Oracle--Mutant Wood

by C. W. Trisef

  Mr. Coy’s head fell as far as it could go. It didn’t take long until his body began to convulse from the shedding of heavy tears. The restrained whimpers of a grown man broke the silence in the little room. His arms fell to his sides, and he wept openly.

  When a third tear fell from Coy’s fallen face, Stone began to produce more of his own. For all their differences, the two of them had something painfully in common: each man’s wife had been murdered by Lye. Though initially goaded by guilt, the sorrow that Stone felt toward Coy these days was fueled by empathy, now that he knew what it was like to lose his own wife. He had gained compassion by the things which he had suffered. After a few moments, Lester grasped Ben’s shoulder to console him as they cried together, one weeping widower to another.

  But Mr. Coy was not shedding tears of sadness. No, his were tears of joy. When he at last looked up, a wonderful smile filled his flushed face. His bright countenance was awash with confident confirmation that what he had known in his heart had been right all along. There was no anger in his appearance—no malice in his mien—but instead, true love and immense relief. Not an ounce more of happiness could have been squeezed into his bright-eyed and tear-streaked expression.

  “Thank you,” Coy whispered as he embraced Stone. “Thank you.” He set the folder on top of the filing cabinet and left the drawer ajar. Then he walked out of the room shoulder-to-shoulder with Stone and shut the door. Ret was standing close by with a broad smile on his face, having overheard the dialogue and seen the documents with his ears and eyes of airwaves.

  “So,” a jubilant Coy clapped, “what else do you have to show us, Stone?”

  “Actually, I—”

  Suddenly, the piercing sound of a loud siren filled the confines of the Keep. Stone’s eyes furrowed in dreadful disbelief, well aware of what the alarm meant.

  “What is it?” Coy inquired of the perplexed ex-principal. “What’s wrong? Are we in danger?”

  “Follow me!” Stone shouted over the noise.

  In a dash, they ran back to the main room and boarded the elevator. Stone placed his index finger on the face of the control clock and began to rapidly spin all three of its hands counterclockwise. The elevator instantly descended. Revolution after revolution, Stone’s finger was working around the clock, as if he was rewinding it. Wherever they were headed, it was obviously going to be the end of the road.

  Ret kept his sights set on the scene in front of him. Every second, the elevator was plunging deeper and deeper into the Keep. Each level they passed by took them yet another century further into the past. There was only enough time to catch a glimpse of the years on the walls: 1970, 1870, 1770. He blinked and missed the 1600s. The ringing of the alarm refused to be diminished with the passage of time. Very soon, they had plummeted past a full millennium. Yet their fall continued.

  A few moments later, the scene went dark. The elevator slowed, then finally stopped and opened. Stone rushed forward and burst through a set of double doors, entering a room that was small in size but big on electronics. In the middle of the main instrument panel, a red button was blinking to the rhythm of the still-audible alarm. Stone immediately smashed the flashing button, which shut off the siren and turned on a video. The three men focused their attention on what seemed to be streaming footage from a live broadcast, which began playing on the large, glass screen on the far wall. Ret was about to get his first glimpse into Waters Deep.

  CHAPTER 4

  DEEP TROUBLE

  It was a cold, dark room. Obviously underground, the walls had been crudely carved out of sheer rock, the ceiling left unfinished like a cave. A heavy wetness hung in the air, making everything moist and damp. In the center of the room sat a large table, much longer than it was wide, its metal surface perpetually plagued by a layer of condensation. A floral arrangement served as centerpiece, consisting solely of black Venus flytraps, whose red-colored veins and violent-looking teeth were a perfect match for the dismal décor of Waters Deep.

  There was one chair at the table that was bigger and better than all the others, rivaling a throne with its high back and oversized armrests. It came as no surprise to find it positioned at the head and occupied by Lye. Seated in the first chair on his right was Dr. Victor Cross, his thin lips too scared to smile on account of his austere demeanor. Across from Cross sat Commander Jaret, doing his best to still appear allegiant to Lye. Three other people were in attendance: a heavily-decorated military general, a high-powered businesswoman, and an Oriental man who looked very old and just as wise. A fourth individual was there, not in person but as a hologram.

  Cross cordially began, “We thank you all for coming to this very—”

  “Enough with the pleasantries,” Lye sneered. “Don’t make me gag.”

  “Very well,” Cross respectfully submitted. “I turn the time over to you, Lord Lye.”

  “Status reports!” Lye ordered. “Ladies first.”

  The businesswoman immediately responded, “Ret has not traveled outside the Tybee area since he returned from Antarctica. As far as we know, neither has Coy, though we all know he’s harder to keep track of.”

  “Excuses,” Jaret muttered, trying to sound critical.

  “Any new scars?” Lye pressed unappreciatively.

  “Yes,” the woman was pleased to report. “My sources at the school tell me a new scar has indeed appeared.”

  “Was it the Deep?!” Lye asked emphatically. “Was it the scar for the Deep?!”

  “No,” she was happy to tell him, as if her life depended on it. Lye seemed extremely relieved.

  “Still,” Cross mumbled to Lye, “that means the clock is ticking with the tree. Now it’s only a matter of time before Ret discovers it.”

  “Indeed,” Lye grumbled. Suddenly eager to learn the progress of the excavation of said tree, Lye moved on. “President Topramenov,” he called out to the hologram across the table, “how was the inspection visit from Zarbock?” Under his breath, Lye added just loudly enough for Jaret to hear, “Lionel used to be my prisoner, you know.” Jaret looked down in shame.

  “It went precisely as we had hoped,” said the image of Serge, who was being televised from his private office in Russia. “I showed him the excavation site, told him the phony explanation for it, and he bought it.”

  “Did he tell you to stop the operation?” Cross wondered.

  “No, quite the opposite,” Serge reported.

  “Then it’s full steam ahead,” Lye mandated. “Now that the scar has appeared, we must get inside before Ret does. I’ve been trying to penetrate that blasted tree for centuries, and this is the closest I’ve ever been to doing so. Tell your men to work day and night. Increase the workforce. No breaks. Double shifts.”

  “It shall be done,” Serge obeyed.

  Next, Lye glared at the military general, who understood it was his turn to report.

  “Since we last met,” the military man spoke up, “nine more nations have pledged their support in the cause to attack Coy Manor, which brings the total to 34.”

  “A decent number,” Lye said, unimpressed.

  “The nation of Cuba has allowed us to begin stockpiling supplies within their borders,” the general continued. “We already have a sizeable naval fleet moored off their shores, with more ships arriving every day.” Then, with hesitation, he asked, “Any idea when exactly the attack will take place, my lord?”

  “I am the one who asks the questions—not you!” Lye growled. “Like I told you before, you are to have everything in place as if the attack were to be carried out tomorrow.”

  “As you wish,” the general replied.

  Now annoyed, Lye progressed to the final report, addressing the Oriental man by asking, “And what of Stone’s whereabouts?”

  The sagacious elder methodically closed his eyes, as if communicating with some unseen realm, before slowly answering, “He is at the Keep.” The military general glanced absurdly at the old man as if he was some sort of soothsaying crackpot.


  “Just as I thought,” Lye said with some displeasure. “Stone must be eliminated. He knows too much.”

  “Perhaps we should attack the Manor and the Keep simultaneously?” Jaret figured he should say.

  “Of course not!” Lye shot back, pounding his cane on the hard floor, creating a small spark. “The Keep must be kept intact at all costs. It is far too valuable.” Then, with a concluding sigh, Lye said to all of them in his typical, disgruntled tone, “There is no room for error in the tasks that I have given each of you. I expect perfection. Meeting adjourned!” In a huff, he rose from his seat and strode out of the chamber.

  There was silence in the room for a few moments. The businesswoman watched one of the Venus flytraps close its fangs on a large moth. The general got up to leave after looking over at the Oriental man and finding him with his eyes closed, arms outstretched, and fingers pinched, presumably in some sort of trance. Before exiting, Cross terminated the Russian president’s hologram. When everyone else had filed out of the meeting room, Jaret casually walked around the table, unhurriedly pushing in each chair. Then he discreetly waved at his friends through the hidden camera he had set up and shut it off.

  * * * * *

  Back at the Keep, the screen went blank. Sitting at the control panel, Stone waited until he was sure the audio connection had been broken before saying, “So that explains why communication from the Deep was reengaged—it was Jaret who did it.” Then, speaking from experience, Stone observed, “Dangerous move.”

  When no one replied, Stone turned around in his chair to make sure Ret and Coy were still there. They were: while Ret was staring at Coy, Coy was staring into space, stunned to have learned of Lye’s plan to attack the Manor—and at any given moment, too. He was beyond belief, to say the least.

  Knowing what was troubling him, Ret sheepishly asked, “The defense system that you and Thorne installed should be enough to counter an attack—right, Mr. Coy?”

  In all seriousness, Coy glanced at Ret and shook his head in a most hopeless manner. “Not an attack of this scale,” he said.

  “What should we do?” Stone wondered.

  After a brief moment of contemplation, Coy made up his mind and made for the door. “Come on!” he instructed.

  “Where are we going?” Ret asked as he and Stone quickly followed.

  “We’ve got to evacuate the Manor,” Coy explained, “immediately.” He pried open the elevator doors and began to spin the hour, minute, and second hands in a clockwise direction, causing them to fast-forward through time.

  “Where will we all go?” Ret inquired.

  “Here, to the Keep,” Coy expounded. Although he had suddenly become very anxious, it seemed Mr. Coy had already accepted the likelihood that he was going to lose the Manor and that there was nothing he could do about it. “The Keep will be our home now.” Despite the gravity of the situation, Mr. Coy seemed to be holding himself together quite well—until…

  “Ben,” Stone rebutted, “I’m not so sure relocating to the Keep is the best—”

  “Then what do you suggest we do?!” Coy snapped, glaring Stone square in the face. “Live on the streets? Rent out a hotel? Be fugitives for the rest of our lives?” Stone swallowed hard. “We’d be in danger wherever we went. The Keep is the safest place for us now. Lye said it himself: he would never attack it.”

  “I see your point,” Stone said.

  No matter how quickly Mr. Coy spun the control clock, the elevator ascended at the same speed. With the centuries flashing by, Ret kept an eye on Mr. Coy. He knew the man must be panicking inside, yet it wasn’t until they passed the sixth century A.D. when Ret saw a teardrop cascade down Mr. Coy’s cheek. It reminded him of the time in Sunken Earth when his late butler Ivan was killed and Mr. Coy refused to turn back despite Ret’s yearning to do so.

  As soon as the elevator arrived at present day, Mr. Coy bolted through the grandfather clock.

  “You stay here, Stone,” Coy told the homeowner on his way out the front door. “Do whatever you can to make room for us—all of us. My goal is to have everyone sleep here tonight.”

  “Understood,” Stone said, already starting to rearrange furniture.

  Just as he was about to fly down the front porch, Mr. Coy abruptly stopped. Following close behind, Ret nearly ran into him. Coy paused, as if he had forgotten to do something, then slowly turned around and walked back through the front door. He located Stone, who was moving a couch, and put his hand on his shoulder. Stone looked up, expecting more orders, but what he heard took him by surprise.

  With a voice of tenderness, Coy said, “Thank you, my friend.”

  It was no small thing to hear Benjamin Coy refer to Lester Stone as his friend. Vindicated at last, all that the forgiven foe could do was smile, too overwhelmed to speak. Ret beamed from the doorway.

  Then Coy hurried out the door and down the porch. He and Ret piled into the car and sped out of the driveway.

  * * * * *

  Soon after the meeting at Waters Deep, Commander Jaret began to make his usual rounds throughout the compound. He checked up on some subordinates, handled a couple of security issues, and barked a few orders. When it appeared things were running smoothly, he nonchalantly slipped away, headed for one place in particular.

  The dungeon was the best-kept secret at Waters Deep. Like so many other things under Lye’s control, no one really knew much about it even though it was practically right in their midst. Off-limits to virtually everyone, no one knew what it looked like, and only a few of the top-dogs even knew how to get into it. Fortunately, Jaret was one of those few.

  He made his way to the north side of the complex, trying to look as natural as possible since he was well aware that every square inch of the facility was under constant surveillance. He was searching for one door in particular, the one he had seen Lye go through whenever he paid a visit to the dungeon (which was often). He strode up to it, pulled from his pocket a miniature stun gun that he kept on his keychain, and applied an electrical shock to the door to prompt it to open. He had seen Lye do the same with his cane on each occasion.

  As soon as the door parted, a heavy mist spilled into the facility, more like cool steam than thick smoke. Jaret tried to waft it away in order to see more clearly in front of him, but it refused to dissipate. Eventually, he took a wary step inside. The door shut behind him.

  The commander found himself in a fog—literally. He brought his hand up to his face and could scarcely see it. His surroundings were not dark; in fact, they were much the opposite. But the incessant mist swallowed everything from view.

  Jaret began to probe the ground with his foot in order to determine where he could safely go. Both to his left and in front of him, the floor abruptly ended in less than a yard. Such was not the case to his right, however, so he cautiously started in that direction.

  The path maintained a very slight decline. Basically blind, he maintained constant contact with the wall at his right to keep his bearings and prevent him from wandering off. After creeping a few steps, he could feel the walkway growing narrower and narrower until he was forced to turn sideways, his back against the wall and the tips of his shoes hanging over the edge.

  Shuffling along, Jaret slowly made his way down the ramp. As his eyes had been rendered useless, he relied on his other senses. The wall at his back was wet, the ledge at his feet slippery. He feared a misstep would send him to his death. He wondered if he should turn back, but then he started to hear noises. First it was an occasional moan, then the faint rattle of heavy chains. He kept descending, dragging his shaky feet.

  Eventually, his leading hand came to a vertical, iron bar. He instinctively wrapped his hand around it, relieved to have something to latch on to. He groped further and found more bars, at least a dozen of them, which stretched down to his feet but only about halfway up his chest. He figured he had arrived at the first prison cell. He turned around and crouched down as best he could, firmly gripping a bar with each hand.
>
  “Hello?” Jaret softly called into the cell. When there was no answer, he gently tapped on one of the bars, creating a deep but minor echo.

  A moment later, something moved within the chamber. Whatever it was—man or beast—it seemed to be in no rush as it made its way toward the front of the cell, pulling its chains behind it. Unsure of what to expect, Jaret gripped the bars more tightly. It sounded like the creature was dragging itself along the ground. Finally, a man’s hand appeared a few inches above the floor, his fingers reaching for the bars and then grasping one. When he had done so, he breathed a tired sigh and let go of the bar, as if it had required all of his strength. His curled hand flopped to the ground, his arm falling outside the cell, a little before the elbow.

  Jaret leaned forward as far as possible, pressing his face against the slick, wet bars. Whoever this person was, he was extremely old and frail. His skin was pasty white and somewhat soggy. He was breathing, but it was exceptionally slow, as if he might die at any moment.

  “What do you want, Lye?” the man asked with scorn, his voice slow and raspy.

  “Oh no, I’m not Lye,” Jaret politely informed him.

  After a brief pause, “Then who are you?”

  “Jaret.”

  “Are you the same Jaret who works for Lye?”

  The commander thought for a moment, then figured there might be cameras watching, and responded, “Yes.”

  “Oh,” the man replied with disgust. “We’ve heard about you.”

  “I’ve come because I need your help,” Jaret pled.

  “I don’t help my enemies,” said the man coldly.

  “It’s not for me,” Jaret petitioned. “It’s for Ret.”

  The prisoner said nothing for a few seconds, but Jaret thought he saw a flicker of strength come into his emaciated hand, the fingers forming a soft fist.