by Jon Scieszka
“That’s . . . that’s terrible,” I said. “I guess this is perfect timing for me to go home then.”
“But you can’t go now.” Grunt’s frown made his beard bushier. “If we don’t fight, they’ll steal and burn everything. And you’re our best chance to beat them. I mean, you are an Old Hollower.”
A New Hollower, I thought. And New Hollow had as much magic as cold oatmeal.
Forge was frowning. “Wait, what’s all this about Old Holl—”
I backhanded Forge in the stomach. “Not now, we’ve got a crisis,” I said. “Grunt, how many armed fighters in Bendy Stream?”
“Two dozen.”
Would that be enough? I’d wanted an adventure. I’d wanted a dramatic and glorious battle. But I didn’t figure I’d find one so soon, or one quite so dramatic and glorious.
“You won’t stand alone against the raiders,” said Forge. “Count my sword among your own. That is, as soon as Spark gives it back to me.”
“That’s nice, but . . .” Grunt blushed. “Everyone voted at the Grinning Goat. They’re mighty afraid of the Ash Raiders, and they’d all just rather you fought them yourself, Mistress Spark. You and your Hollower brother.”
I stared at Grunt so hard he took a step back, covering his head with his hands as if afraid I’d fry off the black fuzz that was just growing back. The lot of them were planning to throw me and Forge at the raiders? We’d be slaughtered!
I marched back into the tavern, stood on the landing, and with my hands on my hips, I shouted, “Quiet down! Do you hear me talking to you? I said QUIET DOWN!”
I sounded so much like my mama I gave myself chills. All I needed was a wooden spoon to smack a few bottoms.
“You expect me and my brother to stop the Ash Raiders alone?” I said. “You bunch of lazy, spoiled, good-for-nothing louses. I’m ashamed of the lot of you. Ashamed!”
A few heads hung down. I nodded, satisfied.
“I know you’d like us to magically make them go away, but we can’t. We’ll stand beside you, but you’ll need to fight like mad. So let’s get to work or by my left toe, some heads will roll.”
And I followed up with some serious pointing.
There was no way everyone was more afraid of little me than of the Ash Raiders. At my most fearsome I’d shined a light in a few eyes. The Ash Raiders had burned dozens of towns to the ground, stolen livestock, and run the people off to starve in the wilderness. But the townsfolk listened to me anyway. What nice folk they were. I really didn’t want to see their town burned.
I was going to need more than a lucky rock and a couple darkease leaves. Defeating the Ash Raiders called for some serious tricks. With Churn and Forge’s help, I assigned everyone a task: gathering weapons and tools, digging ditches, wrapping arrows with ale-dipped cloth, building a barricade on the north side of the town’s main road.
We gathered the outlying farm families in and for two days all Bendy Streamers stayed in the center of town, taking turns at cooking, cleaning, digging, prepping, and watching.
It was morning when a girl appropriately named Scout came running from her scouting post.
“They’re here!” she said, out of breath. “They’re—”
That was all the warning we got. Over the horizon flowed the Ash Raiders.
They rode horses and bulls. Their clothes were black. Their hair and faces were smeared with the ashes of towns they’d razed. Sunlight glinted off swords and hammers, axes and arrow points. I tried to count them all but I got dizzy.
The townsfolk huddled behind our barricade of stacked wagons. I’m certain I wasn’t the only one shivering under the bright sun.
“Is this an adventure?” I whispered to Forge.
“Yes,” he said.
“Is it supposed to be fun?” I asked.
“Not at the moment,” he said.
“Good,” I said. “I was afraid I was doing it wrong.”
I stepped out in front.
“I’m an Old Hollower!” I shouted. “Retreat while you can!”
They kept coming. Well, it had been worth a try.
A raider on horseback disappeared into the middle of the street. I pointed at him as if I’d made him disappear with my spectacular mage powers. Actually I’d asked Grunt and others to dig random ditches all down the street, fill them with water, and sprinkle dirt on top for camouflage. Another rider plunged into a water hole. And another. I pointed. I pointed.
The raiders didn’t seem fooled. They kept coming.
Our longbowmen lit their arrows on fire and shot them in high arcs.
“Ha-ha!” I shouted. “Fear the light magic of Old Hollow!”
Some of our arrows hit the raiders, black clothing catching fire. But the rest of the raiders kept coming.
I had only one trick left. I motioned to Forge and several others and we lifted metal shields. I’d assigned the children of the town to polish them till they were extra shiny. We tilted the shields, reflecting sunlight into the eyes of the Ash Raiders’ front line.
“I blind you!” I shouted. “I blind you with my mage powers!”
Several broke off and fled. But the rest were not afraid. They shielded their eyes and kept coming.
“Mistress Spark?” Grunt looked hopefully at me, his eyes small in his huge face. “Let me have a go.”
I didn’t want to say yes. I wanted to be a real Hollower and win the day! But I nodded.
Grunt lifted his hammer and shouted. His two dozen warriors ran forward, meeting the first line. Grunt took out two raiders in one swipe. But there were so many.
I felt a tug on my shirt. (Forge’s shirt, actually.) Scout was beside me, her big eyes pleading.
“That’s my papa,” she said, pointing to a thin, grizzly-bearded man with a rake, standing with the nonfighters. “He says he’ll have to fight since your powers weren’t enough. But you won’t make him, right? You’ll stop the raiders yourself because you’re a Hollower, right?”
Why can’t some lies be true?
I gazed at the black wall of killers marching at us and my gaze got lost in their vastness. Grunt’s warriors would never be enough.
“We have to retreat!” I shouted back at the village. The warriors would give us time to get the rest of the townsfolk away. We had no choice but to abandon Bendy Stream.
We started to run away from the raiders, but suddenly we were running toward them. Because more raiders were entering town from the other side. We were surrounded by a sea of black, pushing us in. They wouldn’t only steal all the goods and burn the town, they’d burn the townsfolk inside it.
I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t. I had to do something, something, something. . . .
I gripped my lucky rock in my pocket. I felt the sun above, so hot, the heat a slap on the top of my head.
Forge ran back to me from the fighting. “I promised Mama I’d bring you home. Come on. We can’t win here, Spark. They’re as big as the night.”
Nothing can stop night but the sun.
I climbed atop the barricade of wagons. I climbed and I climbed and I lifted my lucky rock up. Could I make a lie real?
“Spark!” I could hear Forge calling. It was nice that he was afraid for me, but I didn’t look down. The sun had always felt like kin, and I followed the hot, crazy nagging that the sun could help. I imagined not just reflecting the light but pulling it into my rock. My fingers and palms burned, but it felt good, like clutching a mug of warm milk after playing in the snow.
“Spark! Get down!”
The black rock brightened.
A group of raider bowmen galloped toward the barricade, a glint of arrows, bowstrings pulled back, aiming at me.
“Leave!” I shouted.
They didn’t leave. The raiders loosed their arrows.
I loosed the sun.
Light exploded from the rock and shot from my fingers. My white, too-bright burst met the arrows midway, swallowing them up. The burst kept sizzling down the road and rolled over the r
aider bowmen. I heard screeches of fear, their mounts screaming and stamping. Smoke rose from the raiders’ black clothes, the ash fizzled from their hair. The first group fled.
“Grunt, get back!” I shouted.
He and his men retreated, and I pulled sunlight into the rock and shot it at the raider swordsmen. The burst crackled over their heads and chased them away.
I aimed now for the raiders who were hedging in the townsfolk.
“Leave!” I said. By the time my white burst reached the remaining Ash Raiders, they were already fleeing. In moments the last one had disappeared under the horizon.
My eyes were dazzled. I blinked several times and looked down. The whole town was staring at me.
“Yep,” said Grunt, “that’s what I saw Hollowers do in the Southern Wars.”
Forge had climbed up beside me. His mouth was as wide open as his eyes.
“Before I left, Mama said she named you Spark because you had the spark. At the time, I didn’t know what she meant.”
This was all feeling right, the waking world moving just like it did in my dreams.
Forge and I didn’t linger another day in Bendy Stream. I hugged and kissed all the Grinning Goat regulars. Churn sniffled as he gave me a week’s worth of travel food. Grunt followed us to the edge of town and waved till I could no longer make out his fuzzy black head.
Forge and I were going home. I couldn’t stand to make Mama sad. But on the way, we would pass through Old Hollow. Just to say hello. And maybe ask them about my lucky rock and how I was able to hold the sun.
THE SCOUT
BY D. J. MACHALE
Kit was on his own.
That was his first mistake.
He was the kind of guy who didn’t follow the rules, especially if he saw no good reason to. He wasn’t a troublemaker, but unlike most of his friends, who blindly bowed to authority, he made his decisions based on what common sense told him was right . . . even when he was the only one who felt that way.
His latest misadventure began innocently enough on a camping trip with his Scout troop. The plan was to leave their base with a group of thirteen Scouts and two Leaders on a two-day excursion through rocky, desertlike terrain to practice survival skills. Kit didn’t see the point other than to earn a badge that he couldn’t have cared less about. He laughed at the Scouts who proudly displayed their awards on a sash that proved they could swim a mile or treat wounds or repeatedly hit a bull’s-eye. Kit could do all those things, better than most. He just didn’t feel the need to show off his accomplishments by sporting colorful badges. He knew what he was capable of and that was good enough for him.
The Scout Leaders didn’t agree. They wanted their young charges to compete with one another, which was why Kit found himself trudging across the blazing desert with a light backpack along with twelve other sweaty Scouts. He wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else, but with two Leaders keeping a watchful eye on every move they made there was no way he could dodge what was sure to be a grueling, pointless couple of days.
It was hot. Torturous, nasty, pass-out hot. That didn’t stop the Leaders from driving the boys deep into the desert. Five miles, ten miles. They passed towering cliffs and crossed bone-dry riverbeds. Rationing water was crucial. Each Scout started off with a small bottle of water that had to last until they found resources in the desert, which wasn’t easy. The Leaders instructed them to keep their mouths moist by sucking on small pebbles to activate their salivary glands. Kit was way ahead of them. He had been working on a couple of pebbles long before the Leaders offered the tip. He wanted to point out that if this were a true survival situation they wouldn’t be hiking, like idiots, during the heat of the day. Instead they would be resting in the shade to conserve energy and reduce their sweat output. But this wasn’t his show, so he quietly went along.
He made a point of veering into the shade whenever possible, even if it meant adding a few extra steps. He didn’t talk, unlike the others, who were laughing and joking from the get-go. Kit wondered if the Leaders realized how much precious energy they were wasting. It seemed to him that they were driving the Scouts hard and letting them make dumb mistakes. But why? Was it another test? Another competition? Or did they just want to push them to the brink of dehydration and exhaustion for fun? It sure seemed that way. Or maybe the Leaders were just as clueless as the Scouts. Whatever the case, Kit wasn’t about to do anything that would make the adventure any worse than it already was, so he kept his mouth shut and sucked on his pebbles.
Once they had hiked farther into the desert than Kit had ever been before, the true rules of the excursion were revealed. It was indeed a competition. The Leaders split the group in two. Each would take half the Scouts and march in a different direction. Whichever group fared better would be treated to an exceptional meal when they returned to base. The losers would be left to watch with envy.
Kit had no idea who would be the judge or what the criteria for winning might be and didn’t care. What he saw was an opportunity. The Scouts were split up . . . seven in one group and six in the other. Kit made sure he was with the group of seven. Soon after the two teams went in different directions he marched up to his Leader and requested permission to join the other group. He explained that his good friend was with them and he worried that his buddy might be in over his head. He asked permission to join them so he could look out for the guy. The Leader complimented Kit on his leadership qualities and sent him on his way to catch up with the others.
Kit didn’t have a close friend in the other group.
He had no intention of joining them.
What he wanted was to be on his own, and with both Leaders thinking he was with the other, he got his wish.
Once certain that he couldn’t be seen by either group, he pulled off his pack, found some shade, and got off his feet. He wasn’t thrilled about having to spend two days in the desert alone, but knew he was far better off on his own than trudging along with a bunch of clueless rookies. His plan was to lay low, conserve his energy and his water, then march back into camp and announce that he had gotten lost but managed to survive with no help. Who knows? Maybe he’d even be declared the winner of the dumb contest.
Kit put up his feet and relaxed, comfortable for the first time in hours and confident that his adventure in the desert was going to be far less torturous than if he had followed the rules.
Digging through his pack he saw that the Scouts had equipped him with a few essential survival tools: a long length of light rope, a thin reflective blanket, a simple first aid kit, flint and steel to spark a fire, a small hunting knife, and an item that was only to be used in a dire emergency . . . a communication device. If he were truly in trouble he could use it to call for help. The Leaders may have wanted to push the Scouts to the limit and test their abilities, but they also wanted everyone back alive.
Kit had no intention of using the device. He was going to make it on his own, whether or not he would be rewarded with an official badge or a special meal.
Knowing that as soon as night fell the desert temperature would plunge from searing hot to bone-numbing cold, Kit erected a simple shelter using lengths of scrub that he propped against a wall of rust-colored rock. He gathered kindling and found enough dry wood to use as fuel. With a few quick flicks of metal on stone, he sparked up the tinder and in minutes he had a crackling fire that would keep him warm during the long desert night.
Sunset came quickly. It was stunning, complete with long streaks of orange and lavender clouds that hung above the distant mountains. When the sun dropped from sight the temperature dropped with it, but Kit felt warm and secure with his fire and shelter. He planned to get up early and search for food and water in the cool morning hours, though he wasn’t stressed about it. He knew that if he came up empty he’d still be okay. He’d been hungry before. Gutting it out for two days wouldn’t be a problem.
Kit stretched out in the shelter with his head resting on his pack and only his thoughts to keep him compan
y. With his mind completely clear, his thoughts turned once again to a difficult decision he had been weighing for months: He wanted to quit the Scouts. His parents had forced him to join, saying it was every guy’s duty to serve. Kit had signed up to make his folks happy but never bought into the Scout culture. He loved being outdoors and had made several good friends, but he didn’t see any purpose to the regimentation and military-like training. It wasn’t his style. Quitting would upset his parents for sure, and the Leaders would do their best to convince him to stay, but he wasn’t sure if he could stick it out until his mission was complete.
His mission.
It was the only reason he had stuck it out with the Scouts as long as he had.
Kit lay back and looked up to the night sky. Being in the desert, away from the glow of civilization, he saw more stars than he ever remembered seeing before. An endless canopy of lights spread from horizon to horizon. It was so incredibly clear that Kit felt as if he could gaze through them to the other side of the universe. The immensity of it all was both staggering and humbling as he tried to comprehend how many different worlds he might be viewing. How many civilizations? How many people? How many lives were beginning and ending at that exact moment? He wondered which of the twinkling spots held life and which were nothing more than gaseous, burning masses . . . and how many people were out there staring back at him, wondering the exact same thing? The idea that he might be gazing at multiple living worlds was a staggering concept that was hard to imagine, since he couldn’t see any actual signs of life.
Or could he?
A single, shimmering “star” moved across the sky. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks and it was the residual impression left by another bright star. He blinked, but it was still there, moving steadily and quickly. Kit sat up and tracked it until it disappeared behind the distant ridge of mountains. The sight threw him. Speculating about the potential for life while gazing at a billion stars was one thing; seeing an actual sign of intelligent life speeding by was far more dramatic. What could it have been? A satellite? A space station orbiting the globe? Or was it a craft from another planet swinging by to take a peek at his home?