Jicky Jack and the Ominous Promise

by C. D. Bryan

  J.R. resolved that Jicky-Jack was right and climbed aboard his back and settled into a feathery seat. He wedged his legs and feet in between a harness and Jicky-Jack’s back. Jicky-Jack bellowed some commands to his flight crew then rocketed into the sky. “We’ll be there before you know it,” he announced, tilting his head back toward J.R. “When we dive to make our landing you’ll have to lean back . . . less wind resistance that way. And be sure to hold on.”

  “Don’t worry; I will,” said J.R. as they cleared the treetop.

  J.R. could see hundreds of peregrines and gerfalcons in chase, each species in pursuit of the other, like World War I dog fighter’s zeroing in on their targets.

  “Lay back, J.R.,” yelled Jicky-Jack. “We have incoming. Lay back.”

  J.R. immediately did as Jicky-Jack ordered. And weirdly, he thought he felt cold rails of ice slide across his arm as a screeching flash of blackness zipped over them. He pulled himself up and gazed into the distance, his eyes becoming fixed on lines of a pearl-blue light projecting up from a mountainside. And just in front of it was a patchy pattern, like that of a black and white dairy cow, but these patches were moving.

  “Jicky-Jack,” yelled J.R. into the force of the wind. “What are those black and white patches?”

  “The black patches are Dorian’s ground army, his battalions of inner selves that have completely changed into pangolins. They’re on the move toward the Peregrine’s Entrance. The white patches are us. We‘re gonna make an early descent. I need to see how bad it is. Hold on.”

  J.R. took a deep breath and leaned back, and barely a second later they were in a dive—the freefall forcing his stomach into his throat. But just as quickly, J.R. felt the blast of something powerful hit them. All he could make out were tufted fist-like talons striking Jicky-Jack in the side.

  “We’ve been hit,” yelled Jicky-Jack, as they tumbled out of control in midair. “Hold on.”

  J.R.’s grip on the harness tightened as he was violently jerked from side to side in the spinning tumble.

  Jicky-Jack’s wings fanned out and the giant bird’s head craned outward as far as it could. It was obvious to J.R. he was trying to break them out their tumbling freefall. Then a sudden jolt whipped his head forward, and sent his stomach sinking hard. Jicky-Jack had done it. He had pulled out of the tumble.

  “Are you ok, J.R.?” asked Jicky-Jack.

  “Yeah,” he said, noticing his shirt was torn and bloodstained. “I think.”

  “Good, we’re almost there.”

  J.R. looked down as they flew over the last of the black moving patches of Dorian’s army. And just ahead he could see the pearl-blue light radiating from giant crystals that formed an opening in the side of a mountain. In front of it stood lookout towers, white tents and outposts, and between those were batteries of peregrine falcons standing by for an attack. And the flat of the land, just before the towers, was home to hundreds of giant nest-like foxholes. They were strategically placed, diagonal patterns extending out more than a hundred yards.

  As Jicky-Jack few in closer J.R. saw hundreds of batteries of normal-sized peregrine falcons militantly marching in neat rows. Behind them were mid-sized peregrines, and in the rear were more large scale peregrines like Jicky-Jack. He sighed with a bit of relief.

  “Ok, J.R., we’re going in.”

  J.R. leaned back. “Roger that, Jicky-Jack,” he acknowledged while Commander Jicky-Jack screeched and crackled in some kind of bird Morse code.

  J.R.’s chest began to feel heavy with worry. The doubt of being able to handle the responsibility of being the new Whiffler hit him harder than ever. He felt his willpower shrink from the intimidating weight of it all. What if I can’t do it, he thought.

  Jicky-Jack made a sharp circular descent around the landing pad near the peregrine’s entrance. And with each turn J.R. felt his desire and willpower fade more rapidly until, on the last turn he heard Minion’s voice in his mind. ‘J.R., it’s Minion, I’m speaking to you telepathically. You have to hold on. Don’t give in, you can do it. I know it all seems overwhelming. And I know it wasn’t one of your personal dreams or aspirations to take my place as the Whiffler, Protector-of-Dreams. But you do have it in you; otherwise you wouldn’t have wanted to save Preston. So hold on.’

  As Jicky-Jack landed, and a group of smaller falcons rolled out a purple carpet embroidered in gold with the words, Whiffler’s Walkway, J.R. shook his head in confusion, trying to understand what just happened,

  “Here’s where we part company, J.R.,” said Jicky-Jack. “It’s up to you and Minion now. Remember I’ll always be available for you, anywhere, anytime. Just call me.”

  Jicky-Jack saluted J.R. then made a hasty departure back to the sky.

  “But call you how?” yelled J.R. “What’s your number?” For a second, J.R. watched Jicky-Jack fade into the battle in the distant sky, and then he chuckled. “Okay, I just asked a bird for its phone number.”

  He turned and faced the army of Peregrine Falcons standing before him on both sides of a long purple carpet. His eyes followed the line of the carpet all the way to the pearl-blue light radiating from the peregrine’s entrance.

  Wow, thought J.R., is this really all for me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Shadows Show Secret Signs

  J.R. stood alone on the Whiffler’s Walkway, as the only Homo Sapien Erectus, which made him feel a little uncomfortable considering he was surrounded by thousands of rows of Peregrine Falcons, all standing at attention in honor of him. What’s more, none of them made a peep. As a matter of fact the only sounds he heard were those of distant battle cries.

  “Ah yes, now let’s see, hmm . . . ok,” said J.R., mumbling and fumbling for words as he saw one of the normal-sized falcons, a young one, grin at him. J.R. smiled back realizing his he’d been found out. “Let us continue on to the entrance,” he announced, as he took a step forward and flinching at the synchronous sound of thousands of claws scratching the ground in unison.

  J.R. stopped and looked around. He took another step and the birds did it again. Then he took three steps and they did it three times more, all in one harmonious movement. He decided to take one more step but this time instead of completing the step he stood on one foot with the other in the air. He looked around and all the falcons were doing the same, standing on one leg. He laughed for a moment at the humor of it then heard the sound of flapping wings behind him. He looked. It was another giant Peregrine and on its back was Minion. J.R. hopped around in a circle, on one leg to face Minion who slid off the bird’s back. As Minion approached J.R. the peregrines returned to the scratching in unison with each step Minion took. And all the while J.R. remained perched on one leg.

  “J.R., my dear boy,” said Minion. “I see you’ve made it.” Minion stopped to observe J.R. standing on one leg. “J.R., they’re Peregrine Falcons, not Pelicans. You can put your foot down now.” Minion laughed.

  J.R. glanced at his feet and quickly corrected his footing.

  “Let’s go, my young Whiffler. We have no time to waste.”

  That’s it, thought J.R. curiously. No hello, no other salutations, no formalities, nothing? That’s weird. But he followed alongside Minion, and the falcons continued their scratching.

  “Why do they do that, Minion?” asked J.R.

  “Well, over the years I’ve been told it’s their way of saluting us and drowning out the sound of our footsteps so none of Dorian’s inner selves can hear us. I don’t know . . . and I really don’t care we have to hurry.”

  “Oh, ok,” responded J.R., as he fell behind Minion’s long advancing strides. Something doesn’t feel right, he thought. But he had no idea what it could be so he just followed. “So when will I get to see Pip and Thomas again?”

  “You probably won’t, J.R.,” said Minion, “they were infected by the pandemic. They’re in the hands of Dorian’s pangolins. Probably will be a lost cause to get them back.”

  Now I know there’s something wrong,
thought J.R., Minion would never say getting someone back from Dorian’s army is a lost cause. Protecting kids from Dorian’s pandemic is what Minion lived for. If they were truly in the hands of Dorian, Minion would be talking about how to get them back.

  J.R. fell further behind in the march toward the entrance, and watched Minion’s shadow as they moved ahead. And he quickly noticed that Minion’s shadow didn’t match his body. Minion was dressed in leather moccasins, pants, and a vest. But the shadow was a draping, lurking kind of shadow that matched someone wearing a cloak or hooded robe. J.R. stopped dead in his tracks on the Whiffler’s Walkway. “That’s not Minion,” he whispered to himself. “It’s Dorian, in disguise.”

  J.R. looked around as the falcons observed Minion, or at least the person who looked like Minion. Then he made a bold, last-minute decision. “STOP,” he yelled in a panic. And everyone except Minion did just as he ordered. “That man is not Minion,” declared J.R. to the falcons. “It’s your enemy Dorian, in a disguise to look like Minion.”

  Minion kept walking even though he turned his head back to look at J.R. And the bird’s heads shifted left then right, looking at Minion then back to J.R.

  “It’s true,” said J.R. pointing at him, “If you don’t believe me look at his shadow.”

  All the falcons did as J.R. suggested.

  “See, the shadow doesn’t match his body,” directed J.R. “Look there’s no legs.”

  Minion stopped and looked around at the falcons. “Are any of you going to question me?” he said, “Question who I am, and what I’m here to do? I am here to transition J.R. Timble into the role of the new Whiffler. You know that, right?”

  All the falcons fell to a relaxed posture and nodded their heads yes in acknowledgement.

  “Now . . . come here boy,” said Minion. “What’s gotten into you? There isn’t much time.”

  J.R watched as Minion turned toward the peregrine’s entrance and began a steady unyielding jog toward the light. He couldn’t help but think Minion sounded a tad bit like the voice of the man in the TV interview. And he continued watching the shadow behind Minion as it morphed into a figure that had two heads, four arms and four legs all attached to one body.

  “Look,” yelled J.R. pointing at the disfigured shadow.

  All the falcons, large and small, began screeching in some kind of alarming bird code then flooded the sky, and within seconds formed a tightly tiered wall in front of the entrance.

  Then, as if popping at its seam, the shadow cast behind Minion tore open and out popped Preston’s inner self in the form of a pangolin just as J.R. saw him back in the castle. It fell to the ground. And suddenly Minion’s figure stopped and fell to its knees. “Get me out of this thing,” yelled a disgruntled voice. The figure pitched and struggled, and its outer skin began grotesquely peeling away.

  “It’s you,” yelled J.R. “That reporter from the pandemic report on TV, Dr. Dorian.” Panic filled his chest.

  More pangolins began emerging from the same shadow now cast by Dorian’s body. It was as if someone had unzipped an opening in the surface of the ground and set them free. J.R. tried to help Preston’s inner self to its feet. “I haven’t forgotten my promise, Preston. Hang on.”

  “What are you doing?” bellowed Dorian, “Phillip P. Preston the third belongs to me. His life is doomed and he will always be what he is now, a nothing. He will never amount to anything. He gave up. He lost his willpower so he’s mine. So get it straight, you wannabe Whiffler.” Dorian opened the palm of his hand and a black bolt of electricity struck Preston, knocking him back down.

  Frozen in place, J.R. looked at the pangolin that was Preston’s inner self and then heard Minion’s voice in his mind again. ‘J.R., it’s Minion, follow your willing-heart and do what you feel is right. Make the best decision you can and do it. I’m through the entrance already. I’m waiting for you. You’re strong enough J.R., you can do it.’

  Dorian threw another black bolt of electricity at Preston’s inner self and J.R. stepped in the line of fire, absorbing all the pain and damage it could inflict. His knees felt weak. He staggered back, but remained standing.

  “Timble, your gallantry is so predictable,” yelled Dorian in a sinister laugh as he threw two more black charges, each bolt hitting J.R. in the chest.

  And with each hit, J.R. stumbled backwards, unaware that Preston’s inner self was becoming lighter and lighter in color, fading away from its dark charcoal-gray pangolin look.

  “Thank you J.R.,” uttered Preston’s inner self, from behind. “You said you would help me but I didn’t believe you. I didn’t think anybody cared.”

  Gathering his bearings, J.R. managed to turn and smile at Preston’s inner self. “Keep believing,” he said, as he turned and sprinted past Dorian heading for the entrance. I have to get through before it’s too late.

  “Ah, not so fast, my little would-be-Whiffler,” said Dorian, throwing another black bolt of voltage at J.R., this time hitting him in the back.

  J.R. stumbled forward but managed to keep running. And as he neared the wall the falcons had formed, out of themselves, in front of the entrance, Dorian threw two more bolts. J.R. hit the ground and stopped moving. ‘Get up J.R.,’ he heard Minion’s voice say in his mind. ‘You have to get to the circle. You can’t let the hand stop you. Step into the circle. Make a different decision. Use a different approach. You can do it. Keep believing.’ J.R. lifted his head and saw Dorian throwing more volts into Preston. “Dorian,” he yelled, as two of the large peregrines helped him to his feet. “I can help you too.”

  Dorian turned his head. “What did you say?”

  “I can help you too,” said J.R., closing his eyes, “I saw it, Dorian. I know. You were on the Gold List but moved to the Black List.”

  Dorian became furious, and hit J.R. with two more black bolts at the same time, one from each hand. J.R. slammed into the tower of falcons.

  “How dare you pretend to know me,” yelled Dorian.

  “It can happen, Dorian,” yelled J.R. in pain. “You lost your way and you lost your willpower. All you need is a willing-heart.”

  J.R. saw a look of confusion overcome Dorian’s face. Then he turned toward the tower of falcons in front of the entrance. Three of them stepped aside and J.R. advanced toward the opening. “I can help you Dorian, you’ll see.”

  “No,” yelled Dorian, “J.R. Timble, you will not be the next Whiffler, Protector-of-Dreams.” He bent over, as if to summon all his power, rocked back like winding up for a pitch and threw continuous black bolts at J.R.

  “No,” bellowed Preston’s inner self. “Leave him alone.”

  J.R. looked back and saw Preston’s inner self run into the path of Dorian’s bolts.

  “Run, J.R.,” yelled Preston’s inner self. “Get through the entrance before it’s too late.”

  Charging into the pearl-blue light radiating from the crystals that formed the peregrine’s entrance, J.R. couldn’t help but wonder what was on the other side and why they were protecting it from Dorian in the first place.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Unbelievable Becomes Believable

  J.R. shielded his eyes from the bright light reflecting off the surface of crystal formations that shaped the floor, walls and ceiling of what looked to him to be a tunnel that ran deep into the mountain. Something about the way it sparkled made him feel safe, safer than being outside with Dorian anyway. But that feeling faded fast because, behind him, enormous triangular, square and hexagonal-shaped crystal rods began slowly pushing up through the floor, protruding from the walls, and crisscrossing in every imaginable diagonal pattern. The entrance was closing.

  His heartbeat jumped to a rapid pound, like the sound of pounding footsteps, a sound he confused with that of actual pounding feet running in his direction.

  “J.R., wait . . . wait for us,” both Pip and Thomas yelled in unison, their voices carrying through the entrance from beyond the pearl-blue light.

  “Pip? Thomas?�
�� yelled J.R. “Hurry, it’s closing.”

  Thomas and Pip ran through the curtain of pearl-blue light and saw the crystals moving to close off the entrance. Pip backed up.

  “Gang way,” she yelled, taking off in a charge and leaping over a crystal rod pushing through the floor. “Honorary Ambassador coming through.”

  “Hey,” Thomas cried out. “Wait for me.”

  J.R. evaluated the moving activity of the rods and saw a square one moving horizontally along the floor. He knew if Thomas didn’t act, in a matter of seconds his only chance would be sealed off for good. “Thomas, the ground,” yelled J.R. “Get down on the ground and slide through the gap. Hurry there’s another rod moving in.”

  Thomas peeked through an opening at eye level and J.R. pointed at the ground.

  “Are you crazy?” yelled Thomas. “It’s too small; if I get stuck I’ll be crushed.”

  “Thomas,” yelled Pip in a motherly fashion. “Qui-Ocka-Locka-Dea.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Qui-Ocka-Locka-Dea,” repeated Thomas as he took two deep breaths, exhaled and dove onto the slippery surface of the crystal floor and slid through the gap just before the crystal rod moved across and sealed off the opening.

  “Gotcha,” yelled J.R. as he reached out and grabbed Thomas by the shoulder before he slid by.

  “Boy am I glad to see you guys,” said J.R., looking back at the sealed entrance. “That was close.”

  “You aren’t kidding that was close,” agreed Thomas.

  J.R. looked ahead into the crystal tunnel. “Come on let’s go.”

  They followed the tunnel’s twists and turns until it became so narrow they were forced to stop.

  “Okay this isn’t good,” said Thomas.

  “Come on,” said J.R. as he sat in a smooth gully in the middle of the floor. “Get behind me. We’ll slide the rest of the way.”