Jicky Jack and the Ominous Promise

by C. D. Bryan

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Promise Becomes Ominous

  J.R. inspected the package, noticing the postmark from India, and then tore it open. Inside he found a strange gift and an even stranger note, and he read:

  ~~~~

  Dear J.R.,

  I can’t explain why right now because I’m in a hurry. But always keep this with you. Keep believing, and keep your mind’s willpower strong J.R.

  Love and Friendship,

  Uncle Travis

  a.k.a. Traveling Travis

  ~~~~

  “A marble?” he questioned with a grimace trying not to sound ungrateful, “this can’t be a birthday gift. Nobody gives somebody a single marble as a birthday gift. Besides, I already have five shoeboxes full at last count.” He immediately began thinking of what to name it, as he often did with the special-looking ones. And this one looked special. He raised it to the light, as a jeweler might do with a gem, holding it inches from his eye. The aqua-blue sphere had a single sky-blue ring in its middle and a solid black dot in the center. It kind of resembled a bird’s eye, he thought. Then it came to him.

  “Blue Blink-Eye,” said J.R. “That’s what I’ll call you.”

  And to his astonishment when he moved it even closer to his own eye, the inside of the marble winked at him. J.R. immediately dropped it on the floor and bounced both feet up and onto the cushions. In a panic he jumped to the left side of the couch, but the marble rolled in the same direction, and when he shifted to the right, it did too.

  “No way,” he whispered as he stared at it suspiciously, “maybe it has some kind of magnetic energy. But its glass and it winked at me, so that can’t be.”

  Nervous, but curious just the same, J.R. cautiously rested the back of his hand on the floor. And to his surprise, the marble rolled right up his fingers into his palm, and winked once more.

  “Ok, this can’t be real. I must be hallucinating. I am definitely losing my mind.” And the mention of that drew him to recall the pandemic and the children who were losing their dreams. He felt sorry for them and closed his fingers around the marble. And in a mysterious flash of discovery, feelings of honor and valor momentarily filled his heart.

  When his mother returned, J.R. immediately hid the marble in his pocket. But apparently it didn’t like that. It moved about rather quickly as if trying to get out. J.R. cupped his hand over the outside of his pocket and began wiggling with the marble’s movement.

  It tickled.

  His mother stood in front of him, saying nothing, just watching him as he did his strange little seated dance on the couch. She had a cup of honey-sweetened tea in one hand and a glass of chocolate milk in the other. In a strange switch she handed J.R. the tea, and kept the chocolate milk for herself.

  “Here,” she said, “this will help calm your nerves.”

  The marble finally stopped moving and he reached for the cup of tea.

  “Mom,” said J.R. “I think something’s seriously wrong with Grandfather, not to mention my life.”

  “Oh? And why do you think that?” she asked, raising her eyebrows as she sat next to him on the couch.

  “Well, Grandfather said that I’m the next one in line for some secret honor, and that I can stop that pandemic thing, and it could be in my blood, and he kept talking about his tree and my tree and a key to destiny, and that I should follow the signs. And then he gave me a pocket watch for my birthday.”

  Mrs. Timble quickly stood and just as quickly she became filled with a sudden state of distress, dropping her glass of chocolate milk.

  “Now, you never mind those stories, Jack Timble,” she said raising her voice and even pointing her finger at him, “stories of being next in line and things about trees, and blood, and that pandemic, and destiny and following signs.”

  J.R. sat in silence, surprised by his mother’s sudden change in behavior. His eyes followed her frantic movements around the room.

  “I’ll have a word with Grandpa about all this. And as for the watch, I am sure it’s Grandpa’s desire to help you be on time. Speaking of which, you better follow the signs right straight to school before you’re late again, young man.” She hurried him right out of the den, into the kitchen and out the backdoor, almost without a bite of breakfast. But he managed to snatch a blueberry cream-puff off the table on the way.

  ****

  J.R. jumped on his bike and headed down the driveway.

  “Remember,” yelled his mother, “you can have the other package when you get home, on time.”

  J.R. looked back as he sped off, and to his amazement she was already back inside with the door closed. “Wow, everyone in that house is losing it.”

  He calculated every imaginable shortcut to school. Then blasted through each of them, and rounded his last corner before skidding to a sudden stop.

  “Whoa,” he muttered, gazing up the road leading to the school. “What the heck is this?”

  The cloudy sky rumbled ever so slightly. But J.R. looked on. Every streetlight and telephone pole on both sides of the road was covered with dozens of paper flyers; flipping, flapping, and cracking in the morning breeze. The first pole was plastered with blue flyers and the next with pink; a pattern that repeated all the way up to the road to school. Not a single pole had been missed. But even stranger than that, J.R. noticed there wasn’t a single kid in sight.

  “That’s weird,” he said as he peddled towards the nearest pole, “where is everyone? I’m not the only kid that’s ever late.”

  As he grew closer and closer to the pole, the morning breeze turned stronger and stronger. And gusts of wind began ripping flyers away from the pole, one by one. And under its increasing force he found himself fighting harder and harder to stay upright and balanced on his bike. But he managed to grab the last flyer before the wind could rip it away.

  He read its headline, “Secret Society Seeking New Members.” But before he could finish reading, the wind’s force rudely knocked him off his bike, and stole the flyer. J.R. stood, and pushed his bike, in a bit of a run to the next pole where he grabbed a pink flyer.

  Just then, clouds began rolling into a strange mixture of gray and emerald green. And the growling force of the wind was now bending and whipping tree branches in every direction. J.R. could barely hold his footing, and again he lost the flyer.

  “What in Sam’s dams is going on?” he said, dropping his bike on the curb, and running to a third pole, and grabbing yet another blue flyer.

  Just then the clouds transformed into a gyrating colossal vacuum with its funnel touching the ground. It wildly moved from one side of the road to the other, sucking up everything that wasn’t anchored to the ground. Instantly, J.R. felt its suction pulling on his clothes. He quickly hugged the pole and wrapped his arms and legs completely around it. Then, he watched in terror as flyers, birds, trashcans, and even his bike swirled up and into its center. And as the funnel grew closer and closer his backpack lifted off his back. His hair stood on end. And he held on for dear life.

  “Please stop, please go away . . . please?” he yelled, letting go of the blue flyer.

  Then, as if someone had pulled a plug on the giant vacuum; the funnel vanished and everything fell to the ground.

  J.R., having found himself pulled halfway up the pole, slowly slid down.

  From what he could see, every single flyer was gone. That is, except for one that was caught in the spokes of his now-mangled bike. Wow, that’s pretty chancy, he thought, making a dash to grab it.

  He knelt down, but flinched and looked too the sky one last time as it cracked with a deafening sound of thunder. Once it was all clear, he cautiously looked at the flyer and saw the words, STOP THE PANDEMIC printed on the back. Maybe that’s a sign, he thought.

  When he reached for the flyer a static charge shocked his hand and he immediately retracted. But with a sudden burst of determination and a springing reaction he bravely plucked the flyer from the spokes.

  “Gotcha,” he said, as he remem
bered school was about to start.

  He quickly stuffed the flyer in his backpack and ran at his fastest speed. And just as fast, his mind raced through the morning’s bizarre events. What did Grandfather mean, I’m the one, I can stop the pandemic, and it fits like a key to my destiny just follow the signs? And a gold pocket watch for my birthday? And that reporter, I know I heard that TV reporter say my name on national television. And a blinking marble, what’s that all about? And now a giant vacuum sucking everything into the sky?

  He paused in thought momentarily, looking back over his shoulder. My life will never be the same after this morning, Grandfather, forget about the rest of the day. However, he couldn’t forget about it. In fact, he couldn’t help but wonder what more was to come of his grandfather’s life-changing promise.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Secret Society Seeks New Members

  It was half past four. The final bell rang and J.R. made a hasty exit from the middle school.

  “Thank goodness that day is over,” he sighed as three members of his track team followed him, whispering and laughing.

  “Freak,” one of them blurted.

  J.R. was certain it was directed at him, considering all the day’s happenings, of which the most freakish was the one during track practice.

  There was no logical explanation for the red asphalt track turning blue with every advancing stride J.R. made in first place during a practice race. But the fact is it happened that way and as a result, it made him a target as if it were his doing. The entire track was now blue. And because of the strange phenomena, Mr. Stipple, the track coach, canceled the rest of practice, even though the team needed the extra training for the season’s last track meet.

  J.R. looked in the direction of the track. He could see Mr. Stipple pacing around by himself. One minute he was waving his hands in the air, and the next he was taking off his red hat and scratching his head. J.R could hear him yelling the same thing over and over again, “How am I going to explain this to Principal Watkins?”

  Further down the road J.R. stopped to inspect the bottom of his shoes to see if they, too, had turned blue. They had not. He felt foolish for looking but felt he had to. School’s never gonna be the same, he thought, as he recalled his grandfather’s words; your life will never be the same after today. Then he realized he had completely forgotten about his freakish morning and the flyer.

  He sat on the curb in the shade of a cottonwood tree and dug through its contents. “Where is that thing?” he whispered. “There you are.”

  He looked to the sky, then in all directions, before taking it out.

  He began reading the front of the flyer, flinching as the sky suddenly rumbled with the sound of jerking train cars, “Secret Society Seeking New Members.” He flipped it over and continued, “Stop the Pandemic.” His forehead wrinkled in curiosity, “This has to be a sign.” He unfolded the flyer and continued to read:

  ~~~~

  We need you if you meet these requirements:

  Must be middle school-aged, no adults or youngsters, H.L.P.K.

  Can be a boy or a girl, T.D.

  Must be brave, H.L.P.K.

  Must be able to pay club dues: amount to be determined, H.L.P.K.

  Must be able to read, write, or speak another language, H.L.P.K.

  Must like suspicious activity, T.D.

  Must be curious and detective oriented, T.D.

  Must like baseball or soccer, T.D.

  Must be able to run fast, T.D.

  Must not be a sports jock, H.L.P.K.

  Must have travel experience, H.L.P.K.

  Must be willing to take some chances, H.L.P.K.

  Must like birds, H.L.P.K.

  Must like collecting things, T.D.

  -

  If you don’t meet any of these requirements, apply for an interview anyway, and we’ll get back to you. For interview, follow these directions to our clubhouse. H.L.P.K. & T.D.

  The directions, exactly, are . . .

  Follow the road from school to the cottonwood trees, collect a handful of cottonwood cotton and stuff it in your pocket. Find the gate to Lady Diane’s mansion at No. 153 Summit Blvd. three blocks away and pluck off one stem of the Ocean Spray blossom, then go north to Main Street and stop in Mr. Brilliant’s Brilliant Confectionary Candy Shop and ask for three samples of his Peanut Butter Banana Twists, but don’t eat them. Go to the fire station, sit on the fireman’s bench & peel off one black dot from the Dalmatian statue next to it. Then go to the #3 phone booth across from the police station and write your initials on the inside of the front cover of the phonebook. Then, go to our meeting place, the abandoned cliff-top fortress of Bayside Cliff, on the bay of course, and wait there until 6:30 P.M.. Sincerely, H.L.P.K and T.D.

  ~~~~

  J.R. followed all the directions just as stated, even resisting the urge to eat the Peanut Butter Banana Twists, and finally came to the #3 phone booth across from the police station. He pulled a pen from his backpack, opened the phonebook and wrote his initials, J.R.T. inside.

  “There, that does it, now off to Bayside Cliff,” he said, noticing another set of initials inside the cover. “P.P.P. III, I wonder who that could be?” But no one came to mind.

  He stepped out of the phone booth, adjusted his backpack, and jumped when the phone behind him rang and broke the surrounding silence. He looked around to see if anyone might be expecting a call, but there was no one in sight, not even a passing car. As a matter of fact, the streets and sidewalks were an eerie calm. The phone continued ringing.

  “Hello?” he said, holding the phone to his ear.

  No one answered his greeting. Static filled the line, and then the whisper of an old man’s voice broke through and began repeating itself, “The time, the time, the time.” In a crazy way J.R. thought it sounded like his grandfather’s voice but he couldn’t be sure with all the static. He glanced at the time on the pocket watch.

  “There’s no way, how can it be 6:21 I just left school.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone line repeated itself twice more, then disappeared into the static. J.R. hung up.

  “I have to be at the cliff by 6:30 but that’s got to be at least ten minutes away.” He stared at the phone for a second. “Ok, what just happened here?”

  Then suddenly the phone rang again. This time J.R. took off running. He had no time to waste and no interest in finding someone on the other end of the phone ready to give him an answer to his question. Something told him this secret society was a sign, and he had to find out, a sign to what?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Very Suspicious Interview Goes Awry

  J.R. jogged up a zigzagging one-lane road to the top of Bayside Cliff. The entire run felt way longer than ten minutes, and drained the last of his energy.

  At the top, he stopped and stooped over, trying to catch his breath, and glanced at the time. It was 6:33 P.M.

  “Late again,” he said, shaking his head as he stood and placed his hands behind his head and began pacing back and forth.

  A heavy fog was rolling in off the bay. And its cool misty presence invaded his nose with the smell of sea salt. He liked that. It also hid the source of voices off in the distance.

  J.R. listened.

  One of them was a girl’s voice. It was sharp in tone, but sweet and friendly. The other was that of a boy’s. Between the two them, J.R. could easily tell that the girl was in charge. But as the voices drew nearer J.R. saw three figures walking side by side, not two. Then he heard a third voice, that of another boy.

  “Jack be Timble Jack be quick,” it announced, “Jack jumped over the candlestick, or should we sing little boy blue?”

  J.R. recognized that cocky voice right away, fog or no fog.

  “Late as usual, Timble,” said the voice. “The flyer said 6:30 and well, let’s see, oops it’s 6:35 now. Guess that means you’re out of luck.”

  The three undistinguishable figures stood side by side in the fog.

&nb
sp; “First of all, Preston,” said J.R. “Aren’t you a little old for nursery rhymes, and secondly if this club keeps company with the likes of you, then I’d say I wasn’t late for anything important.”

  J.R. recalled the initials from the phonebook, P.P.P. III, equating it to Phillip P. Preston the third. He repositioned his backpack over his shoulder, turned around, and headed down the road.

  “Hey wait a minute,” yelled the girl.

  J.R. stopped, and turned back. He heard voices quietly debating something as two of the figures moved away from the third, which J.R. guessed was Preston’s.

  “Actually, Preston,” said the girl decidedly. “Thomas and I will be the judge of who becomes a member of our society. Thank you berry much. We’ll be getting back to you, just like the flyer says.”

  J.R. thought it was a little strange that the girl replaced the word very with berry when she spoke, but he said nothing.

  J.R. could see Preston’s arrogant posture shrink. Then he bent over, picked up what looked to J.R. to be a bike. He straddled it, and raced past J.R. into the fog and down the road.

  “I’ll see you at tomorrow’s track meet, Timble,” yelled Preston, “that is if you’re not too blue.”

  J.R. rolled his eyes, knowing that Preston was referring to the track turning blue at practice.

  The other two figures emerged from the fog, shaking their heads at one another then looking at J.R. The boy was slim, with brown skin, black hair and brown eyes, and a curiously cautious manner. The girl had long legs, a short waist, sandy-red hair, freckles, and all the spunk of wildflowers.

  “Hi, I’m Heather Louise “Pip” Kensington, my friends call me Pip.”

  “And I’m Thomas Dean, you can call me Thomas.”

  “Hi. I’m J.R. Timble. You can just call me J.R. though.” He smiled.