by S. G. Rogers
At least the tingling sensation in his wrist had stopped. Jon took some deep breaths and tried to pull himself together.
“Okay…this is a seriously unplanned turn of events, but don’t panic,” he told himself, even as his hands were trembling.
The proprietor of the nearest stall removed his carhop hat and tried to shoo Jon away with it. His beefy forearms would have intimidated even Chaz. “Move along. I'll have no layabouts taking up seats meant for good paying customers,” he yelled.
Rudeness always brought Jon’s ire to the surface.
“I didn’t realize this bale of hay was reserved,” he retorted.
An elderly man sat nearby, sipping a bowl of soup. “Give the lad a break, Hafne. Can't you see he’s not from around here?”
“Stay out of it, Dorsit,” Hafne replied.
“It's okay, I'm going,” Jon muttered. “I wouldn’t want to get sick from your cooking anyway.”
Hafne's eyes narrowed as he peered at the cuff on Jon’s wrist. One of his enormous hands descended onto Jon’s shoulder. “That's a transporter cuff, boy. Which wizard did you steal it from?” he snarled.
Transporter cuff?
“I didn’t steal it. It's mine,” Jon said. He squirmed to free himself from Hafne’s grip. “Let go.”
Dorsit stared at Jon, his hood falling back to reveal his skeletal face. He set his bowl of soup down so fast some of it slopped out onto the table. “Excuse me—”
“Oi, cygards, I've collared me a thief!” Hafne interrupted, gesturing to someone across the road. “Over here!”
“Hush, Hafne,” Dorsit whispered. “Don’t make trouble.”
Jon guessed “cygards” were some kind of policemen. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned.
But Hafne had caught the attention of a couple of huge, chainmail-clad brutes. They disengaged themselves from a booth selling ale and clanked in his direction. Jon’s mouth went dry. An overgrown carhop was pinning him down, and he was about to be arrested by two medieval enforcers for something he didn't do. From the unforgiving look of the cygards, Jon doubted he was going to be read his rights. His adrenaline surged and he buried a panic-driven fist into Hafne's gut. To Jon’s surprise, Hafne actually doubled over. His grip loosened, and Jon seized the opportunity to flee.
“Wait!” Dorsit cried, but Jon was already gone.
Darting through the marketplace, Jon searched for a place to hide. He finally took cover in a tent. The two cygards ran past, grunting, as they continued their pursuit. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the tent, Jon saw a boy crouched in the corner, watching him. He wore a black cap and was little older than Sela.
“Hey. Sorry to bust in on you, but I seem to be attracting the wrong kind of attention,” Jon said.
The boy eyed his clothing. “You're not from here.”
“No, and people don't seem to like me much.”
“In Mandral Territory, to be seen without your head covering is to be arrested as a vagrant. Unless your master speaks on your behalf.”
“I’m my own master,” Jon said. “Ever hear of a wizard named Efysian?”
“Good Solegra!” the boy exclaimed. “You'll be punished awful when he finds out you've run off.”
As Jon peeked through the tent flap, he was dismayed to see at least a half dozen more cygards had joined the search. “Yeah, well, it seems he'll have to take a number.”
The boy noticed the cuff on Jon’s wrist. “You've stolen Efysian's transporter cuff, too?” he gasped.
“No, it's mine,” Jon said, but the boy gave him a dubious look. “What's your name, kid?”
“Mozer.”
“Mozer, my name is Jon. Would you do me a favor and check outside for cygards?”
The boy didn’t need a second invitation. He darted past, shying away from Jon as if he were about to melt his face. Once outside the tent, he began to yell. “Help, Master Aeltin! Cygards! Thief! Help!”
“That’s peachy,” Jon said. “Thanks, kid.”
He fled into the marketplace again. Spotting a section of woods across a small pasture, he sprinted for cover. When he reached the trees, he discovered they abutted the steep rock face of a hill. His heart sank. With his back literally up against a wall, the only escape would be through an open field. Although Jon was motivated, whether he could outdistance the monstrous cygards or not was debatable.
From his hiding place behind a gnarled oak, Jon counted at least five cygards clanking toward the sound of Mozer's continuous shouting. Several other cygards were questioning a few people who had definitely seen Jon make for the trees, but each one shrugged his or her shoulders in response. Well, maybe the folks of Yden weren't all bad—or maybe they disliked the cygards more than they hated vagrants.
One of the cygards was nearly seven feet tall. He carried a big shiny ax in one hand, a metal prod in the other, and was the most menacing of the bunch. Mozer waved his arms at the towering hulk to get his attention and then pointed in Jon’s direction.
“What a little stinker,” Jon muttered.
Paul Bunyan’s evil twin loped toward the copse of trees, closing the distance more quickly than Jon would have believed possible. As he drew near, he could practically smell the cygard stench—unless what he smelled was his own fear. Before he realized what had happened, the other cygards had also begun to close in on his position, and his escape route was cut off.
“Ophelia, I need your help,” he managed. “I want to go home. Now.”
Ophelia's eyes flared. Jon was so horrified by the looming cygard he couldn't tell if the sensation spreading up his arms was electricity or terror. He saw a flash of light, and the muffled boom of thunder reached his eardrums at the same time the cygard swung his ax. Jon braced himself for the impact of the blade...and then he vanished.
****
Jon materialized in his room, damp, dazed, and more than a little confused. As he stared at the carpet, he noticed his tennis shoes were muddy. Mom is going to be angry, he thought. Maybe I can clean the carpet before she sees the stains. There’s carpet cleaner under the kitchen sink. I’ll get started, just as soon as my knees stop shaking...
Suddenly Jon snapped out of his stupor. He tore off his transporter cuff and ring and chucked them both into his desk drawer. What had made him think he could travel to a strange world and deal with weird beings who wanted to do him serious bodily harm? How could he rescue his father when he'd barely managed to rescue himself? In the space of the past few minutes, he'd been nearly run over and bullwhipped, manhandled by a strange elephant/horse thing, reviled by almost every person he'd met, betrayed by a child, and chased by creepy, evil giants who wore clanking suits of armor.
No superhero, he was done with Yden.
Glancing at the clock, Jon realized he was going to be late. He sprinted nearly a mile to the YMCA, found Sela, and grabbed her paper bag. “Let's go,” he said, dripping with sweat.
“You're a mess,” Sela replied.
“Yeah, totally,” he agreed. “Come on.”
Sela carried the conversation on the way home, talking about weaving ribbons and rags and woolen loops. Jon threw in a grunt here and there to make it seem as if he were listening. What was he supposed to say? Hey, Sela, I've been to Yden and it scared the pants off me, or, Guess what? Your big brother is a big wimp and he’s not going back. How about, Sorry, sis, I bombed at bringing Dad home even before I started.
“You're scared of failing, aren't you?” Sela asked.
Jon stopped abruptly. “What?” How could Sela know what he'd been thinking?
“It's going to be okay,” she said. “I know it’s scary, but you're ready for this.”
He could scarcely believe Sela was clairvoyant. “What are you talking about?”
“Your driver's license test, of course,” she replied. “Isn't that why you’re so wound up?”
“Oh. Yes. Exactly,” he exhaled.
Dread set in as Jon remembered the stupid test. He was a comple
te basket case, his nerves were shot, and he'd probably end up hitting a tree. As soon as he got home, he called Chaz to cancel. His uncle didn't answer his cell phone, so Jon left him a voice mail. Sela made herself a PB&J sandwich while he cleaned up the muddy carpet in his room. Since his appetite was gone, Jon skipped lunch. Just as he put away the carpet cleaner, Chaz called him back.
“What's wrong, Jon?”
“I don't want to go today.”
“You've been looking forward to this for a long time,” Chaz said.
“I'm not up to it, okay? I made a mistake. Maybe I'll try again in a couple of months.”
Chaz said nothing for a few seconds.
“I'll be there a little early,” he said before he rang off.
Darn it all.
Jon knew his uncle was going to force him to keep his appointment. Whenever Chaz made a decision, he always saw it through. That fierce resolve was one of the things Jon admired most about his uncle. His father was the same way. Jon went to the bathroom to throw up.
Sela, of course, was oblivious to his distress. A little while after she finished her lunch, Jon walked her over to Lola's house to spend the afternoon. Chaz was waiting for him when he returned.
“Any broken bones?” he asked, his arms folded across his chest. “Spurting arteries?”
“No, but—”
“Good. Then there’s no reason you can't go get your license.”
“You don't understand, Chaz—”
“I understand there’s no such thing as quitting in this family. Get into the garage and strap on your gloves. I've got about forty-five minutes to whip you into submission.”
“How's that going to help?”
Chaz gave him a steely glare. “After I finish with you, you'll be too scared of me to fail, buddy. Move.”
****
When Jon left for his driver’s test, he was trembling—not from fear this time, but from exhaustion. As Chaz had promised, however, his confidence had been pumped up along with his muscles. About an hour later, Jon had finally earned his license, and Chaz let him drive the Jeep home.
“It’s almost like I’m taking a victory lap at the Indy 500,” Jon said.
“Feels good to be a winner, doesn't it?”
“Not too bad,” Jon said with a big grin. “Thanks, Chaz. I couldn't have done it without you.”
“I'm happy to help. Only promise me you'll never quit again.”
“I promise,” he replied, feeling slightly ashamed. “By the way, I'm supposed to ask you to stay for dinner. It’s steak night.”
“Yeah, your mother said something about dinner. I also heard you ratted me out about Lynn.”
Jon winced. “I'm really sorry. Did you at least ask her for a date yet?”
“Don't rush me,” he said. “I'm getting there.”
****
Just before dinner, Jon gave Chaz the drawing he'd made of Lynn. Chaz stared at it for a few moments. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out the keys to the Jeep, and tossed them to Jon.
“What's this for?” he asked, startled.
“You earned it. When I show this to Lynn, she'll be charmed enough to go for a drive in my Lexus.”
“You got a new Lexus?”
“It was your idea, remember? Your mom is swapping me the Lexus for the Jeep. I'm taking over the payments and insurance until your dad gets back.”
Chaz drove home in the Lexus after dinner, and Jon was left wondering what kind of cool key ring he’d get for his first set of keys. He was so blissed out he was almost able to forget about Yden.
Until bedtime.
Jon picked up his pile of dirty clothes to take to the laundry chute. His fingers encountered something in the pocket of his cargo pants, and he remembered he'd left his sketchbook in them. As he pulled it out, a flattened rose dropped to the floor from in between the pages.
How odd.
Jon flipped the book open to the sketch he'd drawn outside the YMCA, but the page was blank. He stared at the flattened bloom, dumbfounded. His drawing had come to life somehow, in full color no less. It must have happened when he was on Yden.
Rats.
Right when he'd been successfully practicing avoidance, he had to go think about Yden. All the bad memories he’d been suppressing came rushing back. Chaz would probably tell him to suck it up and push the fear aside or some such positive mantra. Not only that, but Jon had promised his uncle he wouldn’t quit ever again.
Fine.
He chucked the squashed rose in the trash and liberated Ophelia and the transporter cuff from their banishment in his desk drawer. After laying the artifacts on his drafting table, Jon sat down and tried to make sense of them. The cuff was apparently some kind a transference device activated by Ophelia. If Jon had understood Hafne correctly, transporter cuffs were supposed to belong only to wizards. If so, it stood to reason his father, Dr. Greg Hansen from Pacific, California, was secretly a Dragon Clan wizard from another dimension on a planet called Yden.
Three months ago, Jon would never have believed it.
The whole idea was absolutely absurd, but he couldn’t refute it. Was his father planning to tell him the truth on his birthday? Had Efysian kidnapped his father because of some ancient clan conflict, or had it been a more personal vendetta? Questions kept running through Jon’s mind, but now that he knew how to use Ophelia and the transporter cuff, he could finally search for some answers.
Unfortunately, there were other troublesome problems brewing in Jon’s immediate future. School was starting in a few days, and he was far from ready.
Chapter Eight
Jon Goes Undercover
The next night, Jon drove the Jeep to the mall to shop. Having outgrown most of his wardrobe over the summer, he needed to pick up new clothes for school. Although there were no uniforms at Pacific High, there was a dress code. Mrs. Hansen sent him to a chain store known for basic casual clothes. Although he'd been in there with her a dozen times before, Jon wandered around feeling overwhelmed. When he ended up at a wall of pants, he finally had to admit he didn’t have a clue. The slacks were categorized by several different styles and colors, not to mention length and waist size.
Just as he was about to give up, one of the store clerks emerged from a nearby storeroom. “Need some help?” she asked, as she juggled an unwieldy pile of jeans.
Her name tag indicated her name was Brett, but Jon was more interested in her green eyes, pert nose, and deep dimples. She had shoulder-length wavy blonde hair with flirty bangs brushing the tips of her long, curly lashes. Usually girls like her wouldn’t bother to talk to him, but at the moment her glossy pink lips were curved in an inviting smile. Jon was amazed at his good fortune.
“Yes, I need help,” he said. “That would be great.”
Brett tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I'll get Pete over here to give you a hand.”
Deflated, Jon watched her walk away. Just as well, he sighed, since he probably would have started to babble like a fool. He returned to scrutinizing the store shelves, wondering how to choose between straight-leg, relaxed, classic, or boot-cut pants. He hoped Pete had a tape measure, too, because Jon didn't know his waist size or inseam either.
“Pete's swamped right now so you're stuck with me.”
Jon’s stomach lifted at the sound of Brett's voice. “Good. I mean...these khakis look good, but I don't know which one to pick.”
Brett scrutinized Jon’s frame for a moment before she pulled a few pairs of pants off the shelves. “Are you looking for shirts as well?”
“I guess so. I'm starting school next week at Pacific High. I need shirts with collars—”
“Oh, yes, I know their dress code. Let's get you into a dressing room, and I'll bring you a couple of things to try.”
Everything she brought him was nearly the perfect size, and it became difficult to narrow her selections down. Jon finally bought four pairs of khakis, two pairs of jeans, a couple of belts, and a raft of shirts.
; “And a partridge in a pear tree,” he joked.
Brett handed him a receipt and his change. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
His face flushed. Stop babbling, he thought. “Oh, just...nothing. Thanks for your help, Brett. You're a terrific salesperson.”
“Thanks. Maybe I'll see you around. I go to Pacific High, too.”
The heavens opened up and the angels began to sing. Although Jon had blown two years worth of allowance, school had never seemed so inviting.
****
Jon used the last couple of days of his summer vacation to gather together what he would need for his return to Yden. His first contact had been a complete disaster. He’d act a little smarter next time, and he would have to have a plan. The people of Mandral Territory had picked him out right away as a stranger, so he'd have to wear clothes that would blend in. It presented a formidable challenge, since his attire couldn't have zippers, plastic buttons, logos, or man-made decorations. In addition, his clothes would need to look handmade and not distinctive in any way.