by Ugo, Kachi
Peter had avoided places with Levitator strongholds. Although it was hard to find a place where Levitators didn’t occupy, at least in twos or threes, Peter had settled for Chicago and its local gang of Metallics, who were too dim-witted to realize a Woodfolk was among them.
Even during his travels as a student, Peter had stayed clear of cities that had a major community of Levitators.
Peter knew his father was fully aware it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d chosen Chicago. Nonetheless, he said, “No. I just like the quietude out there.”
Grey looked disappointed but said nothing.
While Grey mused over Peter’s words, Peter took a look at the fence.
Julian and Sanders were no longer there, but Brad stood by the walkway, glancing at a figure approaching from the Tree House.
It was Dylan, and he was dressed for battle, wearing an armored leather jacket, which was made of impenetrable material derived from wood, and swinging a long smooth staff in his right hand.
Dylan was holding two extra armor jackets. When he got to Brad, he handed him one, then looked in Peter’s direction, gesturing. Peter couldn’t tell if the gesture was meant for him or for Brad; either way, he looked away.
Something had gone wrong.
His throat tightened.
A scenario burst into his mind of Metallics attacking the Tree House with long metal shafts and rods of iron and tiny metal shrapnel, shredding every Woodfolk in sight.
Peter was immediately overwhelmed with the urge to stand, only one thought on his mind.
Escape!
But he willed himself to remain calm. To distract himself from the activity at the fence, he decided to question his father about his earlier experience with the fence.
“Dad, about the fence…”
Grey looked up as though he had just been awoken from a vision. Movement across the open field caught his attention, and he turned to look. Three Woodfolks dressed for battle ran up to the fence.
They were gathering for something. They’re gathering for battle!
Peter fought another crushing desire to bolt out of the chair and make for the fence behind the Tree House, where he would make another walkway and skedaddle. He overcame this desire, however, with a wince and sheer force of will.
After observing the fence for a time, Grey Crawford turned to Peter. “You know there are three basic cadres of Levitators.”
Peter nodded. “Woodfolks. Earthlings. And Metallics. In order of weakest to strongest.”
Grey frowned at that last bit, but he didn’t comment on it. Rather, he said, “Good. And you know there’s a very, very rare cadre…”
“Levitators who are capable of Levitating a fixed combination of two cadres. Yes, I remember reading that they’re a myth.”
“Well, we know they’re not a myth.”
Peter felt a cold anger settle on him as he understood what his father meant.
“Marcus Stane,” he whispered with terror and rage mixed to form a potent brew. His mind was suddenly besieged by bloodcurdling images of his horrific encounter with Metallics the night Cynthia died.
The whirlwind. The torrential rainfall. The spires of razor-sharp metal shooting through the air at bullet speed. The look on Cynthia’s face when she’d caught a shaft in her belly, then one in her chest, then one in her forehead.
Grief crushed Peter’s windpipe, tearing a gaping hole in his heart.
“He can Levitate both Metal and Earth,” Peter said, quivering, barely holding it together. “A combination that makes him the most powerful Levitator in the world.”
“Indeed,” Grey said. “Marcus Stane is both very powerful and corrupted by his equally powerful desire for more power. However, he is not the most powerful Levitator in the world.”
“Who is then?”
Grey took a moment to answer that question. He retrieved a withered and delicate parchment of paper from his robes, pulled in closer to whispering distance, and read from it in a low and measured tone.
“Two shall be his Counselor and Protector. Two shall wield the Power of Two and, at their touch, shall all living creatures reveal their secrets. And by them shall the One fulfill destiny, which is to abolish the enmity and make from himself of three one, thereby making peace.”
Peter felt his eyes widen as he realized what his father had just said.
“The prophecy of the One…” His voice trailed off even as he heard what he’d said. Suddenly, the air dropped a few degrees in temperature. “That…it can’t…. Wait, you think that’s me? One of the Two?”
Grey merely nodded.
Peter shot to his feet and scoffed. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Not nearly, son,” his father said dryly.
Knowing that Grey Crawford was rarely ever wrong about this sort of thing threatened to paralyze Peter with confusion and fear.
It can’t be true, Peter told himself. It can’t!
“Son, the facts are plain…”
Peter glared at his father. “What facts?” he roared. He shook his head in scorn and muttered, “I shouldn’t have come back.” He stalked down the steps, but his father followed, grabbing him as soon as they cleared the last step.
“Tell me, Peter,” his father said, “when you reached out to the Baobab trees, you somehow knew their history. Right? Everywhere they’d been, the Woodfolks who’d manipulated them?”
“Right,” Peter replied. “The last time I checked, you could do that, too. Why doesn’t that make you one of the Two?”
“That’s the thing,” Grey said. “I can do it, barely. Not many others can. It’s an incredible feat to achieve, and only those who are very powerful, and who have dedicated years of their lives to study, practice, and meditation, can do it.
“Julian certainly can’t. None of the Leaguers can. Heck, only a few Elders in the entire world can, barely. Yet, you so effortlessly extracted the secrets of creation. Can’t you see? It’s you!”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Peter asked. “You touched the tree with your power. You helped me control the flow of information.”
Grey shook his head, a smile twisting the corner of his lips. “That’s the thing. You shouldn’t have felt it. One, I was nowhere near the fence. But when I felt the tremble in the earth, I thought we were being attacked.
“I reached out from my room and grabbed the fence to keep it firm. Then I realized it was Wood Levitating. I realized someone who didn’t know about Mistification was trying to get in.
“You see? Even if you were a powerful Woodfolk who could Levitate Wood so much so that you could extract its information, chances are you couldn’t do it in real-time. But you? No, you didn’t need to extract. The trees revealed to you their secrets.”
Peter shook his head vehemently.
“Don’t you see it?” Grey prodded. “This is what you were destined for.”
Peter scoffed. “So that’s it, isn’t it? You’re so displeased with my life choices that you concocted a hocus-pocus story to, what, redeem me? What did you think I’ll do with this… story? Go on a quest to find the One and…what, counsel and protect him? I couldn’t even protect my twin sister!”
“Yes, I am displeased with you, Peter,” Grey said in a low tone. “But this is not about that. This is beyond us. This is about the future of Woodfolks. It’s about the future of Levitators. The One is destined to bring us peace.”
“Look, the prophecy can’t refer to me,” Peter said, already wearied by the argument. “It says ‘Two shall wield the Power of Two,’ obviously referring to Omega Levitators like Marcus Stane. I’m telling you. It’s not me.”
“You and I both know that sentence can be interpreted in two ways.”
Peter couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t suppose…”
Grey nodded.
Peter felt a sudden need to throw up. His mind spun, and he staggered, but his father was there to support him.
&
nbsp; “This can’t be happening,” he muttered.
“Oh, it is, son. For five years you’ve been on the run. You thought you were running from Cynthia’s death when in fact you were running from your destiny. But, it has finally caught up with you. It’s time you faced it squarely.”
“But, the One, where is he?”
Grey glanced at the two figures running in their direction. “I have a feeling we will soon find out.”
It was Brad and Julian.
“We’re under attack, Sir,” Brad said, military style.
“Metallics,” Julian explained in a cold, angry voice. “Two. Sawmill.”
A worried look came on Grey’s face. “That will get ugly.”
“We have to respond, Sir,” Brad said. “These fuckers can’t attack us and get away with it.”
Grey glanced at the battle-ready Woodfolks by the fence. “Eight against two at the Sawmill? That’s too small.”
“We don’t have a choice, Sir,” Brad said hurriedly. “We don’t have time to mobilize everyone. We have to respond now.”
Grey frowned and glanced at Julian for answers.
“They’re making a lot of noise, wrecking the place,” Julian said. “If the cops get there before us, it’ll be a bloodbath, and they’ve already killed two of ours.”
Grey’s expression hardened. “Go.”
They were about to turn when Grey spoke again. “But take Peter with you.”
“What?!” Julian and Peter both exclaimed.
Julian flashed Peter a furious look. “Dad, I don’t have time for this.”
“Yes, Dad.” Peter’s heart raced. “I’m not prepared for—”
Grey raised a palm, silencing them. To Julian, he said, “Give him an armor jacket and a staff. He’ll fight alongside you tonight.”
“This is not a request, Peter,” Grey said in an authoritative voice. “Go to battle with them, and when you return we’ll talk some more.” Grey turned and returned to the porch, leaving Peter dumbfounded and paralyzed with terror.
Before Peter could resist or protest, Brad grabbed his hand and pulled him in a run toward the fence.
Toward his probable demise.
CHAPTER FIVE
P
eter couldn’t believe what was happening.
There were eight of them piled into the back of a black van, hurtling down the highway to danger and death.
Blake drove the van so recklessly that it would be a miracle if they didn’t die on the highway first. Beside Blake in the front passenger’s seat was Sanders. An iron mesh separated the front compartment from the back space.
Brad and Julian leaned against the mesh, speaking with Sanders in hushed tones. Peter and Dylan crouched near the van’s back door, while two other guys were squeezed into the middle space.
How did this happen? Peter’s mind was in a constant haze.
Tension was high. These guys, though they numbered six-men greater than the opposition, didn’t expect to quell this attack without casualties.
Barkley Sanders clutched a communicator in his hand, whispering frantically to his contact at the Sawmill. From the look on his face, things weren’t going well there.
Peter’s sweaty palm instinctively tightened around a smooth long staff.
The staff was an ingenious creation. It was part wood and part strong polycarbonate material, which made the staff light and incredibly tough. It also made it easy to Levitate, even under the circumstances in Bar Harbor.
But, though the staff was a very powerful tool in the hands of a Woodfolk, Peter didn’t see how they could defeat two Metallics in a factory with an overabundance of metals lying around.
That will get ugly, Grey Crawford had said.
Peter found himself fighting off another panic attack. He tried to clutch his heaving chest but was impeded by the armored vest he wore.
“Are you okay?” Dylan nudged him a bit. He sounded calm, disciplined, as though battling two Metallics wasn’t as bad as it sounded, which Peter knew by experience was as bad as pitting an infuriated bull against a weakling puppy.
What has gotten into these guys? Peter wondered, amazed. “What? Yeah, I’m good. Why?” he replied.
Dylan didn’t seem convinced by his response. “You seem a little off…and you’re sweating.”
Peter frowned and wiped his brow. The two other Woodfolks in the van, whom Peter didn’t know, flashed him irritated looks.
The van came to a silent halt.
“All right, we’re here,” Julian said, motioning for Dylan to open the door.
The eight-man team crept out of the vehicle and crouched low, scanning the area for threats.
The lack of a fire, or alarm, or screams of pain—indicators that an attack was in progress—worried Peter. This was definitely a trap.
The Sawmill was a simple large warehouse surrounded by sections of large felled trees, which were no doubt obtained from the sounding forestry. Although there were no houses for more than a mile in every direction, this was still a residential neighborhood in the heart of Maine.
“It’s a trap,” Peter whispered.
Julian glared at him.
“I hate to say it, Julian,” Brad said, “but PC’s right. This is most definitely a trap.”
“And so what?” Sanders said. “We can’t just walk away. The report says that two of our people have been killed.”
“The report might be wrong,” Brad ventured.
“Are you saying Mark’s a traitor?” Dylan asked.
“Maybe he’s under duress or something,” Brad replied. “Look, these guys have elaborately planned to draw us out. And they’ve succeeded. I’m not saying we should run away like cowards. I’m saying we should think about this first. We need to be smart about this.”
Brad directed that last bit at Julian, who had never broken eye contact with the far-off warehouse building.
“They wanted to draw us out?” Julian said, seething, “well they’ve succeeded. They are on our turf, and I’ll be damned if I let them bully us on our turf.
“Dylan, Blake, and Peter, go round the back,” Julian commanded. “I and the rest will storm the factory through the front.”
Peter shuffled along with his team as they crouch-jogged across the open area toward the building, meandering around the sections of felled logs.
Light scattered out of the warehouse, revealing large metal-based machinery through many open windows. The sight didn’t do anything to quell Peter’s fear.
Nearer to the building, Dylan led Peter and Blake away from the others, and they ran down the side of the building. Each Woodfolk clenched their staff tighter as they rounded the edge and came to a small door.
“Ready?” Dylan whispered, raising his staff to an attack position. Blake raised his staff also and nodded. They glanced at Peter for an affirmative.
Peter heard his heartbeat in his ears. This was really happening. He was going to fight a bunch of Metallics in a room packed with metals. Even the wooden warehouse didn’t give him much encouragement.
Peter tapped his powers and reached out to the trees around. He felt their rebellion like a hard shove, then came a slight throb of pain, a promise that the moment he Levitated he would feel terrible splitting pain.
Peter gave a slight nod to Dylan.
Dylan’s free hand shot toward the door. The door tore off its hinges with a loud snap and blasted inwards. Without skipping a beat, Dylan leaped into the room, Blake hot on his heels. Some seconds later, Peter followed, his sweaty hand clinging to his staff.
They had come into a dark room.
Peter was about to call out to Dylan when suddenly the darkness vanished in a flood of light, revealing the room to be empty, except, of course, for the Metallic standing by the opposite wall. He let his right hand fall from the wall switch and turned to face them properly.
All around him were thousands of bits of metallic shrapnel bobbing in the air.
“I’ve been expecting you…,” he said in a snarly, wraith-like voice, evil, twisted eyes glancing tantalizingly at Peter.
Dylan’s neck snapped in Peter’s direction. “Don’t let him—”
Dylan didn’t get to finish his statement because Peter bolted.
Not toward the creature of evil, but out the door and down the side of the warehouse toward the van. As he raced, he heard unmistakable screams of horror from the warehouse. He recognized Blake’s voice, then Julian’s.
Peter didn’t stop. Instead, he ran harder.
It didn’t matter to Peter that he was the strongest of the eight. It didn’t matter to him that the team only stood a chance with him on their team. It didn’t even matter that even as he ran he was besieged by a flood of shame.
Why?
Because he would rather be alive than dead.
Peter didn’t look back. He didn’t think a second time. When he got to the van, he continued running. All he wanted was as much gap between him and the warehouse as possible.
When Peter realized he still had the staff in his hand, he threw it away and continued on his way.
Peter continued running until his body couldn’t take the strain, and he collapsed on the ground, out of breath.
After a brief respite, he continued, this time with a trot. He wandered the streets for a while. He wasn’t in a hurry to get back home. Besides, if the Sawmill attack was a precursor to an even greater attack on the Tree House, he figured two hours was enough time for a winner to emerge.
But even as he whiled away time, he never ceased to curse and scold himself.
You shouldn’t have run, you stupid fool! Peter thought. You should have stayed back and died like a man!
Peter felt a sick feeling twist up his gut, exploding into anger moments later.
I shouldn’t have come back to Bar Harbor! he thought. If he hadn’t come back here, he wouldn’t have gone with the team. He wouldn’t feel this way.
Peter soon arrived at the outpost to find a group of seven Woodfolks standing guard. Sharpened wood lay around, tips glinting in the moonlight. They all had hardened looks, their fists balled.
Something terrible had happened.