by C. W. Trisef
“Ret Cooper?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Jaret affirmed. “Have you heard of him?”
“Oh yes,” the man said. “Say his name again.”
Somewhat confused, Jaret stated, “Ret Cooper.”
“Louder,” the man urged with growing vitality.
Jaret did so.
“Louder!”
With all the force his voice box could summon, Jaret yelled, “Ret Cooper!”
The name of Ret Cooper seemed to swirl the fog as it reverberated off the unseen walls of the dungeon. When the final resonance faded away, however, a new noise stirred the air. It started out small but grew—and grew. It was the sound of cheering—the roar of a crowd, thousands strong, each lending his or her voice to encourage their number-one fan. In that moment, Jaret got a small sense of the immense magnitude of the dungeon.
“How do you know Ret?” Jaret wondered of the man.
“Look at my hand,” he said.
Jaret squatted down as far as he could go without falling off the precarious ledge. He raised the man’s emaciated hand to his face. There, on the palm, were three scars, barely illuminated but identical to ones on Ret’s hand.
Jaret gasped, “You’re also one with scars?”
“We all are,” the man told him.
“How many of you are there?”
“You’re welcome to keep going and count us yourself,” the man said, still leery of Jaret’s motives.
“I would, but I don’t have time right now,” Jaret explained. “Ret’s in trouble.”
“He seems to be doing just fine to me,” the man put forth. “He’s already found four elements. That’s more than I can say for myself.”
“Me, too,” a voice from the cell next-door chimed in.
“Plus, all of our fifth scars just recently appeared,” the man observed.
“Yes, Lye already knows that,” Jaret argued. “What can you tell me about this tree in Russia? And what is the sixth element?—where is it? And the relics? What purpose do they serve?”
Silence.
Then, from another neighboring cell, “Don’t tell him.”
And another, “He can’t be trusted.”
“Yes, I can!” Jaret affirmed, forgetting about the possible cameras.
“Then prove it,” another joined in.
“Very well,” Jaret dared them. “What do you want me to do?”
The man closest to him thought for a moment and then stated, “Bring us Lye’s cane.”
CHAPTER 5
SCARRED HEALTH
In a matter of a few days, Mr. Coy had turned the Manor into a ghost town. Once every student, staff member, plant, animal, and insect had been safely evacuated to the Keep, he focused on relocating as much of the nonliving capital as possible: dishes, furniture, electronics, linens, tools—and, of course, the hidden bust of his mother in the semicircular foyer. It was a tremendously tedious and time-consuming process (especially the dismantling of the carillon), but Mr. Coy considered it a blessing whenever he had at least one more day to save at least one more thing. Although he knew he couldn’t take it all, he was certainly going to try.
The Keep was probably the only place on earth that could handle all that the Manor was throwing at it. The spacious grounds that surrounded Stone’s mansion house provided more than enough room to accommodate Coy’s plane, helicopter, hot-air balloon, various automobiles, and even the surviving CAVE. The backyard lagoon, which eventually connected with the ocean, proved to be a suitable spot for storing the yacht and USS Shamu, among other things.
Elsewhere (which is to say underground), the twenty-first century had been put on hold indefinitely to make room for the present. The top-most level of the Keep’s archival labyrinth had been selected as the ideal location for housing everyone since that floor was largely unfinished. It was a task that Stone thought was going to be impossible until he saw the Manor’s staff and students get right to work. The architects drew up blueprints while the construction crew dug up dirt. Carpenters labored alongside electricians, plumbers among painters. Drapes were hung, rooms furnished, and kitchens stocked. Everyone had a job to do, according to his or her own talent, and no one complained.
This was eye-opening to Stone, who served as the unofficial supervisor of the relocation effort. When it came to Coy Manor, he had always thought it was the brick and mortar that were the nuts and bolts of the whole operation—that the amazing facilities and eccentric equipment were what produced such incredible results. But now he was realizing the real genius of the Manor wasn’t in a place but in its people—people who had been written-off by society but taken-on by Coy. It was precisely due to this second chance that they had been given why they so willingly took broken things and fixed them, found ugly sights and beautified them, sought out unproductive areas and reversed them—because, at one point, someone had done the same with them. And it warmed Stone’s heart to find them so determined to keep that manner as they Manor-ed that Keep.
Still, Mr. Coy’s preoccupation with salvaging his house left little time for other things: such as the fifth scar and some strange tree in Russia. When the scar first appeared, Ret had little idea what it meant (surprise, surprise). The closest thing he could compare it to was an ice-cream cone. However, based on what he learned from the meeting at Waters Deep, Ret was now all but certain the scar was a tree. He wished he could see it again, for the scar had since faded, and, as maddening as it was for him, he knew he had pretty much no control over when it would show itself once more.
It took a tragedy for the fifth scar to make its second appearance, namely the sudden and unexpected death of Peggy Sue, the longtime and much-loved director of the Center Street Orphanage. Although the 52-year-old woman had a few extra pounds to lose, she tried to live by the health advice of the day, which made her fatal heart attack all the more surprising. Word of her passing spread quickly throughout the small community, which offered its support to the overwhelmed assistant director. The orphans were understandably crushed, but no one took it harder than Leonard Swain. Peggy Sue had been like a mother to Leo, she being the one who had brought him home from the hospital after he was born. He knew, better than most, that death was a part of life, but the fact that this one had come so quickly made it all the more devastating.
Despite the rain, nearly every citizen of Tybee Island attended the funeral, which was preceded by a viewing. Ret watched as Leo approached the open casket. His forlorn face hadn’t known a smile for days, and his eyes were still bloodshot from tear-filled nights. Ana stood next to him. He reached inside the coffin to hold the cold hand of his matriarchal figure one last time. When they moved on, the line of mourners resumed. Pauline paid her respects, followed by Mr. Coy and Paige.
Then it was Ret’s turn. As soon as he saw Peggy Sue’s dead body, his fifth scar came to life. His eyes widened, not from the sight of a creepy corpse but from the power pulsing in his pocketed palm. Given the terrible timing, he resisted the urge to inspect his hand. Still, the longer he stood at the casket, the more the scar throbbed. It was all he could do not to look at it right then and there. When his turn was finally over, he stepped away, eager to engage in a different viewing. Unfortunately, the throbbing immediately ceased, and the scar became indiscernible once again. It went as quickly as it had come.
Ret and his scars were in a love-hate relationship. Although they had been together for years, Ret still had no say as to when they came around or how long they stuck around (until he collected that scar’s element, of course). This was incredibly maddening for a go-getter such as himself. It was as if the scars were playing a game, the one called patience. But, as with any relationship, he had to trust them.
As usual when death comes around, Peggy Sue’s passing spurred honest reflection among some of those who knew her, especially Ana. She became concerned for Pauline who, in many respects, was very similar to the late director: both women were the same age and ethnicity, and both had similar body types, ba
ckgrounds, and lifestyles—not to mention a slight addiction to sweet tea and all things fried. The thought of suddenly losing her mother prompted Ana to become seriously concerned about the topic of health.
She quickly realized, however, that there was no shortage of information on the subject. She read all kinds of studies and blogs—journals and papers—written by everyone from the most intelligent college grad to the most shredded gym rat, but she found they agreed on very little and usually just contradicted each other. She marveled how every food could be both good and bad depending on who you asked, and if she wanted a food to be healthy or unhealthy, she could find so-called evidence to support it either way. Just when she thought she was starting to get a good grasp of things, she would come across something else that would throw it all into question: good fats versus bad fats, clean carbs versus dirty carbs, organic or not organic, vegan or vegetarian. She was more confused by what GMO meant than what HMO was, she could hardly pronounce the names of artificial sweeteners, and she was still unsure of her stance on high-fructose corn syrup. What’s more, the ever-increasing dos and don’ts of ingredient lists were making eating a nightmare.
In the midst of this war of words and tumult of opinions, Ana was certain of only one thing: when asked what was healthy, her answer was, “No one really knows.” Sure, everyone and their dog claimed to have the answer, but each self-defined description differed from the next. Tenets were influenced by what sold the most products, and principles were swayed by so-and-so celebrity’s diet. The only fact in the folly of fitness was that the truth of what was healthy had become a mystery. And so, Ana resigned to let the scientists and meatheads keep battling it out.
In the meantime, Ana asked Pauline to at least go and see a doctor.
“Just for a checkup,” Ana told her.
“Ana, my dear, I’m very healthy,” Pauline reassured her.
“Yeah, probably, but isn’t that what we all thought about Peggy Sue?” Ana asked gravely.
“Okay,” Pauline obliged, unable to refute her daughter’s point. “What could it hurt?”
The next time a doctor came as a guest speaker to instruct Coy’s medical students, Ana asked him if he wouldn’t mind examining her mother, which he was happy to do. The doc’s recommendation was clear: although Pauline didn’t appear to have any major health issues, she could benefit from going on a diet and getting more exercise.
“I think I’ll get a second opinion,” Pauline said later, her ego a bit bruised.
The next day, she went into town, got that second opinion, and the diagnosis came back even harsher than the first: improving her eating and exercise habits wasn’t just a good idea, it was essential.
“I guess I do need to start going to the gym again,” Pauline admitted to Ana after sharing the news with her.
“There you go, Mom!” Ana cheered her on. “Go pump some iron!”
“Maybe,” Pauline chuckled, “but I mainly just like to swim.”
* * * * *
One fall day, Mr. Coy took a break from “Operation: Move the Manor” to resolve a few pressing matters. First and foremost, he was worried about Leo, who wasn’t coming around much these days. The obvious reason was distance since the Keep was even harder for the boy to get to than the Manor, but Mr. Coy wondered if a less-obvious reason might be depression, brought on by Peggy Sue’s passing and kept on by the plight of an orphan. The other concern, which was always on his mind, pertained to the fifth element, whose procurement he still wished to somehow make a priority despite being tied down in relocating the Manor. Fortunately, he had an idea that he hoped would solve both issues simultaneously.
That afternoon, Mr. Coy paid a visit to Tybee Island’s orphanage. He climbed the stone steps that led into the old building, presented a bouquet of flowers to the beleaguered assistant director, and then asked to speak with Leonard Swain.
“Hello, sir,” Leo said in a melancholy tone.
“Hello, son,” Coy greeted him warmly. Leo always liked when Mr. Coy called him ‘son.’ It never failed to cheer up the fatherless lad. “I haven’t seen you very much lately. You doing okay?”
“Been better,” came the reply.
Mr. Coy put his hand on Leo’s shoulder and told him tenderly, “I know it’s hard when someone you love dies. Want to know something that has helped me?” Leo nodded. “Staying busy, which is why I’ve come here today: I have an invitation to extend to you.” Leo looked intrigued. “How would you like to come and live with all of us at the Keep?” Leo’s face brightened up a bit. “There’s something I need you to do there.”
“What’s that, sir?” Leo asked.
“I’m a little strapped for time right now,” Coy explained, “so I need you to help me do some research. Ret and I recently learned there is a tree in Russia that is somehow linked to the fifth element. Lye has known about it for a while and has been trying to get inside. What I need you to do is search every room in the Keep for information about this tree and why Lye is so interested in it. Start from present day and work backwards in time, then let me know as soon as you find anything. Deal?”
“Deal!” Leo agreed, excited about the assignment.
“Great,” said Coy. “Now, go pack your things. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”
Leo ran off but then abruptly stopped, as if he remembered something. He slowly turned around and asked, “But what about my friends? The other orphans are like my family.”
“You can come back and visit whenever you’d like,” Coy smiled. “And tell them they are welcome at the Keep any time.”
Pleased, Leo took a few hurried steps away before suddenly realizing something else and stopping again. He ran back to Mr. Coy and embraced him.
“Thank you, Mr. Coy,” Leo whispered.
Tearfully, Mr. Coy replied, “You’re welcome, son.”
* * * * *
With so many other things going on in life, Ret couldn’t help but feel a little foolish being at school these days. Given his thoughts of drifting continents and global protests, he was struggling to concentrate on the current lecture in class:
“There are three main nutrients in nature,” the teacher began. “Proteins, carbohydrates, and fats.” Ret wondered if he should be writing any of this down. He glanced at Paige, who was feverishly taking notes, and figured he could just borrow hers if he needed to.
“Proteins are made up of things called amino acids,” the teacher continued. “They help with many bodily functions, including the building and repairing of muscle tissue. Some amino acids cannot be made by the body and must be obtained from food; these are called essential amino acids. Good sources of protein include meat, cheese, and eggs.” Ret watched as Paige captured every word.
“Carbohydrates are sugars. Some are simple (like candy and soda) while others are more complex (like potatoes and whole grains). The body uses carbs as a source of energy.” Ret yawned and put his elbow on his desk to hold up his head.
“Fats are also a source of energy and come in different kinds: saturated fats can be found in dairy products and red meat, while unsaturated fats can be found in nuts and oils. Fats are composed of fatty acids, some of which have been classified as essential fatty acids because they, like essential amino acids from proteins, must be obtained from food.”
The teacher then displayed a graphic: “This is the Food Guide Pyramid, introduced by the United States government in 1992.” Ret liked pictures. He picked up his pencil and started drawing what he saw on the screen.
“As you can see,” the teacher explained, “the pyramid tells us our daily diet should consist of six main food groups. On the bottom is the bread, cereal, rice, and pasta group. It is the largest group, and it is recommended that we consume six to eleven servings per day.” Ret drew a big loaf of bread in the bottom of his pyramid, followed by the numbers 6-11. “Next is the vegetable group at three to five servings per day.” Ret drew a carrot, 3-5. “Close behind is the fruit group, two to four servings.” Apple, 2-4.
“Moving up the pyramid, we come to two smaller groups. There’s the milk, yogurt, and cheese group at two to three servings, and then there’s the meat, poultry, fish, dry beans, eggs, and nuts group, also at two to three servings.” Ret was getting hungry. “And finally, in this little part at the very top of the pyramid, we find the fats, oils, and sweets group, which we are told to eat sparingly.” Ret didn’t know what to draw for fats, and he figured he’d spare himself from writing out the long word sparingly.
The teacher advanced to a new graphic: “Then in 2005, the government came out with MyPyramid.” The image still featured a pyramid shape, but the food groups were more vertical wedges than horizontal quadrants, and a stick-figure man was seen climbing the left-hand steps of the pyramid. “The food groups are listed along the bottom, and each is color-coordinated in the pyramid.” Ret scanned the food groups along the bottom: the grains group was still the largest, colored in orange; vegetables in green and milk in blue were next in size, both smaller than grains but about equal to each other; the fruit group, in red, came next, followed by the even smaller purple group of meat and beans.
A student at the very front of the room raised his hand and asked, “What does the yellow wedge represent?”
Ret hadn’t seen a yellow wedge. He looked harder. There, squished between the fruit and milk wedges, was a tiny sliver of yellow. It was difficult to see and wasn’t even labeled. The teacher quickly said it represented fats and oils, then moved on.
“Then, most recently in 2011,” the teacher resumed, “the government unveiled yet another concept on the subject of health. They call it MyPlate.” A third picture appeared on the screen, this time of a cute little place-setting with a fork on the left. The main plate was divided into four sections that were all roughly equal in size: grains and vegetables vying for first, and fruits and protein tying for second. Then, at the top right of the main plate, there was a small side dish that was for dairy.
Wait. That only made five food groups when there should have been six. Ret counted again. Something was missing. Where was the sixth food group?
