by Steven Novak
Lowering himself back to his aching knees and elbows, the thick mist again swallowed him whole. Crawling on his hands and knees Pleebo began moving through the thick mud in the opposite direction. The falling rain settled into a low drizzle, sporadically speckled with the occasional flake of black snow. The air was getting colder, the mud thicker and more difficult to navigate. His shoulders, arms, and back awash in a sea of pain, Pleebo lowered his head to the partially frozen glop to catch his breath and afford them a moments rest. The unpleasant substance stuck to his face in thick, charcoal sized lumps that were already freezing to his skin. He hated this place. He hated it so much.
Walcott – why didn’t he help Walcott? He should have stayed to help.
While silently cursing himself, a flash of pain shot through his skull. Everything went black.
Though in actuality the time from the onset of the darkness to the instant Pleebo wearily opened his eyes was closer to fifteen minutes, for him it felt barely a fraction of a second. His head was aching worse than before; despite the fact that such a thing seemed impossible. Reaching up he ran his half frozen fingers along the back of his head and over a fresh and extremely tender lump.
What happened?
Slowly his blurry eyes began to focus. The dark forest and the black rain were gone. He was indoors. The mud underneath had been replaced by something much more solid and far less slimy – something resembling a chair. Though the construction looked amateurish the piece of furniture felt sturdy nonetheless, and was certainly a welcome change from the norm. The surrounding room was dimly lit and sparsely decorated. To his immediate left there sat a crudely built table with a few half-burnt candles resting on top. Built into the wall just behind the table was a single shelf with even more candle nubs resting in bubbling pools of melted wax.
Where was he?
To his right a haunting blue flame of unknown origin rose up from a pile of gray rocks in the center of the room and five or so feet from a modest doorway bathed in cascading bluish shadows. He’d seen this type of woodless fire before – many times in fact. It could only mean one thing.
From somewhere behind him came a voice, “I am truly sorry for the manner in which I was forced to bring you here. I pray you do not hold it against me.”
Caught off guard by the formless voice, Pleebo leapt forward wildly, stumbling awkwardly off his chair before crashing to the floor with a heavy thud. While attempting to get to his feet and into a defensive posture his legs gave way. Lurching backward he slammed into the far wall and smacked the newly formed lump on his head, which in turn sent a stinging flash of pain across the whole of his skull.
The shadows on the opposite end of the room slithered to life, “I assure you young one…your fear is unwarranted. Had I intended to do you harm, I would have done so already.”
Shrouded in a filthy and tattered brown robe, a frail creature emerged from the blackness and began moving in Pleebo’s direction. His heart racing, the Fillagrou attempted once again to will his aching form into an upright position. Again he failed. He’d been running too long and was simply too sore. His legs refused to cooperate and there was no convincing them otherwise. Now less than five feet away the cloaked creature came at last to a stop. A wrinkled, waifish hand rose from underneath the folds of its sullied shroud, reached upward and slowly pulled the hood from its head. It took only a second for Pleebo to recognize the creature as an Ochan - more specifically though, and quite unbelievably - as a conjurer.
Staring at him through a pair of milky, distant-blank eyes the ancient female mystic grinned ever so slightly through wrinkled lips and yellowed teeth, “Time was not on our side my Fillagrou friend. Had I simply asked you to accompany me here, you would have undoubtedly declined, and most likely dashed off into the forest. I’m far too old to have gone chasing after you. This simply could not be allowed.” Her boney finger with it’s cracked and bent nail pointed toward the welt on Pleebo’s head. “Thus the reason for your unfortunate injury.”
In this instant Pleebo found himself without words. Though he was aware of what the conjurers looked like, his knowledge of the mutant Ochans came only from half-true stories and myths. This was the first he’d seen up close – not to mention the proof of their existence. Even as he stared into her milky-white eyes, a part of him still refused to believe the foul looking creature was real.
Unsure of what to say he could only stammer, “What…what do you want?”
Again the female conjurer smiled subtly. It was an innocent smile – very odd and a bit uncomfortable – the sort of smile he’d never seen on the face of an Ochan. Turning away from Pleebo, the wrinkled old thing gazed in the direction of the cackling blue flame on the opposite end of the room. Lost in its colors she sighed deeply, her voice breathy and faraway.
The reflection of the dancing light popping and spiraling in and out of existence in her tired eyes, she slowly turned once more to Pleebo, “ Believe it or not…I desire only to help.”
“Help with what?” Pleebo responded with a hint of uncertainty and anger that was by no means subtle.
“Help to save your life. Your life, my life, and the lives of your friends and family. I ask only that you afford me the opportunity to do my part in ensuring your mission is seen to fruition.”
Unable to wrangle a response from his wild thoughts, Pleebo simply stared. Every part of him hurt. Every millimeter was tired yet anxious simultaneously. The pain in his head had begun pressing angrily at the inside of his skull. Nothing the ancient mutant Ochan was saying made any sense.
Taking three steps in his direction the conjurer leaned in close enough to feel the heat from Pleebo’s breath on the trillions of wrinkles in her aged, leathery flesh, “The moment has arrived. The winds of change can no longer be diverted, or slowed. They are upon us my young, simple-sighted friend…and you have been hastened to fight in their name.”
*
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CHAPTER 7
NO TIME TO WASTE
*
“There’s so damn many of them.”
Peering through a pair of uniquely triangular-shaped binoculars, Chris Jarvis attentively watched the awe-inspiring assemblage of well-armed Ochan soldiers and beasts of burden collapsing the Red Forest to shattered timbers and flattened soil in the distance. It was an awesome sight to behold—an awesome, horrifying sight. Realizing he hadn’t taken a breath in nearly a minute, Chris exhaled deeply; dropping the binoculars from his eyes, he wiped a layer of nervous sweat from his forehead. He’d seen enough. He’d seen as much as he could take. Kneeling directly beside him in the grass, the blue-skinned Chintaran known as Fellow Undergotten sighed and lowered himself behind the thick maroon-colored foliage and out of view. His group of thirty or so rescuers had managed until this very moment to avoid running into a single Ochan patrol on their journey through the forest. He supposed it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out. Huddled in the waist high undergrowth behind him, thirty creatures of vastly different sizes and shapes silently awaited his orders. Unfortunately for them, at the moment he had none to offer. The cluster of marching Ochans currently blocking their path was far more than a single brigade and a few snarling Megalots. Were it two or possibly even three regiments, they might have stood a chance. Amassed before them and standing in their way was instead an army, thousands upon thousands of Ochans, steely-tough and angry-strong. Undoubtedly the massive contingent was on their way to join the rapidly swelling group around the doorway leading to the hundredth world. This was an invasion force, and against an invasion force they stood no chance. They would have to find another way around.
Snagging the binoculars from the hands of Chris Jarvis, Owen Little peeked his head through a particularly thick patch of leaves and lifted them to his face. Immediately his eyes went wide. He swallowed deep. It wasn’t too long ago that he stood alongside Fellow Undergotten in the underground city of New Tipoloo, listening as the fish man tried to convince him to stay behind with Zanell
and the others where he would be “safe.” Scanning the gargantuan collection of angry-eyed Ochans, the boy suddenly wished that he’d listened. Being in the thick of things made absolutely no sense. Scratch that and revise: it made less than no sense. It was utter foolishness. It was plain old stupid. He could have been at home, riffling through his textbook and preparing for his third period history test, or watching that documentary on the science channel he was so anxious to see, about parallel worlds.
Parallel worlds. Heh. If they only knew.
Where he shouldn’t have been was where he was, doing what he was doing, with the people he was doing it with. Leading Mr. Jarvis to the tree fort created by his sons was Owen’s first mistake. Following the man through the doorway leading to Fillagrou was his second. Agreeing to come along on a mission to rescue Tommy, Nicky, Staci, and that pain in the butt Donald Rondage was his third. Despite hating the game of baseball with a passion, even Owen understood that three strikes meant he was out.
“Well, now what?” Chris Jarvis whispered while shuffling along the dirt in order to get closer to Fellow.
“I don’t know,” Fellow answered back breathily, gazing through the tops of the trees at the slowly darkening sky. “We could try to go around, take the long way. It would add time to the trip though.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know, a few days maybe, give or take?”
In order to keep himself from yelling, Chris bit his lower lip. “No, that’s not an option. We’ve already wasted too much time.”
From Chris Jarvis’ point of view every moment they weren’t moving forward was a moment they would never get back. His children were in trouble, and he needed to get to them. He had failed them so many times, done so many awful things. He was sick of regrets and tired of being ashamed of himself. He couldn’t let them down again. He wouldn’t fail them again, never again.
With another sigh, Fellow turned toward the red-faced father and patted him gently on the shoulder. More than Chris Jarvis might have realized, the former Chintaran builder understood exactly what he was feeling. Though he’d only known them a short time, Fellow Undergotten felt closer to the children than he had to anyone or anything in years. The war with the Ochans had taken everything from him; his family, his friends, even his hope. When he first encountered the teary-eyed children in the dungeon of Prince Valkea, he had all but given up on life. He was sick of the pain, and had just about had his fill of death. Even something as simple and beautiful and wholly pure as a sunset was now little more than a disgusting reminder of what he once had and would never have again. Life itself turned out to be an endless, pointless endeavor, and one he wanted no more of. The children changed everything. They gave him purpose. They reintroduced him to expectation and unpredictability. They gave him a reason for breathing, and living, and fighting. He owed them everything.
Straightening himself, Fellow turned in the direction of the huddled masses. Each among the group had their reasons for being where they were and for putting their lives on the line. Not so surprisingly, the vast majority of those reasons were eerily similar to his own. The children and the prophecy, and what they represented—this was something worth fighting for. In a world where reasons to go on were few and far between, letting one slip through his fingers could not be allowed. Moments and chances alike needed to be captured and held onto as tightly as possible.
Opportunity offers few second chances.
Turning away form the group, Fellow stared at the army of Ochan’s through the trees with determined eyes. “We’ll wait until nightfall. We can find an opening in the line and sneak through.”
Without a doubt it was the more dangerous course of action. At the same time, it was the only course of action. With every wasted moment the chances of finding the children alive decreased drastically. Time was of the essence. Though his gaze remained firmly on the army of Ochans, Fellow could sense Chris smiling beside him.
Owen Little, however, did not share their excitement.
*
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CHAPTER 8
THE GOD PARTICLE
*
“How did you do that?”
“Where exactly is it you say you’re from?”
“Does everyone in your world look like you? Can they do what you do?”
“Are you fully grown?”
“A child, you say? How many years into your lifespan? Burgeoning on adulthood?”
“What do you eat? How do you eat? Where do you put it? Where does it go? Where does it come out? Can I see where it comes out?”
“Are abilities such as yours the norm in your tribe?”
The questions of the pudgy, purple-skinned creature calling himself Arthur Crumbee never seemed to stop. With a feverish excitement the little scientist was throwing them at Tommy Jarvis so fast and furious he wasn’t affording the boy an opportunity to answer.
“The hair follicles growing from your scalp—are they tumorous? Do they pose an immediate threat to my health? Could they somehow be the source of your powers? Have you ever considered the possibility? Can I pluck one from your head for experimentation sake? Please? Just a single hair. I assure you it will not hurt. Or will it?”
“Can you do it again? Can you make the particle manifest another image?”
“Can it be taught? Can I learn it? Can you show me how?”
“What exactly did it say to yo—”
After trying to get a word in edgewise for nearly ten minutes and failing miserably, Tommy resorted to interrupting the little man in midsentence. “Stop! Stop it! If you want me to answer you’re going to have to stop talking for half a second!”
Frightened by the boy’s sudden outburst, Arthur jumped backward. The monocle wedged between the folds of his fleshy brow and cheek dislodged and tumbled to the moist rock below with a reverberating clank. For a moment the dark cave was silent.
Taking note of the terror in the little creature’s eyes, Tommy paused. Shaking his head in obvious frustration, he took a moment to collect his emotions. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just—I’m confused…”
A moment prior a paper-thin wisp of light vaguely resembling his mother told him to ‘follow the little scientist” and because of that he had to be nice to the “little scientist.” No matter how annoying the ”little scientist” might be.
“Confused? You say you’re confused?” Arthur Crumbee responds questioningly, “Might I assume this means your manipulation of the God particle was more an accident than a conscious decision on your part?”
Reaching up with both hands, Tommy began massaging his temples, hoping beyond hope that it might alleviate the growing pain just behind the skin on his forehead. The annoying little man with his hanging flaps of droopy purple flesh wasn’t making any sense. Then again, why should this weird little creature have been different than anything else? Everything had spun out of control. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Everything was gibberish on top of gibberish, nonsensical and confusing.
His eyes closed tight as the throbbing in his head continued to balloon, Tommy responded with an annoyed, breathy groan. “What are you talking about?”
“What do you mean what am I talking about? The God particle—you have just manipulated it, or at the very least it responded to you for reasons I have yet to determine. I’ve been studying it for years, decades even. It’s never done that. It’s never done anything even close to that. It shouldn’t be able to do that. The physical laws of the universe as I know it state very clearly that what just occurred should not have occurred.”
Opening his eyes, Tommy followed Crumbee’s extended finger toward the rear of the cave. Fifteen or so feet away, encased in a square glass container at least five feet wide and five feet tall, hovered a single ball of light. Barely larger than a marble, the tiny sphere floated, unmoving, in the center of its see-through housing. Tommy was surprised he hadn’t taken notice of it until this very moment, as it was noticeably out of place w
hen compared to the surrounding nondescript cave. Almost instantly the orb felt strangely familiar to him. There was something about the way it was hovering and the way it was glowing, something undeniably recognizable yet simultaneously mysterious, something he dare not describe. Not fully aware he was doing it, Tommy began moving steadily in its direction.
Partially hidden in the dense shadows of the drippy-moist cave, Arthur Crumbee watched with the inquisitive eyes of a scientist as the boy moved forward. Only a moment prior he’d seen the tiny particle expanded outside the confines of its glass container. It morphed into something vaguely resembling a creature of light and spoke in nonsensical whispers to the pink-skinned child as if the pair were old friends. During the thirty years he’d spent researching, studying, cataloging and recording the particle’s every movement, he’d never seen it react in such a way. In fact, it had never reacted at all, to anything. Since its discovery, the particle had proven itself to be a wealth of unreached, more often than not confusing, possibility, and nothing more. To see it react to an outside force for the first time and to watch it come to “life” was an awe-inspiring sight—an incredibly terrifying, incontrovertibly remarkable sight. It was for moments such as this that Arthur entered into the sciences in the first place. This was why he’d wanted nothing else since he was a child. Plucking his monocle from the stone near his feet, he swallowed deep and placed it securely over his left eye. The anxiousness in the air was so thick it had become palpable.