Light in the Barren Lands: Travail of The Dark Mage Book One

by Pratt, Brian S.

  As the commercial came to a close, an announcer came on and “Special Bulletin” was displayed across the top of the screen. “More details on the terrorist attack in downtown Haveston last night.”

  Then the screen changed to a picture of a street cordoned off with fire trucks, squad cars, and ambulances. “So far no group has come forward to claim responsibility for the fire bomb that devastated the pediatric office of Dr. Slater in the early morning hours. Several people were injured including four women and nine children.”

  The view shifted again and now the camera was panning across what was left of a doctor’s waiting room. “The only lead the authorities have to go on is footage from a security camera located in the building’s lobby.”

  James’ sense of peace vanished without a trace when the scene switched to the gray and white footage from the security camera. Framed in the picture was the door of the stairwell with the restroom nearby. James’ mouth went dry when he saw the door open and his face peered out.

  It was by no means a clear picture, but clear enough to be able to make out his features. Then he watched himself pass through the door with Jiron and Jira exiting right behind. A moment later, the security guard emerged from the restroom and was quickly subdued by Jiron. The scene switched from different cameras as they made their way through the lobby and out the front door.

  “Thus far the two men and boy have yet to be identified,” said the announcer. “If anyone has any information, please…”

  He paid little heed to the rest of it. At least the authorities didn’t know who they were. He added a “yet” to that thought when he glanced to his left and saw Mr. Young looking at him.

  It was in his eyes. Mr. Young knew who it was that struck down the security guard, and who it was the authorities were looking for. There was something else in his eyes too. An uncertainty, a fear.

  “I can explain,” said James. Mr. Young made no reply. “We are not terrorists!”

  “Didn’t say you were,” replied Mr. Young, breaking his silence.

  “I don’t know what happened in that office,” James asserted. “We did not intentionally set out to harm those people. It may have been a reaction to our crossing. But there was no fireball when I crossed over the first time. Nor did Dave make mention of any when he did. I…”

  Coming to a sudden halt, he turned toward Mr. Young and asked, “You haven’t called the cops yet, have you?”

  “No,” replied his former teacher. “Not yet anyway.”

  James sighed with relief. “Thank goodness.”

  “But I think you should turn yourselves in and get this sorted out,” he said. “There are questions that need to be answered and you are the only one who can.”

  “I don’t think so.” Shaking his head, James glanced back toward the television replaying the attack on the security guard. “They wouldn’t believe me if I did. All that would happen is that Jiron and I would get put in jail until their questions were answered to their satisfaction, which would be never. And never again would I be able to see my family, nor Jiron his wife.”

  Turning back to Mr. Young, he said, “And what about Jira? What would happen to her? Foster homes in a world she doesn’t understand with people who she could never relate to? No, turning ourselves in is not an option.”

  Mr. Young gazed at his former pupil for a moment. “You were always a good boy, James,” he said. “Never gave me or any of your other teachers a moment’s grief. But to be honest, after six years of no word you show up at the crack of dawn with someone who, and I hate to be judgmental, seems on the tougher side of the street and who I’d cross the street to avoid, gives me cause to doubt you. A lot can happen to a man in six years.”

  “Next you spin a tale of other worlds, magic, and returning to Earth due to an accident. Then I hear on the news that the three of you are terrorists who firebombed a pediatrician’s office full of women and children. Frankly, the terrorist story is much more plausible than yours.”

  It felt as if the rug had been yanked out from under him. He could see the doubt and fear in Mr. Young’s eyes. So sure of having a friend who would help, now he had to face the real possibility that he might be turned-in instead.

  “Don’t try to deny that you were there in the pediatrician’s office,” continued Mr. Young. “You reek of wood smoke.”

  “I won’t, for it is true,” James replied. “We were there. And I believe our arrival in some way precipitated the ensuing fireball. How and why I don’t know.” He paused a moment then asked, “Are you going to turn us in?”

  It took him a few moments to respond. When he did, he shook his head and said, “No.”

  “Thank you,” replied James with relief.

  “Don’t thank me,” said Mr. Young. “Thank that little girl sleeping upstairs. If not for her the police would have been here already.”

  “Jira?”

  Mr. Young nodded. “I saw the way your friend acted toward her. He loves her, that much is clear.”

  “Yes, he does,” said James.

  “I simply couldn’t see a man who had such devotion for his own daughter, being a terrorist who would willingly kill innocent women and children. Men maybe, if they crossed him, but not children.” When he saw James beginning to grin, he continued. “But that doesn’t mean I want your troubles to come knocking on my door.” As the grin faded, he said, “You and your friend have to leave.”

  He produced an envelope and handed it to James. “There is a hundred and fifty five dollars in there. It’s all I have on hand.”

  “I can’t take your money,” James told him, though there was nothing he needed right now more than money.

  “Take it,” repeated Mr. Young. “I insist.”

  Unable to refuse twice, James took the envelope. Lifting back the flap, he saw a dozen bills of varying denominations within. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There is nothing to say,” Mr. Young said.

  Just then they heard the sound of Jiron and Jira coming down the steps. Jira kept close to her father, her eyes trying to capture everything in sight. Jiron had his arm around her in a comforting fashion.

  As they reached the bottom of the steps, Mr. Young came off the couch and stood. “Before you leave, how about I make some waffles?”

  In a small town not far from Haveston, in a motel room reeking of alcohol and remnants of fast food rotting in greasy sacks, a man lay upon a bed. His eyes were fully focused though he had been on a bender the day before. The only reason he was sober now was due to the fact of passing out yesterday afternoon after drinking the last of his supplies and having yet to be motivated to go buy more.

  Currently, he lay with head propped up with two pillows, remote in hand, flipping through the stations in rapid succession. Not until coming to a newscast about the terrorist attack the night before in Haveston did he pause. It wasn’t so much what the newscaster was saying, as having recognized the building in which the attack took place.

  Then when they showed the doctor’s office, he sat bolt upright in bed. He knew this place. Not as it was now, but as it had been many years ago. Memories too painful to bear began assailing him. Glancing about the room, he sought a bottle still containing even a small drop of the stuff he needed to push the memories into a far away place. Spying one in the corner with naught but a mouthful, he made his way across the room to fetch it.

  It didn’t matter that the bottle lay atop, and was stuck to, the moldering remnant of a cheeseburger bought a week or more ago. All he cared about was banishing the memories that plagued him. After scraping off the cheeseburger as best he could, he drained the bottle in one gulp.

  “Damn!” he cursed upon realizing the small pittance would not do the job. Scanning the room one more time in the hopes of finding an as yet unopened bottle, his eyes crossed the television screen and stopped. As the replay of the attack on the security guard played out before him, a cold chill went through him. When it was over, he wasn’t sure if he had actually
seen what he thought he had.

  “Come on, play it again!” He only had to wait a minute before the scene was playing again across the screen. When the face of one of the terrorists appeared through the stairwell door, the man knelt before the screen. His hand went up and touched the terrorist’s face. “Yes,” he breathed.

  Years of waiting were over.

  Chapter Eight

  ________________________

  “So, what do you call this again?”

  “A Big Mac,” replied James.

  Jiron looked suspiciously at the hamburger before taking a bite. “Big? Why is it called big?” In fact, it was one of five sitting in front of him along with a super sized fries and a bottle of water. Not being used to carbonated drinks, he found them less than titillating so James had suggested plain water.

  Jira had a chicken nugget Kid’s Meal with apple dippers and regular milk. She too looked askance at the nuggets. When her uncle had explained they were chicken, she wasn’t convinced. They didn’t look like any chicken her mom had ever cooked.

  “It’s just what they call it,” James explained and not for the first time. “Trust me, it’s not bad.” Three regular hamburgers, hold the ketchup, sat in front of him along with a fry, which he insisted was to be hot and fresh from the fryer. If this was to be his first taste of McDonald’s French Fries after so long a hiatus, he wanted it to be perfect. Also, he had two, oh yes, two, chocolate shakes, one of which had already been drained.

  James had little worry about being found by the authorities while sitting in a McDonald’s. They would undoubtedly be searching for three fleeing fugitives. Also, after leaving Mr. Young’s house, they’d quick-timed it over to a Salvation Army store where they had acquired “native attire.”

  Leaving the other two outside, he bought regular clothes for the three of them. Jiron was sporting a New York Yankee’s cap, navy blue hoody, and jeans. James had a plain t-shirt under a tan leather jacket, and a pair of reflective sunglasses. Since his face had been the one most prominent on the security tapes, he thought the glasses would be a good idea.

  Now Jira was the least happy of the trio about her new attire. When Uncle James pulled out a pink shirt with a cute bunny, and a purple jacket with ruffly frills, she had gaped in horror. “They are looking for two men and a boy,” he had reminded her. “In this outfit, everyone will know you to be a girl.” With Jiron’s aid, they soon had the old clothes swapped with the new. All three retained their boots as James didn’t think they would arouse much suspicion.

  He made a few other purchases too, such as a semi-new backpack for himself, and a duffle bag for Jiron wherein he and Jira could stow their knives. A warm jacket for each of them was also in the duffle, just in case.

  “We’ll head east,” he said between bites of hamburger and fries. “Nothing but small towns between here and the Sierra Nevada’s.” Sierra Nevada’s being the mountain range running along most of California’s eastern border with Nevada. “Once in the mountains, we’ll find a place to hole up until I figure out what to do.”

  “And then you will find a way home to mother?” asked Jira.

  “I sure hope so,” replied James.

  They ate in silence until Jiron asked, “Could there be other gods at work here in your world? Similar to the one who brought you to ours?”

  “Maybe,” James shrugged. “Though how we would find one is beyond me.” Already he had picked up a paper from one of the coin operated street-side dispensers and searched the want ads. It had been his hope to find an ad similar to the one six years ago, but there were none.

  “Didn’t you once mention people on your world that performed magic?” Jiron asked.

  “What? Magicians? They are slight-of-hand artists who use tricks and misdirection rather than actual magic.”

  Taking another bite of his so-so Big Mac, Jiron said, “There could be one or two who use real magic”

  James shook his head. “I seriously doubt it.” With straw in mouth and sucking on his shake, he said, “How many traveling magicians did you meet in your world?”

  Jiron didn’t answer right away then shook his head. “Come to think of it there weren’t any.”

  “Exactly. Anyone able to work magic isn’t likely to go around performing for the enjoyment of others.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” agreed Jiron.

  “Of course I am. Look at me. I do a little bit of magic and people swarmed from all over never to give me a moment’s peace.”

  Jiron grinned amusedly.

  “What?”

  “You take out the priesthood of Dmon-Li and you call that a ‘little bit of magic’,” Jiron chuckles. “What would you call a great deal of magic?”

  James answered with a grimace. “Sending us home.”

  Jiron and Jira were simply agog by everything they saw. It was all James could do to move Jira along as they made their way through the less traveled routes toward the outskirts of Haveston. First it was the cars, then an ice cream parlor where she simply had to stop, everything new she encountered caused her to slow as she marveled at it.

  Another thing that slowed their progress was the fact that every time James saw a police car, or heard a siren, they would duck into hiding. So it was with no small amount of relief when they reached a more residential area where there were mainly houses with the odd corner store.

  The Sierra Nevadas were still many days away on foot. James briefly considered alternate modes of transportation such as bus, train, or even a taxi for as far as Mr. Young’s money would take them. But each held their own risk for exposure so felt it prudent to continue on foot until something better came along.

  It was midafternoon when they finally left the last house behind and began working their way along the highway connecting Haveston with its eastern neighbor, a small town not many miles away.

  Cars passed in a steady stream. James kept them off the road as far as they could without being in the ditch. Whenever he heard one coming up from behind, he would glance back to make sure it wasn’t the police. Then with thumb out, he tried to flag down a ride.

  Sure, hitch hiking was dangerous, but he didn’t think they were in too great of danger, not with Jiron with them. It wasn’t until Haveston was an hour behind them when his thumb worked its magic. For a small pickup slowed and pulled onto the shoulder some distance ahead.

  Moving quickly, James said to Jiron, “Come on. We might have a ride.”

  Jiron nodded and with Jira in tow, hurried after.

  It was a metallic green pickup with a dozen or more empty crates which looked as if they had been used to transport fruit stacked in the back. Within the cab was a single individual, a man by the looks of it with a cowboy hat. As James came to the passenger side of the truck, the window rolled down.

  “Need a ride?” the man asked. He was a friendly sort, about forty and dressed in well worn overalls.

  “Sure do,” James said. “How far are you going?”

  “About ten miles,” he replied. “You’re welcomed to ride in the back if you like.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Name’s Paul,” the man said.

  “I’m James,” he replied. Indicating Jiron he said, “This is my friend Jiron and his daughter Jira.” James then indicated to Jiron for him and Jira to get in the back. “We have a ride.” Jiron was staring intently at the interior of the cab, and Jira had hold of the cab door with both hands as she stood on tiptoe to see within.

  The farmer got a quizzical look. “Jiron? Never heard that name before.”

  “Oh,” muttered James. “Uh, he’s from France.” The man nodded

  “Howdy, little lady,” the man said with a smile.

  Jira smiled back before her father took hold of her and lifted her into the back of the truck. Then after making room amongst the crates, he tossed the duffle in and hopped over the side. He lent James a hand as he too climbed into the back.

  “Hold on,” James said. He had them sit against
the back of the cab with Jira between them before tapping the rear window indicating they were ready. As the motor revved and the truck began pulling back onto the road, he said, “It’s just like riding in a wagon, only faster.”

  The truck turned out to be a manual and they could feel each shift lurching into the next gear. When Paul shifted into third, they were moving faster than either Jiron or Jira had ever gone. “Does it go much faster?” asked Jiron. There was a nervousness in his voice and his knuckles were a little white from where his right hand gripped the side of the truck.

  “A little,” said James. Glancing to Jira revealed her to only be exhibiting the slightest nervousness. Being the child that she was, this new experience thrilled her while at the same it frightened. “How are you doing?” he asked her, voice raised above the roar of the road and whipping wind. They had to be doing a solid fifty miles per hour by now and the truck was still accelerating. Then he felt it shift into fourth.

  Jira merely nodded and gave him a grin. Then all of a sudden a sixteen wheeler passed coming from the opposite direction. The resultant roar caused her to jump an inch off the truck’s bed.

  He pointed it out to her and said, “It’s just a big truck. They haul goods like a caravan from one town to the next.” When she realized there was no immediate danger, she grinned and kept watch on the truck until it disappeared behind one of the many gently rolling hills through which the highway ran.

  The ten miles passed quickly and soon, the truck was slowing down. A dirt road branched off to the right, extending out of sight between a pair of fallow fields. Paul turned onto the dirt road and brought the truck to a stop.

  “This is it,” he hollered from the cab.

  James indicated for them to disembark. Hopping over the edge, he grabbed his pack and moved to the driver side window. “Thanks,” he said to Paul.

  “Glad to do it.”

  “How far is the next town?”

  “Another fifteen miles.”