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

by Pratt, Brian S.

  “Fifteen?” questioned James, not entirely happy about having to hoof it that far before finding a place to rest.

  Paul nodded. “There is an old motel not more than five miles from here if you don’t plan to make it that far before dark. It has a diner, too.”

  James perked up at that. “Is it nice?”

  “It’s no five star hotel, but you will find it more agreeable than sleeping out under the stars. Tell Esther that Paul sends his best.”

  “I’ll do that, thanks,” James said.

  “Take care,” Paul said, then gave Jira a friendly wave before the truck pulled away.

  “Nice man,” commented Jiron.

  “There are still a few good ones out there,” he agreed. Indicating the road ahead, James added, “He said there was an inn not far down the road.”

  “And do inns in your world feed their patrons?”

  “Not many,” he replied, “though Paul did say this one does.”

  “Ice cream?” Jira asked hopefully.

  James chuckled. “I’m sure they will have ice cream.”

  “Goody!”

  Cars streamed by in both directions as they made their way the few remaining miles to the motel. Despite James’ best attempts to flag down a ride, none of the motorists even so much as slowed. So it was with some delight when the motel sign sitting high atop a pole finally came into view.

  It didn’t look like much, nothing more than your run of the mill roadside stop-over that had seen better days. Below the motel sign was another, slightly smaller one that read, “Restaurant”.

  The restaurant and motel as it turned out were combined in a single, sprawling twenty unit rambler. A second building stood alongside the road not far from the motel-restaurant combo offering gas and assorted foodstuffs of less than questionable nutritional value.

  Two cars were parked before the motel office where a sign flashed vacancy in red neon. The whole place looked like something out of a B horror flick where unwary travelers met their end in some gruesome, and terrifying manner. The few scattered trees and unkempt grounds did little to alleviate James’ misgivings about staying there. But, seeing as how their options were limited, he led them to the office.

  Upon reaching the cars, he paused. “Might be best if you two stayed here until I get us a room.”

  Jiron shrugged. “As you wish.”

  James continued on alone and entered the office while Jiron gave the two cars a once over. Despite having seen many since their arrival, he was still most intrigued by these strange modes of transportation.

  A man sat in a chair behind the counter, attention firmly fixed upon a television mounted to a wall bracket at the end. An apprehensive glance toward the screen revealed the man was not watching the news as James had feared, instead he was intent on what looked like an old John Wayne movie. He took note of James’ approach and quickly came to his feet.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  “I hope so,” James told him. “My friend and I could use a room for the night.”

  “No problem there.” Producing a three by five card from beneath the counter, he slid it along with a pen toward James. “Just fill this out.” As James took the pen and started writing his name, the man said, “I’ll need a credit card and an ID.”

  “I don’t have a credit card,” he admitted.

  “Then you will need to pay a hundred dollar deposit which will be returned to you upon checkout.”

  James paused a moment as he mentally added up what remained of the money Mr. Young had given him. “Uh, how much is the room?”

  “Fifty two for the night,” he answered. “If you wish to stay for a week it’s only three hundred.”

  A hundred and fifty two dollars! After the meals and clothes they bought this day, he was a bit short. “I…I don’t have that much.” Seeing the man beginning to frown, he hurriedly said, “My friend and I have had a bit of bad luck. He has a daughter and we desperately need a place to stay for the night.”

  The man looked past James to where Jiron and Jira were waiting for him, his expression softened somewhat when he saw Jira. “How much do you have?”

  Not wishing to part with his entire roll, he replied, “Sixty.”

  “Sixty?” the man said, his softening expression hardening once more. “I’m sorry. But without at least a fifty dollar deposit, I’d lose my job if I let you stay here. Fifty would be stretching my boss’ good nature as it is.”

  “There’s no way to get around this?” James asked.

  The man shook his head. It was clear he would have liked to bend the rules for him, but was bound not to. “I’m afraid not.”

  Sighing, James pushed the three by five card back across the counter. “Then I guess we’ll just have to get a meal and be on our way.”

  “I truly am sorry,” the man said.

  James nodded. “How far to the next motel?”

  “Which way are you headed?” When James gestured toward the east, the man said, “Nothing until you reach town. Maybe you could hitch a ride.”

  “Thanks. Might try that.”

  Turning about, he left the office and rejoined Jiron and Jira. “We don’t have enough money for a room.”

  “How much do we lack?” asked Jiron.

  “Too much unless we want to give all of our money away and the clothes on our back,” he replied. Nodding over to the restaurant entrance he said, “Let’s grab a bite to eat then see what we can do.”

  “Ice cream?” asked Jira.

  James glanced down to her with a grin. “At least we shall have ice cream,” he agreed, tousling her hair. Leading the way, he soon found himself in what his grandfather had always called a “Greasy Spoon.”

  The small café held a dozen booths with three tables situated in the middle. Rips and tears fixed with the handy man’s secret weapon “duct tape” were visible throughout. Some of the tables showed cracks and one was even roped off due to the fact half of the table was missing. All that was left was a piece bearing a jagged edge still attached to the central support.

  Those working there went part and parcel with the décor. The lone waitress greeted them upon entering. A woman who must have been pushing fifty, she looked as if life hadn’t been very kind to her. Wrinkles about the eyes and a permanent purse to the lips gave way to the belief she held a sour disposition.

  In the window separating the front area from the kitchen was a man with a three day’s growth of beard, a dirty chef’s hat, and if it could be believed, the stub of a cigar firmly clutched in one corner of his mouth. He gave the new arrivals a look that could be taken for almost anything except welcome.

  “Welcome,” said the woman. Her grating voice and reek of stale cigarettes sent a shiver down James’ spine. Why, he didn’t know. She gestured to the empty restaurant and said, “Pick a seat and I’ll be with you shortly.” Then returning back behind the counter, she proceeded to fill three glasses with ice and water.

  Jira ran over to the third booth from the door and scooted in. Her father sat beside her while James slid in across from them. Immediately, Jira began examining the various condiments sitting at the end of the table; salt, pepper, small packets of sugar and faux-sugar. When she started removing napkins from the napkin dispenser, and had accumulated a pile an inch thick before her, James had her stop.

  “We don’t want to attract…” he began when the waitress arrived with their water.

  After sitting the glasses at the end of the table, with no attempt being made to place them closer to her customers, she produced pad and pen. “What would you like?”

  James thought the question odd seeing as how they had yet to receive menus. Then he saw the reader board along the wall behind the counter displaying the fare being offered. The one on the end boasted a special of open faced turkey sandwiches with a drink. “We’ll have three of the specials,” he said.

  Jotting down their order as if remembering it would be too much for her without a written record, she
nodded and returned back to the man in the window. “Three specials,” she said.

  “Up in a minute,” the man replied.

  Jira had one of the pink packets of faux-sugar in her hand and was giving it a close examination.

  “That’s sugar,” he explained. “Most places that serve food in my world have them on the table for customers.”

  Jiron’s eyes widened at that, for sugar in his world was a prized commodity, something one would not so blithely leave sitting around. “Really?” he asked.

  James nodded. “Here it’s quite common,” he explained. “In fact, take a couple if you want. I doubt if they would mind.”

  Reaching over, Jiron took four packets and put them in his pocket for later. “Truly a strange world,” he said.

  “Not strange,” corrected James. “Just different.”

  “I suppose,” his friend replied. “Our world must have seemed equally odd upon your arrival.”

  James chuckled then grew solemn as he thought back to that first night spent in the crook of a tree. To this day, the sound of the wolves and Seth’s cry for help remained every bit as vivid. Some nights he woke in a cold sweat after reliving that night in a dream. Of course most times, it wasn’t Seth the wolves were chasing, but him.

  “It was,” he agreed.

  Their attention was drawn to the entrance as a couple with two children made their way in. Obviously not regulars, the woman looked in distaste at the restaurant’s interior and made her displeasure known.

  “Ugh!” she said. “Let’s go somewhere else!”

  Her husband patted her on the arm and said. “Now, now. It’s not that bad,” he asserted.

  The woman was about to argue further when the waitress came forward and had them in a table lickety-split. Obviously she wasn’t about to lose the potential tip this family would leave behind. Of course given the wife’s obvious distaste at the state of the restaurant, it wasn’t going to be much.

  With the couple was a girl not much older than Jira dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt bearing the message “My brother is stupid!,” and a boy in his mid teens who wore a denim jacket a size too large for him, pants drooping down to his knees, and hair in a state of disarray looking as if he had just climbed from bed. The girl looked happy to be there while the boy seemed to exhibit an air of barely controlled annoyance.

  James watched them for a moment until the boy happened to glance his way and their eyes met. Turning away, James felt slightly embarrassed for intruding upon them.

  “Have you figured a way back home yet?” asked Jiron.

  “Not yet, no. Without magic, or the aid of some higher power, I simply don’t see how we can get home.”

  “But I want to see mother!” Jira exclaimed.

  “As do I,” her father said.

  “And there is nothing I want more than to see Meliana and Kenny,” James added. “But I can’t do magic here. There is no magic on Earth.”

  “I still don’t understand how you can be so certain,” Jiron replied.

  “I grew up here,” James retorted. “There are no wizards, no sorcerers, no magical beasts, nothing. The dead do not walk, crystals remain simple crystals, and there is no magic!”

  During their trek from Haveston, they had had this conversation more than once. James knew there was no magic on Earth. Oh sure, people pretended to have magic, they liked to call the tricks they do as magic, but it was really nothing more than skill at manipulating their surroundings and those watching them. There was nothing magical about any of it.

  Time and again he sought the feeling of magic. Tried to work it, touch it, do any of the things he used to be able to do back on Jiron’s world, all to no avail. Earth was a land barren. If ever there had been magic, it was gone now.

  “We must not give up,” Jiron said.

  “I don’t intend to.”

  Just then, their food arrived. Three plates, each with two slices of bread cut diagonally with turkey and gravy layered across the top. The meal also came with a roll for each and a side of lima beans which James resolutely decided would remain untouched. Lima beans! What sort of restaurant served lima beans as a side? He just shook his head, pushed them out of the way, and went to work on the turkey and bread.

  During the meal Jiron and Jira talked quietly among themselves to allow James the quiet he needed to figure a way home. Dredging memories from long unused recesses of his recollection, he ran through the gamut of stories, legends, and myths surrounding magic in his own world. The mere fact that his people spoke of magic, and that tales going back to the time of Homer held facets of magic, gave him the belief that although magic may no longer be in the world, it had definitely once been. And what had once been may be again. However, if such were in fact the case, he didn’t have a clue as to where to start, and so he relegated it to the back of his mind where it could be recalled if needed.

  The Church maybe? Thoughts of Brother Willim and Miko gave him a moment’s hope that such would be a viable avenue. But then he thought better of it. His former minister had held no magic, of that he was sure. If such priestly magic existed, it would most likely be kept in the hand of the older religions like Judaism, Catholicism, or one of the many others predating the fall of the Roman Empire.

  There were a few itinerant healers he recalled from before he left, who traveled about the country. But where they may be now, or even if they were actually tapping into something beyond themselves, he didn’t see how that would suit their needs in any event. In order to make the return journey, he was certain a mass amount of magical energy had to be expended. It was sort of like being in the middle of the Sahara Desert and wanting to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool with water. It just ain’t gonna happen.

  He was brought out of his reverie by Jiron suddenly scooting from the bench. Glancing to his friend, he heard him say, “Jira has to use the restroom.” It hadn’t taken them long to begin incorporating Earth’s vernacular into their speech, especially for things such as restrooms.

  James glanced around the restaurant and saw the sign off in the corner. “It’s over there,” he said, showing the way.

  Jiron nodded and escorted his daughter to the facilities while James worked to finish the last of his meal. Despite the less than aesthetically pleasing inner décor, the food wasn’t at all bad. The meat was tender, the gravy was thick but not pasty, and the roll was light and fluffy.

  Flagging down the waitress, he ordered three single-scoop ice creams for dessert so they would be there upon Jira’s return. Then, prior to popping the last of the roll into his mouth, he used it to mop up more of the gravy. He had to admit, the gravy was pretty good. Quite satisfied with the meal, he pushed his plate away and settled back to await the ice cream.

  Now that he had tasted “good” ice cream again, he knew his own concoction back on the island had been seriously subpar. Oh sure, it was great when there was nothing to compare it to, but now he knew better. Maybe a bit more cream? Or a longer churn time? Deep in concentration about the whys and wherefores on how to improve his yield, he was abruptly brought back to the here and now when a girl’s scream pierced the relative quiet of the restaurant. Jira!

  Chapter Nine

  ________________________

  Leaping to his feet, James raced toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. Without pausing, he shoved the door to the lady’s room open and stopped in sudden shock. The scene before him was perhaps the last thing he expected to find on the other side of that door.

  Jiron knelt before his daughter, holding her in a comforting manner. The poor girl trembled with fear. But it wasn’t the scene of Jira and Jiron that so shocked him, rather it was the blood soaked body jerking in its last death throes that lay nearby. It didn’t take James more than an instant to recognize the boy as the same one who had arrived with the family. His throat had been slit, and despite the boy’s best efforts to stem the flow of blood, he wouldn’t last long.

  Jira glanced to him with tear filled e
yes. In her hand she held a bloody switchblade knife. Suddenly realizing what she held, she threw it to the tiled floor of the rest room but not before those who had followed James into the lady’s room saw.

  “Tommy!” a woman shrieked directly behind him. Then pushed out of the way, James saw the boy’s mother rushed forward, quickly followed by the father and sister.

  “She…killed him,” uttered the waitress in disbelief.

  Jiron picked up his daughter and moved away from the now still and quiet body of the boy. He turned a look upon James indicating he felt conflict was imminent. James gave him a reassuring gesture not to do anything for the moment.

  “Bastard!” exclaimed the boy’s father.

  “She was defending herself,” announced James.

  “What?” the mother practically shrieked. “Tommy would do no such thing!”

  “Then what was he doing in here?” Gesturing to the decidedly female accouterments and lack of an upright urinal, his point was clear. Stepping closer to Jiron, he asked in a quiet aside, “What happened.”

  “The boy made to touch her and she batted his hand away. When he pulled the knife, she struck his wrist and knocked the blade free as I’ve taught her to do. Then he grabbed her, they tussled, she managed to get hold of the knife” Jiron gestured to the dead boy. “The rest you know.”

  The cook barged in, aghast at the grisly scene upon his restroom floor. “What the hell?”

  The father pointed toward Jiron. “His brat killed our boy!”

  “That little girl?” he asked, surprised.

  “Look at the blood on her hands,” said the waitress.

  “Nobody touch nothing,” the cook ordered. “We’ll let the cops sort this out.” Glancing to the waitress he said, “Go call them.”

  She nodded and quickly departed.

  Now, Jiron may not have known much English other than a few frequently used words that he’d been exposed to since arriving on Earth, but he did know the word “cops”. James had used it often enough. “We can’t stay,” he said.

  “A damned foreigner,” cursed the father. Jiron’s speech clearly labeled him as not being from around there.