by Steven Novak
Again Chris turned to his son. “I’m not going to ask you again Tommy. Look at me and tell me it was an accident, tell me you got in a fight at school.”
His voice barely a strained whisper, Tommy Jarvis at last relented. “I …got into a fight …”
“Into a fight where?”
“At - at school.”
“And you didn’t tell me about it until this morning.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Tell - tell you about it until this morning.”
“It was an accident.”
“It-it …was …an accident.”
While escaping Tommy’s cracked lips, the words stung far more than the pain in his chest.
X-rays were performed in the hospital, showing beyond a doubt that the boy had not one but two broken ribs. While being pumped full of wonderful pain relieving fluids, the doctor asked him how such a thing occurred. Tommy recited his father’s story verbatim. The doctor was surprised the boy lasted as long as he did without telling anyone; while glaring at Chris questioningly for a moment, choosing for whatever reason not to voice his concerns, he said the pain must have been unbearable. As if reading from cue cards or recalling a well-rehearsed speech, Tommy again fed the young doctor the story; again he lied. He didn’t know why he did it really — realizing that it made no sense whatsoever — and yet, the words came. Traveling from his brain, they exited his mouth and were given form, becoming an independent part of the universe. Like the mad scientist’s monster, they were now alive, hungry and dangerous. This was only the first time Tommy would lie for his father. There would be others, many in fact. With every one, the boy’s resentment grew. With every false truth, the pile of rancid, slimy blackness building in his gut expanded, pressing against his interior like a great cancerous tumor. Much the same as a virus, Chris Jarvis’ disease infected his son, twisting the boy into a distorted, grotesque funhouse reflection of himself. Eventually the day arrived when the lies came easier for Tommy, when he didn’t bat an eye or offer even a second thought. It was on this day that Tommy at last determined the price for years spent wading through lies, for time spent covering up his father’s misdeeds — forgiveness.
Perhaps not so strangely, he found some semblance of peace in this decision.
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CHAPTER 18
CONTEMPLATIVE TRAJECTORY
*
After speaking with Krystoph, it was determined that the group would set out on their journey the following day. Their mission was to retrieve the half of the Rongstag Krystoph had hidden away years prior. Apparently, according to the former Ochan general, the King’s army had been rapidly closing in on its position for some time. If recovered, Kragamel would again have the ability to render any magic useless, even the magic wielded by the strange children of the prophecy. Adding to the problem was the fact that Pleebo and Walcott had been captured. Though most of the rebels seemed to believe neither had given up the location of the doorway leading to the children’s home world, many thought it only a matter of time before they relented. The Ochan methods of information retrieval were legendary, honed to a finely tipped, deadly dangerous point through years of practiced warfare. Even those with the strongest of wills couldn’t hope to hold out forever against the unrelenting mental and physical torture to which they would undoubtedly be subjected. Some, like Roustaf, believed both Pleebo and Walcott would sooner die than give in to Kragamel. Others, such as Krystoph, found Roustaf’s idea to be idiotic in its idealized simplicity. Any creature could be broken down, no matter how staunch their defiance. Like most Ochans, Krystoph believed it better to be proactive, to make your fate, instead of allowing it to make you. Victory was a pleasure rarely enjoyed by the meek. The Rongstag needed to be recovered and it needed to be recovered quickly. When the meeting at last came to its conclusion, Zanell informed the group that the citizens of New Tipoloo had invited the children of the prophecy to attend a feast in their honor before setting off on their journey. Donald, Staci and Nicky cordially accepted the invitation. Feeling anything but celebratory, Tommy chose to stay behind.
With the rest of the group having left for the excitement in the Southern Passage, Tommy found himself lying on his back in Zanell’s dimly lit dwelling. To celebrate anything seemed fraudulent, strange and just plain wrong. Nothing about the situation they had willingly strolled into seemed worthy of merriment. He was worried about the safety of his little brother and Staci, wishing he could have convinced them to stay home and cursing himself for not trying harder. At least there they would have been safe — for the time being anyway. Closing his eyes, Tommy breathed in the stuffy, stale-warm air around him. Off in the distance he could hear the soft echo of an exuberant cheer created by the citizens of the underground city. Clearly these creatures truly believed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he and the others were saviors, that they could somehow change their lives for the better. Despite the vivid memories of the things he accomplished during his first trip to Fillagrou, the idea still felt ludicrous to Tommy. After all, he was still just a boy, a boy who barely had control over what occurred in his day-to-day life. To believe he held the fate of so many in the palms of his hands simply made no sense. On top of it all, the idea of being led anywhere by the likes of Krystoph felt, on the surface at least, like a mistake of monumental proportions. The Ochan was clearly insane, mad with a lust for revenge. There was no viable reason for actually believing anything he’d said. Tommy wondered how it was that no one else could see it.
The mission, the rebellion, and Fillagrou were all doomed.
“Hello Tommy.” The soft voice belonging to Zanell wafted up from the half opened doorway.
Lazily Tommy opened his eyes, then sighed deeply as he scooted into a sitting position with his back against the dirt wall near the rear of the tiny room. Zanell closed the distance between them with just a few strides of her long, bony legs. With her back to the wall, she dropped to her rear alongside Tommy, bringing her thin, sharply edged knees close to her chest and wrapping her even thinner arms around them. Tommy took note of the fact that she smelled like trees, like a cool fall day, and found it to be an oddly comforting aroma. Pleebo smelled the same way. Never looking in Tommy’s direction, Zanell instead stared at the open doorway on the opposite end of the room and sighed deeply, her massive eyelids slowly closing before opening once again.
Very matter-of-factly, she sympathetically stated, “You’re troubled.”
Tommy paused for a moment before answering, collecting his thoughts, unsure of an appropriate response. “I don’t get it. I mean, why us?” He turned his head to Zanell, his eyes partially hidden behind his stringy blond hair. “You’re supposed to know everything that’s going to happen, right? It seems to me like that has got to be as big an advantage as you can get. So why do you need us? I mean, you know what the Ochan’s are going to do, so just do it before them.”
Underneath her breath, Zanell chuckled quietly enough to ensure Tommy didn’t take notice. “There was a time, Tommy, when I can remember saying the very same thing to my grandfather. You know what he told me? He pinched my cheek, ran his fingers through my hair, and said it’s not as simple as that.”
Rolling his eyes, Tommy looked away. Digging the tip of his dirty shoe into the ground, he kicked up a small mound of dirt, making sure that his annoyance with her cryptic answer was clearly visible.
“It’s a difficult sensation to explain, Tommy, the kind of thing that needs to be experienced in order to be fully understood. You see, our fates remain our fates, no matter what. Believe me when I tell you that you, or I, or even those who chose to set them in motion to begin with, can’t alter them in any way. That being said, they are also quite alive, evolving and constantly changing.” Noticing immediately that her answer did very little to make the boy feel any better, Zanell attempted to word it differently. “Look at it this way. There are many roads down which we can choose to walk; at some point though, each one
curves back to a single point when the walking has reached its end. The finale of all things is the absolute; everything in the universe, including the universe itself, has a well-defined end. No matter how that ending is reached, this is something that simply cannot be changed.”
Annoyed, Tommy rose to his feet and moved to the other end of the room with a huff. Coming to a stop in the shadows, he leaned against a wall and rolled his eyes. He was sick of Zanell’s double-speak, tired of things that didn’t make sense. Though only fourteen years old, Tommy didn’t particularly like the finality of her statement; a large part of him wanted not to believe it. If she was correct, if there really was no control, what was the point?
Wiping the hair from his eyes, he turned toward her again, mumbling through tight, angry lips: “That still doesn’t explain why me, why any of us? No offense, but if I had to go looking for saviors, my little brother and Staci wouldn’t exactly be high on the list. I mean, come on …Nicky still wears underwear with Spider Man on them.”
Slowly rising, Zanell moved toward the boy. She understood what he was feeling and could relate to his frustration. She knew more about him than he could ever hope to understand or likely feel comfortable with.
Gently resting her hands on his shoulders, she twisted his body so it was facing hers. “Now that is one question, Tommy Jarvis, that I even don’t have an answer for. Why you? Why Donald? Why me? Why my brother or Roustaf or King Kragamel or anyone? I don’t know. The universe is a grand, fantastic story, made up of trillions of smaller stories told from trillions upon trillions upon trillions of vastly different perspectives, each of them with their very own leading character. To say it’s complicated simply doesn’t do it any justice. Yet, in the whole of things, there are roles we’re meant to play, things we’re meant to do…whether we choose to or not. You’re more special than you can imagine, Tommy Jarvis. You have a strength inside you, an ability to observe and understand and create in a way so few are blessed.”
Tommy pushed her bony hands off him and again moved away, quickly running out of places in the tiny dwelling to escape. With a heavy sigh, Zanell’s shoulders slumped, her eyelids half closed and her expression mournful. In her heart she knew he couldn’t yet understand, but recognized with pristine clarity the instant not too long from this in which this would change.
White hot flashes of Tommy’s life, both past and future, exploded into existence in the blackness of her mind like stars reaching their eventual supernova. “I know everything you’ve been through Tommy. I know how hard it was.” Before continuing, she made the specific choice to keep her distance from the boy in order to let him have the space he seemed to feel he desperately needed. “I know you don’t see it yet, but there is beauty to be found in even the most awful of situations, and much strength to be gained through forgiveness. Every living thing has the inherent ability to exceed the sum of its parts. Think what a sad, sad world it would be if the whole of our existence were defined by simply the physical. Thankfully, I can guarantee you this is not the case.”
Again a chorus of cheers echoed throughout New Tipoloo’s stuffy, underground streets, rising up from the Eastern Passage and drawing the momentary attention of both Tommy and Zanell.
Realizing she was better served simply allowing Tommy his time alone, Zanell began moving slowly toward the open doorway. “Well, I suppose I should join the festivities. I don’t know how my grandfather did it — all the pomp and circumstance that comes with being an elder — life would be so much simpler without it. Ah well. Feel free to stop by if you like. The citizens of Tipoloo have opted to use much of the remaining Ochan rations in order to better honor the return of the five — or four as the case may be. I haven’t been to a festival of any kind since I was very little, younger than you even. I almost forgot how wonderful they can be. I am no fan of the Ochans, mind you, but they sure do know how to eat. If you’d rather stay here though, no worries. I’ll cover for you.”
With a wink and a grin, Zanell at last exited the dwelling, closing the door behind her and bathing Tommy in near total darkness. Again the sound of faraway laughter bounced off the walls, sneaking through the cracks in the doorway and invading his ears. Plopping back down into a sitting position, Tommy scooted his body again against the wall and closed his eyes. In the sticky quiet air of the darkened room, his mind wandered to his father and his mother. These thoughts intermixed with Zanell’s enigmatic words before blending together like a vast mushy, confusing gruel. For an ever so brief moment, Tommy considered joining the revelry in the Southern Passage — but it was only a moment.
*
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CHAPTER 19
CAPTIVE FRIENDS
*
Every muscle in his body ached, every fiber enflamed and burning. His stomach felt heavy despite its emptiness; his eyelids drooped as if made of lead, pleading to remain shut. The welts covering his pale, grayish skin pounded in an unyielding, diabolical rhythm. The shackles that kept him standing upright every hour of every day around his freakishly thin ankles and wrists had rubbed the skin underneath bare, slicing through and scraping the bone underneath. Like the desert, his throat felt as if it were filled with sand, thin lips cracked and bleeding. The tiny cell around him was bathed in a deep, frigid blackness. Like all of Ocha at this time of year, the air was painfully cold, a cold so harsh it nibbled at his flesh like the teeth of a million tiny, hungry insects.
To put it simply, Pleebo was in hell.
Through the silent, chilly darkness came the clank of locks, the opening of a ten inch thick piece of steel molded into the shape of a door. Barely mustering the energy to lift his head, Pleebo glanced across from him and through the bars of his cell just in time to witness a pair of burly Ochan soldiers dragging the nearly unconscious body of Walcott Shellamennes across the floor. Opening the cell across from his, they pulled the massive bodied turtle man inside. The Ochans secured his shackles, locking him into an upright position against the back wall. Minutes later they were gone, and again came the silence. Pleebo attempted to open his mouth, trying desperately to coax his vocal chords back to life. What resulted, though, was little more than a jittery lip coupled with a weary, faraway moan. If in fact there was any moisture left in his body, he would have used it to produce tears. How long had he been here? How many beatings had he suffered? How many times had he answered the same question in the same interrogation room, to the same foul-breathed Ochan faces: “Where is the doorway to the hundredth world?” How often had he lowered his head, choosing to count the bloodstains on the frigid stone floor instead of answering? How many times had he ached to simply give in? How easy it would’ve been, and how quickly the pain would’ve ended. All he had to do was tell them what they wanted to know, and it all would have been over. The act would’ve proved simple and painless. Again Pleebo tried to call out to Walcott, yearning to hear the Tycarian’s voice, needing his friend to give him strength and remind him he was doing the right thing. Again the ragged-raw muscles in his throat failed.
Hidden in the shadows of King Kragamel’s dungeon, not more than thirty feet from Pleebo’s current position, Walcott Shellamennes was wading neck deep in very similar feelings. Today the guards had seen fit to remove three more teeth from his mouth with little more than a rusty, bloodstained pair of pliers. Afterward, they broke what was left of the unbroken bones in his feet. With nothing being given proper time to heal, he wondered if he would ever walk again. Hacking a sticky warm discharge from his blood-filled mouth, he willed the muscles in his fractured jaw to life. He needed to let Pleebo know that he was all right, or at the very least alive.
“Plll-Pleee-boooo …” The Tycarian king’s voice was soft, shaky, and faraway, entirely devoid of its once regal nature.
It was deep enough, however, for Pleebo to hear in the vast silence of the dungeon. Upon recognizing Walcott’s voice, a half-smile climbed the corners of Pleebo’s battered and bruised face. Knowing he was physically unable to answer, Pleebo moved his ar
ms ever so slightly, rattling the heavy chains binding him to stone. Though subtle, the sound proved enough for Walcott to realize his friend was still alive, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Lowering his head, Walcott cursed himself underneath his breath. This was his fault. He should have planned better, should have been ready for anything. He failed Pleebo, failed New Tipoloo, and failed the revolution. In the deepest recesses of his heart, the places he rarely opted to visit, he wondered why he ever agreed to lead them in the first place. Striking down Gragor in Valkea’s courtyard had filled him with false confidence. In reality, he was too old and too tired. Like most things, war was better left in the hands of the young and the capable. Ego had been the downfall of many great kings, and apparently he was no exception. After weeks locked away in the dungeon and hour upon hour of torture, Walcott scarcely believed there was anything left in his body to break. At this point, Kragamel no doubt understood that acquiring information concerning the whereabouts of the final doorway from either him or Pleebo was unlikely. There were more subtle methods for retrieving information the king hadn’t yet entertained, leading Walcott to believe that this was no longer simply about the children or the doorway — this was about the death of Prince Valkea. This was personal.
As is the case with all things personal in nature, it wasn’t likely to end anytime soon, even in death.
Walcott had continually insisted to Pleebo that Nestor was most likely working on a rescue attempt, convincing the people of Fillagrou that all they needed to do was hold on a few more days. Every time the words left his mouth, he understood all too well that they were, in fact, lies. There would be no rescue. The destruction of Valkea’s castle with the help of the children was one thing. The Ochans were lazy and unprepared, led by a foolhardy, overconfident Prince. A raid on the war-ready, well-armed castle of King Kragamel in the heart of Ocha would be another thing entirely. Even with the aid of the children and their amazing powers, such a mission would likely prove fruitless, little more than an execution walk. He and Pleebo weren’t going anywhere. They were at the mercy of the king, to do with as he saw fit. Whatever little remained of their lives was held firmly in the grasp of his enormous hands.