Storm Of War

by Ugo, Kachi

  His eyesight blackened as he began to grow unconscious. Then all of a sudden he felt the power of another Woodfolk. It was a light touch on the Baobab, which stifled the spirits of the trees for a moment.

  A moment was all Peter needed to push back and regain control.

  At this point, Peter realized that the ground was vibrating. It was because the fence was vibrating. Resisting. Agitating.

  Stage two, Peter thought. Grasp your target. Accomplished.

  So far, Peter hadn’t used much power—only a little. Still, he could feel his body weakening. Slowly being drained by his use of power. He figured he had about five minutes or so before he collapsed.

  Five minutes was enough to carve up a doorway through the foremost tree in the fence.

  Peter remembered a trick Mother had taught him. He didn’t need to move the fence. All he needed to do was reach out and break the bonds between tree cells, thereby destroying the illusion of hardness, as Mother had said, and making an erstwhile hard tree nothing but a lump of sawdust.

  If Peter could only carve out a path through the fence and turn that section into sawdust…

  Peter drew upon his power. Immediately, he felt something cold flow into his power core. The result was explosive. The core flared up like a sun going supernova. Fire and power surcharged his body.

  Peter grabbed this section and squeezed. The result was instant. He felt a terrible searing pain in his chest as though someone had plunged a hot dagger into his heart. He yelped a little but fought against it.

  The harder he squeezed, the hotter and more painful the sear in his chest.

  Soon his breath shallowed out. Blood trickled down from his nose. His knees buckled and he fell. He could no longer sustain his power, and so it snapped back into him.

  Pain still raged in his heart. Around him, the trees raged against him. He could hear their voices. They called him Traitor! Coward! Thief!

  Peter ignored them. His power core had shrunk to its normal size, though this time it seemed to be ebbing.

  How many minutes did I go for? Peter wondered. It couldn’t have been for up to five minutes, yet he felt so fatigued.

  Peter glanced up at the fence. It didn’t look as if it had been touched by Levitating. Peter’s heart sank. Either he hadn’t squeezed hard enough or he hadn’t squeezed long enough. Or he just didn’t remember how to dissolve a wood’s hardness.

  His heart heaving, Peter knew that it would be almost an hour before he was up to Levitating again.

  One hour sitting in the dust like this? Peter thought, and then a gust of wind blew the right way, and he saw it. The wind carried away large flakes of wood from the fence.

  Peter frowned. He rose and touched the fence. His hand went through. He squeezed and yanked it out. He unclenched his fist. Wind blasted away the chunk of sawdust from his open palm.

  “It worked!” Peter snapped.

  He momentarily tapped a little bit of his power core, ignoring the sinking feeling it caused, and pushed against the weightless sawdust. The sawdust crumbled inwards offering very little in the way of resistance.

  In moments, a clear path opened up between his side of the fence and the inside.

  As he looked through the path in the fence, the first thing to grip Peter’s attention was the impossibly massive Tree House standing tall and proud in the wide open field. Then he saw the small crowd of people who had gathered to see what was going on. They all stared at him in open shock.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “W

  hat’s happening there?!” came Sanders's voice from behind. He had come into view with three other people hot on his tail.

  Pointy shafts of wood hovered around the approaching team. As soon as they saw it was only Peter, they stopped and stared at what he had done.

  Sanders approached Peter cautiously looking at the narrow walkway in the fence. “What have you done?” he whispered. He still looked at the walkway as if it weren’t real. He even stuck a hand in to make sure it was.

  “You told me I couldn’t get in without Levitating,” Peter protested. Every word he spoke caused the hot searing pain in his chest to throb. He flinched, swallowing down the cry of pain. He shouldn’t be standing, fending questions. He needed to curl up in a bed and sleep before fatigue overcame him.

  The crowd beyond the fence still stared at him. No one had moved or said anything. Didn’t they know it was wrong to stare?

  A man appeared on the front porch of the Tree House. He took one look at the scene and barked an order: “Move on, people!”

  The man’s voice was strong and carried far. Peter recognized the voice immediately.

  Father.

  The man’s order was carried out by everyone as they began to disperse except one, who stared through the walkway at Peter.

  It was Julian Crawford. He stood like a rock star, his black jacket, scraggly blond hair, and rugged faded cream shirt being dead giveaways. Behind, Grey Crawford approached with precipitous steps, his royal purple robes flapping in the evening’s cool breeze.

  Peter took a step into the walkway and his legs buckled, but Sanders caught him before he fell.

  “Easy, kid,” the man said. “You’re not in any shape to walk.”

  Peter begged to differ. He just needed a little rest. He just needed to shut his eyes for a moment and all would be well… Still, strength refused to return.

  “Thanks,” Peter replied, shrugging off the man’s hands and leaning against the inside wall of the fence.

  “I’m all right.”

  Truth was, he wasn’t. His head spun fast. His eyes were so heavy it was as if he hadn’t slept since last night.

  Creating the walkway through the Baobab had cost him a lot. Any more, and he would have fainted, or worse, died. It wasn’t a farce. He’d watched men die on these grounds because they bit off more than they could chew.

  These powers weren’t a blessing. They were a curse.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Peter said again. This time it wasn’t for Sanders’s benefit but for his own. He was psyching himself up for the walk across the field to his father and brother who now stood together.

  As he approached, he tried not to falter. It was difficult what with the towering Tree House before him that defied his sense of scale.

  Climbing five stories into the air, the Tree House looked every bit like a tree, except with unnatural dimensions and without branches. Its walls were as rough and cracked as a hundred-year-old tree. Its diameter was probably as wide as a city block, or at least half a city block. It was roofed by large palm tree leaves.

  Electric lights shone through the many windows dotting the Tree House. The front porch looked like a grand ballroom, with one side open to the field. An overhanging chandelier flooded the place and portions of the frontage with light.

  Peter could see people. Everywhere. Old, young, male, and female. The house was large enough to house maybe a hundred people.

  A hundred people? Could some of them be spies for the Metallics? Peter’s initial apprehension returned.

  Two days max! he warned himself. Two days and I run.

  “Hello, Father,” Peter said. “Hello, Julian.”

  “I knew you would come back,” Grey said in an awed tone, his face lighting up with a smile.

  Grey was a large chested man in his early forties. He had a spray of white hair which sat on a boxy face. Though he looked too young to be Chief Elder, his powers were legendary, and he ruled with utter surety, even when he was just an Elder.

  Grey Crawford grabbed Peter and pulled him into a hug. Peter almost blacked out as the man’s powerful hands crushed against his bones. Peter groaned slightly, and his father released him. Peter almost collapsed again. This time, his father steadied him.

  Peter glanced at his brother who stared at him silently.

  “Julian?” Grey said in a measured tone.

  Julian flashed Peter a steely gaze, gave a sligh
t nod, and muttered, “You’re back.” With that, he turned and walked away.

  Peter felt his heart sink.

  Grey patted him on the shoulder. “I’m glad you finally decided to return home, Son!” he said cheerily. “I’ve missed you sorely.”

  “I’m glad to be back too, Dad,” Peter managed with a smile, cringing a little as the lie slipped easily from his tongue. He was anything but glad to be back.

  “I’m sorry about the fence,” Peter said. “I’ll repair it…”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Grey said. “Besides, I don’t expect you to know about Mistification.”

  “Mistification?” Peter quizzed.

  Grey waved away the question and led him toward the Tree House.

  “The truth is you saved me a lot of trouble opening that up. You see, we’re having our Sprouting Celebration soon, and that barrier would have had to be opened.”

  Then Peter remembered the person who’d stroked the fence with power.

  “You were the one, weren’t you?” Peter asked. “When I was … in the minds of the trees, being overwhelmed by the information they offered, I felt someone touch the fence with power. It helped me push the flood back and gain control. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  Grey stopped suddenly, contemplation and slight confusion appearing momentarily on his face.

  “Is something wrong?” Peter asked.

  Grey shook his head and they started walking again.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Peter nudged.

  Grey appeared to be deep in thought.

  “Dad?”

  Grey recovered with a start, his smile returning. But even Peter could see that his actions at the fence worried Grey. It wasn’t natural for a Woodfolk to hear Wood or know so much about the Wood he was Levitating. Something definitely was wrong somewhere, and the more Grey remained silent, the more apprehensive Peter got.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing much,” Grey said, trying to sound convinced, but failing. “We’ll talk more about it later.”

  “PC!” screamed a pair of voices right before the main double doors in the porch burst open.

  Two able-bodied guys—Brad and Dylan—flew out. They jumped over the steps, landed on the ground, and then threw themselves at Peter for a hug. Peter squirmed, trying to avoid them, but he was too slow and they were already in midair.

  Grey stepped aside just in time as the two guys crashed into Peter and they all tumbled to the ground, laughing. For a moment, Peter laughed with them, but then pain like red hot needles shot through his spine, and he let loose a sharp screech.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Dylan Show said, pushing away from him.

  “Let the man breathe, you dolt,” Brad snapped at Dylan. He picked up Peter from the ground and set him on his feet.

  Dylan Show was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with smooth, coffee-colored skin and a lanky build, while Brad Anthony was built like a football player—tall with a lot of bulk. Brad had one of those handsome faces, light skin, a smooth chiseled chin, and a mature look, though they were all peers.

  Dylan and Brad wore matching white garments. Around their chest, thighs, and shins were white protective pads. They’d been sparring.

  “Take him to his room and let him rest, that is, if you don’t kill him before then,” Grey said to the new arrivals. Then to Peter, he said, “I’ll be here when you awaken. We’ll have time to catch up.”

  “And the fence?” Peter pitched in before his father could go. “Were you the one I felt?” It was probably bad etiquette to question his father like that, especially now that he was the Chief Elder, but Peter just had to know if he was in trouble or not.

  Grey threw uncertain looks at Dylan and Brad.

  He’s hiding something. Something he doesn’t want them to know.

  “Like I said, we’ll have time to catch up when you awaken,” Grey said, this time with a firm voice. He turned away from them, walked up to the porch, and disappeared through the huge, mahogany main doors.

  “So, big guy, I thought you had enough sense to stay away from here forever,” Dylan said.

  “Yeah,” Brad chimed in. “What brings you to this accursed land?”

  Peter sniggered. “Well, you know me. I’m too dumb for my own good.”

  Brad swung a beefy hand around Peter’s shoulder and angled him to the side of the Tree House where a side door awaited them.

  “We’re glad you’re back, bro,” Brad said.

  Peter’s smile vanished when he remembered his brother. “Yeah well, apparently not everybody is.”

  “Who?” Dylan asked.

  “Julian,” Peter said.

  “Don’t worry about Julian,” Dylan said. “It’s not you, it’s something else. Julian has never really been good at separating between friend and foe when he’s angry. You see, we’ve been having … troubles.”

  “Dylan,” Brad cautioned.

  Peter stopped dead in his tracks. He glanced at Dylan and Brad.

  “Guys?” He looked back and forth between them. “What trouble?”

  “Nothing to be worried about,” Brad said with a wary smile.

  Peter wasn’t nearly convinced. But Brad didn’t really care. He yanked open the side door, revealing a staircase, and said, “In you go.”

  Peter didn’t move at first. He contemplated defying them and forcing them to divulge whatever they were keeping from him. Whatever it was, he knew it was exactly the kind of thing he should worry about.

  But then he remembered he was the prodigal son. The one who ran. The coward. He had no rights here. Besides, he needed their help. He couldn’t very well go about antagonizing them.

  Peter played along, even though he detested it. He followed them up the staircase to the fifth floor. At the top landing was an ornate door that opened up to a large hallway.

  The polished wooden floor of the hallway gleamed under the incandescent bulbs lining the ceiling. Framed pictures hung on the walls—pictures of different kinds of trees and pictures of great and mighty Woodfolks of time past.

  Brad and Dylan led him down the hallway into a central common room. The place was warmly lit and homely, with a Persian rug carpeting the ground. A couple of sofas were arranged around the common room in an orderly fashion. A large TV screen occupied the corner.

  Three ladies who seemed to have been conspiring on a couch in the corner looked up the moment they stepped in. One was Causasian with blonde hair, the other was African-American, and the third was of Korean descent.

  “Hello, ladies,” Dylan said. “This here is Peter Crawford”

  “Crawford as in Crawford?” the Asian girl cut in.

  “The one and only,” Brad replied.

  “Oh. My. God,” said the blonde.

  Brad laughed. “That’s one way to put it, Brenda.”

  Brenda turned to the pretty dark-skinned girl and said, “I wonder how powerful he is, you know, Crawford and all.”

  “I’m pretty sure we have an idea of how powerful he is,” she replied in a voice that was both sexy and strong. “He did, after all, cut his way through the Great Wall.”

  “Something we’ve never really tried,” the Asian girl immediately pointed out.

  The girls continued like this for a while, conversing as though Peter and his friends weren’t there. Though Peter didn’t mind and Brad and Dylan didn’t seem to mind either. The girls were, after all, breathtaking.

  When they began to talk about sparring with him, Brad broke in.

  “Uh, he just came in,” he said, a nervous smile taking up the corner of his lips. “I don’t think it’ll be … you know, courteous. Perhaps, look at him. He looks like he’s going to die any moment.”

  “Hmm…” Brenda, the blonde, got up. She glanced at Cathy, the dark-skinned gal with the sexy voice, and Melinda, the Asian-American. “I wonder if he could dodge a bullet?”

  Peter tensed. He knew what this was. It was a rite o
f passage. Newcomers to a floor in the Tree House went through some sort of rites of passage to prove their Wood abilities. He’d conducted these rites of passage when he still lived here. These girls wanted him to go through the rites again.

  Could he maybe do a little Levitating after the fence work? Peter reached out testily to his power core and it flared, stinging him with a flash of unbearable pain. He retracted with a slight jerking. He was in no shape to Levitate.

  “Are you up for the trial, man?” Dylan asked.

  Peter shook his head. “I’m in no shape for it,” he confessed.

  “That’s enough!” Dylan said to the girls.

  “Oh, just a little trial won’t hurt,” Cathy said.

  “No! That’s an order,” Brad said.

  The girls growled and looked away. Soon, they had forgotten Peter and his friends.

  “C’mon,” Dylan said, leading Peter past the large dining table in the midst of the common room to the hallway on the opposite side.

  “Are they the only ones on this floor?”

  “Nope,” Dylan said. “We’re all here. Including Julian, Delphina, Mark Zusaski and Gregory Arman, and some promising recruits.”

  They stopped at a room marked ‘9.’

  Peter frowned. “By we, do you mean The Woodland League?”

  Dylan nodded.

  “Welcome back, Pete,” Brad said. “Get some sleep.”

  They left him and returned to the common room.

  Peter watched them go. He was surprised that they had taken him in, as though he hadn’t betrayed their trust and broken the sacred vow of The Woodland League. He expected rejection, yet he met acceptance. And to think that he would run away again as soon as his mission was accomplished.

  I am many things. Afraid, yes. A coward, yes. But cruel? No, never cruel.

  Peter sighed aloud. Once he recovered his strength, he would make it clear that he wasn’t back. This wasn’t a homecoming. He could lie and say he was in the neighborhood and thought to say hi. Then as soon as he got what he came here for, he would skip town.

  Dangerous things happened in Bar Harbor. Best be on his way before they happened to him.

  Peter unlocked the door and entered his room. He threw his bag in the corner and made a beeline for his bed, succumbing to fatigue seconds later.