by Steven Novak
Tommy looked at Pleebo. As Pleebo talked, he seemed almost lost in his story. The remembrances of the moments of which he had spoken obviously still affected him deeply as he replayed them in his mind.
“The soldier had laughed at him as he pled for mercy…begging for the lives of his family. He laughed at him… then struck him down in cold blood…right in front of my eyes. Not knowing what to do, I ran. I ran as fast as I could, grabbed my baby sister, my mother, and then ran some more. A few years later, I joined the resistance. My mother was not happy. She tried to convince me that I was throwing away every ideal the Fillagrou had spent eons building.”
Pleebo slowly and mournfully raised his hands to his face, forming fists. The bones in his knuckles cracked and popped. “With these hands, I helped build Tipoloo. I dug until my fingers bled, until the flesh peeled away and I was digging with little more than bone. I was nobody, Tommy…I was just a dumb kid. Never once in my life did I imagine that I would be called on to save the life of anyone else. Heck, I did not even think I was capable of such a thing. I don’t imagine any of us knows what we can do until we’re face to face with a situation and forced to react. That’s the secret, Tommy. Maybe it’s something you won’t fully understand until the moment arrives…that instant when action becomes reaction. Let me tell you this, though…it’s not the tests themselves that define us…it’s how we react to them. When I first saw you, I have to admit…I doubted that you were who I thought you might be, but now…”
Pleebo stopped in mid-sentence. The pupils in his enormous red eyes grew twice as large as he stared at Tommy.
“What?” Tommy asked, worried by the look on the creature’s face, unsure of what was going on.
Pleebo raised his arm and pointed one of his long fingers at him. Tommy’s entire hand had lit up with a soft, bright white light which extended halfway up his forearm. Not only that, but the light seemed to be growing brighter. The heat coming off of it warmed the side of his face. The ominous glow seemed to originate from the tips of his fingers, growing brighter still, inching its way further up his arm. Although not fully aware of what he was doing, Pleebo backed away slowly. His mouth dropped open, his thin lips moved up and down as if he wanted to speak, though no words escaped. The dirt wall that Tommy’s hand had been pressed against began to evaporate inward as the light emanating from him engulfed it, erasing it much the same way the sun might evaporate water. Overcome with fear, Tommy also slowly backed away. The incredible energy pouring from his hand, however, followed him, cascading across the large dirt wall, covering it like a blanket.
Terrified, he managed to mumble pleadingly, “Pleebo…I…”
The glowing light now fully engulfed his arm and inched its way up his neck. Tommy turned to Pleebo, his wide eyes begging for help. Pleebo had continued to back away, amazed and alarmed at what he was witnessing.
Tommy felt the tickle of light inching its way up the side of his face. He heard its energy crackle in his ear. He closed his eyes tight, bit down as hard as he could, and prayed that whatever was happening to him would stop. He wanted to cry or scream or shout, but was unable to do so. He thought of his father and his brother. He thought of Pleebo and what had happened to Fillagrou. He thought of everything that he had seen here, and everything his father had put him though over the last two years. He thought of his mother and her smile, and the very last thing she had said to him before she died. He remembered the feel of her fragile hand, the sound of her labored breathing, the look on her faraway eyes as she smiled at him for the very last time. He thought of everything – and somehow, he made the strange sensation stop.
When he opened his eyes again, the light was gone and his arm had returned to normal. In front of him, a massive empty tunnel had replaced the dirt wall. He turned to look at Pleebo, only to find the street filled with a wild assortment of creatures, each with their mouths open wide in surprise. Donald stood with a look of shock, awe and fear. Tommy never imagined he would see such a look on the boy who had made his school days such a living hell. Next to him stood Pleebo and Zanell, next to them, a six-foot tall turtle with a tiny knife in his oversized paw, and next to him…Owen Little.
Tiny red Roustaf buzzed past Tommy’s ear, hovering for a moment at the opening of the newly-formed tunnel. He turned around with a look of shock on his face, his hands high on his hips.
Rubbing one hand up and over his head, the little man sighed deeply as he twiddled his tiny mustache.
Slightly grinning in Tommy’s direction, he screamed as loudly as a man of his minuscule size could possibly muster, “Hot damn, kid! Them’s some magic fingers you’ve got there!”
*
*
CHAPTER 18
THE PROMISE
*
The long white hallway on the fourth floor of the Fairchild Medical Center was mostly empty and rather quiet. Occasionally a nurse or a doctor walked by with their head buried in a set of papers on a clipboard, their shoes clicking against the tile floor with every step. It was night, and with visiting hours coming to an end, most everyone, patients and family alike, had either drifted off to sleep or returned home. On an empty bench near the end of the hallway sat ten-year-old Tommy Jarvis. Too short to reach the floor, his legs swung back and forth over its edge. His hands rested softly on his lap as he twiddled his fingers quietly, trying his hardest to think about anything other than this place. His mother and father were just behind the door on his right.
For almost a year now his mother had become progressively sicker. At first the trips to the doctor had been for small things like high fevers or sore throats or pain in her joints. In the last few months, the trips had become more frequent. She had been admitted to the hospital three weeks ago, and it was here that she remained. Every night like clockwork his father left him and Nicky with Auntie Carol so that he could visit her. On the weekends – like today – he would bring them along. Nicky might be too young to really, truly understand every nuance of what was going on, but Tommy believed the young boy understood the basics of the situation. Their mother was sick and she was not going to get better.
She was dying.
No doubt Nicky could not make total sense out of the concept of death, but he knew that a time would come very soon when he would never see his mother again.
Tommy looked up as the door to his mother’s room opened; his father stepped out with a sleepy-sad Nicky pressed tightly against his chest. He looked in Tommy’s direction. “Hey buddy…how are you feeling?”
Tommy did not know quite how to respond. The idea of summing up everything going on in his head seemed like a task more impossible than anything he had encountered in his young life. He saw no point in trying.
Chris Jarvis gently laid the half-awake Nicky on the bench next to his older brother, softly brushing the hair from the boy’s eyes. When Chris looked down he noticed that his hand was shaking. He could feel a torrent of emotions building up inside him, but he forced himself to ignore them. Chris needed to be strong, even if he wanted to cry and scream, and denounce his faith in God, the universe, and whatever unseen force was putting his family through this. He wanted to yell at the doctors for not doing more, or curse the nurses for their pointless pitying looks, or simply run away and leave all the sadness and the stress behind, but he could not. Chris could not do any of these things or a number of others. Not in front of his boys, and not now. These were things better left to the nights alone, shrouded within the darkness of his room, while lying on the marital bed with soaking wet eyes. He had to be bigger than that; he had to be better than that, for them – even if it hurt more than he could stand.
After taking a deep breath and wiping away a single tear from the corner of his eye, Chris knelt down in front of Tommy, gazing into the soft blue eyes of his eldest son. “Hey big man, your mom…your mom wants to see you alone for a minute. Would you like to do that? Are you going to be okay, or do you want your ol’ dad to go with you?”
Tommy noticed as we
ll his father’s shaking hands. He spotted the very faint glimmer of wetness, catching the pale glow of the fluorescent lights in the corner of his father’s eye.
Despite trying so hard, Chris Jarvis could not hide his emotions well.
Tommy wanted badly to see his mother - to hug her and kiss her and hear her tell him that she loved him…and that she would always be there for him…but he knew that was not going to happen. Maybe it was the look on his father’s face or the eerie, bordering on downright frightening, silence coming from his mother’s room, but something inside the boy told him that if he went through that door, it would be for the last time. After today he was never going to see her again.
“Well buddy, is that something you think you might want to do? I know your mom would really like to see you.”
Despite his brain telling him to say “no”, Tommy nodded yes. He carefully slid off of the bench and moved toward her room.
Gently his father patted him on top of his head, mussing his hair a bit, whispering in a shaky voice, “It’s okay, buddy…everything will be all right.”
Despite his best efforts, Chris Jarvis was not convincing anyone – least of all, himself.
Once he put some distance between his father and himself, Tommy heard his father’s voice crack silently as he struggled to keep from breaking down right there on the spot. It was this very tiny, yet extremely telling moment that would stick with Tommy for years afterward, because his father’s voice would never sound the same again. Not only did Chris Jarvis’ voice crack on that day, but his soul did, as well – a crack so deep that it could never be repaired – spreading slowly, until the dam of his emotions shattered completely, devouring everything in its path.
The hospital room was dark, barely lit by the glow of a television set hanging high in the corner, the volume turned all the way down. As Tommy approached his mother’s bed he noticed how small and frail her body looked. The light blue sheet hung over her as if it were resting on a skeleton. Her breathing was labored, her face gaunt, her eyes sleepy, distant and dreamy. She looked far away, almost as if her mind were off somewhere floating above, just barely clinging onto the motionless form that had been left behind and propped upon pillows. Tommy saw her left eye move slowly to the side, independent of her face, as she spotted him standing next to the bed gazing at her. A weary smile shaped her worn face, but even the act of smiling seemed to be a painful experience for her. Her mouth opened as if she wished to speak, but only a puff of air and a gentle hum, just barely a sound, escaped.
Somewhat ashamed at her inability to form sentences, she squinted, focused her mind and tried again, “T…Tommy…ho…how is Mommy’s…s…special little…guy?”
Her hand crawled across the bed sheets like a pale white spider moving toward him. When it arrived at the end of the bed Tommy reached up and held onto it gently. He wanted to squeeze it as tightly as he could, but did not for fear that it might someway cause her pain.
“Mommy…is…g…going to go away for a while…bu…I don’t want you…to…ever forget how…much I…I love you…okay, baby?”
The tidal wave of emotions Tommy had been doing his best to keep inside started to make their way out of him in the form of hot liquid now streaming from his eyes. His face instantly grew balmy and tepid, his lip started to quiver uncontrollably and his neck felt wobbly, unable to properly hold the weight of his head. While trying to catch his breath and failing, Tommy looked up at the motionless form that only slightly resembled his mother.
In between deep breaths he did his best to form a sentence, “Bu…but I don’t want you to go.” It was not much, but was the best that he could manage before breaking down completely.
Megan Jarvis started instantly to weep uncontrollably, as she saw the tears pour from her little boy’s eyes.
She had cried so much over the past year that she found it amazing that she had any tears left, “No…no…don’t cry, baby…you need to be strong for Mommy…you…you need to be st…strong.” Using every last ounce of strength buried within her, Megan leaned over the side of the bed, ignoring the incredible pain shooting throughout her body. Reaching down with one hand, she pulled her son toward her.
Tommy moved closer, his face now sobbing into the thin, flower-patterned fabric of her hospital gown.
“This is just part of life To…Tommy. Ju…just another part…” Megan stuttered softly, pulling her first-born’s head away from her shoulder so that she could look him directly in the eyes, “All of life is beautiful…all of it. Even…the parts we hate, and even…when it reaches its end.”
Tommy was not completely sure what she meant, but he absorbed her every word like a plant absorbing the life-giving energy of the sun, promising himself that he would never forget even a single one.
“You’re a very special…boy…Tommy Jarvis. I…I…knew from the moment I saw…your tiny little…face. Promise me…promise Mommy that you’ll enjoy life. Promise…me…that you’ll look for its beauty. Promise me, that…you’ll be happy. Promise me…that you’ll do…do…everything that…”
She stopped for a moment, her lips slowly opening as if she were thirsty before she continued, “Promise me that you’ll…that you’ll do everything you think…you can’t…” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes slowly looked away from him toward something she could see that he could not. The hot air softly blowing from her mouth and nose became shorter and colder against Tommy’s skin. Her neck grew looser and her head heavier. Her hand slid off his face, floating downward, weightless, and landed softly on the sheet covering her body.
Tommy climbed onto her bed, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his face in her shoulder. Deeply he breathed in the smell of her hair, relishing it as it floated into his brain.
In between fits of tears, he whispered softly into her ear, “I Promise.”
*
*
CHAPTER 19
INTO THE DUNGEON
*
As ordered by the Prince, General Gragor lugged Staci and Nicky from his chambers, across the castle, down an enormously long set of winding stairs and through a humongous steel door leading to the fortress dungeon. The light inside was almost non-existent, the air cold, stiff, and stuffy. Built into either side of a long, dark hallway were extremely small, dank, rancid smelling cells, each with a malnourished prisoner or two locked behind a thick set of crisscrossing steel bars. From deep within the darkness of the cells, Nicky could hear soft moans, painful and tired, each laced with a sense of hopelessness. The sounds frightened him. His breath shortened and his heart raced as he slowed his rapidly moving feet to a drag.
Stiffly, General Gragor shoved the boy in his back, nudging him forward and prompting him to pick up the pace.
Halfway down the hall, General Gragor instructed the children to stop in front of an empty cell. With a closed fist, he motioned in the direction of a guard standing twenty feet away, who pulled a lever on a nearby wall. The cell door opened with a very deep, ancient sounding roll.
“Get in.” General Gragor mumbled with some annoyance, this time poking Staci in the spine and shoving her inside.
Once both she and Nicky were within its walls, General Gragor motioned to the guard again and the cell door closed behind them. Before turning to walk away the massive creature leaned close to the bars, slowly removing his helmet. His face was as hideous as that of Prince Valkea. General Gragor seemed much older, though, his green scales showing the wear and tear of years spent in the trenches of war. The stern, serious look in his eyes indicated beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had seen horrors the children could scarcely imagine.
He took a moment to silently look over the children, before he gruffly spoke, “If it were up to me, the both of you would be dead already. The Prince may not believe in the prophecy…and I can’t say that I blame him, but the way I see it …why bother taking a chance? Let me tell you this…at the very first sign of trouble, whether I’m ordered to or not, I will put an end to your lives without h
esitation or regret. I’ve killed things smaller and more pathetic than you in the name of my King, and I will gladly do it again. This is my promise to you.” He growled menacingly underneath his breath, put on his helmet and headed through the door at the end of the hall.
“KEEP A CLOSE EYE ON THESE TWO!” He commanded sternly before he vanished from sight. Nicky and Staci sat with their knees pulled into their chests, their backs against the cold stone of the cell wall. Staci had stopped crying, silently rocking back and forth, her eyes closed tight. Whispering under her breath she prayed that she would wake up and discover that his had been a horrible dream. She imagined she would go downstairs and find her mother making her breakfast and hug her longer and tighter than she had ever hugged anyone before. Nicky Jarvis felt as lost, confused, and scared as she looked, though on the outside he tried to remain relatively composed, succeeding only a little. He scooted closer to Staci and rested his arm around her, pulling her close; the gesture was as much for him as it was for her. Just having someone – anyone – near felt good – felt reassuring.
Underneath her breath, Staci quietly mumbled, “I’m so sorry Nicky…I’m so sorry.”
She was overcome with a feeling of uselessness. She was ashamed of the way she had reacted to everything, but at the same was not sure how to stop it. She regretted not having had the strength to pull Nicky out of the water, as if their being here was in some way her fault. She missed her parents – her father, her mother – she missed them so much that simply thinking of them made her heart ache. She wondered if she would ever see them again and became significantly more frightened when she realized that she did not have an answer.