Oracle--Mutant Wood

by C. W. Trisef

  “How does the American cabinet feel about instigating a battle on their own soil?” Serge continued to probe.

  “They’re not exactly fond of the idea,” Lionel admitted, “but they know the UN and many of its member nations are supportive of it, so I’m sure they’ll come around.”

  Serge had run out of questions, all of which had been expertly fielded by his guest. It was time to make a decision.

  After a brief pause, he sighed and said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Zarbock, but I cannot pledge my support to such a campaign as of yet. Let me discuss it with my colleagues, and then I’ll get back to you.”

  With disappointment, Lionel put his hand on the politician’s shoulder and said, “I understand.” They both made for the car.

  The journey back to the airstrip started out in total silence. Both men tried to appear dejected—the president because his excavation efforts had been spurned, the physicist because his invitation had been declined. But both of them were merely faking it, for Serge had tried to use the tree as leverage in order to mask the real reason why he was digging it up, and Lionel had a backup plan that he was sure would work.

  After a few more minutes, Lionel, who always got his way, pounced.

  “You don’t happen to have a brother named Ivan, do you, Serge?” Lionel asked, suppressing his sly grin.

  Greatly surprised, Serge replied, “Actually, I do.”

  “Does he have a speech impediment, by chance?” Lionel continued to wiggle the bait.

  As if it touched on a sensitive subject, Serge nodded, “Yes.”

  “A lisp?”

  “How do you know my brother?” Serge earnestly queried.

  “I met him a few years ago,” Lionel retold.

  “Where?” Serge pressed. “I haven’t heard anything from Ivan in many years.”

  “We met at Sunken Earth, that civilization underneath the Atlantic Ocean—you know, the one that Ret completely wiped out when he stole the earth element from them.”

  “What was my brother doing there?”

  “Cooper and Coy took him there to help them with their scheme,” Lionel beguiled. “Apparently, Coy had picked up Ivan a few years back and enlisted him as his personal servant.”

  “Where is Ivan now?” Serge wondered, as if eager for a reunion.

  “I regret to inform you,” Lionel said, looking Serge in the eye, “your brother is dead. Cooper and Coy abandoned him at Sunken Earth.”

  Despite his stone-faced demeanor, Serge’s eyes welled up with tears. Lionel hoped his listener’s clenched fists were evidence of a desire to avenge his late brother, and, as it turned out, they were.

  By the time they arrived back at the helipad, the Russian president had pledged his country’s full military arsenal in the cause to destroy Coy Manor.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE KEEP’S SAKE

  Mr. Coy had just finished visiting with a group of students in the Manor’s auto shop when a member of his staff came rushing up to him.

  “Hello, Lucy,” Coy greeted her.

  “Sir, there’s a man swimming across the creek!” she urgently announced.

  Concerned, Coy replied, “I tell you those protestors are getting bolder by the minute.” He followed her to the nearest surveillance kiosk, where a series of screens showed continuous footage from many of the cameras that were hidden throughout the property.

  “That’s no protestor,” Coy observed, finding the corresponding screen and zooming in on the man. “That’s Stone!” Then, turning to Lucy, he instructed, “Quick, find Ret and tell him to meet me there right away.” The two promptly departed.

  Stone had already come ashore and trekked several yards toward the Manor when Mr. Coy confronted him.

  “Afternoon, Stone,” came his stiff greeting. Even though Ret insisted the former principal was a changed man, Coy still had his doubts.

  A bit out of breath, Lester said soberly, “Ben, there’s something I need to show you.”

  “Go right ahead,” Coy returned, still untrusting. “Show me.”

  “Not here,” Stone told him. “I don’t have it with me.”

  Just then Ret arrived.

  “Mr. Stone!” Ret rejoiced. “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.” Then, upon realizing his former foe was soaking wet, he asked, “Did you swim here?”

  “I did,” Stone answered, happy to see Ret. He turned back to Coy and said, “I need you to come to my house—to the Keep.”

  Wary, Coy glanced at Ret and stated, “Only if Ret comes with me.” Ret looked confused, unsure of what was going on.

  “By all means,” Stone agreed.

  “But I’m not swimming there,” Coy added emphatically.

  Unwilling to let Stone into his home, Coy set out to find a hardly known and little used entrance into the Manor’s underground hangar. The first task was to locate a good-sized and half-buried rock that was not too far away. With both feet planted against the natural marker, he turned to his left and walked five paces, then turned left again and went ten paces, and finally turned left one more time and finished with another five paces. His path in the long grass created a large letter C. Next, he jumped in place a time or two, as if to make sure he had arrived at the right spot. The ground beneath his feet sounded hollow. Satisfied, he dug his fingers an inch or two into the sandy soil until he found a large circular handle and, pulling it, revealed a hidden trap door.

  “After you,” Coy called out to the two onlookers, inviting them to climb down the spiral staircase that led into the hangar.

  “You’re amazing,” Ret remarked as he passed by Mr. Coy.

  “I know,” Coy boasted.

  The staircase led them to the suspended driveway that hung above the rest of the hangar. There was a simple car there, the one Missy drove to take the youth to school and back each day. The trio piled in.

  “Would you mind firing her up?” Coy requested of Ret. “I don’t have the key on me.” Ret used his power over metal to turn the ignition.

  “You’re amazing,” Coy told him as the car roared to life.

  “I know,” Ret joked.

  Flooring the gas pedal, Coy sent the sedan speeding toward the hangar’s wall. Stone, who was expecting an impending crash (as would any normal passenger), gripped the backseat and held on for dear life, but, as always, a wall parted where you’d never expect it to, and the car safely passed through to the other side. The submerged bridge emerged from the waters of the creek, and the car began to make its way to the mainland.

  Unfortunately, the appearance of the passageway aroused the mob that was still encamped on the other shore. They rushed to their feet, grabbing whatever ammo they could find. As Coy’s vehicle rolled onto Alley Street, it was assailed by all kinds of objects: empty cans, seaweed, large eggs, soft fruit, even a roll of toilet tissue. When a small rock created a nice nick in the windshield, Ret repaired the glass subconsciously.

  “I see you’re not too popular these days,” Stone pointed out.

  “They’ll thank us later,” the driver asserted.

  Mr. Coy didn’t need directions to their destination on Skidaway Island. As they approached the house, Coy solicited Ret’s services yet again.

  “Do you see a force field around the property, Ret?” he asked.

  “Yeah, how could anyone miss it?” Ret responded. Coy rolled his eyes. With his power over energy, Ret could see the otherwise invisible dome that protected the entire lot, electrical currents zigzagging across it in all directions.

  “Would you mind parting it?” Coy besought. With ease, Ret not only created a gap in the fatal barrier but also pushed opened the metal gate.

  “You two are quite a team,” Stone commented as they arrived in the driveway.

  “If you think that’s cool,” Ret replied, “watch this.” Without making a sound, Ret influenced the energy in the air immediately around himself to create a force field of his own. Though mostly invisible, Stone could see the empty space around Ret’s body rippl
ing like waves of heat rising above hot asphalt. Mr. Coy cautiously reached to test the protective barrier’s strength.

  “Yikes!” Coy shouted, quickly pulling his hand back. It felt like he had just inserted his finger into an electrical socket.

  “Just something I’ve been working on lately,” Ret stated with a coy grin as he relinquished his control on the air.

  The Stone residence was in a state of ill repair these days. The hedges needed trimming and the grass mowing. The plants in the porch’s hanging baskets had turned to powder, and the rocking chairs were too entangled in cobwebs to even sway in the light breeze.

  “I know what I’m going to buy you for Christmas, Lester,” Coy jabbed as they all helped to brush away a large pile of leaves just to get to the front door. “A rake.”

  “I never come in this way,” Stone explained.

  “Have you been here at all since we got back from Canada?” Ret wondered.

  “Oh yes, I came that very same day,” Stone said. “I figured Lye had already seized control of the Keep, but to my surprise he hadn’t. In fact, there were no signs that he or any of his cronies had even been here since I left, which makes me wonder if he’s up to something. He would stop at nothing to prevent the Keep from falling out of his hands. But now that I’m in possession of it again, it would be nigh impossible for him to regain it. That’s why I returned immediately—for the sake of keeping the Keep.”

  The front door creaked open with all the creepiness of a haunted house. The late afternoon sun cast eerie shadows on the living room’s dark walls. The men’s footsteps left prints in the soft, underused carpet, and the smell of dust filled their nostrils. Ret’s heart churned when he saw a picture of the late Virginia Stone on the bookcase. He felt to stand in front of it so that her surviving spouse wouldn’t see, as if Lester didn’t already know it was there, but of course the widower glanced at it as he strode by. Old habits die hard, but, unfortunately, this one never would.

  Lester marched directly to the large grandfather clock against the wall. He gently pulled open the glass door and pushed the pendulum aside, then stepped inside and disappeared from view. Mr. Coy, having been a guest (albeit an uninvited one) in the Stone’s home once before, followed after Lester, turning back to beckon Ret who was slightly puzzled to see his two associates climbing into a clock.

  Once inside, Ret watched as Stone fiddled with the controls, which were not an array of push buttons but the face of a small clock. Stone’s manipulation of the hour, minute, and second hands meant nothing to Ret, but it set the people-mover in motion. Down they went, through darkness for a few moments, until they arrived at the first floor.

  Ret stepped out into a very vast and entirely empty room. It was in the shape of a decagon, with a long corridor beginning where each of the ten walls met. One of the walls had the number 2000 painted on it in big, black characters, and the wall to the right of it said 2010. The rest of the room looked largely unfinished. Without saying a word, Stone set off toward the corridor between the two numbered walls. His two companions followed.

  Ret’s insatiable thirst for knowledge slowed him down as he entered the corridor. To his left was the start of a long hallway, lined on both sides with nothing but doors—a couple hundred of them. The first door on the left had a date etched into its surface: January 1, 2000. Then Ret glanced at the first door on the right: December 31, 2000. As far as he could see, each door represented one day in the year 2000.

  Ret turned around and peered down the hallway that began on the other side of the corridor. It stretched out in the opposite direction, each one of its doors pertaining to the year 2010. He then continued down the center corridor to the next two hallways: on the left was 2001, to the right was 2011.

  Ret was becoming suspicious, even a bit uneasy. For one thing, the labyrinth was as silent as a tomb, and it didn’t help that everything was white—from the ceiling to the floor and even every door—giving the whole place the look and feel of some sort of asylum from the after-life. Both curious and nervous, Ret resisted the urge to open any doors and instead set out to rejoin his friends. He took a few more steps forward and saw the pair off to his left. Stone had stopped and was standing in front of a door near the other end of the hallway, with Coy not far behind. Ret followed after them.

  “Are you sure you have the right year, Stone?” Mr. Coy asked. There was noticeable anxiety in his voice, as if he was approaching something unpleasant from the past. The further his feet took him into that year, the more unwilling his heart became.

  His speed already reduced to a snail’s pace, Coy stopped several feet before he got to Stone, reluctant to go any further.

  “Come here, Ben,” Stone softly called, still staring at the door in front of him.

  At a rate of what seemed like one step per hour, Mr. Coy arrived at Stone’s side and joined him in glaring at the door before them.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Coy stated more than he asked, well aware of the date on the door. “This was the day—”

  “I know,” Stone interrupted. “I need to show you something.”

  Stone reached toward the door, turning back the clock while simultaneously turning the knob, every click of whose gears could be heard throughout the entire year. He pushed the door open and waited for Mr. Coy to enter first, which took a few moments. After standing in the darkness for a time, Coy pulled the ripcord to turn on the fluorescent bulb that he knew would illuminate the past.

  It was like standing in a life-sized scrapbook, its decorated pages plastered like wallpaper and completely covering every square inch of all four walls. There were newspaper articles about cleanup efforts after a tornado in Oklahoma City, the rising death toll from a bombing in Chechnya, and counter-terrorism victories in the Middle East. A medical mask hung next to a map that pinpointed each location of the day’s confirmed cases of SARS. There was a running list of nations that had joined the European Union, with Lithuania as the most recent. Enlarged versions of the United States Treasury’s newly released $20 bill had been well-examined for flaws in its new anti-counterfeit features. Talk of tax cuts and anthrax could be found in magazine cutouts along the baseboards. Someone had become a member of the 500 home-run club. Pictures of the phases of a lunar eclipse were pinned next to a study about the overfishing of the world’s oceans.

  Ready to return to the present, Mr. Coy began to turn toward the door until he felt Stone’s hand on his shoulder. The previous principal pointed to a small filing cabinet in the far corner of the small room. Coy dismally looked at Stone who only nodded encouragingly. Coy trudged to the cabinet and opened the top drawer.

  A collection of hanging files filled the drawer, each one devoted to a certain subject: marriages, patents, arrests, inventions, lawsuits, awards, births, and—

  —deaths.

  Mr. Coy moved to shut the drawer. Stone stopped him.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Coy asked, understandably annoyed. “I’ve moved on.”

  “Trust me,” Stone importuned. Coy glared wide-eyed at such a request from his former foe.

  Against his wishes, Coy reopened the drawer, pulled out the contents of the folder labeled “Deaths,” and began to sift through the alphabetized pages. After the death certificate of one Michael Clements and following the obituary of a Suzanne Copeland, there it was: the news story announcing the passing of Helen Coy.

  Ben couldn’t help but smile a little when he saw the image of his deceased wife. It was his favorite picture of her, wearing that striped blouse he had given to her for her birthday the year before. She had her hair up, which was not how she preferred to wear it but did so anyway because she knew he liked it. Ben could even see the lines in her forehead that she loathed but he loved because he thought of them as wrinkles in time, reminders of the years they had spent growing older together.

  But his smile turned to a frown as his eyes moved from photo to text. He knew it all too well, so he just skimmed it, picking up bits an
d pieces: summa cum laude, world renowned, humanitarian efforts, adored by all, loving wife, caring mother, fell ill, unknown causes.

  Coy closed the folder, but Stone quickly inserted his hand to save the place. He pulled out Helen’s story and flipped it over. There was a small envelope stapled to the back.

  Coy squinted at Stone with curiosity, then took the page and opened the envelope. He found a small slip of paper inside, one he had met before. He took it out and read the phrase that had haunted him for so many years:

  How could you do this to me?

  With familiar sorrow, Coy looked down and said submissively to Stone, “Can I go now?”

  “Look inside again,” Lester bade him, referring to the envelope.

  Coy sighed and looked once more. This time, he found a second slip of paper, on which was written the following message in Helen’s ill-stricken handwriting:

  To the love of my life:

  Please use this to cure the world.

  Yours forever and always,

  H

  The message was followed by a brief but complex scientific formula containing the alphabetic symbols of certain elements with their corresponding coefficients and subscripts, which Mr. Coy knew constituted the molecular structure of the mysterious liquid that they had encountered at the uncharted island now known as Waters Deep.

  Baffled, Coy gaped at Stone. “What is this?” he pressed with great interest, holding out the second slip of paper.

  “It’s the real message she was going to give to you that day,” Stone answered, “but Dr. Cross stole it and replaced it with one he had forged.” He pointed at the first slip of paper. “Cross is a fraud. Lye told him to poison Helen once she decoded the formula, to steal it so he’d have it, and then do something terrible to keep you away from the Deep.” Shaken up by retelling the tragic tale, Stone finished his plea for forgiveness by tearfully saying, “It wasn’t your fault, Ben. I’m sorry you thought it was all this time.”