The Eye of the Stone

by Tom Birdseye

  A cold drop of water landed with a splat on Jackson’s shoulder, followed quickly by a few on his head. “Aw, man!” he moaned as the persistent patter of a steady rain began to fill the forest. He pulled his jacket collar up tight around his neck. Yes, home, right now.

  But before Jackson could take even one step back down the path, the wind gusted again, harder this time, ripping the few remaining leaves from an alder tree and sailing them through the air in wild looping spirals. Above the bare limbs Jackson could see that the clouds had darkened even more and were swirling around the crest of Cougar Butte as if whipped by some gigantic hand. The rain grew heavy, driving down at him like icy little fists. In a matter of seconds he could feel it soaking through his jacket and shirt and onto his skin.

  “Oh, great!” Jackson said aloud, trying to sound sarcastic. He began to trot but immediately tripped over an exposed tree root and went down hard. Sharp pain shot through his knee. “Ow!” He struggled to his feet again to go on, but with the first step the pain intensified and he stopped, grimacing.

  It took several deep breaths, but Jackson fought back the panic he felt crawling up his back and forced the sound of confidence into his voice, as if Seth and Chris were there. “No big deal,” he assured himself. “Not to worry.” He looked up at the wild dark sky. “This’ll let up pretty soon. Just find a place to get out of the weather for a while and rest your leg, then you can get on home.”

  Jackson looked around, squinting through what had become a chaos of rain and wind-whipped tree limbs. At first he saw nothing that offered shelter, but then … there at the base of Cougar Butte, a jagged split in the rock face. If only it was big enough for him to get into.

  Jackson limped his way through dripping underbrush and up a scree slope toward the butte. “Almost there,” he found himself saying. “Almost there …” Sleet mixed with the rain, stinging his face and the backs of his hands. He dropped onto all fours and climbed laboriously over the slick rocks, his knee throbbing. “Almost there …” Scrambling up onto a ledge, he wriggled into the crack in the cliff.

  To Jackson’s surprise, the opening was more than just a shallow cleft. It went deep into Cougar Butte and widened as it did so into a small cave. He peered into the blackness. An odd, discomforting smell hung in the still, dank air, like that of a match when first lit. He eased outside again. Maybe he’d be better off going down and making a run for it, after all.

  A great rumbling roar shook the air. There was a splintering crack. Jackson jerked around just in time to see a slab of rock the size of a car break off Cougar Butte and come crashing down onto the slope not more than thirty feet from where he stood. He lunged back into the cave and retreated into its darkness as fast as he could, until he bumped into the back wall and could go no further. He sat down, leaning against the rock, and let out a ragged sigh of relief.

  Which didn’t last very long. Although out of the storm and in a dry place, his jeans and cotton shirt were completely soaked and seemed to be sucking the heat right out of him. He was already starting to shiver.

  Hypothermia. Jackson knew all about it. His father had taught him. Wet, cold, and wind together caused it. First you start to shiver, just like he was doing now. Then the shivering won’t stop. Pretty soon it’s as if your brain has gone numb, and you start thinking crazy and are likely to do dumb things. Eventually you pass out, and then … Hypothermia was a killer.

  Jackson bit his lower lip and forced a large swallow. An uncontrollable shudder racked him. He gingerly pulled his knees to his chest, then wrapped his arms around his legs, becoming as tight a ball as he could. He closed his eyes and tried to think warm thoughts: a tropical beach under palm trees, like in the ads; a woodstove and whistling teakettle; a bathtub full of water so hot you’d have to slip down into it an inch at a time.

  Concentrating on those things, Jackson actually began to feel heat. He was about to congratulate himself on his power of concentration when he realized that the heat was not being generated by his mind, but from behind him. He turned and put his hand on the cave wall he had been leaning against. Instantly, warmth spread through his fingers and up his arm.

  At another time, Jackson would have jerked his hand away. His mind would have raced with horrible thoughts: What had he stumbled onto, a lava tube like they’d studied about in science? There could be an eruption any second! Molten rock would come bursting through the cave wall! He’d die the dumbest of deaths—by fire in the middle of a sleet storm!

  But at that particular moment, as cold as he was, Jackson didn’t ask himself why, or how, or from what source the heat in the stone was coming. The only thing that mattered was that he was actually beginning to get warm.

  Just his arm, though. The heat seemed to run out of energy below the shoulder. He needed more than that. He was cold all over. He wanted to hug a piece of the rock to him.

  Jackson’s eyes had adjusted to the poor light, so he could make out a small horizontal crack in the cave wall where the rock felt the warmest. He worked his fingers into it, tensed them, then gave a big tug. Nothing moved. He pulled again, harder. There was a small crunching sound. He took a deep breath, then yanked with all his might. The rock gave, and a book-sized piece of it fell onto the cave floor. Jackson reached to scoop it up, but then stopped and stared in disbelief.

  Although the front side of the rock had been rough and indistinguishable from the rest of the cave wall, the back side of it—which was now lying exposed—was anything but normal. It appeared to have been hollowed out into a concave shape, much like a cupped hand. And lying in that indentation was a small, perfectly oval piece of polished black stone with a small hole through its center.

  “What in the world?” Only seconds before it had been part of the cave wall. Jackson leaned closer. Etched into the surface of the black stone was what looked like a lion.

  Fear shot up the back of Jackson’s neck. A part of his brain began screaming, “This is weird, really weird. Get out of here! Run! Now!”

  But from another part of his brain came a very different message. Not in words. It wasn’t a voice, or even a thought, only a strange and yet pleasing feeling. With it Jackson’s fear simply disappeared. Like fog off the mountains, it quietly evaporated, turning from something felt into something not. And just as mysteriously, something else took its place. Jackson didn’t know what that something was. All he knew with sudden certainty was that everything was okay. More than okay. He reached out and picked up the stone.

  Warmth flooded Jackson’s palm, his arm, his entire body. The pain in his knee softened, then ceased. A sense of calm blanketed him, along with an inexplicable feeling of strength, of power. He closed his fingers tight around the stone and pressed it to his chest.

  In the next instant a wild roar and blinding flash of red light exploded around him and everything seemed to tilt as if knocked off its axis. Jackson thrust his hand out, groping, grasping for something—anything—to hold on to. But his fingers closed on only air, and he was falling, falling.…

  3. “Or-y-gun?”

  Mud. Cold, wet, slimy. Plastered on his face. Smeared down the front of his Trailblazers jacket. Squished into his hair, cementing his curly brown locks to his scalp. The next thing Jackson knew he was sprawled in the mud.

  “Ugh,” he groaned. “What happened?” Only to taste mud on his tongue. “Yuck!” He pushed up onto his knees, spitting in disgust, wiping the smelly, gooey ooze from around his eyes. Cautiously opening them, he blinked in the bright light.

  What Jackson saw made no sense. Instead of being in a cave in Cougar Butte, he now knelt on a tiny island of mud in the middle of a shallow river, its water gurgling by on either side.

  “Huh? What the …?” He must be imagining things. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them wide. The river and island of mud were still there.

  A deep, penetrating chill swept through Jackson’s body. He lurched to his feet, slipped, staggered, and spun to find himself gaping up at the massive beams o
f a large wooden bridge arching high over his head.

  Jackson looked around in wild-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment. Along one side of the river, dense stands of strange grasslike plants grew to the height of small trees. He whirled about, mud squishing beneath his feet. On the opposite side of the river stretched a field, brown earth plowed and harrowed, ready for planting. He looked up. Above it all the bright orb of the sun shone in a brilliant blue, cloudless sky.

  Jackson clamped his eyes shut and kept them shut this time. No. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. It was just a dream, an extremely strange dream, but a dream nonetheless. It had to be. He’d wake up any second now and it would all be over. As would the storm. So he could go home.

  Yes, home. And Becky would be there, still eating her sandwich, the smell of peanut butter on her breath. She’d make some smart-aleck remark, but he would ignore her, leave her sitting there on the kitchen counter. He’d cross the living room, stepping over the dark coffee stain on the beige carpet the way he always did, then turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Hand on the familiar wood railing, he would look up toward his room.

  That’s right. He would want to be alone for a while after a dream like this. He’d climb toward his bedroom door—first one step, then two. The third step would squeak, like always. Halfway up would be the purple crayon mark on the wall, which Becky swore she didn’t do. He’d gain the landing at the top, and there would be his room with the Trailblazers posters on the wall, the purple beanbag chair in the corner, the Corvette model next to the deer antler on top of his dresser, his unmade bed, and his dirty clothes on the floor. His wonderful room, all his. That was what Jackson longed for. Slowly he opened his eyes once more to see … river, bridge, giant grass, plowed field, sunny sky—all looking incredibly real. A warm breeze brushed his cheek, bringing with it the smell of spring.

  Jackson’s legs went weak, his stomach queasy. He hunched over, his hands on his knees. “What—What is happening?” he pleaded.

  “I was going to ask you,” came an urgent whisper from the bridge above him. “Is the river still going down? It’s not a good sign, is it?”

  Jackson bolted upright, his heart in his throat. He could see no one, only the underside of the bridge. “Who’s there?”

  “Not Father, thank goodness.” It was a girl’s voice, with a strange accent like none Jackson had ever heard. Her words echoed, seeming to shift from one part of his mind to another. “He’s furious, says the Yakonan are to blame for all the troubles, even the earth shaking. The roof of Jal’s old barn fell in this time. The village is in an uproar.”

  Jackson whirled to run, then whirled again. Run where?

  Footsteps sounded on the bridge planks. “He and Yed have raised the banner of the Steadfast Order over the main gate. What are we going to—”

  Then the girl was in Jackson’s sight, leaning over the bridge railing, a look of shock on her face. “Oh! I thought you were—” she grew flustered. Fear flickered in her eyes. She looked over her shoulder, “I—I mean I was expecting—”

  The girl cut herself short, took a deep breath, composed herself, then looked down again at Jackson. “You’re covered with mud.” She leaned farther over the bridge railing, eyeing Jackson from head to toe. “Those are very strange clothes.”

  Jackson gaped at his mud-smeared jacket, then back up at the girl. “Strange?” The word came out with a manic, desperate edge to it. “What’s so strange about—”

  Then he noticed what the girl was wearing: a long, loose-fitting cream-colored dress with a dark blue apron over it. Across her shoulders hung a maroon shawl, pinned at her throat with a large brooch. She appeared as if she had walked right off the pages of a book on ancient history.

  Jackson looked around him again at what simply shouldn’t be. His lower lip began to tremble. “What is going on?”

  The girl tilted her head to one side. Her thick wavy hair, the color of honey, fell over her shoulder and down to her elbow. She pursed her lips. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “I have no idea!” Jackson blurted out. “Last thing I remember, I was in a cave at the base of Cougar Butte and—” An abrupt sob racked him. He choked it back. “Where am I?”

  The girl’s face softened. “In the Vale, of course.”

  “The Vale?”

  The girl nodded, then motioned expansively with her hands. “Yes, home to the Timmran and Yakonan people who—”

  Jackson shook his head. “But that’s impossible! Just a minute ago I was in Oregon.”

  “Or-y-gun?” the girls said, stumbling over the syllables. “What is Or-y-gun?”

  Jackson’s answer came out in a frantic rush. “It’s where I live! In Timber Grove! I was in the woods and a storm came up, and I hurt my knee, and I went into this cave and then—”

  He stopped, clamping his hand over his mouth. In a sudden flash he’d realized that although he’d been thinking in English, what he’d been speaking had been something else altogether. The words had been echoing in his mind for an instant, then shifting somehow as they crossed his tongue. He stepped back, mind reeling. The girl hadn’t been speaking English, either, and yet he’d understood everything she had said. This was too much, just too much. He was losing his mind.

  “Could it be?” the girl murmured, her eyes filled with wonder. “I thought you were from the North, but if this Or-y-gun is just another name for the Otherworld, then …”

  A cold sweat broke out on Jackson’s forehead. “Oh, my God,” he mumbled, a dizzying blur of confusion crashing over him.

  “Yes, of course!” the girl exclaimed. “Dedron was right! Panenthe has answered our Prayer Song and sent you to us!”

  Jackson’s knees buckled. He staggered forward.

  “You are the Instrument.”

  And everything went dark.

  4. Right on the Mouth

  “Here, have some Daru tea.”

  The voice, soft and gentle, floated through the fog in Jackson’s mind. A hand touched his arm, then moved behind his head and lifted it. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. The lids, like his entire body, felt numb, lifeless.

  “It’ll bring back your strength.”

  With great effort he tried again, and finally was able to force his eyelids halfway open. All he could make out was a small clay cup before him. Steam rose from it in wispy fingers, carrying a strange but pleasant scent.

  “Drink.”

  The cup moved forward until it touched Jackson’s lips. A tiny sip passed onto his tongue. It tasted slightly sour, but good, like hot lemonade. He swallowed. A soothing trickle of warmth glided down his throat and into his stomach.

  “That’s it. Have more.”

  The cup tilted. Jackson swallowed again, then still again as the warmth in his belly grew and began radiating out with amazing quickness, thawing the numbness first in his arms and legs, then in his fingers and toes. Up the back of his neck it went, rising like a small sun in his mind. The fog there broke, then thinned to a haze … and thinned more … until only a filmy trace of vapor remained.

  “Good! You’re feeling better already, aren’t you? Ernt tea mixed with Daru. The combination never fails.”

  Jackson blinked and opened his eyes all the way to see the girl from the bridge sitting at his side, looking down at him. Panic shot through him like quicksilver. He bolted upright, a thin blanket falling from his shoulders, but he went lightheaded and fell back to the crunch and smell of straw beneath him.

  Broken images flashed across his mind: being lifted out of the mud by strong arms … a voice, then two … hands steadying him through knee-deep water, helping him up the riverbank … stumbling along a path … a gate, then a door … whispers … a dark room … the smell of wood smoke … his muddy jacket gone, then back, clean … a warm washcloth on his brow … and through it all talk about things—an instrument or something—that made no sense.

  Jackson shook his head. Nothing made any sense. “Tell me I’m not crazy,” he
begged. “Tell me this isn’t real.”

  The girl’s face came closer, her forehead furrowed with concern. She smoothed the blanket and tucked it under Jackson’s chin. “But it is real. You’ve been sent to us, and you’re in my home in the village of Timmra. And whenever you’re ready we can go and you can fix the Shaw-Mara and stop the Baen from …”

  Her words trailed off as Jackson struggled up onto his elbows, frantically looking for a way to escape, a way to get back to reality. A small fire burned on an open hearth a few feet away. From its dim, flickering light he could make out a crude table and benches built of rough-hewn planks, a wooden barrel, a clay crock, windowless walls of straw and mud, a heavy door bolted shut. He was trapped.

  Fear and confusion merged in Jackson to form a desperate anger. “What is this place?” he demanded. It was like nothing he’d ever known. There were no signs of electricity or running water, much less a TV or phone. “Where have you taken me?”

  The girl flinched at Jackson’s harshness, but her voice held steady. “I was afraid you were getting sick, that the journey from the Otherworld had weakened you. I thought that if I brought you to my house and gave you my special teas, it would help you to rest.” She tried to force a smile. “My teas are good. Dedron’s mother showed me how to gather the roots, then burn the skin off in hot coals and boil the pith down. A little of the dried paste goes a long way. You’ve been asleep for two days.”

  “Two days?” Jackson flung the blanket onto the floor. Oh, man, was he in trouble now. Dad would kill him!

  The girl’s face went red. Her mouth set into a firm line. She stood and picked up the blanket. “You don’t have to be rude. I was just trying to—”

  “Trying to what?” Jackson demanded. He lunged off the straw bed and grabbed her arm. “Make me crazy? This is not real! Say it isn’t! Say it!”