Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella)

by Jeremy Robinson

  “And what is dat, Baron Wa?”

  Sigler turned to look Finkle dead in the eyes. There was a hidden meaning behind the gaze, but the old man couldn’t discern what it was. Sigler then turned back to Asherah.

  “Why does Papa Guillaume even need you?” With effort, Sigler stood to his feet. The vines lashed around his body visibly tightened in response, but still the pirate stood defiantly. “It has the power to take over anyone it comes into contact with. It has all the servants it could ever need.” The tangle around his legs snapped, and he took a step closer to the witch. Finkle nearly laughed when he saw her wince backward in fear. “Whatever this thing is, I think it’s empathic. Has the ability to know our greatest fears or deepest longings. That’s how Jenkins’s father materialized in front of us. He was never here. Not in this place, but Papa Guillaume used the man’s fears against him. Took matter from the time stream and created a remarkable facsimile to heighten Jenkins’s fears, making him more susceptible to mistakes, and easier to take, when the vines came. It did that to all of us, to some extent. So with power like that, why in the world would it need you to retain your own autonomy?”

  “Because he…he…” Her brows furrowed. “You’re trying to confuse me!”

  “Not at all.” Sigler took another step forward. His arms and shoulders struggled against the bindings, and two more snapped free. “I’m trying to open your eyes to the danger you’re in. As a matter of fact, with its roots inside you, it might already be too late.” He gestured toward the remains of John Greer. “Like the quartermaster over there.”

  “Dat pig had it comin’. Da way he treated poor William in da boneyard. But I saved him! I protected him! I made him better dan before.”

  Sigler shrugged. “If that even is William. That’s a big ‘if.’”

  Asherah shifted her gaze from Sigler to the ancient oak, as she bit at her lower lip.

  “I know it’s him. He talks to me.”

  Another snapped vine. The pirate was nearly free of his bonds, but Finkle was suddenly uncertain how that would help. As he looked around the marsh, he began to see dozens of the plant creatures lurking in the shadowy confines of the jungle. Though they stood there like statues, Finkle could feel their eyeless orbs taking in everything that was transpiring. At any minute, they could be mobilized and rip everyone to shreds. Lanme Wa was amazing, but even he couldn’t overcome a mob of these monsters.

  “Then I say it’s time he levels with you,” Sigler said to the woman. “Ask him to show you your future. See for yourself.”

  Asherah hesitated, then turned to face the oak.

  “Papa Guillaume. Da Baron blasphemes you. Show him his words are untrue.” She raised up her arms pleadingly. “Reveal to me what is in store for your servant!”

  A thorn-tipped vine shot up from the water and slammed into the back of Asherah’s neck. She attempted to scream, but she was silenced before the air could escape her lips. Her arms fell slack, and she fell unconscious right where she stood.

  The moment she did, Jack Sigler snapped the remainder of the bonds, and he rushed over to Finkle and Reardon.

  “Are you injured? Any scratches when they caught you?” he asked.

  Finkle checked his arms, legs and neck, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. What about you, Captain?” He turned to look at Reardon, whose eyes stared blankly, straight ahead. “Reardon?”

  Finkle had thought the Irishman to be uncharacteristically silent, but he had assumed the man had simply been processing the strangeness of all that had transpired. He knew better the moment he laid eyes on the tiny vegetative web crisscrossing up Reardon’s neck.

  “They’ve got him.”

  Sigler nodded. “I noticed the moment I saw you two.” He paused. “I’m sorry. But I don’t know how much time we have, Mr. Franklin. I’m going to need those lightning rods in your pack.”

  26

  Benjamin Franklin started at the use of his real name. He’d not heard anyone mutter it since leaving France, in search of a privateer for this expedition. General Washington had believed that Franklin’s notoriety would have been more of a hindrance to their mission than anything else. And if the British caught wind that the scientist was leading the hunt for the Fountain of Youth, he would have been an instant target.

  So, using his own proclivity for pseudonyms, he’d dreamed up ‘Jim Brannan Finkle.’ An anagram of ‘Benjamin Franklin.’ Of all the people who could have figured it out, Jack Sigler was the last one he’d have suspected.

  “Um, but why? Why do you need my rods?”

  “Because we’re going to make a little lightning.” Sigler grinned as he turned him around with a shove of his hands, and wrenched the eight rods from the backpack. “Now stay still. Those creatures won’t come after you as long as—geez, I can’t believe I’m actually going to utter these words—as long as the tree thinks you’re playing by the rules.” Sigler turned suddenly solemn, and drew the sword from Reardon’s belt. “This is all about you now, Mr. Franklin. No matter what happens, I’ve got to keep you safe.”

  With that, King clutched the rods to his chest with one hand, gripped his sword with the other and began running toward the great oak tree. Seeing his sudden rush, one of the creatures bolted from its spot and charged straight at him. Without stopping, King ducked underneath the creature’s outstretched arms, and jammed one of the lightning rods through its torso. It screamed pitifully as it struggled to pull the iron rod from its chest, giving King time to move past it, bound up the tree trunk and take hold of its nearest limb.

  Once secure, he pulled himself up and began climbing hand over foot until he reached the very center of the tree’s trunk. King felt it odd that a creature capable of controlling the movement of vines—organisms with no muscular system—didn’t seem able to manipulate its own limbs.

  The marsh filled with the howls of dozens of creatures as they began scrambling through the water to intercept him. He now had his answer. Why bother moving something as enormous as the oak, when it could get others to do all the work?

  Not waiting to see if the human trees could, in fact, climb trees, he set to work on his plan. Sheathing his sword, he laid six of the remaining rods down on the limb, gripped the seventh in both hands and brought it down into the trunk of the tree. The oak shook violently with the impact, followed immediately by agonized wails from the plant creatures below.

  Huh. Interesting.

  Satisfied that the rod was securely impaled into the wood, he grabbed the other rods and scrambled up one of the larger limbs. Once he reached a thick heap of Spanish moss, he wrapped another of the rods within the tangled mess, and moved toward yet another limb. He continued this routine three more times, until he returned once more to the center.

  The creatures now surrounded the base of the tree, their branch-like arms stretched up to the sky. The one he’d impaled with a rod stood closest to the base, the metal shaft still protruding through its torso. Slowly, each of their limbs began growing, inching closer to him with every passing minute.

  “There’s not a cloud in the sky!” Franklin shouted from the other side of the marsh. “What good are those lightning rods going to do?”

  King ignored the comment, and glanced down at the creatures. Their clawed limbs continued to grow, inching closer to where he stood. He then looked over to where Asherah still stood in her trancelike state—a state, King guessed, similar to what he’d experienced when he’d been transported into the past to see the meteor crash. During that ordeal, he’d subconsciously been aware of what had been happening in the present. He’d felt the sting of the creature’s claws in his gut. He’d been unable to move from his position because he’d been pinned to the ground in his own time. He only hoped the same would be true with the mambo bokor.

  Okay. Now for the tricky part.

  King leapt from his perch, brandishing the two remaining rods in both hands. Crashing down on three of the nearest creatures, he rolled and came up in full swing. Th
e lightning rod in his left hand slammed into the chest of the first creature he saw. The one in his right hand followed suit into the next creature. Then, he ran at full speed toward Asherah, grabbed her by the neck and twisted her around to face the oak.

  “Stop!” he shouted, drawing his sword with his free hand, and bringing it up to the woman’s neck. The creatures instantly obeyed, freezing in their tracks. “I don’t know what you’ve got planned for Asherah, but I’m betting it’s important.”

  There was a murmur, like the sound of leaves blowing on the wind, coming from the army in front of him.

  “I know you don’t care for her, but I’m betting my life you need her for something.”

  More murmuring.

  “Look, I don’t want to destroy you.” King glanced back at Ben Franklin. “You’re my answer. My only hope. I need to get back home before I lose myself completely. But I must protect that man over there. I have to ensure his survival.”

  In unison, the creatures all turned to stare at the Founding Father, and the indecipherable murmuring grew in intensity.

  “Let us go. Let us leave in peace. If you’ll allow me, I’ll return here to request your help in getting back to my own time.” He eased up on Asherah’s throat, and took a single step back. “What do you say?”

  In response, dozens of tentacle-like vines stretched out of the water, and slowly whipped their way to encircle King, preventing any retreat.

  “Don’t. Don’t do this!”

  The creatures turned their hollow gazes on King once more, and began closing off any gaps in the barricade. Then Asherah’s eyes snapped open. The thorny vine lodged in her neck slipped away, and she spun around to sneer at King. “Papa Guillaume’s got no interest in making deals wit’ you. You worth more to him as his Baron dan you are back in your own time.”

  “And you? Did you see what your precious loa has in store for you?”

  She hesitated. “He don’t need to show me not’ing. I be his queen. I know dat much.”

  “Let me guess…you saw nothing but darkness, didn’t you?”

  “I…I…” She turned back around to face the ancient tree. “I don’t remember… I…”

  Suddenly, the vines around Asherah’s body sprang to life, encircling her exposed skin until she was fully cocooned in a husk of vegetation.

  “Dammit!”

  King grabbed his sword with both hands, and then crouched in a defensive position. “Mr. Franklin, when I say ‘run,’ you need to move like there’s no tomorrow. Got it?”

  “But I can’t leave you… I have to stay and…”

  “You need to escape. What I’m about to do is going to be too dangerous for you to be anywhere near.”

  A second passed, then the old man nodded. “Fine. I’ll do as you ask.”

  King smiled at this, then turned back toward the tree. For the first time in centuries, the immortal pirate spoke a silent prayer, then prepared himself for a pain he’d hoped never to endure. He recalled his dream from the night before. Visions of his past and glimpses of his future. He mentally riffled through each image until he found the one he sought.

  The emotional impact sent him to his knees. In his mind’s eye, he saw Sara, dead in his arms. A trail of blood ebbed from the corners of her stricken lips. Her eyes stared blankly off into space, past his shoulder. He had no idea how she’d died, only that she was no more, and it cut a swath of agony into his very heart.

  The leaves of the oak shuddered in sync with King’s silent anguish. He’d been right. Whatever inhabited the tree was empathic. It felt. And it used those feelings to lash out physically at those it would attack.

  And as King had predicted, the unthinkable materialized in front of him. Sara stood, just two feet in front of him. Angry, hate-filled eyes burned down at him, as she crossed her arms over her chest and spat.

  “You should have saved me!” she raged. “You should have been there to protect me! Only, you weren’t. You had other priorities. Other missions to take you away from me.”

  Tears streamed down King’s cheeks as he looked up at her. His gut curled into a million knots with each accusation.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “I tried. I tried to be there, but I just couldn’t.”

  “Look at me, Jack!” She pointed down, next to his feet. He followed her gaze to see another Sara, dead in the water. The way she floated there seemed obscene. Her limbs bobbed up and down in a ghastly imitation of a marionette. “You should have saved me!”

  “Run, Franklin! Now!” he screamed. Then he lunged. Salt-stinging tears clouded his vision as he leapt, but he extended his sword arm, and pierced the apparition’s gut with the blade. The moment both bodies slammed into each other, an explosion of red-glowing electricity blossomed out into the marsh. Tendrils of lightning branched out, striking the creature with a rod in its stomach, then the next, until it arced up toward the first lightning rod embedded in the tree’s trunk.

  The energy shot through King’s own system, sending his muscles into intense spasms. But he managed to keep focused, as the electricity shot out toward the rods throughout the entire tree, igniting the leaves and moss as it struck. Within seconds, the entire thing was engulfed in flames. The plant creatures dropped into the water, writhing in agony.

  King leapt to his feet and glanced around, but Sara was no longer there. There was also no sign of Asherah’s cocoon, but he had no time to puzzle over its disappearance. Instead, he bolted from the marsh, and ran in search of Benjamin Franklin.

  EPILOGUE

  Three Days Later

  Reardon’s Mark

  Atlantic Ocean

  King stood on the quarterdeck of the Reardon’s Mark, carefully navigating the ship into the deeper waters of the Atlantic. The plan was to sail out toward the islands, then turn north, to make for Philadelphia as quickly as they could. The trick would be avoiding any British patrols still scouring the water in search of their missing expedition, but King thought he was up to the challenge.

  He glanced out off the port side and saw the Presley’s Hound keeping pace. He knew the watchful eyes of his own crew would keep them safe from almost any assault they might encounter.

  “The crew’s a bit shaken, but I think most are excited to start the journey home,” Franklin said, as he ambled up the steps to the quarterdeck. “Only twelve of them remain, but that should be more than enough to sail this little cutter.”

  King nodded, keeping his hands fixed to the wheel.

  “Listen, I know what you gave up for me back there,” Franklin said, biting down on his pipe and lighting it. “It was a way home, wasn’t it?”

  “It could have been. But whatever that thing was, it had no intention of allowing me to use it.”

  “About that…do you think it really was that poor slave? William?”

  “I honestly have no idea. I never really believed in magic when I was younger, but I’ve seen things in my time that have made me rethink my position,” King said. “It could have just as easily been a natural phenomenon of some kind. You probably don’t know this, but there are actually types of fungi that attach themselves to insects and control their actions. Lead them to water so they can thrive, even at the expense of the insect’s life. So who knows what was inhabiting that tree?”

  They continued in silence for nearly half an hour, watching a pod of dolphins playing on each side of the ship. Finally, Franklin spoke up.

  “So what will you do now? Once you’ve safely delivered me to General Washington?”

  King winced at the question. He wasn’t sure. His soul still felt ripped apart by the image of Sara dead in his arms and by the haunting accusations she’d hurled at him. He didn’t know how far into the future he’d seen. Wasn’t certain when in her life she would eventually die, but one thing was clear…when he was finally with her again, he’d do whatever it took to become mortal again. To grow old along with her. And hopefully, he’d be there with her when that final m
oment came. But for now, he’d have to live with that memory, and he wondered if he wouldn’t be better off returning to Kavo Zile to hide from the world once more, until it was time to see Sara and Fiona again.

  “I honestly don’t know,” King said, realizing it had taken him far too long to answer if he wanted to avoid a potential pep talk from the great Ben Franklin.

  Fortunately, the old man was far wiser than King gave him credit for. Instead of the anticipated lecture, Franklin merely nodded, then said, “Well, if you’re interested, I believe we might have some work for you in the coming days. We could definitely use a man of your...ahem...talents.”

  King smiled, then gave him a nod. It was still a long journey to reach Philadelphia safely. Plenty of time to consider his next move. But he had to admit, a chance to experience the events that would ultimately lead to the formation of the greatest nation on Earth was a temptation he found himself struggling to turn down.

  He was, after all, a patriot.

  A NOTE FROM JEREMY ROBINSON

  Dear Reader,

  I wanted to take a moment to thank you for reading Patriot. I hope you have enjoyed this slice of King’s journey into the past. If you did enjoy the book, please show your support by posting a review at your online retailer. E-book websites work on algorithms, meaning the more people review my books, the more the e-book retailers will recommend them to other readers. And the more people buy my books, the more I get to write them, which is a good thing for both of us (assuming you enjoyed the book). If we can get Patriot moving off the virtual shelves, we might just see another of King’s adventures in the past.

  Thank you!

  —Jeremy Robinson

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS