The Boy and His Curse

by Michael P Mordenga

  Artists and Earthians

  The Boy and His Curse

  By: Michael P. Mordenga

  A special thank you to Heidi Larsson for the editing, book cover, and vision casting.

  Thank you to everyone who supported me on Rocket Hub when this book was just in its growing stages.

  Thank you to Sarah Beach for editing and being the final touch on the book.

  Thank you to Rebecacovers for creating the cover

  “Through darkest forest trails,

  Upon blackest smoke and unholy fire burned,

  The demons stand upon redeemed members,

  Claiming lives they never earned.”

  --Lament of The East Massacre

  Prologue : The Darkness that Hides the Chaos

  Curio regained consciousness only to be met with confusion. Plumes of smoke streamed through the air, masking the sweet forest scent. Ash and debris swirled throughout the trees, blinding him from the sights of terror. His eyes could barely see the horizon until he registered the uncomfortable numbness on his back.

  I must be dead.

  He slowly rose from the ground, evaluating his presence or lack thereof in the ethereal landscape. His senses faded as he touched the ground and then his face. He noticed a shooting pain in his legs, as he struggled to stand. He felt a sudden crack. He forgot he had wings, which had been nearly broken during a vicious ambush. As his senses connected themselves back he noticed a sap-like fluid crawling down his back. His blood dripped like hot wax as dizziness crashed through him with waves of nausea. In a haphazard stupor, Curio patted himself in search of medical rations, only to find he’d been looted to near nudity. Not fully aware of his concussion, he tried to retract his wings. The slightest snap of tendons hurled him onto the ground again. He cried out into the abyss.

  “Those monsters came from Bangor!”

  Amid the pain, his memory reconnected like a full-throttle jet. He remembered the battle, the attack, and the hope of victory slowly fading. Now rushing with adrenaline, Curio raced to redress himself in his scattered armor.

  He patted his wooden chest plate. A sword hack had nearly cut into his flesh just moments before and the triple layered wood barely held together. The gash on his arm was still warm with coagulating blood. Every breath created new micro-fractures in his retracted wings. He coughed up resting smoke until his esophagus felt like it was bleeding. The ringing in his ears subsided and then there was a silence; the absence of life.

  “Curio!” A hand emerged from the blanket of smoke, “Curio!”

  “Here!” Curio called out into the abyss of smoke, “I am here!”

  “Did you see which direction they went?” Lieutenant Griggs pierced the darkness with a booming shout.

  “No, my lord.”

  Griggs had set up a military training post in the Fields of Glume for the Eastern Soldiers of Faeria. They were executing drills and military techniques as part of their regiment field exercise. Curio was a third line swordsman, newly graduated from his battle guild. He was young, agile, fit for combat. His heart beat for protecting Faeria, but he assumed his peaceful country would never see battle in his time.

  He and his squadron had been practicing close quarter saber defense until they were interrupted by shrieks of what they they assumed were wild beasts, followed by bursts of fire heaving like a thousand demons rising. The cries of their enemy, the Kalhari, flew up as the trolls stormed through the patch of trees separating the Bangor mountains and the field. They flooded the regiment’s camp holding torches and axes, clad in immovable steel coats. The warriors of the furry beast nation swarmed and chased any creature standing. Their excited laughter filled the air, as if they were children on a bug hunt. Soldiers from every squadron dove out of their way. Swordsmen were cut down, archers had no time to reach their bows, and military officers were demolished.

  “Swords!” Griggs roared. “Get your weapons!”

  The regiment exploded in different directions.

  “Get up! Get up!”

  “Where is our officer?!” Curio instinctively put his hands on the nearest sword he could reach. It was too late. A fresh rip into his back unfurled his broken wings and he screamed. The foreign taunt carried on the hot breath of a muscled Kalhari tickled his neck. The smell of rotting meat filled his nostrils. He managed to sway to the side, only catching the blade of a large broadsword on his armor. The Kalhari brutally swiped his razor-like fingernails, raking his flesh. Curio cried out and shut his eyes in agony. Exhaustion and numbness came over him as he hit the cool grass. It felt like a lifetime passed before he opened his eyes again.

  “We have to go, soldier!” Griggs commanded, “We just need to hold them off until the other regiments come!”

  “How many?” Curio coughed.

  “They are a rogue wave and we are a tiny island. That’s all you need to know.”

  His duty commanded him to protect his home, regardless of his own survival. His wife, He’di, and his elderly father lived in a nearby town. If his regiment could hold the enemy back maybe they, and others, could get out alive.

  Screams erupted through the sky, shaking the ground beneath it. Flaming arrows rocketed through the falling treelines as if the trolls were hosting a maniacal parade. Their reputation of unspeakable horrors propelled the regiments forward. The only light they could follow now were of firing weapons.

  Griggs pounded Curio’s chest, “Are you ready?”

  Curio looked into the endless black abyss of the forest. They were running toward an enemy that would flick them away like a gnat.

  “Yes, my lord!”

  Griggs shouted a war cry and Curio echoed it. They rushed into battle, swallowed by the black nothingness of the night.

  Daysun have mercy if this army precedes us. These crawlies are desperate. I can only fathom what destruction these monsters will cause if they get into the Queendom.

  “I looked above me and saw the beloved homeland rescued by the hands of one of no familiar face.”

  – Excerpt from the Elfin Apocaliptiks Prophecy

  I : A Curse You Can’t Sweat Out

  The early morning sun cast amber rays over the town of Litchfield, illuminating the parking lot of the Happy Oaks mini mall. It was a small town, containing its own network of tiny plazas and even tinier houses. The air was brisk and not a single cloud lingered in the sky. The pale blue sky offered hope of a new day and second chances. In the far corner of the lot, perfectly parked, a car provided by the Suburban School of Driving sat with the engine running. A pair of birds chirped blissfully as they flew over it and gracefully dropped a load on the driver’s windshield.

  At a distance, the car seemed to rattle as a boy anxiously awaited his third driver’s test. His optimism was fading like the paint on a car left in the sun to fry. The glass and brick buildings that he had passed mocked him. The constipated growl of the engine was quieter than the butterflies eating through his stomach. By the look of the dripping sweat on the vinyl steering wheel, another kind of bug was probably having a feast, too. He turned off the engine. He glanced into the rear-view mirror and sighed at the Asian eyes staring back at him. The bushiness of his coarse dark hair peeked in and out of view as he talked himself up.

  Ethan, you can do this! Third time’s a charm, right? If not, you’ll just be a loser forever and a walking stereotype.

  Teen angst wasn’t the main cause of the worry tattooed across his face. But his Man Journal magazine told him that was bad for a clear complexion. As if he needed another faceless voice telling him how to fit in. No amount of flannel shirts, pomade, or deodorant spray was going to give him the ultimate guide to being cool. He was convinced that getting a license was going to change everything.
He just needed another chance.

  He looked out the window to emptiness and sunbeams, where there was no trace of the driving tester, Mr. Fastardly. That bitter old man had flunked him twice already. Ethan was determined to pass this time. He had practiced day and night, and this time he was going to nail it! He imagined going back to his classmates and rubbing it in their faces.

  “I came, I saw, I drove home,” he chanted, as his own heart still tried to escape his ribs.

  Healthy and Attractive Teen Weekly had prepared him for high-pressure situations, but it still wasn’t enough. He was so nervous it was discombobulating. Succumbing to dizzy spells seemed so inviting now.

  “Today I will get my license,” Ethan announced to the partial reflection. “I can see it now! ‘Ethan, where did you get such a beautiful license? Ethan can I be your best friend?’”

  His gestures became ridiculous. “‘Ethan, will you be my boyfriend and marry me — a gorgeous swimsuit model?’”

  A loud knock on the window startled Ethan out of his fantasy. Mr. Fastardly peered into Ethan’s car with eyes that were chiseled from a very bland mountain. Ethan’s rise to popularity hinged on his approval. Mr. Fastardly’s life hinged on his creaking joints.

  Ethan stumbled with the functions of his car as if he’d never seen the contraption before. With a grunt, Mr. Fastardly pulled out his PDA and started to type on it. He never made eye contact.

  “Mr. Mioko, have we been driving since the last time we met?”

  Ethan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I expect this to be a smooth ride,” he said in a robotic tone.

  Ethan’s blood boiled. This man, this waste of a Sunday morning, was the only obstacle separating him from having a license.

  Mr. Fastardly spoke like he had asphalt in his throat, “Mr. Mioko, you may turn on the vehicle.”

  As soon as Ethan turned the key in the ignition, everything went fuzzy. Sweat dripped down the wheel and his brain began to buzz. It was deafening. Nervousness was taking over.

  Every road test Ethan took with Mr. Fastardly ended with hitting an orange safety cone or backing into a stranger’s car. His parents already paid for new paint jobs from the previous tests. All Ethan could remember now was his mind blanking out and hearing the bad news that he failed. It was happening again.

  He slapped his temples. All he could see was blurry images and shapes. Then his head started spinning so fast it made him sick.

  “Alright, Mr. Mioko, I want you to ease out real slowly.”

  Ethan put his foot on the gas slightly and the car putted forward.

  “Careful, Mr. Mioko,” Mr. Fasardly shook his head and sighed, “Now, I want you to make a few circles around the parking lot.”

  Ethan could barely see. With the rapid beating of his heart and the sweat on his fingertips, he started losing control over the car.

  Oh God, please!

  “Make a right turn up here.”

  The car sloppily turned along with his stomach, cutting through the parking lot spaces. Ethan could only see blurry lines.

  “Make a left turn up here.”

  There was a new blur up ahead. It was brown and moved very slowly. At that moment, Ethan knew he wasn’t stopping. The brown blur was right in front of him. The brakes seemed like they were a mile away.

  “Mr. Mioko, Mr. Mioko!” Mr. Fastardly shouted.

  The hood of the car swallowed the brown blur. The tires bounced and chewed up the object.

  “Stop the car, now!”

  The engine shut off and the blur disappeared. Ethan exploded out of the car and ran toward the object of his destruction.

  The brown blur was a collective pile of blankets. Underneath all those blankets showed a startled face. It was a rugged face, with wrinkled lines hugging every corner. She was thoroughly deflated like an after-Halloween jack-o-lantern. She moaned in pain. The screams and yells of Mr. Fastardly were drowned out in the background as Ethan surveyed the damage.

  The teen squatted humbly to the ground and looked at the tire. No part of the woman was under it, but the tire was still seven inches off the ground. Something gray and squishy lay in the shadow underneath.

  Mr. Fastardly reversed the car as he made calls on his emergency cell phone. Ethan cringed. The gray and squishy object had a tail and a small head. His stomach sank to his small toe. Ethan summed up the courage to speak. This was going to be bad.

  “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you! Well, that isn’t really true. I saw you, but I didn’t stop because I didn’t think you were a human. Wait, that didn’t come out right—”

  The old lady didn’t respond. To Ethan’s surprise, she rolled over and stood up as if she merely tripped. She brushed herself off and noticed him for the first time. Long gray dreadlocks showered over her dark face as her wrinkled eyes squinted at him.

  “So, this is of their desire?” She questioned, opening her mouth to display jagged, misplaced teeth. Her voice rattled like she had swallowed a crow.

  “Awake you!” The lady picked up the fur bag by the tail. The dead weight of the cat hung in a tangled ball. She looked at it, then at Ethan, with her scraggly eyebrows turning angry.

  “How am I to record this?” She said dangling the dead mass of gray tangles.

  Ethan winced away while trying to appease her. The sight of lifeless cat was churning his stomach.

  “I am so sorry, ma’am. I will do anything you want. I will buy you a new cat!”

  She laughed out of nowhere, as if Ethan just told a joke. Then she swung the cat against the hood of the car, startling Ethan out of his shoes. Getting uncomfortably close to him, she maintained an expression of mild joyfulness, showing her cracked teeth. Her breath tickled his cheekbones.

  Her hand shot out and grabbed his own. Her thumb clamped onto his wrist like a vice. Words began to topple from her crusty lips as if she were chanting.

  Ethan wasn’t sure what she said, but she brought his hand really close to her face and spoke to it. It sounded like gibberish, but he barely had time to hear it as he snaked his hand out of her grip.

  “I need to go now,” he said, nervously rubbing his hand.

  She laughed out of place again, grabbed her cat, and skipped away while crowing, “We have missed the trouble!”

  Disoriented and bewildered, Ethan staggered back to his car. Mr. Fastardly’s muffled outbursts were heard from inside the car. He was swearing profusely under his breath as he scribbled his report. Ethan could see the steam coming out of the tester’s nose. He gulped and wiped away the sweat that had trickled down his temple. He slumped into the car and sat miserably in the driver’s seat. He put his seatbelt on, hoping that maybe the incident wouldn’t be docked against him.

  “Mr. Mioko, this is the third and worst time I have ever driven with you.” A rumble echoed from the passenger seat.

  “You hit an elderly woman and you killed an animal. That alone should put you in jail and absolutely remove you from ever receiving your license — ever! Do you know how much paperwork I have to do now to patch this up?”

  Ethan gulped again.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Mr. Fastardly exhaled deeply. “Why do you want to get your driver’s license?”

  Ethan dropped his head down, “Because it makes me feel cool.”

  Mr. Fastardly shook his head and rubbed his pen into his temple. “Well, there are other things in this world that are ‘cool.’ Why don’t you take up stamp collecting or catching butterflies—anything that doesn’t involve you driving yourself.”

  Ethan’s hand started to burn. It was like someone installed an oven coil under his skin. At first he thought it was just from the nerves, but his hand radiated with fire. He began to rub his thumb against it.

  “I don’t usually make this judgment, but I think it’s safe to say that you will never get your license.”

  The burning sensation in his hand intensified. Waving it in the air did nothing. He had to get out of the car; he couldn’t stand the
pain. He bolted outside, Mr. Fastardly still lecturing after him with his neck craned out of the window.

  As soon as he jumped out, he wrapped his hand in his t-shirt. He heard the creaking of metal. A light pole from the parking lot started to sway and crashed down onto the back of the car. Glass sprayed onto the pavement, followed by a loud crunch. Ethan jumped back and landed on the ground. For a moment, there was silence all around.

  “That wasn’t me!” Ethan yelled in horror.

  “Just go!”

  Ethan bolted.

  The walk home was incredibly disheartening. His mom had offered to give him a ride home, but he really didn’t want to tell her the news. He hung his head in shame, shuddering at the thought of being prohibited from receiving a license, again.

  I hit an old lady. You don’t get any more screwed up than that. I will probably go to juvenile prison and have to join a gang of Mexican cartel youth. People like me don’t last too long in the joint. I just hope I have enough street cred.

  A deep sigh escaped him. Ethan had spent the last six months practicing with his parents up until today, trawling roads and city blocks. He had mastered speed control, all of the alphabets’ turning procedures, and even the impossibilities of parallel parking. Now it was all flushed away. All of his attempts to gain popularity were worthless now, because he couldn’t use the brakes when an old lady was crossing. He wanted to cry but that wouldn’t lessen the blow of being a loser.

  He watched the traffic race past him; it looked like freedom. Everyone else waltzed into their privileged parking spots and received gallons of attention. It burned him to know that he wouldn’t be among them. He would be imprisoned on the broken sidewalk that even the county couldn’t be bothered to fix.