The Legend of Zelda: Fall of Ikana

by N Felts

they currently are. The music abruptly stops just before he assumes a balanced stance to help himself control the spell. Crying children and confused shouting hinder his state of mind, but easily enough, he has a light whirlwind encircling him in moments.

  “Wind is passion,” he mutters under his breath, closing his eyes to concentrate. “Focus, damn it!” Knocking him off balance, the torrent multiplies exponentially, growing beyond his control in seconds. The mist is blown back toward its origin, but dozens of fleeing civilians are thrown off their feet, disoriented and confused as they scramble to recover. Cursing his inability to provide any meaningful help, he quickly finds himself baffled when a radiant light appears overhead, illuminating the entire area. Several of the soldiers attempt to help the many trampled citizens, the chaotic scene now quite clear, and beyond it all he can see Igos angrily scolding the masked man who opened the doors. Standing with his arms raised in a crucificial pose, the creator of the chaos appears to be ignoring the king completely, his head tilted back as he stares into the heavens. A steady wind encompasses the area as the source of the newfound light is revealed.

  “You had better be on your way,” an encumbered old voice commands.

  “I should have known,” his pupil laughs, turning to find his greatfather holding the orb of light high above with an outstretched hand, while controlling the advancing mist with subtle movements of the other.

  “There will be time enough for talk, but not here,” the masterful magi insists, his eyes conveying his seriousness. “Go now, while you are still unafflicted.”

  Reasons

  “I’m serious!” An attractive young lady whines, stamping her foot childishly.

  “Come on, love,” her skeptical date laughs, crossing his arms. “A ghost?”

  “Yeah, they say it haunts the spot where that suicide bomber attacked,” she explains, searching the young man’s face for any sign of approval. Scratching his head and wearing a frown, he leads her on for a moment longer before responding.

  “I hope you’re serious,” he starts, his expression wide-eyed as he moves close to her. “Ghosts are no laughing matter. There’s no way you could have known this, but you’re talking to a professional reaver.” Lost in his eyes the girl cannot decide if he is joking or not, and she proceeds to mumble her response appropriately.

  “A ghost hunter? That’s a kids story,” she finally concludes.

  “I wish that were the case,” he retorts, continuing to sell the lie convincingly. “Truth is, I’ve been dealing with spooks for years. Reaving is an ancient art. Passed down through generations,” he continues, his antics selling his bogus story like a professional thespian.

  “Is that what those tattoos are for?” She chimes in, falling into the delusion willingly.

  “That’s right,” he admits, eyeing her suspiciously. “You’ve got a keen eye. That would come in handy in the field,” he continues, stroking his chin and turning slowly as he pretends to ponder. “I’ve got to warn you, love, this is dangerous business. If we’re going to do this you’ve got to stay close to me.”

  “Okay,” she obediently responds, her eyes glassy as she swoons from the prospect of such an adventure. “Do you need to get like,” she pauses, instantly worried she will sound ignorant making the assumption. “Your gear or whatever?”

  “Oh,” he chuckles, swinging an arm over her shoulder. “Chrissy, I’ve got everything I need right here.” He explains, tapping his index finger to his temple. “But still,” he continues, leaning closer to her face. “I’ll need those sharp eyes if we’re going to come back alive,” he points out, poking her on the nose affectionately. Shying away with a bashful smile, she nods with understanding, and with that, they start for the crime scene. Bright moonlight shines down upon the town this evening, the recent rain causing the wet stones of passing buildings to shimmer as a cool wind passes through. Trapped in an odd mixture of fear and respect, the entire section of town remains utterly abandoned. The blast radius surrounding ground zero has been walled off with wooden barricades, and covered with an obfuscating tarp suspended by crossed ropes overhead. Only the occasional curious adolescent briefly ventures near, and therefore, guards have proven completely unnecessary. Peering through the blockades, Chrissy bounces with excitement, and while her date would typically enjoy such a spectacle, he cannot help but dread exploring the scene.

  “What’s wrong,” she asks, catching a glimpse of the trepidation on his face. “I didn’t know professional reavers got scared.”

  “Haha, hardly,” he grins, extending a hand to her as he pulls a barricade aside. “Ladies first.” He insists politely.

  “Oh what a gentleman,” she scoffs, though she grows notably anxious upon passing through the prohibited boundaries. Pulling the wooden obstruction back into place behind them, the supposed ghost hunter lifts the tarp aside to allow her entry. Fire burns of anger. Ice spreads with sorrow. Light shines through innocence, he recalls from his greatfather’s lectures. With some effort, he produces a small pixel of light, concentrating intently to keep the particle afloat and under control. Once inside, Chrissy’s fearless attitude plummets rapidly as she takes one slow, apprehensive step after another. Sensing her discomfort, her date sees his chance to make a move, stealthily shuffling in close behind her. A pair of hands suddenly clamp around her waist accompanied by a loud moan, and after an involuntary twitch and scream, Chrissy slaps at his hands and doubles over with laughter.

  “Why so edgy?” He mocks, stalking her while wiggling his fingers. The light overhead begins to flicker, but ultimately remains.

  “Stop it,” she giggles, playfully batting his hands away. “I thought you said this was serious,” she accuses, tilting her head and eyeing him accusingly. Her long, curly hair bounces atop her shoulders, framing her flirtatious smile in a shadowy portrait of possibility. Struggling to come up with an excuse, he briefly ogles her form beneath her short skirt before the light overhead doubles in brightness, then vanishes completely.

  “Gah, innocent thoughts,” he mumbles under his breath.

  “What?” She breathes, the fear returning to her voice. “Was that you?”

  “Maybe it was the ghost,” he instantly responds, realizing he can use the turn of events to his advantage. “You should stay close.”

  “Yeah,” she skeptically agrees, feeling the open air as she searches for him. “Is that you?” She asks after a worried noise escapes her lips when her hand finds his torso.

  “Of course,” he laughs. “Don’t fret my dear.”

  “You—“ She giggles just as the orange glow of torchlight suddenly enters the dark tent, snapping their attention upward. Curiously, an old lantern hovers high above the couple, gradually descending to ground level as it lightly bobs up and down. The object’s unnatural movements are unsettling at best, hanging in the air as if an invisible hand were gingerly holding it. Seeming to study them, the lantern drifts left, then slowly moves right, encircling them as they diligently maintain their distance.

  “That, love,” the phony ghost hunter states bluntly. “Is not me.”

  “Okay,” she nervously laughs, gripping his shirt tightly. “You got me. You can stop.” Finding himself without a clever response this time around, he can only extend a protective arm across Chrissy’s chest as he waits for whatever it is he’s facing to make the first move. Seeming to grow impatient, the lantern suddenly whirls three hundred sixty degrees as a horrifying laughter sounds, echoing between this world and another. A hooded wraith phases into existence through the dancing shadow created by the hovering lantern. A pair of evil, green eyes scowl through the pitch-black darkness beneath the figure’s cowl. The swaying lantern dangles from a single arm, the appendage apparently made of shadow as its indistinguishable dimensions seem to morph and flicker in the eerie torchlight. The arms stretch out from beneath a shredded cloak, the creature appearing as if it has showered in razor blades, and hovering
just high enough to reveal the absence of legs. Her fight or flight response initiating, Chrissy darts in the direction they had entered, intending to dive beneath the tarp and run to safety. Sensing the coming peril, her date grabs her wrist in a death-grip as he pulls her back.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” She shrieks, overwhelming heat forcing her eyes shut as an inferno appears before her. With a vicious whip of its torch-laden arm, the ghoul throws a wave of fire, cutting off their escape route, and engulfing the tent in flame. Rapidly approaching the brink of failure, the ropes holding the deathtrap aloft immediately begin to spiral and fray apart, the intense heat all but vaporizing them instantly. His heart ready to pound its way out of his chest, the newly-aspiring ghost hunter twirls his date to his chest, hugging her tightly as his free arm glows even brighter than the flames surrounding him. Floating apathetically through the hellish atmosphere, the specter’s crescent eyes seem to imply a satisfied grin in the imminent death of the trespassers. Suddenly, Chrissy’s knees buckle, the pool of sweat that had collected between their bodies emptying onto the charred stone beneath them as her alleged reaver loses his concentration to dip down and catcher her. A rolling roar descends upon them, and the amateur