Nonetheless, there was no time for a debate, so poor Koksun was left with the unfortunate impression that the treachery had been the result of some failure on his part.
Tristan had said nothing to Koksun before retreating behind his bookshelf.
Although Tristan had resided in his comfortable cave for centuries, he had always been of the mindset that he must be ready to abandon it at any moment. He had a tunnel leading many miles away, reaching slightly east of Dachwald before rising to the surface inside a hollowed-out tree in a deep forest. His thinking at the time he had constructed this passageway had been to escape widespread enemy scouts searching for him on foot. Since it was avian scouts he had to escape,
he felt immense relief the passageway would not only lead him far from the cave but also deposit him into a thick forest where nothing would be visible from the air but a ceaseless canopy of verdure.
It pained him to leave so many books behind, but he knew that he could only take several. Fortunately, during his many solitary nights he had redacted the most significant portions of the voluminous texts in his abode and compiled four books that contained the majority of the most essential information on Glisphin. He packed these quickly into a bag, put a sinister blade into his belt that was too long for the category of dagger but yet too short to achieve a consensus as being a sword, and then grabbed his staff, which could double for walking or more destructive activities. A wrinkled hat completed the costume of a harmless, elderly gypsy.
Right as he was about to head out into the tunnel that would take him to Selegania, a country he hadn’t visited in centuries, he felt the most peculiar desire to take his feline companion with him. He put his bag down to the floor, opened the passageway, and went out to see Koksun.
“It’s not your fault, Koksun,” Tristan said. “I did something foolish, and I spoiled everything. Are you coming?”
Koksun looked at him warily. Cats are not easily put at ease, once their perception of danger has been aroused, and Tristan’s mindset towards Koksun had been momentarily murderous after he was tossed into his cave. But the humility of such rough treatment had brought Tristan down from his manic state of murderous euphoria and restored him to his calm, calculating persona that would have made him properly disposed for a professorship.
Koksun meowed again, not sorrowfully as before, but in a curious manner, as if his meow were the tongue of a snake reaching out into the ambience to search for the scent of treachery. To his surprise, his keen eyes and keener nose detected not the slightest trace of hostility in Tristan but rather reconciliation. And practical thoughts started to enter Koksun’s mind, such as the fact he was hundreds of feet above ground and not entirely sure how he planned to close that distance or, conversely, to survive more than several days if he stayed alone in the cave.
But then a mountain of resentment grew inside his mind, as he quickly realized—this time, with his human intellect—that Tristan’s composure could not have changed so drastically unless the treachery of the pholungs had been entirely Tristan’s fault. This human intellect was inconvenient for Koksun because once it triggered his resentment, a feeling more powerful than the survival instinct itself in some felines, he meowed aggressively at Tristan and then let out a hiss for good measure.
Shrugging his shoulders, but unable to hide from Koksun’s keen eyes a lump in his throat that any human would have missed, Tristan turned around, went through the passageway, and disappeared from Koksun’s sight.
Koksun was beginning to have second thoughts, but by the time they arrived Tristan was gone and the door to the passageway closed.
Chapter 3
It was not until several hours later that Istus and the other pholungs returned, at which time Koksun let out a nasty hiss towards Istus—whom Koksun sensed to be the culprit for the unfortunate change of events—and was dispatched from the cave with the same rudeness with which Koksun’s master had not so long ago been flung into the cave.
Many a person, from the simplest laborer to the wisest philosophe, has repeated the observation that a cat has nine lives. That axiom was put to the test when Koksun was unceremoniously ejected from the place he had called home for many years with his master. Several hundred feet of empty vertical space is no trivial barrier for any non-avian creature to suddenly find between himself and terra firma. But with the double advantage of nine lives and decades of climbing experience before his feline transformation, the odds of survival were increased on Koksun’s side.
Istus was preoccupied placing boxes of explosives inside Tristan’s lofty abode and had tossed the despised cat aside more as a nuisance than a threat to be annihilated. Thus, Istus did not notice that, while the force he applied against Koksun’s small frame should have been sufficient to send him over the ledge and beyond hope of survival, Koksun had instinctively splayed out his limber body like a bedsheet, thus decelerating enough to hit the ground briefly before going over the edge.
Koksun didn’t waste the opportunity. Ten claws dug into the mercilessly hard ground with the passion of the treasure hunter’s spade, creating a few sparks. As he began his descent, he once again splayed out his body and dug his claws even more passionately against the now vertical stone. He had the fortune of several times grabbing nooks in the cliff wall deep enough that he almost came to a complete stop, and in a jerky fashion continued his way down the cliff like a sled down a hill intermittently slowed by small obstacles.
Once the first tree branches became visible, he decided to make for one, thinking this better than his current circumstances, which, if continued, were likely to wear down his claws to nothing. He pushed against the cliff wall, grabbed a branch at no small speed, bending it considerably as a result, which then, perhaps not wishing to make Koksun’s acquaintance, pushed back, flinging Koksun through the air.
Koksun landed on another branch, gripping deep into its pulpy center with all ten claws, prepared to hang on even if flung with the force of a hurricane, and indeed he clung to the branch despite it making no inconsiderable effort to get rid of this creature that seemed destined to be shunned by all, both living and non-living. Quite content himself to leave the branch, now that it had stilled and the departure would thus be on his terms, Koksun pried his claws from the branch like ten knives from the body of a brutally stabbed victim, and scurried along the branch towards the trunk in such a way that several squirrels took admiring notice.
Upon reaching the trunk, Koksun did not find himself in that predicament that many an over-ambitious cat has found itself—that of ascending incredible heights only to discover that its prowess at ascending is eclipsed only by its lack of prowess in descending. Koksun’s mind still contained all the knowledge and motor reflexes he had acquired from years spent as a biped, during which he had become a most proficient climber. For the briefest of seconds, he himself considered the paradox in which he found himself, as he effortlessly began to descend the tree, realizing that it was far easier than it ever had been when he had merely ten fingers rather than an array of claws, upon which he concluded that cats’ difficulty in this maneuver must be due to lack of confidence because he was nearly to the bottom of the tree by the time he recognized the irony of his pleasant descent.
His feet pushed against the earth, and soon all four legs were moving in breathtaking unison like the ingeniously crafted gears of a machine. He knew that, as far as predators were concerned, he was putting himself at great risk by being on the same ground tread by wolves, bears, and large snakes, but he was also aware that, unbeknownst to these creatures, a far greater menace lurked above, one that these animals would not have thought a danger if it were placed in front of them.
Many times, he had heard Tristan brag about the effects pheorite would have on the Sodorfians once the war came, and when the war did come he heard even more of its terrible results. Koksun recognized the smell immediately when the pholungs began stocking the cave with boxes, and he didn’t think that they were
putting them there as for storage. Based upon the descriptions by Tristan—whom he had never known to exaggerate—the amount they were putting there would be sufficient to blow the cliff to kingdom come, and thus—wolves, bears, snakes, or not—he figured he had better get out of this valley as quickly as possible.
Chapter 4
Something was indeed grabbing Eddie’s foot, or rather someone, and if you guessed Big Timmy you hit the jackpot. Eddie grabbed onto the branch as hard as he could and tried to pull himself up. For a moment, he almost succeeded in swinging his left leg around the branch. If he could just get up there, he knew he could give Timmy a good kick to the face with his free leg and get that jerk to let go.
He pulled and pulled and swung his left leg up several times towards the branch. It clipped it once, and momentarily hooked it on another try, but then the weight of Timmy was too much, and just as he came close as heck to getting his left leg around the branch, he felt his fingers lose their grip on the tree, and he went falling down faceup and landed flat on his back.
“Ughhhhhh,” was all he could exclaim as the air completely exited his lungs, perhaps not wanting to stick around for what was to follow. Above him, like a man suddenly awakening on the surgeon’s table, he saw a pair of gleaming faces loom above him. Had Eddie been a well-traveled man, he may have momentarily reflected that he was experiencing what many a downed gazelle experienced, looking up to see a pack of wild hyenas surrounding it, preparing for lunch.
Eddie was not a man, and he was even less-traveled, having made few excursions other than to school, the Spot, and the Hideout. But he did have one simile pass through his mind, as he had seen a pair of wild dogs hunt down and corner an injured rabbit, and he now felt awfully like that rabbit.
“Special friend! What’s the rush?!” snickered Snobby Bobby.
“Haaaaa!!” shouted Brian in delight at Bobby’s wit.
Big Timmy didn’t say anything, nor did Hairy Larry. Their eyes did their talking for them. These gleamed down on Eddie like the eyes of a cobra transplanted into the smirking faces of these two jackals.
Eddie wasn’t sure what would happen if he got up, but he felt like it couldn’t be that much worse than what would happen if he stayed lying down.
He stood up. Slowly, he felt himself being surrounded. Hairy, Snobby, Big, and plain old Brian were on all sides of him now. Big Timmy faced him head on.
“Why did you ignore me during class all day?!” said Timmy.
Larry let out a loud cackle. “Don’t you know you’re our special friend?!” Larry chimed in.
Timmy grinned slightly but didn’t reward Larry’s quip with an actual laugh. This was Timmy’s show.
“Yeah, like Hairy said—you’re our special friend! Don’t you want to be our friend?!” Timmy inquired of his subject. Timmy then shoved Eddie hard, causing him to step back a couple of feet and almost lose his balance.
“Special Friend. Special Friend. Special Friend, Special Friend, Special Friend!” Snobby cried joyously, then laughed like a hyena.
Brian suddenly rushed forward and shoved Eddie hard, slamming him against the tree. The other three let out war whoops of excitement.
Eddie was somewhere else. Not physically. Though he’d have liked that immensely. His mind was wandering far, far away. He had seen Mommy get a distant look on her face sometimes when Dad was fit to be tied, and many times that seemed to make Dad get bored and go to sleep. He wasn’t sure if that was going to save him from a beating, but he couldn’t think of anything else to try.
Brian suddenly punched Eddie right in the stomach. Eddie hunched over but didn’t quite fall down. He remained doubled over, mouth gaping wide open, trying his hardest to breathe again, but it seemed that the air just didn’t want to come back. Eddie wasn’t sure where it went, but he wished he could have followed it into the sky.
“Hey, don’t hog him!” commanded Big Timmy, rebuking his subordinate, Brian.
“Sorry, Tim,” Brian shrugged pathetically.
All of a sudden, Timmy swung his right fist as hard as he could at Eddie, slamming it into his left eye and knocking him back against the tree.
“Hahahahahaha!” shouted Snobby, laughing furiously. “You’ll make Oscar Peters jealous!” he jested. Oscar Peters was a legendary bare-knuckle boxing champion in Selegania.
“No, stupid head. That won’t make Oscar Peters jealous. This will make Oscar Peters jealous!” and suddenly Brian started delivering a flurry of body shots to Eddie, punching him with blinding speed, his fists resembling a woodpecker drilling at full capacity.
Eddie tried to cover himself up, but he blocked one punch for every four that landed either on his ribs or his stomach.
“EDDIEEEE! GET IN HERE!!”
Oscar Peters—that is to say, no-nickname Brian pretending to be Oscar Peters—stopped suddenly, standing at attention like a buck private facing a no-nonsense drill sergeant. As did Timmy, Larry, and Bobby. They each looked like bank robbers caught red-handed in the vault by the sheriff and a well-armed posse.
But they didn’t see anybody, even though they looked around in every direction.
Trying to look tough, Big Timmy said, “Hey, no hard feelings, Special Friend!” “We’re just trying to toughen you up!” He paused for a moment, “Then, you’ll get to be one of us!” he said unconvincingly.
Larry let out a cackle.
Timmy was pretty sure whom that voice belonged to that had demanded Eddie’s presence, and whose tone had suggested his hide would be the price of non-compliance. It was Richard Simmers, Eddie’s dad. Richard was special too, but not in the way Eddie was special. Eddie was special because he liked to zone out and stare into space for hours on end or draw wizards. Richard was special because he liked to fight. Timmy, who wasn’t exactly the analytical type, had wondered a time or two how Richard and Eddie could be father and son, and he had concluded Eddie must be adopted.
No one liked to cross Richard. He wasn’t the biggest man in Ringsetter, but darn close, and he was known as one of the strongest men at the local lumberyard, and few people considered him a wise target for a bar fight. Timmy had learned this from his dad, who had seen Righty Rick (as he was popularly known) in action a few times and had warned Timmy to steer clear of him at all costs.
“Let’s scat, guys! Special Friend here has to go see his Daddy!” This brought only a weak, halfhearted cackle from his troupe. They didn’t want to be within half a mile of Righty Rick if he even half suspected they had hit his boy. Truth be told, they weren’t even quite sure what Righty Rick would do. It was no more the town secret that Righty Rick roughed his old lady up only about every other week or so than it was that Oscar Peters, the best bareknuckle boxer in the history of Selegania, was from the north. But, they suspected—not at a conscious level, as these four were not prone to deep thinking—that maybe Righty Rick figured it was his job to beat up on his family and not anybody else’s.
Tim tried to be brave and start walking back the way they came in a dignified fashion, but suddenly he shouted, “Last one back to Main Street’s a turd!” and took off running with an enthusiasm that far exceeded any fourth grader’s desire not to be thought of as waste product. Every last one of them could almost feel Righty Rick’s hands wrapping around their necks to slam their heads together like a group of beer bottles.
Chapter 5
“Let’s move! Let’s move! That stack ain’t done yet!” the foreman’s voice barked.
Mr. Richard Franklin Simmers, already better known to the reader by his honorary title of Righty Rick, was only slightly more than halfway through another miserable, sweaty, backbreaking day at the lumberyard. His fourteen-hour shift was far from over, and he and his crew had to move a lot more of the many mountain-sized wooden beams from one end of the yard to the other before the foreman would be satisfied.
Six a.m. to 8:30 p.m., six days per week, was his typical schedule, with a whole half-hou
r break (unpaid) to take some of the sting out of the long workday. But whether he was in the process of hauling a two-hundred-pound beam over his shoulder with the help of a companion, lifting one from the ground (which it seemed to cling harder and harder to as the day wore on), or lowering it onto the humongous heap they piled up each day, his mind was always somewhere else.
This—and perhaps only this—trait proved his paternity to Eddie, though few would have known. Unlike Eddie’s open daydreaming, Righty’s occurred while his body moved swiftly and precisely, leaving no clue to the most ardent observer that his mind was many miles away.
And whereas Eddie daydreamed about wizards and other nonsense, Righty daydreamed about his glory days. The days when he was considered the inevitable bareknuckle champion of Selegania. That meant a lot of things, but one thing above all it certainly meant was no lifelong career at the lumberyard working like a horse all day for crap wages.
It meant having nice things, early retirement, pretty women, and respect. He had been on the right path towards these things, knocking one hapless opponent after another senseless with his fearsome right hand, which was starting to gain such a reputation opponents were shaking as they entered the ring with him.
The Almost Champion Page 2