Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Paperskin

This was my entry for the Writers of the Future contest, 4th Quarter.

~~~

The quake had hit hard and fast. Survivors from the small, rural village had funneled in from early morning to dusk, and throughout the day Sahak spent his hours treating wounds and injuries using most every method he knew. Being a skilled healer of advanced age, Sahak knew many techniques.
Not least of which was the legendary healing touch.
He saved many lives that day. The ancient magics at his employ were subtle, but plain for all to see. Broken bones were knit back in place and open wounds were sealed shut with what appeared to be a mere caress of his hand. Yet most folk who were not learned in the healing arts perceived it to be easy. In truth, Sahak expended a great deal of energy and concentration in order to heal those who came to him.
The day after the quake, Sahak went to inspect the ruins, to better document the events in his journal. Though Sahak was not the only healer to have heard the call, he was regarded as one of the few living masters of the ancient arts. It was said that the old man had come in contact with a spirit that granted him such power.
He stopped walking mid stride. The town was quiet but for the bustle of men working in the makeshift infirmary just beyond the village. No birds flew over this place, no people hawked their wares like only days ago. All was silent.
But still, Sahak swore he heard something.
Against his better judgment, the old healer went in the direction of the imagined sound. It might have come from inside a collapsed building or...
There it was again. A whimper. The mewling of something small...
An infant.
Sahak hurried inside, heedless of the unstable structure. He found the babe, extricated its blackened form from the dead mother's arms, and fled the building. Even as Sahak laid a stretch of clean cloth on the ground and set the child upon it, volunteers gathered around him.
"It's a goner," one of them murmured. They were not experienced healers like Sahak, but any layman could tell the child held on by a thread.
"It's amazing the child lived this long,” said another. “He could pass at any moment." Silence met with the statement, for all could see the terrible burns.
"What life could it lead even if it were saved?” a third said. “The best we can do is ease its passing." At this, there was agreement, followed by grunts of encouragement. "You've done all you could, Sahak."
The others left him alone with the babe, convinced their skills were better used tending to the injured at the healing tents.
But Sahak remained with the child. He stared long and hard, carefully going over his options, then set to work.
He resolved to not give up. Using the ancient arts to their fullest extent, Sahak kept the child alive. His healing touch felt ruptured organs and cut blood vessels, but for every minor injury he healed, two more appeared.
The child had since stopped crying, the strength having left its lungs. Beads of sweat gathered on Sahak's brow.

#

At ten years, Jhast was of the age when most children had begun their life path and started an apprenticeship. He had learned this when interacting with the blacksmith's son and the weaver's daughter, neither of whom had taken any particular liking to him. As the adopted son of the town healer, his path had quite simply been chosen for him, and he supposed their hatred of him was born of jealousy. After all, his apprenticeship had commenced the day he could speak, so he was told.
But today they thought up new names for him, and even spent considerable time chasing him down the cobblestoned street. Even now, Jhast could hear their voices echoing in his ears, yelling 'Crinkly' and 'Paperskin.' He stumbled through the front door with a bloody lip.
"Jhast my lad," his father greeted him. "I was worried about you— by the gods! What happened?" Sahak rushed to meet Jhast as he entered their home, producing a white linen from his pocket.
"Nothing," Jhast grumbled. He tried to push his father away but Sahak would have none of it. Ancient arts or no, linen still had its uses for small bleeding.
"Did you fall? Did the huntsman's hounds get loose again? I swear if Gerald's dogs got after you again..."
"It wasn't dogs," Jhast said. "Leave me, papa, I can do it myself." Sahak stepped away, marveling at the maturity of his child.
"A lad your age would likely be crying your eyes out with a cut like that." He reached to pull his son closer. “Let me,” he added, his fingers starting to glow.
"This is not what needs to be healed!" Jhast shouted. "Papa, why am I like this?"
Sahak stopped and pivoted toward his son, regarding him. Jhast was of normal height and healthy weight, and his eyes shone with discerning intelligence. But from face to feet his skin was scarred and splotched with wrinkles. He was missing an ear, and in places where normal creases might have formed in his face, the skin had scarred over in thick patches.
"We've talked about this," said Sahak, his voice gentle and slow. "You survived a disaster that left hundreds dead."
"Including my real parents," was the growled reply. Sahak fidgeted.
"Yes, including them."
"Why couldn't you save my mother? My father?"
"It was too late for them. They were gone by the time I had found you."
"Then why couldn't you fix..." Jhast made an angry gesture, angled at himself. "This. Why keep me alive like this?"
"Jhast," said Sahak, "come sit down. It's time I explain something to you."
Fuming, Jhast stepped over and sat beside Sahak on the couch of their den. Theirs was a simple home, comfortable by any villager's standards but for a healer of Sahak's caliber, the domicile was considered humble.
"You have seen me working on people with open wounds. Even some of your friends have come to our doorstep bleeding and crying. Injuries like that don't take much effort to mend."
Jhast nodded, but the motion was curt and his face remained twisted in a nearly imperceptible frown. He held a bit of the linen to his lip as he listened.
"But not all wounds are visible. Those are the trickiest to heal, I'll have you know, since they can be the deepest."
Jhast could not understand what his adopted father was talking about, and it showed in his expression, though none but his adopted father would have been able to see through the scars.
"What I'm trying to say is this," Sahak said. "When I found you, I did everything I could. I held your fate in my hands, and I healed it."
"You speak in riddles," Jhast mumbled.
"Keep at your training and your studies. You will understand in time."

#

By Jhast's twelfth year, he managed to save someone's horse of its lame leg. At his fifteenth, he had mended his first broken bone in a human. There were some who no longer looked at the boy like a peculiar invalid, but as a budding member of the village. Sahak was expected to live on for many more years, and the day he left his position as town healer would be a sad day. Thus, the townsfolk found relief in knowing a capable adept was being trained under Sahak.
But Jhast did not lead an easy life. In spite of the respect he had earned from select individuals, the majority of passersby regarded him as they would a leper. Women would avert their eyes the moment he met theirs, and the youngest of children would scream and point on the street. Years of this left Jhast bitter, but their door and his skills were available to anyone.
One evening, Sahak returned home from an errand a little later than expected. He found Jhast busying himself with arranging bottles of smelling salts.
"I met a mother today," said Sahak, his voice on the verge of thunder, "whose child was near death from a dog bite. A dog bite!"
"Is that so?" Jhast said without looking over his shoulder. "Explains why you're late."
"Word around the village is that she visited here earlier in the day, Jhast. Left with the child in the same state as she came." A moment passed and when Jhast continued to roll strips of fabric, Sahak stomped up behind him. "I left you to fill my seat for a day. A day! What were you thinking, turning her away like that?"
"I did not turn her away," said Jhast, keeping his eyes to the jars.
"You will explain."
"There's nothing to explain."
"There most certainly is. That child was inches from death!
"I didn't know," said Jhast.
"Didn't know?" said Sahak. "How could you not know?"
Jhast continued to move the bottles around, though he hardly paid attention to the labels anymore. Sahak let out a harsh sigh.
"You've worked with wounds far worse than that. How could you be so careless?" Staring at Jhast's motionless back only enraged Sahak further.
"Explain yourself, why did you not see the child?"
Jhast slammed a bottle on the table and whirled around.
"Because," he shouted, "she wouldn't show me the baby!"
There was a moment of stunned silence, and Sahak stared, speechless.
"You mean she—"
"I could not possibly know because she wouldn't show me the baby," Jhast reiterated. "She came to the house, her babe wrapped in a bloody swaddle. Oh I saw the blood, alright, but in that moment the lady did not see a healer reaching for her child." He glared at his adopted father. "She saw a monster."
"Even so," said Sahak, "you know you shouldn't have let her go."
"And what could I have done to stop her? Hold her, tear the baby from her arms? It was you she wanted. Not some paperskin apprentice."
"I don't know what came over her," he said. "Miss Tilly was always such a sweet girl."
"And it's your fault. It's all thanks to you."
"My fault?"
"Why doesn't our healing touch work on me?" Jhast demanded. His voice trembled, and having dropped the linen he presented his scarred, gnarled hands. "Why must I live my life disfigured and hated?"
"You aren't hated," said Sahak, his voice patient. "Just misunderstood. We've talked about this, my son; your wounds were already closed. I can only heal fresh wounds. No matter our training, a healer cannot..."
"...Erase the scars of the past," Jhast finished. "I have the touch of a healer, as you trained me, but the hands of a demon. I am cursed. Why couldn't you heal me?"
"But I did heal you, Jhast. I healed your fate."
Jhast's face darkened. All the memories of being teased and chased as a child, thrown askance glances and ignored or outright rejected as an adult, all coming to him at once. He extended a hand and brought his fingers down his face, tracing the scars that so defined him. He scowled and glared at his father.
"Does my fate look healed to you?"
And before sundown that very day, Jhast had packed what belongings mattered most to him and stormed out into the coming night.

#

When Jhast reached his twentieth year, he had undergone an odyssey the likes of which none could have expected of a man hailing from such a small town. Having spent years healing injured and sick folk on the road between villages and city states, he had become adept at treating wounds in both roadside tents and in bedrooms.
The world was a dangerous place. Jhast had heard tales of tyrannical overlords from far off lands. There were rebellions and border skirmishes between countries, and even in some places there roamed monstrous beasts of legend. Often there swarmed would-be heroes and bounty hunters who would hunt and slay these monsters - some of whom were returning customers. Once Jhast had gotten word of a noble's son who'd injured himself falling from a horse. All these had one thing in common.
No matter the cause or justification, no one turned down the talents of a skilled healer.
But still Jhast was bitter. True it was that he derived pride and joy from his ability; after all, people rarely forgot the face of the man who'd saved their life. Even if that face was hidden behind a veil, as he had taken to wearing a shawl to cover his face and body, earning him the name of the Masked Healer.
It was during these travels when Jhast came in contact with other healers, and from each of them Jhast learned something, whether a new type of knot for a tourniquet or the old recipe for an herbal poultice. Yet in spite of his increasingly worldly knowledge of things, no technique compared to Sahak's ancient arts, which had more to do with touching, calming, and miraculously healing than herbs or splints.
By his thirtieth summer, instead of following armies in search of work, a small army of followers had amassed to follow Jhast. Children he had saved came to him years later as grown men, offering their lives and skills in gratitude. Nobles and merchant princes who had one time or another been themselves healed of an affliction or had a loved one snatched from the jaws of death by Jhast's magical healing touch, sought him out and wished to repay their debt to him.
But he eluded them easily, for no one had ever seen his face. Still, Jhast's name became nearly that of a living legend, for hundreds of lives had been saved by his healing touch. It was at this time he had caught the attention of Yhaji the Crone, an ancient woman famed for her wisdom as well as her skill in healing. One day, a runner arrived bearing an invitation.
Half a week later, he sat within the confines of a tent, cross-legged before a low set table covered in food. Yhaji was humble in her tastes, but incredibly generous.
"You have come a long way, I hear," she told him. Jhast had observed the customary rituals of politeness, waiting for her to eat before him. Though he was in a strange land, he was careful to not insult his host.
"I have," Jhast said from behind his veil. Since the moment they met, Yhaji had treated him without the slightest hint of suppressed disdain, which was a surprise to him.
"If I'm not mistaken," she said, "is not Sahak the Mender from your country?" Jhast hadn't heard mention of Sahak for many years. "Did you know him?"
"I knew him," Jhast replied.
"Is he well?"
"We haven't spoken..." Jhast was about to say for decades, but caught himself. "...for some time."
"I see, I see. Tell me, Master Jhast, have you been granted the boon?" Jhast studied the ancient crone before him, his expression that of confusion, though he doubted whether she could see through his scars. Few ever could.
"I don't understand."
"The archon's boon, child." Jhast did not know what to say. The crone opened her eyes. "Master Sahak surely must have told you of the boon."
"I'm afraid he neglected to mention this."
"Oh dear," Yhaji tsked. "When last did you see Sahak?"
"It's been...years."
"Pity. The boon is the crowning achievement of any follower of the ancient arts, but so very rare."
"The boon is an object?" said Jhast, puzzled. The crone looked at him from behind wrinkly eyelids that may as well have been shut for all Jhast could tell.
"Not an object, lad, a power, allowing one to heal fate." Jhast had heard whispers of this, heard tales of the feats performed by healers of history, but he'd only heard these words from one other person in all these years.
"What did you say?"
"The archon, from whom our healing touch flows, will allow you to mend that which men cannot see: the broken fate of one person."
Jhast could not believe what he was hearing.
"Every follower of the ancient arts aspires for the boon of the archon," said the wrinkly woman. "The archon itself is as a gentle traveler from a foreign land. It is, after all, merely a transient, and we are truly blessed to even know of its passing."
"A transient?" Jhast asked.
"The archon is not of our world, Jhast, and lesser minds might confuse it for a god. But generations of healers have learned the truth of its identity, for we have always spoken to it, yet rarely does it reply. But," Yhaji added, snatching a sweet grape from the table, "we have only each spoken to it once. Once you have communed, you cannot meet it again." She sighed, but maintained that immovable smile. "It is a sad thing, to be sure. A limitation of our minds, as it happens."
"What does it mean, to heal a broken fate?"
"You will know," she chuckled, popping the grape into her mouth, "if ever you get there."
Jhast left the old woman's tent giving thanks for the delightful dinner and sage wisdom. He walked by many of her followers on his way, most of whom knew his characteristic garb and bowed as he passed. But when he reached beyond their sight, his polite demeanor dropped like a pall.
Though none who passed could tell, Jhast wore a bitter frown of disdain. The idea of healing fate, whatever that meant, seemed like a waste of time.
So it was Jhast continued his work in lands foreign and familiar. His healing touch was more famous than ever. At times, he had turned it upon himself, but the scars always remained.

#

Once on a hot midsummer day, and while resting beneath the boughs of a solitary tree, Jhast was assailed by powerful wave of disorientation.
It was a hugely dizzying feeling, like falling through a corridor of silken wind. He had shut his eyes, but could see flashing lights through the lids. When he opened them, a maelstrom of stars swirled and rushed past him. There was the sound of rushing wind on a high mountain, and the smell of tall grass was gone. Then there was silence.
A gentle caress on his leathery cheek, and Jhast became abruptly aware that the rushing feeling had stopped. He was surrounded by ghostly wisps of gossamer. Bright light shined from a sun he could not see, and the robes he wore appeared weightless around him. It was as though he were underwater, but the air was pure and warm.
A gentle feeling, akin to the caress of a tender mother. Jhast looked around the clouds and saw nothing but swirling wisps.
Then the clouds parted, and Jhast beheld a luminescent being of light and gold. The healer could barely take in the sight, and he had to shield his eyes from the shining radiance.
"You have lead a life of selfless servitude," Jhast heard. It was a warm, silvery voice, and though he knew it could be nothing but the fabled archon, he could not see it speak. Rather, the voice came into his mind like a welcome guest.
"For this," continued the being, "you have earned my boon. You may choose to heal the fate of one individual."
At first, Jhast was at a total loss for words. He had barely understood the realm around him, much less how he got there. But he quickly gathered his wits.
"Please archon," he said, not knowing what else to call it. "I would ask to have my own fate healed. I have suffered my entire life. I am a crinkly, ugly paperskin. Mine is a broken fate."
Jhast looked upon the being as a child would a parent. Memories of being shunned, being secretly despised for his ugliness when people thought he wasn't looking.
"No," was the silvery reply. Jhast blinked.
"Why?"
"Your fate has already been healed."
"When? I have hated my life since birth."
"You're fate was healed," said the archon, "Your scars are proof of this."
Some clouds to Jhast's side melted away as well, only to reveal what appeared to be a peculiar window made of water. It shimmered with a light of its own and the archon indicated it with a gesture.
Jhast beheld the scintillating water. Lights and colors stirred within it. Things coalesced into shapes, and before his eyes Jhast saw what appeared to be a living painting. He saw a great fissure in the earth, and fire. Destroyed buildings.
The aftermath of an earthquake.
He saw Sahak, much younger but still with those weathered laugh-lines of his. Sahak darted into a building, emerging with a pale bundle in his arms. Men stood in a close circle around Sahak on the street. In the center was what could only be a blackened, burned child.
"The best we can do is ease its passing," said a berobed person nearby. Their voices sounded distant, but rang clear. "You've done all you could, Sahak."
The men left, and Jhast could see Sahak changing bandages, holding his hands on the baby's chest. There was a warm glow under his fingers; the healing touch. But the baby did not cry, or stir.
Or breathe.
Sahak was seen suppressing a sob, but collected himself. He laid his hand once more on the child, clearly in prayer. Jhast could not hear his precise words, but he saw Sahak's lips move. For a time he did this, holding still and concentrating.
For what felt like hours Jhast watched, and he himself did not breathe.
Then the baby began to wail.
Jhast exhaled, his eyes on the verge of flood.
"This life," he said, his voice wavering, "this crippled life, is already healed? This is not a broken fate?"
Though he still could not see the being through the pulsing light, he could feel something. An emotion.
The archon seemed to be smiling.
"Was your life really a broken life?"

#

The call for aid had reached long and far. It was only a matter of days before the stranger arrived, and when he was allowed into the home, the lord and lady of the house looked upon the wanderer.
“We called for the Masked Healer,” said the lord, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Who are you?”
“I am Jhast,” said the robed man. He took a step toward the bed, where a motionless child lay. A bandage stretched across the girl’s face, one large red blot over her eye.
“You are the healer?” the lord boomed. “But you are not—”
“I no longer wear a veil,” said Jhast.
They stared at him aghast, but no further words came to them. He was allowed near the child, and paused to observe the injury. He drew forth a hand, the fingertips aglow, and removed the bandages.
There was warmth in the room, though the candles seemed to dim. The others looked around in concern, but all their attention was soon focused on the bedside. There was a shimmering luminescence not unlike the light of a full moon in Jhast’s cupped hands.
Then, without warning, the light faded and the candles brightened to normal. The room remained silent.
The girl’s eyes opened. There were many familiar figures surrounding the bedside, but she did not know one man who stood nearby. A man in a simple robe with a peculiar face.
“You will be able see with both eyes from now on,” Jhast said. There was a twitch of motion beneath the scars in his cheek. His eyelids were pulled over at odd angles with long scars reaching across his face.
The girl smiled back.




Sunday, March 3, 2013

The Great Biker Caper

This my entry to the NYCMidnight 2013 Short Story Competition, Round 1. Here were my given criteria:

-Genre: Caper
-Subject: A Motorcycle Gang
-Character: A Telemarketer

Maximum words, 2,500. I managed to finish this at 2,492 (according to Microsoft Word count).

~~~

Brad wasn't getting very far at the insurance agency and he knew it, but times were tough. Times had been tough for six years since he landed the job as a keyer for data entry at MegaCareSurance. The world outside his cubicle seemed to fall and rise and fall again as the NASDAQ continued its roller coaster ride.

To reduce the mundanity every day, Brad maintained a habit of listening to the previous evening’s news each morning. Yesterday’s scoop was the same old media hype; another Right senator coming out of the closet, some corporation getting sued for malpractice, a gang of motorcycle enthusiasts being mass-tried and mass convicted. Brad had flipped off the radio, bored.

The shift began as usual at 5:59am. Whatever morning sunlight that would usually peek between blinders was masked out by gray clouds and stubborn sleet. Christ, it was April already, he thought to himself as he typed at his cubicle. Goddamn El Niño.

Breaktime could not have come a moment sooner. Brad rose from his creaky desk chair with a volcanic lunge and surveyed the sea of honeycomb cubicles around him. In all directions, other keyers rose from their seats about the room, their heads popping into view like an corporate-themed session of whack-a-mole.
He made his way to his locker where he kept his usual lunch, and after that Brad took his usual seat in the breakroom. Brad wasn't much of a socialite; in fact he preferred the company of computers, or at least people who didn’t work at the insurance firm. He sat alone at lunch, as usual.

Then entered the only person in the company whom Brad had any genuine respect. Outwardly, he was always courteous to his co-workers and superiors, but inwardly Brad harbored no love for his company or the people in it. In fact he hated everyone, that is, with the exception of Justin.

Justin was a telemarketer for MegaCareSurance, the kind that everyone believed had a special circle in hell waiting for them. But not only was Justin persistent, he was effective. He was the only person in MegaCareSurance history to hold an unbroken track record for successful calls. As for customer complaints, Justin never failed to calm the fury of an irate caller, and in some cases he had actually convinced them to pay more. Rumor had it that he’d been a big time operator from a rival company that MegaCareSurance had acquired during the corporation's more aggressive days. Other folks simply settled on the theory that the man sold his soul to the devil.

"Afternoon, Brad," said Justin after he had greeted the small crowd of lunchers when he entered the room.

"Justin," Brad replied. That was often the extent of their conversations, and then the extroverted Justin would mingle on towards someone else more important. But to Brad's surprise, the telemarketer sat across from him at his tiny table and took a bite of his BLT.

"I heard you're good with computers,” he said without preamble.

Brad's face warped into a smirk. If by good, you mean able to rewire his apartment complex's cabling to provide free, unlimited internet to himself and anyone else he chose halfway across the planet, then yes. If by good, you mean having established and maintained a series of websites dedicated solely to the minutiae of various pop stars' Twitter accounts, then yes.

"I'm pretty decent," he said instead.

"I heard better than decent. Ever get to see the Ingrid?" Brad froze as the color drained from his face, and it was Justin’s turn to smirk. Realization seemed to form in both their eyes, and Brad supposed that the telemarketer held such an expression whenever he had conned or cornered a customer into submission.

"We ought to hang out sometime," said Justin. "See you round, Brad. Have the rest of my lunch." And with that he left, taking only his sandwich. Brad would've said something but for the paralysis; a cold sweat had formed on his skin and once Justin was out of sight, he let out a breath, realizing he'd been holding it in without knowing.

Brad couldn't finish his lunch. Not now. Brad's mind raced and it was all he could do to keep from panicking and having his other coworkers notice his distress. He sat at his seat, the wheels turning in his mind like one of those French statue-people that so creeped him out. It wasn't until after everyone else had left the lunchroom that Brad saw the clock, and he swore. Without thinking, he grabbed Justin's lunch bag and raced back to his cubicle.

He continued the rest of his day diligently, keying insurance claims like the hundred other meerkats around him. Brad hated it here, surrounded by cubicles and the cacaphonic sea of fingers pressing buttons. If only he were off probation, he might've gotten something better. Especially with his credentials...

He absently kicked Justin's lunch bag, realizing for the first time something very unfoodlike within. The end of the day came, and by the time Brad had logged off, Justin was nowhere to be seen. There was a flurry of talking and people rising or taking their seats, as there always was between shifts. Punching out at 2:31pm, Brad left the building and walked to the parking lot, trying his hardest not to run.

Once in the car, he breathed a sigh, but he felt anything but safe. How could Justin of all people know about Ingrid? No one spoke about Ingrid outside the most secretive, encrypted forums. It was the codename of an experimental piece of software that only very enlightened techies would ever know about - Brad should know. He wrote the program.

It had been such a thrill; cracking the source code, reassembling it in his own image. But sadly his joy was short-lived, for he learned shortly afterward that the federal government did not share his amusement. A shame, Brad grimaced to himself. He was an artist, and true artists are never satisfied with their work.

An abrupt digital tone startled him. He looked to the bag, seeing it vibrate. Reaching inside, he produced an old clamshell cell phone. He waited another ring, then flipped it open.

"Took you long enough." The man's voice on the other side was deep with distoration.

"Who is this?" Brad demanded. "Is that you Justin? Tell me why I shouldn't hang up right now."

"One word: Ingrid."

He should've guessed. Brad had named that fatal software after his crush from the second grade. Now he hated the name.

"What do you want?" he said.

"It's not I want, Mr. YodaKiller, but what you want," said the voice. Brad was amazed, they even used his old hacker name. "The way we see it, you want out. But we require your expertise."

"Out of what?"

"You want out of this job, this town, this life. We can help." Brad saw no reason to be evasive. They knew his old alias as well as his magnum opus. What else could they know? Or do?

"I'm listening," he said.

"Perhaps you heard today's news," drawled the voice. "A gang of thirteen motorcyclists was mass-tried and mass-convicted. But my employer knows that one of them carries a natural antibody to Leukemia. My employer would see the man recovered for...medical research, before they are lost to us. You understand the stakes." Brad paused before answering.

"Where do I fit into this?"

#

"Ah, you made it!" called a familiar voice.

Brad had no difficulty finding the place, though nobody asked. Getting into the warehouse, on the other hand, wasn't easy. The windows were boarded up and most of the doors were bolted shut. The room was largely empty but for a few immaculately setup work tables and whiteboards, and sound carried far into the open space. Even as Brad had entered the warehouse, he heard the men's voices die away long after they had stopped speaking.

There were three other people, and one approached Brad with wide-stretched arms. It was Justin.

"Finally," said a man leaning against a wall with tattooed arms crossed. “We can get on with it.”

“Don’t mind Jackal,” Justin said to Brad as they approached. The one called Jackal, by any Joe's standards, was tall and thickly muscled, but compared to Brad he was enormous. “They haven’t been waiting long.”

“Psh, we’ve been waiting for hours,” said the other crank. Compared to Jackal, this man was short and compact, but radiated an air of confidence that was larger than he actually was. Brad recognized the type; this man was a cop - or at least used to be one. “Wolf, who’s the nerd?” It took a moment for Brad to realize he was speaking to Justin.

"Jackal, Coyote," said the telemarketer to the others before indicating Brad, "This is Dingo, the ‘nerd’ who makes this all possible." Brad whirled on him.

"Are you serious?" he said. The other two exchanged glances. “Dingo?”

"He's no Ozzie," said Jackal, laughing.

"Really-! Dingo, of all the choices-!"

"That's enough," said Justin, and he glared down at Brad with that same lupine gaze from back in the lunchroom. Brad still grimaced, but was compelled to keep it to himself.

"You each know why you're here," said Wolf, staring each of them in turn. Brad noticed that neither of the others could hold his gaze. "But none of you know why you're all here."

"We're here to drive something big," shrugged Jackal.

"We're here to see that no one sees you stealing it," sighed Coyote.

"And you want me to hack into someone's system?" asked Brad.

“You're all correct," said Wolf, smirking his famous smirk. "Tonight you learn the plan. Tomorrow we execute it. I need not remind you that walking away is out of the question." Brad remembered the unspoken threat that Wolf held over his head, and could only imagine what he could possibly have over these other men.

"The prisoners will be transported along this route," said Wolf. The men huddled around an immense map splayed over a table. "Once the vehicle is ours, we'll take them to the load zone, here. The operation should take less than 32 minutes."

"I can mask communications for up to 35," said Coyote. “Using this equipment, anyway.”

“And the gas’ll knock ‘em out in seconds, and last for at least an hour,” said Jackal.

"Doable. Questions so far?"

"Just one," said Brad. "Why now? What's the rush? Can't your ‘employer' work to spring them from prison somehow?" Jackal and Coyote exchanged unimpressed glances.

"Not that easy, Dingo. They'll have left the courthouse - after that, they're as good as lost because that's where the escort personnel are waiting. We'll lose any chance of catching them if they meet up with security."

“They’re wanted alive,” said Coyote. “Fat chance they’ll live if they make it to _that_ prison.”

“I knew the gang,” Jackal sniffed. “They’re tough, but not that tough.”

“We’re saving lives is all,” said Wolf, and again he smiled his hypnotizing grin.

#

Stopping the prison bus was not difficult; a simple blockade at a bridge was all it took to halt the vehicle. The moment the bus and its occupants were sedate, three black-clad men approached from behind the van, another from under the bridge.

“The gas certainly did the trick,” said Coyote.

"Input the video loop into the camera feeds," said Wolf, and Coyote worked his magic with his gadgets.

“Already done, chief. Like I said, I’m betting the brass’ll catch on in half an hour.”

The came upon the armored door of the bus, and Brad saw a computerized locking mechanism on the outside. It looked like something between a safelock and a credit card reader.

"All you, Dingo," Wolf said.

Brad carefully unscrewed the terminal and wired a handheld device to it. With a few dialed keys on a separate pad, the program booted, sifted and fell into place. A minute later the door of the van opened like a bank vault.

"That didn't look so hard," Jackal remarked.

"Try opening that without triggering the bus’s alarm or three GPS trackers, and we'll talk. Ingrid can open anything."

"We've got fifteen minutes," Coyote said, consulting his watch. "The scrambler-beacon will lead them to the van as a decoy. Let's go!” They quickly boarded the bus full of unconscious passengers and left the officers in their van. Wolf saw no need to kill the guards, and so they were left to awaken in utter confusion at the wheel of a strange vehicle.

With Jackal at the wheel, the team raced across the desert, following a path only Jackal could see. After a while, they could see the grounded chopper in the distance ahead. Coyote held a headset to his ear.

"The cops found the bus, boss," he said. "And they're coming after us. They see our dust trail."

"They're too late," Wolf grinned. And he was right. No sooner had they approached the giant cargo chopper than police cars in pursuit could be seen in the dusty horizon behind.

"Flying Fox, come in," said Coyote into his headset.

"This is Flying Fox,” buzzed the radio in his hand. “The Wolf Pack with you? Over.”

"Seriously?!" Brad exclaimed. "I could have been Fox! Flying Fox isn't even a dog, it's a goddamn bat--"

"Shut it, Dingo," Coyote shouted over the roar of the wind outside. Then into the mic he said, "Ready for pickup, over."

"Acknowledged,” crackled Flying Fox. “Welcome aboard, Wolf Pack.”

The bus sped over rocks and featureless desert, then slowed to crawl up the ramp and into the back of the chopper. The next minute Brad felt the lift of the bird, and the last thing he saw as the doors shut were the flashing lights of squad cars being left far, far behind.

#

“On behalf of PHeart Labs I thank you," said a suited man at his desk. Four black-clad men stood in a row before him, patiently. "You've done a great service in bringing those bikers to us."

“It was no trouble at all,” said the one called Wolf. The other dogs were still, as commanded.

“And on behalf of the company,” said the suited man, “I have been instructed to reward you. Truly, you did the job well.” He reached into a desk drawer.

Four quick, silenced gunshots, four fallen dogs. Blood soaked the tiled floor of the room in widening pools. The suited man rounded the desk and approached their bodies. The youngest cur, whose name the suited man did not care to remember, required a second shot, to the head. Then, the suited man left the room. Another man in a suit awaited him in the hallway.

"What became of the prisoners?" said the shooter, adjusting his tie.

"I'm told they were all killed."

"Pity. So there is no hope for a cure?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Excellent."

Saturday, February 23, 2013

New Blog in the works!


I'm starting a new blog, soon! You can find it at www.redamnesia.wordpress.com

Whereas this space will be an online storage for written works for "public viewage " (p.s., I'm too paranoid to share my novel on here until after its published), I'll be doing a more frequent, traditional posting type blog over on that other imaginary piece of web property. To be cheap and savvy with complicated keyboard shortcuts, here's what I plan to do over there.

So, what am I planning to have available for you to read here? I’m planning to reduce the whole “public journal” theme to a minimum, keeping my posts relevant and #positive# toward the realms of fiction and writing.

  • Book and short story reviews/opinions
  • Neat articles or ideas I’ve come across
  • Science or History documents that might be interesting to implement into a sci/fi or fantasy setting
  • Activity regarding contests, competitions, conferences/events I might be paying attention to, considering, or even (gasp!) shelling out the money to actually attend
  • Books I’m reading currently, and my impression of them
  • Maybe some books I’ve read in the past and why I read them (what kept me interested, etc.)
  • Links to stories of other authors I believe deserve more attention (or heck, if they simply ask for it)
  • Pieces of artwork that I find inspiring.
  • Pieces of music I find inspiring.
  • Games and movies (art + music!?) that I feel like sharing.
See you there!


Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Metal Thief - Rough Draft [CookBook Excerpt]

A chapter that will one day be compiled into the [working title] "Cookbook" anthology, a YA Fantasy adventure I've decided to attempt. 

Disclaimer: This is a very rough draft and I'm not very happy with it, but I figure I'll post it anyway for the self satisfaction gained from posting progress.


~~~

“Uncle Jojoba,” began the young man, “how long?”
Two men walked along an ancient road, civilization far behind and miles of road ahead. A glance to either side would reveal a sun-dappled forest floor, soft summer moss blanketing the rocks and tree trunks in dewdropped emerald.
The uncle and nephew walked along, the elder tall and thin, carrying naught but a long walking staff in one hand and an open book in the other. Behind him, the younger, shorter nephew had strapped to his shoulders an over-sized travel sack, and together they went along with the air of seasoned travelers.
“How long what, Ago?” was the uncle’s reply. His eyes did not leave the open text, a small thing with a fancy cover. “Since we saw someone or until we get there?”
“Both,” huffed Ago.
“Some time, and some time.”
"I heard from the innkeeper that folks don't come this way anymore.” Ago shrugged, a gesture smothered by the weight on his back. “They take the longer roads, what go around the wood."
"And?"
"…And that means there's a reason people avoid his road. You didn't tell me why you chose this route."
"I did, boy! This's the fastest way. The plains road will take twice as long, by cart no less."
Ago shook his head, knowing there to be some other reason. True it was they get to the city expediently, and their route indeed be the quickest by any map. But it was also true that traders and messengers seldom took to this ancient road. There were certainly well-trodden roads to Adelholme, this was not one of them.
They came upon a large broken boulder along the side of the road, and as Jojoba stopped to seat himself, Ago released a gasp of relief. The nephew untied his straps and dropped his pack to the ground, more roughly than he meant. The clang of pots rang from inside the burlap, and all manner of other things could be heard colliding with each other. Jojoba immediately stood back up.
"I've told you," he growled, "be careful with my things! And if you break any of your pots I'm not paying for them."
"My pans are sturdy," Ago said proudly. "And besides, there's nothing better than cast iron." His uncle waved away the retort.
"Sturdy or not, you make too much noise. Quicus knows what you'll scare away - or attract. Perhaps another hour or so, and we'll break camp."
"Wait what?" Ago stuttered. "We won't be out of the forest before tonight?"
"We might've been out already if you hadn't insisted on carrying so many pots and slowed us down."
"Really! Well if I recall, uncle, it wasn't I who bartered for the map. There were quite a few forks back there and any one of them might've been wrong."
Jojoba stretched, leaning backward. Ignoring his nephew, he began walking. Seeing this, Ago cursed under his breath, gathered the straps to his pack, and hurried after his uncle.

#

That night Ago was not eager to face the evening, but at least they ate well. Supper was prepared from the remains of the inn's morning meal, supplemented with a variety of spices for a new flavor and roast potatoes for bulk. Ago had selected his favorite frontier pan - Silver Beth, he called her - and she had performed marvelously. Even Jojoba, grizzled from the day's exertions, had quieted and now sat placidly, staring into the campfire.
"Question, uncle," said Ago. Jojoba nodded, deciding the time was right for him to reach for his pipe. "If you didn't want me making so much noise earlier today, why is it safe to make a fire?"
"The only creature that's ever attracted to fire and not terrified to death of it is man," replied Jojoba, stuffing his pipe with smokeweed. "And we're the only people in a three-day's journey in any direction."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Nothing worth hunting in these woods, so no hunters or trappers. Nothing worth catching, digging, cutting, gathering. No one comes here except to pass through."
Ago stirred his stew. He marveled at the concept of being so far from civilization. Certainly he'd been on the road for some time with his uncle, but this'd be the first of their travels that took them so far between settlements as to need to camp along the road.
“Why do you suppose folk don’t come this way, then?”
“Now that’s a question,” said Jojoba, taking a deep drag of his pipe. He softly, steadily exhaled the smoke from his lungs, a stream of gray. “I heard the words same as you. These woods have animals to be sure,” he looked over his shoulder with exaggerated suspicion. “As far as I can tell, people got suspicious after their wagons kept breaking.”
“That’s it?”
“Something like that.”
Ago brought a wooden ladle to his lips an slurped absently. The soup was good, but nothing special to his delicate taste. Many times he had made a similar concoction back home, using mostly the same ingredients. Jojoba didn't seem to care where Ago honed his talent; what seemed to matter was a decent meal at the end of the day. Besides, he had added the mushrooms they found earlier for extra flavor. They had a buttery, creamy taste.
His soles were aching, but as Ago sipped the last remaning broth, its warmth seemed to radiate from his stomach, relaxing him. The stresses of the road melted away, and he grew sleepy. The man and the boy exchanged no further words, and were soon asleep on their bedmats.

#

"Ago! Ago, wake up you lazy sod!"
The boy groaned and made to sit upright, but found his body unresponsive. His muscles felt like lead and the chill of the morning made his blood move like honey.
"What is it, uncle?" Ago yawned, his gesture answered with a curse.
"We've been robbed!" Ago's eyes snapped open, and he labored to turn his neck. He felt sore all over, and it took much effort to rub the sleep from his eyes.
Only white ash remained of the campfire, a thin wisp of smoke trailing upward like a gossamer ribbon. His pack had been demolished, splayed open like a carcass, the contents spilling out like the entrails of some giant animal. He saw the same had happened to Jojoba's personal baggage.
"What happened?" said Ago, rising to his feet. He found his balance slowly returning to him.
"Someone came while we slept and relieved us of our possessions," said Jojoba hotly. He walked in circles around the campsite, assessing the losses. "Or have you also been robbed of the meaning behind my words?”
They searched their things, finding many items missing, but many items remaining as well.
“Wait here and count everything,” Jojoba sighed. Puzzled, Ago gathered whatever remained while Jojoba began spiraling outward, searching for clues. It wasn't long before his path took him out of sight.
Their extra clothes were untouched, as were the wooden implements Ago used for his cooking. Jojoba's scrolls and pipes and cases were left behind as well, despite their obvious value. Even a lowly thief would see the value of a well-crafted stone knife, yet that too had been left behind in favor of every one of Ago’s others.
Jojoba returned to find Ago sorting their combined objects, making them into piles. He announced his presence with an inquiry, but when Ago did not hear, he came to his side and stared over his shoulder.
"What is this?" he asked again.
"Do you see what's missing?” Ago asked. Jojoba glanced upon each pile in turn.
"The metal," he said after a few breaths. "They've taken all the metal."
"And only the metal," said Ago. "By the gods, even my entire cutlery and set of pots. But see, they even left the wooden stackshelf I use to pack them. Near impossible to carry that many pots with just two hands."
"So there're multiple thieves," Jojoba growled. He laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. "How's your head, lad?"
"It's getting better."
"Solved that mystery too." Jojoba handed Ago something spongy and spotted, smelling of earth.
"These're the mushrooms from last night," said Ago.
"No," corrected Jojoba, "these were _meant_ to be the mushrooms from last night. Didn't I tell you to pick only the glowcaps? The ones you could see?"
"What's it matter?" said Ago as he rubbed his temples with one hand.
“Everything,” replied Jojoba through his teeth. “When these ones glow at night, it means they're ripe and safe to eat. But if you eat an immature one, it'll induce deep sleep!" Ago's mind slowly put the pieces together.
"How was I supposed to know the ones I couldn't see were poisonous?"
"Pagh! Listen to your uncle when he gives you instructions.” He reached for his pipe, which he thankful was made out of clay. “Nevertheless, we had best be on our way. The thief was gracious enough to leave us our map, so we can still leave the forest without incident if we move quickly."
"But they took my pots!" Ago exclaimed. "And besides, you would have us travel without money - without weapons even! - when there are thieves in the wood?"
“What choice do we have? Besides, we cannot waste our time looking for justice here.” Jojoba made a sweeping gesture, imploring that Ago regather their things in his pack. "Let us make haste. We'll be out of the wood yet."
Jojoba strode several steps before halting. He padded his robes, searching for something.
"Ago," he said, his voice serious. "Where is my libram?"
"It's not here," grumbled the nephew. "Copper-leaf inlays on the cover, remember? They must've seen it and taken the book, too."
Jojoba stood silent, his back still to Ago. He could not see his uncle's face, but somehow he knew what was coming.
"Pack everything and conceal it," he said in a low, even tone. "We're going after the thieves."
#
They spent hours searching for footprints, or any sign of the passing of bodies. Yet for all their effort, Jojoba and Ago could not find so much as a broken twig. Frustrated and determined, Jojoba decided simply to strike out through the brush - it mattered not what direction - and Ago was forced to follow as best he could.
Glancing toward the sun, Ago figured they were heading south, though as far he could tell that meant nothing. Eastward lay the great city, and north-west would take them along the path on which they had come. North and south, however, meant largely unmapped wilderness, but that did not stop the willful Jojoba.
"It doesn't make any sense," his uncle was murmuring as they went. "Coins and tools I understand, but everything made of copper and iron? What bandit could possibly be so selective as to take the very buttons from my finest trousers, only to leave the cloth?"
Ago shrugged, and the gesture nearly prevented him dodging a swinging branch. Despite their lack of apparent progress, Ago was glad at least that they were moving. What remained of their possessions had been wrapped tightly in a spare travel blanket, then suspended in a bundle among some trees safely out of sight of the road. But those items were all replaceable, and Jojoba had made it clear that even their travel cash in gold and silver was not a huge loss. There was always more money to be found in world.
But what could not be replaced were the notes and diary entries that Jojoba had kept within his little book.
"You don't suppose it was oblings what took our things?" Ago suggested. Jojoba snorted.
"Too small, too weak, and we're too far north. A whole band of them might be enough to carry one of your pots but they're deathly allergic to iron."
"Why's that?" Asked the nephew, gingerly stepping over a rotted log. The moss slipped off like a snake skin as he placed his hands on it for balance.
"Iron's the antithesis of magic, boy, and oblings are nothing if they aren't magical in nature. No, it wasn't oblings."
"That'd at least explain the lack of prints." Jojoba stopped abruptly, and Ago bumped into his back. He was about to say something when his uncle clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Listen!" he hissed, staring ahead intently. Ago's eyes followed his gaze ahead, toward a cluster of bushes that managed to take root beneath the roof of trees.
A moment passed, and Ago heard nothing. Then he saw movement among the leaves, and heard a sound like an ear of corn slowly being husked. The stress of fibers whined, followed by the snap of recoiling branches. Something was ahead, eating. And it was big.
Ago saw movement, and together he and his uncle lowered themselves to the ground. The bushes rustled, and a peculiar foot was placed on the mossy earth ahead. A leg, almost like the limb of a tree, followed and after a breathless moment, something vaguely shaped like a deer stepped into view.
The thing looked about, alert. Tall ears stretched above its angular head, and a set of unsettling, forward-facing yellow eyes darted about the forest. Ago guessed its shoulder was about as tall as his waist, putting the animal's face nearly level with his own. Around it there hovered a marble sized orb, glistening - no, glowing, Ago realized - even in the light of day. He knew the signature signs of a magical creature when he saw one.
"That's a bloomelk," Jojoba said, some excitement in his hushed words. "Didn't know they were in this wood!"
Ago knew that his uncle was thoroughly regretting the loss of his libram now more than ever. He had released his grip and instead clasped his hands together anxiously, while Ago simply stared. It wasn't long before the bloomelk's eyes found them.
Ago’s heart froze, and he saw the creature's namesake. Along it's spine he could see a row of what looked like bare roots, and atop its head sat a strange, bulb-shaped crest. What Ago had thought to be green, mossy fur might have in fact been soft-looking scales, but the bloomelk ruffled itself. The scales folded upward, like the plumage of an offended parrot.
"They're petals!" Ago said to himself. Jojoba barely heard him, but the bloomelk's wide ears caught his voice easily. The creature stamped a emerald leg in challenge, advancing on them.
"When it comes," Jojoba said, "hold your ground." Ago chanced a glance at his uncle.
"What do you mean when--"
Their was the sound of strong footfalls on mossy ground, and the bloomelk charged. Ago started, but his uncle restrained him, and the next few seconds passed in fright as the bloomelk bound across the clearing in half a breath.
Ago nearly squealed, but just before it hit them, the creature stopped, just out of arm's reach. There it stood for a moment, staring down on the breathless uncle and nephew, a sweet, overpowering scent of mixed flowers radiating from it. They could see the fine details of the creature's body; how it's petal-hide covered nearly everything like a plated lizard's skin; how an intricate lattice of vines, or perhaps veins, twisted and crossed along its underside and face. Yet despite the details, the bloomelk looked very much like a deer, not unlike the ones Ago'd seen back home. In fact it wasn't strange to see plants taking root in the fur of wild animals - but to see one entirely covered in petals and vines?
Most striking of all, however, were its eyes. Golden orbs with small black pupils - they were almost human. For a moment Ago felt as though the bloomelk were staring at something beyond himself. Something Ago couldn't see. Then, before he could stop himself, Ago belched.
The bloomelk held its ground, but a moment later it stepped away. Having seemingly having lost interest, the beast strutted it's way out the other side of the clearing. Ago released his breath, and for the next few breaths he heard only his own heartbeat. Jojoba calmly stood up, dusting himself off, and sniffed.
“Smells like you had too many eggs last night,” he commented. Ago shifted his weight.
"How-" Ago panted, "How did you know-"
"That it would stop? That was no buck, lad. Probably a young one, exploring new territory. What we saw was a false charge. You see such things often with phytocervitae like that."
"Phyto-servi...what?"
"Plant deer," Jojoba explained. He left their spot to continue on. Ago struggled to rise and catch up to his uncle.
"That... thing was staring at us like a mantis eyeballs a fly," he said, shuddering. Jojoba laughed.
"It wouldn't have hurt us unless we ran. They're quite polite animals if you know when not to stand at the wrong time."
"Polite..." Ago repeated mockingly. He could never quite tell when his uncle was serious. "You've seen plant deer before?"
"A few, yes, but none in that early in its cycle. How I would have liked to pen a sketch!" They continued through the forest, careful to mind hidden rocks at their feet and dipping to avoid low-hanging branches.
"Cycle? Like a sprouting plant?" Ago asked.
"Precisely. You know how bloomelks come to be, don't you?"
"Old Gran said they were what happened to old deer when they grew too old and let too many plants grow on them. They'd go off into the forest, alone, and sleep at the foot of a great tree. She said the seeds of ancient trees would grow on its fur, merging with the deer's spirit." Jojoba chuckled, and stopped to turn and face the lad. His mood had noticeable improved despite the loss of his libram.
"As good a story as any I've heard," he said. "Probably true too, at least partially. We'll find that out too someday, after we get my book back." It was then that Ago realized he had lost his sense of direction. Following his uncle through the forest for so long had allowed his thoughts to wander, and he hadn't been paying attention to their path.
"Jojoba," said Ago, "are we lost?"
"Of course not."
"It'll get dark soon, uncle. We'd better head back to the road. Forget the pots - I'll learn to cook with skillets and spits--"
"Nonsense," Jojoba said, smiling. "Don't look at your feet, whatever you do." Ago eyes, of course, immediately dropped to the ground. A silvery glint caught his eye. He knelt to pick up the object, and Jojoba let himself laugh again.
"It's one of my spoons," said Ago, his expression brightening. "That must mean--"
"Indeed. We're on the bugger's trail."
"You said yourself you didn't know which way they went," Ago muttered, pocketing the utensil. Jojoba shrugged.
"This way," he said instead, and he pointed in the direction that they were more or less already headed. This was not the first time that Ago had followed his uncle, confident that the adult knew what he was doing, only to reveal that they had trusted his blind luck. Nor was it the first time such a method had somehow proven true. "Call it a hunch," Jojoba had once said, tapping one side of his nose and winking.

#

When first Ago caught a draft of something strange on the wind, he had alerted his uncle, who sniffed.
"Sulfur," was the confident reply, though the uncle refrained from mentioning that Ago had smelled it first.
"I would've said rotten eggs," said Ago. Jojoba looked at his nephew, who shrugged, and he shook his head.
The air they breathed felt heavier, thicker. A soft blanket of mist covered the ground about ankle height, and this somehow spurred Jojoba on further. Ago could only puzzle and follow, his attention drawn elsewhere. They had descended into a small valley, thick with foliage, and already Ago noticed peculiar bird calls. It was as though they had stepped into an entirely different ecosystem, and when he mentioned this his uncle smiled.
"That's because we have, Ago," he said as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The further downhill they went, the hotter it got, and the more bizarre the plants and animal calls seemed. "This is what the university calls a 'pocket jungle.' Special conditions needed to form one, and," he added, narrowing his eyes, "special types of life, with a very specific diet."
"And by special and specific," said Ago, loosing his foot from a grasping vine, "do you mean dangerous?" He too was sweating from the steamy heat. Dressed in two layers of clothes, well suited for chilly end of summer, he found the shift unnerving.
"Oh most assuredly," answered Jojoba. "Can't say what for certain, though. The scholars of Saint Delm's University didn't have much on these basins, except how they're formed. They're rare, you see, and temporary. We're lucky to be here, really. Another year and this place’d likely be gone."
"We'll be lucky if we get out," Ago muttered under his breath. Twice he nearly slipped on the steamy earth downhill, but instead he said, "Why are we here, uncle?"
"Did you bring your stone knife, like I asked you?"
"The flint?" Ago flustered. "O-oh yes, of course." He felt the implement in his pocket.
"Good. That's all we'll need." Confused, Ago pressed him.
"That doesn't answer anything," he said.
"We'll have to get to the shallowest depression of the basin," said Jojoba. "There we'll find our things. What's left of them anyway. I'm sure of it."
"How do you know that?"
"Eh, I read about it in a book,” Jojoba shrugged.
Water droplets condensing under his chin, Ago was about to probe his taciturn uncle when he noticed another thorny plant clinging to his sleeve. He reached to irritably pry it from the cloth, and he heard yet another strange bird call. He glanced behind him.
Through a break in the trees, Ago could see up the hill they had descended. Above and still in sight, there lay temperate forest only just holding to the green of summer, though some bore the tinges of autumn change. Around him, broad leafed tropical plants dripped with condensation and sweet nectars oozed from vibrant flowers. Large insects the likes of which one would never see in a temperate forest buzzed about. It wasn't just another ecosystem in this valley; it was a whole other season.
And still the air grew ever steamier. Ago thought he could hardly breathe, and he loosened the folds of his travel robe about the neck. Their path was on a constant decline, and the only thing Ago could think about besides the heat was how arduous the trip back would be.
He blinked. For a moment he thought he saw something - a face perhaps, in the distance and amidst the trees. A pair of yellow orbs behind a veil of leaves...
Ago heard his uncle exclaim a word of triumph. Jojoba was ahead and just out of sight. When Ago turned back to look where he had been staring, he saw only foliage.
Ago was pushing his way through a wall of leaves to find him when he found himself tripping into a clearing. He managed to catch himself, however, and bring himself to a stand.
Beneath Ago's feet lay moist, gray earth, bare and bereft of plants. The clearing stretched wide, revealing the landscape in all its richness, and even the ankle-high mist stopped abruptly at the plant line. Ahead, Ago could see a fissure in the ground, behind a larger boulder, and he looked to Jojoba with a puzzled expression.
"The heart of the basin," said the uncle. "Keep away from those vents. It's not quite volcanic around here but it's close. Hold your breath if you smell something funny."
Ago was going to say that he'd smelled nothing but rotten eggs since they passed into the pocket-jungle, but thought better of it. Together they strode forth, Jojoba boldly and Ago timidly. The air was suddenly dry here, though still quite hot.
He could see the distortion of passing heat as it escaped from underground, and all at once Ago felt very uneasy. Setting foot upon what looked like burning earth unsettled him, the warmth moving easily up through his sandals. Tiny embers rose from the vents as he gingerly weighed his steps across, and besides the heat, there was ever present the smell of sulfur.
Along the edge of the fissure their clung a multitude of peculiar vines the color of embers. The tendrils stretched out from inside the crack like dozens of little fingers, and as they approached, Jojoba seemed more and more interested. When they neared the edge of the fissure, Ago peered down into it. He cocked his head to the side.
"Giant artichokes?" he ventured. As he asked, he felt a pang of hunger, but Jojoba snorted.
"Hardly. Those're emberpods. See the roots? If you follow them they all lead down even deeper. This is no seed that was carried on the winds. No, it sprouted from below."
"From below, eh? Looks like it caused the fissure."
"Most likely," said Jojoba. "They're buds, you see. Caused all this around us - sapped all the nutrients from the ground and..."
"Uncle," said Ago pointedly, "what does this have to do with our missing things?" He glanced through the opening in the canopy to the sky, noting it's darkening. Normally it'd be about supper time.
"Everything," said Jojoba, gesturing around them for emphasis. "This emberpod colony stole our tools."
Ago's brow wrinkled and he craned his neck to look down at the bud again. He stared for a few seconds, looked back at his uncle, and then back at the pods.
"You're barking," said Ago.
"Give me the spoon," said the uncle without skipping a beat. Ago did so, and the moment he brought the utensil out of his pocket and into the smelly air, the vines at his feet stirred.
Jojoba held the spoon aloft, then dangled it over the fissure. He held it there for a moment, as if to entice the plant as a man might bait a dog with a treat. Ago could only stare, and as the ember pod shook, he realized that that was exactly what Jojoba was doing.
After a moment the immense leaves of the tightly closed bud of the artichoke-like pod splayed open, revealing the inside of what could only be a wide mouth. It was like no other mouth Ago had seen, and as the petals parted, both he and Jojoba were bathed in a thick sulfur-smelling cloud.
Jojoba coughed and dropped the spoon, and down it went into the plant's maw. Upon contact with whatever sensory organs it possessed, for Ago saw no tongue or eyes, the 'flower' snapped shut like a trap. Ago got the distinct impression that the thing was content.
"Metal-eating plants," said Jojoba, immensely pleased with himself. "These is the mastermind behind our pilfering!"
Ago was more confused than ever. Seeing the thing snap around a metallic object dropped into its mouth he could understand, and believe. But a plant that was responsible for stealing something from miles away...
"This doesn't make any sense," said the nephew.
"Indeed, still some part of the puzzle missing. No matter!" Jojoba placed a hand on the edge of the fissure, and prepared to descend. "This way dear nephew!"
"What are you doing?"
"Getting our things, if they haven't been digested yet. Hurry up!" He dropped down, and Ago struggled to follow.
It was like stepping into a hot spring. Ago was sure that the emberpod was responsible for the heat, and seeing the trickle of a natural spring nearby he surmised the origin of the steam. He figured that the strange plant had roots stretched out into the earth around them, as well. As he lowered himself to the crumbling earth inside the fissure, Ago could not help but marvel for a moment at the structure of plant. From above, he would have seen nothing more than a viney artichoke as big as a sheep. But down here, he could appreciate it in all its strangeness up close.
Dozens of thick petals, a rich rust color with bright orange edges, lined the sides of the pod. Thick corded vines were everywhere, thickest at its base spreading throughout the inside of the fissure. It rather looked as though the roots and vines had cracked and slowly pried the earth open. Ago shuddered, thinking of the strength behind those patient, creeping vines.
Jojoba drew close to the nearest pod and tapped it with his walking staff. He seemed to not be afraid, so neither did Ago, and he too approached the nearest bud to stand by his uncle.
"Now the knife, if you please," said Jojoba. Obediently, Ago produced the small sharp pieces of rock from his sleeve. Jojoba gripped a shard as long as his index finger and selected a root. Then, with the ease at which a sculptor might chip at a hunk of sandstone, Jojoba began to cut.
Ago glanced over his shoulder, suddenly aware of a feeling as though he were being watched. There was nothing else in fissure save the other pods.
The snap of a taut vine giving under pressure brought back Ago's attention, and Jojoba began on another vine. Then another, and another. After he had sheared away a handful of roots, Jojoba reached beneath the pod for something Ago could not see. He made a quick jerk with his piece of flint, and Ago thought he heard a whining groan. From the plant.
"Ah-ha!" Jojoba said, and began to pull. His hand emerged, covered in a sickeningly stringy ooze the color of mashed peas, and at the sight of it Ago suppressed the urge to wretch.
Without warning, Jojoba thrust a handful of the stuff onto Ago's chest, forcing him to hold it. Ago stepped away, disgusted, and looked at what he was holding. His eyes brightened.
"This's my favorite ladle!" He exclaimed. Jojoba grunted approvingly, and reached to relieve the emberpod of whatever else he could find. Meanwhile, Ago inspected the soup spoon, and to his dismay it was somehow diminished and felt brittle. Jojoba saw his expression as he rolled up his sleeve and buried his arm up to the shoulder.
"Metal-eating plants," Jojoba grunted.
"Doesn't it hurt?" Ago asked.
"I imagine the 'pod isn't enjoying itself. Me? No, dear boy. Emberpod's digestive juices are for breaking down minerals. Seems he sucked on your stirrer there for a bit. My skin though - fine. No metal, no damage."
After some time, quite an array of things were extracted, some familiar and some things left unrecognizable. By the time Jojoba had nearly finished, Ago stood holding a multitude of forks, a stew pot, a spearhead, and half a dozen other scarcily identifiable items. Most of them were dented, twisted or otherwise tarnished - signs of recent digestion. Apparently the copper items were the most easily consumed, for few remained and those that did were rendered useless. Discarded at their feet lay many bits of hard globules of metal, lumps of melted copper, iron and even some gold.
But all of it was useless to Jojoba. To Ago’s great joy, however, Silver Beth rested in his grip. Cast-iron seemed largely unaffected by a night in the bowels of an emberpod - he was grateful for that much and was ready to go. With no hint of his libram, however, Jojoba grew anxious.
He emberpod itself was left mangled and bleeding it's foul-smelling juices. Dismayed, Jojoba readied the flint and walked towards another pod.
"Uncle Jojoba," Ago said, "We don't have time."
"We'll be here all night if we must," growled the older man. "We're not going anywhere until we find my book. If you're bored, help me gut them or hold your tongue."
Ago couldn't help feeling anxious. With every nervous glance to the sky, their only clock, he saw daylight fading. The bleak and likely unsafe journey back to the road looked more and more hazardous. After all, it wasn't long ago they happened upon an animal the likes of which Jojoba didn't know roamed these wilds. What else was out there, traveling by night and in search of warm flesh, that his uncle also did not know about?
Two more pods and an hour later, Jojoba exclaimed his relief. There were perhaps four more pods left in the fissure, and Ago did not wish to see his uncle open every single one. He rose from where he had been sitting, cleaning the implements that hadn't been totally destroyed, and stepped over to join his uncle.
"At last," said Jojoba, shaking off a small object as wide as his hand. Ago recognized it immediately, having seen his uncle use it often. Upon inspection, it was noticed that all of the copper-inlays had been eaten away, leaving small fossil-like depressions in the wooden hardcover. The pages were soaked in juices and some of the ink wad smudged, but Jojoba seemed pleased. By the time he had found it, Ago had recovered several more of his pots, and after wiping everything off he had piled them into the travel sack. Jojoba caught Ago's plaintive stare in the shadow of the fissure.
"Yes, we're going now, Ago."
And not a moment too soon. With some effort they managed to extricate themselves from the pit and back to level ground. It was twilight, and they were eager to leave the steam and heat behind.
There was a sound that Ago hadn't heard before. He looked to his uncle, who heard it as well.
"Wings?" Jojoba wondered.
"Sounds almost like bees," said Ago. The sound rose, filling the air. The half-dark of twilight prevented acute vision, but the beating of a hundred tiny wings came from all sides. After a moment's pause, Jojoba motioned that they go, hastily.
A tiny fluttering thing appeared before them. The colors were hard to discern but its shape was unmistakeable; several pairs of arms and legs, a large head and a set of fast, insect wings told Jojoba everything he needed to know.
"A flixbug?" said Ago, asking the little creature as much as anyone else.
But cat-sized insect showed no interest in questions. In one pair of claws it held a fork much as a soldier might wield a spear, and it regarded Ago with disdain. Behind it, and all around them, dozens of other irate flixbugs appeared, each of them holding something shiny. Some of them worked together to keep aloft a heavier object, and Ago realized they were all carrying bits metal. They must have traveled far and wide to carry such things back here; among the items Ago recognized a horseshoe, some carptenter’s hammer, and a wagon wheel hubcap.
"Servants," said Jojoba grimly. He made to pocket his libram within a vest pocket of his robe. "So that's how the plants got hold of it all. Ease down your bag, Ago. Give them back their metals."
"What?"
"Just do it, Ago! Put down the stuff and hopefully they'll be distracted enough for us to run past them."
"Uncle, there're dozens of them." The flixbugs hovered and chattered to one another, their tiny voices like the chirping of locusts. As Ago slowly lowered the bag, the flixbugs encircled them. Several of them went toward the fissure with their recently acquired treasures, and upon reaching, squealed in outrage.
"I think you angered them," said Jojoba.
"Me?" Ago exclaimed, but before he could catch himself, it was too late, for the ring of his voice was the final trigger. With high-pitched warcries, the flixbugs dropped their burdens and descended upon them.
One or two flixbugs, when compared to any man, would be no more of a threat than an ornery chicken. A swarm, however, was quite a different matter, and Ago learned this first hand. One by one they zipped at him, and the first handful he was able to swat aside. Then they came in twos, then threes, biting with tiny jaws and grabbing with tiny hooked fingers. Ago shouted in pain as one managed to bite through his robes and pierce skin of his shoulder. With a ringing clang, he swiped the assailant to the ground using one of his long-handled cooking pans.
Jojoba too was being assailed, half a dozen flixbugs taking a grip on his sleeves and pulling in different directions.
They were being dragged, the hum of many little wings beating furiously. To Ago's horror, he realized they were being pulled back toward the fissure. He wondered if the flixbugs believed the short fall would kill them - then he remembered the pods.
"Jojoba!" Ago shouted, the flixbugs paying him no mind. His uncle could barely move, but somehow heard him above the din. "Iron!" Ago shouted, "in our blood!" It was then that Jojoba renewed his struggle, his eyes widening with understanding.
Sure enough, along the edge of the fissure, Ago caught a glimpse of moving shapes below. flixbugs swarmed among the pods, wailing at the broken ones and coaxing those that were unharmed. At whatever chittering words they spoke, the pods opened, and Ago became aware only of huge mouths yawning below them.
But then, Ago became aware of another thing. Across the gap he could see the tree line, a pair of fireflies hovering off. They approached even as he dangled over, and then, just before he lost his balance, he recognized the shape of a deer ahead.
No, he corrected himself, a bloomelk, the color of autumn fires.
The deerlike animal made its way toward him at a dashing speed, and in a single graceful leap it cleared the fissure. Ago could not tell if it was chance or design, but as the bloomelk whished past him, his sleeve caught on a prong of its gnarled, leafy antlers. Before he even knew what was happening, Ago was yanked from the edge to safety.
More bloomelks flew past him, green and mossy, dashing so quickly that he could only see emerald blurs. As they went, flixbugs were scattered, slashed from the air, trampled into the earth.
Many others made attempts to stand against the bloomelks, but many more buzzed away. Even the ones that held fast to Jojoba had let loose their grips to flee.
It was a scene to behold. Though Ago had seen many strange things on his travels with his uncle, he had scarcely seen anything like this. Green deer, bucking and thrashing and rearing, raking the air with their antlers and kicking with pointed hooves. There were perhaps hundreds of flixbugs, for Ago saw many new ones arrive - that or those who fled regained their courage circled back.
Ago and Jojoba did not go entirely ignored. While his uncle ducked low, making himself largely unnoticed by either side of the battle, Ago remained on his feet, Silver Beth at the ready. Any flixbug that hovered too close was thwacked to the ground with a satisfying clang. Some flew past him toward the elks, some fled the elks past, and others came straight toward him. None who neared Ago escaped the righteous crunch of his trusty convex cast iron.
Then, with a series of new high pitched screeches, the flixbugs sounded off a full retreat. The bloomelks, who had shown no obvious plan of strategy, all at once gathered. There were perhaps fourteen in all - Ago could not quite count as some had left to pursue the flixbugs. Jojoba rose to his feet as the bloomelk party approached, and dusted himself off.
It was at this time that Ago expected his uncle to put forth a word of caution or advice. No such words came, and Ago came to realize that Jojoba was as lost as himself. They edged closer to each other, Ago gripping Silver Beth closely.
One among the bloomelks, rusty red and taller than them both, approached as the others remained behind. It halted at arm's length, and stood it's ground, staring. Both of it's yellow, forward-facing eyes seemed to pierce through the travelers, seeing things that Ago could not. Then Jojoba took a step forward.
The bloomelk did not move, but instead fixed its eyes on Jojoba. For a moment the stillness of the clearing rang with tense silence, and Ago could hardly believe his uncle had gotten within arm’s reach.
The creature slowly turned its head toward the fissure, its eyes flicking briefly to it, then back. The other elks moved, as a crowd, in that direction.
"Ago," said Jojoba, not looking away. "Go back to the fissure and cut the life roots of the last pods." Ago hesitated.
"You want me to go back in that hole?"
"Now, Ago," said Jojoba, his tone serious. Ago noted the intense stare that his uncle maintained with the bloomelk and knew something had passed between them.
"And leave you alone with...with them? Are you certain?"
"Just do it, Ago. I will be fine."
None too eager to remain near the unsettling petal-deer, Ago left to climb over the ledge.
He found that the emberpods had retracted slightly, and had closed their mouths. They were not the least bit dangerous in this state, as Ago had seen earlier, so using a recovered steak knife he selected the thickest looking roots and began to cut.
Many pairs of eyes hung over the edge above, golden glowing witnesses to his deed. Ago worked nervously, acutely aware that the small army of 'elks took much interest in what he was doing. Ago resolved to focus on the roots and ignore the inquisitive, judging stares.
When the last of the 'pods shuddered and began to shrivel, Ago began his climb back up. It was noticeably more difficult escaping the fissure without Jojoba's help, but after some struggle he made it out.
Jojoba was alone when Ago reached him. The bloomelks had gone, all but one. A rusty red, not unlike the individual they had witnessed earlier that day. It was walking away.
By the time Ago reached his uncle, the creature had reached the edge of the clearing. It paused, casting a final, meaningful glare at Jojoba, who dipped his head in a nod. Then, the red elk bound into the foliage and was gone.
Ago was wiping his hands on his pants, knowing full well that his clothes were already profusely dirty. He suddenly realized that the area had gotten cooler, and the sulfur smell was lifting. He looked to his uncle for answers.
"The bloomelks were repelled by the emberpods," said Jojoba, smiling. "This was their home, but they could do nothing. Apparently we did them a little favor when we pulled those weeds."
Ago was too tired and too hungry to ask any more questions. When it was time that they go, there were no words spoken, and they set off in the direction they had come. As he was often accustomed to doing, Ago simply resolved to follow his uncle - more than ever he did not know the way.
Yet somehow, Ago was possessed by the feeling that no animal in this forest would harm them.

#

Morning light called for morning fair. The early hours had come with the brisk chill of fall, made all the more noticeable having left the steam of the jungle far behind. Having gathered their things, Ago and Jojoba had resolved to spend the remainder of their energy continuing the march.
"After all," Jojoba had said, "we haven't much further to go. We'll take up lodgings at the first inn we see."
Ago nodded, his eyes reddened from the night. The travelers hadn't stopped to rest, let alone sleep, and though the load on his shoulders was somewhat lessened, Ago could think only of his body's base needs. There were no fried vegetables to be had, a breakfast favorite. His mood deepened as he went over the list of foods that he did not have, and the fact that Jojoba showed no signs of hunger only irritated him further.
Resigned to his fate as a starving mule to whom Jojoba shared a faint blood tie, Ago huffed his annoyance. Then his hand fell on a small sack at his side, filled with something - ah, he remembered. The emberpods.
Loosening the tie string, Ago extracted a long, stringy strip of gelatinous plant fiber, cut from the roots. Ago eyeballed the flesh in the sunlight. As far as he could tell, it did not seem toxic, though it exuded a coppery smell.
"It was fascinating, wasn't it?" Said Jojoba, a stride ahead of Ago. "That pocket jungle started to cool the moment you came back out of that fissure. Don't know exactly how they do it, but I'd say that's proof enough that there's a connection.
"And the bloomelks!" he exclaimed, "What luck! Did you see? There must have been almost a score of them. You'd be fortunate to see that many in a century! Not to mention their leader . . . he had such a handsome voice." He turned to face Ago. "The least you could do is show a bit of . . . what is that?"
Ago stared back, mid-chew. He wore the expression of child caught with his hands in a pastry box.
"Is that what I think it is?" Ago made to reply, but his words were muffled. Suddenly Jojoba began to smile. "Enjoying that, are you?" Ago nodded.
"It tathtes lak blooblerry on a thilva thpoon," said the nephew. Jojoba did not reply, he only smiled. A warm, knowing smile that nearly hid his eyes and showed no teeth. Ago never saw such a look before, and when he watched Jojoba turn back around, he was worried.
Too worried to notice his skin was turning green.
"We'll hit an artery soon," said Jojoba. "Probabaly'll see some other travelers when we do. We'll get directions from them."
"Finally," said Ago as he scratched his jade colored nose, oblivious. "Someplace where people won’t stare at me like those creepy plant deer."