Istoria Online- Square One

by Vic Connor

  “Well…” I say, but Abe interrupts me.

  “Or p’haps He still be, lad.” I follow his gaze over to the circle of skull-crowned red stakes that mark the border of the clearing. “We’ll soon be findin’ out, methinks.”

  Juanita waits for us where the path into the jungle begins, on the other side of the stakes. I inch forward and place the tips of my crutches across the circle, my feet still planted on the inside.

  Juanita sneers. “Don’t listen to the old and dumb sea dog, my child. You heard the priestess: we are free to leave. There is nothing to fear.”

  I swing my legs over the skulls’ perimeter…

  …the faintest trace of an electric tingling travels along my spine, all the way from the top of my head down to my butt…

  …my bounded feet land in the muddy dirt on the other side.

  I wait.

  Nothing happens.

  Juanita smiles. “See?”

  Abe looks up at the sky, as if waiting for a hint from the Heavens about whether or not he’s safe to sail the open seas.

  “Hurry, pirate,” Juanita says. “We don’t have all day.”

  First, though, he makes the sign of the cross, somehow reminding me of both a scared child and a giant, frightened teddy bear. It would be almost comical, maybe even cute, if the skulls upon their red stakes were not grim witnesses to his prayers. If, several paces away from where we stand, the stern priestess’ feverish gaze was not piercing through me like a spear. If the imposing pyramids did not stand tall in the distance, robust and proud under the sun, mighty proof of the power their gods hold over these lands—a power I was further evidence of, returned from the Land of the Dead by their priestess’ ritual.

  “Oh, by the cunning of the Enemy of Both Sides…” says Juanita.

  “Yarr cursed Lord,” hisses Abe, eyes downcast, “be not mine, witch.”

  “Then stop being a fool, you dumb pirate, and take a few steps forward to leave the circle in which Lords that are not yours reign supreme.”

  He does as she tells him, but jumps rather than walks across. His boots splash droplets of mud when he lands, freezing and flinching as if awaiting the skies to open with righteous lighting to strike him down right here, right now.

  Nothing happens.

  He relaxes his huddled shoulders, then laughs with relief. “See, me lad?” He pats my back so hard that my lungs climb into my throat. “Told ya there be nothin’ to fear!”

  I’m sure Juanita is rolling her eyes so hard they could nearly fling out of their sockets, but she’s already leading the way through the twists and turns of the muddy jungle path—all we can see is the tip of her staff and the crawling blue, red, and black coral snakes stitched across the back of her poncho. “Now, come on, boys,” she calls over her shoulder. “Move.”

  We follow her, as quickly as my crutches would carry me, along the twisting path and into the low trees and bushes of this tropical forest.

  “How much longer?” I gasp, my shirt drenched in sweat, my forehead dripping and my arms and shoulders burning from the effort. The midday sun hurls its rays down at us with no respite and no mercy, and the short trees seem to cast no shade. “How much longer,” I repeat wearily, “to wherever we’re going in such a hurry?”

  “Three miles or so.” Juanita continues through the narrow, zig-zagging path. The heat and the sun do not seem to bother her under her thick poncho.

  I stop. “Another three miles!?”

  “What ya mean, ‘nother?” chuckles Abe behind me. “We haven’t even made half!”

  “That would be my point, right there.” I struggle to get the words out, panting. “I need to take a break.”

  Juanita halts, turning around to look at Abe.

  The pirate pulls his head back, sticks his nose up into the humid air, and takes a long, noisy sniff. He exhales, then takes another long, loud sniff, narrowing his eyes as if there was something written in the breeze that he can just about read.

  Nose for Storms:

  Sky’s Clear

  “No trouble me nose can smell,” he assures Juanita.

  She resumes walking. “There’s a small stream ahead, if I remember correctly. Not much further.”

  “Ya be rememberin’ well, witch. Eight hundred paces, maybe nine.”

  “We rest there,” she announces. Her stern tone makes me feel like what she’d meant to say was, “Move that crippled, lazy ass of yours, Jakey boy.”

  I look at Abe. He shrugs, palms up.

  We push forward under the beating sun.

  I don’t keep count of how many paces we travel, but Abe’s reckoning feels correct. Right when my back and shoulders feel about to cramp up beyond repair, the path zags into a tight curve, follows a gentle slope downward, and reveals a murky stream of water lined with tall willow trees.

  Juanita rests her legs on a thick root in the shade. Abe follows suit, plopping down on another root under the same tree.

  I manage to retain some semblance of dignity as I place my crutches by the tree trunk, but then, casting away all pretense of gracefulness, I land with my butt on the ground.

  “Rest, young Jake,” says Juanita.

  I gasp for air. “Yeah, right. As if I could do anything else.”

  “Restin’ be key, me lad,” offers Abe. “If yarr gonna be rememberin’ somethin’, remember this: restin’ and recoverin’, an’ a good tale, thems be crucial t’ ya bein’ all blood-’n’-beef again. An’ a pitcher o’ good brown ale, an’ some roasted meat, although methinks ya’ll hafta do without ‘em meat n’ ale fer now. But ya be listenin’ t’ the witch an’ the old sea dog now. Restin’ and recoverin’, thems be key.”

  I cross my arms. “Are you a personal trainer now? A gym teacher?”

  “What says ya, lad!?”

  “Never mind.” My sore hands slipping through the dirt, I drag my butt across the forest floor until I can rest my back against the tree trunk.

  I close my eyes while I massage my hands and fingers, numb from grasping the crutches so hard.

  “The pirate is right for once, my child. Resting and retelling your trials is what lets you recover and grow strong.”

  “Sure,” I say, keeping my eyes shut, enjoying the cool air under the canopy. “Because what I want right now is to go over how I’ve dragged my pathetic crippled ass over here, and how my shoulders feel about to pop out of their sockets, and how I don’t feel my frigging hands—”

  Strength Increased!

  Whoa.

  Like … really?

  “But you did push onward, young Jake. Did you not?”

  “Yappin’ an’ whinin’ like a lil’ princess that just stepped on horse dung, ruinin’ her fancy shoes an’ now she be all fussy and naggin’—but pushed forward ya did, me lad.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Yeah, I did. But methinks I remembers gritting my teeth real hard most of the way, Abe me mate, so I be thinking me yapping and whining can’t have been that much.”

  Resolve Increased!

  I chuckle.

  Now that’s old-school. Like, last-century old-school, from what I remember of what Dad told me about his teenage roleplaying days: Your character had to rest and retell their adventures before being able to level up.

  “What’s funny, lad?”

  “Ya scurvy barnacle.” I try my best to imitate him, grinning. “Ya be right ‘bout resting being good fer me, I’ll give ya dat much!”

  Abe roars with laughter, slapping his thigh. Even Juanita lets a giggle cheer up her stern expression.

  I join them. It feels good, to be stronger.

  I inspect my hands and arms, then roll up the sleeves to check my biceps. The hummingbird and flowers are not there. I scratch my left forearm, to make sure the dirt and slime haven’t covered the tattoo: nothing.

  “Is there something wrong, my child?”

  “I, uh… Didn’t I have a tattoo here, on my left arm? A hummingbird and some red flowers?”

  She gives me a blank lo
ok. “Rest, young Jake. Do not force your memories; allow them to come back when they will.”

  I look at my left arm again: nothing. My green-and-blue colibri has not followed me to this level of the game.

  Sitting together beneath the tree, Abe and Juanita whisper amongst themselves. The surrounding jungle is buzzing with insects, but they don’t seem interested in us.

  Abe crouches by my side, scratches his dirty, sweaty bandana, then gurgles, coughs, and spits on the ground.

  “Now, me lad,” he says, “maybe it be a blessin’ ya forgots some things. But other things, it be a bother if ya did. There be tellin’ when the next storm be hittin’ us, and the more ya remembers how t’ handle yarrself in a fight, the merrier.”

  He looks at me, like he’s hoping I’ll reassure him and say I’ve just recalled everything I ever knew, but I don’t even know what sort of fight he’s talking about.

  “Well, then,” he continues, “our here witch be thinkin’ that holdin’ thems tools o’ t’ trade may let ya remember somethin’. Ya feel like givin’ it a try?”

  I glance at my tied-up legs, stretched stiff in front of me. “I really don’t know what use I can be in a fight, Abe, with my legs like this.”

  “We shall worry about your legs later, my child,” Juanita says. “We should worry about your mind, now.”

  Abe nods, eyebrows furrowed.

  “All right,” I say.

  New Quest (Tutorial):

  Weapon of Choice

  Standing up, Abe pulls out his bastard-sword version of a cutlass. He then reaches behind him and produces a one-shot flintlock pistol from the rucksack he carries on his back.

  He places both the sword and gun on the ground before me. Juanita adds her stave to our small makeshift armory.

  Let’s see if I remember anything about…

  [Fencer] (Cost to Unlock: 1VP) – I’ll take the sword.

  [Gunslinger] (Cost to Unlock: 1VP) – I’ll take the gun.

  [Tepatiki] (Cost to Unlock: 1VP) – I’ll take the stave.

  Aha.

  That’s the 1VP I gained from the Priestess. I should have six more VPs from finding those bugs during the Pain Tutorial, so I can spend one here to unlock some fighting skills.

  “Let’s see if I remember anything about…”

  …fencing and swordplay.

  …shooting straight.

  …healing magic.

  “…fencing and swordplay,” I say, picking up the cutlass with both hands.

  It feels crude. Heavy. Deadly, even if you smash rather than slash somebody in the head.

  Memory Unlocked:

  Stern Training (1 of 3)

  A grim, thin man with a curly mustache watches me lunge forward with a rapier. I thrust again, and again, and again. He corrects my posture with heavily French-accented phrases when my mistakes are minor; with a sharp slap of his cane for more serious screw ups.

  From time to time, Juanita enters the room to check my progress. We are in an ample European-style foyer, well-lit with candles.

  “I’d prefer a rapier over a cutlass, I think.”

  “Oh, would ya, m’lord?” Abe grins, then does a silly mockery of a curtsey. “Well, that’s good an’ all, but sadly for our nobly lordling, we ain’t gots no fancy rapiers here. Only a good ol’ sailor’s cutlass that will spank a rapier any day o’ t’ week, and twice on Sunday, praised be Lord Almighty.”

  “And I think swords require footwork,” I retort, staring all the way up at him. “And footwork requires, you know, working feet. Am I right?”

  The pirate’s grin vanishes.

  With an effort, I hand the cutlass back to him. “Let’s see if I remember anything about shooting straight.” I pick up the flintlock pistol.

  My hand fills perfectly with the gun’s weight and grip, and my heart fills with confidence.

  This thing kills people.

  Memory Unlocked:

  Stern Training (2 of 3)

  Wind ruffles my hair as I stand motionless and take aim with a pistol, pointing the weapon at a line of rocks sitting atop a fence.

  I pull the trigger. A loud bang pierces the air, and my arm absorbs the gun’s kickback with a pleasant assuredness.

  A rock is blown into fragments. The barrel smokes.

  A broad-shouldered, thick-bearded man nods once. A tricorne hat obscures his face, but it doesn’t matter—his expression is always somber.

  “Again,” he says.

  “At least this doesn’t need me to move much…” I tell myself, shifting the pistol to my left hand. “Now, let’s see if I remember anything about healing magic,” I say, picking up the stave.

  There’s a pulsating warmth emitting from the staff as I lift it.

  Memory Unlocked:

  Stern Training (3 of 3)

  A girl about my age stands before me, dressed in a sleeveless linen tunic.

  She’s entirely snow-white—her plaited, long hair, the milky skin of her face and arms, and her translucent, pale irises and pupils.

  All white, with the exception of the obsidian knife grasped in her right hand, the polished blade gleaming black.

  She slashes across her left forearm. Just a flesh wound, but it bleeds profusely over her skin.

  I raise my stave. It pulses warmer, warmer, hotter…

  …tiny smoke-like tendrils raise from where she slashed herself…

  …her wound closes, as if filmed at super-high speed while it scars.

  She giggles with glee. “Tepatiki!”

  “Who … who the heck was that? A—an alb… a white girl. I mean, all white, her hair and skin … pink eyes…”

  “Do you remember her, my child? Do you remember her name?”

  “Erika?” I whisper.

  “Nay, lad,” Abe grunts. “Her name be—”

  “Her name you will remember, when the Smoking Mirror wishes you to,” Juanita interjects.

  “Helpin’ t’ lad ain’t goin’ to hurt ‘im, witch.”

  “No. But it will not make him stronger, either. We can give you crutches, my child,” she tells me, “but you must remember how to walk by yourself.”

  I hold the stave while looking at my legs—staring at them as if I had X-ray vision and could see what’s wrong with them. “Will I remember how to make my legs whole again?”

  “You were capable of some decent healing, my child,” Juanita says. “But mending your own legs… Such power is far beyond you, I am afraid.”

  “Can it be done?” I ask.

  She nods. “The High Priests of Tenochtitlán may perform such feats, yes. But it’s not something a sunrise blood like you could ever do, even with a lifetime of dedication.”

  Abe spits on the ground. “Thems pagan rituals…”

  Juanita ignores the pirate. “So, young Jake, what shall you do?”

  I consider my options and compare them to my physical abilities and skills. “All right. I think I’ve decided, then.”

  [Fencer] (Cost to Unlock: 1VP)—I’ll take the sword.

  [Gunslinger] (Cost to Unlock: 1VP)—I’ll take the gun.

  [Tepatiki] (Cost to Unlock: 1VP)—I’ll take the stave.

  I return the stave to its spot on the ground. “I’ll take the gun,” I declare, reaching for the flintlock pistol with my right hand.

  Quest Completed!

  Weapon of Choice

  Skill Unlocked!

  Gunslinger

  -1VP

  “Gunner ahoy!” Abe laughs, and crouches to clap me on the shoulder. “Good choice, me lad. What be the meaning of healin’ yarrself, when ya can shoot ’em scurvy dogs dead before thems bite ya?”

  “That be exactly what I been sayin’ all me life, Abe matey!” I reply. “Only fools be bringin’ a knife to a gunfight. Arrr!”

  He almost chokes with laughter, either at my knife joke or my terrible pirate impersonation, making gobs of spit rain all over the jungle.

  Juanita picks up her stave. She says nothing.

  We rest
a few minutes longer while I inspect the pistol, until Juanita announces, “We should keep moving.”

  “Where are we going in such a haste?” I ask. I do want to know, but right now, I’m more interested in enjoying a brief break from wrestling with my crutches.

  She sighs, perhaps frustrated. “So much you do not remember…”

  “Quit yarr yapping, witch. The lad can’t be rememberin’ this part. Considerin’ our Jake lad here was dead by then.”

  “Oddly enough,” Juanita agrees, “you are right again.”

  “Ol’ Abe always be.” He grins, and she raises an eyebrow. “Unless he ain’t,” he concedes.

  I wouldn’t mind their banter going on forever, if it meant I could stay cool and relaxed under this shade.

  “About two miles onwards, these bushes reach a cliff, like a large wall,” she says. “The path we follow continues across that wall, through a narrow ravine. That’s the way we came, dragging your corpse.”

  Abe holds his palms close together, leaving just half an inch of space between them. “That blasted ravine be tight,” he adds. “In places, two men doesn’t fit together. And there, Glaive Girl be standin’ guard. She be blockin’ t’ way should Barboza’s bloody dogs sniff our trail t’ here.”

  “Glaive…?”

  “Miyu,” clarifies Juanita. “Do you remember her, my child?”

  New Quest

  Rejoin with Miyu

  A silk flower, blossoming and whirling.

  A storm of steel.

  Crystalline laughter, sparkling like a mountain spring.

  “Just … fragments,” I admit. They remain silent.