Book Read Free

Junkland (The Hoarding Book 1)

Page 3

by Patrick Johns


  “A beautiful day after nine years of gray…I had a feeling you wouldn’t be staying inside the Castle Keep. Your father may be oblivious, but I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to get you into trouble,” Alana wiped the dirt from her hands onto her skirts. She picked up her stick she had dropped.

  “What your father doesn’t know won’t hurt us. Your secret is safe with me, my princess.” Sir Benjamin smiled at her. His white teeth glistened.

  Alana let out a sigh of relief.

  “Now, put that stick down,” Benjamin ordered.

  Alana listened. She tossed the stick into the river. She knew freedom was too good to last. Benjamin would take her back to her bedchamber where she would spend the rest of the day listening to Mother Claraine’s annoying rants about Zalus knows what—her dresses, probably.

  “Let’s see what you can do with this.” Benjamin tossed her a scabbard.

  Alana lifted her hands just in time to catch it. She was surprised as she unsheathed a wooden training sword. She looked at it in awe.

  “Are you going to teach me?” she asked, getting excited.

  “If you will let me,” Benjamin smiled at her.

  “But…Father—”

  “Like I said before, your secret is safe with me,” Benjamin winked. “Now, sword at the ready, out in front of you.”

  Alana raised her training sword by her hip.

  “A little higher. A little more. Almost there…and…stop. Perfect.”

  Alana had her sword up to her chest. Her arms were already wobbling from the weight.

  “Good. Now bend your knees.”

  She bent her knees. “Like this?”

  “A little too much.”

  Alana relaxed her knees.

  “Yes! Good. Now…watch out!” Benjamin dove forward, swinging his own training sword down hard.

  Alana lifted her sword and blocked his blow. A loud clang echoed off the trees around her. Alana’s hands stung from the vibration, but she winced away the pain.

  She stepped back and swung at Benjamin. She felt more alive than ever.

  They practiced and practiced until the sun began to sink below the Western Mountains.

  Alana was dripping sweat, and she could feel the dirt that covered her face. Her muscles ached, her chest rose and fell rapidly, and she was breathless. She was covered in bruises from her failed attempts at blocking Sir Benjamin, and the numerous times she had fallen.

  “Sir Mazo taught you well,” Benjamin said, wiping the sweat off his brow.

  “He was a great teacher.” Alana’s legs were wobbling.

  “Yes…yes he was,” Benjamin agreed. “Well, we best be getting back before your father finds out you’re missing,”

  “Thank you for the lesson today, Sir Benjamin. I hope we can do it again soon?” she asked politely, hoping he wouldn’t say no.

  “Perhaps,” Benjamin gave her another wink.

  Alana laughed and gave her training sword back to the knight. They walked back, crossing the bridge that took them into Western Village. Alana told Benjamin she would walk to her bedchamber alone; she didn’t want Benjamin getting into trouble on her account if they were found together. Benjamin agreed to meet her back at her bedchamber. They parted ways.

  Alana headed to the abandoned house off Pooles Road. Inside, behind a large painting of the Western Mountains, was a secret passageway that led into the Castle Keep. She had to climb down a ladder that took her to a tunnel. She had to crawl through darkness and dust, but she was used to it by now. It was her only way of escape from her father’s strict rules.

  While there were many twists and turns in the tunnel, she had memorized them all. Eventually she came to a stop inside the tunnel. She flicked a switch on the wall and pushed. Light poured in as she stepped down into her bedchamber and swung the bookcase shut. She waited for it to click back into place. She barely had a second to unwind before there was a knock at her door.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Her heart dropped. She was still covered in dirt and sweat.

  “Who is it?” she tried to make her voice sound calm.

  “It is Mother Claraine, my princess, it’s time for your fitting,” her hoarsed voice yelled through the door.

  How long was I gone? “Just a minute!” She yelled back, glancing out the window to see it was well into the evening now.

  Alana quickly stripped down, throwing her dirty clothes underneath her bed. She dove into her closet, picked the first sundress she could find, and threw it on. She took one quick glance in the mirror; her hair was a mess, and she was still dirty, but there was nothing she could do about that. She hoped her father wouldn’t see her, and Mother Claraine wouldn’t make any comments.

  Alana opened the door and smiled down at Mother Claraine. She was an older lady, in charge of running Alana’s daily life: from her sewing lessons, to her cooking lessons, as well as her fittings.

  “Ah, my princess looks…” She was going to say stunning, but Mother Claraine had a frog stuck in her throat when she looked Alana up and down. “My princess, you look—”

  “Sweaty. I know. Let’s get this over with.”

  Mother Claraine mumbled to herself as she walked in, probably about her dirty face and hands. Three handmaids followed Mother Claraine in.

  Alana peaked through her bedroom door as it was shutting, and saw Benjamin standing guard outside, he gave her a little wave.

  The three handmaids began to undress Alana. When she was completely naked, Alana could tell they were trying to keep their comments to themselves on how dirty and bruised her body looked.

  But Mother Claraine couldn’t take it anymore. “Alana! You are bruised from head to toe and you have dirt everywhere! Even in your hair! By the palms of Zalus, what were you doing?”

  When Alana refused to answer her, Mother Claraine threw her hands up in frustration, and told her handmaids to bring her up a bath. They spent the next half hour scrubbing Alana down. She didn’t know why she needed a bath—all she was doing was trying on a dress for the wedding, which she didn’t even want to attend.

  After Mother Claraine’s handmaids were done scrubbing her body, they dried her off, and stood her in front of the mirror. She was still covered in bruises and a few scratches, but she was clean.

  Mother Claraine whipped out a thin piece of rope from an inner pocket and measured every inch of Alana’s body. She then signaled to her handmaids, who flung the dress over her as if she was a little girl. Mother Claraine again made her measurements, and examined every nook and cranny of Alana’s dress, muttering to herself. Alana couldn’t wait until this fitting was over.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Alana groaned. Why can’t I just be left alone?

  “Who is it?” Mother Claraine spoke for her.

  “It is Leoné. I would like to see how pretty my daughter looks…if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, of course!” Mother Claraine said excitedly. She motioned her handmaids to back away from Alana as she opened the door.

  Her father ducked under the doorframe and stepped into the room. He stood behind Alana in the mirror, placing a large hand on her shoulder.

  Mother Claraine was biting her nails in the corner, waiting for Leoné’s response.

  “Alana, you look beautiful! The more you grow, the more I see your mother in you. You have the same eyes as her, as blue as the Farrest Sea. I—” he paused when he glanced down at her bare arm. “What’s this?” Her father held her right arm and examined it.

  Alana’s heart dropped. No…

  “OUT! I WANT EVERYBODY OUT!” the room quaked with his voice.

  Mother Claraine hurried herself and the three handmaids out the door.

  Her father’s grip tightened around her wrist.

  “Father…please—”

  “How many times?” he let go of her wrist and examined the other bruises on her body. “How many times must I tell you? You are not allowed to leave this Castle K
eep without my permission!”

  “But you never give me your permission! You keep me trapped inside here as if I’m a little girl. I’m fourteen! This is not fair…”

  “Fair? Do you think it’s fair that The Sickness is still running rampant throughout the kingdom? Or that the Carriers have infected us inside the castle? Do you think it’s fair that one of those Carriers infected your mother? Killing her!” He choked down a sob.

  “You don’t know that, Father! For all we know, it could have been someone from Astenpoole, someone from inside the walls!” Alana felt the tears start. Why does he always have to bring up Mother? She thought. She felt as if he was blaming her.

  “Don’t give me that nonsense. You should be smarter than that. We all know the first signs of The Sickness came from Palor. And—” Her father shook his head. “I don’t need to be explaining myself to you. I’m your father and the king, and you will listen to me. And where was Benjamin?”

  “He was with me!” Alana cried out.

  “But he did not get my authority to take you outside the Castle Keep. I will have a word with him.”

  “Please, Father! It wasn’t his fault. Please don’t blame him.” Alana felt tears rolling down her face.

  Her father let out a deep sigh and placed his hands gently on the sides of her burning cheeks as he looked into her eyes. “I am doing this for you, Alana, to protect you. I can’t live with myself if I have to watch your body burn, too—just like your mother’s. I can’t lose you both.” He sighed, his eyes moistening. “I have lost my brother, my parents, and my wife. You’re all I have left. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand.” Alana let her head sink in disappointment. She would never win this fight.

  “Good. Now let Mother Claraine finish. I will see you for dinner.” Her father left for the door, but turned around before he opened it and said, “No more funny business. Please…stay inside the Castle Keep.” He left.

  Mother Claraine and her three handmaids crept back in. They continued their measurements, but were much quieter than before.

  Alana ignored them. She stared into the mirror in front of her, letting the tears roll down her face as she thought about her mother.

  Chapter 3

  Jahrys

  JAHRYS GOT LITTLE sleep the next few nights; Pastor Allen’s words haunted him. Jahrys laid awake for hours each night trying to puzzle together what the pastor had meant.

  After Pastor Allen had passed out, Jahrys brought him into the church and laid him down on a pew. Jahrys had wet a cloth from Pastor Allen’s office and placed it on the top of the unconscious pastor’s forehead. Jahrys waited, expecting answers, but when Pastor Allen regained consciousness, he did not remember a single thing.

  ‘Yellow rain will fall…’ What did he mean by that? Jahrys thought as the morning light seeped through his window. A bird began to chirp loudly outside.

  Jahrys let out a groan. His clothes were stuck to his body as he flung the sheets off. He let out another groan. Not again.

  He peeled the clothes off his body, tossing them into a dirty pile in the corner of his room, on top of more soggy clothes. He still wasn’t used to the warm weather that came with the end of the stormy season. It seemed he sweat more than he slept each night. The stormy season always brought a cool breeze off the shore of the Farrest Sea. But now, without the strong winds, Astenpoole and the Four Cities were a melting pot.

  Jahrys let out a moan when he felt every muscle in his body ache. Jahrys and Kevrin had gone three straight days of practicing their sword fighting, and it was beginning to catch up to him.

  At least the pain in my eye is beginning to fade, he thought. He gently touched his eye, testing it out. To Jahrys’s relief, Rallick, Stade, and Taygar had not bothered him and Kevrin since that day.

  Jahrys put on a pair of brown, woolen pants. They weren’t pants anymore, though, as he had ripped them up to his knees. He then put on his faded blue tunic and wrapped a belt around his waist. He muffled up his long, wavy brown hair and walked over to his window to look at Astenpoole and the Castle Keep. He watched the sun slowly rise above the six towers of the castle.

  The castle walls were recently cleaned, and banners were now draped over them. Every banner had a different sigil. There was a patch of farmland for Danor, mountains for Palor, a tree for Kaluk, and a wave for Sible. The palms of Zalus was Astenpoole’s sigil, with the four sigils of the four cities in the opened palms.

  The wedding was to take place early that afternoon. Jahrys was staring out at the castle, wondering how many people must be gathering inside the walls. He could picture all the knights in their shining armor, holding swords at their sides while keeping a diligent eye on the crowds as they looked for suspicious activity. One day I’ll attend a royal wedding as a knight, thought Jahrys, as he rubbed the knots in his shoulder.

  Only a select few, mainly lords—including Lord Wayve Hupperton of Palor, Lord Ide Velton of Sible, Lord Henrick Cornvall of Danor, and Zal Jav P’avka of Kaluk—and people of importance in the Four Cities, would be able to attend the royal festivities within the castle. And even they had to go through numerous stages of security just to enter the Western Gate.

  Ever since Queen Asha died from The Sickness four years ago, King Leoné limited the access in and out of the castle walls; it was nearly impossible to enter and to leave these days. He wanted to ensure that whoever entered the castle wasn’t a Carrier.

  But Jahrys was confident that The Sickness was fading, especially with the end of the stormy season. His family was blessed to have not fallen victim to it, but they knew many who had; Kevrin’s grandmother was one of them. According to Kevrin, she was still alive, but barely.

  Jahrys laced up his brown boots and walked down the creaking stairs. His parents were already in the kitchen. Just like the rest of Jahrys’s house, the kitchen was small, but it was large enough for them. Jahrys’s mother was cutting up sausages and cooking eggs over the stove, and his father was examining a wooden chair he was holding upside down by the two front legs.

  “BUCUUUUUUCK!”

  A chicken ran out from under the table towards Jahrys as he entered the kitchen. The bird wobbled up to his boot and began to peck at it. Jahrys heard the jingling of keys.

  “Good morning to you, too, Miller.” Jahrys bent down to pick up the funny looking bird. He took the ring of keys from Miller’s mouth. “Trying to escape again?” he asked the large-eyed chicken.

  Miller stared at him for a few seconds before deciding to peck at his fingers. Jahrys placed Miller back on the ground and watched him wobble out of the kitchen, into the living room.

  “Ah, O’Jahrys, you’re up,” his father said, taking his eyes off the chair for a second to look at his son. “Today is going to be busy, busy, busy.”

  “For the thousandth time, will you call me Jahrys?” He was tired of repeating the same thing to his father. Jahrys never liked the full name he was given, but he could live with Jahrys.

  “But that was your granddaddy’s name! O’Jahrys the Bear, as they used to call him. His arms were as thick as a tree, and he was as big as a bear. As hairy as one too, as a matter of fact.” His father gave a little chuckle, his mustache bouncing. “He had Palorian blood all through his veins.”

  “I never even met him,” Jahrys said, as he walked over to his mother to say good morning.

  “Well, he taught me everything there is to know about carpentry. He sure did. The man could have built a whole city if he wanted.”

  “I’d be lucky if I didn’t splinter myself building a birdhouse.”

  “Good morning, honey,” his mother said, turning to greet him as she finished cutting up the last sausage. His mother had blonde, graying hair and the trademark pale Danorian skin. “What happened to your arm?” she put down the knife and rubbed her finger gently over a bruise.

  “It’s nothing,” Jahrys lied, pulling his arm away.

  “Were you and Kevrin playing with those sticks again?”
his mother asked, scolding him with a pointed finger. “You know I don’t like it when you guys fight. You are going to get another black eye!”

  “They aren’t sticks,” Jahrys defended.

  “I don’t care what you call them,” she placed a firm hand on her hip and turned to his father. “Don’t you agree, Alv?”

  His father lifted his eyes from his chair, confused as to what the topic of conversation was about. “Listen to your mother, O’Jahrys.”

  “But how else am I supposed to train to be a knight?”

  His mother opened the cabinet above her head and handed Jahrys three plates. “You can start by setting the table. I need a knight in my kitchen…Sir Jahrys,” his mother ordered.

  “Yes, Mother,” Jahrys did not hesitate, but walked gloomily over to the table, placing the plates down.

  “Look at this, O’Jahrys,” his father was tracing the carving on the leg of the chair he was examining: vines ran bottom to top on each leg, with an occasional rose carved between the vines. “Look how perfectly symmetrical they are. You can’t find art like this anywhere else in the Four Cities or Astenpoole. No, you can’t! This is the work of patient, Grent hands. It runs in our family.”

  “Put that chair away, Alvys,” his mother ordered. “We’re about to eat.”

  “It’s going to be busy these next few days, Eve,” his father said, without taking his eyes off the chair. “We need to make sure we have everything prepared for the festivities after the wedding this afternoon.”

  “You’ve been working all morning! Put it away and work on it after we eat,” his mother repeated, looking stern, yet still beautiful.

  “Dammit woman, you make it so hard not to listen to you.” He gave her a little smile, his graying mustache rising and falling. He carried the chair to the living room and sat down at the table as Jahrys’s mother served the food.

 

‹ Prev