Will Wilder

by Raymond Arroyo

  “It is not cool, Leo. Andrew, listen to me,” Deborah whispered. “You and Simon swim over to this side while the croc thing is gone. You’ll be safer over here. Start swimming.”

  The Bottom Dweller slammed itself up against the bars inside the Keep, furious that its prey had escaped. It climbed the grate and hovered over the black platform behind Deborah and the kids. Jutting its elongated green mouth through the bars, it desperately attempted to catch one of them in its jaws. The grate kept the Dweller from getting close enough to do any damage. A shoulder pressed to the bars, the Dweller tried to slash the Wilders with its long, green-scaled leg. Then suddenly it stopped all movement, unblinkingly staring out at the pool.

  Andrew had managed to get Simon into the water. As they progressed toward Deb and the kids on the other side, Andrew encouraged his frightened friend. “Remember, it’s a short swim, it’s a short swim.”

  A few feet behind, Simon, energetically doing the dog paddle, bleated, “It sees us. It is looking right at us!”

  “Keep swimming and don’t freak. We’re almost there,” Andrew said, reaching back and pulling his pal along.

  The Bottom Dweller released the grate and disappeared from sight.

  “C’mon boys. Quickly,” Deborah urged.

  The only sounds that could be heard at that tense moment were the splashing of the two boys and the grinding of the marble statue of St. Thomas inside the Keep.

  Talon by talon, the brass claw of the first lock lifted from the Book of Prophecy in the cabin of the Stella Maris. The very moment Will laid hands on the book, the lock opened for him. He gasped, nearly dropping the volume—his hands trembling beneath it.

  Oh no. I am the chosen one!

  The book gaped open with a creak. A musty smell filled Will’s nostrils. He tried to make sense of the strange, elegant calligraphy before him….

  Woe to you, Perilous Falls

  if the finger of the Apostle is displaced.

  For then darkness shall stir

  and the beasts of Wormwood

  and the underworld shall arise

  and a great sign shall appear:

  When the river spills over its bounds

  the twisted serpent shall break the water’s surface

  with a great wrath;

  for he knows his time is short.

  Woe to the earth and sea when this beast appears,

  for it is only the first of the SEVEN

  that shall test my people.

  The finger of the Apostle

  must not be desecrated or destroyed.

  To protect this relic and all of Peniel,

  my chosen one must reject the Darkness.

  His sight shall only be as pure as his thoughts and actions.

  But if he be deceived, his vision will darken,

  and ALL shall be blind.

  For only with a pure heart and belief that is strong

  can he ever hope to crush the heads of Leviathan.

  Leviathan?

  Will was even more confused than he had been before seeing the book. He reread the prophecy once more, committing key lines to memory. His hazel eyes were aglow, a thousand thoughts crashing in his head as he closed the volume. He returned it to the fabric satchel and hid it in his backpack. He then charged up the ladder to Aunt Lucille.

  Behind the wheel of the boat, Lucille struggled to keep the Stella Maris from tipping into the black waters. Her drenched coat and hat were glued to her body. Rain lashed her face. Zealous waves crashed over the sides of the boat, soaking Will’s feet as he approached.

  “Did the Book of Prophecy open for you? What did it say?” Aunt Lucille asked, wiping rain from her eyes.

  “It said, ‘I wish you had read me last week!’ ” Will smiled, pulling the pith helmet down to protect his face from the stinging rain. “Who exactly are the Sinestri?”

  “The Enemy and his forces. They are powerful demons—the dark ones we have pledged to cast out and destroy.”

  “We? You mean the Brethren?”

  “Yes, Will.” She turned a hard eye on him. “The Brethren. Your grandfather and your great-grandfather were members, as am I. There’ll be plenty of time to share all that history with you, and I will introduce you to the Brethren at Peniel once we return. But I must know what the prophecy says.”

  “There are Brethren at Peniel? At the museum?”

  Aunt Lucille shook her head, frustrated by the rain, or perhaps the question. “Peniel is not exactly a museum. It’s a refuge for the sacred antiquities and relics entrusted to us. The Brethren who are here—”

  Will blinked in confusion. “Wait. There are other Brethren?”

  “Oh, Will—there are Brethren scattered all over the world. This battle is much larger than you can imagine. But you must tell me what the prophecy said.”

  “It said that we can’t let the finger of the saint be desecrated or destroyed.”

  “My father said the same thing….Go on.” Aunt Lucille fixed her stare on Will.

  “Because St. Thomas’s finger was disturbed, it said ‘a twisted serpent’ has risen and he is going to test the people. He’s only the first of seven beasts.”

  “SEVEN?”

  “Then it went on and on about keeping my thoughts and actions pure so my sight can be clear.”

  “You are the Seer! I knew it. We haven’t had one since…Oh, this is good. Now listen. I am a Repeller. That means I can repel a major demon when I touch my fingers together—well, you’ll see soon enough. I can’t expel them for good or lock them away. Only Vanquishers like Abbot Athanasias can do that—he’ll want to meet you soon. Just listen…”

  Aunt Lucille now spoke firmly. “When we get into Dismal Shoals, keep your eyes open and tell me precisely where the Beast is—this Captain of yours. You are not to converse with it or interact with it in any way. It is a demon not to be trifled with.”

  Will sputtered, “The prophecy said that with a pure heart and belief I could crush the heads of Leviathan.”

  “Shussssh. Do not say its name.” Aunt Lucille sternly pressed a finger over Will’s lips. “It can hear you. Merely uttering the name of the Beast can attract it—or send it away, which is a different skill set altogether.” She slowed the speed of the boat as they neared the shore. Rocks protruded from the water. “Repeat the last bit of the prophecy—but not that name.”

  “It said only with a pure heart and strong belief could I ever ‘hope to crush the heads of…’ you know.”

  “Crushing and hoping to crush are two separate realities. Now listen to me. You will abide by my rules or I will lock you in that cabin.” Aunt Lucille pointed over her shoulder. “This old serpent has risen and he is very powerful—as are the others. When we go in, you are to walk behind me. You are to point out exactly what you see—and do nothing else, Will. While I repel the serpent, I want you to find the relic. Once you’ve located it, take it and run. Do you understand me? No matter what happens to me or Tobias or any of us, take the relic of St. Thomas and get it back to the church or to Peniel. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Will sobered. His trembling hands grabbed the collar of his slicker, but Aunt Lucille saw them instantly.

  “Don’t be afraid.” She touched his wet cheek. “You will face much worse than this, dear. For now, obey the prophecy and simply believe. Look on the bright side: at least you can see the beasts. The rest of us wander in a fog, never knowing how close they are. Or we delude ourselves into thinking they don’t exist at all.”

  She steered the Stella Maris between two rocks that looked like a pair of hunched monsters ready to pounce. Alongside the boat, knees of cypress trees and a string of smooth stones jutted from the water. Dropping anchor, she told Will, “This line of rocks leads into the Shoals. Bartimaeus should be nearby. Stay close and move with me.”

  She sprang from the boat with stealth and grace, landing on a rock five feet from the vessel. Will fearlessly, if unsteadily, followed her.

 
A deep voice, soaked in fury, thundered within the central cavern of Dismal Shoals.

  “SHEN…”

  Columns of wet, pimpled rock formations interrupted the vast space. On the slick, craggy floor along the walls of the cavern, pools of flame cast light upward at odd angles. The weird lighting made it appear as if the shadows themselves were dancing. But for the occasional battered brazier there was no other light.

  “SHEN…Wake up or yer liable to miss all the fun.”

  It wasn’t the voice that woke Tobias Shen but the feeling of being hit on the head by something hard and metallic.

  “Up, Shen. Get up.”

  The old man’s eyes fluttered, but only one would open completely. He tried to reach for his face but soon discovered that both his hands were restrained. Turning his head, Shen realized that he was attached to a slick, rocky wall. Neon-green tentacles bound his wrists and ankles. The tentacles sprouted from enormous purple funnels of sea anemones growing on the rock’s surface. Shen stood, but the tentacles held him down, making movement impossible. His feet and hands felt numb, as if they had been stung—or were still being stung.

  WHAP. The metal object slammed against his head once more. When he looked up, he saw a dirty cage holding the relic of St. Thomas levitating in the air. It suddenly whipped toward his head again, but he ducked the blow.

  “There he is,” the unseen voice rumbled. “Our chosen witness! Congratulations. Shen, ye’ll be the only member of the Brethren to see the end—as it begins.”

  Lounging on the slimy ground before him were four Bottom Dwellers, their tails wrapped around one another. To his left, busted columns flanked a wrecked, brown-stained altar. More than half of the altar lay on its side. The other portion stood erect, a bit of jagged slab covering a foul pond as big as a wading pool. A thick black substance bubbled in the pond, steam escaping intermittently.

  “Yer precious relic will be no more,” the cold voice threatened. “Even now, Perilous Falls is taking on water. ’Twas us that brought down those boats and the pier. Soon the people, the Brethren, and the fortress Jacob Wilder spent his whole miserable life building will be totally submerged. Ye and Lucille thought yeh were so clever, didn’t yeh? Training little Will in the ways of the Brethren. Making him plant that old walking stick. Yer a fool! None of it will save him or any of ye. It took almost no effort to tempt the Wilder spawn. We’re getting quite adept at flipping Wilders.”

  Tobias Shen strained to locate the speaker in the dark caverns of the chamber. No one was there.

  “Little frozen Willy can’t help yeh now, Shen. But ye will help us offer a nice sacrifice to the Darkness. First the relic—and then yerself.”

  Tobias Shen closed his eyes and began quietly mouthing something. He tugged at the neon tentacles holding him.

  “There’s no use struggling, old man. We raise those sea anemones special here. They’re a new breed of Fomorii. Ye probably don’t feel much of yer limbs now, do ye? Their tentacles deliver a venom worse than many snakebites. Makes the victim very pliable.”

  Shen did not respond or open his eyes. He only continued mumbling.

  “Look at the good Mr. Shen now—the kind Mr. Shen. What lies!” Two clamshells flew out of the darkness, hitting Shen in the chest and head. “How many of our lovely Bottom Dwellers did ye slaughter today, Shen? A hundred? Two hundred? What happened to ‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’ Mr. Shen? Here’s my peacemaker.”

  CRACK.

  The cage holding the relic flipped sideways and struck Shen hard on the lower leg.

  CRACK.

  CRACK.

  After repeated blows, the old man’s shinbone gave way with a dull snap. Fresh blood pooled on his gray pants. His entire body stiffened, though he neither screamed nor uttered a word of protest. Instead, he whispered something urgently under his breath.

  “Stop it. Stop that racket, Shen!” the voice howled. “Shut up! STOP IT!”

  But Shen continued to whisper.

  “Is that Latin? We hate Latin. Silence. NOW.”

  The cage flew up, cutting Tobias Shen’s lower lip. Again and again the cage pummeled the old man from different angles. Still he offered no response, save for his intense whisperings.

  “Hurry, guys. The croc thing is moving the statue again,” Deborah Wilder warned the boys. She crouched on the edge of the black granite disk, stretching her hands out over the water. Andrew and Simon were not yet halfway across the oily pool. Leo and Marin, touching hands, pressed their backs into the engraved black granite behind them and braced themselves.

  “Quickly,” Deborah begged the two boys in the pool, urging them to the black overhang she and the children occupied.

  But the boys could move no quicker—Andrew stroking broadly through the water, Simon sinking under the weight of another panic attack.

  CLICK. The black granite beneath Deborah and the kids shuddered.

  At that very moment, Dan Wilder stumbled through the doorway into the Keep. He wore two iridescent-yellow flotation devices around his neck and a policeman’s tool belt. His glasses were completely fogged over.

  “Deborah? Kids?” he absently asked, realizing that something was moving in the small room. In an attempt to see more clearly, Dan yanked the glasses from his face. There, meeting his glance, stood the Bottom Dweller, its front legs pushing the arms of the white marble statue. “No—no,” Dan’s voice cracked. “This is not happening.”

  Dan’s eyes bugged out of their sockets. So did those of the Bottom Dweller. But before either of them could so much as flinch, the black granite platform rotated once more.

  The Bottom Dweller was gone and three petrified Wilders had taken its place. Deborah was splayed out on the black surface. Leo and Marin stood ramrod straight against the slab, holding each other.

  “Daddy, what are you doing here?” Marin asked.

  Dan remained frozen, as if waiting for the creature to devour him. His eyes were tightly closed, his arms extended in a defensive gesture.

  “I—I came looking for…You all should get out of here,” Dan demanded, taking charge. “Let’s go. Everybody out.”

  “Eeeeeeeeeeaaaah.” The Bottom Dweller on the other side of the grate released a primal yowl.

  “Andrew and Simon are in there with that thing.” Deborah scrambled to her feet, assisted by the children. “We have to help them.” She ran to the grate, grabbing the bars. The Bottom Dweller stood on the end of the black granite platform, yowling in frustration. It repeatedly whipped its head from side to side, tracing a U in the air with its snout.

  “Boys, go the other way! Swim back to the tunnel! Now! Quickly,” Deborah urged, her face flushed with worry.

  Simon didn’t need Mrs. Wilder to tell him to swim away from the reptilian terror across the pool. He was closer to the tunnels than Andrew and was already moving through the water like an outboard motor.

  “First she tells us to hurry that way, then she tells us to hurry this way. If I keep this up, I’ll qualify for the Summer Olympics,” Simon whined.

  “Shut it,” Andrew ordered in between strokes. “We’ve got to get inside that tunnel. Stop talking and move.”

  Simon did as he was told. He pulled himself up on the stone platform and started to scurry inside the tunnel.

  “Go ahead. I’m almost there,” Andrew panted, swimming hard. “I don’t want to get caught in the water with the—”

  “It’s coming!” Simon screamed, prancing helplessly in a circle. Across the pool the Bottom Dweller clambered up to the top of the grate, then, like a cliff diver, threw itself backward into the air. The twelve-foot green torpedo’s eyes never left its target.

  Andrew didn’t wait to hear a splash. He swam toward the stone platform as he had never swum before. With each stoke he wondered whether he could outpace the creature now plunging beneath the surface of the water he labored to escape.

  “Y’all best be careful where you set them tootsies,” a deep voice rang out from the edge of the river.

>   Will and Aunt Lucille stopped in their tracks. They were perched on a pair of flat stones leading to what appeared to be a half-sunken temple entrance near the shoreline. Both turned their heads in the general direction of the voice: a gigantic pile of algae-covered rocks rising to the left.

  “Loo-ceele. They got Stickers running around out here. Ain’t seen one of them in goin’ on forty years.” Bartimaeus shambled out from under a jutting rock, where he had taken refuge. “So the two of you better scoot in from this rain and let me fill ya in.” Propped on his crutches, he beckoned Will and Lucille toward his stony nook.

  “What’s a Sticker, Mr. Bart?” Will asked, relieved to see a friend instead of Captain Balor.

  “Stickers are evil tar critters. They’re a type of Fomorii—low-down demons. They surround their prey and swallow ’em right up. Got acid all over their gooey bodies. So once they get hold of ya—forget it. You’re toast. Good news is ya can hear ’em comin’. They make this ‘bubble, bubble, bubble’ sound.”

  Aunt Lucille and Will joined Bartimaeus in the rocky grotto where he had been hiding. Stiffly the old man lowered himself onto a smooth rock that looked like a melted recliner. With his crutch he indicated a rotted log, where his guests were expected to relax.

  “What have you seen, Bart? Is the Beast here?” Aunt Lucille asked, shaking the water from her hat.

  “Did you let this boy read the book? I sure hope you did, because it’s going down up in here, Sarah Lucille.”

  Before his great-aunt could respond, Will starting talking. “It opened for me. The minute I touched the Book of Prophecy, the first lock opened.”

  Bartimaeus’s face softened, and he nodded. “You’ve done good, Lucille. So now it’s on you, young man. What did it say?”

  Aunt Lucille interrupted, quickly recounting all that Will had told her of the prophecy: the seven beasts that would test the people, the need to recapture the St. Thomas relic, the importance of Will’s vision to the Brethren, and the mention of crushing the heads of—she whispered—Leviathan.