by Shea Berkley
I bend on one knee and peer into the desk nook. He’s huddled so deeply within the recess, all I see are his big, dark eyes and twitching ears. “Bodog, come out from there.”
A moan ripples from him. “Lost. Forever lost.”
“What have you lost? Do you think I know where it is? Is that why you’re here?”
He says nothing, only hunkers deeper into the corner. Palpable fear ripples from him like heat waves off pavement.
“You’re safe here, Bodog. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Easy promise. Difficult to keep.”
He’s right. I can’t make that promise, so I try again. “You’re in my world, in my home. I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. Do you believe me?”
It seems like forever before the tight ball he’s pulled himself into loosens. “Faith requires risk.”
Seriously, this guy is giving me a headache. My big bang in the barn weakened me, and my brain’s still not functioning at top speed. “Everything’s gonna be fine. Come out of there. Please.”
I’m encouraged when he slowly moves toward me, ears twitching, eyes darting. Out of the sun, his skin has transformed back into a shock of mushroom paleness. “Forever lost,” he says again.
“So you said. You want to expound on that?”
“So much. Too little time.”
“Can’t help you with what I don’t understand, dude.”
He’s almost out when he stops and plucks something off the floor. It’s a wayward piece of hard candy that’s sticky with fuzz. Bodog is undeterred by its appearance and pops it into his mouth. Strange noises come from him as he rolls the candy along his tongue. Suddenly, he makes a face and spits it onto the floor, where it lies in a puddle of green saliva.
Gross. “That is not cool!”
I pluck a wad of tissue from a nearby box, and with a quick scoop, wipe the candy and spittle off the floor and throw it away. I shake a finger in his unashamed face. “No spitting!”
Bodog makes a move toward the desk again and I grab his arm to stop him. It’s then I realize how thin he’s become. He’s starving. Not that it explains his behavior. He’s always been disgusting, but pity washes away my irritation. I drop my hand and squat eye to eye. “Bodog, what’s going on? How’d you get here?”
“Bodog has talents.”
“I know.” He’s saved my life more than once.
His gaze rockets around the room and lands on the doggy bed and chew toys. He inches closer as he says, “A tunnel. Very small. Very accurate. The guard did not see. In a blink, I slipped through.”
I thought as much. From his network of tunnels spidering beneath the earth in his realm, it’s a wonder the village he lives under hasn’t collapsed. “What are you doing here?”
“Much has changed.”
I haven’t been gone from Teag that long. How much change could’ve happened? “What are you talking about?”
“A dark magic. It’s up to you. Only you.”
Suddenly, a muffled cry of alarm blasts from the doorway. Bodog dives for the couch, causing it to thump along the floor as he tries to wriggle beneath it. I turn to see Grandma clutching her throat, her hand red from the heat of washing dishes. “What’s going on? What was that?”
Kera appears, a dish towel clutched in her hands, and gives me a questioning look.
“Bodog,” I mouth to her.
Kera rushes past Grandma and rounds the quaking couch. The large, dirt-encrusted foot sticking out from beneath it retracts to safety with a sharp jerk. She gets on her hands and knees and peers underneath the crisp pleat. “Bodog?”
A veil of satiny dark hair slips over her shoulder as she thrusts her hand toward him. “Come out. You are safe here. I promise.”
A minute passes, then two, but nothing she says will bring him out. Kera glances up at me. “He won’t be moved.”
“This is crazy,” I grumble. I know how to get him out of there. Stooping, I grab hold of the bottom edge along the short side of the couch and dead lift it high. Bodog isn’t crouched on the floor as we suspect, he’s clinging to the couch’s underbelly like a cockroach hiding from the exterminator, except this pest has found a worn doggy rawhide and has it firmly clasped between his teeth.
Grandma backs up. “Oh dear,” is all she says.
“This is ridiculous. Bodog. Let go!” When he ignores my command, I shake the couch in an effort to knock the little man free. It works. He crashes to the floor, resembling a pile of filthy rags more than a living being.
Kera gasps and quickly comes to his rescue, throwing me looks as if I’m the one causing all the trouble. When she gets him up, she gently removes the rawhide from Bodog’s mouth. Spittle runs a line of foam down his chin and splashes onto the floor. “Bodog is hungry.”
“I know.” Kera dabs at his face with a corner of the dish towel.
Grandma shakes her head. “I’ll get him something to eat.”
“My dear friend,” Kera says, drawing the dish towel away from his face. “Why have you come to us?”
His attention latches on to the doggy treat she still holds in her other hand, and big tears slip down his cheeks. “The beginning of the end has begun.”
Holding Secrets
At Bodog’s words, Kera rubs her arms as if she can’t get warm. A sudden sadness invades her; its scent rises like burned molasses. “He’s changed. Like us. And not for the better.”
Kera’s whisper dives past my ribs and kicks at my heart.
“What’s happening is my fault. I should have been stronger. Smarter.” I don’t like the thin, bony skeleton Bodog has become. “Look at him. I killed Faldon, his only protector, and now Bodog’s got no one.”
I’d let Bodog’s help during our wild escape from the land of Teag overshadow his true character. I simply forgot how needy he was—that he was fragile under all the bravery.
“You cannot shoulder the blame. I won’t let you.” She quickly steps away from me, takes Bodog’s hand, and leads him to the kitchen table. I follow them, my mind heavy with concern. Grandma slides a plate of leftover homemade mac and cheese, my favorite, in front of Bodog. He sniffs, tongues a cheese-covered noodle, and gags, spitting and moaning his distaste.
Grandma whisks the plate away and scrounges for something else to feed him.
I rub my forehead, disgusted with myself and the pain I’ve brought to Bodog. I have no doubt my misery is flooding the room. I’m drowning in it.
Kera bites her lip. “You don’t know the full truth of why he’s here. None of us do.”
She isn’t convincing. It’s just like Kera to try and save me from the agony of facing my own stupidity. It’s pointless, though. My faults scour through my mind 24-7.
Before coming to live with my grandparents, my life revolved around Mom and how I fit in the equation. I didn’t. So I stopped trying to figure it out. I stopped caring about others. Then Kera shows up and suddenly I find myself desperate to understand. Who am I? Where is my place? How do I fit into each realm, if at all?
My gaze latches on to Bodog sitting at the table. Is it possible, as he seems to believe, that I have control over more than my own life, that I have a destiny bigger than the one I face in the human realm? Or am I feeding a slowly emerging superego—my first self that’s desperate to be known?
Every day, I’m forced to control the hum of selfishness that begs to be let loose. It’s already tasted freedom. With that initial taste, when I’d first met Kera, the results were frightening. The first half of me didn’t blink at killing or shudder at the possibility of causing someone pain. It had me acting more like my renegade dad than I cared to admit.
When Kera and I stole Navar’s powers, I didn’t think about how it would affect me. But now the first side has grown into an insistent voice that nags at the back of my brain, rushes hotly under my skin, and heightens my senses until I think I’ll go crazy. My itch for power has grown worse. I can’t look at Kera, afraid she’ll see how selfish, how ou
t-of-control, I’ve become.
“Right,” I whisper, uncomfortable with my thoughts, and scrub my head in frustration as I eye Bodog sitting at the kitchen table eyeing a peanut butter sandwich. “I’m not responsible for his problems, just partly responsible.”
The biggest part.
Kera won’t have me huddling into my misery. She cups my cheek, her fingers cool against my hot skin, her violet eyes soft and deep and calm as they probe mine. “We cannot change the past. Faldon made his choice, like we all do. He would have murdered your best friend and your grandmother, innocent people who knew nothing of our world and its evils. He was the closest thing to a friend as I’ve ever had, and I say you did right. By destroying him and Navar, you saved many.”
“For what?” I motion toward Bodog as evidence. “To die a slow death? I can’t defend my actions against that.”
Skin sags on his bones. His large eyes protrude. His nose and ears appear twice as big against a face that has shrunk. He has the look of the starving.
“He’s a shell of what he was,” I whisper harshly. “Look at him, Kera. What happened?”
A disassembled peanut butter sandwich is suddenly thrown to the floor, peanut butter side down. Bodog clutches at his throat, tongue lolling from his mouth. With a big show of disgust, he spits and scrapes the peanut butter out of his mouth with the edge of the tablecloth.
Grandma smacks his head. “Stop that!”
He jerks away and wiggles his tongue at her, saying, “You poison Bodog.”
“I am not poisoning you. That’s good food you’ve turned your nose up at.” Grandma grabs the empty plate, and Bodog rocks back and forth, scowling at her.
Kera grabs another rag to clean up his mess. “Please, Bodog. No more spitting.”
What are we doing wrong? My mind flashes back to the underground labyrinth that is his home, and I know. “He won’t eat any of it.”
Grandma picks up the offending plate and turns to me. “I’ve wasted good food on…” she hesitates and eyes Bodog as if she’s not sure what to call him, “…your friend.”
“I’ve got an idea, but…um…” I’m hesitant to say what it is.
“Whatever it is, I’ll feed it to him.”
“Whatever is a pretty broad term,” I warn her.
“If it’ll stop him from moaning and spitting, I don’t care what it is.”
“Okay, then. I’ll be right back. Stay put, Bodog.”
He nods and collapses against the chair like a windup doll whose key has stopped turning. I hotfoot it outside to the shed. Grandpa’s a fisherman. Living in prime fishing territory, he goes whenever the mood strikes him. Grandpa wouldn’t be caught dead without a ready supply of worms. I grab an old pail, open the bait box in the corner, and scoop out a pile of writhing beauties.
When I enter the kitchen, I grin at Grandma’s widening eyes. “You said whatever,” I remind her.
I take a plate from the cupboard and pour out a knotted glob of wriggling worms. Bodog’s face suddenly brightens.
“You might want to turn away,” I shoot over my shoulder at Grandma. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
Within a staggeringly short period of time, the worms are sucked down the little man’s gullet. An entirely different series of noises rise as his tongue flickers out to lick the plate clean.
“More?” I ask. He nods. I make two more trips to the shed in an attempt to fill his endless stomach. Bodog wolfs down his meal quicker than a Shop-Vac. He lifts his plate and looks imploringly up at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was the last of it.”
Grandma shakes her head. “Your grandfather is going to be stomping mad when he finds his bait gone.”
Bodog leans back and cups his hands over his protruding belly. A burp ripples from his throat, scenting the air with an earthy odor. Grandma pinches her nose and turns away.
I take the chair opposite Bodog. I know what hasn’t occurred to Grandma. Bodog wouldn’t be here unless something really, really bad is going on. I plant my elbows on the table. “Doing okay?”
He nods.
“Good.” It’s time for some answers. “Why’re you here?”
His short-lived contentment disappears, and his eyes grow haunted. “All is lost.”
Getting information out of him is slower than watching worms crawl. “What’s lost?”
“Life. Bad things happening. Disarray. Death.”
I wonder how the news is affecting Kera. She’s suddenly very interested in the dish towel she holds. It’s twisted in a tight roll, and when she lets go, it unfurls like a dancer spinning on her toes.
Bodog’s filthy hand slaps atop mine, snapping my attention back to him. “Come back. You must save us.”
Before I can answer, Grandma steps forward with her hands on her hips, her usual gracious attitude gone. “Absolutely not. Dylan can’t go back. He almost died there.”
Bodog ignores Grandma’s outburst. His eyes grow large and pleading. “You must return. Hope is lost without you.”
Grandma swoops in and plucks Bodog from his seat by the tip of one floppy ear. Amid his screeching, she growls, “Out with you.”
Kera steps back, separating herself from the sudden chaos. Despite my shouts to stop, Grandma drags Bodog across the kitchen and rips open the back door. With a shove, she ejects him onto the porch, where he rolls like a half-chewed dog bone, coming to a wobbly stop near the railing. Grandma’s anger curls around her. “Scurry off into the hole you came from and don’t come back.”
“Grandma!” I push past her and help Bodog to his feet.
He hides behind me and whimpers against my sleeve as he eyes the angry human before him. “Crazy woman should leave Bodog alone.”
A strangling noise rises in Grandma’s throat. Kera peers out behind the screen door, a silent witness to Grandma’s protective nature.
Grandma steps forward and waggles a finger in Bodog’s face. “Not on your life! Your realm destroyed my daughter and nearly killed my grandson. Things are spilling out of your realm that give sane people nightmares. Dylan is not going back.”
A loud cuss erupts from the shed, and we all turn to see Grandpa stomp out, his dog at his heels and a fishing pole clutched in his right hand. “Someone stole my worms,” he shouts.
“George!” Grandma calls. She glares back at Bodog. “And to think I fed you. Wait until my husband hears about this.”
She lets out another yell and waves as she scrambles down the stairs toward Grandpa. I’ve never seen Grandma so fired up. Her eyes could’ve burned through wet leather the way she glared at Bodog.
A series of hesitant tugs attack my shirt, and I glance down. Bodog’s ears twitch and his mouth moves wordlessly. The poor guy’s been through hell and now Grandma’s after him. I take pity on him. “Tired?”
He nods.
“I’ve got the perfect place for you.”
“Dylan.” The screen door cracks open and Kera steps out. Her face holds deep shadows. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
I shake my head. I can’t talk to her right now, and I leave her standing on the porch twisting the edge of her shirt with worry. I lead Bodog to the root cellar on the side of the house where a pair of large, wooden doors lie flat against the ground. When I pull the doors open, there’s the impression of a gaping mouth, eager to swallow whatever is pushed inside.
“Go on,” I urge Bodog, “but don’t touch anything. You can eat whatever crawly thing you can catch, just don’t touch anything else. Okay?”
He descends into the cellar, a small morsel for the looming darkness. Amid the hinges’ creaking protest, I hear a soft sigh. “Good dirt. Soft.”
I call down to Bodog. “No digging.” The last thing I need is for him to undermine the house foundation with tunnels.
A grunt, whether in agreement or not, is given.
“I mean it,” I say and then let the doors bang shut.
On my way back to the porch, I run into Grandma and Grandpa. “There he is,
George. Now tell him.” The shrillness to Grandma’s voice is a testament to her panic. “He can’t go back. It’s not his problem.”
Grandpa cups Grandma’s shoulders and gently squeezes. “It’s not our call. He knows the danger. He knows it’s not going away.”
“What are you saying?” Grandma shrugs out of his hands, gawking at him as if he’s morphed into a goblin. “You’re talking like you think he should go. Do you want him to die?”
Air rumbles from his chest, and he glares down at her. “That’s a fool question.”
“Don’t you use that tone with me, Mr. Newman.” Grandma’s hackles are raised and she digs in for a fight.
“Now see here,” Grandpa says, waggling his finger at her. “I didn’t mean anything…”
I zone them out. Neither has a say in what I do. I’ve been dumped here, but that doesn’t mean I have to stay here. I don’t mean that in a disrespectful way—I’m not like them, not completely. My human self is only half the equation that guides me. Once my first half crested, it sunk its hooks deep into me. The ownership of my will has become a daily struggle. To deny either side is to deny who I really am, and I’m done pretending I’m normal.
As they argue, I feel the hairs on my neck rise. I turn to see Kera gripping the porch railing, her violet eyes ringed with worry. When she sees me staring, she slowly turns and goes inside. I follow.
Barefoot, she pads through the kitchen as silently as the ghost I thought she was the first time I met her. She moves down the hall and into my bedroom. The scent of new construction fills the air. After the firsts torched my room, Grandpa got busy rebuilding, and the bones of bare studs line the wall, its skin of drywall waiting patiently in the shed to be fitted and nailed on. The few clothes of mine that didn’t get damaged in the fire are neatly stacked and pushed out of the way. At least all the necessities—new bed, electricity, and working bathroom—are there.
“Close the door.” Her whisper is ragged.
I do as she asks because frankly, she’s freaking me out. I’ve never seen her like this. Quiet. Unreadable. She’s a girl who wears her emotions on her face; they pour out of her like the purest spring water. “What’s wrong?”
