Awoken

by Timothy Miller

  “Knock it off!” shouted Lina. Tossing the bat to the ground, she started forward. “Knock it off, Billy!”

  Some of Billy’s posse pointed at the cracks, murmuring to each other uncertainly as the cracks spread up the statue’s torso.

  “Stay out of my park, loser.” Billy swung at him again.

  Michael closed his eyes and the fist landed with the wet crackle of breaking bone, but astonishingly, he felt no pain. The stonesong surged, and the music became a wailing shriek before the mermaid shattered like a crystal vase on an anvil.

  Michael opened his eyes. Everyone was staring at him.

  Billy cradled his fist against his chest, his face white as a sheet. “How…what are you?”

  “Did you see his eyes?” someone whispered. “They were like metal. His eyes changed to metal and the fountain broke in a million pieces.”

  Billy lumbered back to his bike. Grabbing his handlebars with his good hand, he awkwardly mounted and began to pedal away without bothering with the kickstand. His friends were right behind him.

  All that was left of the mermaid was a bent copper framework that spurted out water in hissing, pressurized, streams. Shattered bits of marble decorated the bottom of the basin, but the water was still clear enough for Michael to see his reflection, and the mercury color of his eyes.

  “Figures,” he said. “Frigging dollmen.”

  His head spun, and bile rose in his throat. He folded and became noisily sick on the grass.

  “Gross. What did you have for breakfast? Chili?”

  Michael wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked up at the girl Billy had called Lina. She wore jeans, a grass-stained baseball jersey, and scuffed tennis shoes. She sure didn’t dress like a rich girl. She leaned on her baseball bat and smiled down at him. “So, you’re one of the Wiffles’ foster kids? I used to see you around at school. I’m Melina, but everyone calls me Lina. What’s your name?”

  “Uh…Michael. You can call me Mike.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” She gave a nod to the broken mermaid. “How did you do that?”

  “I…” he paused to dry-heave. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, Mike. The silver eyes, the fountain, Billy’s hand…” Lina’s grin turned wicked. “Tell me how, and I might not tell the police where you live.”

  7

  Melina’s Treasure

  Lina glared at the boy with the most irritated expression she could muster. He was kind of cute, she thought, even with the weird eyes…in a skinny, dark, and scary kind of way. “Come on, spill. What’s with the eyes? Are they contacts or something?”

  The boy looked away. “Go away.”

  Why was he being so difficult? Were orphans all this stubborn, or just this one? He had to live in a foster home. Well, whoop-tee-do. At least he had someone there to take care of him. She had to make do with her eighty-three-year-old nanny, Harriet Findleshin, while her parents vacationed in the Alps. The old crackpot couldn’t cook toast. If Lina weren’t going to dance camp in a couple weeks, she would probably starve.

  The boy blinked, and his silver eyes were suddenly a normal brown. Another trick.

  “So you can change them back and forth,” she said. “What’s next? Are you going to pull a rabbit from a hat?”

  “They’re brown again?” Michael bent over the fountain. “Thank God. Barbara would have had a heart attack.”

  Lina rolled her eyes. “Knock it off, already. You might have fooled Billy, but he’s a moron. Do you really expect me to believe you’re some kind of Criss Angel? You gonna freak my mind?”

  “I don’t care what you think.” He splashed water on his face and neck, and wiped the grime from his mouth. “Nice meeting you, Melina. Bye.”

  “Is the magic show over already?”

  “How about we end with a disappearing act? I’ll count to three, and every annoying girl in the park will vanish. One…two…” He raised an eyebrow at her. “No? Guess I’ll have to work on that one.”

  Lina’s cheeks flushed with anger. “Why are you being such a jerk, Mike? All I want is to know how you did those things.”

  “You said that, Lina. You also said you’d tell the cops if I didn’t tell you. Nice way to make friends.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have vandalized the fountain,” she retorted. “I’ll tell the police, you jerk.”

  A misting of silver covered Michael’s eyes. Queasy uncertainty fluttered in Lina’s belly. That was some trick.

  “I’ll tell them,” she said. “I swear.”

  The silver flickered and disappeared. The boy grinned. “You’re going to tell the police you saw a kid with silver eyes break a statue?” He started to walk toward the trees. “Good luck, Melina. Have fun in the mental ward.”

  Lina felt her cheeks growing hot with anger. “You’re just going to leave? You’re not even going to tell me how you did those things?”

  “I don’t know.” He broke into a jog.

  “Liar!” she yelled after him, but he had already disappeared into the trees. “What a tool.”

  Lina started back to her bike, then paused, spotting a shiny black chain in the grass. She knelt and lifted the necklace. The chain held a brown pendant with a small chip that sparkled in the sun. On a hunch, she dipped the pendant into the fountain and rubbed it between her palms. A layer of clay broke away, turning the water muddy brown. The water slowly cleared, revealing a jewel mounted in a ring of glimmering silver.

  Lina gasped. The chain held an oval diamond almost an inch long. She scrubbed harder, and something cut into her palm.

  “Ow!”

  There was a flash of light, and suddenly, she was lying on her back.

  What happened?

  She sat up slowly, feeling…weird. A thousand tickly ants crawled beneath her skin, and her palm throbbed painfully. The last thing she remembered was scrubbing the pendant. There had been a sting of pain. Then she was on her back.

  She lifted her burning hand up to take a look. A broken chain slipped from her fingers, and cold terror froze her blood.

  “What the—?!”

  Silvery metal surrounded the jewel that was now embedded in her palm, spreading thread-thin tendrils of the metal into her skin like tiny roots.

  “Holy crap on a plate!”

  She clawed at the diamond, scraping the jewel with her fingernails until blood welled and hot pain shot up her arm. Neither the jewel nor silver came free.

  Lina screamed.

  8

  Cats and Crows

  Michael peeked out of the brush to check the street. No police cars, that was good. No pedestrians either, even better.

  He stepped out of the brush in one smooth motion. The cement sidewalk hummed under his feet. He ignored the music while he brushed the clinging twigs and leaves from his shirt, then started walking.

  Keeping an eye out for the flashing lights of a police car, he tried to walk nonchalantly. The girl, Lina, hadn’t liked him very much. She might really tell the cops about the fountain, even if the admission would make her sound like a nut. Plus, Billy had messed up his hand pretty good.

  He rubbed his cheek. The skin didn’t feel hard enough to break someone’s hand. The incident had to have something to do with the stonesong. Rock-hard skin, silver eyes, dollmen in his room, exploding statues—things were getting a little too much like a Supernatural episode for comfort. Time to get some advice, and from someone who wouldn’t dismiss his wild story as the delusional ravings of an unbalanced orphan. Time to talk to Diggs. The drifter’s camp was down next to the river by the old Main Street bridge. If he hurried, he could be there within the hour.

  The hot sun beat down on him as he walked. Before long, sweat covered his forehead and dampened his armpits. “Should have worn shorts.”

  Suddenly, he felt an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades. He searched the street behind him. Empty. But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling he was being watched. Maybe he was gettin
g paranoid.

  Just then, he noticed a black cat sitting in the branches of an elm tree just ahead. The cat was staring right at him, and so was the large crow perched on the branch beside the feline. The animals sat so close that fur brushed feather, but neither reacted to the proximity of the other.

  The hairs on the back of Michael’s neck gave a nervous prickle. “Okay. Even by my recently rising standards, that’s creepy.”

  He kept walking, and was a dozen yards from the tree when the crow took flight with an explosive burst of flapping wings.

  “Good riddance.”

  Michael glanced at the cat as he passed under the tree, and his breath caught in his throat. The cat’s eyes were two different colors. One green, the other brown.

  You will know them by their colors, green of moss, and brown of soil. One of each, you must beware.

  Green and brown, the colors of the Ven.

  “No frigging way.”

  Staring down at him with its mismatched eyes, the cat opened its mouth and hissed, “Pry-mare-eeeee.”

  Michael ran.

  9

  Diggs

  Pry-mare-eeeee.

  The impossible voice of the black cat echoing in his ears, Michael ran.

  Dollmen were sneaking into his room at night. He was turning into a silver-eyed freak who could break statues with his mind. And now he found out the Ven were talking devil cats that hung out with crows and had mismatched eyes. He needed help. He needed to find Diggs.

  The sidewalk sang under his slapping heels, and the stonesong inside him reached out for the music. He fought the music. He wasn’t sure how, but he pulled the stonesong back, keeping the power inside and away from the concrete. The stonesong was stubborn, refusing to be reined in for long before surging out again.

  He jumped the curb and tore across an intersection. Diggs’s camp was just a few blocks ahead. He hoped he could hold on that long. Mastering the stonesong was like grasping a greasy eel—a slippery task, and distracting.

  A horn blared in his ears. He twisted to his right, and saw a black sedan bearing down upon him at reckless speed. The car was so close he could make out the green, tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the mirror. There was no time to dodge.

  A gnarled hand snatched his collar and yanked him from the car’s path. The black sedan never slowed. Tires squealing, the car careened around the next corner without signaling and disappeared.

  The shaggy man who’d saved Michael gave a disgusted grunt. “Blasted Sunday drivers,” he complained. “They see about as well as a blind rhino, and are twice as dangerous. You okay, Mike?”

  “Diggs,” Michael breathed. “It’s you.”

  Diggs bowed at the waist. “In the flesh.”

  Despite the heat, the wiry drifter was wearing jeans and a worn corduroy jacket. His snowy white hair was in a long ponytail that reached down to his lower back, and a steel belt buckle in the shape of a jaguar head adorned his waist. His eyes were a piercing blue and sparkled with a youth at odds with his tanned, weathered face.

  “Thanks a lot, man,” Michael said with feeling. “I almost bought it.”

  Diggs grinned. “Crudely spoken, but accurate, I’d say.”

  Like Michael, Diggs had only been staying in Flintville a couple of weeks. He was a drifter, a migrant handyman who’d put down shallow roots here for reasons only he could know. They’d met at the library and hit it off immediately. The life of a homeless vagabond held a strange appeal for Michael, who couldn’t remember having a permanent home himself. As for Diggs, he seemed delighted to have someone to talk with. Camping out by the river hadn’t made the man many friends in Flintville.

  When the vagabond wasn’t fishing or reading, he would pick up the odd job to “pay the bills.” He was a true jack-of-all-trades, and seemed to know a bit about everything worth knowing. Fixing cars, landscaping, dish washing—he attacked all the tasks with the same air of general good humor.

  “I would have thought you’d have guessed who saved you,” Diggs remarked mischievously. “Nobody else around here likes you enough to pull your butt out of traffic.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Diggs’s smile faltered. “Your mouth is bleeding.”

  Michael put a finger to his lip and winced. Billy must have given him the cut. He hadn’t even noticed. “Diggs, you have to help me,” he said in a rush. “There was a talking cat, and the fountain broke, and the music…the music is everywhere! The noise won’t stop!”

  “Whoa, Mike. Settle down for a second.”

  “I can’t settle down!” Michael stomped his foot on the humming pavement. “Can you hear that? No? Well, I can. And guess what else? Little white men are running around killing talking cats, and crawling through my window into my room at night. The mermaid is dead, and Billy’s got a busted hand. Do you get what I’m telling you? I’m totally losing it, man!”

  “What are you talking…?” Diggs’s eyes grew wide. “Little men came into your room? Did they give you anything? Did they make you drink from a stone cup?”

  “Yes. I was in my bed and…” Michael trailed off, taking a long step back from the drifter. “How did you know about the cup, Diggs?”

  “Mike, listen—”

  “Don’t touch me!” Michael backed away even further. “Did you already know about the dollmen? Did you?”

  “Shhh,” Diggs hissed. “Lower your voice, and let me explain.”

  Anger surged through Michael, and flickers of silver light began to bleed from his sneakers into the concrete around his shoes. “Explain? You want to explain?” A manhole cover up the street popped into the air like a champagne cork. “How can you explain this?”

  Diggs darted forward. Grabbing Michael’s shirt, he lifted him from the street and flung him onto the grass.

  The stonesong’s connection to the pavement broke like an overextended rubber band. Michael struggled not to vomit. The sudden break made his head ache, and his stomach was churning madly.

  Eyes blazing, Diggs jabbed his finger into the center of Michael’s chest. “You are going to calm down. Otherwise, I’m going to drag you down to the river and throw you in. Understand me?”

  Michael gulped. He’d never seen Diggs like this, so angry, so…wild.

  “Just because I know about the People doesn’t mean I had anything to do with what is happening to you,” Diggs snarled. “I can explain, Mike, even help you. But you have to listen to me. Do you understand?”

  Michael gave a shaky nod. “Sorry, Diggs. I just…” He scrubbed his face with his palm. “I don’t know. I guess all this is starting to freak me out.”

  Diggs’s threatening demeanor softened. “You’re not the only one, kid.” He helped Michael to his feet. “I never expected this either. The People…I had no idea they’d come here looking for you. They came last night?”

  “Yes. They gave me something to drink. Ever since—”

  “You’ve been able to fuse with rock,” Diggs finished. “I know. The stonesong’s in you all right.”

  Michael’s jaw dropped. “You know about that? Does that mean you have the stonesong, too?”

  Diggs chuckled. “No. You’ve a rare talent, Mike. That’s why the People, the ones you call the dollmen, have been looking for you. Their mission seems to have been to bring your talent to full potential.” He gestured to the dislodged manhole cover. “That was reckless, by the way. You shouldn’t use the stonesong so carelessly. Its power is dangerous.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Michael replied sarcastically. “It’s not like I did it on purpose. You should see the fountain at the park.”

  “The one with the mermaid?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Diggs threw up his hands. “Are you crazy? What if someone saw you?”

  “Umm…”

  “You’re not serious. Someone saw you use the stonesong?”

  Michael crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t get a manual with this, Diggs. I can’t control what I do. T
hat’s why I need to undo whatever the dollmen did to me. Can you help me?”

  Diggs’s shaggy eyebrows pinched together. “I’ve been helping the People for some time now, but I’m not one of them. I know rather a bit about the stonesong, but by no means everything. Sorry.”

  “What am I gonna do, Diggs? The stonesong keeps trying to grab onto rock, like at the park. I can’t control it.”

  “What do you mean? The waystone is supposed to…” Diggs frowned. “Where’s your waystone?”

  “My what?”

  “A jewel that acts like a filter, or an antenna. The waystone prevents the stonesong from lashing out, gives you control. The People must have given you one.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “They must have. Think, Mike—a jewel mounted in a setting of silver earthbone, covered in baked clay, shaped in a necklace or bracelet most likely.”

  “You mean this necklace?” asked Michael, reached toward his throat. “Hey! Where’d it go?”

  Diggs paled. “You lost the waystone? Bells and hells, Mike! Without the necklace, the stonesong will try to fuse with every rock you come across.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “The understatement of the year,” said Diggs. “The stonesong is just waking up, and you’re already having trouble with control. In a couple of months, you’re going to be ten times as strong. You’ll be a walking earthquake by the end of the summer.”

  “That really doesn’t sound good at all.” Michael thought for a moment. “I had the necklace this morning. I must have lost it in the park, probably when Billy took a swing at me.”

  Diggs scratched at his scraggily whiskers. “Then that’s where we’ll start looking.”

  “Okay. What about the cat?”

  “What cat?”

  Michael took a deep breath. “Okay. This is going to sound nuts. But on my way here, I saw a black cat sitting in a tree with a crow. The crow left, but then the cat…well, it called me a name or something.”