by C. D. Bryan
J.R. and Thomas agreed and followed Pip. As the three of them neared the light more and more of the imprisoned inner selves moaned and began clinking and clanking the bars again. Some were climbing the bars of their cell, and others were throwing a barrage of cups. One hit Thomas in the head.
Thomas picked it up to return fire, but was bombarded by dozens more and ducked for cover. “Hurry,” he pleaded. “See if it opens.”
Pip and J.R. grabbed the side and the back edge of the bookcase and pulled. It moved with the speed of a door on a bank vault—as it wanted to. Thomas took a couple more tin-cup attacks before the door was open. The three of them slipped behind the bookcase and pulled the door closed by a single giant wheel attached to the back of it. As it neared the seal, a strong vacuum of air sucked past them. It closed. They turned the handle and heard the sound of locking bars sliding into place. They looked at each other, appearing unsure of what they had just done to themselves. No one spoke.
The gleams gathered in a group and glowed like a giant torch. The walls and floor were all made of stone. The space was no bigger than a closet and directed them into a short narrow corridor leading down a spiraling staircase.
“We have to go down?” whined Thomas. “When that inner self of Preston said to go to the next level, I thought he meant up, not down.”
“It is what it is, Thomas,” said Pip, making her case by looking behind them into the darkness. “There’s no turning back now.”
The stairs were an obstacle course of dead black rats, an occasional bat, and small pools of stagnant water that had obviously seeped through the walls.
“Aren’t torture chambers usually in the bottom of castles?” asked Thomas.
“Shh . . .” said J.R. and Pip as they both nudged him slightly.
After spiraling down at least five creepy turns, the staircase opened into what J.R. thought looked like a war room. To one side was a giant table with an equally large world map under its glass top. J.R. wandered past it. The walls next to it were covered with charts and diagrams, and hundreds of lists of names—names of people, not names of continents or countries. He migrated to the other side near three large theater-like screens, and in front of each sat a single red-velvet chair.
The screen in each theater had names of different continents and countries posted above the proscenium: Asia, South America, North America, Europe and Africa. Below those were specific names of countries.
“What is this guy,” asked Pip, “some kind of spy or something?”
“I think,” announced a voice blasting over a loudspeaker system. “The answer is in the or something category.”
J.R., Pip and Thomas screamed and dropped to the floor in a state of shock, hiding behind anything they could.
“Well . . . well . . .” blasted the voice, “glad to see you finally made your way into my lair. Little Phillip P. Preston’s inner self directed you well. Ha . . . ha . . .”
The deep dark laugh drove itself through J.R. like a spike.
Thomas flipped open his HAM manual and feverishly leafed through its pages, mumbling to himself, “HAM, don’t fail me now. There has to be something in here about how to fight off evil bad guys.”
“Oh come now, Honorary Ambassador Thomas,” said the voice. “Surely you don’t believe your answer to getting out of this situation is in your little SPAM book? Or do you? I forgot how you believers of willpower can be. Well, rest assured there’s nothing I can do to you while you’re an ambassador, Thomas. As a matter of fact, I plan to let the three of you go unharmed, unscathed, untouched, whatever—” A barking dog interrupted him. “Down, Zeek. Down, boy. You can’t eat . . . I mean play with them today but soon . . . soon.”
J.R. recognized the name Zeek. It was the name called out in the woods last night and moreover he recognized the man’s voice. That’s the voice from that reporter interview on TV, he thought.
“Dorian . . .” yelled J.R.
“Oh . . . you’re a smart one, Timble,” said the voice. “I guess they don’t give the post of Whiffler to just any dreamer, do they?”
J.R. tried to ignore the comments. “Be man enough to show yourself.”
Both Pip and Thomas bumped J.R. with their elbows and gave him piercing looks that read, Don’t antagonize him.
“Now you listen to me, Timble,” said Dorian, “you little-pie-in-the-sky dreamer. I don’t have to let you go. But I will. I have my reasons. So, don’t push me. Now, have a nice day, and don’t forget what you’re seeking is in the last door.”
The lights flickered, Dorian’s voice disappeared, and nearby a door opened under a red exit, as videos began showing on all three screens. J.R., Pip and Thomas stood and gazed at various scenes of children from every imaginable culture and ethnic group around the world. Some were rich and some poor, some were being loved by parents and others were orphans, some were excited and vibrant and others were hiding in closets and under beds. The scenes switched continuously from all over the world.
“This must be how he tracks his pandemic.” said J.R. in astonishment, “focusing on kids that are giving up on things, and then taking control of them after they’ve lost their willpower.”
Thomas eyeballed the exit. “Ah . . . hey . . . guys,” he said impatiently. “The exit . . . Shouldn’t we leave while we have the chance?”
“Yes, Thomas,” said J.R.
“But what if the last door is really a trap and you walk into it, J.R.,” asked Pip. “Why would he let us go? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know,” answered J.R. “But we have to take our chances.”
J.R tore his way through dozens of cobwebs covering the last door in the passage, and looked back at Pip and Thomas. They nodded with supporting approval. And J.R. turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“What?” questioned J.R., glancing back at Pip and Thomas. “This looks like my bedroom. This must be an illusion.”
Thomas and Pip stepped forward and the three of them huddled around the door frame looking inside. And resting atop a desk, centered under the window, were two books.
“Go on,” said Thomas. “Grab the books.”
Pip and Thomas nudged J.R. in.
He walked across the room but looked back twice to be sure the door didn’t close. Oddly, he felt like he was breaking into someone else’s house. J.R. saw the gold-embossed title Life, Love, and the Dream . . . by J.R. Timble. “What? This can’t be the sacred text, can it?” He cradled the book in the palm of his hand and opened its cover. Inside was the exact same inscription that he had written. Live your life to the fullest and never let go of your dreams. Best Wishes, J.R. Timble.
However, the difference was that all the pages were full of handwriting. Not a single page had been missed. He flipped to the last page and read the last words: “Always treasure the sacred text. The End.” He smiled. “Gotcha.” He tucked the book under his arm and glanced at the other book leaning against the lamp, reading the title printed on its spine: “Willpower.” It was considerably aged in appearance. And he immediately reassured himself of his own willpower. “I’m not losing any of my dreams,” he whispered.
He returned to the passage and closed the door and held the book out to show Pip and Thomas. “I guess this is it,” he said.
“What? Are you sure?” asked Pip. “That’s the one you just signed, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I know but look it’s full now, not a single blank page.”
“What about the other one?” asked Thomas, flinging the door open. “Maybe that was the one you should have grabbed.”
But to everyone’s surprise the room was gone, and replaced with a view of the trees in the valley, bayside cliff and their clubhouse not too far off in the distance.
“Hey look,” yelled Thomas. “Come on.”
“Wait,” insisted Pip. “J.R. what do you think? What is your willing heart telling you?”
J.R. slid the book in his backpack and grabbed Pip and Thomas by the arm. “I think we sho
uld go for it.” And together they jumped into what he thought was the landscape that would take them home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Eyes In The Trees Are Less Than Pleased
J.R., Pip and Thomas hit the forest floor, hard. J.R. landed on his butt with the wind knocked out of him and he fell to his side laboring to regain his breath.
“Are you ok, J.R.,” asked Pip.
J.R. tilted his head. “Yeah,” he uttered in pain. “Just need to lay here for a second and catch my breath.” He stared up at the giant old-growth trees reaching out of the ground like arms trying to touch the sky. And upon their branches he noticed large blackish-gray figures, figures he first mistook for shadows. But these shadows had eyes, yellow eyes. And then the figures moved, from branch to branch
“Hey, do you guys hear that?” said Thomas.
“Yeah,” said Pip, “Sounds like some kind of screeching.”
J.R. rubbed his eyes for clarity and took a better look. There was no question about it. He saw at least twelve sets of eyes gazing down upon him and Pip and Thomas. He intentionally scooted to the side—all the eyes shifted in that direction. His chest filled with heavy breathing and pounding thumps.
“Hey guys,” whispered J.R. as he slowly stood. “I need you to trust me when I say this, Ok?”
“Say what?” answered Pip, glancing at Thomas who shrugged his shoulders.
“Run,” yelled J.R., jumping to his feet and running in the direction of the clubhouse. “Run and don’t stop.” He looked back at Pip and Thomas who immediately kicked into top speed.
“Why are we running,” yelled Pip, as something large and black zipped over her heading directly for J.R.
“What the heck are those things?” yelled Thomas.
J.R. ducked behind a tree. Pip and Thomas followed. And they watched as three more flashes of blackness zoomed by, like the blur of formula-one race cars zipping by. And those were followed by three more but they were white.
“What are they?” yelled Thomas.
“I think they’re birds,” yelled J.R.
“What?” said Pip, “birds that big? I don’t think so.”
“Let’s make a run for it.,” said J.R. “If we stay in the trees maybe we can make it to the clubhouse.” And before Pip or Thomas could object J.R. ran out from behind the tree. “Come on.”
“J.R.,” screamed Pip. “Look out.”
J.R. looked back, heeding Pip’s warning, but tumbled to the ground when a white figure collided with one of the black birds just above his head.
Looking up in terror, all J.R. could see was a mixture of monstrous flapping wings, giant crescent-shaped talons and mammoth snapping beaks attacking each other. J.R. pushed himself to his hands and knees, slipping on the pine needles, but making it to his feet, and took off in a sprint. “Feet don’t fail me now.”
“No need to worry about that,” said a voice, swooping in behind him. “I have you.”
Suddenly, J.R. felt the weight of his body being lifted off the ground and his feet running through midair.
“What? No . . . No.” yelled J.R., struggling and fighting the grip of whatever it was that had seized him by the shoulders. Wind blew through his hair. He looked back and watched as Pip, Thomas, the clubhouse, Pinecone Valley, and the entire town faded into the distance behind him. He glanced up at two graphite-colored stems, leading up from his shoulders to an underbelly and breast of feathers above him. “Oh no . . . I’m bird-bait.” It felt like a good time to panic again but he didn’t.
“That was a close one wasn’t it, Mr. Timble?” asked a voice coming out of nowhere again.
“Where are you?” asked J.R. as he twisted left and right, looking for the owner of the voice.
“I’m right here, Mr. Timble,” said the voice.
J.R. looked up again only to find the voice coming from a giant bird’s beak. “Ah . . .” screamed J.R. fighting again to free himself, “Let me go. Let me go.”
The bird tilted its head down. “Mr. Timble.” It smiled. “I don’t think letting you go right now would be such a good idea. Just hold on and I’ll have you back down in no time at all.”
The bird twisted into a dive.
J.R. felt his legs being flung back from the rapid descent as his eyes batted through the force of the wind and his cheeks puffed out. In the distance he could see a mountain range and a forest just before it.
Within seconds they were turning, twisting and ducking through branches. And just as fast the bird put on its air brakes and gently swooped upward and fluttered, if giant birds can flutter, and dropped J.R. onto a large platform-deck in the biggest old-growth tree J.R. he’d ever seen. The bird then landed beside him.
“This is the largest lookout post in the forest,” said the bird, “also home of our flight general and his Dream Brigade.”
J.R. was silent. He’d seen a lot of strange things today but a talking bird, and a military one no less. He scratched his head still in awe. He looked left then right, and then behind himself before looking back at the bird.
“Is there something wrong, Mr. Timble,” asked the bird, as it tilted its head left then right, and then stuck its huge bird eyes into J.R.’s face for a closer look.
“No . . . No . . . of course not,” said J.R. “I . . . ah . . . was . . . ah looking at all the other ones like you . . . ah. I mean . . .” J.R. shook his head in confusion, “I mean that’s not what I mean.” J.R. finally gave up trying to make sense and gave in to the truth. “What are you?”
“I’m a Peregrine Falcon,” answered the bird.
“Oh ok, yeah,” said J.R., nodding his head.
“Different than the species you’ve known,” said the bird. “Our scientific name is Falco Sepias Peregrinus Erectus. Translation? Wise Upright Peregrine Falcons.”
“And . . . what’s your name?” asked J.R., peeking over the edge of the platform at the three-hundred-foot drop, and then side-stepping away from it.
“Why, Mr. Timble, don’t you recognize me?” said the bird, spreading its wings and dancing in a circle, “It’s me Jicky-Jack. Well, Commander Jicky-Jack that is.” He squatted down and cupped his feathers around his beak to whisper. “Don’t tell the rest of ‘em that I used to be a statue; most of them came from live birth. They might hold it against me, ok?”
“Ah, Ok,” said J.R. “But how—”
“We were called to duty by Minion to defend the Peregrine’s Entrance. The night I disappeared from your room was the night I was called to duty. I came back the next day to watch over you until you could get to Agalar’s cave. Once you were in, I went to Minion’s side where I stayed until my transformation, into what you see me as now, was complete. Anyway, the word is out that there’s a transition between the Whiffler and the kid with a Fu Manchu, that’s you . . .” The bird winked at J.R.
“You mean me, and the transition between me and Minion. Right?” asked J.R.
“Yep, and Dorian’s Gerfalcons are moving to attack the entrance as we speak. He knows Minion is dying and his pandemic is spreading like wildfire. Jicky-Jack craned his neck up looking at something in the distance.
“But how is it spreading?” asked J.R.
“Once Dorian or his Gerfalcons find a kid who’s willpower is weak and who feels like giving up, he reaches into the depths of their mind—an unconscious nook—the place of their most cherished thoughts, memories and dreams, and he steals their inner self.” Jicky-Jack plucked at a feather on his wing. “So, if you give up, you can bet your Blue Blink-Eye marble that Dorian will be there to snatch out your inner self.” Jicky-Jack snapped his beak at J.R. to add a little dramatic effect.
J.R. flinched, “So what does Dorian want with Minion?”
“If Dorian can do away with Minion then he stands a chance of gaining all the control he needs to extract inner selves from every kid on the planet. You see, when Dorian captures a person’s inner self he enslaves it to work for him. First he will imprison it until it completely changes into a pang
olin and once the inner self has changed, Dorian transfers it to one of his armies.”
“Can you change back after you become a Pangolin?” asked J.R., thinking about Preston’s plea for help.
“Yes, you can,” answered Jicky-Jack. “First you have to want to change back. And secondly, you have to pledge to yourself that you’re going to make good decisions, and lastly but most importantly, you need the support of the Whiffler. So, since Minion is at his weakest point in his life since his own birth, this gives Dorian the upper hand to try to take over. The only way to stop Dorian is to complete the transition with Minion. You’ll do that once you pass through the Peregrine’s Entrance. The entrance is the gate to the Great Spirit’s realm. And this is where you’ll find Minion. But if Dorian can stop you from going through the entrance, even long enough for Minion to die, then he stops the success of the Great Spirit and wins the battle. Anyway,” screeched Jicky-Jack, twisting the ends of his wing into a fist and hammering it against his other wing. “Our job is to protect the entrance to keep that tyrant Dorian out, and to get you through.”
J.R. wasn’t sure if Jicky-Jack was furious or just filled with resolve and determination. “So, what happens now?” asked J.R.
“We have to get you to the Peregrine’s Entrance,” said Jicky-Jack. “Or else . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Fearsome Forces Fight In Flight
Jicky-Jack folded out his wing touching it down on the platform like a boarding ramp for J.R. “So, climb aboard the Jicky-Jack Express, Mr. Timble . . . final destination . . . Peregrine’s Entrance.”
“You mean fly again?” asked J.R., looking over the edge of the platform toward the ground.
“It’s the only way,” said Jicky-Jack, “I assure you, you’d never make it to the entrance any other way with all of Dorian’s Gerfalcons in the area.”