Scepter (The Last Scribe Prequels)

by R. Lee Walsh

She clutches a box to her chest. It contains a fat pink doll, a child's toy she once wanted more than anything--my belated birthday present to her. I've carried it with me for thirteen years, anticipating her expression when she finally opened it. Thinking myself so clever, I left it on a seat in the bus depot, then stood back waiting for her to discover it. Unfortunately, the best laid plans are subject to change and my brother's untimely appearance in the station ruined the moment. At least she still has it with her, even if she has no idea who it came from.

  A tiny sparrow alights on the back of the park bench, chirping angrily at me before once again taking flight. It repeats this activity several times an hour, as if also reassuring itself she's alright. Unable to stand it anymore, I inch toward her, seating myself near her feet at the end of the bench. The sunlight grows more intense and her brows furrow, an automatic reaction to the increased light. Leaning back on the bench, I stretch my arm across the back, shielding her face with my hand. Her expression gradually relaxes and she sighs.

  My heart thumps loudly in my chest, reacting to her nearness. As her breathing slows even further, I allow myself to lightly brush the sweat dampened bangs from her forehead. A hastily dyed shade of light brown, her long hair has been drastically shortened. There are very few similarities between this pale, disheveled mess and the dark haired spitfire in the media pictures.

  “Well done, my love,” I whisper, and from the depth of my being something shifts. In answer to Peach's question--yes. I'd do anything for this girl. And have.

  The sparrow once again alights on the bench, studying me with wary eyes. A soft breeze blows the scent of thousands of rose blossoms past my face, beams of sunlight increasingly illuminating this small, idyllic oasis. I watch as several people pass through the park, joggers and mothers with strollers. In the distance, I spot a brief flash of flame red hair. Peach plays hackey sack with two young men by the entrance, protecting my time alone with Hope while still remaining close by. She and Riley have just returned from their adventures in Los Angeles. They seem to have made peace. For now.

  A quiet morning passes, the sunlight growing stronger by the minute. Unable to shield her entirely from the ever increasing heat, I nevertheless protect her face.

  People come and go, but no one disturbs us. Breathing deeply of the afternoon air, I lean back and absorb the sunlight on my face. There's only one thing I want. The problem is, I don't even know if it's possible.

  At this very moment lines are being drawn and vast armies are preparing for war. This unpredictable girl who has no idea who she really is or what she's destined to create will one day decide the future of not only the human race, but possibly the Irin race as well.

  However, for these few precious hours before she opens her eyes, she's the stillborn child who stole my heart, breaking every rule from birth. And whatever comes, from this moment forward, not even death will separate us again. Placing my hand gently on her head, I forever seal my fate by reconnecting my life-force to hers.

  “Ani la ahuvati va-ahuvati li-ani la ahuvi va-ahuvi li,” I whisper.

  I am my beloved's and she is mine.

  A jerk of her foot and sudden spike in our heartbeat alerts me that she's waking. Smiling to myself, I turn to see her wide hazel eyes blinking at me in surprise. She sees a tall, skinny boy with chocolate brown eyes and short, spiky blue hair.

  Forever begins now.

  “Mornin', Sunshine,” I grin. “Rough night?”

  About the Author

  R. Lee Walsh is an artist, author and proud mother of two beautiful and talented daughters as well as the caretaker for a 96 year old grandfather who battles with advanced Alzheimer’s, not to mention two lazy but adorable dogs, a kamikaze cat and a reclusive hamster named Wink.

  Proving that truth is stranger than fiction, she has written hundreds of true stories about her unusual life experiences and developed a popular line of inspirational greeting cards, as well as being a writing coach and chief Morale Officer at Author Salon, a Project Development and Network site for aspiring authors.

  Questions? Comments? Be sure to join her mailing list at www.thelastscribe.com.

  Read on for the next installment of the The Last Scribe Series:

  Irin

  A Last Scribe Novella

  ~One~

  The behemoth of a man known as Riley Storm spits over the rocky embankment of a tiny rest area just north of Los Angeles. Thoroughly enjoying this spectacular unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean, he pulls a half bottle of water from the saddle of his trusty horse, a custom built Harley Fat Boy Lo that radiates the heat of a California summer and the three hundred miles of scorching desert highway they've traveled today. Grimacing at the metallic taste of tepid water, he rinses the sand and grit from his mouth with another spit, then tosses the empty bottle in a bright blue recycling can next to where he's parked.

  Behind him is a scrubby patch of grass with a rickety picnic table bolted to a cement slab and a graffiti covered cinderblock restroom with a solitary California Palm tree standing sentry over it.

  One other vehicle, a canary yellow customized Bonneville, is parked in the lot closest to the restroom and it looks like they've been here awhile. Within throwing distance of the car, a group of young hispanics are lounging around the picnic table; three males and two women. Their pierced faces and jet black hair are pulled into nearly identical ponytails, the women sporting large silver hoop earrings and crimson lipstick. A small child huddles in the only shade which is under the picnic table, clutching a book or notepad. The adults laugh sporadically and whisper to each other, actively ignoring Riley.

  Sighing, he rolls his massive shoulders, turning his gaze toward the highway and the outskirts of L.A. It's been a long while since he visited his old stomping grounds. He frowns at the haze of yellow gray smoke that blankets the horizon, wondering what kind of mess he'll find her in now. Heading toward the dingy facilities, his mirrored aviator sunglasses hide sea glass green eyes that miss nothing. The hispanics fall silent as he approaches, watching him stroll past them.

  Rounding the corner of the squat building he pauses to examine a state highway map encased in cracked plexiglass that's been screwed into the concrete between the men's and women's entrances. Close to the edge of the map he sees a symbol that matches the tattoos wrapped around his biceps, etched into the disintegrating plastic.

  Finally, he thinks to himself, noting the exact location on the map. He's traveled nearly three thousand miles in the last week looking for that symbol. Why she insists on playing these hide and seek games, he'll never know. In all the years he's known her, not once has she made things easy on him.

  After relieving himself of three strong cups of coffee, he hears a burst of laughter outside and pauses to retie his long mane of auburn hair. The problem with living as long as he has is there are no more surprises. At six foot five and two hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle, most people see him as either a freak or a threat.

  Depending on the situation, he is both and neither.

  Taking his time, he dries his hands and exits the restroom noting the distinctive scent of marijuana in the air. When he comes around the corner the group falls silent again, only now they're watching him like hyenas sizing up an afternoon's entertainment. The child under the table sits immobile, clutching a blue crayon in one hand and what Riley sees is a Sponge Bob coloring book to his chest. Shaking his head, Riley continues toward his bike as the Bonneville door slams and a fourth man steps into the picture.

  His pale yellow short-sleeved shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a wild assortment of graphic tattoos that cover his stomach and chest. Shorter than the others, nevertheless, his movements are fluid and purposely designed to intimidate, a trait Riley knows from experience is learned in prison.

  Nodding toward the others, the man takes a measured step toward Riley, his tattooed arms poised slightly away from his sides like some bad parody of a western gunslinger. Amused, rather than alarmed by his theatrics, Riley
keeps walking.

  “You looking for something, esse?” the man asks.

  Riley continues until he reaches his bike, but can sense the others are moving as well, congregating behind him.

  “Hey, I'm talking to you, pendejo. Where you going, huh?”

  The child whimpers and Riley frowns. The carelessness some people use with their children never ceases to amaze him. He can only imagine how many acts of violence the poor tike has witnessed in his short life. He turns to see one of the women hiss an angry warning at the child who cringes under the table. She leaves the poor boy cowering there to join her companions.

  Ignoring the others, Riley stares at the boy, sliding his sunglasses down his nose. Dark, frightened eyes meet his brilliant green ones, as he telepathically urges him to hide. The boy immediately scrambles out from under the table, running behind the building. Satisfied that he's out of harm's way, Riley turns his attention to the agitated group closing in around him, taking their cue from the fourth man who fairly vibrates with malevolent intent.

  “What you looking at, fool? You trying to scare my boy?”

  “He's not your boy,” Riley mutters, turning an accusing gaze to the woman. He sees surprise followed by fear in her cold eyes, then she recovers with a vivid string of expletives. “You don't deserve him,” Riley continues, indicating the boy with a slight lift of his chin, a razor sharp edge to his voice. Confused, the others murmur to each other, then look to their leader for his reaction. Shaking his head in disgust, Riley pushes his glasses back up his nose.

  “Who do you think you are, man? Talking to my woman like that?” “She's not your woman either. She's your brother's wife.”

  The woman gasps and the man's face reddens, a look of black rage in his eyes. “You know this guy?” he demands of her.

  She shakes her head, stuttering a vehement denial. He calls her a whore and the others look anxiously between one another.

  “Now I'm going to tell you something,” the man says, motioning toward the concrete building. “You see that red sign over there?” The entire group turns to look briefly at a circular red spray painted symbol amongst the dizzying collage of graffiti. “It clearly says this is a private park, esse. It belongs to me and my familia and right now you're trespassing on our property. What'd you have to say about that?”

  “That squiggly little red dot?” Riley asks with a bemused glance toward the building. By his count at least seventeen other gangs have tried to lay claim to this forlorn little patch of public highway over the last few years.

  “Yeah, see, and the way I figure it, you owe me an apology for insulting me and my woman and a little something extra for letting you use our beautiful ocean view facilities.”

  “Is that right?” Riley grins, crossing his arms over his chest. “You want a little something for letting me pee in a public toilet?”

  The man drops his head with a chuckle and with a flick of his wrist, a six inch silver blade appears in his hand. Emboldened by the appearance of a weapon, the entire group spreads out readying themselves to join the attack.

  With one last glance toward the outbuilding to make sure the child is not in sight, Riley throws a leg over his bike, seating himself comfortably.

  Taken aback by his casual response, the man takes another step forward. “What? You think you can just leave without paying?” He points the knife at Riley. “Or maybe you think because you're so big and you drive a big bad motorcycle that you don't have to respect nobody. Is that it?”

  “Oh, I got plenty of respect for people who earn it,” Riley replies calmly, placing his hands on the handlebars. “But for you and your quote familia? Not even a little.”

  “Then maybe somebody needs to teach you some respect,” the man hisses, signaling to the others to move in. Sighing inwardly, Riley pushes his glasses up onto his head as the group hesitates over who will make first contact.

  The enraged leader swings his knife, and in the blink of an eye feels the sickening crush of every bone in his hand.

  Startled by his piercing shriek, the circus of idiots freezes.

  “Look again,” Riley growls, his massive fist encircling the man's hand. Wild eyed, the man whimpers as the knife clatters to the ground and he slowly crumbles to his knees. Weaponless, the others instinctively step back, unsure how to proceed now. The child's mother turns briefly to check for the boy, then lets out a mortified gasp. She crosses herself and the entire group turns to see an astonishing sight.

  Gone is every hint of graffiti. The facing cinderblock wall displays a dizzying mural made up of thousands of swirling colors that form an image that seems to be rising out from the cement. The head of a roaring lion is so graphically depicted one would swear you could hear it breathing. Hearing his mother's frightened voice, the little boy comes running from behind the building then stops next to the picnic table, staring in awe at the impossible transformation. His mother rushes to him with a strangled cry while the others stand gaping in stunned silence. She scoops him up and clutches him to her chest while taking steps backward, muttering phrases from long forgotten prayers. She searches in vain for a place to hide with her son, then races toward the Bonneville.

  Two of the men cross themselves and take off running toward the highway. The remaining man is conflicted. He looks from his fallen leader to the fleeing others, then back at the building. He takes a set of keys from his front jeans pocket, tossing them onto the pavement next to his friend. With an apologetic glance to the woman next to him, he follows his retreating companions.

  “Go,” Riley says to the remaining woman and she immediately turns to run for the Bonneville. Inside the car he sees the little boy's innocent face plastered to the backseat window. He can hear the boy's mother sobbing in the car while talking to someone on the phone. She's telling them the devil's trying to kill her.

  Riley smiles reassuringly at the boy and chuckles to himself as the leader valiantly attempts to break free of his crushing grip.

  “Who are you?” The man on his knees shrieks finally, as Riley makes a small but excruciating adjustment to his unbreakable hold on his hand.

  “Oh, now you want to know who I am?” he answers. “And here I thought you were going to teach me a little something about respect, but it's clear that you know nothing about it. See, fear is not the same as respect. Sure, fear will make people obey you, but as soon as they see an opportunity to be rid of you, they'll take it. So here we are and where is your familia? The question you should be asking, Roberto Felipe Sanchez, is what happens now.”

  Flinching at his name, the man trembles visibly. “Do I know you?”

  Taking a deep breath Riley looks off toward Los Angeles. Obviously, he's been away too long. An interesting idea takes shape in his mind. She always did love a good mystery. Plus, they're going to need all the help they can get.

  “Not yet, esse,” he replies, picturing her face when she realizes what he's done. “But you will.”