by Obert Skye
Clover pointed at the bugs covering the boat. “Sarus,” he said. “They’re carpeting the whole thing.”
“Dreams are being destroyed already,” Leven whispered. “All of them are tainted with bits and pieces of the Dearth.”
“How?” Clover asked. “Has the Dearth already gotten through? I mean, the sarus are already there?”
Leven stared at the image in the dream, brushed away the bugs, and cleared the image. He left Clover’s question hanging and went to work on a strong dream filled with tall, dark humans throwing sticks and stars. Had Clover thought about it, however, he might have remembered the day he carelessly let a single sarus slip from his void while he was still in Reality. He might have also felt some pride and deep dread over the fact that his mistake was now helping to wreak havoc on hundreds of thousands of people and dreams. The single sarus Clover had set free had now multiplied into millions of bugs and was speeding up the destruction of dreams.
A wounded hissing floated lightly through the air.
“Can you tell if anyone is dreaming about me?” Clover asked in hushed tones.
Leven let go of the dreams he was holding and smiled. “Anyone in particular?” he asked.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Clover said, his blue eyes glowing softly. “I’m just wondering if one of the many things I have met in my life is now dreaming about me.”
“Things?”
“You know,” Clover said, closing his eyes and fading. “Things . . . people, stuff.”
“Stuff like Lilly?”
Leven couldn’t see Clover, but he could feel him shiver as he hung onto Leven’s right arm. A weak whispering floated through the air.
“I need to speak to someone,” Leven said suddenly.
“Who?” Clover asked, confused. “Jeffery?”
“Who’s Jeffery?” Leven smiled.
“That guy with the limp and the really tight pants?” Clover said snidely. “I mean, come on, move up a size.”
“Not Jeffery.”
Leven stepped from the large shack, pushing the splintery door open and letting the deep gray of an oncoming morning swirl around him. Alder felt different from the rest of Foo. It seemed like there was more oxygen, and the air was more moist.
The ground was rumbling slightly, the whole of Foo unstable and unsteady. Besides oxygen and moisture, the air was filled with emotional Lore Coils of different strengths and volumes. Leven could hear the words Alderam Degarus faintly drifting all around him, and he knew each one he heard represented the frightened and passionate concern of some poor sycophant somewhere.
Clover materialized.
“I should have kept my thoughts to myself,” Leven whispered, thinking back to the night the Dearth had pulled the secret from his mind.
“That was a pretty big mistake,” Clover admitted.
“Thanks.”
Leven walked a hundred feet over and stopped and stared down at the dirt on the edge of the island. The ground shivered like an old refrigerator with a tired motor. Leven could see spots of deep, dark swirls in the dirt where dreams were blocked by the presence of the Dearth.
Leven stared at the ground. Then, as if it were only natural, the weight of early morning seemed to push him down onto his knees. Leven knelt on the ground, fighting the urge to lean forward. His body felt like a heavy eyelid that insisted on closing. Leven bent forward and his face pushed down into the soil. He opened his eyes, expecting dirt to fill his view—instead the soil seemed to lighten. Like on an old TV slowly warming up, he began to see fuzzy images and warped definition beneath the ground.
“Wow,” Leven whispered. His eyes swept the sand, taking in roots and rocks and long-buried objects. He could see an underground river flowing miles away and a colony of three-armed tharms digging a long tunnel off in the direction of the Swollen Forest. He could also see beneath the Lime Sea, and then, like a flip of a light switch, Leven’s view beneath the soil was as focused and clear as staring at a mountain landscape on a cloudless day.
“I can see everything,” Leven mumbled.
Leven’s life was tumbling and shaping at such a rapid pace he could barely keep up with the changes. Ever since last night, when he had wrestled with and sliced the Dearth in half, he could feel new gifts working their way into his being. He knew that as the Want he could possess multiple gifts, but he was surprised by how quickly they were now coming on. He felt like he was a giant magnet and the abilities were being drawn to him.
As Leven stared into the dirt, he saw a sea of darkness a few feet beneath the surface. The blackness stretched out as far as he could see, and it was wriggling like a serpent away from the spot where he now knelt.
Leven thrust his hand deep into a square of dark dirt. He moaned and clenched the bits of black with his hand. He yanked upward hard, pulling a thick strand of the Dearth out of the dirt. The ooze stretched out and melted in his palm. It pushed through his fingers and dripped down his arm. Leven pulled the blackness up and stood. He stared at the tarlike substance in his hand and on his wrist.
“That’s real nice,” Clover said, disgusted.
“I can hear you,” Leven said to the muck, the gold from his eyes lighting up the strand of Dearth. “I know your head’s miles away, but I can hear you whispering.”
The black ooze hissed.
“I’m not the same person anymore,” Leven explained to the goop on his hand.
The dirt sizzled.
“If you push through to Reality, I’ll have to stop you,” Leven growled.
The black gunk in Leven’s right fist bubbled, and dozens of small, dark faces swelled like boils. The multiple faces whined and screamed in anger and agony.
Leven squeezed the muck and it popped from his hand and wriggled back into the dirt and away. Leven reached down and pulled out more. It too slithered and pulled, trying to escape his grasp.
“He’s trying to get away,” Leven said. “Pulling out of Foo.”
The ooze burped.
“Ugly and no manners,” Clover observed. “He doesn’t have a whole lot going for him.”
The tar dripping down Leven’s arm hissed and whistled. Dozens of tiny, agonized faces swelled like zits in the muck. Collectively the faces began to hiss. They screamed, popped, and then withered. Leven stared at the black mess of Dearth he held. The glare of his gold eyes lit the ooze up from the inside out.
Leven pulled at the blackness and twisted it up like a stubborn root. With his left hand he yanked up more of the Dearth from the ground and tore at it. The strings of sticky evil pulled between his fingers as if he were a child playing with mud.
Leven could feel how long and stretched out the Dearth was. He knew he reached beneath the soil in all directions, slithering to an escape. The tiny faces in the black ooze began to laugh and snort.
Leven’s throat constricted. He coughed twice and could feel his lungs expanding.
“Are you okay?” Clover asked, patting him on the back.
Leven stood tall and then, as if he knew exactly what he was doing, he breathed out. Thin flames leapt from Leven’s mouth and wrapped around the ooze of the Dearth. The tiny faces melted and screamed as the fire turned them to ash. Leven watched the fire race down the black strings and extinguish itself against the ground. He closed his mouth and placed his hand over his lips.
“Wow,” Leven whispered, a weak wisp of smoke escaping from behind his hand. “I can breathe fire.”
Clover materialized on Leven’s left shoulder. “That’s one way to wash up—pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” Leven agreed.
“You look dazed,” Clover said.
Leven shook his head, “I’m fine. But the gifts seem to be growing. I woke up last night and couldn’t see the bottom half of me. A few minutes later the rest of me materialized.”
“Nice,” Clover said.
“Plus I can see under the soil,” Leven continued. “And just now I breathed fire.”
“You shouldn�
�t brag,” Clover said jealously.
“I’m not bragging. In fact, I can’t decide whether I’m confused or amazed. All I know is that the Dearth’s moving out and we’re stuck here on this island.”
“We could eat something,” Clover suggested.
“The world’s ending and you want to eat?”
“Maybe just dessert.”
Leven’s shoulders flexed as he stood up taller and smiled. The white T-shirt he wore stretched across his chest tightly.
“What?” Clover said defensively. “It could be like a portable dessert. Like an ice-cream cone or a splotch-sicle.”
“Maybe we should hike to the center of this island and find that tree,” Leven suggested.
“I guess,” Clover said reluctantly.
Leven reached out his arm, and Clover twisted around it and onto his head.
“Then,” Leven said, “maybe we can find some dessert.”
Clover disappeared and shivered contentedly for the next ten minutes.
Chapter Eight
A Very Important Piece of Land
Something was up, or perhaps it’s more fitting to say that something was going down in the small town of Burnt Culvert, Oklahoma. Up or down, over or under, either way there was a palpable unease in the air, an unease that seemed to prophesy that something big was coming. Yes, at the moment you couldn’t see it, but, like staring down a vacant railroad track and feeling the empty rails beginning to shiver, you could tell something thunderous and large was barreling toward you.
A fine mist of rain began to drop like glitter and then the wind blew, causing the entire town of Burnt Culvert to chatter and chirp like a large, rusty wind chime. Doors slammed closed, trees whistled, and clouds shivered as leaves and litter raced over the landscape. The sky above grew dim, making the scene feel like an outdated den with grassy carpet and dark walls.
It was Wednesday morning just after ten, or at least that was what the TV inside the manager’s office had just announced. The day would be cool and windy, and there was a slight chance of twisters touching down. The man watching the TV was Dooley Hornbackle. He was as old as any respectable grandfather, and his weathered face appeared friendly despite the drooping skin and large nose—he was like an honest version of the Dearth’s fake self. Mr. Dooley Hornbackle had owned and managed the Rolling Greens Deluxe Mobile Home Park for many, many years. He was a widowed Irishman with a soft heart and brittle knees. Currently his mobile home park was filled almost to capacity. The only vacancies were 1845 Flatline Circle, where someone had just moved out and the new home had not been brought in yet, and of course 1712 Andorra Court was still available. But other than that the park was full up. The manager’s small office sat just inside the entrance of the mobile home park. It was a tiny portable shed that he had rigged with electricity so as to be able to watch TV or run a fan on one of the hot summer Oklahoma days. There was also a short counter with a black phone on it. On the wall there was a calendar with pictures of World War II planes.
The black phone rang. Dooley Hornbackle picked it up and said, “Yes?”
The voice on the opposite end of the phone squawked and gnashed at Dooley’s saggy right ear. Dooley held the phone three inches away and listened.
“I know the sky looks bad . . . yes, I’ll keep an eye on it . . . I’ll unlock the shelter now if it will make you feel better.”
Dooley hung up the phone and grabbed his keys from a small copper hook screwed into the bare wall. He stood up, took in air, and let his bones settle just a bit, his knees popping like hot corn. Then, with the agility of a wooden statue, he shuffled over to the door. He pulled the door open, and wind raced in like heavy curtains. Dooley stepped back and then pushed himself out the door and into the open.
The voice on the TV had been spot on about it being windy.
Dooley fought against the wind, walking down the first lane in the mobile home park and toward the center. He walked through the small playground he had built years ago and over to the storm shelter he had put in when the park was first opened. The shelter was used a dozen or so times each year, but so far no tornadoes had actually worked through or damaged Rolling Greens Deluxe Mobile Home Park.
That was about to change.
Dooley reached the storm shelter. There were already seven residents standing near it waiting to get in.
“Hurry, Mr. Hornbackle,” one of the oldest residents ordered. “Hurry.”
Dooley unlocked the heavy steel door and turned on the light. The residents began to shuffle as quickly as they could into the storm shelter.
“You should sound the alarm, Dooley,” an aged woman said as she stepped in.
“I didn’t think it would get this bad,” Dooley replied. “And so quickly. I’ll—”
The warning sirens began to scream all over town.
“Saint Peter,” Dooley said to himself.
He looked over at the swing set he had installed twenty years back. The beat-up, rusty swings squealed and hollered at one another as the tough air pushed them around. Small trees peppered throughout the park shook their bare arms. The sounds of honking cars and gusting wind snapped and whirred all over like invisible pinwheels.
“Get in!” Dooley yelled as more residents worked their way to the shelter.
The air stiffened, and anyone trying to breathe had the sensation of trying to choke down a cup full of warm, glassy cubes of oxygen. Standing still, a person might feel pelted or stoned by Mother Nature herself simply because of the wind.
The sign above the entrance of the Rolling Greens Deluxe Mobile Home Park broke off at the top right corner and swung down, crashing into the line of beat-up old mailboxes and sending them flying. The old cars lining the road inside the park rumbled like tethered dogs wanting to break free.
Two new warning sirens began to scream and holler while three odd-looking funnel clouds touched down.
In the far corner of the Rolling Greens Deluxe Mobile Home Park, past all the homes and on the edge of a dry riverbed, sat the piece of land that Leven had once lived on—1712 Andorra Court. There were still bits and pieces of the home Geth had lifted up, Winter had frozen, and then Leven had helped shatter all over. They were tiny pieces, most of them completely unrecognizable and covered in dirt and weeds.
Nobody had ever moved in after Leven’s house had been destroyed. The lot was spooky and ugly and covered with thick, wicked weeds and prairie-dog holes. On the back side of the lot was the stump that had once been the bottom part of Geth.
A thick black funnel cloud touched down just over a mile away. The sound of it settling was like that of a tall building reluctantly imploding.
It was beginning to feel as if the town of Burnt Culvert was going to be sucked up.
Then, as if daylight were frightened, all light scurried off. The scene became as black as the darkest alley.
A twenty-year-old boy with long hair yelled for his mother and ran down the sidewalk toward the shelter. A man who had been painting the side of his mobile home ducked for cover as his open paint cans blew high-gloss paint all over him and his yard. Speckled and scared, he ran for the shelter.
Birds in the air no longer had any control of their flight patterns. They were flung sideways and backwards, riding the thick streams of wind. Two birds smacked into each other and fell to the ground inches away from where the bottom of Geth was.
The tree stump didn’t notice. In fact the stump was long dead. It had been many weeks since Geth had been cut down, and the wood had officially given up and was now hardening at a quick pace.
Boom!
The entire globe seemed to rock on its axis as a twister flicked its tail down into the ground.
Boom!
A second twister touched down in the park. It picked up the tiny office and threw it three miles south.
Another funnel cloud touched down. It caught the tip of one mobile home on the far side of the park and flipped the entire thing up and over. The home crashed onto the ground upside
down. The wheels that had been hidden beneath its skirt now spun like roller skates that had been struck against the ground.
Two more residents ran into the shelter and Dooley struggled to close the door. He looked around, knowing full well who should be there. Any kids were off at school, and most of the residents were away at work. So, unless someone had stayed home sick, the shelter now held everyone it needed to.
“Everyone’s here,” an old woman yelled.
The sky drew in its breath and then, like an overzealous child blowing out candles on a birthday cake, blew it out. Dozens of tall, skinny funnel clouds shot down like strands of black licorice. The whirlwinds pummeled and ripped apart the mobile homes, roofs and windows shattering into confetti. As one funnel cloud would pick up a trailer, another would strip the tires from beneath it and send them flying like discuses into the dark sky.
One after another, every mobile home was picked up and slammed to the ground. The air was filled with swirling particle-board, linoleum, and carpet.
The atmosphere burped and belched, filling the air with the smell of sulfur and dirt. Then, as if the sky were suddenly winded, it gasped and died, leaving the air completely still. Tiny bits and pieces of what were once dozens of people’s homes fell to the earth like clumsy rain.
Dooley looked at all the anxious faces huddled in the shelter. He was surprised the shelter had held up, the way the concrete walls had shook and wobbled.
But now it was silent.
“Is it over?” an old woman in a housecoat asked.
“I figure it is,” Dooley answered.
“Maybe it’s the eye of the storm,” an even older gentleman said. “It’s just a short calm.”
“I don’t believe it was one proper tornado,” Dooley said. “It was a mess of tiny twisters, and the storm’s blown through.”
