by Tom Birdseye
No, not after a bone. After the Shaw-Mara. Jackson could see the twin flutes wedged between the canyon wall and the boulder. The river must have washed it there before drying up, Jackson thought. Although it was out of the Baen’s reach for the moment, it wouldn’t be for long at the rate the beast was turning the boulder into gravel.
The Baen snarled and leaped around to the far side of the rock. It lashed out with its tail once more, then lowered its head and tore away with its claws.
It was Jackson’s chance, he knew; maybe his only chance. He closed his eyes and forced images into his head: Him rushing behind this side of the boulder and scooping up the Shaw-Mara before the beast knew what was happening. Him racing to the cliff and shooting up it like a rocket, handing the ShawMara to Dedron. Tessa, forgiving all, throwing her arms around him, kissing him like she had before, the hero. Arnica, too. The Shaw-Mara somehow miraculously fixed. Dedron and Tessa blowing it, the Baen forever gone.…
But that image vanished instantly when Jackson opened his eyes and looked again. With ribbons of muscle and tendon flexing beneath leathery skin, its great mane bristling and fangs bared, the Baen slashed at the rock with enough strength to rip him in two.
Get out of here! every fiber of Jackson’s being screamed. Climb like a madman, then run as if hell itself were on your heels. Because it would be, he knew.
Then another voice rose up in Jackson’s mind: Tessa’s, also urging him to flee. “Yes, turn and desert us, Jackson Cooper!” Her words stinging like wasps. “Run, you stupid coward, you servant of evil!”
Jackson reached up and touched his chest, wishing he had the stone pendant despite the wickedness it had carried. Just for a moment, to give him the power to do what should be done. Then he’d get rid of it. Promise. But he needed it now, really needed it. His arms hung limp at his sides like wet noodles; his legs felt like jelly.
“I’m sorry,” Jackson whispered as if Tessa and Dedron and Arnica could hear him. “I just—I just can’t do it.” He turned to flee but immediately tripped and went down with a clatter on loose stones. The Baen’s head shot up, its fiery red eyes locking onto his.
Instinct took over. Jackson sprang to his feet and bolted for the only place he could see to hide—between the boulder and the abyss wall. The Baen bellowed and charged to cut him off. Jackson dove, barely making it in time.
The beast slashed at Jackson with its cruel talons. Jackson scrambled back to get out of its reach. Jagged fangs bared, the beast gnashed at the rocks. Its foul breath hit Jackson like a hot wind. The smell of rotting garbage burned in his nostrils, so wretched that for a moment he thought he would vomit. He pushed himself back even farther into the crack.
The Baen leaped around to the other side of the boulder and bashed it with its spiked tail, each blow thunder in Jackson’s ears. A hailstorm of rock shards rained down on him. Jackson lunged around in the opposite direction as the talons lashed in at him again, one catching a pant leg, slicing it like a razor.
The beast slammed its tail even harder. A zigzag crack appeared in the boulder. It was only a matter of time, two more blows, maybe three, then—Jackson shuddered at the hideous possibilities. He was trapped. There was no way out. Unless …
Jackson twisted around in the crack, and there it was, the Shaw-Mara. He scooped it up. This was what the Baen wanted, right? Maybe if he threw it really far and the Baen went after it, then that would buy him enough time to get away. Maybe, just maybe, it would work.
The beast slammed its tail with even greater ferocity. The crack in the boulder widened. Jackson raised the Shaw-Mara. He had no choice. Tessa and Dedron and Arnica would understand that, wouldn’t they? He cocked his arm to throw.
At the sight of the Shaw-Mara in Jackson’s hand, the Baen let out a wild hiss, then reared back and rammed its monstrous head right at Jackson. The power of the blow knocked the boulder a foot farther from the abyss wall, and the beast lunged … only to grind to a halt, wedged between boulder and cliff, inches short of its prey. Face to face with the beast, Jackson looked into a huge, flaming red eye only an arm’s length from his own. There, in the depths of the cavernous black pupil, he saw his father, crusted in stone, looking back at him, deep sadness etched on his face.
“No!” Jackson cried out in wrenching anguish as everything became terribly clear. The Baen hadn’t tricked just him. It had tricked his father, too. In a time of weakness, when his father was out of work, it must have tempted him with irresistible visions of Lady Luck, fantasies of wealth beyond his dreams. It must have played on his father’s desperate longing to provide for his family, and so captured his soul. Under the Baen’s spell, his father had then bound the stone to Jackson’s neck with the gold chain, and so bound Jackson to the Baen.
From deep in the core of Jackson’s being rose a wild, defiant scream. “Let us go! Leave us alone!” He lashed out with all his might, stabbing the twin ends of the Shaw-Mara directly into the Baen’s eye.
A sound like shattering glass split the air. The Shaw-Mara let out a sharp whistle, while in the Baen’s dark pupil, the stone encrusting Jackson’s father cracked and began to crumble. The Baen shrieked in pain as black blood streamed down its face. It lunged at Jackson again, driving itself even farther between the rocks, so tightly now it couldn’t move.
Jackson spun and scrambled out from behind the boulder, clutching the Shaw-Mara to his chest. The stone pillars cracked and crumbled before him, just as his father’s had.
“Jackson Cooper–Jackson Cooper! Up here!”
Jackson looked up to see the sulfurous smoke which had filled the abyss earlier now parting, revealing the upper rim. Sticking out over it was a small head. Jackson’s face lit up. “Arnica!” She was OK! “Look!” He held up the Shaw-Mara. “I got it!”
As if calling to her, too, the Shaw-Mara let out another sharp whistle. Jackson gawked at it for a moment before it hit him. He must have broken the Baen’s hold on the flutes when he’d stabbed the beast in the eye. “It’s working again!” he shouted. “We can—”
From behind the boulder came a gruesome snarl and the grinding, ripping sound of the Baen struggling to get free. In a heartbeat Jackson stuffed the Shaw-Mara into his pocket and was climbing as fast as he could up the abyss wall toward Arnica.
Below him a series of thunderous blows echoed. Jackson looked down over his shoulder to see the Baen lashing with its powerful back legs and tail. Chunks of rock flew in all directions. The beast wriggled, jerked back once, then twice, then—with a great roar—a third time. The boulder shifted, and the Baen was free. It clawed at the rubble, but then stopped. With a screech of rage it looked about, then up.
Adrenalin pulsed through Jackson’s body as the Baen sprang after him, clawing its way up the side of the abyss. Jackson strained, scrabbling for footholds and handholds, then leaping for the next.
“Hurry, Jackson Cooper–Jackson Cooper!”
There she was, Arnica, closer now.
“Here!” came another voice. It was Dedron, reaching down for him. “Give me your hand!”
“Come on!” Even Tessa was rooting for him now. “You can do it!”
So close, Jackson stretched for them.
“Look out!” Arnica screamed.
A terrible black talon jammed into a crack in the rock just below Jackson’s feet. In one swift motion he yanked the Shaw-Mara from his pocket and hurled it upward. It bounced against the stone face of the abyss, arced outward, and began to fall. Dedron lunged and snagged it, almost tumbling into the abyss himself. Tessa grabbed him by his cloak at the last instant and hauled him to safety.
“Blow!” Jackson shouted.
“But—” Arnica began.
The beast hissed in rage, its hot stinking breath raking Jackson’s ankles like fire.
“Blow!” he commanded. “Together! Now!”
Tessa and Dedron put their mouths to the Shaw-Mara—a Timmran and a Yakonan, united—and blew. Two notes rolled out of the twin flutes, blending in powerful
harmony, building, swelling, cresting into a great wave of pure shimmering resonance so loud it shook the earth.
With a great rumble the abyss began to close. A huge slab of rock just to Jackson’s right broke off, barely missing him. It slammed into the Baen, ripping its talons from their hold. With a horrendous yowl the beast fell backward, plummeting into the narrowing canyon below.
“Jackson Cooper–Jackson Cooper!”
Jackson leaped up with all his might—for Arnica, for Dedron, for Tessa. But the gap of sky above him narrowed to a thread, then disappeared as darkness and stone bore down upon him.
20. A Different Kind of Strength
Crushing pressure came at Jackson from all sides. Pain drilled into him, shooting through every part of his body. He cried out, but the sound of his agony never left his mouth, muzzled by the powerful grip of the collapsing abyss. Like a huge and cruel fist, the stone walls mashed his arms to his sides, squeezed his eyelids shut, wrung the breath from him like water from a rag, all the time pulling him into a descending spiral.
Down, down, past a three-headed dog that lunged at him, snapping viciously with yellow fangs, tearing at his flesh.
Down, down, where lightning ripped open blood red clouds and wasps swarmed out, stinging his hands, his face, his eyes.
Down, down, bitter cold sinking its icy fingers deep, freezing Jackson’s tears of anguish to his face.
Down, down, the heat of a thousand suns scorching his skin, parching his lips.
Down, down, the strangling force of the abyss growing more vast than the center of gravity, where light itself could not have escaped, beyond anything Jackson ever imagined endurable.
And yet in the next moment the pressure eased, then released in a sudden rush. The pain was gone. And Jackson opened his eyes to find himself lying curled in a pool of golden light. It streamed in on him through a narrow opening between dark stone walls.
“What …?”
Dazed, he stood and stumbled into dazzling brightness.
“Where …?”
Above the limbs of green firs and leafless alders, the sun was breaking through a blanket of gray clouds. He stared, dumbfounded.
“But how …?”
Slowly, a smile worked its way onto Jackson’s face. Who cared how? He was alive! Alive and well and back in Oregon! He looked down at his hands. The circle and triangle of the Steadfast Order were gone. He checked his watch. As if on cue, it began to tick off the seconds. It was still the same time—4:43. He checked the date—November 13. Yes! That was still the same, too, his birthday.
“Yahoo!” Grinning like a kid in an ice-cream shop, Jackson clambered down the rocky slope to the base of Cougar Butte. As he entered the trees a squirrel chattered. He looked up to see the little animal glaring down at him from a nearby fir branch.
Jackson waved. “Hey, squirrel! How’s it going?”
The squirrel flicked its bushy tail from side to side. It chattered again, then leaped from the limb onto the trunk, its tiny claws scratching in the bark as it scurried out of sight to the far side of the tree.
“See ya later!” Jackson shouted. He took a deep breath of the cool, clean air. It felt so good to be back in Timber Grove. Maybe the place wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t so bad, either.
Just look! he thought as he made his way to Cougar Creek and headed downstream. Everything seemed to sparkle like new in the brilliant sunlight flooding the forest, as if the whole world were celebrating his birthday. Trees, rocks, ferns, even the moss-covered logs glistened. If he squinted, it looked like everything was strewn with diamonds.
Jackson’s grin grew wider. They’d have to change the name from Cougar Creek to Diamond Creek. That would be so cool to live in a forest full of diamonds. He’d be king of it all, King Jackson! He stood up straighter as he walked with big strides. “Make way!” he proclaimed. “Here comes King Jack—”
A distant yet very familiar sound cut Jackson short. It was the growl of his father’s pickup truck laboring up the hill toward their house. Becky! She was home alone. In a split second his glee vanished and he was racing toward his house, leaping over logs, plowing through ferns, sprinting out of the forest.
Tires splashed in the pothole at the bottom of the driveway as Jackson squeezed through the hole in the back fence. He dashed around the woodpile and across the yard, pumping his arms as fast as he could.
Brakes squealed. The engine sputtered, then died. The truck door creaked open, then slammed shut. Jackson bounded up the back porch steps and burst into the kitchen.
Footsteps crunched on the front sidewalk as he rushed through the living room and around the corner, then took the stairs two at a time. He made the landing at the top, to find Becky waiting for him, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“I found this old football helmet of Dad’s in the attic and—Hey, how come you’re so wet?” She pointed at his clothes. “Where have you been?”
From below came the rattle of the storm door opening. “Never mind,” Jackson said. “Forget it, OK?” He slipped past her into his bedroom and turned to shut the door.
“But Jackson!” Becky pouted. “I just wanted to know—”
She went silent as a muffled voice, low and gruff, drifted up from the living room: “Emma, get off the couch!”
A wild mix of emotions raced through Jackson at the sound of his father’s voice—relief, concern, anger, fear. His father was alive, not crusted in stone, not locked in the eye of the Baen. But obviously he wasn’t in the best of moods, either. Each of his words came out with a sharp edge to it.
“I said, get off the couch!”
Jackson stood holding his breath as the deep thump of his father’s footsteps crossed the living room, paused for a moment, then continued into the kitchen. The refrigerator door slammed, then a cabinet drawer. Jackson winced. A chair scuffed, then the back door banged shut. Jackson shook his head. Having a beer on the porch steps, no doubt. Not a good sign.
Becky put the football helmet on over her pigtails. “I’m going to play in my room,” she murmured sadly.
Jackson nodded. “Good idea.” He started to close his door again when a faint sound drifted into his ears, echoing, then shifting. A note … No, two …
“Hey, did you hear that?” Jackson whispered after Becky.
She turned and took off the football helmet. “Hear what? Daddy?”
“No.” Jackson held up his hand, signaling her to be quiet. “Listen.” The notes came again, a little louder this time, definitely two of them, played in harmony. Light and airy, yet clear and perfect, they floated in the air, lingered for a moment, then faded slowly away. “There!”
Becky stared. “I don’t hear any—”
“There again!” Jackson cut in as the twin notes sounded once more, clearer now, deep and rich. And Jackson knew—it was Tessa and Dedron, playing the Shaw-Mara. Their music filled him with sudden hope, like a March breeze that carried hints of spring. He walked to the edge of the landing and looked down the long flight of steps.
“I have to talk to Dad,” he said.
And just as quickly as he’d said it, he was imagining it: down the stairs, through the living room and the kitchen, then out the back door. To sit with his father and talk man to man about what had happened, about why it had happened. He needed an explanation. He needed to give one, too.
After all he’d been through, what would be so hard about that? He’d faced the Baen, recovered the Shaw-Mara, then thrown it to Dedron and Tessa. He’d done the right thing, at least partly making up for the harm he’d caused in the Vale.
“You’re crazy, Jackson-boy!”
Becky’s words cut into Jackson’s fantasy like a knife. His shoulders slumped. A hollow pit formed in his stomach. And just how did he think he was going to pull this off? Wave a magic wand over his father and himself and make everything all right? Say a few words and erase the weakness of character, the sad longing in them both? Undo the resulting betrayal? The anger? The violence? The w
rong? Sprinkle forgiveness and understanding all around like confetti?
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him. While he was at it, why not just go ahead and open the lumber mill back up, too? Sure, jobs for everyone! And then they’d all live happily ever after, just like in a fairy tale!
Jackson shook his head. Right. If only life were even close to being that simple. The cold hard truth was that talking to his dad would be like walking out onto thin ice with lead boots on. At any instant what seemed solid could crack and give way, plunging them both into frigid black water.
A panicky thump started up in Jackson’s chest. He looked back into his room. It would be so much easier just to go in there and shut the door. It would be so much easier to lock himself in and everything else out. It would be so much easier to pretend none of this had ever happened. After all, a person could die in icy water.
As if they were being played right there in the narrow hallway, the twin notes sounded once again. They resonated with such intensity that the air, the walls, everything, seemed to vibrate in harmony with them.
Even Jackson—first his fingers, then his hands, his arms, his entire body, especially in his chest—vibrated. He reached up and touched the spot where the stone pendant had once rested. Now beneath his shirt he felt only the thump of his heart, slowing from its panicky pace, growing steadier, stronger with each beat.
Not strong like the power of bulging arms or a broadsword or a magic pendant or a gun. It was a different kind of strength, hard to define, but swelling and rising in him just the same, filling him with something bigger than himself, bigger than anything he’d ever experienced. It was as if he were being filled with light. And it made him feel … maybe the word was brave. Not comic-book brave, like some kind of superhero. Not without fears. He had no illusions. But maybe brave enough to at least face those fears.
Jackson stood up straighter and looked back down the stairs. No, this wasn’t how he was going to die. It certainly wasn’t going to be easy, but this was how he was going to live.
“You can do it,” he whispered to himself. “You can.”
