by Ivory Autumn
Chapter One
Lime Juice Springs
“If you eat bees as a steady diet, it makes your hearing better. Don’t you know, bees are an excellent source of wax? I think I can hear something already. A humming sound. Yes, humming. What did I tell you? Bees are made up of mostly wax and honey. The honey sweetens your personality, and the wax lubricates your ears---or so says the ancient sage---brush.”
Andrew glared at the talking weed. As if he needed his hearing improved so he could hear more needless nonsense. The weed continued mumbling unimportant words that really didn’t need to be said. “Please, man child, make the world a better place by ridding the world of at least one bee. And while you’re at it, you could also pull out some of these nasty flowers that have been blocking my view.”
“Shut up!” Andrew cried, throwing a rock at the gabby weed, causing the weed to let out a nasty scream. After a small pause, the spindly weed kept jabbering as before. It had its weedy fingers wrapped around an old boot, pinning it to the ground like it was afraid the boot would some day pick itself up and walk away. “Com’on, eat a bee. Just grab one and swallow it. What could it hurt?” Its small, weedy voice was annoying and intrusive---not something an artist enjoyed listening to while trying to paint.
“PLEASSSEEE!” the weed pleaded. “Bees are so buggy. I’m tired of them floating around my face all day! Eat one!”
Andrew turned away from the pleading weed, and stared at the canvas, analyzing the depths of its blankness. The canvas was a dull-yellow white, like a pale, sickly child in the full light of sun.
The canvas seemed to cry out to him, begging him for just a small hint of color. Andrew dabbed his soft paintbrush into a deep green hue and brushed it across the canvas.
The canvas was not appeased.
“More!” it seemed to cry, like a child in need of the basic necessities.
Andrew pursed his lips, diverted his gaze away from the blank canvas, and stared at the vast plains of hollyhocks that grew in never-ending fields in Hollyhock Hollow.
Andrew furrowed his brow and concentrated hard on appeasing the pleading canvas. The more color he gave it, the more it demanded. The more detail provided, the more it wanted. The more precise his hand, the more it urged him to perfection. Gradually, the pale, sickly canvas blushed with excitement, as a health, depth, and color came to it.
First, Andrew painted the background a blackish green. Next, he painted the stems, leaves and flowers of the hollyhocks, then a bird with an orange and yellow belly perched on one of the hollyhock’s stems.
He stopped painting, stepped back from the canvas and inspected his work with a critical eye.
“More!” the canvas commanded. “More!”
Andrew went back to painting, working until the canvas glowed with feeling and color. After several more strokes, he stopped again, and dusted off a ladybug that had landed in his hair. He frowned and shook his head. The canvas was still wanting. So he continued, until the painting's demanding voice was entirely hushed, and totally silent.
Happy, he let out a satisfied sigh, glad that the canvas had at last stopped its demanding cries.
He was finished.
"Very nice work!" A loud voice boomed behind him.
He turned around in surprise, feeling embarrassed, as his neighbor, Mr. Frandle, clapped heartily, admiring his painting.
Mrs. Smithers, a very smallish sort of woman standing behind Mr. Frandle, did not look so pleased. She frowned and gazed at his artwork like it was an open wound dripping with gangrene.
“Good work!” Mr. Frandle said, patting Andrew on the back, almost knocking him over. “You are an asset to the community. And so very talented!”
“An asset?” Mrs. Smithers repeated. She was a funny-looking woman, with big eyes and a small nose. She had a perpetual look of surprise on her face because her eyebrows had forgotten where to grow and had sprouted under her nose and on her chin, giving her a thin layer of fuzz all over her lower face. She was a small woman, only three feet tall, but her tall tales made up for her shortness. “I'd hardly go so far as to say that the this lad's work is an asset. He's an unearthly, strange lad. One that ought to be locked up, that's what!”
“Just listen to yourself,” Mr. Frandle retorted. “You act as if he just broke into your house and stole something.”
She glared at Andrew like he was a toady with a wart. “Who knows, he probably already has. Besides, he’s a liar. The boy’s no good.”
“Why are you being so cantankerous? He hasn’t done anything to you.”
Mrs. Smithers huffed, and pointed a bent finger at Andrew. “Hasn’t done anything to me? I can’t believe you’re defending him. He’s done plenty, and you know it. He’s downright dangerous.”
“Oh, yes," Mr. Frandle huffed. "Painting is very dangerous.”
Mrs. Smithers pinched her lips into a tight line. "You don't understand. I’ve seen the things that boy can do, the things he can grow. Even his paintings look like they might start to grow. Their so vivid, if you're not careful, they might jump out and grab you! There’s a reason why his farm is the richest and most prosperous in our community. I’ve lived here all my life and haven't seen anything like it in all of the history of the Hollow. I’m sure evil will come of his dealings with the plants. Just you wait. It won’t be long until something very bad happens because of this boy.”
Mr. Frandle raised his voice louder than he was used to speaking, specially when talking to a woman. “Mrs. Smithers, just listen to yourself? You really think he can talk to plants?”
Mrs. Smithers folded her arms, looking quite perturbed. "You don't believe me now. But just wait. The town council won’t ignore this boy’s strange behavior much longer. The boy doesn’t even look like us. For dear sakes, look at his pointy ears. He could be a troll for all we know.”
"Come," Mr. Smithers reasoned. "You're the one who looks like the troll, especially when you make that ugly face."
Mrs. Smithers scowled even more, and pointed an accusing finger at Andrew. “You have no idea what this boy is capable of. No idea at all. I'm warning you, don’t let him touch you with his hands. None of the kids do. Why, you ask? Because he may very well turn you into a tree. Yes, a tree, or a cactus or a shrub."
Mr. Frandle's smile grew bigger. He winked at Andrew, and nodded very intently. "Okay. I'll do that, Mrs. Smithers. I'll watch this boy very, very closely.”
"You do that!" She hollered, turning and walking away, and muttering to herself as she went.
“Well," Mr. Frandle said, watching the woman go. "Don't think ill of her, Andrew. She's just plum crazy, that's all."
"She's not that bad," Andrew said, feeling a hint of remorse and guilt for the old woman. If Mr. Frandle knew the real truth, he wouldn't have been so kind.
“You're too kind,” Mr. Frandle huffed, "for being so afraid of magic, spells, trolls and the like, she’s sure a witchy lady.” He glanced up, studying the sky as if he was trying to tell the time. "Well, Andrew, I best be off. I've got a heap of work to do before sundown. You take care of yourself."
"I will," Andrew said, waving to Mr. Frandle as he walked off. Andrew then turned his attention back to his painting. He smiled, fully satisfied that it still looked good---finished. After gathering all his artist tools, he carefully picked up the drying canvas, and started down a well-worn path, walking with purpose. He smiled to himself as he glanced at the flowers on the side of the path, that raised their heads as he passed, and the trees that straightened to attention, as if he was an important general. It was nice knowing that, at very least, the plants respected him, no matter what other people thought.
In a way, he felt bad for Mrs. Smithers. Everything she had said was true---to a point. Andrew darted down a narrow pathway through the field of hollyhocks. The wind blew the long stems and made the pink flowers dance like a magical painting.
Andrew paused and breathed on a closed hollyhock blossom, watching in wonder as it
slowly opened, petal by petal. He wondered if his life would unfold just as that blossom. Today was the last day he would be fifteen. He frowned and looked at his hands. The strange diamond shapes that had been in his palms ever since he could remember were growing more defined, day by day. At each of the diamond points were small round dots. At times, Andrew thought he'd seen the odd dots and diamond shapes glow like silver. When he was younger, the strange shapes had been mere creases in his hands, but now they were almost distracting. If he held his hands at an angle, the marks would catch the light of the sun, and gleam like silver.
His mother, Gwyn, often said the marks in his hands were some sort of harmless ringworm. Andrew didn't think the marks in his hands were ringworm; they were weird, glittery, and not normal.
Andrew paused, and stared at a hollyhock that had been snapped in half. The flowers were wilted, and its leaves were shriveled. He gently set his canvas and painting supplies on the ground, and turned his attention back to the flower. He lifted the broken end, and placed the stem back where it had snapped, holding it tightly together. His hands grew warm as energy passed through them, healing the plant and making it whole again, causing the drooping flowers to fill with new life and its shriveled leaves to renew. He smiled with satisfaction.
At least he was good at something, even if it was as simple as making something grow. He ran his fingers through the rich earth, listening to the plants all around him growing. He picked up a stray daffodil bulb he’d found in the soil, and held it cupped in his hands. It felt warm and full of life. He put it back into the ground and placed his hands over the earth until he felt warmth from his hands push deep into the earth. Seconds later, the bulb sprouted, its yellow flower budding before his eyes. The flower smelled wonderful.
“What are you doing?” an irritated voice called behind him. Without waiting for Andrew to answer, someone shoved Andrew from behind, causing him to fall and crush the flower he’d just planted.
Andrew stared up at the boy who'd just shoved him. It was Gobo. A boy Andrew's age who was twice as big, twice as tall, and a twice as mean as anyone in the Hollow. The fat contours of Gobo’s snobbish face looked pig-like and repulsive, like he was more warthog than boy. More concerned for the crushed plant, than the boy sneering over him, Andrew rolled off the flower, and inspected the damage.
Gobo smiled, watching Andrew’s apparent concern for the smashed flower, with great amusement. “Oh, I’m sorry. I made you smash your flower. I forget that you’re such a pansy.”
“Just get out of here,” Andrew shouted.
"Make me," Gobo seethed.
“You don't want to provoke me,” Andrew said, his voice tight, and angry. The flowers, and trees around him, shivered, and leaned in, as if to add emphasis to Andrew's words.
Gobo snickered. “You don’t scare me with your plants, Andrew. I know your secret, and if you do anything to me, I’ll tell everyone.”
“They won’t believe you.”
“You’d be surprised how many people already know about you. Their afraid of you. But I'm not. One wrong move, Andrew and you and your family will be run out of this place. Believe me, I know.”
Andrew glared at Gobo, the grass around the boy turned brown as if Andrew’s stare was causing it to shrivel.
Gobo stepped back, his face draining of color." Everyone knows what a coward you are. You couldn’t really fight anybody without the help of your trees, weeds, and flowers.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Prove it.”
Andrew clenched his fists, and took a swing at Gobo’s face.
Gobo, ducked and pounded his fist into Andrew’s stomach, throwing him into a forest of tall hollyhocks.
Andrew tried to stand, but Gobo caught him in the side of the jaw, knocking him back down.
“You’re gonna die!” Gobo cried, getting on top of Andrew, cuffing him over and over. “Don’t think I don’t know who caused the weeds to trip me just as I was about to win the stick pole tournament. I ought to dig up your garden and bury you in it, after I've killed you!”
Andrew cried out in anger, and tried to push himself up. But Gobo had him pinned to the ground. The boy was heavy. He weighed much more than a boy should at his age. Andrew groaned, and turned, just in time for his nose to be greeted by Gobo's fist. "I've got you finally where you belong, in the dirt!" Gobo cuffed him again, causing Andrew’s nose to spurt blood. “Not so strong without your plants, are you?”
Andrew opened his bruised jaw, and spat blood in Gobo's face.
“Aggh,” Gobo cried, wiping the blood away. “You’re going to pay for that.”
Just as Gobo raised his fists to strike again, Andrew’s eyes glistened with a silvery green hue. A surge of energy ran through his entire body like wind was rushing through him and out his hands. Before Gobo knew what had happened, Andrew threw him off and onto his back.
“You can’t hurt me,” Gobo shouted. “Or I’ll tell everyone everything. Don’t think I haven’t spied on you. I know all of your secrets.”
“You know nothing!” Andrew squeezed Gobo’s fat arms, feeling his hands grow suddenly warm. Gobo let out a terrible scream and pulled away from Andrew, writhing in pain.
Andrew let Gobo go, confused. His anger left him as swiftly as it had come. He wondered what he'd done. He looked at his hands. The odd diamond shapes shimmered and gave off steam.
“Oh,” Gobo groaned, writhing on the ground, like the worm he really was. “You’ve burned me. Burned me. Oh my arms!”
Andrew gasped, staring at Gobo’s arms. There were two red diamond-shaped marks, with small circles at each point, burned into Gobo’s skin. The marks on both arms were beginning to blister, like he'd been branded like a cow.
“Ohhh!” Gobo cried. “You are dead Andrew, dead!”
Andrew felt a sudden stab of fear. He hadn't meant to hurt Gobo—at least not that much. Frightened more by himself, than anything, he quickly turned and ran as fast as he could, leaving his canvas and painting tools in the grown where he had set them. He ran past trees, over rocks and under old bridges, until Gobo's screams were lost far behind. Panting hard, he turned and ran down the path that led to Lime Juice Springs. As he neared the water, he could see his two best friends, Talic and Freddie, sitting in the reeds, watching.
Talic held up a string of fish, their light-green scales sparkling like emeralds in the sun. “Looky here. See what Freddie and I have caught without you.”
“Nice,” Andrew breathed, bending over to catch his breath.
“Gosh, Andrew you have a bloody nose. And why were you running so hard?”
“Gobo.”
Talic nodded, bobbing his boyish face up and down. “Oh. Now I understand. You need not say any more. Looks like he did a number on your face.
"That's because he did."
Freddie whistled, casting Andrew’s black eye, a sideways glance. “What'd you do to make Gobo so mad?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Andrew said, snatching a bouncing grasshopper in the reeds, and holding it cupped in his hands. Its feet tickled his skin as it tried to escape. Andrew grabbed up an extra fishing pole, his friends had brought along, and threaded the grasshopper cleanly onto the end of its hook. Without a word, Andrew cast his line out into the water, and settled himself comfortably in the reeds by Freddie and Talic. The sky was blue, the air was warm, with a cool breeze tickling the grass. He sat back, holding his pole, waiting patiently, letting his mind calm, and his body relax.
"You're sure you don't want to talk about it?" Freddie urged him.
"Nope." Andrew replied. "I don't."
"Come on, Andrew," Talic prodded. "We're your best friends, you can trust us."
"I know," Andrew said, "But best friends also respect it when their friends don't want to talk about stuff. I just want to fish. Is that too much to ask?" He turned away from Talic, and Freddie and stared at the beautiful green water. Trying to shut out his friends hard stares of curiosity. He y
awned, and closed his eyes, gradually soothed to sleep as he listened to the soft murmur of Feebe bugs clicking their wings together. They sounded like the low chime of small bells, feebe, feebe, feeebeebee.
Sometime later, Andrew awoke with a start as his pole was yanked from his fingers. Alarmed, he sat up and splashed through the water after his departing pole. He could see the rod slowly sinking into the lake. He grabbed the end, just before it sank into the water, and yanked it back up. “I’ve got a fish, guys!” he cried, tugging the bending pole. “It’s a big one.”
However his friends did not answer.
“Guys?”
He turned, gazing at Freddie and Talic with curiosity. They both stood transfixed, staring into the lake of green limewater.
Andrew looked down at the water. It was bubbling, and starting to grow very warm. Steam rose up from the water around him, like a volcanic pothole. It distracted him so much that he lost his grip on the tugging pole. It slipped from his hands, and disappeared into the water. He slapped his fist on the surface of the bubbling water in frustration. The water splashed up, and bubbled around him even more as somewhere deep in the earth, a volcanic movement warmed the water, and made the lake fizz and burp, as if it was a boiling pot of stew. Andrew had never seen this lake bubble. He and his friends had only heard of it happening. It had happened the day before a terrible storm had hit the Hollow, nearly killing a hundred people. It had happened long ago, just before a drought. And it had happened the day the king’s son had vanished.
The fish in the lake started to roll and splash over the water like it had become much too hot for their liking. The water was becoming so hot it was getting very uncomfortable. He trudged from the lake onto the bank, watching the water with a sense of foreboding. What bad thing would happen? What terrible omen did this lake now herald?
“Look, Andrew!” Freddie said, pointing beyond the lake to the horizon, where the sun was just starting to set.
Andrew watched as an orange flame shot up from somewhere in the distance. It grew in size, spreading into a long orange line on the ground, reflecting on the green surface of the lake. It looked weird, and frightening. The flames flickered angrily against the evening sky, emitting huge masses of smoke that curled up, like a feathery, ominous flag.
Talic’s eyes glinted with fear. “Tromburg?”
Andrew returned Talic’s worried glance. “That’s the only place it could be."
“My uncle lives in Tromburg,” Freddie said.
“We should go back home," Andrew cried, turning away from the lake, and tearing down the village road.
Both his friends followed closely behind him, only to disperse their own separate ways, to warn their families.
“Father!” Andrew cried, bursting through the door of his house. “Tromburg! Tr—omburg, is burning!”
“What?” his father asked, looking up from a book.
“Tromberg...” Andrew panted. “It’s burning…burning!”
Andrew's father ran to the door, his face going pale as his eyes met the frightening scene. Great orange flames licked up from Tromburg, filling the air with the most unpleasant smell of smoke. The piercing voice of the town crier was heard, wailing in a woeful voice as he wandered up and down the streets. “The Sontars come! They come, to snatch your firstborn sons and daughters. Flee! Flee!”
In the distance, the sound of drums and muted cries of their neighbors were heard.
“Gwyn!” Andrew's father shouted. “Gwyn. Come here. Andrew has to leave!”
Andrew’s mother, immediately appeared at the door. “Leave?” she wondered. “Now? But why?”
"Why?" Andrew's father shouted. "Because he is the firstborn! They'll take him. Tromburg is burning. They will him as they have taken the firstborn from every great city, from coast to coast. I didn't think it would happen here. I didn't think that our small towns refusal to the tribute would matter. But they've come. And Tromberg burns as a result of their refusal. I'm sure of it. If Andrew doesn't leave they'll make him a slave. Troops could be at our door any second now.”
She nodded, her face draining of color. "Oh, not now. Not Andrew."
"Pull yourself together! We have no choice. He has to leave!"
"Wait," she cried, running from the room. A moment later she came back, bearing a small knapsack, which she handed to Andrew. “Here, take this.” She hugged him tightly.
“Go now!" Andrew's father ordered. "No time for tears. Go. Run as far from this place as you can. Hide. But whatever you do, don't let them find you. Understand?”
Andrew stood in the doorway, stunned. "But..." he said, "what about you, and mother?"
"We'll be fine, Andrew," his father assured him. "Just go. And when things quiet down, you can come back."
"Okay," he said, hugging his father, and casting his mother a worried glance. "I'll won't be gone for long." He turned and ran out into the night to the only place he could think of---the hollyhock fields. Once there, he stopped to catch his breath. The sounds of screaming cut through the dark night, like sharp cat claws ripping through a black curtain. The Hollow had never had such terrifying sounds fill its streets. He glanced down at his hands. They were glowing a silvery blue in the dark, and they hurt like crazy.
He crouched down amid the hollyhocks and covered his ears as the horrible sounds grew louder. Where should he go now? The Sontars were sure to be in the streets, searching for people like himself. He was trapped.
While waiting, he noticed that his stomach began to growl loudly. Worried that his growling stomach might give him away, he quietly took his pack his mother had given him, and rummaged through it, looking for a piece of bread. Just as he pulled out a brown loaf, an aged scroll fell from the bag. He picked it up studying it with curious eyes. It was addressed to him.
Strange.
The scroll was stamped with a waxen seal in the shape of a diamond. He held his hand up to the seal, noting that the diamond shape in his hand matched it exactly. He broke the seal and slowly opened the scroll. Holding up his hand to see the parchment better. To Andrew, he read. Our firstborn Son. To be read by your eyes, only.
Andrew squinted and looked at the scroll, mystified. Except for the note of introduction, it was entirely empty of words. He read the first part again, putting his hands close to the paper, hoping the light from them would illuminate something that he hadn’t seen. Still, he saw nothing. He let out a low murmur of disgust and made a move to crumple up the scroll. Just as the shape on his hand came into contact with the inside of the parchment, the scroll lit up with little crescent moons and stars, like stamps of glowing silver, and brilliant words appeared in elegant writ, over its entire surface.