The Shadow of Nisi Pote

by H C Storrer

  Jack held a finger to his lips, silencing the fairy, and slowly pulled back from the hut. Feeling less anxiety, he finally whispered, “Well, master Tristan, I can’t fly. I’m just a man. Remember. It would do us no good to try and save Belle without also gathering the proof to present to the council.” The call of the dust was practically yelling at him. “And if there is a chance that it can keep me from being sent to a watery grave, then I think it’s worth the risk.”

  Tristan hovered for a minute, his skin pulsing with worry. “If the wild men catch me, it could mean war with the fairies.”

  “And if Fering gets his way, he will be your king,” Jack rebutted. “They don’t care about Tigerlily or Belle as much as they do about this fairy dust. So, if there is a war, it will be with me.”

  “Tigerlily?” Tristan was confused and landed on Peter’s arm.

  “There is a small hut on the other side of the village. You should go and see if she is okay,” Jack explained, trying to dispatch him. “She is in as much danger as Belle.”

  “I see.” Tristan’s confusion gave way to clarity as he followed the chain of Peter’s thoughts. Finally, he turned to Peter. “Wait for my signal before you act.” In a blink of an eye, he was gone.

  Jack shook his head, glad to be rid of him.

  Pausing for a breath, Jack surveyed the guards. For ‘wild men’ they showed a frustratingly large amount of discipline; they hardly even took notice of the water that ran down their faces. Seeing no path to the entrance that would go unnoticed, he steeled his resolve and began to work his way toward the edge of the cliff. It was there, unseen, that he made the rear of the thick palm fronds of the back wall of the structure. Holding fast to the wooden supports between rustling walls of the hut, he slowly crept upon the barest stone to keep from falling into the crashing waves below.

  “Tani, Wiremu,” a muffled voice called from the front of the hut. “We will take the next watch. The chief says that Kauri can go back to his wife.”

  This was it, Jack knew he would have no other distraction, he had to push his way through now while the men spoke. The exterior was damp from the downpour, and it was silent as Jack began to force his hand and then arm through the woven palm frond wall. His heart drummed in panic through his ears as he pushed further inside, the wet outer layer giving way to the dried vegetation that began crackling as he intruded deeper. Just as he poked his shoulder then head into the great room, a red orange glow burst into a golden flame that illuminated the thin covering to the hut’s entrance, the silhouette of each guard growing smaller as they rushed towards the fiery commotion. Rolling his body through the wall, Jack came up to a crouch with a satisfied smile. Tristan had come through; there was no doubt that was his signal. Hands on his hips with a sigh, he recovered himself and shed his brush suit like snakeskin.

  The roaring flames from the village cast a paltry glow as he quickly moved around the room, examining the sparse furnishings. Other than a few sleeping mats and earthen dishes, the most prominent feature was an intricately carved chair in the very center, what he assumed to be the chief’s throne. Slinking around the space, Jack looked and then looked again. The hut was a grand structure for the wild men, and having been on the island long enough, Jack was impressed by its size. However, it was still only one main room, with separate quarters divided from the main body by a woven blanket of fibers and beads. Jack searched the entire expanse again and again. In a flurry he tossed aside the grass mats, unsure what he would find beneath them. Desperation began to build in his chest and claw at his throat. Exasperated, he wiped the sweat from his brow and walked to the throne, the only significant object in the room.

  The pull of the dust grew with intensity as he climbed the lava rock pedestal and examined the ornate ironwood chair. “I can feel it!” his hoarse whisper broke the stillness. The pearlescent glowing eyes of the tattooed face carved in the center of the throne’s back captivated his attention. In the center of the mask, a wooden tongue protruded from a grinning mouth, mocking him, fueling Jack’s frustration. Disgusted, he couldn’t take his eyes from the carving as it danced under the golden light of the waning flames of Tristan’s distraction. It was as he stepped back a pace that he perceived a difference in the shimmer of the taunting eyes. The left eye was worn, as if it had been consistently touched for ages. Curious he put his own thumb to the socket, the pearl receding deeper with a click before bouncing back to him.

  “The fool drank too much kava!” the returning guards were complaining loudly. Panicked, Jack took a step off of the pedestal as the rock underneath him slid back effortlessly, leaving him straddling a deep hole. Jack’s torso began a precarious dance, weaving back and forth as the darkness below urged him into its depths. Fighting fate with a great thrust, he launched his foot from the pedestal, snapping his legs together upon the sand-covered ground to the other side. His arms waved for balance as he looked over his shoulder into the black abyss. A sly grin playing at the edges of his lips turned to worry as the heavy hand of gravity won the battle.

  Falling back first, he connected with the sharp basalt stairs that circled down, rolling head over feet, he finally came to a stop upside down at the base of the rounding steps with a groan. Jack gripped his chest, gasping for breath while his eyes adjusted to a strange golden glow that bent lightly about the corner like slow-moving sea foam in a current of wind.

  Chapter 30

  J ack’s feet fell silent as they padded into the soft dirt, each step lifting the powdery soil inches into the air. In the center of the room a small wooden box hovered motionless, glowing as if it contained a bit of the sun. Pausing his lifted hand, Jack looked at his fingers, confused. He had no recollection of giving them the order to rise. Hesitantly, he pushed his digits forward and wrapped them around the small floating case, it’s golden aura pulsing against the pressure of his fingers. It weighed little, less than two chicken feathers stacked upon themselves, and was barely big enough to fill his hand. Jack pulled the little chest to him, a curious marquetry inlay of shimmering silver fairy wings atop. The sides were etched with the same silver in straight, parallel lines that circled about the burl wood; the lid was fastened with a delicate silver latch.

  Carefully pressing his thumb to the hasp, Jack slid it from the securing pin with a flick, then lifted the lid slowly to spy inside at the sparkling golden dust. With the slightest movement, it glided about as if it were a liquid, forming small piles that clung to the sides midway to the brim. Careful not to lose a single sparkle, he latched the lid and took the box under his arm, turning with a grin toward the exit.

  As if pierced to the heart, he stumbled back at the sight of intent faces glaring down upon him. The chief’s tattooed body stood proudly, blocking the steps, two guards flanking him. “You couldn’t stay away.” The Chief flicked his chin, commanding his guards; dutifully, they started forward, circling. “You look confused, Son of Pan. I am Rata, chief of these peoples. You will find escape to not be so easy this time.”

  “I…I know who you are” Jack scrambled for words as he backed up, keeping the warriors to his front.

  “You stammer like a pig. I would have liked to consume the flesh of the one who would be Pan, but I am afraid your cowardly tears would only infect me. No amount of sobbing will stop Moremore, on the other hand,” Rata mocked.

  Jack’s ears burned from the insult. Flicking a condemning finger, he took a step forward and spat back, “Then give me a sword so I can die like a man. Or are you afraid, you coward.”

  “Enough! No one steals from Rata!” The chief marched into the room, his face contorted, and the back of his hand raised.

  Attempting to dodge the blow, Jack jerked to his left, his elbow connecting with the cavern wall. In a moment of panicked awe, the room watched the precious little box as it jarred loose from his grasp and spun towards the ground. Jack dove to the dirt a second before Rata, his fingertips snatching the tiny casket from the air as Rata’s fingers dug into the back of his hands,
the chief scratching for the box. With a jerk, Jack pulled the parcel close to his chest as he rolled away from the chief’s attack.

  “Get him!” Rata growled to his guards who were already moving forward, their clubs raised.

  In a blur, Jack leapt through a gap between Rata’s men, landing hard on his side. With a pop, the lid flicked back as Jack jostled against the blow to his shoulder, a rushing of dust spraying from its containment over his exposed skin. In less than a second, the flickers of gold raced up his hand, over his arm, and towards his chest as if it had a mind of its own. Jack spun to his knees in a panic, raising a glowing arm as a blow from a wooden club streaked down upon him.

  “Get the du…” Rata barked, his voice dropping in drawn out tones.

  Jack clamped his eyes shut, waiting for a suffocating death from the dust or a broken arm. The fury of seconds before dissolved into a hushed clam, the only sound in Jacks ears was the hummingbird pace of his own heart. Each second stretched to the next with the blow never landing. With a hesitant peek from the corner of one eye, Jack slowly opened both in amazement. All about him, the world had slowed to less than a crawl. The wooden club he expected to crush his bone had begun to shatter against his arm as if his limb were cast from pure iron, the black shards of the weapon frozen in midair. Pulling his arm back, Jack let out a bark of worried laughter that echoed through the chamber as he marveled at the impossibility of it all. Twisting about in an amazed jig his hesitant chuckles turned to full laughter, until he laid eyes upon the slow-moving statues that were his attackers.

  Taking the little box in hand, he secured the latch and started towards the stairs. His foot pausing at the first step, Jack’s face darkened with revenge. “No. We are not done, you and I.” Grabbing the chief, amazed at how with the slightest effort the man could be moved or bent to his will, Jack tucked him under the slow-falling blow where his arm had been.

  Giddy with his newfound power, he made his way out of the hut into the damp misty air. A smile from ear to ear, he began whistling ‘Roll the Old Chariot,’ one of his favorite sea shanties. The last drizzles of the dying storm stood motionless in the air as he skipped and ran to the dark of the jungle canopy. He hadn’t taken three steps through the wood when the little droplets began to actually fall. Curious, he watched the dew from the long grass and the drizzle from above mingle in golden streams. As if the great clock of life had begun ticking once more, the drops fell faster and faster, washing the dust free of his person to a shimmering puddle that soaked away beneath his feet.

  Turning towards the village, he gazed impassively at the roaring signal fire Tristan had set as it still burned brightly. In the golden glow, the unmistakable silhouette of Tigerlily hobbled from the village as quickly as she could in a painful run; Tristan and Belle flickered about, urging her on. Behind them, two warriors pushed through the tallgrass in pursuit. Jack made a step to assist and then stopped, his eyes snapping to the little chest in his hand. He could save Tigerlily, but then Tristan would be all too eager to relieve him of his treasure. Conflicted, he slowly backed deeper into the cover of the ferns; Tristan would save them, he hoped.

  ***

  “Peter!” Tigerlily teetered up to her feet with wincing pain; she was first to see him, throwing her arms about his neck. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Jack sighed.

  “Fine?” Tigerlily pulled a twig from his hair. He was covered head to toe with all sorts of mud and bits.

  “I’m fine, really.” Jack stopped her fussing hands. Even in the early twilight he could see her face was bruised; it cut him a little that her first concern was for his welfare.

  “We thought they might have gotten you,” Tigerlily said, clearly worried.

  “Yes, Master Peter. Where have you been?” Tristan appeared in a bright flash with folded arms, his voice dripping with accusation.

  Jack stood there for a second, his smile as innocent as a lamb. With a rustle, he pulled the little box from the folds of his shirt. “I found the dust.” Letting loose the latch. he flicked it open, the inside shimmered weakly with golden residue.

  “What happened to the dust?” Tristan was by his side in an instant, inspecting the wooden enclosure. “Where is it? You didn’t you use it, did you?”

  Jack ripped the wooden lid from Tristan’s hands. “No! And no thanks to you lot, I spent a good part of the evening in the surf. I had to dive off the cliff. Don’t blame me because the box flipped open during the fall and it all spilled out!”

  “Peter!” Tigerlily held her hand to her lips. “You didn’t jump from Toka Rawaho Cliff.”

  “There are rocks at the bottom,” Tristan added.

  “You think—” Jack huffed.

  “I don’t know how you did it and lived.” Tigerlily wrapped her arms around Jack’s neck, her eyes wet against his skin.

  Suppressing the desire to grin, Jack instead narrowed his eyes on Tristan.

  “I—” Tristan felt tiny, even at an inch taller than Jack. “I’m sorry, Peter. I just wish… This will do.” Tristan took the box, nodding, “There is enough still in here to show the council. Fering will—”

  “Will what?” Three tiny fairies dropped from the sky—Fering, flanked by Pistil and Danig. Stretching himself to try and seem bigger than his moth size, Fering puffed out his small potbelly.

  “Where is my dust?” Rata started up the path behind them. All around the little group, the trees started to move as warriors circled.

  “Father!” Tigerlily tried to put herself between Jack and his wrath.

  “I will deal with you later.” Rata aimed his club. Instantly, she struggled between the muscled arms that bound her. Flicking his head at an odd angle, he put his good eye on Jack, the other obviously swollen under a bandage. “As for you, Son of Pan, where is my sparkle?”

  Jack snickered, “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like my gift?”

  Danig zipped to Jack, taking him by a tuft of his shirt. “Did you think us stupid? That we wouldn’t know you would run to the council? Tell us where the dust is, and we will let the others live.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Tristan was instantly the size of a fairy again, the tip of his sword pointed at Danig’s throat. “You have gone mad if you all think you can align yourselves with these wild men!”

  “Align myself?” Fering’s words dripped with scorn. Passing by Jack, he shoved him with amazing force into the arms of two warriors who had crept up behind. “Who is paying who? The wild men have their desires. They are savage, but are we not all deep down inside? I will give them what they most desire, and they will help me finally bring order to the fairies!”

  Fering turned about, Tristan’s sword at his chest. “You have gone mad!”

  “You dare you raise your weapon against our king!” Pistil and Danig warned.

  “Calm yourselves,” Fering placated. “Is there not room in our ranks for one such as Tristan?”

  “Desire? What do you desire?” Jack looked at Tigerlily.

  “It is said that the golden dust will give us back time. To put an end to this endless life. To have children. To live our lives as men.”

  “Yes, to be free of this curse of Pan.” Rata lifted his chin.

  “Curse?” Jack looked at Tigerlily, confused. “To live without want? To live forever? That’s a curse?”

  She looked at him with wilting eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand,” she turned to her father, “but this is not the path.”

  “You are just a foolish girl!” Rata stepped towards her and roughly grabbed her chin, “Take her back to the village. We’ll let Moremore deal with this traitor.” Swinging his heavy ironwood club back and forth, he approached Jack. “Now, to retrieve my payment.”

  In a flash, Tristan was as large as Rata, his sword splitting the man’s wooden club in two mid swing. Within the blink of an eye he disappeared as one of Tigerlily’s captors flew into the brush with a fading scream. Again, the size of a man, he reappeared, gri
pping the second guard by his neck.

  “Enough!” Fering barked, holding his tiny guards back with his arms. “Enough of this, guardian. I gave you a chance, but you are not in control here.”

  Slipping from the grasp of the men holding him, Jack spun about. In an odd moment of stillness, he followed every eye in the clearing aimed at Tristan. The guardian stood motionless with his fingers wrapped around the warrior’s neck, slowly choking the life from him. His golden orb faded into a solid maroon gleam as a steady stream of sparkling purple dust led a trail from Fering.

  “Now release him,” Fering commanded. Tristan obliged, his fingers snapping away from the man’s throat. “Good. Now, take your sword and finish the one called Peters.”

  Turning on his heels, Tristan swung his sword about his person, the movement of his body fluid, while his head and eyes appeared to be as cold as stone, lifeless.

  “Tristan?” Jack backed, “Snap out of it!”

  “He can’t hear you,” Fering mocked. “There is power among the fairies. Power I alone am willing to use.”

  Jack turned and started to run, the thrum of Tristan’s wings beating furiously behind him. Gripping the bough of a small tree, Jack swung himself, hurtling around at ninety degrees. Just as he finished his turn, the tree split in a single vibrating blow, flinging him in a heap down a small drop in the wood. Springing wildly up to his feet, Jack gripped a log with both hands and flung it through the air toward Tristan; in a single slash it parted before the fairy’s sword. Jack only hesitated a moment before sprinting once more for his life.

  “Pan is dead and soon you will join him,” Fering cackled as he hovered nearby with his leash upon Tristan.

  Jack had taken only a few steps when Pistil appeared at his side and shoved him into a sprawling slide among a mass of ferns. His mind dizzy from the blow, Jack was frantic. Before he could move a muscle, Tristan was over him, sword high above his head. Within a thought, Jack found the palm of his hand filled with a small bowl of porridge. Instinctively, he hurled it into Tristan’s face as he shot to his feet and darted away. Before he had traveled two steps he was back on the ground, sliding headlong into the brush again.