The Search for Artemis (The Chronicles of Landon Wicker)

by Griffith, P. D.

  “Three days ago?” Landon asked in shock.

  “You went through a pretty big ordeal out there . . . no thanks to me. And I’m hoping it worked. How do you feel?”

  Peaceful. Once Landon thought about it, he realized he actually felt calm and rested. The gruesome nightmares of his mother’s lifeless body and the terrifying display of power he’d unleashed the night of his apocratusis had since left him without a single uninterrupted night’s sleep. From his three-day slumber, however, Landon couldn’t recall a nightmare—or a dream for that matter—that had entered his mind. His brain had finally shut off, and he actually just slept.

  “Rested,” Landon replied. “But sore.”

  “Understandable. I shoulder some of the blame for the, uh,”— Dr. Brighton motioned to the area covering his entire torso—“bruising.”

  Memories of the stones pelting him over and over again flashed through Landon’s mind. “So who’s winning?” he asked, directing the conversation to the chessboard.

  “Ah, my pupil, such cannot be determined.” Dr. Brighton spoke in a strange altered voice, attempting to imitate someone in an accent Landon couldn’t imagine was appropriate. “When it comes to chess, you must ‘be like water making its way through cracks. Do not be assertive, but adjust to the object, and you shall find a way around or through it. If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves.’

  “You must ‘empty your mind, be formless, shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle, and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water, my friend.’”

  Sofia sat across the table with a grin stretched across her face, laughing softly.

  “Who’s that? Confucius?” Landon asked.

  “Bruce Lee.”

  “Well, Bruce Lee,” Sofia interjected as she moved a piece on the board. “This time you crash. Check mate.”

  “Wha-?” Dr. Brighton blurted in surprise.

  “You went on the offensive to quickly.” Sofia’s response was pointedly nonchalant, a sort of passive-aggressive gloat directed at the heart of Dr. Brighton’s ego. “What is it you always say? ‘The two most—”

  “Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Dr. Brighton interrupted as he waved his hand around in front of him, seeming to swat away Sofia’s triumphant words. “You’ve won this time my Soviet Siren. Don’t expect it to happen again.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she commented as she rose from her chair. “But now that Landon’s awake and I have sufficiently defeated the king of the gods, I have to return to some work I’ve been neglecting. Landon would you like to come with me back to the Gymnasium?”

  Soviet Siren? King of the gods? Landon felt like he was witnessing a moment not intended for him to see. The banter between Dr. Brighton and Sofia was uncomfortably personal and informal.

  “Sure . . . I bet Riley’s freaking out. He’s probably thought up all sorts of things for what’s happened to me,” Landon replied.

  “Good. I’ll go get your things, and a jacket—it’s a bit cold outside—and then we’ll head back.”

  A few minutes later, Landon and Sofia made their way through the woods and were soon back at the Gymnasium. Once inside, Sofia gave Landon an unexpected hug and then silently departed, heading toward the Restricted Tower. Landon watched her slender body slink gracefully away. As she disappeared from view, the question of what was truly going on in the prohibited section of the Gymnasium returned to the forefront of his mind, but he dismissed his conjecturing and theorizing for the moment and went to find Riley and let him know he was all right.

  • • • • •

  On Thursday, Landon eagerly woke up to Thanksgiving morning, but he quickly realized the day would be nothing like to what he was accustomed.

  At his family’s apartment, Landon would wake up a bit late in the morning. The cool fall air would chill his bare arms and torso as he rose from under the warmth of his comforter, making him work quickly to pull on a long sleeve t-shirt or light sweater. At that time of year, every window in the apartment would be opened to its fullest, circulating the perfect fall air.

  Once dressed, he’d take in a long, deep breath through his nose; he loved the smell of Thanksgiving morning. The cool weather made it dry and crisp with the mellow aroma of burning pine coming from the numerous wood fires roaring in hearths across the city. Seeping in from the crack at the bottom of his door was the sweet, mouthwatering smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls his mother made from scratch for breakfast.

  Leaving his room, he’d find his father sitting on the couch with a plate of rolls in his hand as sports analysts ran through their pre-game reports and predictions on the football games scheduled to air throughout the day. Apart from a small stint at the dining table for dinner, Mr. Wicker would stay on the couch for the entire holiday, and if the beer continued to flow, he generally stayed in a good mood.

  Landon always headed straight to the dining table. The entire kitchen would be covered in food waiting to be made into Mrs. Wicker’s festive specialties. Pots simmered on every burner, and the large turkey would rest on the counter, waiting for its turn in the small single oven. Landon would sit down in his usual seat and spend the majority of the day there watching his mother work her magic.

  Moments after settling into his chair, Mrs. Wicker would come over to him with a plate of two steaming cinnamon rolls—fresh bread swirled with warm cinnamon-sugar, chocked full of pecans, and drizzled with icing—and a glass of cold milk. It was his favorite. He dreamed about that breakfast.

  Once finished, Landon would occupy his time helping his mother where he could, peeling potatoes and cutting carrots and celery. That was until Mrs. Bradford arrived around one in the afternoon. She’d carry a cylindrical bag she’d made out of fabric patterned in fall leaves. Inside would be her contribution to the feast, two pies for dessert. One would be pumpkin, as Thanksgiving isn’t Thanksgiving without one, and the other would be whatever Mrs. Bradford had decided to grace their taste buds with that year. Landon’s favorite was her dark chocolate pecan pie with the extra crust cut into leaves and baked around the edge of the pan.

  After revealing her baked masterpieces with some gusto, Mrs. Bradford would join Landon at the table, sitting across from him in the fourth chair that was usually hidden under a pile of books. Landon’s mom always moved them in the morning in preparation of Mrs. Bradford’s arrival.

  Landon and Mrs. Bradford then spent the remainder of their time before dinner playing at least one game of Scrabble, which she’d always win, and a few games of gin rummy or hearts. All the while, Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Wicker would gently sip glasses of wine while everyone picked at a cold, spiral-cut, honey-baked ham purchased a day earlier.

  Dinner was ready around 4:30, and everyone would heap food onto his or her plate as they walked down the line. Mrs. Wicker always made excessively more than should be legally allowed for four people, and Thanksgiving dinner was one of the few times of the year that Mr. Wicker allowed talking at the table. Landon sometimes wondered if he was afraid of Mrs. Bradford should he try to silence her.

  It was Landon’s favorite holiday.

  The Gymnasium was in no way the same. When he woke up, the windows weren’t open to draw in cool fall air from outside. There weren’t any windows in his dorm room to open. When he got to the cafeteria for breakfast, the options were the same as always, which meant no pecan-filled cinnamon rolls.

  It all put Landon in a foul mood. The holiday caused him to painfully miss his mother and his old home more than usual, so after breakfast, he headed outside, hoping the picturesque fall landscape of the valley would cheer him up. When he made it to the Atrium, however, and looked up at the dome, he realized that the weather too was against him. Rather than find
ing a sunny, crisp day, the sky was grey, and quarter-sized pieces of snow were accumulating on the edges of the glass panels.

  Landon, therefore, resigned himself to spend the day alone and miserable, but he would be sure to attend the Thanksgiving feast at four o’clock. Each of his professors praised the food, saying it was the one time of the year that the kitchen staff went all out to make it special for everyone at the Gymnasium. They even joked about how imperative it was to skip lunch to ensure everyone had enough room to stuff themselves to the gills at dinner.

  Landon returned to his room and found it empty. He was glad, since Brock had been shooting him uncomfortable glares ever since the Library incident, and he didn’t want to deal with that on top of the depressing state of his first Thanksgiving experience at the Gymnasium.

  As he lay there, his mind went back to the last private session he’d had with Dr. Brighton. He still had a bit of bruising around his ribs, but he welcomed the pain. It was a reminder of what he’d accomplished. The lesson was torturous, but in retrospect, Landon was grateful for what Dr. Brighton had put him through. He still thought about his mother often, which he figured would never change, but now a large portion of the guilt he carried seemed to have washed away.

  Feeling the warmth of his abilities surge through his body, Landon rolled over to nap until the feast. As he turned onto his side, he flicked his hand, and the lights in his room switched off.

  Around 3:30, someone knocked on his door. It was Riley.

  “What are you still doing in here?” he asked, but before Landon could answer Riley was moving ahead with the conversation. “Come on! We need to get to the cafeteria now if we want any chance of having good seats at dinner!”

  Landon didn’t question him. He put on shoes and hurried alongside Riley to the cafeteria. When he entered, other students were working their way around the tables to find suitable seats for the feast.

  The teachers were right. The staff spared no expense at making Thanksgiving special, and it brightened Landon’s mood. The tables were covered in a long white tablecloth and topped with candles, colorful leaves, and cornucopias that overflowed with tiny pumpkins, random squashes, and a few other miscellaneous vegetables. At the head of the room, the food service area had been replaced by a fifth long table running perpendicular to the other four.

  “That’s where all the professors, tutors and scientists sit,” Riley said, answering the question swimming in Landon’s head before he could ask it.

  Landon and Riley moved down the second table and found a place. Landon couldn’t really tell why Riley was so keen on arriving early. All the seats seemed just as adequate as the others.

  Minutes later, Katie Leigh shuffled into the room, accompanied by a guest, Celia. They headed straight for Landon and Riley the instant they found them amid the growing crowd. Landon was a bit surprised as Celia never ate with them, but he was happy to see her.

  “Yeah, Table 2,” Katie Leigh said excitedly after sitting down. “Good choice. Hopefully it pays off.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Riley replied with the same excited tone. “This might be the year!”

  “What are you talking about?” Landon asked, confused.

  “The First Frost Frenzy,” Riley returned with a voice that made Landon think he was supposed to miraculously know what Riley was talking about.

  “What’s the First Frost Frenzy?” Landon asked with apprehension.

  “It’s only the Gymnasium-wide battle to the death that happens every year after the first big snow storm! The entire student body is pitted against each other, and the winners get serious bragging rights and privileges until the next year. Rumor has it that Dr. Wells will announce which tables will join forces to battle the others tonight!”

  “It’s a snowball fight,” Katie Leigh interjected with a nonchalant air of intellectual superiority. “And it’s not to the death; it’s until one whole team has been eliminated. Every year, once there’s enough snow on the ground, Dr. Wells gathers the students to announce the team assignments and the date of the event.

  “The teams are set up by grouping tables together. Last year, it was Tables 1 and 2 against Tables 3 and 4. The year before that, the outer tables were pitted against the inner ones, meaning 1 and 4 versus 2 and 3. Riley, surprisingly, has come to the same conclusion I have. If probability would have it, and Dr. Wells continues on his current pattern, this year should be Tables 1 and 3 versus 2 and 4. If that happens, we may finally be on the winning side. We may not be their favorite people, but Brock and his crew always win, and they also always sit at Table 4.”

  Riley jumped in. “Normally, the game happens a bit later, right before Christmas or sometimes even in January if we haven’t had enough snow. For some reason, the snow never stays on the ground very long in this place, but because of the blizzard that’s been raging outside all day, everyone’s talking about how it might happen early this year.

  “Typically, Dr. Wells has to call an assembly to get everyone in one place to put together the teams, but with the amount of snow that’s come down today, Thanksgiving dinner is a perfect alternative. It’s one of the few times where everyone would naturally be together at one time. Exciting, right?”

  Katie Leigh then looked over at Celia sitting beside her, and Landon realized why she’d been dragged to sit with them for the dinner. Katie Leigh was gathering recruits for her First Frost Frenzy team. Celia was a smart choice.

  For the next half hour, Landon noticed how confident everyone was that the announcement would be made during the feast. He saw how anxious some people were at selecting the right table. Some even got up and moved back and forth between seats multiple times until finally settling down. Landon could tell by the looks on their faces that they were still unsure if they’d made the right decision. Others seemed to use a more simple approach; they’d scour the room for someone they wanted to have on their team and rush to get seats at the same table.

  “There’s only been one time, that we know of, where Dr. Wells put the people sitting on the left side of the tables against the right,” Katie Leigh said. “So sitting with those you want on your team is generally a safe bet.”

  “If that’s the case, why didn’t you all pick Table 4?” Celia asked. “If you want to be on Brock’s team so bad, wouldn’t that be the smartest thing to do?”

  “Oh no,” Katie Leigh replied with a chuckle. “Riley and I have both had a few less than desirable interactions with Brock and his people, so if we were seen sitting at his table when anticipating the announcement of the First Frost Frenzy, it would be obvious to everyone that we were desperate to be on the winning team. This way we’re playing on trend and plausible deniability. No one knows how Dr. Wells is going to make up the teams. Right now it’s all theories and conjecture. But if we happen to be placed on the same team as Brock and his posse, we can play dumb to ever expecting it.”

  “You’ve really thought this through,” Celia replied.

  “Yeah, and let’s just hope it works,” Riley returned.

  At exactly four o’clock the doors to the kitchens were opened, and a parade of chefs emerged carrying dish after dish of food. Within minutes, every ounce of free space on the table was covered by trays of turkey, casseroles, green beans, freshly baked dinner rolls, mashed potatoes, yams, cranberry sauce, stuffing, and boat after boat of gravy. It smelled amazing, but before digging into the feast, everyone waited until the professors, tutors and scientists had taken their seats at the head table.

  Landon was surprised to see Sofia Petrovanya come through the door. Just days earlier she’d made it sound like she was leaving to continue her search for other psychokinetics. She found her seat beside Dr. Brighton. Dr. Wells, who Landon hadn’t seen since his orientation, was on the other side of Dr. Brighton and sat at the center of the table. Professor Tzu sat next to Dr. Wells and was laughing hys
terically with Professor Clemens, who headed Thought Reception training. Sitting toward the end were a lot of people dressed in lab coats. Among them Landon recognized Dr. Dodgson, Dr. Márquez and Dr. Longfellow. Apart from them and his professors, the rest of the people sitting at the head table were unknown to him.

  Once everyone was seated, Dr. Wells belted out unceremoniously, “Please, everyone, eat!”

  The next thirty minutes were filled with nothing but the sounds of clinking silverware and shifting plates. No one could take a second to talk as they stuffed their bellies with helping after helping of delicious food. After a while, Landon started to hear woeful groans as people reached their breaking points. This was Thanksgiving . . . eat until the thought of another bite is painful and then have at least one piece of pie.

  Soon the sounds of active silverware started to wane and the groans of overstuffed students built until Dr. Wells stood up from his seat and requested the attention of everyone in the room.

  “Wow, wasn’t that a fine Thanksgiving feast,” he started, talking loud enough so that everyone could hear. “I wanted to express my gratitude to the students of the Gymnasium, who work every day to master their abilities, and to the many professors, tutors, doctors and staff without whom that progress would be impossible.”

  Everyone in the cafeteria erupted in applause, but moments later, Dr. Wells motioned for everyone to quiet down.

  “And I have an announcement. As many of you have noticed, a blizzard has moved into the valley . . .”

  “Oh my God, here it is,” Riley whispered as he leaned toward Landon. He was shaking with anticipation.

  “ . . . and according to the experts, it’s expected to continue for the next few days . . .”

  Katie Leigh let out a little squeak of excitement and then turned beet red out of embarrassment that someone might have heard.