Some secrets are worthier than others. Remember the satchel? The blood you spilled to claim its contents?
Dorn remembered the satchel.
Have you looked in it of late?
Dorn rushed into his bedroom closet and pulled out boxes from various clothiers in the city. He claimed the satchel that had been hidden behind the pile. He had trusted no one with its contents, so the bag had been with him the day he transferred to this world.
Dorn extracted two large scrolls from the satchel. Thick vellum parchments hung heavy over tarnished pewter rods with ornate ends prickly enough to tear careless skin.
He had “borrowed” the scrolls when they sacked the wizards’ compound on the border of Aandor and Nurvenheim at the beginning of the war. He didn’t know whether they had any practical use. No mage was idiot enough to fool around with exponential sorceries. He didn’t even have the elements he needed to fuel such spells. Dorn had intended to study them at his leisure, for academic purposes of course, once returned home from the campaign.
Twelve wax seals fastened each scroll, one for each mage of the Twelve Kingdoms of Aandor. These were the forbidden magicks; the one area every powerful wizard agreed upon regardless of loyalties to various noble patrons. He had begged his uncle’s court mage to let him study the scrolls that resided in Farrenheil. Dorn’s uncle refused to intercede on his behalf. These sorceries scared everyone who knew of them.
Dorn’s history of court mages was sketchy, but based on the seal of Farrenheil, he surmised these spells hadn’t been opened in nearly two hundred years. He was curious about what material such a diverse group of geniuses—wizards whose beliefs, morals, and ethics ran along a wide spectrum—could actually agree on. He broke the seals and opened the first scroll.
There’s much to work with here.
“Yes.”
Power beyond imagining.
If Dorn could decipher the text coda, power to smite all adversaries and bring an end to his stay in this dreadful place. Dorn would no longer tread lightly on this earth; no longer fear to do what had to be done. These magicks were dangerous indeed, but what did he care for the equilibrium between natural forces here so long as Aandor would not be affected. The detective had found the trail. Soon the boy would be dead, if he wasn’t already, and Dorn would be back in Aandor.
“My lord, news from up north,” came Oulfsan’s voice through the door again.
“Come in,” ordered Dorn.
Oulfsan entered.
“Good news or bad?” Dorn asked.
“Both, my lord. Todgarten is en route to us from the portal.”
“Why? He was ordered to patrol those woods—to keep out of sight and guard the portal.”
“His party is dead,” Oulfsan answered. “Lost in a battle with the centaur witch and Aandoran captain. Only Todgarten survived.”
Dorn was agitated. The pressure in his head increased. “Do you know what this means?” he said. “Our forces are cut in half. No more are likely to come through in time to aid us.” Dorn immediately regretted this show of emotion. Anything other than a cool demeanor broadcasted weakness. It was the damn headaches. “I should have that coward’s ugly head on a pike for surviving. He should have fought to the death with his cohorts.”
“Then we would not have the good news.”
“What is it?”
“Todgarten was adamant that I inform you he has one of the canisters you had sent K’ttan Dhourobi to retrieve from the power station. He is heading back here with it.”
Dorn waited a moment to ensure that he had heard correctly. He looked at the scrolls on his bed. They were no longer hypothetical devices. The fuel he desired was on its way.
“Maybe he can keep his head after all,” Dorn said. “Make sure he has all the help he needs to get back here safely.”
Oulfsan left.
Today started the endgame of this whole affair. The dawn of a new era.
Dorn raised a toast to his epiphany and drank heartily from the bottle. The voices in his head, pleased by his reborn commitment, laughed bravely in unison.
CHAPTER 21
EXODUS
Daniel wore his Orioles baseball cap low and eyed the station police just below the horizon of the bill. There was no way to know if they’d be looking for him yet. To most he’d appear like an average teen in jeans and with the ever-present stuffed backpack. No one could see the volcano of his turmoil beneath.
The bus station was almost empty. A few stragglers tried to get on the remaining buses heading out of town; the hour was filled with desperate people. Only one ticket attendant served the Greyhound passengers. Daniel stood in a roped line behind a punked-out girl in fishnet stockings, Doc Martens, leather skirt, and pink hair. Her black mascara was applied thickly, so much so, her blue eyes were luminescent by contrast. She’d popped the eyes out of her teddy-bear backpack and sewn black Xs in their place. A chain of metal rings and bolts festooned her eyebrows and nose. She had a nice butt.
Behind him skulked a college student with massive duffel bags. Around the station, old black men swept and mopped the terminal with perfunctory rhythm. How many runaways had they witnessed passing through this nexus in their years? A man, probably homeless, sat, or slept, on the wooden bench near the ticket counters.
Daniel was a killer. This new reality resonated through him like a vibration within a bell. He tried to think of ways to make it all better, but he couldn’t undo it. A joke from a list of Confucius axioms looped in his brain: “Virginity like bubble, one prick, all gone.” His bubble, the one that separated the ocean of chaos and violence from the good student, so fragile, had already dissipated like a raindrop into the sea. Daniel could barely remember a life prior to Clyde’s dying eyes staring up at him.
Out of nowhere, a great pressure filled Daniel’s head. He suddenly became nauseated and gripped the metal rope pole beside him to steady himself. Images forced their way into his head, a stormy night, a large tree, the sensation of being cradled in the arms of a woman wearing a hood. The pole wobbled under his weight, in danger of giving way. The pressure grew. Daniel knew he was about to go down, drawing the attention of everyone in the place. Strong hands grabbed and steadied him. The pressure began to subside. His stomach settled down. The images stopped coming.
“You okay, dude?” the college kid said, releasing Daniel.
“Yeah,” was all Daniel could get out, finding his legs again and trying to catch his breath.
“What was that?”
What the hell was that? he repeated the question to himself. “I think I ate something bad,” Daniel said.
“Next,” the ticket lady said.
Daniel’s state improved quickly. He let go of the pole and straightened himself. Those strange images haunted him.
“Next!” the woman repeated.
Daniel shuffled up to the counter and steadied himself against it. He had to get out of town. He would worry about the episode later. It was probably just anxiety, he lied to himself. “New York,” he told the woman.
She had a slow methodical way about her. The end of creation couldn’t rush this woman. “Next bus leaves at 11:00 P.M. That’ll be sixty dollars.”
“Sixty…?” He would need some money for food wherever he ended up.
“Do you want the ticket?”
“Uh…”
“Step aside if you don’t know where you are going, sir.”
“What about Washington?”
“State or the District?”
“D.C.”
“We have a Greyhound bus for twenty-five dollars leaving at 10:20 P.M. There’s a local express service that starts at 6:30 A.M. that’s only fifteen dollars—if you want cheap.”
“No, I’ll take the one tonight.”
The ticket lady threw him a knowing glance. How much more obvious could it be that he wanted to be anywhere but here as soon as possible—a teen with no specific destination? A runaway. Daniel would have to find a ride out of Washington, D.C., fa
st. This woman would rat him out to the cops when they canvassed the station. Only a half hour until his bus left.
He took his ticket and looked for a place to sit. Most of the station was roped off for cleaning. There was a spot on the bench beside the homeless man.
The man’s odor greeted Daniel ten feet from the bench. A scruffy, graying individual, he wore a trench coat that looked reasonably new (considering the stink) and a brimmed hat that looked like it belonged in a black-and-white movie, which the man wore low, covering his eyes. He looked to be sleeping sitting up, probably because the cops would eject him if he laid down.
Daniel sat at the farthest end of the bench from Stinky. A discarded newspaper helped him pass the time: a kidnapped baby in Cleveland was returned to its parents; India and Pakistan had backed down from nuclear annihilation; and Mafia capo Dominic Tagliatore was out on a million dollars’ bail pending his trial for racketeering. He should get out of town while he has the chance, Daniel thought. The boy pondered his own options. South America was as good a place as any. He could learn Spanish. He could still go to art school. Life wasn’t over. Not for him, anyway.
Clyde’s dead body flashed in front of Daniel’s eyes. The boy grappled with his new role as a murderer. Through reasonable justification of his actions—turning the events over and over again in his mind—he concocted a list, which included a column of positive ramifications regarding what he had done. Fact: His mother and little sister were better off without Clyde. Fact: With Clyde gone, Daniel would live to see his fourteenth birthday. Fact: The state of Maryland was short one worthless bum on its welfare rolls. Fact: Jessica Conklin wouldn’t have to spread her legs for loser Clyde anymore. Fact … the list lost credibility after its first two particulars. Those reasons would have to carry Daniel’s burden against his cumbersome list of sins.
“Running away?” said a voice beside Daniel.
Stinky’s breath traveled like a cloud of sewer gases—everything about this man was rancid. This guy would sell him out for a sandwich and a bath if he got the chance.
“Visiting my aunt,” Daniel replied.
“I had an aunt once,” the man said.
Daniel pretended to read the newspaper.
“I ran away once, too,” Stinky continued. “I was a little older than you, though … seventeen. Went to California. Life was good. I partied and screwed to my heart’s content. You going to California, kid? ’Course, it isn’t like the way it was when I was there. Flowers, free love, and few Republicans.”
“Wasn’t Reagan a Republican?”
He looked at Daniel with a spark of admiration. “You’re pretty smart for a punk-ass kid. What the hell you running away for? Stick around here and finish school, you might get into Johns Hopkins or something.”
Do they have an annex in Costa Rica? Daniel wondered.
A police officer approached their bench, his twenty-year love affair with the doughnut evident as it hung over his belt.
“Hey kid, you traveling alone?” he asked.
Daniel’s heart dropped to his stomach and lodged in his throat at the same time.
“Kid’s with me,” Stinky said.
“Yeah, right,” the cop said. “You running away, kid?” the cop asked Daniel.
“I said he’s with me,” the homeless man repeated.
“This true?” the cop asked Daniel.
“Yeah,” Daniel said. Stinky was going to want something for this. Fair enough.
The cop did not look convinced.
“Officer,” the homeless man said, “this is my sister’s kid. I … I fell off the wagon. I’m not the best example of a righteous citizen. He came down here to get me.”
“Where are you headed?” the cop asked.
“Washington,” Daniel cut in. He regretted giving that much away, but he had the ticket as proof and he couldn’t afford to get arrested.
“May I see your tickets?” the cop ordered.
Daniel waved his pass and tried to think of an explanation for Stinky. To his surprise, the homeless man pulled out his own Greyhound bus ticket. The cop scrutinized the tickets before handing both back to Daniel.
“You better hold on to these, kid,” he said. “Your uncle’s liable to cash them in for a pint.”
Stinky laughed.
“Okay,” Daniel said, confused. He looked at Stinky’s ticket: Washington, D.C., at 10:20 P.M.
As soon as the cop left, he handed the man back his ticket. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You look like a kid who could use some time to sort things out.”
“Is it that obvious?”
The man shifted his weight on the bench and sat upright.
“Cop thought so,” he said. “Look, it’s none of my business why you’re taking off. I had my reasons when I was younger and you have yours. But the world’s a fucked-up place, kid. Sometimes traveling with a friend makes it a little better. I’m heading south. You’re welcome to come with me for as long as you want. There’s a hot meal, a shower, and a bed in North Carolina if you want it.”
“What’s in North Carolina?” Daniel asked.
“My sister’s place. Except, I kind of ran out of money and have to thumb it from Washington. Every little bit helps, right? Maybe we’ll get lucky and pick up a ride.”
Not with your stench, Daniel thought. The guy was smart. Daniel had enough money to buy food along the trip, and friends don’t let friends go hungry. Stinky had earned his meal ticket. If not for him, Daniel would be on his way to a police station now.
“Okay,” Daniel said. “For now.”
The man put his hand out to the boy. “What’s your name, kid?”
Daniel hesitated, wondering if the stench would rub off on him. Ignoring the hand would be an unceremonious way to begin a new partnership. He shook Stinky’s hand, which was cold and clammy. “It’s Daniel.”
“Daniel. Dan. Dan the Man. Good to meet you, Dan.” Stinky shook Daniel’s hand heartily. “I’ve got a good feeling, Dan. Yessireebob, a good feeling. Helping you out will be like a karmic repair patch to my troubled and not so noble life. Just want to say thank you. You’re helping me put my life back in order.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Daniel said, feeling like he’d missed something esoteric. “Uh, what should I call you, Mister…?”
“Dretch. But my friends call me Colby. Yessiree, Dan the Man, everything from this day forward is going to be just fine.”
EPILOGUE
The hum of the bus on the road had a soothing effect on Daniel. Or perhaps it was just the act of being in motion—moving away from the place that had caused him so much grief in his life.
The effects of the episode at the station had worn off. The speed with which it overcame him was troubling. The last thing he needed was health problems. There was more to it than just anxiety, though. Those images were as real as memories—as though recalling an experience. Daniel had a good recollection of his past until he was about three. He didn’t remember any of that stuff during the incident. What was happening to him? He rested his head against the window using his rolled-up sweater for a pillow.
His new friend Colby slept in the seat next to him. There was something crafty about him—the way he talked—as though he knew more about the situation than he was letting on. At the same time, there was something comforting about having him on the aisle, like a sentinel positioned between Daniel and the world.
The man’s smell was not as bad as when they had met; though reactions from the passengers passing Colby on their way to the toilet in back suggested Daniel had only acclimated to the stench. That was fine by him. Lots of fine-smelling people had let Daniel down in his thirteen years. One trustworthy companion, if that’s what the man turned out to be, was worth a rank whiff.
The stars were bright against an inky sky over the Parkway between Baltimore and Washington. Mankind used to look into the heavens for portents of the future, but the light, traveling incredible distances, was actually a cosmic fossil of a billion
years past. Whatever civilization circled a star by the time its light touched our eyes was probably long dead. Still, Daniel concluded, a talent for divination would have been useful—his future looked like a blank page, and he had no pen.
Everything that lived came from the spark of a great fire ignited long ago, a big bang. The universe existed in a cycle of expansion and contraction, recycling itself from its own dead matter over an incalculable number of years. One day, the sun would go nova, destroying the solar system, and the spent matter would collect into clouds that would at some point form a new star. If this was the way of the universe—a destructive end in order to begin anew—then why not the same for Daniel? Why couldn’t he rise from the ashes of his own past?
“Stuck in a cycle?” Colby asked.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Daniel responded. “Thought you were asleep.”
“Don’t have much use for sleep,” Colby said. “I might have more than I bargained for soon enough.”
It was the first thing Colby had said that had the gravity of unadulterated truth.
“You sick or something?” Daniel asked.
“In a way. We all have our crosses to bear. Yours is fairly obvious.”
“Really? What’s my story?” Daniel asked. He was intrigued by the man’s level of insight. There was more to this bum than what he projected.
“The cops want you for something.”
Daniel regretted the game already. The man was, perhaps, too perceptive to be a safe traveling companion.
“You don’t say,” Daniel remarked, trying to play it cool.
“Relax, kid. I don’t plan to sell you out. It was obvious back in the station.”
“And this doesn’t scare you? To get caught helping me?”
“How do you know I’m not running from the law, too?” Colby lobbed back.
“Good point. Still—”
“You have a good chance of dropping off the radar before any cop gets his hands on you.”
“Had experience with the law, I take it?”
Awakenings Page 28