The Long Journey Home (Across The Lake Book 2)

by Doug Kelly

  THE LONG JOURNEY HOME

  A novel by

  Doug Kelly

  Andy Weir

  The Long Journey Home is the sequel and conclusion to

  Doug Kelly’s bestselling dystopian novel, Across The Lake.

  —Novels written by Doug Kelly—

  INTO THE DARKNESS SERIES:

  Book 1: Into The Darkness

  Book 2: Fade To Black

  ACROSS THE LAKE SERIES:

  Book 1: Across The Lake

  Book 2: The Long Journey Home

  Copyright © 2015 Doug Kelly

  This is an original work of fiction by Doug Kelly, who holds the sole rights to all the characters and concepts herein. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this novel may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Cover art: SelfPubBookCovers.com/houchi

  Edited by Carol Madding

  To my children.

  They inspire me in all aspects of my life.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Throughout the night, hunger and thirst stalked Aton as he went down the dusty road to Acadia. His stomach growled like an angry wolf concealed in the shadows, snarling from behind the tall grass that lined the edges of the dirt path as its red, bloodshot eyes watched him from beyond the dark border of the trail for a moment of weakness, waiting for his perseverance to waver and expose his soft underbelly so it could eviscerate him with starvation’s fangs, which were as sharp and fatal as the grim reaper’s scythe. All night long, his pace was slow, but steady, and he never blinked when the glowing, red eyes of famine and dehydration cast their gaze upon him, or flinched when he felt the jagged pangs of hunger nipping at his heels. Each determined step took him closer to his boat and escape, but more importantly, each step took him closer to Acadia, where he had unfinished business.

  At the break of dawn, he saw a narrow stream intersecting the road just ahead. It was a small creek, not much of an obstacle for a weary man to cross. His thirst motivated his heavy feet to move faster, and so they did. At the edge of the water, he went to his hands and knees. With his palms on the streambed, he bent at the elbows, went face first into the babbling brook, and seemed to inhale his first drink of the precious fluid. The water was so refreshing that he went prone in the stream, let the cool liquid rush over him, and he tried to rinse his misery away. He kept drinking until his belly felt like it would explode, but he was still very hungry. He stayed in the running water and washed the dried blood and dirt from his clothes and body.

  It was not often in his life that he had been this famished. His stomach felt like a tight knot tied around a sharp blade. As his ravenous craving for something to eat rattled his skeleton again like an angry prisoner wanting to escape, he remembered times of hunger in the forest where his clan lived, after he had ventured too far away from home without food, and not finding anything to forage in the timbers because the forest’s cupboards were bare. That had been a different kind of hunger. In the familiar woods, he had known in which direction home was, and home always had food, so there had been no need to panic; just turn around and go home. Now he was desperate. He had no home, no tools, and no weapons, just his hands and his hunter’s instincts, so he put his clever mind to work.

  In the quiet of the morning, he heard crickets chirping, so he rose from the water to get a breakfast of insects, and he used his keen ears to narrow down his prospective meal’s location. Near the stream bank, on his hands and knees again, he began to spread the tall grass and looked for small, black shadows jumping away. During the hunt, his hand discovered an empty plastic shampoo bottle under a patch of dry grass. He had found empty plastic bottles with faded lettering from the Americans before, so that was nothing new or unexpected. He was literate, so if the words on the container had been visible, he could have read the contents, but he still would not have understood the bottle’s purpose. It never ceased to amaze him how light and pliable that mysterious material was that the Americans used, or what they had used those various containers for, but he was too hungry for intellectual reflections on past purposes. When he had hunted in the woods near similar streams, he had found comparable empty plastic bottles that minnows swam into for shelter. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to eat some raw fish, no matter how small they might be, he placed the plastic container into a calm section of a bend in the stream to capture some minnows, intending to come back for the tiny fish after they had time to discover and swim into the bottle, as if it were a natural shelter. Knowing that would not be enough to drive his hunger away, he took a stick, began to dig away a portion of the creek bank, and created a shallow pool for catching more minnows. As he dug, he ate every worm he encountered. A dragonfly buzzed his ear. It would take too much energy to chase the flying insects, so he thought of a method to trap them.

  He went to a nearby pine tree and found a damaged section of bark that was leaking sap where a white-tailed buck had rubbed and scrapped its antlers against the trunk during last year’s mating season. As autumn had neared and the velvet had begun to peel from the buck’s antlers, its hormone levels began to spike, and its tolerance for other males began to wane. It was during this same time, when its antlers had ceased growing and begun to calcify, that other bucks began sparring with males in the group to vie for dominance. As its testosterone level continued to increase, the buck broke out of its group, ventured out in search of its own turf, and marked its territory on a pine tree, to Aton’s benefit.

  He put the tacky sap on half the length of several sticks, then he stabbed their opposite ends into the soft ground, near the water where the dragonflies had been flying. He hoped the sticky pinesap would trap them when they perched on the twigs. Then he went back on his hands and knees, crawling forward in the tall grass, pinching crickets from the ground and eating them as fast as he could find them. He ate the crickets, legs and all, as he encountered them, but he removed the grasshoppers’ legs before consuming them, because they felt jagged and prickly against his tongue while chewing. All the insects had more crunch than flavor. After he had eaten his fill of crickets, grasshoppers, and the occasional beetle, he went back to the water and noticed his tacky sticks looked like they had bloomed with colorful flower petals of springtime. On the ends of the twigs, trapped in the pine resin, the rainbow assortment of dragonfly colors moved like pretty flowers in a gentle breeze. He ate them, wings and all.

  As the trapped minnows darted around the shallow pool that he had created in the stream bank, the morning light reflected back in quick flashes from their silver scales. Before scooping them from the water, he dammed the pool’s narrow entrance to keep them from fleeing. He cupped his
hands together and drained some of the water away to get a closer inspection of his catch. Six little fish stared up at their captor. After he pinched them with his muddy fingers, they squirmed and flopped, desperately trying to escape. None got away, and he swallowed them headfirst. The antique shampoo bottle held three more minnows, and three more slid down his throat.

  Finally, he had eaten, but he was still very tired. He had walked all night and felt delirious from everything that he had endured. It was a struggle to keep his eyelids from closing, even if it was for just a moment whenever he stopped moving so he could swallow an insect or a squirming fish. The tall grass looked like the best place to rest, sleep, and recover from his recent traumatic endeavors. He did not want to sleep for very long, because if Grinald’s campaign were short, just a brief siege to create a common enemy that would occupy his troops and test their loyalty, then unruly soldiers would soon be coming back down this road, returning to Acadia. He convinced himself that the rising sun would awaken him after a brief respite. That way, at least he could get some rest before the long walk back to Acadia and his boat, and then he would leave that foul place, but before he could leave Acadia, he wanted to speak with Hauk the slave one more time.

  During his stint in Grinald’s battle camp, Aton had time to reflect on all the cruel things he had experienced and witnessed, such as the constant examples of injustice, and all the inhuman indignities he had suffered after escaping from his home region in flight from Olar’s domain, and the tyranny of warlords that seemed to flourish perpetually. After witnessing so much treachery and enduring constant humiliations, he finally realized just how common, wicked and malicious people were, and how well they thrived in so many different places. While he had been in Acadia, as he had passed through that town on his way to find battle and manhood, Hauk, a person with the least to give because he was just a wounded man, an injured soldier, and a slave, had extended to a stranger unconditional kindness, even after humanity had turned its back on him. Through Hauk, Aton had seen a glimmer of human compassion behind the dark eyes of the slave, and although it was only flickering like a weak candle in a gloomy cellar, he sensed that Hauk possessed a healthy benevolent spirit, however ironic that seemed to be. He thought they could be good friends, maybe companions in adventure, while they both escaped from oppression and treachery. Before going to his boat and escaping from the area, he was determined to talk with Hauk and plead with him that they should both leave Acadia. Aton fully intended to persuade Hauk to escape from his master, and they would both travel away to a better place and start new lives. Although Aton had no idea where that better place might be, he knew that life as a free man would be more important than the final destination to someone who had suffered a lifetime of bondage, scarred by metal shackles.

  Just as he finished flattening a stand of grass for bedding to sleep on, he heard the familiar sound of horse hooves, and creaking wheels grinding against wagon axles, approaching on the road from the direction in which he had come.

  On his knees, crouched low behind the grass, he could see the lone wagon. A single horse pulled it, head low as it moved at a slow pace. The wagon abruptly rose and fell with each rut in the road, and he could see one man at the reins, holding them loosely, letting the horse dictate which side of the trail to trot on at its own leisurely speed. It was not transporting warriors leaving battle, and it was not even a supply wagon from the conflict, but there was something in the back of the cart, shifting with each bump in the road. The wagoner’s head was bobbing, as if he were fighting sleep. Since he did not appear to be a warrior leaving Grinald’s battle camp, Aton thought it might be safe to reveal himself. All he wanted to do was get back to his boat by way of Acadia, and the driver had the cart headed in that direction. He was going to risk emerging from the weeds and becoming a beggar by asking for a ride. In his haste to stand, he did not even consider that he might appear to be a bandit dressed in tattered clothes, who was suddenly rising from the tall grass near the stream, ready to take the driver’s life. With some sense of relief, he had not seen a bow or spear near the carter. If the man drew a weapon and attacked, Aton had already decided that he would just run away for the cover of the woods. He was sure the wagoner would not pursue him, someone that appeared like a ragged beggar, and leave the horse and cart unattended on the road. Therefore, Aton stood and awkwardly announced his presence.

  “Hello,” said Aton as he quickly rose from behind the tall grass, revealing himself.

  Aton’s greeting shocked the man awake from his road trance. Reflexively, the driver grabbed a knife from his boot. Quickly, with eyes accustomed to the sight of highwaymen, the man did not consider Aton and his tattered appearance much of a threat. He just held the reins tightly and looked around, firmly holding his knife ready for any other surprises from the weeds. The horse stopped at the edge of the shallow stream to drink, seemingly unaware that any potential threat had occurred.

  “Mind your habits, boy. I’ll run you through with this,” warned the man as he clearly showed Aton the knife.

  Now that Aton was standing, he could plainly see the man’s cargo. In the rear of the wagon, he had young girls, all dressed similarly. Each had her long hair styled and tied securely with a thin leather strap to prevent the braids from unraveling. All wore brown ruffled dresses, new, but not nice. Each little girl had white powder on her face and red rouge, probably powdered hematite, brushed across her cheekbones. The cargo of young girls all had their sad faces turned to Aton, and his audience waited for his reply.

  “I’m just a weary traveler.” He held his hands above the grass to show that he had no weapons. “I mean you no harm.” Clasping his hands in front of himself and wringing them, he finished with the question, “If you are traveling to Acadia, can I join you? I’m tired and hungry and I don’t think I can travel on foot any farther.”

  The carter’s eyes circled Aton’s wrists. The man wondered if Aton was an escaped slave, but the telltale scars of bondage were absent.

  “I might be headed there. It all depends if I can sell my merchandise beforehand.” He pointed his thumb to the back of the wagon. “I had hoped to find some lonely soldiers on this road to purchase my wares, if you know what I mean.” He winked at Aton and tilted his head back toward the girls, who were silently listening. “Are you a warrior? Maybe lonely, eh?”

  “I’m not a soldier, not anymore.”

  Aton’s tired mind was fuzzy. He did not fully comprehend the man’s offer to sell him one of the girls. He just wanted a ride and needed to sleep, so he reached into his pocket and found the large silver coin that Grinald the warlord had tossed to him on the battlefield. It glittered in the morning light and ignited the merchant’s eyes.

  Ready to make the sale, the man stood tall at the front of the wagon and extended one of his hands to the rear of it while the other still held the reins. “Ah, but you’re lonely. I understand the hardship of battle. Cross my palm with that silver, and take your pick.”

  Aton woke from his stupor and grasped the coin tightly in his hand. His clenched fist made the glint disappear, but the lust for the sale did not vanish from the merchant’s eyes. “Oh, no. Never.” Aton refused the transaction.

  The merchant continued his pitch with more enthusiasm after he had seen the coin disappear in Aton’s retracting hand. “What could be wrong? Look how young they are.” His voice changed to a hushed tone, and he spoke with his hand to the side of his mouth as if he were trying to keep a secret. “I have it on very good authority that these girls are pure, every one.” He dropped the reins that he had held with one hand, then raised his arms and continued the desperate sales pitch to get the silver coin. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime. You have the first pick. Don’t waste your time in a village looking for a woman wearing a courtship orchid. What if her father doesn’t like you? What if she’s from a poor family, and her father can’t provide you with a dowry? Just cross my palm with that silver and you’ll own a woman, or girl, I should
say, that could never leave you. Besides, you would be doing them a favor. Nomads have overwhelmed their village. Who else could take care of them now? They need you.” The merchant licked his lips as he thought about how the large coin would feel in his hand.

  “That’s not for me,” said Aton. He slid his hand partway into his pocket and released the coin. It landed with a dull thud.

  “Ah, I can see you want to drive a hard bargain. You look hungry, too. Hold on. You should never negotiate on an empty stomach.” He tossed Aton a raw potato from a sack near his feet. “Eat it, my friend. Eat something first, then we’ll talk. Maybe two of the youngest ones for the coin? Think about it. Just think about it, that’s all I ask.” He turned toward his human cargo and bent at the waist to stroke the braided hair of the closest girl. “Any one of my little kittens will love you.”

  Aton devoured the raw potato and then shook his head. “All I want is a ride to Acadia, or close to it.”

  “Oh, very well, just give me the coin and jump into the back. A ride for that coin, that’s all.” He picked up a riding crop from his bench, and pointed it at Aton. “You’re filthy. Just lie between my two rows of little kittens. They’re clean and I intend to keep them that way.”

  Using his thumb, Aton flicked the coin to the man, and he caught it dexterously. With the precious sliver held tightly, the merchant’s hand slid into his pocket like an evil snake.

  There was no tailgate, so Aton easily jumped into the back of the wagon. Lining each of the two long sides of the cart’s bed was a row of young girls sitting on benches the length of the wagon. Now he could see they had wrists bound with thin leather strips. Between the two rows of brown dresses, he fell to his back, completely exhausted. Before his eyes closed, he saw their sad faces look down at him. Tears had cut vertical channels across the white makeup on their cheeks. They all wore an expression of utter hopelessness. The girl nearest to him, the youngest, had a cornhusk doll she was gently rocking with her bound hands. Their eyes met and the sweet child leaned over him and asked, “Are you afraid? You can hold my doll, if it will make you feel better.”