A Path of Oak and Ash

by M. P. Reeves

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Erik chuckled, obviously enjoying the upper hand. “Now, it’s time to learn. Unless you have further objections?”

  Carrick crossing his arms, huffing.

  “Good.”

  From the pathway in front of Erik’s home he led them east, past other tree born homes until they came to a fork in the path. Directly ahead of them appeared to open into a large common area. Here there were plenty of stone carved benches, wooden buildings constructed on the ground floor that appeared to be workshops and storefronts. Moreover there were people. Folk akin to his uncle. Men, women and children in leather and linen talking, smiling. A duo playing a lute and harp combination by the one roasting pit where some sort of animal was churning above an open flame. It reminded him of a renaissance festival. A severely hardcore renaissance festival minus the plate mail and shoddy keepsake merchandise. People weren’t the only creatures within the common areas, there were a good many animals. A wolf larger than he had ever seen sat patiently by a man reading a book while a pair of foxes rolled in the grass beside a few children who appeared to be playing tag.

  One of the children made eye contact with Carrick as they walked past, his eyes widening in curiosity. With so few people he had to imagine his face was a new one. Carrick gave the boy a little wave.

  Which promptly sent him shrieking for his mama.

  It was then that he realized virtually every pair of eyes in the village had landed on him in some way or another. Many doing their best to do so in a nondescript way, their glances casual, observatory.

  Erik nudged him in the arm. “Pay them no mind, just keep walking.” In any other situation, had Carrick gotten this type of reaction he would have considered himself a social pariah. In High School it was the kind of awkward damnation that kids would face. Shunned by all for no particular reason. Here however, he felt no stress or pain in their gaze. The expressions on their face were curiously curiosity and wonder. Eyes wide as though some sort of celebrity was walking past them. Which was completely nuts.

  The bridge leading over a river at the far end of town stole his attention from the crowd. Whatever was on the other side must have been important, massive statues that were easily twenty five feet tall had been placed at each side of the bridge. Hooded figures with heads bowed looked down over whomever dared cross.

  “What’s up there?”

  “Beyond the bridge is the seat. Where the leaders of our kind guide us.”

  Erik pointed south. “We however, are going this way.”

  With a brief look of longing toward distant bridge and its grand decoration, Carrick complied, falling in stride beside his uncle. Together the pair followed the stone path until it turned to dirt. Through the woods they weaved far south until the thick trees began to spread, grassy knolls replacing the thick wood that surrounded Dre’ien.

  Where the dirt trial ended there were no buildings, trees, or bushes. Just a rolling green field that stretched for miles. In the distance, high hills peaked through the thick white clouds, a flow of brilliant blue streaming down the side of the lower hill into a lake concealed from view. It was breathtaking, the stuff computer wallpapers were made of.

  Erik walked out in front of him, spinning around slowly with a smile, his arms out wide. High above cutting through the brilliant sky Arcedes circled overhead.

  “Welcome to the meadowland. There you will learn how to focus, channel and maintain. Here you have everything you need, everything to wreak havoc on the world or mend it at your whim.”

  “It’s a grassy field...”

  “Indeed it is. In usual circumstances we would spend years in classroom instruction, increasing your wisdom of the world before moving to the field. Yet we are pressed for time. We will begin with sparring, then regress to the basis of our way. Now...when you are ready. Come at me.” Erik cracked his neck, a smile on his tanned handsome face.

  Carrick looked around, wrinkling his nose. “Do I get like...a weapon or something?”

  “You already have one.”

  The awkward silence that followed was almost palatable. A breeze streaked by, sending the older druids thick dark hair dancing within its embrace. Erik’s smile slowly fell to a flat line.

  Followed by a huff.

  The large druid lifted his right arm, thick ropes of muscle tensing as his fingers morphed into a claw pointing up to the sky.

  Carrick was thrown back off his feet up into the air, landing hard on his shoulder he rolled across the grassy plain. Face down in the cool wet grass his mind tried to process the pain in his limbs and how he arrived at his current location. With a groan, he pulled himself to his feet. A fresh ache crawled up his back as he turned around.

  What he saw made no sense. The grassy field parted where he had stood, the dirt beneath kicked up at a forty five degree angle. The ground itself had thrown him, shifting at his uncle’s will. Despite the pain, he found himself smiling. That was an impressive little trick, like straight out of a movie impressive.

  “Wow.”

  “Come at me boy.” Erik growled.

  “How?” He didn’t get an explanation in words only the momentary weightlessness that accompanied his fall, followed by fresh sharp pain.

  “Focus.”

  Anger blinded Carrick’s thoughts as he scrambled to his feet. His uncle was toying with him. Tossing him around like a bloody rag doll. Coughing out a grunt he charged the elder druid, not a thought in his head.

  Only to find himself flat on his stomach, spitting grass out of his mouth.

  “Pathetic.” Erik clicked his tongue, his voice full of disappointment. “Perhaps I should have left you to die back there with your mother.”

  Jaw clenched, Carrick’s right hand made a fist around the soft dirt. How he wished to pummel his uncle until the smirk that was certainly on his face had been morphed into a bruised swollen mass. Not that he would be able to, he’d be back in the grass before he even got close.

  Forcing a deep breath, he closed his eyes. His hand in the soil he focused on the sensation at his fingertips. The pulse of life in the field. Warmth of the sun on the blades of grass, the tiny feet of a caterpillar on the underside of a leaf, the stoic presence of the great wood at the edge of the meadow with their long branches shading the grounds below. Tiny ants at their feet and the strong buzzing in the air. Buzzing. Sweet harmony. Carrick tried to tune out everything but the insects. Their hive mind loud in his ears, a singular purpose of sustenance and procreation. Survival and protection.

  Survival...

  A threat. Carrick focused the thought on the swarm, picturing his uncle behind him.

  Threat threat threat. Protect. The hive stirred, natural desire for defense overriding their tasks. Protect. Protect. The humming was louder, closing in. A flurry through the air with a singular mind and purpose. A swarm unleashed on their presumed aggressor. Carrick opened his eyes to see the black mass fly overhead, a misshapen arrow flying through the air directly at a very surprised looking Erik Slaine.

  Sitting up he felt a sharp tinge of worry, expecting to see the druid suffer countless wounds from the small winged army.

  Creating a flurry out of his dark cloak, Erik spun about. The location of his body replaced with a whirlwind. A black vortex replacing any semblance of the human who had stood there. The heavy winds in the peaceful meadow dispersed his aggressors. Carrick felt their confusion and surrender, the tiny terrors retreating to their tree-born home. Then as quickly as it begun it stopped, in its wake stood a man. His dark long dark hair tossed over his broad shoulders, his cloak out of place, and a wicked smile on his face.

  “Bestil conpello! You sly boy.”

  “Besti conpeloo?” Carrick wrinkled his nose at the words. Sounded like a fancy Italian shoe brand girls would fawn over.

  “A name for that little move you pulled on me.”

  Carrick felt his face flush. “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean-”

  “Blight on your apology. I am impressed. Y
ou know, that is exactly the kind of thing your father used to pull on me when we were children? He had me running for the riverbed countless times chased by this or that with a stinger.” Erik’s ice blue eyes twinkled, reliving some fond memory.

  “He...did?” It felt beyond awkward to think about his father’s childhood. His father had always been only a concept to him. Some sort of ethereal DNA without anything qualitative behind it. He had daydreamed as all boys did when he was young, his father the superhero, the crime fighter, the senator, the brilliant millionaire. In the end it had always just been his father the ghost, the empty chair at the table.

  “I am the younger brother. It is natural for him to poke at me for a spot of fun. Tell me...how did you came up with it?”

  “I was pissed at you. So I don’t know....I guess I just felt the ground and tried to calm down. I heard them over there with their hive and I suppose I told them that you were a threat?”

  “Well done.”

  “Why do I feel so tired?”

  “Normal. You’re new to this. Moreover you are physically and mentally out of shape. It is my job to change that. With more physical conditioning the energy strain will dissipate. The more we teach that little American brain of yours, the more you will be able to utilize the gifts you were born with.”

  Carrick smirked at the jab. “Fair enough old man.”

  “Now then,” Erik cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, “come at me."

  7

  Look I don’t care if the damned lizard’s only home on this planet is on two pea sized rocks on the left side of the island. Find a biologist you can pay off to give the thumbs up so we can move on with the project. Revenue is just a vehicle for Darwinism in this case…or your case…if you can’t deliver Mr. Niaka. I doubt I need to remind you that congress will vote on the pipeline measure during this session.” The whining voice on the other end of the call flustered, making solemn vows to bend and scrape however necessary to get the project moving by deadline.

  It bored him, Marcus Kane toyed with the silver foil picture frame on the corner of his glass desk, moving the right edge five degrees south. The cleaning crew had incorrectly placed it on their previous night’s visit, he would have to have his secretary remind them. Mr. Kane as he preferred to be called had never associated achievement with an acceptance of incompetence. Everything had its place and function. If it served neither, it was eliminated.

  Thus was the corporate way.

  Marcus gently placed the black handset back on the cradle before the other man was done with his pleading, his eyes momentarily transfixed on the smiling blond and two point five children in the gilded, now properly placed, frame. From the Hamptons last summer. A week on his yacht. Up until that point everything had been going according to schedule. No delays, no inquiries, no unforeseen circumstances of any kind.

  Then he had gotten the call from his boss. Four days, three hours, six minutes and forty one seconds after he set his briefcase down in the upper left corner of his desk in Manhattan. Crystal had been giving him his messages, her little blond head bobbing as she read off the notes on the little scraps of paper she had collected. To most she seemed terribly inefficient, most administrative assistants performed their tasks in a completely digital manner, and had since the early nineties. His associates often assumed he employed her based on her visage. She was supermodel quality and always dressed the part. Her low cut shift dresses and sky scraper heels were designed to tempt him, or give the illusion of temptation. Not that he bothered with deducing which for certain, her employment was a ruse. In his business there were things he preferred to keep off of media that could be intercepted, stored or copied. His office was equipped with an incinerator for a reason. Peace of mind was well worth the expense. Crystal's inefficiency was not a weakness but a strength not seen since the world became one of instant gratification. An art form mastered by Hoover in his glory days.

  Invisibility. Deniability. Absolution.

  She had been halfway through some senator’s complaint on fumes supposedly causing cancer outside one of their facilities when his direct phone rang. Only one person in the world called his direct phone.

  After that phone call the dynamic had shifted, new eyes only projects had been introduced. Projects with aggressive timelines and virtually impossible deliverables. One such assignment: locating a biologist who had essentially gone off the grid fifteen years ago. Naturally, he assumed the good doctor had been on payroll at some point and meandered off with some sort of blackmail in mind. It was not a fresh task to him, Mr. Kane had particular individuals employed through a shell company for such endeavors; government trained, synthetically enhanced, the best of the best.

  It didn’t take them a week to locate the woman, despite her name change and multiple residences. What had complicated the effort from that point was the next phase.

  The woman wasn’t the target, nor was her lanky impoverished child.

  His target was a man that technically did not exist. From a location that was intangible. A man who was referred to in many eyes only files simply as nomad.

  The nomad had been a very busy man. His employer’s operations had apparently been afflicted by this person for years. The files he had been given were intriguing. Unofficial causes of death, destruction charged to accidents or ecofriendly groups. Sightings going back over two hundred years.

  Which would be impossible. For a mortal human man anyway. A delicious little fact that added a secondary purpose to obtaining this individual.

  “Mr. Kane. Your nine o'clock is waiting in the conference room.” Crystal’s sing song voice cheerily announced over the intercom. He didn’t answer her, never did unless he had to cancel the engagement.

  Pushing back his stainless steel and black leather chair he stood, buttoning his Savile Row suit coat. The distinct heel to toe clicking of his Salvatore Ferragamo python loafers carried him across the imported Italian marble flooring toward the conference room that happened to be but one door away from the majestic view of his high rise office.

  Past the thick cherry door was a windowless room large enough to comfortably seat thirty. High backed leather chairs and an oval custom carved table grounded the dimly lit space. A few choice pieces of art were displayed on the planked back wall, a pointed spotlight illuminating each. It was a place of productivity; presentations, discussions, mergers and buyouts.

  None of these were on the agenda for today.

  “Gentleman.” The Turkish tobacco scented air assaulted his nose as he entered the room, not displeasing just overwhelming. Soft Puccini flowed from the speakers embedded in the ceiling.

  “Good Morning Sir.” Came the unison reply from the two men at the back of the room, both standing in military style despite their acceptable black tie taste in business attire. Their guest seated between them, face obscured by a dark hood. Letting out a bit of a mew every so often, the figure was hunched forward, leaning slightly to the right. Pity. He did not approve of slouching.

  Mr. Kane took his seat at the center of the table completing the triangular presence in the room, a nod was the only acknowledgement he got from the man at the head of the table, his silhouette mostly hidden by a combination of minimal light and the cloud of smoke emanating from his cigarette. Even in the poor lighting he could make out the man’s crisp white shirt and a bandage on his cheek.

  With a slight smirk, Marcus was pleased that Crystal had laid out a breakfast tray. An arrangement of bagels, muffins, cereal boxes complete with assorted toppings and spreads. “Well then Mr. Johnson,” he paused to select a blueberry muffin and margarine spread, “let’s see if we can make a bit of progress today now shall we?”

  Marcus took great care in the preparation of his selection, his own knife mirroring the finesse of his cohorts. When he dined it was with a certain smile, for the shrieks of his guest did not sour the butter on his tongue.

  8

  Despite the ache in his muscles and the haze on his mind, Carr
ick still found difficulty falling sleep. It wasn’t that any one thing was on his mind, it was that every little thing was on his mind. He was homesick for no particular place, having moved around so much he could hardly call their last little crummy apartment home sweet home. He missed television and his friends, having hardly seen another soul close to his age since arriving here. The children in the group Erik forced him to sit with made him feel like a fool, always able to answer seemingly basic questions long before he could. His ability to absorb and translate the runic language they used in most texts had been lackluster despite his best efforts. What he wouldn't give for two hours at a movie with a big tub of buttery popcorn. He missed Matt, he missed Liz, hell even crazy Mary. He smiled in the darkness at the thought of Liz, with her smiling face and easy laugh. What he wouldn’t give for a little bit of her company at the moment. She always cheered him up.

  Well she had cheered him up. Who knew who she was cheering up these days? Probably Bryce from physics who was always giving her the eye, or Matt. He bet the pair of them had bonded over the ‘trauma’ of their ‘dear friend’ being a sick sadistic mother murderer. Oh he could see it now, curled in his arms crying and shaking her head that she had no idea. She’d look up at him, he’d whisper something cliché about protecting her, lean down and-Yeah that’s enough of that.

  Kicking off his covers, Carrick stabbed his legs into his pants, stomped into his boots.

  He needed to get out of here. Take a walk, a breather. Something.

  The embers in the hearth still illuminated the great room, twisting the majestic paintings on the surrounding wall into ominous wraiths. Walking quietly as to not stir his uncle sleeping up the stairs, he bee lined across the room and out into the night.

  Dre’ien was so different in the evening still, soft illuminated lamps and iridescent flowers giving the place an unearthly yet completely natural glow in the light of the crescent moon. Fireflies danced in patterns among the flowers, the soft call of an owl rang out high in the trees. He had explored the city at length over the last week with what little free time he had. It was essentially a series of crescent shapes interwoven. Arcs of homes cascading through the trees from the circular core of the market, the land of the ancients beyond the bridge where he was not allowed to tread.