Awoken

by Timothy Miller

  Since then, he’d loitered about the house and pretended the dollmen under the deck weren’t plotting his demise. The charade proved difficult. He wasn’t much of an actor, and Barbara kept giving him strange looks, as if she suspected something. Maybe she did. That wouldn’t stop him. He had to get out of there. The dollmen would be back. He’d bet his life on it.

  Except he couldn’t just make a run for Mexico, or anywhere else far enough away the dollmen were unlikely to follow. The Wiffles would report him missing by supper. Flintville was a small town, with the kind of people who would remember a kid hiking down the road. If he left too soon, the cops would have him back in his room before you could say, “Dollmen think teenagers are yummy.”

  To pull off his escape, he needed to get clear of the town before the Wiffles realized he was gone. He had to wait until dark, until after everyone was asleep.

  He touched his nose to the window. The surface was cool, and his breath painted a grey film on the glass. Outside, the streetlights flickered on. Almost time.

  The television clicked off and Barbara put down the remote.

  “Up to bed, dear. You can finish daydreaming in your room.”

  A cold shiver crawled up Michael’s spine. “Okay, Mrs. Wiffle,” he agreed halfheartedly, and started for the stairs.

  “Is something the matter, Michael? You look pale.”

  Karl glanced up from his book. “Probably gave him a case of the pregame jitters. All that talk about football being dangerous. Football is supposed to be dangerous. All the good games are dangerous.”

  “I’m a little tired, Mrs. Wiffle,” Michael said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  Barbara eyed him critically for a minute, finally giving a grudging nod. “All right, dear. Go get some sleep.”

  “Will do, Mrs. Wiffle. Goodnight.”

  “Call me Barbara, dear. Goodnight.”

  “Sorry, Barbara,” Michael said. “Goodnight, Mr. Wiffle.”

  Karl grunted. “Goodnight, Mike. Don’t stay up all night reading comic books. You got a game tomorrow.”

  I’ve got a game tonight, Michael thought darkly as he climbed the stairs. I call the game, “Run for your life, the dollmen are coming!” I’d better win, too, or there won’t be a tomorrow.

  4

  The Wait

  Michael lay under his covers awake and fully clothed, listening for the sound of footsteps making their way down the hall to the Wiffles’ bedroom.

  The shadows thickened, transforming his room into a gloomy cave. The sky outside was overcast, the moon’s glow hidden completely behind grey-black clouds. The only light came from beneath the door, a thin bar of brightness shining in from the hall. The Wiffles would turn out that light when they went to bed. He pushed his backpack farther under the covers and waited.

  Minutes passed, but no footsteps sounded and the light remained. He shifted his weight and yawned. After an hour, the light under the door began to blur. His eyelids grew heavy. He yawned again. He hadn’t slept a wink last night, and bone-deep exhaustion settled on him like a warm blanket.

  Michael pushed himself up on one elbow. Where the heck were the Wiffles? He needed to get out of here soon, or he might as well stick an apple in his mouth and put out the silverware.

  He was so tired. If only he could just close his eyes for a minute…

  He bit down savagely on the tender inside of his cheek. The sting jolted him. He would not end up a midnight snack for a bunch of bald fairies. The Wiffles had to go to bed eventually. He would wait until they did, give them maybe twenty minutes to fall asleep, and make a break for it.

  The light below the door stretched like taffy in a press.

  “Gotta stay awake,” he whispered. “Gotta… Have to…”

  His head touched the pillow, and he floated on a cloud of white sheets into oblivion.

  5

  Earth and Bone

  Michael’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up so fast that his head spun and his stomach clenched in a nauseating knot. The room was pitch-black, the light under the door gone.

  The blankets had cooked him in his clothes. He was soaked with sweat. Tossing aside his covers, he groped for his backpack. He had to leave now, before it was too late.

  A soft wind blew against his face, chilling his wet cheeks and forehead. He froze. He’d closed the window in the morning. Where was the breeze coming from?

  Scritch.

  The noise sounded like an ice pick scraping the floor, and came from the direction of the window.

  Scooting up to his headboard, Michael stared blindly into the darkness. “Hello?”

  Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

  The scratching drew closer. Terror gripped Michael with an iron fist. Not ice-pick claws, dollman claws on his hardwood floor. They had come for him. He wanted to scream, to run. But he couldn’t. He was petrified, frozen in place by silver-eyed demons he couldn’t even see.

  Scritch. Scritch.

  He blinked furiously, wondering why his eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness. Had he gone blind? No. It was something else. There was an oily thickness to the air, like an odorless, tasteless smoke that suffocated the light. Stranger and stranger.

  Scritch. Scritch.

  Abruptly, the sounds stopped.

  “Greetings, Sleeper,” said a gravelly voice.

  Michael jerked back, banging his skull on the headboard. “Who…who’s there?”

  “We are the People. We are the seekers of the sleeping. We are the guardians of the earth and bone. This one found you last night.”

  Oh, crud! The dollman from the oak tree.

  “What…what do you want?”

  “The People have heard you, Sleeper. We hear the calling in your blood. The People have come to awaken you.”

  “Well, I’m wide awake now,” said Michael. “Good job. I guess you can get going then.”

  “No. You are the sleeping, but you must awake. The Fallen draw near, Sleeper. They seek the earth and bone. You must awake!”

  For just a moment, plain annoyance overcame Michael’s fear. “I said I’m already awake. Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you’re going to eat me, stop screwing around and get it over with. The suspense is killing me.”

  “You must awake!”

  A vice-like grip closed on his wrist, and something hard and cool pressed into his palm.

  “What—?”

  “Take the cup, Sleeper. Drink of the earth and bone, and you shall awake.”

  Michael closed his fingers. The cup was stone. He’d known that much the instant the thing touched his skin. But the stone was unlike any he’d held before. The hum in his head buzzed like a nest of angry hornets, building inside him. The music was too strong. He couldn’t think.

  “Take it away,” Michael gasped. “Too loud.”

  He tried to drop the cup, but small fingers pressed his hand over the curved stone, lifting the singing cup toward his face.

  “Drink.”

  “Let go,” Michael pleaded. “Something is happening. Stop, please.”

  “The stonesong awakes, Sleeper. All will be well. Drink.”

  The cup touched his lips and a chainsaw roar filled his skull. “Stop.”

  “This one cannot, Sleeper. The Fallen come. You must awake. Drink.”

  Cool liquid poured into his mouth, and tingling swept across his tongue like an electric charge. The humming in his brain muted beneath the tingle, and his thoughts turned fuzzy and disconnected.

  “Drink.” The command rolled over him like an ocean wave…heavy, demanding, irresistible.

  He swallowed, and tingling numbness flowed down his throat and spread through his body. The hum in his brain began to change, growing outward, stretching, opening up like a flower in the rain.

  “Drink, Sleeper. Awake to your destiny.”

  Tilting back his head, he drained the cup dry. Numbness covered him, and the cup dropped from his fingers. He felt light, loose, and so ver
y tired.

  “It is done,” the dollman said. “Behold my people, the Awoken.”

  “Behold, the Awoken,” echoed a host of gravelly voices.

  Judging by the number of voices, Michael realized his room must be packed with dollmen. Oddly enough, what should have been a terror-inspiring revelation left him strangely unfazed.

  Small electric surges, comforting and thrilling, flowed through him as his head touched the pillow.

  “Quickly, Awoken, before the water takes you. You must be warned.” The dollman sounded distant, as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well. “Beware the hunters, Awoken. Already one has come. Do you hear?”

  Michael blinked sleepily. “I hear you. I’m listening.”

  “The Ven come, Awoken. They must not find you. The People must flee this place.”

  “You…you’re leaving?”

  “The Ven must not find the Awoken. The People will lead them away from here. We will return when the danger has passed.” Hands slipped over his head and draped a thin chain around his neck. “Keep the waystone close until we return, Awoken, and beware.”

  “Beware? I don’t understand.”

  “You will know them by their colors—green of moss and brown of soil. One of each, you must beware. Remember, Awoken. Remember the colors of the Ven.”

  Michael’s tongue moved clumsily in his mouth. “What…are…Ven?’”

  “They are the hunters of blood, and the earth and bone, spawn of the Betrayer. Remember, Awoken, one green, one brown.”

  Michael wanted to ask the dollman more, but his lips wouldn’t open. Slowly, his eyes drifted closed.

  “Rest now, Awoken,” whispered a faraway voice. “Rest, but do not forget the colors of the Fallen. The Ven bring death.”

  The dire words followed Michael into the world of dreams, and he knew no more.

  6

  Sounds of the Mermaid

  Karl’s hatchback smelled of antifreeze and coffee, a natural result of a leaking radiator hose coupled with Karl’s habit of placing his coffee on the dash rather than a cup holder. Not a pleasant smell, but at least the Wiffles didn’t smoke.

  “You tackle the big ‘uns low,” Karl instructed. “Not at the knees, but the thighs. From the side, not the front. Throws ‘em off balance. Understand?”

  Michael nodded mechanically. “Uh-huh.”

  In his true element, Karl had been spouting football pointers nonstop since they had left the house. He took a sip of his coffee and set the cup back on the dash. “You’re thin for a boy your age, but that don’t matter if you’re smart. You listen to me, and you’ll be fine.”

  Michael leaned against the passenger window, absently fingering the mud-brown stone that hung below his throat, hidden by his shirt.

  It was oval-shaped, and about half the size of his thumb. He’d discovered the stone on a thin black chain draped around his neck when he woke up this morning, a parting gift from the dollmen.

  “You keep the ball tight to your chest when you’re running,” Karl continued gruffly. “And none of that fancy dancing around you see on television. Real men take a tackle head-on. A solid hit builds character, by God.”

  “Builds hospitals, too,” Michael muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” Michael said more loudly. “You know I could have walked, Mr. Wiffle. I know the way.”

  Karl grunted. “No trouble. The park is on my way.”

  Michael grimaced. This sucked. Okay. The imaginary football game had been his idea, but after last night, having to deal with the consequences of his little white lie seemed cosmically unfair. He should have said he was going to play Frisbee golf. Karl would never have driven him to a Frisbee golf match. Not manly enough.

  A brown wooden sign with yellow lettering appeared just ahead.

  “Glenview Park,” Karl said. “Fix your hair, Mike. You look a mess. There’s a mirror under the visor.”

  Michael sighed. Since when did personal grooming become an important part of playing football? He flipped down the visor.

  A pair of silver eyes looked back at him.

  “Ahhh!”

  Karl slammed on the brakes. The coffee left the dash, splashing lukewarm contents all over Karl’s white shirt and onto his lap.

  Tires squealing, the hatchback skidded to a stop.

  Holding the wheel in a deathlike grip, Karl scanned the street. “What? Is something in the road?”

  “I…I thought I saw…” Michael stared into the mirror, seeing only his own dark brown eyes. They had been silver, hadn’t they? As silver as the eyes of the dollman.

  Karl peered at him. “You thought you saw what?”

  Michael slapped up the visor. “A…deer, coming out of the park. I thought we were going to hit a deer.”

  Karl frowned at the pines and balsam surrounding Glenview Park. “I don’t see any deer.”

  “A big one, with horns,” Michael elaborated. “You must have scared it back into the trees when you stopped the car.”

  “Horns, huh? The Department of Natural Resources isn’t doing its job. Getting so a man can’t step outside without some beast or other jumping out of the bushes.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” Michael opened the passenger door and a wall of heat struck him like a hammer. “You’re going to have to hurry if you want to change that shirt before work. I can walk from here.”

  Karl lifted the wet garment from his chest with two fingers. “Great. All right, you go on. Have fun. See you tonight.”

  “See ya.”

  Michael waved and Karl pulled away. The sun was warm against his hand—another scorcher today. The hatchback disappeared around the corner, and he headed into the park.

  Glenview was a large park, with lots of trees along with a well-kept football and baseball field. The park even had a bit of artistic appeal in the form of a large marble fountain, complete with a water-spitting mermaid and pool. He headed for the fountain. If he had to stay here all day, he might as well hang out where he could cool his feet.

  Ten minutes later, he looked down at his reflection in the fountain’s pool. The water was sparklingly clear, the mermaid’s spout causing only small ripples to mar the surface. Karl had been right about his hair. He was a mess. Dipping his fingers in the water, he raked them through the tangles. Getting a little on the shaggy side. Wouldn’t be long now before he would need to pay a visit to Karl’s barber. Michael was naturally tan, with skin more almond than brown. One of his foster families had suggested he had a touch of Native American ancestry. Might even be true. He rarely sunburned. Average height for his age, Barbara accused him of being too skinny. Other than that, Michael was like any other fourteen-year-old.

  “Just like any other kid with vicious, cat-killing albinos living under their deck, I guess. As normal as the next kid who has to watch out for the green and brown, because they’re the colors of the Ven. Whatever that means.”

  Why couldn’t the dollman have been a little more specific? Something was after him, and all he had to go on was “beware the green and brown.” He might as well be watching out for a killer vegetable garden.

  He leaned against the edge of the fountain.

  Humming music exploded in his mind.

  He jumped back, and the music died.

  What the…?

  The music in the marble fountain was louder than anything he’d heard before, louder than when he’d stepped inside that cave in second grade. Slowly, he laid his palm back against the stone. The music was different, like a merging, a tangible sense of connection between him and the marble. His mind opened, and suddenly he could feel the rock, every sinuous curve and turn. He was the fountain…most of it, anyway. The metal piping inside the mermaid he sensed as a soundless void tangling within the humming rock. He could not feel the metal, only the absence of sound.

  What was happening to him?

  The dollmen’s cup. Whate
ver they’d given him had changed the music, allowing him to join with the song of the rock. The dollmen had said the stonesong was awaking.

  The fountain trembled. The mermaid spat a sudden torrent of water far out over the basin.

  “What are you doing here?” someone asked behind Michael.

  Michael spun.

  A dozen teens on dirt bikes formed a loose half-circle behind him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  One of the teens, a towering boy with piggish eyes and a short crew cut, heeled down his kickstand. “I’ll just bet you are.” He got off the bike, walking over to Michael. “I said, ‘What are you doing here?’”

  Several of the teens laughed. Others shouted encouragements to the adolescent giant.

  “Get him, Billy. Show him the beast! Beat the brakes off him!”

  The suggestions were varied, and often creative, but all revolved around the general theme of mangling and broken bones.

  Great, Michael thought, as if things aren’t bad enough.

  “Leave him alone, Billy,” said a green-eyed girl on a dirty mountain bike. Blowing long strands of coal-black hair from her eyes, she hefted a wooden baseball bat. “I came to play baseball, not to pick on some loser.”

  Billy gave her a sour look. “There’s always time to pick on losers, Lina. Go cry to your nanny if you don’t want to watch.”

  The girl’s knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the bat. “Watch it.”

  “Or what, rich girl? You gonna take a swing?”

  Lina snorted, lowering the bat. “Don’t be stupid, Billy. I like this bat, and your rock head would probably break it.”

  They glared at each other.

  Michael began to inch away. “Uh…I can see you guys have a few issues to work out. I’ll just leave you to it.”

  A heavy palm slapped against his chest.

  “You’re not going anywhere, loser.” Billy drew back a ham-like fist. “Not until you learn whose park you’re in.”

  Michael braced himself. Here we go. The fist cracked into his cheek, sending a bright bolt of pain into his jaw and head. He stumbled back, clutching the rim of the fountain to keep from falling. The stonesong swept out from him in a rush. The fountain trembled under his palms, and a spiderweb of cracks shot up the mermaid’s tail.