh Bero slumped on the ground. His pigs had settled nearby, grunting and digging with long gray snouts.
“I’m no spy.” I squatted next to the guy who all of a sudden looked forlorn. “I’m sort of...lost.”
Still Bero said nothing while he pulled sticks and leaves from under his grimy feet.
“Would I stay with you if I were a spy? You know I was hiding just like you.” I paused, thinking of the man’s bloody hand. I shuddered and wondered if Bero had seen the whole thing. “Tell me about the squire stuff.”
Bero shook his head. He glimpsed upward into the trees and sniffed. “It’s eventide. Mutter will be mad if I’m late for supper. I’ll get a whipping.” He jumped to his feet, light and quick as a squirrel, letting out a low whistle at the same time. New grunts and squeaks erupted as the pigs assembled around their master. He squinted again in obvious distrust. “See you ‘round... perchance.”
To me it sounded like leave me alone. I stood up, too. It was growing dark for sure. The shadows of the undergrowth looked inky and I could hardly make out the sky. Maybe this was a good time to take a break and search for a snack. My mom always had ice cream stashed in the freezer.
As Bero disappeared into the gloom, I turned 360 degrees. All I saw was dusk. All I heard was the song of some nauseatingly happy bird above me. I looked at my feet. I still stood in the woods and nowhere near on the carpet of my room. There was no pause button and no mouse.
I shivered. I was somehow in the game and clueless what I was supposed to do.
All games had goals like winning points and missions, shooting demons or collecting gold. But every game had a pause button and you could exit any time. What in the heck was I supposed to do standing in the middle of a forest? I remembered the sickening sight of the man’s bloody hand, the hole where his finger had been.
Then there was the blood on my own hand. The foul smells. Never before, not even when my father had left, had I felt this alone...and scared. Games were supposed to be virtual and fun.
I wondered how much time had passed since I’d punched the expert button. It had to be hours. What if I didn’t return by morning? My mother would freak out. I shook my head but nothing changed. Nothing except for new rustling that stirred to my right. It was much louder than
the sounds of squirrels and birds. Who knew what dangerous animals Jimmy’s father had dreamed up? Maybe he’d stuffed the forest with wolves and bears.
Renewed terror seized me. I stood absolutely still, forcing my brain into action. What if I were eaten by a bear? Was that even possible in a game?
Maybe I’d missed some hint. Jimmy would laugh at me in the morning. Okay, I’d skipped level one and gone straight to expert, obviously a huge mistake. Great gamer I was.
Struggling against the rising panic, I remembered Bero. Maybe if I could go with him until I’d find a clue and think things through. At least the guy knew his way around, even if he looked like he’d spent a year in the landfill. He didn’t sound exactly stupid, despite the fact he talked weird.
Without another thought, I broke into a run in the general direction Bero had taken which turned into a sprint, something I hadn’t done since last year’s track season. The twilight turned everything gray, but I noticed the faint signs of broken sticks and upturned leaves the pigs had left.
“Bero?” I yelled. I kept running, my lungs tight, thighs burning. In the vanishing light at the edge of the forest, the land fell in a gentle slope toward...what?
Where the neat homes and hedged gardens, the paved roads and street lanterns of Bornhagen had been, shacks and huts squatted in the dusk, crooked and dirty with thatched roofs and muddy paths. This couldn’t be right. I’d spent two years in Bornhagen. I knew every street, nearly every house. I had to be in some other place, maybe one of those make-believe medieval villages, some kind of tourist attraction.
Bero’s slight figure scampered along two hundred yards ahead.
“Wait for me,” I shouted again, breaking into another run. At last I saw Bero stop. His pigs snorted loudly, impatient to get back to their stall.
“Thanks, man,” I panted as I drew near. “What is it?” Bero frowned. “I’m late. Sows need water.”
I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, a sure sign I was nervous. I thought of what to say, tell the guy some bullshit story about being mugged or losing my parents in a bloody car accident, but somehow it seemed unlikely that Bero would fall for it. I decided truth was best.
“Look, I need a place to stay. Just for tonight. I’m sort of lost. I’m not from here, not exactly. I’ll try to explain, but I know you’re late. I’m not a spy even if I sound strange to you. Fact is you’re my only hope. Otherwise, I’ll...have no place to go.” I opened my mouth, but nothing else seemed right to say.
Bero stared, his gaze lingering on my shoes. A minute passed. Whether it was my explanation or the underlying fear that had made my voice shake, Bero finally nodded.
“You can come. But you must help with the sows. And don’t mouth off to Mutter.” Bero punched me in the shoulder, but I didn’t mind. I was strangely relieved.
At the edge of the village a shack stood surrounded by a fence. Blackened timber crisscrossed its whitewashed outer walls, reminding me of a crooked chessboard. On the doorstep a girl of about twelve sat shelling beans by a smoldering light. She didn’t look up until Bero opened the gate and shooed his pigs into an enclosure with a low-roofed barn. I slinked along.
“Mutter is cross with you,” the girl shouted in Bero’s direction. When her eyes fell on me, she began to stare, her mouth forming a perfect O. I nodded. She shrieked and disappeared inside the hut.
Ignoring her, Bero pointed toward a wooden bucket that hung on the fenced-in pen. “Water troughs need filling. You have to go three times. Sows are thirsty after the long day.”
I grabbed the pail and looked for a faucet. Surely it had to be near the house.
“What are you doing? Make haste,” Bero said.
“Looking for the faucet.”
“What’s a faucet?”
“For the water.”
We stared at each other as if we were both fools.
Finally Bero shrugged and pointed down the path. “The well is that way. Make haste, I’m starving.”
I ran past more crooked huts until I saw a circular wall with a crude roof above.
Remembering vaguely what I’d learned in history class, I circled around it. The wooden crank, splintered and silvery from age, was encased in rusted iron. I gave it a shove, breathing a sigh of relief when I heard the sound of trickling water in the depth. It was nearly dark now except for a low shine escaping from the open door of Bero’s hut. In the distance, I saw other lights. They were so dim, they looked more like fireflies than lamps. Jimmy’s father sure had done a good job with this place. It looked pretty authentic, wherever it was.
“You dawdle like a drunken snail,” Bero said after my third trip, snatching the pail from my hand and returning it to the barn wall. “Let’s eat.”
I wiped my damp hands on my jeans and followed Bero into the hut.
***End of Sample***
A Note from the Author
If you enjoyed this story or any other of my books, please leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. Reviews help authors like myself grow readership. I very much appreciate it! You can also get in touch with me via Facebook https://www.facebook.com/annetteoppenlanderauthor/ or the contact page of my website http://www.annetteoppenlander.com/contact/.
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Best,
Annette
Escape from the Past: Game of Life: An Introduction Page 3
