by Travis Smith
The king was slain. His son was slain. His son was slain. All that remained in the bloodline was William. If he truly were the son of Bernard’s oldest friend …
Another knock.
Bernard ignored it again until he heard his friend Antonio calling his name from the outside. The man sounded urgent enough to catch Bernard’s curiosity.
He gave one last backward glance at the door, hoping remotely for it to give him some sort of sign before the course of his day took a turn.
“This had better be good to interrupt my affairs!” he called, walking through the vast entryway to the castle.
He opened the heavy wooden front door and observed an uncertain look on Antonio’s face. The man clearly did not want to be here delivering whatever news he’d come to bestow, but something was compelling him to do so. His loyalty, perhaps.
“Bernard,” the man started.
“What is it? Go on!” Bernard urged.
“It’s about the boy,” Antonio said, “William.”
A shiver of comprehension worked its way up Bernard’s spine and sent his neck into an uncomfortable tic to one side. “What about the boy?” he asked through gritted teeth, his eyes both closed tightly.
“About his daddy, actually.”
Dark realization came crashing down upon Bernard with such force that it took every bit of composure within him to keep from falling to his knees. His eyes opened, and the wrath within them was enough to give his hearty thug of a friend reason to step backward a few paces. A shadow had come over Bernard, and the eyes within his skull had changed, darkened, deepened.
“He’s alive,” Antonio concluded.
Hearing the words spoken aloud did in fact bring Bernard to his knees. His previous tantrums outside the marble doors to the Throne Room paled in comparison to that which followed.
Chapter 11:
Liberation Palaver
1
John Tompkins lay on his back in the sand watching the white, fluffy clouds drift by overhead. His life had changed on the day he’d met that surly stranger—changed for the better, he’d thought. He was moments away from taking his own life when the man stumbled into it, and he’d felt reborn, rejuvenated, and refocused.
But that stranger had marched off into the night and vanished altogether. Since then, John had wondered if any of it had meant anything at all. He’d chosen to save that stranger’s life and to save his own in the process. He’d wanted to help the man in health and then aid him in his quest, but the man had spurned him and vanished. Now John knew not if the man was dead or gone or whether he’d even truly existed at all.
He watched the clouds for days after saying farewell to his new friends Maria Vilsen and Robert Forlo, hoping for another sign. That, after all, is where he had found the previous sign, high atop the cliffs, far above the water below him. He wondered what he should do next. There were days when he felt he’d been reborn, given a new life to redeem the old one he’d ruined, but now he felt listless and knew not how to proceed. Should he leave the island in search of his old family? Or were they merely a remnant of the old life he’d abandoned? Were they even still alive? And, if so, where on this limitless earth might they now be?
A rustling in the brush broke John’s rambling thoughts. He pulled himself upright and leaned on his elbows, looking around for the source of the noise. He didn’t see or hear anything else until another stirring just behind him. He snapped his head around to see the old man standing an arm’s length away from him in silence. For such a decrepit, knotty old man who hobbled on a cane, he sure could be silent on the move.
“Eugene?” John asked. “Are ye all well?” He hadn’t seen much of the man since the day he’d escaped his own captivity and left his wife and son on board the slave ship to sail away to a life of pain and torment. The old man generally kept to his own, and this island was quite a bit bigger than it appeared at first glance.
“No, soh, I cain’t say I be quite all well these days,” Eugene grumbled morosely. He just stood and stared at John as though he didn’t know quite what to say.
“Anythin’ I c’n help ye with?” John asked.
Eugene swallowed hard and appeared to be at great internal struggle. “Mayhap y’ can, sonny, mayhap y’ can, but firs’ lemme rest up a bit.”
“Of course,” John agreed, sitting up and moving over. “Feel free to have a seat.”
“Naw, boy, ’f I tumble down ’n ’at sand, I’m li’ble never t’ stand uprigh’ ag’in!” the old man wheezed, simply leaning forward and resting on his cane as he gazed contemplatively around at the scenery.
After a few moments of silence, John asked, “Do ye need anythin’, sir?”
Eugene flapped a hand at him. “Have patience, me boy, few moments o’ silence ne’er killed any’n’. Come now, I c’n make it back t’ me cabin.”
“Oh,” John said, “ye want me t’ come with ye to yer cabin?” The old man hadn’t even invited the broken and battered John inside long ago when they’d first met.
“Aye, boy, ’s what I said. Keep yer questions fer later. They wearin’ me out,” Eugene grumbled.
2
John followed Eugene back to his quaint hut and stepped inside for the first time. It was quite a bit better maintained than his own small shanty he’d spent most of his time on the island living in. The man had somehow done very well for himself, despite how difficult it appeared for him to get around and do absolutely anything.
The man pulled a chair from the table at sat down, waving an arm at John, motioning that he follow suit. John did, and stared expectantly at the heavily breathing Eugene at the other end of the table. Though more curious than he remembered being in his life, John did not ask any more questions, lest he agitate the grumpy elder again.
“Gimme a few more, ’n’ I’ll lay us out some breakfas’,” Eugene said breathlessly.
“’Tis quite all right,” John said. “Ye’ve no need t’ feed me.”
“Aye, yer a gues’ in me ’ome, ’n’ I got me a bit o’ unsav’ry bus’ness t’ palaver ’bout with ye.”
John nearly blurted out the obvious question, but he held his tongue, allowing the old man more time to settle in.
“I c’n see in yer eyes ye’ve found yer way,” Eugene said at last.
“What do ye mean?” John couldn’t help but ask.
“Since ’at day we met,” Eugene said. “Yer eyes was black ’n’ lost, but now I see ye’ve fin’ly reclaimed yer soul.”
John nodded slowly. “Aye, I s’ppose I have.”
“I know y’ helped ’at stranger’t showed up ’ere not t’ long ago,” Eugene said, his tone flattening and becoming unreadable.
John was taken aback. He couldn’t tell whether the man was simply making a statement or admonishing him. “Erm, well, yes, in fact, I did,” he said.
“Mighty fine o’ ye.”
“I suppose ye could say that,” John said modestly. “I seen he was in trouble, ’n’ it only felt right t’ help the poor man.”
“What kind o’ trouble y’ mean?” Eugene asked.
John wondered just how much the old man actually knew. “He was bein’ chased ’n’ bullied by a band o’ pirates.”
Eugene stared in silent expectation.
“I b’lieve they meant t’ take his son away,” John said somberly, “but The Baron’d already done so.”
Eugene nodded slowly. “That’s as I thought,” he said. After a short pause, he continued, “I made a bit o’ a mistake.”
John waited for him to go on, but when Eugene never did, he asked, “What kind o’ mistake?”
The old man hesitated to continue still. He looked out his window at the bright day and finally decided to stand up to gather some food. He retrieved some fruits and melons from a basket in his kitchen, a long, sharp knife, and a jug of water. Over three painstakingly slow trips to and from the kitchen, Eugene brought these items back to the table and laid them out in front of John. Once John moved to get up and
help the old man, but Eugene flapped his arms at his guest in stubborn determination.
As he gathered their breakfast, he began to speak again. “I been ’ere a long time,” he began, “’n’ I know quite a good deal o’ things ’at take place ’ere. I reckon since ’at Stranger showed up ’n’ started wreakin’ ’avoc all over my islan’, me judgemen’ got a bit fuzzy.”
John listened respectfully as Eugene spoke. The old man took up the knife and cut a melon in half and then again into quarters, giving three of the slices to John. “Oh, I don’ need s’ much,” John whispered, as though speaking quietly would not interrupt the old man’s recounting.
Eugene flapped his arm at John again and continued speaking. “Could be ’at the way o’ the world ou’ there’s changin’ ’n’ changin’ fas’, but I jus’ don’ see as clearly’s I use’ to.”
John nodded in obliging agreement, wondering just what point exactly the man was trying to make and whether he was headed toward making one at all.
“I got The Stranger in me cellar,” Eugene blurted plainly.
John nearly choked on the bite of melon he was in the process of swallowing. His eyes widened at Eugene, and he still didn’t quite comprehend the old man’s intent.
“I ’ave t’ ask ye t’ ’elp me.”
John nodded slowly, cautiously.
“It may put yer life in a great deal o’ danger,” Eugene continued.
John stopped nodding and put his food down, no longer able to keep his silence. “Why d’ ye have ’im in yer cellar?”
“That stranger is filled with darkness,” the old man replied. “I put ’im down ’ere fer his own good after ’e brought a band o’ murderers ’n’ thieves to me island.”
“I don’t believe that was his intent,” John said.
Eugene flapped his hand at John again. “Aye, but ’e still crashed ’ere on a stole slaver ship, ’n’ ’e still ran when I’s only tryin’ t’ help ’im.”
“Did ye know he was to be king?” John asked. “Before The Baron seized power in Reprise.”
Eugene’s face contorted as though he were trying to hide his surprise. At last he swallowed hard and muttered, “I should ’ave, aye.”
John continued, “I think the only thing he was fleeing was the corrupt nation he once called home.”
“As I said,” Eugene sighed, “I made a mistake, ’n’ I need ye t’ ’elp me outta it if ye’re willin’.”
“What sort of mistake?” John asked again.
“I see now ’at stranger’s purpose is much bigger ’n you ’n’ me, but I re’lized it a little too late. I sent fer Barony off’cers t’ come take ’im off me ’ands when I thought he’s but a thief ’n’ a runaway.”
“What do ye need me to do?”
“Make sure those men don’t take ’im when they arrive.”
“Can’t ye just let him go?” John asked.
Eugene rolled his eyes impatiently. “The Stranger is filled wit’ darkness as we speak. His quest is of greater importance ’n I firs’ thought, but righ’ now ’e’s more harm than ’e’s willing to see. Not t’ mention,” Eugene continued, “I mind me own ’ere on this isle, ’n’ none from Reprise bully or bother me. I aim t’ keep it ’at way. I won’ volunteer t’ see what those imps’d do t’ me if they show up t’ find me empty handed.”
John took this in warily. “How can I help? What am I supposed to do?”
“That’s why I said it’s dang’rous. Once I turn ’im over t’ those men, I need ye t’ ensure they don’ take ’im off this island. I need ye t’ talk some sense into ’im ’fore it’s too late ’n’ he bumbles outta ’ere wit’ a dark shadow o’er his ’ead.”
“Can’t we just go talk to him now?” John asked.
“The man won’t see reason.”
“Aye, but perhaps if he sees me—if we both go down there ’n’ just explain to him the situation.”
Eugene interrupted by waving an arm at John and shaking his head. “I wronged ’im already, ’n’ while ’e’s as pigheaded as a mule, I do regret it. I b’lieve this is the best course o’ action.”
John thought The Stranger wasn’t the only pigheaded individual on this island, but he didn’t argue further. “If ye think it’s best, I’ll do what I can to help.”
Eugene nodded serenely and thanked John. “It’ll be nigh five or ten days ’fore they land ’ere. Don’ take ’em lightly jus’ ’cause they a bunch o’ ruffians. Y’ need a plan, ’n’ I know y’ had help wit’ ’im before.”
“You mean Maria and Robert?” John asked. How could the old cripple know about them?
Eugene narrowed his eyes in affirmation.
“They left shortly after he. I don’ wanna meddle in their business,” John said, shaking his head at the idea.
“How ye do it is yer business, but lemme stress the import’nce of ’at stranger. I don’ wanna see ye hurt tryin’ t’ clean up me mess, but I ’specially don’ wanna see ye fail in freein’ ’at man.”
“What is it that ye now know about him?” John asked.
“Ne’min’ ’at,” Eugene said at once. “Jus’ know ’ere’s more at stake ’ere ’n yer life ’n’ ’is.”
“If his life is so important, why not go set him free now?”
Eugene closed his eyes impatiently. “D’ ye remember ’at day we met, s’ long ago?” he asked.
“Aye.”
Eugene pointed a thin, crooked finger at John’s face. “Ye were at yer worst. Ye’d hit rock bottom, ’n’ had t’ find yer own way.”
John nodded.
“An’ I b’lieve ye’ve done so splendidly.”
“Thank you,” John muttered.
Eugene continued, “But ’at stranger ain’t s’lucky as ye. He’s blinded by ’is vengeance ’n’ sorrow, ’n’ he ain’t ready t’ be told t’ sit back ’n’ wait fer his time t’ come through. His quest is too import’nt t’ throw away on some violent rampage!”
“So ye know something about his quest that even he doesn’t?” John asked the old man, curiosity mounting. What was Eugene willfully keeping from him?
The old man stood more abruptly than John would have thought him capable. “That’s righ’, sonny, ’n’ I think it’s time ye stayed yer questions ’n’ head ou’. Either ye’ll ’elp ’im or ye won’t!”
John held out his arms as he stood. “I apologize, sir. My curiosity gets the best o’ me at times. I will help you. I will gladly help The Stranger.”
3
After leaving Eugene’s cabin, John wandered aimlessly through the dense jungle. Beams of sunlight shone down through the scant openings in the dense canopy overhead. Despite the lack of direct sunlight, the day felt hotter and muggier than any in John’s recent memory. Island birds were cawing in the distance. Some two creatures were having a cacophonous conversation of hoots across the jungle. Large bugs buzzed to and fro around his head, but John remained oblivious to the sounds of the island for the time being. He was busy dwelling on his conversation with the old man.
He knew it wasn’t so, but John felt as though he had been condemned and sent to his death. An ominous voice in his mind told him that he’d rescued The Stranger once, but he’d not be able to defy fate again. It was clear that greater forces than himself were at play, working to extinguish the man’s life, and John wasn’t so sure he could successfully intervene yet again. John feared for his own life. It was mere days ago that he had embraced his own death, but now he felt like a coward, too fearful to risk his life for another’s. If the old man were correct, John would be risking his life for more than just the life of The Stranger. He’d been useless, directionless, and alone for as long as he could remember on this island, but for the first time, he felt well and truly on his own. John entered a clearing in the canopy and looked up at the bright blue sky, a knot squirming in his gut as he accepted how truly alone he was in this vast world. Unsure whether or not he even wanted to live or die, he was left to decide for himself not only his own immediate f
ate, but the fate of The Stranger, the fate of possibly many others.
But what if Eugene wasn’t right? What if the old man were only talking out his backside and blowing smoke about prophecy and fate and quests? John would be risking his life for nothing. He would possibly die to save a man whom he didn’t even know was good or bad anymore. How could he know whether Eugene was even mentally coherent at this point? The man could be ranting and raving about some dream his heat-addled brain had conjured.
As if to accentuate the severity of such heat, John’s face and neck began to burn in the hot sun where he stood. The heat of the day was unbearable and heavy, and it seemed to urge him forward, out of this clearing and back into the shade, out of his indecision and into a conviction that he would be forced to stand by possibly until his last breath.
John looked down at the warm sand beneath his feet. Of course he would help The Stranger again. What purpose did his desolate life on this island serve otherwise? He had helped the man before, and he could see the greatness within him. Whatever demons The Stranger possessed, it was clear to John that he was a good man at his core, a champion of the light. And if John was proven wrong? Well, at least he would have tried his damnedest. It was the only decent thing to do.
He set off walking again, lost in thought, nearing exhaustion from the heat. As he battled with himself and struggled with the possibility of imminent death, John was snapped rudely from his musings by the echo of a deafening roar in the distance and the crashing of trees and rubble. He looked toward the sound and stopped in his tracks. Though the beast was distant, the sounds it made still brought John’s knees to a quiver. He had seen the punisher up close once during his time on the island, had nearly lost his life to it when he was still consumed by darkness and a prime target for the beast. He felt he would be safe from the monster in his new life, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.
John was startled yet again by a woman’s voice nearby. He turned to his side toward the voice and saw one of the island’s few inhabitable shacks a short distance away. Maria Vilsen and Robert Forlo were walking outside. John hadn’t known where they’d disappeared to after they’d all said their farewells. He’d spent enough time alone here to know where all of the huts on the island were located, but he couldn’t have known where these two had settled in, or even that they hadn’t left the island altogether. Could this be a sign that he wasn’t so alone after all? Had his subconscious brought him here? Or was this merely his fate as well as theirs?
