Awakening

by Hayden Pearton

  *

  Two hours later, around four o'clock, they reached the lake. It was fairly large, stretching across at least a quarter of the valley, and it's surface was as smooth as a mirror. Chunks of ice, having fallen from the mountains above, had lodged themselves into the almost-freezing water, creating a series of half-buried spires which burst from the water at strange and unusual angles. All in all, it created quite an effect, when viewed from afar.

  “One last stop, to gather out energy. Before...”

  Kingston did not have to finish his sentence, they all knew what he meant. It had been a long, perilous journey for them all, filled with unbelievable sights and impossible happenings. They had experienced fear, anger, misery, and very little joy, but all that was about to end.

  Very soon, they would scale the smoke-bellowing hill, confront the man they knew so little about, and stop him. And after that? None of them were certain of what would happen. Would life just go back to normal? Maloch would return to his dutiful life, cleaning up the planet for the humans who had abandoned it; Alza would return to her endless quest for identity; Kingston would return to that lonely hut in the forest, to live out the rest of his days in hermitage. And Barsch, Barsch would simply re-enter his pod, fall asleep, and forget about everything that he experienced... everything that he had bled for.

  Or perhaps, the Avatars would not keep to their vague promise, and would instead ask for another “favour”. Was there a madwoman out there, planning their downfall? Or maybe it would be a rogue A.I. like Guardian, which would be hell-bent on the destruction of the human race. But, as they had all come to learn, worrying about things in the future, especially things which they had very little control over, caused more harm than good. It was all they could do to live in the moment, dealing with the problems of the present.

  “Barsch m'boy, would you mind accompanying me for a moment?”

  Barsch nodded, and followed the hermit towards the stilled lake. “Maloch, Alza, would you mind starting a fire in the meantime? I'm hoping to catch us some lunch.” Maloch bowed in affirmation, while Alza rolled her eyes and gave an apathetic glare. But, as Barsch was walking away, he noticed that she had begun collecting fallen sticks from a nearby bush. Smiling to himself, he followed his mentor and guardian, towards the water's edge.

  Once they reached the shore, Kingston sat down and began rummaging through his pack. As he searched, he spoke, saying, “Barsch, do you think that this madman is dangerous?”

  It was an unusual question, but it fit the circumstances. Barsch took a moment to think it over, before answering, “Well, if the Avatars are afraid of what he can do, then I suppose he must be very dangerous. But I'm not too worried, since I doubt they would have chosen us if they did not think that we could do it. And we've both seen just how powerful Alza can be, and Maloch is no slouch when it comes to firepower. And, in addition to them, you were a soldier, so I don't think we're so powerless ourselves.”

  Kingston nodded as Barsch spoke. He did agree with the boy, but there was something that bothered him. “And what about you, m'boy? I've seen you fight, and I'm sure that you would have put quite a few of my squad to shame. And, unlike them, you have never been properly trained, so just imagine how strong you could be with just a little tutelage. And if this body of mine wasn't so frail, I would be happy to be your sparring partner.”

  “Thank you, but I'm not strong... In fact, I'm the weakest person I know. The only thing I know how to do is lose control, and I'm afraid that I'll one day end up hurting a person close to me...”

  Kingston, having finally found what he was looking for, showed it to Barsch. It was a small, metal hook, with several barbs on its surface to prevent fish from escaping. Next, he set to work on tying a long length of string to the barbed hook, while he answered Barsch's unspoken question. “Do you know what a berserker is?”

  “No.”

  “They were a type of warrior, way back in the day. On the battlefield, there was none who could match their ferocity and skill. And the reason for this was simple: control. The berserkers would intentionally lose control over their bloodlust, causing them to literally go berserk. They would charge into battle, screaming for the blood of their enemies, with no armour to weigh them down. In their frenzy, they were unbeatable, becoming living storms of steel and flesh as they dove into their enemies and tore them apart. But after the battle was over, once the enemy had retreated or surrendered, they focused their will, and regained control. Do you see where I'm going with this?”

  Kingston, even while explaining, had managed to successfully thread the minuscule string through the hole in the hook. Once more, his searching hands dove into his bag, as Barsch replied, “Yeah, losing control is good, as long as it's intentional, and only if you can regain it after the fight. But that's the part I'm having trouble with! Losing control is easy for me, I just have to let the Beast in, but afterwards, driving him out is almost impossible!”

  From a small, rectangular box, Kingston withdrew a stylized lure. It resembled a dragonfly, with blue and green markings. He then set about attaching the lure to the hook, in lieu of bait. Is was an unorthodox method of fishing, but there was no other choice. “I'm sorry, Barsch, but self-control is not something I can teach. I can advise you on what to do, but the final part is yours alone to complete.”

  His preparations complete, Kingston took the make-shift fishing line to the water, and, after waiting for the breeze to stop, he cast it in. He stood there, feeling the length of string with the patience only afforded to those who had lived long, hard lives.

  “But what do I do, if I lose control during the fight? I could endanger all of you!”

  Still concentrating on the slow-moving line, Kingston answered, in a voice that was filled to the brim with kindness and understanding, “I will not let that happen, you have my word. If the madman is too strong, or if something goes wrong, I have made arrangements for you to be kept safe. Maloch and I will hold him off, while you, without pausing, without looking back, will take Alza's hand and run. And you will keep running, until your lungs are burning and your legs are on fire, without ever looking back. Can you do this, for me? If I tell you to run, will you follow my order?”

  Barsch was shocked. He had not even considered running, even if things turned out badly. And even if he had, it would have been with everyone. The thought that Kingston and Maloch might have to sacrifice themselves to save him and Alza terrified him to no end. He did not know what to say, but at the same time, he knew exactly what must be said.

  Taking a deep breath, he looked into Kingston's caring eyes, and lied, “Yes, I will follow your order. If things become hopeless, I will take Alza and run.” Whether the hermit believed the lie or not, he did not show it. Instead, he turned back to the lake, where something was happening.

  “Good,” he mumbled, almost inaudibly. A few seconds later, a beautiful, silver-scaled, white-spotted lake trout lay on the ground beside Kingston. It had happened in a flash, after the old man had felt the tell-tale tug, he had moved with a speed that belied his true age. With a skilful heave, the hermit had liberated the fish from its watery prison, before depositing it neatly on the grass.

  “Here, you try,” he said, handing the line and lure to Barsch. The youth took it without complaint. He could still remember that rain-soaked day when Kingston had handed him a bent piece of metal and told him to catch supper. A part of him wondered if he could do it, even with Kingston’s lure. Still, in the end, he had caught a fish that day, and the confidence he had earned that day was still with him.

  Five minutes later, Barsch was troubled. While Kingston had said nothing, he still felt as if the old man was silently mocking him for his inability to catch even a single fish.

  “This is pointless! There was probably only one trout in that entire lake to begin with!” he said, as he threw the hand-made fishing line to the ground. Kingston, without saying anything, picked the discarded tool up and cast the line into the clear wat
er. Less than a minute later, another two trout had been added to his collection.

  Handing back the line, he said one word, “Control.”

  With no desire to offend the hermit, Barsch took the line. Almost immediately, he felt it, the feeling of control. He tried to remember his father's words, the day he had tried to teach Barsch how to fish. Barsch, instead, had run off after Yumiere to explore the nearby ruins.

  “Remember how well that turned out?” A small part of him thought, accusingly.

  “Fish can sense when something is wrong, son,” his father had said, while showing Barsch how to cast, “The trick is to make it seem as if everything is all right. Move with the current, let nature take care of the finer details, and let go of your rigid desire to control where the lure goes. If you can do that, your lure will stop being a lure, and it will become real... to the fish at least.”

  How could he have forgotten the words of his father? Following the advice of both his father and Kingston, Barsch allowed himself to relax. He let the line drift and dance in the water, with the green and blue dragonfly floating gently on the surface. He let go of his control over the tiny lure, and allowed the micro-currents below the surface to dictate where it went. To him, and hopefully to the fish below, his lure stopped being a man-made device, and became a natural part of the scene before him.

  Twenty-six seconds later, Barsch felt the tug. With patience and a calm normally reserved for adults, he guided the unwary trout to the shore. When it was close enough, he gently added force, bringing it out of the water. It was a magnificent specimen, larger that Kingston's three combined. Without slowing, Barsch unhooked the struggling fish and proffered it to his teacher and friend. Kingston took it with a smile and a small pat on his shoulder.

  “Control. Now, you know that you have it. And you let that Beast of yours know that you have it too, alright?”

  Nodding, Barsch helped Kingston scoop up the fish and head back, a matching smile on their lips.