

The Almost Champion (volume one of the series The Republic of Selegania).

This book is a work of fiction. All names and places are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2014 by Daniel Lawlis

All rights reserved.

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Foreword:

This series, The Republic of Selegania, begins chronologically immediately where the Dachwald series ended. Due to the introduction of numerous new characters and geographic territories and a plot almost entirely unrelated to that of the Dachwald series, it has been organized as a separate series. This series can be read and adequately understood without having read the Dachwald series, although the reader of the Dachwald series will likely have a deeper understanding of the plot and characters, due to a small number of the characters in The Republic of Selegania having been present, and significant, in the Dachwald series.

The Almost Champion

Chapter 1

"Get that crap head!!"

It was Big Timmy. Timmy may have been just five feet tall, but that was plenty tall enough if your name was Little Ed, had four feet between your head and the ground, and weighed about sixty-five pounds. Little Ed preferred "Edward" or "Eddie," but Big Timmy didn't usually ask his special friends like Ed what they preferred to be called. "Special friend" was the clever term Tim used whenever Mrs. Reichart, their fourth grade teacher, told Tim to leave Eddie alone (Ed liked Mrs. Reichart just fine, since she called him by his second-favorite name, "Eddie"): "Sorry, Mrs. Reichart, just talking to my special friend here," Tim would say with a snide smile on his face. And although Ed had been told he wasn't the brightest kid in the world ("stupid little idiot" was the term Big Timmy used), he knew full well Tim didn't think of him as a friend. In fact, it was one of the few things in Ed's dreamy world he was fully certain of.

Tim's real friends were Hairy Larry (Larry took pride in the fact that he had the longest hair in the fourth grade, which he achieved by growing it a full three inches, something most of the parents cut short at two, as long hair was seen as a sign of troublemaking, and in Larry, they found adequate proof), Snobby Bobby (his daddy was rich . . . at least by Ringsetter standards), and Brian. Plain old Brian. Ed actually wished Brian had a nickname because he was meaner than Larry and Bobby put together, and Ed wasn't sure if this was his true nature or if he was just trying to earn a nickname, but he suspected it was probably some combination of the two.

Ed knew he was in for it today, which was why he had taken off running as soon as Mrs. Reichart rang that pretty bell she always kept on her desk to let them know they could go home. Ed had been mostly in a daze that afternoon, dreaming about wizards, magic, and plans for his future, but Timmy, Larry, Bobby, and Brian saw what they always saw—a little idiot too stupid to think about anything. He had in fact gotten scolded a couple times by Mrs. Reichart when she did one of her famous walks around the class (he called them privately "her tours") and saw, instead of long division, long magical staffs and longer wizard hats.

He could have gotten lines for something like that, but she had possibly noticed the black eye he was wearing and taken pity on him. She had told him many times, "If you ever need to talk, Eddie, I'm here," and a couple times she had forced him to stay after class to talk about the decoration he too often wore on his face when coming to school. Mrs. Reichart was a nice person. Of that, he was sure. But he didn't dare talk to her about Our Business.

That was what Dad called it when he got drunker than a skunk and slapped Mommy nearly senseless. He had previously been safe from Our Business, but he had gotten a slap last night. All prior facial artwork had been compliments of Big Timmy and the gang, but he would no sooner tell Mrs. Reichart that than he would about Our Business. "Keeping your mouth shut is a virtue!" his dad had often told him, and although he wasn't quite sure what a "virtue" was, Dad's tone when he said it made it sound like something that could keep him out of trouble.

Our Business didn't happen too often—only about every other week. Ed would usually hide in his Spot. His Spot was a small room behind his closet. He could sneak back there through a hole Dad had left one night after his work boot hit the wall. Ed noticed that, when Dad kicked something, he didn't actually kick anything; instead his boot hit something. And he never really slapped Mommy either. "Mom gets in the way," Dad would say.

Ed was doubtful, but to be fair, he didn't usually stick around to watch once Dad started moving his hands around a lot. First, Dad yelled. Then, he moved his hands a lot. Then things started to fly. Plates, books—small things. Sometimes, after that, Dad just went to sleep. Once things were quiet for an hour or so, Ed would come out from his Spot. He usually smelled a lot of beer and would see Dad sleeping on the couch, and he would hear Mommy in her room crying.

But sometimes Dad didn't fall asleep, and on those nights it was best not to leave the Spot. The Spot wasn't so bad really. He could usually see well enough to draw in there because a small crack on the side of the house let either sunlight or moonlight through. He liked to draw wizards mostly, and sometimes, he pretended his wizards spoke to him. But he had to talk to them real quiet because he didn't want anyone finding out about the Spot. He never knew when he might really need it.

No one had ever found him though. That was part of the reason he knew it was a special place, and he imagined that the wizards he drew kept Dad from finding him. Lately, he had been seeing the wizards a lot, even when he wasn't in the Spot. That was the reason for his raccoon eye. Dad had started talking loud last night and had started to move his hands around. Normally, he would have been long gone by this stage. But it wasn't until he saw Dad's palm slap Mommy's head a couple times that the wizards disappeared and he realized it was time to go to the Spot. Something really foolish though had made him think he could stop Dad's hand from hitting things, and he had yelled out, "Stop it!!"

Dad didn't like that idea very much, and he had backhanded Ed and sent him flying about three feet backwards. Ed didn't waste too much time after he landed to get back on his feet and run to the Spot real quick. He didn't like what he heard while he was leaving though. It sounded like a lot of crying.

He knew that now would be a good time to make it back to the Spot, but unfortunately he was slower than Big Timmy and the rest of his companions. They had walked behind him calmly while leaving school so that Mrs. Reichart wouldn't notice, but the last stretch of walking back home was through the woods.

Ed was no dummy, and he was focused on walking home as fast as he could. If he couldn't make it all the way home, he would go to the Hideout. The Hideout was a small tree house about three hundred feet up in the air, and although he wasn't the fastest tree climber in the fourth grade, for some reason Big Timmy and his friends always gave up following him after about the first twenty branches.

It took somewhere around a hundred branches to get to the Hideout, but Ed knew why they gave up after twenty. You had to walk across the Pathway—a branch about as wide as his waist but as long as their whole school building, which was pretty long, all the way over to the tree that led up to the Hideout, and straight down was a good sixty feet. The tree that the Pathway led to had no branches below that point, so the only way to reach the first branch was to walk across the Pathway. After that it was easy, but for some reason Big Timmy and his friends didn't like the Pathway too much.

He had followed Ed there many times, and once he had even taken two steps onto the Pathway before he turned around and said to Snobby Bobby, "This knucklehead's got nothin' to live for; he'd jump and die, but the ground don't want him!" and snickered mercilessly. And Big Timmy's other friends laughed too, but Ed had seen their faces for a brief moment, looking over his shoulder, and he saw they were real scared.

Hairy Larry had laughed the loudest, and Ed heard him say, "Yeah, let's get out of here; we're wastin' our time with this retard!" They all thought that was a good idea and slowly and carefully climbed down the tree. "We'll get you, crap face!" yelled Brian from below.

Ed remembered that day very clearly. It had happened last year, and he knew Big Timmy was furious about Ed getting away like that. Ed had watched them for miles and miles from the Hideout and smiled and laughed so loud he was sure Big Timmy could hear him. In fact, that was probably the reason Big Timmy was so sore over it. Ed had had a fine afternoon that day, drawing wizards, playing with an imaginary sword, and even using a magic staff, although it wasn't a real magic staff . . . not yet anyway.

It was a real stick, and it was strong. He had put it between two branches many times and hung there as free as a monkey with his legs dangling in the air hundreds of feet above ground. And it had never cracked or even made a fuss. He had a pocketknife up there in a small hole inside the tree (well, actually it was Dad's pocketknife, and he had stolen it, but he didn't feel particularly bad about that).

He used the pocketknife to make cuts on his magic staff. These weren't like his drawings. He was careful with his drawings, but he was real careful with these. He usually spent days just thinking about them before he started to make these cuts on his magic staff. And then he would practice on paper not once or even five times but around ten times, and then and only then would he make a cut on his staff. He found this system worked well, and he wouldn't have been too quick to listen if someone had suggested otherwise.

The cuts—or "carvings," as he was beginning to call them, after a recent vocabulary lesson at school—looked nice. He had almost showed them to Mrs. Reichart one day because deep down he knew she would agree, but there was a problem. No, there were four problems, and their names were Big Timmy, Hairy Larry, Snobby Bobby, and that no-nickname retard Brian (he had considered calling him that on occasion because his instincts, which he was beginning to learn to trust more and more as he got older, told him that even if Brian beat the heck out of him for that it would hurt Brian worse than the beating he would give Ed).

There was no way—not even a chance—that he could take his magic staff to school and show it to Mrs. Reichart without one of those bullies snatching it from him and doing Kasani knows what with it. Mrs. Reichart was nice, but she wouldn't let him keep it at his desk. No, he'd have to put it in the corner where everyone put their "extras" (as Mrs. Reichart called such things as coats, bags, and toys). And he knew that he didn't have an extra magic staff, and that it would be gone by the time the school day ended, probably before he even had the chance to show it to Mrs. Reichart.

This made him sad, but it was a whole lot better to keep it safe up in the Hideout, even if he couldn't show Mrs. Reichart how well he was learning to carve.

He could really hear the gang's footsteps behind him now. He couldn't quite see his house from here, but he knew right where it was. The path ahead of him in the deep forest he was in continued for about as far as he could see and then turned right. He knew his house was close to where the path turned there. He would never make it that far. He could tell Big Timmy was getting real close.

His ears told him Big Timmy was a lot closer than Snobby Bobby or any of the others, and his instincts told him that Big Timmy planned for big payback today for Ed getting the best of him last time they had a tree-climbing contest.

Ed decided right then and there to turn left and go towards the Hideout. Chances were good that Dad would be about as dangerous as the gang behind him tonight, but on the other hand, last night had been a bad night, and usually there were a few good nights after bad nights, and after really bad nights, which last night could probably count as, sometimes Dad was nice for a few whole weeks. But not always.

But it didn't matter much because Ed knew he wouldn't make it another minute before Big Timmy grabbed him and gave him a beating that would give his raccoon eye plenty of bruises to keep it company.

Ed dashed left, headed off the path and into the forest.

"You'll never make it, dreamer boy!" Ed heard Big Timmy yell, and almost wet himself because he could tell Big Timmy was a lot closer than he thought.

The leaves crunched loudly and rapidly like the kettle corn that Mommy made, as Ed's feet rushed through the leaves, his eyes fixed unshakably on the tree that led to the Pathway that led to the Hideout.

But there was an equally fast—no, faster—sound coming behind him. He knew what—or rather, who—it was.

He saw the tree closer and closer and closer. He pumped his legs like he had once seen a wolf do that was chasing some poor animal through the forest.

Closer, closer, closer.

He knew that if he could at least make it to the tree he had a chance. He was pretty sure he could climb faster than Big Timmy, but he usually had a head start. Today he wasn't sure he would.

Success. He reached the tree, threw down his school bag, and grabbed the first branch. He pulled upwards and was about to hook his legs around it (he knew once he did that he could really start to climb fast), when suddenly he felt something grabbing his right foot.

Chapter 2

It had been with no rapidity that Koksun had convinced the reclusive Tristan of the benefits of imparting speech to birds and abandoning his solitary attempts to discover the knighting of a man of common birth in Sodorf. Thus, no one and nothing—not wiry Koksun, not the tiny konulans, and not even the majestic pholungs—were aware of all of Tristan's means of egress from his abode. It might not even be exaggerative to surmise that those exits the pholungs were aware of had only entered their awareness because Tristan found it convenient to his purposes that they would too carefully watch these instead of employing a more widespread surveillance of the surrounding topography.

To Tristan, life resembled a chessboard, and while trust was not a concept he ever adhered to in the proper sense, to whatever small extent he did confide in anyone it would best be measured by the minute degree to which to which he lowered his vigilance. From the moment the pholung Istus announced his betrayal to him, he knew he had to assume all the birds had betrayed him. His effort to slay them by summoning a storm (which drained no small amount of his powers) had been thwarted when the pholungs had the audacity to charge him headlong, something he was quite unprepared for, having been long accustomed to intimidation filling the gaps left by deficiencies in his powers.

Although he could have dispatched a great number of them to the other side of eternity, he lacked confidence that not even one lucky pholung would complete its charge, snatch him with its merciless talons, and then fling him off the edge of the cliff, a fall he would likely not have the power to stop, given the amount of energy he had already exerted summoning the storm without even so much as the aid of his staff.

It was then and there that Tristan decided the time had come to get the hell out of there.

Koksun didn't say anything. He was in the most remote corner of the room, crouched low to the ground, tail tucked between his legs, looking at Tristan with a plaintive, apprehensive expression, every large and miniscule muscle in his small frame tensed and ready to spring into action and propel him far from danger with such velocity that would make jealous even the crisscrossing bolts of lightning outside, if Tristan so much as made an inch of movement in his general direction.

Tristan looked at him balefully, to which Koksun replied, "Meooooowwwww," sorrowfully, in that singular way cats have of apologizing that saves them both the undignified tears and the lugubrious speeches of their human counterparts, either or both of which Koksun could have done, but he had been a cat long enough to know those situations where his human attributes were but the crudest of tools for effecting what a feline could achieve with scant effort.

But it was the human attributes of his brain that enabled him to recall that he was arguably to blame for his master's doom. He had seen his master unceremoniously deposited into his abode like a rock flung from a catapult and needed no reminding that he had cogently argued long ago that the birds could be turned into manageable spies. Had there been time for a debate, Koksun would have first pressed Tristan for details concerning the occurrences leading up to this change of events, and if Tristan had admitted to killing Istus's family without any real justification, Koksun would have lambasted Tristan for needlessly killing good spies and giving an incentive for rebellion where perhaps before none had existed.

Nonetheless, there was no time for a debate, so poor Koksun was left with the unfortunate impression that the treachery had been the result of some failure on his part.

Tristan had said nothing to Koksun before retreating behind his bookshelf.

Although Tristan had resided in his comfortable cave for centuries, he had always been of the mindset that he must be ready to abandon it at any moment. He had a tunnel leading many miles away, reaching slightly east of Dachwald before rising to the surface inside a hollowed-out tree in a deep forest. His thinking at the time he had constructed this passageway had been to escape widespread enemy scouts searching for him on foot. Since it was avian scouts he had to escape,

he felt immense relief the passageway would not only lead him far from the cave but also deposit him into a thick forest where nothing would be visible from the air but a ceaseless canopy of verdure.

It pained him to leave so many books behind, but he knew that he could only take several. Fortunately, during his many solitary nights he had redacted the most significant portions of the voluminous texts in his abode and compiled four books that contained the majority of the most essential information on Glisphin. He packed these quickly into a bag, put a sinister blade into his belt that was too long for the category of dagger but yet too short to achieve a consensus as being a sword, and then grabbed his staff, which could double for walking or more destructive activities. A wrinkled hat completed the costume of a harmless, elderly gypsy.

Right as he was about to head out into the tunnel that would take him to Selegania, a country he hadn't visited in centuries, he felt the most peculiar desire to take his feline companion with him. He put his bag down to the floor, opened the passageway, and went out to see Koksun.

"It's not your fault, Koksun," Tristan said. "I did something foolish, and I spoiled everything. Are you coming?"

Koksun looked at him warily. Cats are not easily put at ease, once their perception of danger has been aroused, and Tristan's mindset towards Koksun had been momentarily murderous after he was tossed into his cave. But the humility of such rough treatment had brought Tristan down from his manic state of murderous euphoria and restored him to his calm, calculating persona that would have made him properly disposed for a professorship.

Koksun meowed again, not sorrowfully as before, but in a curious manner, as if his meow were the tongue of a snake reaching out into the ambience to search for the scent of treachery. To his surprise, his keen eyes and keener nose detected not the slightest trace of hostility in Tristan but rather reconciliation. And practical thoughts started to enter Koksun's mind, such as the fact he was hundreds of feet above ground and not entirely sure how he planned to close that distance or, conversely, to survive more than several days if he stayed alone in the cave.

But then a mountain of resentment grew inside his mind, as he quickly realized—this time, with his human intellect—that Tristan's composure could not have changed so drastically unless the treachery of the pholungs had been entirely Tristan's fault. This human intellect was inconvenient for Koksun because once it triggered his resentment, a feeling more powerful than the survival instinct itself in some felines, he meowed aggressively at Tristan and then let out a hiss for good measure.

Shrugging his shoulders, but unable to hide from Koksun's keen eyes a lump in his throat that any human would have missed, Tristan turned around, went through the passageway, and disappeared from Koksun's sight.

Koksun was beginning to have second thoughts, but by the time they arrived Tristan was gone and the door to the passageway closed.

Chapter 3

It was not until several hours later that Istus and the other pholungs returned, at which time Koksun let out a nasty hiss towards Istus—whom Koksun sensed to be the culprit for the unfortunate change of events—and was dispatched from the cave with the same rudeness with which Koksun's master had not so long ago been flung into the cave.

Many a person, from the simplest laborer to the wisest philosophe, has repeated the observation that a cat has nine lives. That axiom was put to the test when Koksun was unceremoniously ejected from the place he had called home for many years with his master. Several hundred feet of empty vertical space is no trivial barrier for any non-avian creature to suddenly find between himself and terra firma. But with the double advantage of nine lives and decades of climbing experience before his feline transformation, the odds of survival were increased on Koksun's side.

Istus was preoccupied placing boxes of explosives inside Tristan's lofty abode and had tossed the despised cat aside more as a nuisance than a threat to be annihilated. Thus, Istus did not notice that, while the force he applied against Koksun's small frame should have been sufficient to send him over the ledge and beyond hope of survival, Koksun had instinctively splayed out his limber body like a bedsheet, thus decelerating enough to hit the ground briefly before going over the edge.

Koksun didn't waste the opportunity. Ten claws dug into the mercilessly hard ground with the passion of the treasure hunter's spade, creating a few sparks. As he began his descent, he once again splayed out his body and dug his claws even more passionately against the now vertical stone. He had the fortune of several times grabbing nooks in the cliff wall deep enough that he almost came to a complete stop, and in a jerky fashion continued his way down the cliff like a sled down a hill intermittently slowed by small obstacles.

Once the first tree branches became visible, he decided to make for one, thinking this better than his current circumstances, which, if continued, were likely to wear down his claws to nothing. He pushed against the cliff wall, grabbed a branch at no small speed, bending it considerably as a result, which then, perhaps not wishing to make Koksun's acquaintance, pushed back, flinging Koksun through the air.

Koksun landed on another branch, gripping deep into its pulpy center with all ten claws, prepared to hang on even if flung with the force of a hurricane, and indeed he clung to the branch despite it making no inconsiderable effort to get rid of this creature that seemed destined to be shunned by all, both living and non-living. Quite content himself to leave the branch, now that it had stilled and the departure would thus be on his terms, Koksun pried his claws from the branch like ten knives from the body of a brutally stabbed victim, and scurried along the branch towards the trunk in such a way that several squirrels took admiring notice.

Upon reaching the trunk, Koksun did not find himself in that predicament that many an over-ambitious cat has found itself—that of ascending incredible heights only to discover that its prowess at ascending is eclipsed only by its lack of prowess in descending. Koksun's mind still contained all the knowledge and motor reflexes he had acquired from years spent as a biped, during which he had become a most proficient climber. For the briefest of seconds, he himself considered the paradox in which he found himself, as he effortlessly began to descend the tree, realizing that it was far easier than it ever had been when he had merely ten fingers rather than an array of claws, upon which he concluded that cats' difficulty in this maneuver must be due to lack of confidence because he was nearly to the bottom of the tree by the time he recognized the irony of his pleasant descent.

His feet pushed against the earth, and soon all four legs were moving in breathtaking unison like the ingeniously crafted gears of a machine. He knew that, as far as predators were concerned, he was putting himself at great risk by being on the same ground tread by wolves, bears, and large snakes, but he was also aware that, unbeknownst to these creatures, a far greater menace lurked above, one that these animals would not have thought a danger if it were placed in front of them.

Many times, he had heard Tristan brag about the effects pheorite would have on the Sodorfians once the war came, and when the war did come he heard even more of its terrible results. Koksun recognized the smell immediately when the pholungs began stocking the cave with boxes, and he didn't think that they were putting them there as for storage. Based upon the descriptions by Tristan—whom he had never known to exaggerate—the amount they were putting there would be sufficient to blow the cliff to kingdom come, and thus—wolves, bears, snakes, or not—he figured he had better get out of this valley as quickly as possible.

Chapter 4

Something was indeed grabbing Eddie's foot, or rather someone, and if you guessed Big Timmy you hit the jackpot. Eddie grabbed onto the branch as hard as he could and tried to pull himself up. For a moment, he almost succeeded in swinging his left leg around the branch. If he could just get up there, he knew he could give Timmy a good kick to the face with his free leg and get that jerk to let go.

He pulled and pulled and swung his left leg up several times towards the branch. It clipped it once, and momentarily hooked it on another try, but then the weight of Timmy was too much, and just as he came close as heck to getting his left leg around the branch, he felt his fingers lose their grip on the tree, and he went falling down faceup and landed flat on his back.

"Ughhhhhh," was all he could exclaim as the air completely exited his lungs, perhaps not wanting to stick around for what was to follow. Above him, like a man suddenly awakening on the surgeon's table, he saw a pair of gleaming faces loom above him. Had Eddie been a well-traveled man, he may have momentarily reflected that he was experiencing what many a downed gazelle experienced, looking up to see a pack of wild hyenas surrounding it, preparing for lunch.

Eddie was not a man, and he was even less-traveled, having made few excursions other than to school, the Spot, and the Hideout. But he did have one simile pass through his mind, as he had seen a pair of wild dogs hunt down and corner an injured rabbit, and he now felt awfully like that rabbit.

"Special friend! What's the rush?!" snickered Snobby Bobby.

"Haaaaa!!" shouted Brian in delight at Bobby's wit.

Big Timmy didn't say anything, nor did Hairy Larry. Their eyes did their talking for them. These gleamed down on Eddie like the eyes of a cobra transplanted into the smirking faces of these two jackals.

Eddie wasn't sure what would happen if he got up, but he felt like it couldn't be that much worse than what would happen if he stayed lying down.

He stood up. Slowly, he felt himself being surrounded. Hairy, Snobby, Big, and plain old Brian were on all sides of him now. Big Timmy faced him head on.

"Why did you ignore me during class all day?!" said Timmy.

Larry let out a loud cackle. "Don't you know you're our special friend?!" Larry chimed in.

Timmy grinned slightly but didn't reward Larry's quip with an actual laugh. This was Timmy's show.

"Yeah, like Hairy said—you're our special friend! Don't you want to be our friend?!" Timmy inquired of his subject. Timmy then shoved Eddie hard, causing him to step back a couple of feet and almost lose his balance.

"Special Friend. Special Friend. Special Friend, Special Friend, Special Friend!" Snobby cried joyously, then laughed like a hyena.

Brian suddenly rushed forward and shoved Eddie hard, slamming him against the tree. The other three let out war whoops of excitement.

Eddie was somewhere else. Not physically. Though he'd have liked that immensely. His mind was wandering far, far away. He had seen Mommy get a distant look on her face sometimes when Dad was fit to be tied, and many times that seemed to make Dad get bored and go to sleep. He wasn't sure if that was going to save him from a beating, but he couldn't think of anything else to try.

Brian suddenly punched Eddie right in the stomach. Eddie hunched over but didn't quite fall down. He remained doubled over, mouth gaping wide open, trying his hardest to breathe again, but it seemed that the air just didn't want to come back. Eddie wasn't sure where it went, but he wished he could have followed it into the sky.

"Hey, don't hog him!" commanded Big Timmy, rebuking his subordinate, Brian.

"Sorry, Tim," Brian shrugged pathetically.

All of a sudden, Timmy swung his right fist as hard as he could at Eddie, slamming it into his left eye and knocking him back against the tree.

"Hahahahahaha!" shouted Snobby, laughing furiously. "You'll make Oscar Peters jealous!" he jested. Oscar Peters was a legendary bare-knuckle boxing champion in Selegania.

"No, stupid head. That won't make Oscar Peters jealous. This will make Oscar Peters jealous!" and suddenly Brian started delivering a flurry of body shots to Eddie, punching him with blinding speed, his fists resembling a woodpecker drilling at full capacity.

Eddie tried to cover himself up, but he blocked one punch for every four that landed either on his ribs or his stomach.

"EDDIEEEE! GET IN HERE!!"

Oscar Peters—that is to say, no-nickname Brian pretending to be Oscar Peters—stopped suddenly, standing at attention like a buck private facing a no-nonsense drill sergeant. As did Timmy, Larry, and Bobby. They each looked like bank robbers caught red-handed in the vault by the sheriff and a well-armed posse.

But they didn't see anybody, even though they looked around in every direction.

Trying to look tough, Big Timmy said, "Hey, no hard feelings, Special Friend!" "We're just trying to toughen you up!" He paused for a moment, "Then, you'll get to be one of us!" he said unconvincingly.

Larry let out a cackle.

Timmy was pretty sure whom that voice belonged to that had demanded Eddie's presence, and whose tone had suggested his hide would be the price of non-compliance. It was Richard Simmers, Eddie's dad. Richard was special too, but not in the way Eddie was special. Eddie was special because he liked to zone out and stare into space for hours on end or draw wizards. Richard was special because he liked to fight. Timmy, who wasn't exactly the analytical type, had wondered a time or two how Richard and Eddie could be father and son, and he had concluded Eddie must be adopted.

No one liked to cross Richard. He wasn't the biggest man in Ringsetter, but darn close, and he was known as one of the strongest men at the local lumberyard, and few people considered him a wise target for a bar fight. Timmy had learned this from his dad, who had seen Righty Rick (as he was popularly known) in action a few times and had warned Timmy to steer clear of him at all costs.

"Let's scat, guys! Special Friend here has to go see his Daddy!" This brought only a weak, halfhearted cackle from his troupe. They didn't want to be within half a mile of Righty Rick if he even half suspected they had hit his boy. Truth be told, they weren't even quite sure what Righty Rick would do. It was no more the town secret that Righty Rick roughed his old lady up only about every other week or so than it was that Oscar Peters, the best bareknuckle boxer in the history of Selegania, was from the north. But, they suspected—not at a conscious level, as these four were not prone to deep thinking—that maybe Righty Rick figured it was his job to beat up on his family and not anybody else's.

Tim tried to be brave and start walking back the way they came in a dignified fashion, but suddenly he shouted, "Last one back to Main Street's a turd!" and took off running with an enthusiasm that far exceeded any fourth grader's desire not to be thought of as waste product. Every last one of them could almost feel Righty Rick's hands wrapping around their necks to slam their heads together like a group of beer bottles.

Chapter 5

"Let's move! Let's move! That stack ain't done yet!" the foreman's voice barked.

Mr. Richard Franklin Simmers, already better known to the reader by his honorary title of Righty Rick, was only slightly more than halfway through another miserable, sweaty, backbreaking day at the lumberyard. His fourteen-hour shift was far from over, and he and his crew had to move a lot more of the many mountain-sized wooden beams from one end of the yard to the other before the foreman would be satisfied.

Six a.m. to 8:30 p.m., six days per week, was his typical schedule, with a whole half-hour break (unpaid) to take some of the sting out of the long workday. But whether he was in the process of hauling a two-hundred-pound beam over his shoulder with the help of a companion, lifting one from the ground (which it seemed to cling harder and harder to as the day wore on), or lowering it onto the humongous heap they piled up each day, his mind was always somewhere else.

This—and perhaps only this—trait proved his paternity to Eddie, though few would have known. Unlike Eddie's open daydreaming, Righty's occurred while his body moved swiftly and precisely, leaving no clue to the most ardent observer that his mind was many miles away.

And whereas Eddie daydreamed about wizards and other nonsense, Righty daydreamed about his glory days. The days when he was considered the inevitable bareknuckle champion of Selegania. That meant a lot of things, but one thing above all it certainly meant was no lifelong career at the lumberyard working like a horse all day for crap wages.

It meant having nice things, early retirement, pretty women, and respect. He had been on the right path towards these things, knocking one hapless opponent after another senseless with his fearsome right hand, which was starting to gain such a reputation opponents were shaking as they entered the ring with him.

There was only one other opponent anyone even thought stood a chance against him, and that was Oscar Peters. He and Oscar were about the same age. Oscar came from the northern part of Selegania, Righty from the south. They had both claimed absolute dominance in their respective spheres long before their meeting, but the only question was who the champion of all Selegania would be.

They were each just twenty years old, very young to have risen to such prominence, and the future seemed as bright as the sun for both of them, regardless of which one proved to be second best, because there was a mile gap of skill in between them and third place. Yep, those were the days. That was when he had gotten permission from Janie's dad to date, and then to marry, her.

But then came the accident. He had been moving some large furniture inside the house, when it slipped and pulled the heck out of his wrist muscles in the process. The next day at the gym, he noticed his right wrist got kind of tender whenever he gave the bag a gentle reminder of why he was called Righty, and whenever he really lay into it, he could feel bolts of pain shooting through his wrist.

If he had been patient, he would have taken it easy for a week or two, let his wrist heal, and then continued training. The fight with Oscar wasn't scheduled until two months from then, and he could have gotten back into physical shape in the six weeks after his two-week hiatus. But he had fame and fortune on his mind, and nothing was going to get between it and him . . . or so he thought.

By the following week he could barely hit the bag, and when he did it hurt so bad it felt like someone had peeled the skin back, found the most sensitive nerve, grabbed it with a pair of pliers, twisted it into a knot, and then wacked the whole thing with a sledgehammer. Pain forced him into a hiatus that prudence could not.

He didn't feel better two weeks after the hiatus began. Or after another two weeks. In fact, as of the night before the fight, he could barely hit the bag without feeling some pain, and he had lost a lot of physical stamina in the interim. He had never liked running very much, and the jump rope irritated his right wrist almost as intolerably as the heavy bag.

Oscar—or so Righty heard—had become aware of this injury, and although he had been determined to beat Righty before, this had redoubled his determination to win, as it now seemed a possibility—maybe even a probability—whereas before he privately feared Righty was going to give him the whipping of his life in front of everybody and maybe even injure him so badly his career would be over.

Second place may have been the last rung before first. But whereas first place got you fame and fortune, second place gave you an upper-middle-class lifestyle, one you could only maintain while you continued getting in the ring with savage beasts ready to break their knuckles over your face crawling their way past you to first place. Then, once it was all said and done, you faced so-so job prospects, as it was no secret that years of bareknuckle brawling took away some of your smarts. But a single win at first place was enough to provide comfort for the rest of your life, and several wins at first place could grant you luxury for life and even the respect of the country's gentry, so important was the sport to Selegania's national pride.

Oscar knew this was his chance. He figured that if Righty was hurt as bad as they said he would only have to worry about attacks from Righty's left side, which were pretty sub-par. Righty's prodigious uppercuts and hooks with his right hand—on par with the power of an earthquake or lightning bolt—had made it unnecessary for him to master the softer art of the jab.

Righty preferred brawling, it could be said, over real boxing, but whereas other brawlers would get worn out by a skilled opponent's bobbing and weaving, that was because they had to go for the head to do any serious damage. That was where Righty stood in a class all his own. He could punch an opponent's body so hard the bones in the shielding arms would break after a couple hits to the same general area. That left only about two strategies for his opponent. He could try to hurt Righty quicker than Righty hurt him, which was a thorough exercise in folly, or he could try evasive footwork.

Righty could run down and corner the most elusive opponents with the skill and tenacity of a prized bloodhound chasing down its hopeless quarry. Opponent after opponent had fallen in pain and agony from the devastating body blows he would deliver with his merciless right hand. Those unfortunate enough to get hit directly in the face were often scarred for life—literally and figuratively.

Righty was nervous before the fight for just about the first time he could remember. He was afraid to hit Oscar full force because if he did, and it didn't finish him, he would no doubt feel that pesky lightning bolt of pain shoot through his wrist again, and he didn't know if he could take it.

When the bell rang, Righty forgot all about the risks of injury. There he was, Old Oskey, as he sometimes referred to him, and his instinct was to kill him just the same as if a wolf suddenly saw a squirrel dart right past him.

Righty came out swinging. Oskey must have just about had a heart attack because his eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, and he immediately went on the defensive. Righty was swinging his fists wildly through the air as if it were a fifteen-second round, rather than the five-minute round it actually was.

Oskey was taking a first-rate whipping. Righty was slamming one fist after another into him, but holding back just a little with his right. He was compensating with speed. But after Righty caught Oskey with a good left uppercut to the gut that doubled him over, Righty couldn't help himself.

He brought his right fist down full force planning to break Oskey's jaw into about three pieces, but Oskey saw it coming and executed a maneuver he had planned just for this occasion. He moved into the punch and tucked his chin to his chest, exposing the most solid part of his pate to his antagonist.

Righty's fist crashed down onto it with crushing force, cutting the scalp immediately, and causing a stream of blood to come flying out that—to the inexperienced eye—would have appeared the result of a fatal, skull-crushing blow, rather than the ghastly scalp wound that it was.

Righty's wrist snapped nearly in half. The pain was so great he almost had an out-of-body experience. Within seconds a mouse-sized lump appeared, and it wouldn't be long until it was the size of a small kitten. Righty screamed in pain and anger.

This is where accounts begin to differ, and to those not accustomed to Righty, it is something one would be best off not discussing unless he has first learned the details precisely as Righty recalls them and repeats them word-for-word. What Righty saw was the referee moving towards them in an effort to pause the fight and see if Righty could continue.

What Oscar saw was First Place—his one chance to knock Righty the Mighty off of his pedestal and into obscurity. Righty was so shocked when Oskey's fist connected with his jaw that he didn't even have time to block. But his cat-like reflexes kicked in soon enough, and he launched himself towards Oskey, grabbed him with his left hand, yanked him forward, and prepared to bite the jugular of that no-good cheater.

The ref, who was not aware that Righty had decided to explore his primal nature's lowest depths, thought instead that Righty was merely trying to headbutt Oscar, which, while not technically illegal, was frowned upon. ("If we wanted to see headbutting, we'd go watch the antelope," gentlemen would often say when asked their thoughts on the matter.) The ref put out his hand to block the headbutt and found out the hard way what Righty really intended.

Bones went crunching between Righty's molars like dry twigs underneath a hunter's boot. The ref screamed out in pain and anger that the fight was over, Oscar Peters was the winner, and Richard Simmers was disqualified.

It turned out that a lot of people failed to see what Righty saw, and the fine gentlemen of the boxing commission decided bareknuckle boxing would be better off without Righty the Shark, as people had taken to calling him, provided Mr. Simmers was believed to be no closer than a hundred miles away from said conversation.

Thus, boxing days were over, the lumberyard beckoned, and Righty was now just another sweaty, groaning horse toiling away under the hot sun in a job so miserable its sting could only be soothed by large amounts of ale, a medicine of which Righty partook nightly, much to his wife's detriment.

His boxing days existed now mostly in his mind, although occasionally his legend would die down just enough that he had to rekindle it in the tavern by knocking a young smart aleck's face in for a minor infraction. His right hand had healed completely after several months without boxing, much to the dismay of anyone who ever heard the legend and made the mistake of thinking the injury persisted.

As for his wife, he had never punched her. That, he was sure of, although he did have a hard time remembering what happened after a lot of his drinking binges at the tavern. He noticed a bit of shadowing around her face from time to time, and he admitted to himself during his rather deep philosophical reflections at the lumberyard that he probably was the most likely culprit. But on the other hand, that was small potatoes compared to what she did to his heart.

He put food on the table. He worked like a dog. And if the only way he knew to momentarily forget the torture of his existence fourteen hours of six days each week was to drink himself until he saw double, that was his business! Usually, by the time he got home from the tavern, he was in quite a good mood, and the only thing he wanted—far from fighting with Janie; he still loved her dearly—was a little lovemaking.

But she always turned him down, and that was where he lost his temper. For years he had convinced himself it was spite, that she didn't want to make love to a no-good loser like he was (he suspected she always wanted to be married to "the champ"). But, as Righty had gotten older, his thoughts had become a bit deeper, and it occurred to him that maybe the smell of alcohol emanating from the cavernous interior of his stomach with the strength of stench rising from a decaying carcass wasn't nature's recommended aphrodisiac.

He had managed to get himself sobered up lots of times—that is, if you count two days in a row without drinking "sobered up"—and he noticed she did start to be a little friendlier with him the longer he stayed sober. But then the misery of his job grew and grew like steam in a tightly closed kettle until he determined he would either go drink or go crazy, and he preferred the former every time.

But, this time was different. He had spent the whole day feeling bad because last night he had hit the kid. Deep down, he loved him. He was a strange, wizard-drawing little runt of a son, but he was his son. Although he often doubted whether Janie still loved him, he never suspected she had had an affair. And Eddie had been born not too long after the good times ended. He knew that twinkle had formed in his eye when Janie still loved him.

And Righty had been beaten up on enough by his old man to know that wasn't anything nice. And Righty had always promised that he'd never do that to his kid. He hadn't hit the kid too many times, although he couldn't be sure that last night was the first. But this time he remembered it. And that had bothered him all day.

He realized, insanity or not, he was going to have to turn his back on the tavern . . . at least for a while.

"Let's cut her short today!" shouted the foreman unexpectedly. Those words were as soothing and magical to the hapless oxen shouldering their mountainous loads as the question, What would you like for your birthday, dear? is to a young child, and it seemed every bit as rare.

Perhaps twice, maybe even three times a year, Foreman Steve cut the day short, and not a soul amongst these beasts of labor dared ask the reason for it. There were those that suspected it had something to do with his lady friend, Elma Parkers (she was a real looker too!), while others thought maybe even just watching men perform such arduous tasks hour after hour eventually became as tiresome as the work itself. One or two individuals ventured so far as to suggest Foreman Steve felt sympathy for them from time to time, but this theory had never gained much traction.

Righty felt a sudden joy pulse through his veins that eclipsed even the ecstasy he normally felt on such rare occasions when his daily torture ritual was cut short.

"Time to hit the tavern!" a voice yelled, and cheers erupted.

He almost joined them but at the last moment bit his tongue.

No, not today, he thought. Today was going to be different. He had some making up to do, and coming home late from the tavern smelling like a distillery wouldn't exactly be the right approach. A small feeling of willpower and determination had been growing inside of him all day, starting out at roughly the size of an acorn but growing larger and larger each hour of the day.

The last decade of his life kept playing through his mind like scenes from a play, and he didn't like what he saw. Drinking, scuffles with Janie that he couldn't remember later, working all day under the blazing sun, drinking, scuffles with Janie that he couldn't remember, and so forth until he hated himself down to his miserable, rotten core.

He wasn't a man without willpower. He had just been, and still was, a man without a path in life. While rising through the ranks of the bareknuckle world, he had been dedicated and disciplined. No late nights at the tavern. In fact, no time at the tavern.

He had had his first sip of liquor a month or two after his . . . well, not exactly loss to old Oskey, because anyone who had seen that fight knew he had been cheated. But it had still been called a loss by those pompous, prim gentlemen of the boxing commission who robbed him not only of the rematch that should have resolved that draw (and upon arriving at this word he smiled inwardly for precisely classifying the outcome) but also of his chance as the best boxer this world had ever seen to continue with his career.

Ever since that day he had no purpose. Liquor numbed his senses and helped him forget he had no purpose, but that was about it. But, today, he realized he had at least one—no two—purposes for his life. Their names were Janie and Eddie, and he was doing one hell of a job of losing whatever tiny fragments remained of their love towards him. But, there was something deeper than that—not to discount Janie and Eddie. For reasons he himself could not have given if a knife were put to his throat, he felt there was something he was supposed to do with his life. Something that didn't involve working fourteen hours a day hauling wood around like an ox.

He needed to find himself a goal and stick with it. Maybe there could be meaning to life after all.

"Comin' or dreamin'?!" asked Thomas, breaking the deepest reverie Righty had had in perhaps his whole life. Thomas grinned. "I'm buyin' the first round!" and gave Righty a hearty slap on the shoulder.

"I'm a little hung over from yesterday still, Tom. Thanks though."

If any other man had said that, Tom would have ragged him ragged, but Tom knew whom he was talking to and just said, "Suit yourself," smiling and walked off.

Chapter 6

Janie stood in the kitchen crying. Her right cheek was still tender where had slapped her last night. He had never punched her. Even drunk he had enough sense to know that one punch could crush her skull like an eggshell. But she had a sore cheek nonetheless.

She had been cutting some ham when she stopped to sharpen the butcher knife, which just wasn't slicing the ham the way it should be, and she should know, as she had cut many a ham before this one.

As she caressed the honing steel with the knife in brisk, smart strokes, she drifted off into another world. Whereas Righty's daydreams consisted of his glory days and how they had devolved into beastly labor, Janie focused on how their relationship had changed over the years.

Despite his monstrous conduct in the boxing ring, he had always been sweet to her before he started drinking. This wasn't one of those "typical cases," she assured herself emphatically. To Janie, Typical Cases were those scenarios where a mean-tempered brute masked his nasty pith until the third date or so, or until the lady so much as made an untactful comment, and then gave her a beating most muggers wouldn't dish out, only to thereafter start that endless cycle of beatings and apologies.

Typical Cases were where the inevitable happened, and the lady was just too blind to get out after the first shellacking. This was different. Much different. If that no-good cheater Oscar Peters hadn't swung at Richie while his wrist was practically snapped in half and the ref was moving in to separate them, the fight might have been rescheduled, or at least Richie would have gotten a rematch.

She could have just about jumped in there herself and taken a bite out of Oscar after what he did. Janie was no stranger to Richie's ability to feel sorry for himself and make up excuses. Ten years of marriage had been a good instructor as to Richie's expertise in those two tasks. But, in this one case, she knew Richie had gotten cheated.

And that was where all the trouble had started. She knew Richie was made for boxing like an ax is for cutting wood. It was in his blood, and the eviction from the world to which he belonged had destroyed the very marrow of his soul. Richie had never drunk a drop of alcohol before The Travesty. Nor had he ever laid his hands on her before in anger. In fact, even after The Travesty, he had never once laid his hands on her while sober. It was just when he was drunk. Sadly, that was most of the time when off work.

Her patience had lasted as long as it had because deep down she knew he still loved her. Deep down, she knew he hated what he had become. Deep down, she knew it was the infernal liquor that brought out a meanness that otherwise never existed towards her.

But she had long ago grown weary of justifying his behavior. She knew it always started when she wouldn't make love to him. Truth be told, it wasn't because she didn't love him. She could even understand why he drank. But that didn't mean she had to make love with a foul-smelling creature. If he wanted to make love with her, he should have the decency to know that he was going to have to shower every once in a while and keep his distance when he smelled like embalming fluid, as was the case when he returned from the tavern.

She had never told him that. But why should she? It seemed like so much common sense to her.

But, she was tired of waiting for a change that was never going to happen. And, at that time, as she stared blankly off into space, the butcher knife still making its SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH sound on the honing steel, she formed a resolution. If she smelled one drop of liquor on that man's breath when he came home tonight, it was over.

She wasn't sure yet where she would go. To her parents' house probably, although she wasn't sure if they would take her. It wasn't that they had had any falling out. No, they still saw each other regularly. It was just that her parents didn't currently seem to be in any state of mind as to wish to accelerate their moment of death, and she herself wasn't quite sure what Richie would be capable of if she left him.

The way she saw it, The Travesty had led to his drinking, which had led to his meanness. If she took herself and Eddie away to live at her parents' house, that was likely to compound his feeling of rejection, which would mean more drinking. She was scared enough of Richie when he was drunk now (only last night she had seen him backhand poor little Eddie), and she didn't like the thought of him getting any drunker or meaner than what she was already accustomed to.

She continued the SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH of the knife that was already more than sufficiently sharp to shave with. One thing was certain. Richie wasn't going to hit little Eddie again.

SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH

Eddie might be a bit dreamy, but she knew he was smart. Janie was a bookworm, and she had never quite understood her attraction to her polar-opposite husband. Her intellectual side had never been so much as caressed by Richie, much less stimulated. But the day when she saw him level a robber with one punch who was threatening an old lady with a knife, something primal had been stirred inside of her. That was a man who could protect her.

She hadn't dared approach him, but she attended one of his boxing matches, and as he walked down the aisle from yet another easy victory over a highly skilled opponent, something magical had happened. From no closer than thirty feet away, their eyes had locked, and her heart had nearly burst in her chest. She felt smaller than a rabbit when he then looked aside and felt foolish as well.

But when he showed up on her doorstep the next night, freshly shaved, showered, and smelling richly of a fine cologne, her heart had walloped about in such a way as to make it seem quite tranquil the night before.

But that wasn't all. He showed he was well-mannered, in spite of his savage behavior in the ring—which she loved for reasons she couldn't explain to herself. He immediately asked if Mr. Rollings was home. She was too stunned for a moment to even respond. They passed what seemed like a full minute in silence with their eyes locked, but she had later calculated it was probably around thirty seconds.

Her dad had come to the door, and Richie had said, "Mr. Rollings, my name is Richard Simmers. I'm her to ask you for permission to take Janie to the play tonight." There hadn't been any need to state the name of the play; everyone in town knew it was Flight of the Eagle, a national favorite that had been written by a local playwright and was going to be performed that night by some of the biggest stars from the capital.

To this day, she wasn't quite sure what had gone through her dad's head, as he had turned away a boy or two before Richie, and Janie knew without any doubt that if she had asked her dad for permission, he would have first asked her about two hundred questions about him—that is to say, unless before two hundred questions Janie revealed he was a boxer, in which case the answer would have been no immediately.

But she hadn't asked her dad; Richie had. And that was one brownie point Richie still hadn't drunk or slapped away. Every other guy who had expressed any interest in her had always asked Janie first, and she admired a man who went straight to Dad. That showed guts.

An awkward silence had ensued. But it was not like the magical visual embrace she and Richie had shared. It was more like an alpha male gorilla sizing up an intruder. After what seemed like an eternity, Dad had said, "Have her back before 10 p.m., son."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Rollings," Richie had responded.

She didn't know if Richie had noticed, but Janie knew Dad pretty well, and she sensed that what he would have liked to do is tell boxer boy to go take a hike and when that was done to take another, just so long as they were all in a direction away from this house. But, there was a presence about Richie you could sense even without knowing that some people called him Righty and why they called him that.

Dad hadn't even learned of Richie's enthusiasm for the pugilistic arts until later and, to her surprise, had simply stated, "Hmmm," and went back to his novel—The Battle of Dachwaldendomel, if she remembered correctly. Dad was almost always reading a history book, usually military history.

What had been magical in their first eye contact, and glorious in the brief moment when Richie first appeared on her porch and time suspended itself, was rendered quite ordinary by what followed. Richie had been the perfect gentleman all night. But that wasn't what made it magical. Anyone trying to woo a woman could do that if he had so much as a decent upbringing.

The difference was she felt—no, she knew—it came from Richie's heart. It had been love at first sight, and she promised herself that night as she lay in her bed dreaming about their wonderful evening together that she would never love another man the way she loved Richie.

SWISH – "Ow!" Janie exclaimed. The knife had nipped at her finger, drawing a small bead of blood. She wondered how long she had been standing there lost in thought and memories.

Just then, she heard the door open.

Chapter 7

Janie would have run, if not for the fact she was paralyzed with fear. It had been years since Richie had come home early from work. She knew he occasionally was let off early, but she also knew those were the worst nights. The earlier Richie got to the tavern, the meaner he was when he got home. She wondered for a moment if he had killed his foreman and come home to do the same to her.

She heard the THUMP-THOMP-THUMP of his footsteps.

Without knowing why, her hand squeezed tightly around the butcher knife.

She smelled something—it was a bit strong.

Anger seized her like a lightning bolt, as her brain told her it must be ale. But in less than the speed it takes for lightning to retract its brilliant spider webs from the sky, she realized just how mistaken she was. He was wearing the cologne he had worn on their first evening together.

Tears stabbed at her eyes as she wondered whether this was all the lead-up to some terrible strategy. She gripped the butcher knife harder.

In walked a man she wouldn't have recognized, were it not for the fact she had—as her mother often told her—the memory of an elephant.

He was dressed in the same spiffy style of suit he had showed up in to her doorstep so many years ago and stolen her heart like a thief in the night. He had gotten a haircut. He was clean-shaven. His hair was combed. He had a bouquet of roses in his hand. He was handsome, clean, and nice-smelling, three descriptors she hadn't thought she would ever use of him again in the rest of their marriage, much less in the same thought.

He looked straight at her. It was an intense, but non-threatening look.

"Janie, I've been a selfish, self-pitying, crybaby, monstrous jerk of a husband who deserves a solitary life of misery for what I've put you and Eddie through. Twelve years ago, I asked your father's permission to spend an evening with you. Eleven years ago, I promised before the priest and all present to love you and cherish you till the day that death parted us. I've failed miserably as a husband and as a father for nearly all those years.

"I'm not here to offer excuses. I'm just here to tell you that, as sure as there is one moon in the sky, liquor and I have filed for divorce, and it's been approved. I'm scared of facing the future sober, but, with you by my side, I'll do whatever's in my power to turn my life around and make the most of the rest of our lives together."

Janie was stunned. Had a pair of elves, three dancing kangaroos, and a talking chimpanzee just performed the waltz in front of her, she probably would have been less skeptical of what her eyes told her she was seeing and what her ears were telling her they just heard. She gripped the butcher knife even more tightly, perhaps afraid that Richie was dead and a ghost of the Richie she used to know was paying his respects before he passed on to the afterlife.

But this disbelief lessened slightly after a moment because of the power of his eyes. It was those eyes that had stolen a young bookworm's heart from thirty feet away with just one look. It was as if the rays streaming from them knew the combination to her heart and opened it as effortlessly as the bank president would the vault.

Joy mixed with fear mixed and cynicism battled ferociously inside her mind for dominance. Cynicism told her she was about to become one of the Typical Cases. Fear told her not to rule out the specter hypothesis just yet. But Joy told her that the one thing—even if it was the only thing—that made this not one of the Typical Cases was that Richie had never at one point during their entire marriage promised to change.

Richie was a doer. And while she had not the faintest idea what had caused such a prodigious change of heart, she knew something had because Richie was too proud to promise a change unless he meant it. His eyes spoke truth. Logic no longer mattered. His soul was speaking directly to her. For only the briefest of seconds she wondered about the peculiar diction of her husband, whom she was not accustomed to hear speaking poetically, but Joy told her that if he had gotten some coaching about what to say that mattered little because it was the power of his eyes that had said far more than his words ever could have.

She let the butcher knife fall CLACK onto the counter, ran around it, and jumped into his arms, kissing him with the ferocity of a teenager.

For the first time in years they made love.

Chapter 8

"Impossible!" cried King Verwil.

Ambassador Ratenbuhr eyed his king closely, as he was not sure if he was amused or furious.

"That war had but begun!" continued King Verwil.

Ratenbuhr was still perplexed but not for lack of perception. King Verwil was of those kings that change from grinning to frowning, laughing to snarling, and from promoting to beheading in the blink of an eye. These mercurial traits were not all that unusual for Metinvurian kings—in fact, some said they were the hallmark thereof.

Feeling adequately convinced it was now safe to speak, Ratenbuhr humbly added, "It perplexes us all, Your Majesty, for as Your Majesty has so perspicaciously stated, the war was quite short in duration." And then Ratenbuhr bowed low, hoping to ameliorate any lack of exactitude in his response.

King Verwil looked up frowning from his game of chess. Across from him sat the Duke of Vurtem, a formidable chess player, who at the present moment was engaged in two games. One we have already mentioned. The second was far more difficult. To beat King Verwil in a game of chess would have been interpreted as an open act of treason and punished in the severest manner. To lose on purpose would have been interpreted as an insult to the king's impenetrable intelligence and would also have been punished in the severest manner. Thus was the dilemma facing the hapless duke.

His plight was made all the more precipitous by the fact that his mastery of the august game of strategy was known throughout the kingdom. As carefully as a spider laying its web the duke devised complex attack formations against King Verwil, leaving only the most minute errors in strategy to leave himself open for counterattacks.

King Verwil looked away dismissively from Ratenbuhr as if he had either forgotten what he intended to say or no longer deigned to impart what must have surely been some sagacious thought to his lowly inferior.

King Verwil casually took the duke's rook with a bishop.

"You overextended yourself," explained King Verwil kindly to his pupil. "Your mindset was in the right place, which was accomplishing checkmate, but you rushed and left yourself open to a counterattack."

As King Verwil gifted the duke with these observations of profound insight, the duke closed his eyes solemnly, lowered his head slightly, and let out a slightly audible exhalation from his nostrils. He hoped this to be the right combination to express comprehension, submission, and self-loathing.

King Verwil lifted his head back towards the ambassador, who was calmly waiting on one knee, hoping he presented the image of a docile subject ready to await an eternity for whatever instructions his king had to give to him and grateful to be honored to bask in the regal presence of a quasi-deity. Even a top-tier actor would have taken careful notes upon seeing the ambassador's convincing performance.

"It's nearly unheard of in the annals of military history," instructed King Verwil. "In a space of mere months Dachwald rose from her obscurity to crush a nearly 100,000-man army in a few battles. Then, she boxes her quarry in at the City of Sodorf."

The king interrupted the lesson to eye the chessboard. The duke had taken the king's last rook, hoping against hope that the king would see this left the duke's queen open. King Verwil took the queen piece and this time did not indulge the duke with any lectures but gave him a mildly stern, rather avuncular look, as if to say, Really? After I just warned you about counterattacks?

Returning calmly to the subject of the war, the king said, "Then, out of nowhere, Sogolians appear, turn Dachwald's army into mincemeat, and then, checkmate." King Verwil showed his audience he intended a double application of this last word by calmly putting the duke into checkmate. The duke raised his eyebrows in admiration at the worthy move, one he had not planned for the king.

"You see, the Dachwaldians became overconfident. Somehow, they devised a strategy that enabled them to pulverize a much larger army to the point that mere kindling was left. Then, out of the blue, come reinforcements," he added calmly.

"The Dachwaldians were so confident of victory they used little or no rear guard or scouts. Then, even upon finding themselves sandwiched between a city with a capable fighting force and a large army of Sogolians—which presumably caught them off guard—do they run? Do they reassess their position and seek superior terrain? No and no.

"They turn on their attacker like a bear that immediately confronts an invading scavenger without first determining whether it would be wise to engage in open combat with the antagonist. As a result, it gets eaten." This he punctuated by stuffing a large shrimp into his mouth like a crocodile wolfing down a bird.

"So, the Dachwaldians are so clever as to devise a strategy with which to use a 40,000-man army to reduce a 100,000-man army to a quivering, cornered huddle of ten thousand helplessly trapped soldiers inside a city, yet they are not clever enough to avoid being blindsided by an army of 35,000 Sogolians and then crushed in a pincer move between said Sogolians and the suddenly emboldened Sodorfians who have theretofore not had much luck even when outnumbering their opponent nearly three to one!" King Verwil exclaimed, and then let out a loud "HA!!" which left the ambassador and the duke bewildered as to whether it was in anger, disbelief, or good humor.

"It sounds to me as if a very great number of pieces to this puzzle are missing. My job is to analyze facts and decide whether they are of import to this kingdom, but it is your job to bring me these facts. Does the general of the spies not report directly to you and you to me?" King Verwil exclaimed looking at the ambassador.

"Your Highness is, as always, most right. As was Your Highness when you said that the 'war had but begun.' The facts are coming in so quickly and are contradictory. There are strange reports, Sire. I can only humbly report them and leave their interpretation to your wise mind."

"Well, in that case, do speak," said King Verwil, appearing to calm slightly.

"There are reports that flying birds—of the pholung species to speak with precision—were seen leaving the battlefield carrying large boxes of some sort and heading north towards Dachwald. It has been suggested by some that perhaps they were working in consort all along with the Sogolians."

King Verwil frowned severely at this. A shudder passed through the room. Irkels, the chief of the spy network, was in the anteroom, ready to be beckoned. Unlike the duke, and most assuredly unlike the ambassador, not a trace of fear ran through his veins. Not that he was immune to death. The forty bodyguards armed to the teeth lining all four sides of the room could dispatch him to the great beyond if ordered to do so, although he calculated he could take out half their number in the process.

Rather, it was because fear of death was extinguished in the process of making a Metinvurian spy, which was one of the reasons King Verwil rarely allowed more than one in the room at the same time. A spy who feared death or torture—even death or torture of loved ones—could be manipulated by the enemy and could not be trusted. Their fearlessness had to be without boundaries. Thus, King Verwil understood and respected that the doting, sycophantic nature would not be found in a Metinvurian spy, and in fact he would have killed any spy who exhibited such weakness. Calm, balanced respect was sufficient.

"Irkels, come forward."

Irkels walked towards King Verwil. The bodyguards tensed considerably, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

Whereas the ambassador stood five feet from King Verwil, Irkels did not have to be told to stop at twenty. Unless directly ordered to do otherwise, one step closer would elicit a furious attack from the king's guards. At this distance, two cobra statues stood facing Irkels. To pass these statues was to invite death.

Irkels bowed and then stood to full height.

"How can this be, Irkels? Has it not long been our nation's goal to pacify, train, and utilize the majestic pholung to our ends?"

"Yes, Sire. As we speak, Your Highness's spies" (Irkels knew better than to say "my spies," which he would have said in any other context) "are scouring Sogolia, Sodorf, and Dachwald, searching first to verify or falsify the substance of this extraordinary claim. In no less than one year, we will have this claim proven true or false. If false, we will publicly flay all sources of this ill-conceived rumor. If true, in no less than one year from that day will Your Highness be presented in this very court with a majestic pholung tamed and ready to do your Highness's bidding."

A less-experienced man would have promised something such as "anytime now, Sire" or "it is only a matter of days, Your Highness," to which he would have received a severe recrimination. King Verwil had little patience for generalities, especially when they appeared intended to deceive.

"That sounds moderately reasonable," replied King Verwil. King Verwil practiced what he preached when it came to the folly of rushing into situations. King Verwil was a Metinvurian to the marrow of his soul, and doing a job right—neither rushing nor delaying—was the Metinvurian ethos.

"In no later than one year you will present me either with tamed pholungs or the flayed traitors who began this vile rumor."

Irkels wasn't surprised to have his timeline cut in half. It was for that reason he had requested double the time he felt necessary to complete the task.

Chapter 9

Chip was flying around with his fellow konulans, and they were having a grand old time. The konulans had been sent away on a vacation not long after one of Master's horrible battles, the details of which they were painfully aware, having been present in the sky watching that poor mass of soldiers marching towards Master's wooden lightning sticks (as the konulans called Tristan's projectiles blanketed with naphtha and stuffed with pheorite).

After that battle, Master told them that due to their hard work they had earned a considerable rest and were to fly to the far northwestern boundary of Dachwald for a period of a year, after which they were to return for further instructions.

Tristan had felt that the konulans had served the last of their useful purposes the day Chip had brought news of the knighting of a Sodorfian commoner, and Tristan had virtually pleaded with Koksun—whom he had begun to hold in higher and higher esteem over the years, as Koksun's ideas almost always proved fruitful, even if they presented obstacles at times—to allow him to finally kill off the konulans once and for all. Tristan had never trusted them. They had always been the most unruly, unpredictable, gossipy creatures imaginable, putting to shame even their human counterparts, whom he considered as a whole so filled with these vices that it was but on rare occasions that he had ever enjoyed interactions with them.

But Koksun's Metinvurian nature had not been lost in the transformation to felis catus, and he foresaw some future use for them and asked Tristan, "In spite of your suspicions, have they ever dared betray you?"

Tristan never ceased to be fuddled when Koksun redacted seemingly complex issues to singular questions upon which the whole matter rested, as the answer to these questions often proved Koksun to be in the right. Tristan had almost retorted triumphantly that "Yes, yes they have betrayed me!" thinking of the konulans' early days when they had been denied the privilege of speaking to anyone other than him and had disobeyed him most regularly, but before he opened himself up to another logical foil by making this asseveration he realized that this merely proved disobedience but not treachery. They had spoken to one another gleefully, something that the severest of punishments could not get them to refrain from, but they had never spoken to a human, never given away the location of his lair—in brief, never done anything contrary to his interests. Furthermore, once he had employed Koksun's new guidelines of allowing them to speak with one another but no one else, they had obeyed admirably.

Thus it was with a long silence and furrowed brow that Tristan searched in vain for the answer to Koksun's question that would prove Tristan to be in the right. But truth be told, as much as he esteemed logic and reason, he held his instincts on equal, perhaps higher footing, and his instincts told him that as sure as the sun rose and fell each day in the sky these konulans would betray him.

Tristan then riposted by telling Koksun that, while they had not betrayed him yet, that was merely because they had been too busy to do so. He had had them scouring Sodorf for years watching for the knighting of a Sodorfian commoner, and he had often allowed them to work in small teams, which allowed them to serve a useful purpose and still satisfy their insatiable desire for endless, vacuous chitchat. Without a new mission for them, Tristan feared their lack of purpose would render them more unruly and result in large reunions of these creatures, as a result of which so much hullabaloo would occur it would be hours, rather than days, before humans discovered this talking bird species, discovered everything they knew about Tristan, and employed them towards their own ends.

Tristan explained to Koksun that with these birds one could not wait for a single rebellion to then confirm their treacherous nature, as a single act of rebellion would be quite sufficient to bring an end to all he had worked so hard for over the past centuries.

This debate had continued between Tristan and Koksun almost endlessly, much like a debate might proceed between two impassioned scientists never able to convince the other of his superior theory.

Finally, after the Bloodbath of Platz, as the battle near Arbeitplatz had been named, Tristan had told Koksun: "I believe you have been right, as nearly always you are. The konulans have remained worthy allies. I believe they have served me admirably and deserve a respite. I have therefore ordered them to fly to the far northwest of Dachwald and to enjoy a year of much-deserved leisure before returning to resume their services."

Koksun had nearly clawed his master out of indignation for such a ridiculous course of action, but with his double instinct as a Metinvurian spy and a feline, he knew decisively those rare occasions when Tristan did not wish to hear his counsel, and he knew that on those occasions it was best to remain as mute as a statue, which he had done.

What Koksun had observed at that moment was a man nearly unraveled from the threads of sanity that secure a man's soul. His eyes were gleaming, he was nearly trembling with excitement, and he had promptly removed himself from Koksun's presence to the other side of the bookshelf, which divided his abode in half.

Tristan, in fact, had done more than dispatch the konulans afar. He had committed the killing of Istus's small family and set in motion the doom that otherwise likely would not have befallen him. Upon seeing the chatty creatures after the Bath at Platz (as it was referred to in shortened form), his instincts had told him that they would somehow sabotage his seemingly inevitable march south to Sodorf and Dachwald's long-awaited glory. But not wanting to rid himself of these creatures permanently—should he later have a change of heart, which the small thread of sanity left of his mind told him he probably would have—he decided it would be best to use a less-permanent measure.

After all, he figured, they could do no harm within Dachwald, which was solely his possession now. Should they seek to do mischief in Sodorf, it would be much later, and it would only be months before Sodorf was firmly in his grasp. Then, he could take the time needed to lower himself calmly from the clouds of ecstasy he was floating on down to the level valley of reason and make a calm, rational decision concerning the fate of the konulans, once he was the firmly established, yet invisible, dictator of both Sodorf and Dachwald lurking behind the façade of a representative government.

Chip knew not of these anxieties that plague men who see the world as their chessboard. All he knew was that, in spite of all the fun the konulans were having in this far-off place, there really couldn't be too much harm in exploring on his own for a little while.

So, without taking leave of his pals, he began to fly south, surveying the beautiful mountains as he went. He didn't get too close to their peaks, because he noticed that whenever he tried the cold bite those dreadful mounds produced sent a shiver through his thin feathery coat that inspired him to keep his distance.

Unlike many of the konulans, who either had a spouse or children to tend to, Chip was a single bird. Truth be told, he had been feeling somewhat resentful—in fact, immensely resentful—after Laura, the girl he had hoped to impress yesterday by performing an aerial maneuver where he dropped hundreds of feet while spinning around like one of those terrible storms they saw occasionally, had snubbed him.

She had smiled at him, but when Max brought her a worm the size of a small tree branch, she had put it into her mouth with avaricious delight, and together she and Max had brought it to the nest of Laura's parents, who were tending to a rather ravenous brood. Laura's parents had smiled approvingly at Max after Laura told them Max had found the worm. And when their ornery hatchlings were still munching away on the luscious worm flesh the next day, having saved the parents the dreary task of flying back and forth to their nest all day with worms the little devils would wolf down in one swallow, they had looked at Max with admiration.

Chip knew Laura was his no more, and he had decided that maybe he had had enough of them for a while. To Chip, it seemed it never ended. First, there would be a huge celebration because someone gave birth. Then, another celebration because someone got engaged. Then, another celebration because there was a pretty sunset. Chip was finding himself growing more and more dissatisfied with these reunions, and whereas other konulans struggled mightily over who would get to accompany whom on their long missions spying for Master, Chip always savored those solo flights where no one wanted to fly with him.

Chip knew why no one liked to fly with him. He was quick to give a "Shush!!" or even a nip with his beak whenever those flying with him opened their mouths. He knew how it had been in the Old Days before Master had grown soft. In the Old Days, talking was a capital offense, carried out by that wise, yet terrifying, creature the konulans simply referred to as Black Demon.

Chip knew Master's intelligence far exceeded his own, and orders were orders, so he had kept his grumblings to a minimum even on the inside and had most certainly never voiced a complaint to the other konulans about it. But it had been almost too much to bear to watch them celebrating over the fact their persistent disobedience had earned them . . . not severe punishments, which they thoroughly deserved, but instead . . . a relaxation of the rules! If not for his undying respect for Master, he would have voiced the most vehement objections. He had disliked his fellows sufficiently before The Great Relaxation, as he called it, but had come to thoroughly loathe them after it.

He had been somewhat crushed the day he had humbly presented Master with the news of a man of common birth in Sodorf having been knighted, due to not having received some sort of praise from Master, but after careful thought it made him admire Master all the more. After all, what had he done but his duty?

The other konulans had congratulated him heartily, but he knew their true thoughts. They envied him and hated him for having been the one to discover, on a solo flight, what they most certainly would have missed even if it had happened right under their beaks, as they would have been engaged in the most trivial gossip.

They had been in the far corner of Dachwald for some time—how long he was unsure—but he knew of one thing: It had been too long. He yearned for another task from Master. He suspected, deep down, that Master had gotten rid of them because he could no longer tolerate them. And that would have been most justified. But—and at this thought Chip's wings trembled slightly as they cut through the chilly air hundreds of feet above the forests below—he felt that perhaps Master needed him. He was different. Much different. It would be risking life and wing at the mouth of Black Demon to approach Master unsolicited, but he felt that preferable to the ongoing dreariness of his life with his fellow konulans.

Chapter 10

As Chip began to near Master's lair, his heart thumped viciously inside its small chamber and not solely because of the nearly ceaseless flying he had done over the last several days but also because of the great apprehension he had in arriving to Master unsolicited. In fact, not just arriving unsolicited but in outright disobedience, something that gave him an additional shudder every time that dreadful realization came upon his mind like the specter of some coiled viper outside his nest poised and ready to strike.

But there was yet another reason for worry on top of these valid woes. An inexplicable feeling had been knocking at the door of his mind. It had been infrequent at first but growing more and more persistent the closer he got to Master's lair.

He was becoming surer by the moment that Master was in some kind of dire dilemma and was in great need of his services. The thought of this emboldened him and caused his wings to beat ambitiously through the air, almost producing the well-known buzz of the bumblebee but falling slightly short of that regal sound. At first, this thought had caused him fear of rejection. He imagined his woe after Master berated him for returning early and perhaps fed him alive to Black Demon.

But the closer he got to Master's lair, he became so sure of Master's need for him that his anxiety became almost wholly composed of concern for Master.

Almost there! His heart soared as he saw the edge of the cliff, and he went diving over it doing the spinning-top drop with which he had momentarily impressed Laura before that no-good Max had stolen her admiration by presenting her with some ghoulish worm. As he spun around and around picking up speed, he realized he had better decelerate, as he was almost level with the cave's entrance. Arching his back and spreading his wings, he transformed the drop into an abrupt yet aesthetic upward arc, completing a semi-circle before then practically gluing himself to the wall.

What he saw nearly took his breath away.

He saw Master being hauled through the air by the talons of that majestic bird he had envied since as long as he could remember. This alone was nearly enough to put him into shock, but when he saw this insolent bird throw Master into his abode like some unwanted parasite he almost plummeted down to earth with all the graceless clumsiness of a human. His heart sank only deeper when he saw this treacherous bird call out dozens of fellow conspirators who hove into view and blocked the exit to Master's home.

Oh, how he wished in that moment for their endless wingspan, their razor-sharp talons, their crushing beaks! He would have fought them all valiantly, and had he taken out one or two of the treacherous fiends in defense of Master, death would be but a small sacrifice to pay for so worthy a contribution. But alas, his tiny wings, his harmless claws, and his tiny beak, all suited for lesser conquests, such as the killing of worms and grubs, rendered such worthy ambitions ill-conceived folly.

His profound despair soared to heights of ecstasy when he saw the clear sky turn unnaturally fast into angry storm clouds and even more-furious lightning bolts that tattooed the sky with angry geometric designs. Nonetheless, he tucked himself more tightly into the small nook of the cliff wall, hoping not to be zapped to dust by one of these awesome lightning bolts, yet still affording himself a view of the action, hoping against hope he would see one of these traitors exploded into powder.

But he soon saw that these villains, while lacking in virtue, were not lacking in valor. They audaciously stormed the lair, and to Chip's immense disappointment, he soon saw the storm clouds dissipating. He was sure Master had met his end at the talons of these murderers.

But then . . . hope! He noticed the pholungs were scrambling around to various positions, and he quickly realized Master had escaped and they were watching to catch him if he tried to leave through one of his secret escape routes.

Had Chip been a connoisseur of the opera or the theater, he might have remarked to himself that this greatly excelled the most intense drama he had ever seen unfold. Alas, lacking in such analogies, he merely noted this was the most exciting, yet gut-wrenching thing he had ever seen.

Then, he noticed that a couple dozen of them, including the arch-traitor who had sacrilegiously launched Master into the cave, were flying south. This confused him momentarily, but then he quickly realized they must be summoning more traitors.

He was not mistaken, for several hours later he saw these fiends returning with humans riding on their backs and with boxes between their talons. To his horror he saw them put one box after another into Master's home, and then to his greater horror he suddenly saw Blackie (as he occasionally called "Black Demon") murderously flung from the lair.

A flood of mixed emotions engulfed his confused brain, as he saw the dreaded executioner of underperforming konulans go falling to what had to be certain death. Chip had often thought after The Great Relaxation that had it not been for this stern tool of justice, the konulans would have become intolerably unruly. Such an ignominious end for so noble a keeper of order seemed so morally wrong that Chip was inclined to weep.

But to Chip's delight he saw what appeared to be tiny sparks dancing along the pathway of this plummeting fur bomb, and his heart soared as he realized he had perhaps been wrong to conclude Blackie's fate was decided.

Then, without wasting time to think, he exited the safety of his small hideout and performed the same breathtaking aerial drop he was now beginning to find himself quite good at. He knew not what his ultimate aims were, but he figured the least he could do was learn the fate of Blackie.

In spite of the rapidity of his descent, it was only barely that Chip caught sight of Koksun acrobatically moving amongst the tree branches, and before Chip fully had time to appreciate the marvelous survival of Blackie, he noticed he had voluntarily quitted himself of the protection of the trees and begun sprinting across the ground away from the cliff with a speed which not only challenged that of Chip's aerial drop maneuver but also warned him of some impending doom behind them.

With awe Chip watched the lithe creature's body move across the ground as if he were the one flying, rather than Chip.

Chip fluttered along watching Koksun with ceaseless admiration, as it appeared the cat had no limit to his reserves of energy, but what had previously been a moderate feeling of doom at the cat's ceaseless velocity was becoming more ominous by the moment. Blackie was running from something.

Before Chip had time to contemplate the question further, he heard a loud answer to his queries:

BOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The noise alone disoriented him considerably, and at that very moment he would likely have fallen to the ground, but then a powerful wind pushed him forward, and he felt himself being flung through the air.

His wings no longer propelled him but attempted to control his trajectory as some other force thrust him forward with a vengeance. Before he could avert his path, he found himself slammed into a small hollow groove of a tree, where he lost consciousness.

Chapter 11

Koksun almost felt relieved when the blast came. His instinct for danger continually told him it would arrive at any moment, but as "any moment" stretched longer and longer like the lithe limbs of his flexible body reaching through the air and propelling him forward in such a way as to give a prize racing stallion a tutorial on speed, he was beginning to doubt his instincts.

But at the very moment he almost paused for a well-deserved breath, as he had been sprinting for what he calculated must be at least twenty minutes, he had heard the loud explosion, and his feline instincts had reasserted themselves, pushing him forward with one final push before the blast flung him forward like a rock launched from a catapult.

Already having been forced earlier that day to thwart the irresistible forces of motion, he quite grumpily—yet passionately—rose to the occasion again. He spread his four paws outwards like the wings of a bird and attempted to maintain his balance as he flew through the air with his tail acting as the ship's rudder.

When he did not feel rocks and trees smashing into his defenseless body, he breathed a strong sigh of relief, knowing he had gotten far enough away from the explosion to avoid a game of Dodge the Flying Tree and Boulder and was only being flung through the air because the tail end of the shockwave still had enough power to pick up twenty pounds and give it a good throw.

His relief ended, however, when he saw he was headed straight towards a rather large tree, which, while not being ripped from the ground, was bending forward severely, struggling mightily against the wind seeking to kidnap it from its beloved soil. Koksun braced himself for impact by arching his body upwards, paws still splayed out as if trying to reach the four corners of the earth, but pulled the four corners in as he neared the landing zone, preferring his paws be the unhappy tools of stopping his flight, rather than his soft underbelly, which he preferred to have caressed rather than battered by a large tree.

His paws hit the tree so hard they stung fiercely, and in fact he would have bounced backwards if not for the fact the tree was bent forward at just enough of an angle to allow him to hit the tree running rather than at a dead stop. He had little time to savor the success of his landing, as the tree then began to swing backwards, as the wind had relinquished its merciless push forwards.

Koksun's human attributes perhaps came in handy for the first time that day, as he did not have to wait and discover through direct experience that he was now essentially perched on a giant slingshot. He leaped off of the tree entirely and watched with admiration as it flung forward angrily back into its proper upright position, realizing that it certainly would have broken even the strongest of his grips and flung him fatally through the air.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and just when he thought for the first time in what was shaping up to be one rotten day he was going to be allowed the luxury of a catnap, during which he could mull his future prospects, he suddenly saw something else that the wind had flung along in its merciless rampage.

It was large, long, and coiled to strike. The viper's strike missed by mere inches as Koksun jumped into the tree and ascended its peak. He looked down cautiously, expecting to see the deadly serpent calmly winding its way around the trunk of the tree and climbing its branches with practiced calmness. It would have been a logical continuation of the miserable day he was having. But to his surprise and equal relief, the viper remained at the base of the tree, tongue flickering in and out of its mouth like a deadly arrow, with calm, slanted eyes perched on top of an ugly snout that seemed to tell him: Bet I can wait longer than you can.

Chapter 12

When Chip came to from the brief nap he had taken upon having his noggin rattled against the inside of the tree, he saw it was still daylight, but the sun had certainly made enough progress in its wearisome trip across the sky to let him know he had unmistakably had some shut-eye.

He flew out from the tree into the air, but the crash into the tree had left him a bit disoriented. He vaguely remembered having felt very motivated and alarmed but could not for the life of him remember why. Then, onto his tiny yet determined brain images began to fall like drops of water from an incipient rainstorm: flying south, leaving his chums, going to Master's lair . . . .

As soon as this particular image came to his mind the rest came crashing down upon him in an instant, and he recalled that it seemed the sole survivor of the pholung treachery had been Blackie, and he had been following Blackie but had been thrown off course after one very loud noise had produced a strong wind and pushed him forward with a strength that his wings could not resist in the least.

Must find him!! the thought shot through his mind like an arrow.

Thinking the journey ahead of him long and adventurous, he was quite surprised when seconds later, he noticed a horrific viper coiled and looking intently up a nearby tree. It had some quarry trapped no doubt, which safely ruled out the animal being a bird. And while a squirrel was a possibility, given that this tree was just slightly too far from any of its neighbors to allow for escape by leaping, his gut told him decisively that Blackie was in dire need of help.

He tilted his body ever so slightly, gave his wings a few good flaps, and in no time at all was hovering above the tree.

Having arrived here, he realized the next step would be a bit of an adventure. Although he was determined to find Blackie and see if Blackie could enlighten him as to just what in Kasani was going on, he realized that, whether he was Master's most faithful subject or not, it could not be without trepidation that he visited Master's chief executioner.

He circled around the tree, searching in vain, his eyes seeing nothing. He flew closer to the tree—as close as he dared; he did not want Blackie's presence confirmed by the lightning strike of a furry paw snatching him out of the air. Then, just as he was about to give up all the hope in his tiny heart, he saw him.

Nature has perhaps gifted no animal a superior ability than the feline to express the forlorn state of mind. There, perched comfortably near the very top of Mount Tree in what would have been an incredibly uncomfortable position for any living thing other than a lithe, limber cat, was Black Demon. His hunched shoulders, his drooping head, his lowered eyes (occasionally opening lazily to express the depths of sorrow emanating from the passageways of his pupils), and the occasional, mournful "meooooowwwww" perfectly told the tragic story of a creature woefully succumbed to his fate.

Seeing this oddly lifted Chip's spirits as he prepared to inform Blackie that he was not alone in this world and that perhaps—small though they might be—two might be able to perform what one alone could not.

Anxiety filling every facet of Chip's body, he alighted onto a branch some five feet away. This, he calculated, was just about the perfect distance to allow him comfortable space to escape should Blackie don the cap of Chief Executioner, yet close enough to permit a productive conversation without needing to resort to yelling. While he was quite confident the serpent below was one of the many dumb animals, he felt it imprudent to risk the contrary.

As Chip landed onto the small branch, causing such a small rustle that no human likely would have heard it, Blackie immediately exclaimed "Mow?!" in a brief, pointed inquiry, his superbly engineered ears perked upwards revealing he had lost no auditory senses during his rather rough day.

"No need to resort to animal talk, Mr. Black. We're both products of Master's handiwork and quite capable of intelligent conversation."

Koksun eyed Chip warily. He recognized him by sight, smell, and sound, for it had been he that told Master of the knighting. Only taste and touch remained . . . .

"I'm quite aware what you're thinking, Mr. Black, and I will prove to you that it suits neither your interests nor mine. One majestic leap from you, and you might snatch me with your razor-sharp claws, but in the process you might fall into the clutches of one far deadlier than you. You see, I chose this branch because if it bends ever so slightly underneath the humble push of my meagre weight, well, it won't so much as support yours for an instant."

This cogent reasoning snapped Koksun out of cat mode and into the realm of logic that he preferred.

"You say it suits neither your interests nor mine. In that, I believe you're right, but there must be something you believe does suit both your interests and mine. Otherwise, surely you wouldn't place yourself so near a potential predator."

"Precisely summarized. I want to find Master. You, I assume would like to be rid of that viper below us, for in spite of its dumbness, it poses a sufficient threat to keep you trapped here until you either starve or surrender to its stomach."

Koksun knew he needed a lot more than to get past this serpent. He needed a home, some kind, loving place where food was presented to him along with loving caresses. He had heard Tristan talk enough about these woods to know that he stood little chance in them. If freed from the threat of this viper, another animal would soon take its place. Thus, it was of little consequence if the bird—that is to say, Chip; after all, he knew his name, even if he did not normally deign to think the konulans as worthy of names—could somehow get him past this predicament, and he was doubtful as to whether he could even do that. Thus, he chose not to appear overly impressed by this first round of negotiations.

"My dear Chip, I must say I'm a bit offended, even if I can forgive a little chicanery in negotiations. You're offering so little. Once I tell you where Master is" (and at this moment Koksun realized how odd it was that a konulan was seeking out the very man who had sent the konulans away for a year and who would have killed them wholesale had Koksun not talked him out of it) " you will have no use for me. Then, there would be nothing to prevent you from abandoning me to the horrible fate that awaits below.

"I need two things, and you will give them to me before I tell you our Master's whereabouts," he said, hoping to arouse a feeling of camaraderie by invoking their mutual master.

"Which are . . . ?" Chip responded calmly, not intending yet to promise anything. He couldn't be sure Blackie wasn't one of the conspirators. After all, he had seen Blackie flung from the cliff but had not seen by whom.

"I need to get past the snake, and I need a home. I'm partial to that of a kind woman, preferably beautiful. Unlike you, birdie, I was born human, and I have an appreciation for the sight of the softer sex. While I can never again expect to know the beauty of love, I suppose I could settle for spending the rest of my days in a place where milk flows as plentifully as water and where I might nap comfortably in the lap of a beautiful owner, being coaxed to sleep under her soft caresses, and defending her house stoically from rats and mice."

Had Chip been a typical konulan, he would have fluttered about and marveled at the knowledge that Koksun had once been human, as many konulans had frequently speculated as to the origins of Black Demon, Black Beast, Chief Executioner, and the many other names by which they referred to him in terror. This gossip would have occasioned a party, during which the story would have been circulated no less than thirty times, and the story itself would have changed many hundreds of times, to the point where the legends of Koksun would have perhaps surpassed those of Master himself.

Not being a typical konulan, Chip merely blinked and grinned inwardly at this piece of intelligence he had obtained that none of the others would ever possess.

"Consider it done. I know how to dispatch this vile serpent, and I know the home of a woman so kind and so doting to her animals that you will perhaps thank heaven above you have been relieved of the burdens of mankind."

Had Koksun listened more closely, he would have paid particular attention to the plural noun that was used when "animals" were referenced and would have inquired what the other animals were. Alas, so great and comforting were the images of this paradisiacal abode that his attention wandered.

He almost dispensed with further negotiations, as his instincts told him he could trust Chip, and Chip clearly held a strong bargaining position, but Koksun's Metinvurian instincts could not be so easily expunged.

"You'll help me dispatch the serpent. Once you do so, you will lead me to the paradise of a home you have described to me. Halfway through our journey there, I will tell you where Master is. Betray me, bird, and there's no nest in this world you'll find safe to sleep in for the rest of your life."

This seemed reasonable enough to Chip. "Agreed," he replied laconically. But then added, "When you hear me say run, you'll be well-advised to do so." Without further ado, he quitted the tree branch and flew away.

Koksun gulped nervously.

Chapter 13

The viper had seen many things in its seven years. And amongst them, he had seen his share of birds . . . and eaten its share of birds. He had also seen his share of cats, but as of yet had not added that delicacy to the list of items he could truthfully tell his fellow vipers he had tasted. This he intended to rectify today.

But one thing he had never even seen was a cat and bird in such close proximity. He had seen felines stalking birds on many occasions, and he had assumed there was little goodwill amongst the two species. Thus, it had vexed his powers of comprehension terribly, as he watched the bird land so near its natural predator and proceed to make noises of the most unintelligible sort imaginable.

On and on, it seemed they would go bantering with one another—for the viper could not see any other purpose for predator and prey to converse if it were not to exchange witty barbs—with no chance of respite. When the bird suddenly left the tree, the viper expected at any moment to see the cat leap into the air, grab the bird, and then fall conveniently into the viper's coils, whereupon he would dispatch both of them with two quick bites and perhaps with just one bite if the bird had already found its way into the cat's mouth. But to his great confusion, the bird quit the tree, the cat stayed in its place, and it seemed as if he were going to have to wait an eternity before that cat would descend the tree.

Wanting to make sure the cat was still there he raised himself up several feet and peered with his eyes and flicked his tongue in and out of his mouth hungrily.

Chip knew this was the moment of truth. The first chance for application of his maneuver, which he now referred to as Cyclone, feeling a fondness for it as though it were his child. Having flown high into the sky and with the sun at his back, he was propelling himself down faster and faster and had the serpent in his sights. Seeing the serpent had raised its head up, he knew it was now or never.

He began spinning, wings tucked to his chest, eyes fastened firmly onto their target, beak stuck out like the tip of a spear.

WHACK!!

He crashed into the back of the serpent's head, tearing off a huge chunk of flesh and sending it into convulsions. Chip was flung onto the ground but felt himself no worse for wear, and he quickly ascended into the sky yelling, "RUN! RUN! RUNNNNNN!!!"

Koksun didn't have to be told twice. He climbed down the tree with the ease of a child running down the stairs, hit the ground sprinting like a cheetah, and only had a half second to notice that the serpent appeared mortally wounded and was thrashing about violently, blood spewing from its head.

As he propelled his body into high gear, he did find himself thinking that perhaps he had underestimated the tenacity of Chip to accomplish what he had set out to do. He had little time for philosophical reflections, however, as he realized there could be more snakes or other deadly animals lurking about anywhere.

As if Chip had sensed Koksun's question, he cried out, "Up here!" and Koksun turned and saw Chip flying twenty feet up in the air going in a different direction. Letting out a short, loud "Meow!" Koksun turned course, aligned himself to the direction of Chip, and began to sprint so quickly that it was almost Chip who struggled to keep up.

Chapter 14

Onward the two merry travelers ventured. More than once Chip had to divert Blackie to a tree for safety, as some formidable creature or creatures lay inconveniently along their pathway. On occasion, they extricated themselves from the dilemma—or, to speak more precisely, Chip extricated Blackie from the dilemma—by seeking the shelter of some nearby tree and waiting for the viper, bear, wolves, or other ferocious animal to pursue some other hapless prey.

But on more than one of these ventures, Chip was called upon yet again to dive from the sky like the lightning bolt of some invisible god, a maneuver at which he was becoming increasingly adept and confident. His valor was called to its severest test yet when a small pack of wolves surrounded Blackie.

Chip had already begun to form the habit of sharpening his beak against rocks while Blackie took his daily catnap. It now came to a rather vicious point, and Chip hoped to continue improving upon the project whenever time allowed.

From high above, he spotted the leader of the pack, came swooping down from above, and gouged the poor fellow's eye clean out of its socket. For the briefest of moments, he would have been vulnerable to a fateful swipe with a paw, but all the wolf's comrades were too shocked upon seeing a bird stuck beak first into the eye of their venerable leader to think about attacking the strange aggressor. A full second at most was all it took Chip to free himself and fly high to safety. The alpha wolf went running for shelter, lest another unexpected attack relieve him of the burden of his other eye, a mournful howl issuing from his soul like a tragic song escaping from a deep cavern. The other wolves followed closely behind.

As Chip and Blackie drew nearer and nearer their destination, Chip called a council.

"We're in fact much more than halfway there," said Chip calmly. "In fact, with good speed, I think we will reach our destination tomorrow. However, you will make that journey without your compass if you do not tell me where Master has headed." Chip felt a bit reluctant speaking so assertively with Blackie, but he knew it was now or never. If he delivered this ornery cat to a home full of milk and naps, he would have as much chance finding Master as he would an acorn dropped into the middle of the ocean.

Koksun looked at Chip slyly, but he knew that he had no choice but to relent. The bird had proven himself a noble protector, a role he could have as much expected as the moon and the stars dancing together and holding hands in perfect harmony. But he feared abandonment in the merciless wilds of this brutal land if he divulged the requested information.

"What do you want Master for?" asked Blackie, thinking it perhaps not wise to rid himself of the use of that term when speaking to Chip, who he could tell had a godlike reverence for Tristan. "Didn't he send you and all the konulans on a much-deserved vacation, in reward for all your hard work? Don't you think it would be unwise to approach him unsolicited? He might not welcome your arrival."

Chip shuddered. He did indeed worry about the ramifications, and his heart began to beat wildly in his chest, but he had made a resolution and was not to deviate from it. If he had second thoughts later, so be it. But he would mull those second thoughts over once he had the diamond of information he was searching, not while dickering with some rascally cat who seemed to be seeking to double-cross him.

"That's my business!" shouted Chip in a theretofore unknown tone of assertion, and he noticed Blackie recoil a bit at the blow.

"You'll tell me now," continued Chip, not feeling the slightest remorse at the effect his stern tone was having, "or you'll face the next viper, bear, or pack of wolves on your own!"

Metinvurs were noted for their ability at shrewd bargaining, but they also knew when not to overplay one's hand.

"Master had a tunnel going from his cave past the easternmost edge of Dachwald. It deposits somewhere deep in the forest near a border town in southern Selegania. I believe the name is Ringsetter."

"So you think he made it?" Chip asked, not hiding at all the cracking of his voice or the tear in his eye. Metinvurs were curious enough, but the double curiosity of a Metinvur and feline now tortured his soul in a way he had never thought possible. For the life of him he couldn't figure out what this fool-headed bird was so dead set on seeing Tristan for. He'd probably be rewarded for his troubles by being singed on the spot. For a moment, he thought about telling Chip that it was he who had dissuaded Tristan from killing all the konulans . . . and with no small effort, but he was a practical cat, and he realized that one more apparent diversion on his part would quite possibly be rewarded by the loss of his aerial guide.

Koksun gathered his strength, focused on naps and milk, and smothered his curiosity. "Oh, I'm quite sure of it. We both know Master's capabilities, don't we?" he said with a reassuring tone.

At this, Chip seemed to have had all his sorrows assuaged. Of course, he knew Master's capabilities! A feathery wing dried his eye, courage returned to his voice, and he said, "Off we go. Your new home awaits you!"

Chapter 15

Donive looked forlorn. Her comely brow was marred by the tinge of worry. She and Pitkins had had Their First. Not their first child . . . but it was precisely that issue at the source of Their First, that is to say, their first fight. No blows were exchanged. No furniture broken. Not even name-calling had poked its ugly head into their inviolate marriage yet.

But they had raised their voices—well, to be more precise, she had raised her voice, or to use perhaps greater exactitude she had roared like a lioness, but she was cutting these nasty details from her memory of events as quickly and efficiently as she was pruning impurities off the roses within her beautiful garden. Her Great Dane, Mervin, stood watch over his queen, gazing approvingly as she performed her delicate tasks with those instruments his large paws could have never handled, panting lazily in the cool afternoon air.

Donive was reconstructing the events in her mind until she would appear as beautiful, innocent, and defenseless as the rose currently the object of her attentions. Had she pursued the analogy further and noticed the subtle, yet quite capable, thorns of the beautiful plant, she would have realized that, although she bore much in common with it, this hurt rather than helped her case for defenselessness.

It had all started yesterday after what she thought was an otherwordly lovemaking session, at the conclusion of which she had said, "Pitkins, my dearest love, when will we have children?" The reader will take note that since time immemorial man has found the means to achieve the bliss of love without the agony of children.

Instead of telling her When you so desire, my love or When you say the word, my queen, as she had expected he would do, he had grown sullen. After a moment or two of silence he had told her, "Donive, I need a little more time. As you know, I lost my—."

"YOU STILL LOVE HER!!" she had screamed like a lioness, finishing his thought in paraphrased form. While Pitkins had naïvely thought that he was a seasoned man knowledgeable enough of the wiles of woman to carefully sidestep them in a caring, loving way and reconcile small misunderstandings before they became mountains, it was not until this moment that he learned that not even death could remove the specter of jealousy.

To him, it seemed as if his innocent invocation of the loss of his wife would have pacified Donive's increasingly fervent desire to have children, something that he too wanted, but not immediately. He needed to let her love wash away those wounds one day at a time, and then he would be ready, and he would gladly sire a whole houseful of children. Thus, it was much to his dismay that he learned that even the invocation of a deceased wife is to a living wife little different than the insertion of a shameless harlot into the marital bedchamber! Alas, while Pitkins may have had few secrets left to discover in the art of warfare or sword craftsmanship, the female heart still held many mysteries for him to unravel.

A tear danced down Donive's cheek as she thought about how cruel he was—to mention his deceased wife in their bedroom. Then, pangs of guilt stabbed into her gentle heart like knives, as she realized her selfishness. This angered her, since she suspected right was not perhaps entirely on her side, but after all he had asked her to marry him! Where were his all-too-painful memories then?! And upon discovering this inconsistency, she rejoiced inwardly, as if some invisible judge standing before her had just issued a verdict in her favor upon hearing that compelling argument.

But then the pain returned, since she didn't want to fight with Pitkins. She loved him so much, but she wouldn't stay young and beautiful forever, and she wanted a family and—

"Grrrr . . .. WO-WO-WO-WO!!" Mervin interrupted her reverie. He had risen to his full majestic height and stood on guard, ready to spill his last drop of blood for his blond queen. He had smelled something all right.

Donive felt grateful at the distraction from her never-ending analysis but felt alarmed as to what it could be that alarmed Mervin. It had, after all, not been long since the Battle for Sodorf.

"WUFFFF!" exclaimed Mervin, as if to let his queen know he still stood watch and that the danger had not yet passed.

Suddenly, out of nowhere the tiniest, most innocent-looking little konulan she had ever seen (for Donive was quite learned in the study of birds) come flying straight at brave Mervin, only to divert at the last moment and go flying between all four legs.

"BOWWW-WOWW!" he exclaimed more in embarrassment than anger and turned tail to chase the poor thing that seemed almost to be deliberately toying with him. The cute, yet naughty konulan now flew in small circles, and Mervin boxed the air admirably, though missing with every jab.

"Mervin, you leave that poor bird alone!"

"WUFF!" he exclaimed, as if to say, But, My Queen, you realize not the danger!

Before she could scold the well-meaning beast any further, she felt something brush past her leg. She recoiled out of surprise rather than revulsion, for it was not an altogether unpleasant feeling.

She looked down and looking up at her with the most innocent eyes she could ever imagine was a beautiful cat, as black as night.

"Meowww," it told her sweetly.

She understood all at once. This cat had been chasing the poor bird. She turned and saw that Mervin was still boxing the air, rather than the bird.

"Now, that's a BAD kitty," she turned to scold the trespasser, wagging her finger. But when she turned she saw the cat lying on its back, all four legs splayed out, and his eyes looking at her even more innocently than before.

"Meowww," he (for she now had enough information to disabuse herself of using the generic "it") entreated her again.

And then she realized everything.

"Oh, you poor kitty," she said and began rubbing his belly. "Not a home in the world, abandoned by all," in a tone that was half-question, half-statement.

Koksun purred majestically, Mervin turned to see what his queen was doing (the bird had now disappeared), and he barked indignantly to see another in her arms.

"You be good now!" she chastised Mervin, and he promptly sat down on the grass as if to say, Those that are friends of My Queen are friends of mine.

Donive's nurturing instincts were temporarily satisfied by the poor creature she held in her arms, Pitkins would be ecstatic upon returning late from the shop to see that he would get the brief delay from fatherhood that he so desired, and all thanks to the imprisoned soul of a former Metinvurian assassin, whose organization had slain Pitkins' last wife and family and whose true identity would have made him the indefensible target of Pitkins' wrath, unsafe even in Donive's arms.

As the philosophers say, "Ignorance is bliss"!

Chapter 16

After Righty and Janie finished ending their love drought, Righty figured he better not rest on his laurels, since he knew he was not only a long way from being truly out of the doghouse with Janie, but he also hadn't even yet begun to think of a way out of the misery that had prompted his vicious cycle of ox-like work, bank-breaking liquor binges, and nasty events at home afterwards he would prefer to forget.

He turned to Janie. "Now, Janie, this isn't exactly easy for me to admit, but the truth is I'm just about as ignorant as a box of rocks. But you know me, and I'm real determined. Maybe if you were to teach me, I could escape from that hellhole of a job."

Janie looked at Richie warily. She'd love to do it, but she was afraid he maybe wouldn't take too kindly to her assuming the role of teacher. But what's the point of even trying to stay in this relationship if he's willing to work at it and you're not? she asked herself pointedly. Okay, another voice said, but just one whiff of liquor on his breath and we're sticking to The Resolution, and he's history.

"I'd love to, champ," she said flirtatiously, "but I've got to finish up dinner. Little Eddie's going to be home any minute now. In fact—" (she looked at the clock alarmed) "he should have already gotten home by now."

Well, that little fool of a kid's probably off drawing wizards somewhere. How 'bout we just forget about him? Righty thought to himself but said, "I'll go call him; maybe he's just playing with wizards or something. You know our boy," and chuckled good-naturedly.

Righty went outside and bellowed Eddie's name at the top of his lungs and yelled for him to come inside. Janie had resumed cutting the ham she had been interrupted from a few hours earlier first to sharpen the knife, then to end The Great Drought.

Minutes later, Eddie came marching into the house rapidly, avoiding eye contact with all, and went straight to his room. Had it not been for Richie's presence, Janie would have been downright alarmed at this occurrence, but given the presence of the recently reformed Richie, Janie assumed Eddie must have been in fear for his life, seeing his dad at home so early, and had gone to his room to seek shelter.

Although this line of reasoning was far from flattering to Righty, it was how he also summed up Eddie's behavior. A knife may as well have struck him in the heart when he saw there were two shiners on Eddie's face. He figured one might be his, but not the other. Inside his mind, he reaffirmed his resolve to himself. He would change.

He looked at Janie, who seemed on the verge of tears. "I'm not telling you anything you don't know, but it's my duty to say it all the same. This is my fault. Every last bit of it. I'd go in there right now and try to straighten things out, but he needs some time. He needs to see I've changed. If I go waltzing in there right not, I'm just gonna scare the living heck out of him."

He would have continued, but Janie grabbed his arm softly yet confidently. "We're going to get through this together, Richie. I'll talk to him tomorrow while you're at work and explain everything. He'll come around."

Righty tried to think of something meaningful to say but couldn't. Instead he found himself fighting back tears and losing the battle. He marched briskly to his seat at the table with the same decisiveness with which his son had just marched to his room.

Chapter 17

Eddie had been surprised all right when he saw his dad there and even more surprised when he smelled no liquor on his breath. And triple surprised when he saw his mommy standing close to him in what looked like a comfortable manner, rather than recoiling in fear as she usually did.

But as dramatic as those events were and as big an impression as they would have made upon him under other circumstances, today they barely diverted his attention for more than the time it took him to blink his teary raccoon eyes. As powerfully as his dad unbeknownst to him had made a resolution, Eddie had made one of his own. But this was far less benevolent than a resolution to stop drinking alcohol as if it were water in the middle of the desert.

In fact, it wasn't benevolent at all. His resolution was that no one was ever going to bully him ever again in his entire life without paying the dearest of prices, and sadly for Big Timmy, Hairy Larry, Snobby Bobby, and plain old Brian, they were just going to have the resolution applied retroactively to them. Eddie had no qualms about ex post facto laws.

He took out a piece of paper he had . . . well, borrowed from the local college. A year ago he had been allowed in there during a field trip with his third grade class, and he had slipped away to check out the section on the occult. In the back of a book he couldn't have lifted had his life depended on it, he found some strange scrawling on a piece of paper. They were magical symbols, and he had carved several of them onto his magic staff so far, which he kept safe and sound way up in the Hideout, where it wouldn't fall into the wrong hands.

There was one in particular that he felt a strange, yet unmistakable, sensation of strength whenever he beheld it for long periods. He knew that tonight was going to be one of those long periods, and that tomorrow he was going to put it to a certain test. He focused, and he focused. And he focused.

Chapter 18

The next day at school, Timmy and the gang cackled up a storm when they saw Eddie's face.

"You did a real good job on him!" said Brian, laughing, and giving his congratulations to the esteemed leader of their gang.

"Naw, don't make it out to be more than it is," said Timmy humbly. "Like I said, just toughenin' him up a little. Like I aim to do with you if you want your nickname someday, Bri," Timmy added, giving a not-so-gentle punch to Brian's arm to make sure his young apprentice didn't think flattery was going to put him on the fast track for an honorable appellation.

Brian cringed a little at the mild rebuke from the alpha male of this group of misfits. It just seemed, no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to earn his bones, and he was beginning to grow a little weary of the long hazing process. Then, an ingenious idea struck him.

"Hey, let's get that little queer again today. He'll be expecting us, but I don't care if he goes all the way up to that gay little hiding spot he's got way up there in those damn trees. In fact, I aim to go up there and wreck whatever he's got even if he don't run up there!"

Big Timmy realized this was going to take a careful response. Snobby and Hairy were listening, and if Big said no, well, just how was that going to look? But if he authorized the mission, he'd be just about forced to give Brian a nickname. But that wasn't the whole problem. Truth be told, he kind of liked keeping Brian down at the bottom of the pack. His eagerness threatened him a bit, and he thought it would be convenient to make him keep struggling for that nickname a little longer.

But there was a bigger problem; he knew he had only half convinced his fellows that it was for reasons other than sheer terror that he hadn't followed that weird little kid across that branch that the maniac didn't seem the least bit bothered by crossing. He had long since decided it would be best to make sure Eddie never made it very far up that tree because every time he made it that far and he had to come up with some witty excuse for not chasing him across that branch, he was going to lose the respect of his gang little by little.

But Brian had offered to do just that. If Brian did that, he would do worse than earn a nickname—he would be outright entitled to choose his own nickname. None of the gang had ever dared pursue Wizard Boy beyond that branch, and to do so would be to ascend dangerously high in the gang's hierarchy, by Timmy's calculations.

Truth be told, if Brian walked across that branch, scurried up that tree, and then wrecked Wizard Boy's tree house, the leader position itself of this gang might be up for grabs, and the very thought of it caused Timmy to shudder.

But he couldn't back down; that was gang leader suicide. He realized his only hope was to consent to the mission, hope it failed, and, if it didn't, give Brian a so-so nickname and make sure to downplay the mission as much as possible.

"Sure, if you feel like chasin' that queer all the way up there, be my guest," Timmy said with a fake laugh.

"Well, I will then," Brian returned. "And I'll get my nickname, Tim." Had the following distraction not occurred, Timmy might have belted Brian right then and there. Acceptable names for the gang leader were Big Timmy, Big, and Timmy, in order of decreasing favorability. For reasons he didn't know, he found "Tim" just a little too familiar for this ambitious young social climber to address him by.

But at that moment, Eddie turned around and looked at all four of them, then looked away. It wasn't a threatening look or a mocking look. But it was a look. Wizard Boy had never before in his life dared to turn around in his desk and look right at these toughs.

"Somethin' catch your attention, Wizard Boy?" Timmy asked.

No response.

"Get back to work, Timothy, or you'll be writing lines after class!" fired Mrs. Reichart.

Timmy complied but not before giving a surreptitious look and nod of approval to Brian to let him know that Mission Nickname had received the all-clear.

Chapter 19

Eddie was more afraid than he ever had been in his life, but his resolution was still ironclad inside his mind. He knew what he had to do. The first thing was to run faster than Timmy and the gang to the tree, something he had not done so well at yesterday. After that, well, he knew what it was, but he didn't even like to think about it himself, as if perhaps even the very thought might wander outside of his head and betray itself to the pack of wolves located about four desks behind him at Ringsetter Elementary.

Waiting for the bell made his mind wander to what a soldier must feel like waiting for the order to commence an attack against a formidable army. His stomach was in knots, his hands trembled, and he felt a deep agony inside his soul. Don't think about quitting on me, he told himself.

After what seemed like two consecutive eternities, Mrs. Reichart added to the music of pencils scratching paper, pages shuffling, seats creaking, and an occasional whisper with the joyous sound of her bell, letting the class know either that a day of erudite study had come to a sad close or a day of mind-numbing torture had come to a long-awaited end, depending on the perspective of each student.

Eddie knew he had to make the most out of his head start today, much more than he did yesterday; that was for sure. He walked out of the class briskly, but not so much so as to draw too much attention from Mrs. Reichart—although, with two raccoon eyes, avoiding her watchful gaze was not completely possible.

But once he made it out of the school all bets were off. He had kept all his books in his desk today; something he had never done before, except on the last day of the school year, when everybody left their books there to leave them for the students who would replace them upon being promoted a grade—that is, everybody except for Timmy and the gang. That would be the one day they would take some books home from school, for the purpose of either trying to hawk them at a book store or set them on fire or some other laudable pursuit.

Eddie knew all four of those boys were faster than he was, so if he wanted to have even a snowball's chance in a frying pan of making it there, it depended on making the most of his head start. He knew the four bullies wouldn't start running in earnest until they had left the school and the watchful eyes of Mrs. Reichart, which sometimes followed them even after they left the building, depending on her suspicions that particular day.

He ran like a gazelle that knows a pack of wolves is behind it. He paid no attention to the stitch he could already feel in his left side or the woodpecker-like pounding of his heart inside his tiny chest. He had one thing in mind and one thing only—making it to that tree before the other kids or dying in the process.

By the time he made it to the trail leading to the tree, he could hear them behind him yelling, "Special friend! Come back! We just wanna talk! Hahahahaha!"

He could hear them gaining on him, as he knew they would.

Faster, faster, faster, FAAASTER!! he commanded himself, as if he were the driver of a group of racing stallions, whip in hand, and lashing them mercilessly to push themselves to the limit.

He could hear the CHOMP-CRUNCH-CHOMP-CRUNCH of the feet behind him cracking small twigs underneath their feet as they approached their quarry, his heart beat mercilessly in his chest, but the tree was drawing closer and closer. He could see it quite clearly, and he grew tunnel vision, focusing on that and only that and pushing himself harder and harder to the point he almost felt he was floating outside his body and watching himself run. It felt like his body was two hundred degrees, and sweat poured from his brow like water from a pitcher.

"Hhhhhu, hhhhhhhhu, hhhhhhhu," he panted desperately.

He could hear the leaves being stomped on behind him.

"GET HIM! GET HIM! SPECIAL FRIEND'S ALMOST AT THE TREE!!"

But Special Friend was at the tree. He threw his bag off, leaped through the air like a monkey, and grabbed the first branch.

He felt a hand close around his foot, but unlike yesterday, he pulled with all his might with his arms while simultaneously lifting his leg powerfully towards his chest, and felt some devilish hand lose its grip.

He knew the battle wasn't over by a long shot but rather entering its opening phases. He scurried up the tree, practically jumping from one branch up to another with a rapidity that would have caused a squirrel to take notice, but all the squirrels had sought cover at the sound of the small army approaching them.

As he reached the Pathway, he felt himself nervous as he trod its arm, which today for the first time seemed like a terribly skinny arm. That was because today he knew something different was going to happen.

Pushing his fear aside, he proceeded to walk across.

Timmy was perhaps the only one who shared Eddie's angst, although for entirely opposite reasons. While Eddie sought survival against this gang of hyenas, Timmy sought survival as leader of that gang. Timmy looked up maleficently, hoping that Eddie came out on top . . . just this one time.

Eddie turned around. There, glowering at him like some kind of small demon, was Brian, his eyes practically shining with a combination of hatred, ambition, and sadism.

"Hi, Ed. Wanna show me that tree house you got up there? I bet you got a lot of real cool wizard drawings up there."

Ed stood halfway across the branch, facing Brian, who had not yet stepped onto the Pathway.

"Sure, I don't mind," Eddie said calmly.

This seemed to baffle Brian's mental faculties, as he momentarily lost his glowering stare and looked confused. Then, it returned with all its horrible smugness, and he said, "You suuure, Eddie boy? I mean to tear that thing to pieces!"

This brought out a chorus of snickering from the gang below.

"Mmmmm, okay. I was thinking of rebuilding that old thing anyway. It's kind of run down."

This again baffled Brian, who realized that perhaps he had better try a more physical approach to dealing with this rung on the ladder to his notoriety.

As he prepared to step foot onto the waist-sized branch, he found himself wondering how this nerdy little kid could walk onto it so confidently, but he realized that he was losing face fast and that he better do it now or never.

Taking that first step onto the branch away from the comforting refuge of the tree trunk was like taking a step in pitch darkness next to a cliff. He half expected the branch to snap underneath his weight the second he stepped on it and go crashing to the ground with him and Wizard Boy on it together.

But he knew that Timmy had been too scared to do it and that Timmy probably hated him for even taking this first step, and the resentful joy he got from realizing how much Timmy probably hated him right now gave him the courage that ambition alone could not.

Nonetheless, this newfound joy was put to the test as he took his second and third steps, and then he found he suddenly felt just as hopeless as he did at the first. He tried to summon to his mind again the hatred Timmy must be feeling for him right now, but for some reason, rather than helping him, it simply served to remind him of the folly of what he was doing. After all, if Big Timmy wouldn't walk out onto this branch, there must have been a good reason for it, right? he asked himself.

His mind returned to his ambition, and he took a fourth, then fifth, then sixth step. He was getting nearer and nearer Eddie, and he realized he had long since passed the point where cowardice or prudence could lead him to safety by a step or two backwards. He was in the thick of it now. There was no turning back.

His knees felt like water, his head felt dizzy, and his stomach wanted to throw up. But, somehow, he convinced himself he must play the role he wished the world to see.

"I SAID I'm gonna TRASH the place, Wizard Boy!" he reminded Eddie, with an evil gleam in his eye.

"I know. And I SAID great because I was planning on rebuilding the whole thing."

"You ain't gonna rebuild nothin' unless I say so," Brian said, half-growling.

Two feet of empty, defenseless space stood between him and Eddie.

"Well, move aside then. Let's go tear it down together," Brian said. While trying to still play the role of a toughie, his voice had taken on the slightest hint of a diplomatic tone, one that he hoped was lost in its sixty-foot journey down to the gang below watching the play.

"Naw, you just said you weren't gonna let me rebuild it unless you say so. I ain't tearin' it down, unless you say we'll rebuild it . . . today."

Brian was confused. He didn't know why he was dickering with this little runt, and it was probably not impressing the gang below all that much. But he wasn't sure just how to move this little turd from his way. Nonetheless, he didn't in the least like the calmness he could see in Eddie's face and eyes. They stared right at him as if looking through his soul.

"What – you making' the terms now are you, Wizard Boy?!" and at that moment he rushed forward to push Eddie.

Eddie stepped back calmly; Brian's arms pushed empty space. His weight leaned forward, and he felt himself starting to move more and more forward. The next thing he knew he was swimming his arms through the air as if he were within some invisible pool that no one else could see. Alas, he was not.

He fell face forward onto the branch, receiving a nice lump on his head, and he almost managed to grab onto the branch as he slid sideways. He found the branch was just too wide to grab onto with his hands. The next thing he knew he was finding out first-hand the different way birds and humans experience gravity.

"AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" he shouted with a blood-curdling cry as he began falling through the air.

Timmy didn't know whether to feel ecstasy or sympathy, but his adrenaline was pumping through his veins in a way he'd never felt before. His knees felt weak, and he thought he was going to get sick.

All four of the gang watched in horror as time seemed suspended. Down and down and down Brian fell, still swimming with his arms desperately, searching for that water he just couldn't seem to find.

Then, came the inevitable reunion with terra firma.

CRUNCHHHH!!!! He landed mostly on his right leg, and the femur poked its nose right out of his skin like a snake emerging rapidly from a hole in the ground. His ankle on the same leg snapped like a twig. And as he fell to his side and stuck out his arm in one last swimmer's stroke, the elbow snapped in two, and a bone mimicked his leg bone by poking out through the skin. His right wrist, not to be outdone by his right ankle, snapped loudly. He completed the performance by landing hard on his right ribs, smashing several of these and knocking the wind out of his body in a way that made Eddie's loss of air the day before seem like a mere sigh.

For a moment, all was quiet. It was as if a dramatic scene had just occurred at the town theater and the audience was too dumbstruck to speak.

"Hhhu . . . hhhu," Brian gasped weakly.

Timmy was in shock, Snobby was in tears, and Hairy was shaking like a leaf during a violent windstorm. It wouldn't be until later that these three scholars could properly contemplate what they had just witnessed.

"Is he okay?!"

It snapped them out of their reveries. They looked up and saw that the convincingly compassionate voice of Eddie had spoken. Somehow, in spite of its convincing tone, they each felt a chill run down their cowardly spines that told them they were in the presence of a terrifying monster, even though he was far away from them.

"Hhu-hhu-hhu-HELP!" Brian somehow managed to scream, snapping them out of their contemplation of the small kid up in the tree above them. This effort then brought out a low moan of pain from Brian that momentarily made even Timmy feel sympathy.

"He's right, guys; let's go get help!!" Timmy announced, and they turned tail and ran.

As Timmy ran, perhaps faster than he ever had before in his entire life, he knew he wasn't putting even half of that effort in for Brian but rather because he somehow felt that, stupidly or not, there was a creepy presence coming from Eddie. Timmy half expected to feel a finger on his neck at any moment and turn around to see Eddie there saying, Where you goin'? I thought we were gonna work on my tree house?!

But, on the one occasion he dared look back, he didn't see anybody following them.

Chapter 20

Tristan was in the dumps. He had lost his second bite at the apple, and he knew it was his last. He had taken an elixir for centuries that prolonged his life, but while it did slow the roaring flood of aging to a slow trickle, even the slowest trickle eventually forms a large pool. And while he had amassed incredible knowledge throughout his centuries, he had nowhere near the raw power he once wielded. A century ago, he could have flung all of the traitorous pholungs and smashed them against the cliff.

Successful wizards accomplished at least one grand objective in life apart from leaving behind a highly trained apprentice who could carry on the goals and the philosophy of that wizard. He was going to be a double failure. He had long ago chosen as his grand objective the absolute conquest of Sodorf but had failed. And he had never chosen an apprentice.

He thought many times throughout his long journey through the dreary passageway that he should end it all, so that he could end honorably, as General Sivingdon had almost done when he was to be used as a scapegoat by the cowardly king of Dachwald. He had chided General Sivingdon because he needed him, but he had inwardly lauded Sivingdon's intended course of action.

As he mulled over this gloomy topic, a strange awareness began to grow inside of him. He had ignored it vociferously at first, thinking that perhaps his imagination was seeking to placate him with fanciful hopes, but as it grew stronger and stronger, he knew it was not his imagination at all but something very real.

Someone was calling him.

It grew louder and louder until he could almost see the person's face. He focused, as he journeyed onward, and during what he had intended to be a well-deserved nap he fell into a deep sleep that lasted for days. He saw a boy in a dark place chanting phrases few men had ever heard before and doing so with a power and a focus that gave him a chill even though still asleep.

As he plodded onward, he now knew he could see the boy's face so clearly in his mind he could spot it in a crowd of a thousand. As assurance grew to confidence and confidence to certainty, a renewed vigor entered his step, and he resumed taking his elixir. He might have failed at his grand objective, but perhaps he could still leave a successor.

Chapter 21

"Very good."

It was a calm, non-threatening voice, but it startled Eddie so badly he nearly found himself on his way towards meeting Brian in a bone-shattered heap on the ground below.

He turned but saw nothing.

"Up here."

He looked up but still saw nothing.

"Don't be stupid!" the voice sounded angry now, and he supposed he knew why. He knew where the voice was coming from—why did he pretend otherwise?

Scrambling like a monkey, he began climbing up the tree. Branch after branch disappeared beneath him as he headed upwards towards the Hideout. When he got there, he saw an old man sitting calmly.

"That's right. You followed your instincts. You're learning a lot about that, aren't you Ed."

"Yes, sir," he responded, not asking any stupid questions like How'd you know my name? Eddie knew well enough how this man knew . . . or at least thought he did.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" he asked dumbly.

"What you just did—you knew who, or at least what, I am, which is why you didn't ask, but then you started to doubt yourself. Most people would do well to doubt themselves a great deal, Ed. Their intuition is as strong as a dandelion. But not yours. You trusted it today. That's why Brian there didn't get his nickname today but instead will be lucky to survive till nightfall, and if he does, he'll be lucky to walk normally again. Had you not followed your instincts—had you doubted yourself for a second—it would be you there on the ground."

Eddie simply nodded. His instincts at this moment told him it would be wise to do a whole hell of a lot of listening and very little talking, an art he had cultivated and fine-tuned under the tutelage of his explosive father.

"But only follow your instincts when they are certain. Weak instincts must be subjected to the rigorous scrutiny of logic. There will be many times when you have to ask questions. My point to you a moment ago was only that you shouldn't ask questions you know the answer to."

Encouraged by the license the strange visitor had just given him, Eddie asked, "Do you always know what people are thinking?"

"Up close, usually. When it happens from afar, it's something special. I heard your thoughts many miles away, and that was when I knew you were going to become my apprentice. I gathered the information about your tormentors both by watching their actions and reading your thoughts about them. You had analyzed them perfectly.

"I've been watching you for some time, Ed. I watched yesterday when those friends of yours gave you a real drubbing. I almost gave up on you at that moment, but I sensed a fire in your spirit. I see I wasn't wrong. There are many things I have to teach you."

Eddie nodded his head eagerly. The man in his dreams had come.

Chapter 22

"I tell you, sir—servants are like horses; if you don't beat them every once in a while you can't expect to get much in the way of respect," announced Ambassador Rochten to a well-bred gentleman named Lord Hutherton, relating to the lord the difficulty he had exacting perfect compliance from his servants on the long journey from Sogolia to Selgen, the capital city of Selegania.

"It is an aphorism that cannot properly be disputed, good sir," said Lord Hutherton approvingly of Rochten's insights. "That is why I never leave the house without this," he said, pointing to a riding crop that attached conveniently to his finely polished leather boots, "which I find works on the backs of obstinate horses and recalcitrant servants alike."

The men shared these deep insights inside Selgen's Gentlemen of Selegania Club, whose coveted membership was only obtained by the most illustrious of Seleganian society. Orchestra music perfumed the air, rare whiskeys and wines floated around on silver trays carried by well-dressed waiters, and women bereft of the burden of clothing danced upon the stage.

"Tell me, good fellow; how are things politically these days in Sogolia? It's been years since I've travelled there."

"Well, we're not all so thrilled about this military participation as of late. Of that I can assure you! This fellow Pitkins, a disgraced former Nikorian general came and convinced our fine king—and long live King Valen!—to permit thousands of our brave soldiers to go engage in some military adventurism in that second-rate country of Sodorf. Hmphhh!

"And then once they saved the necks of those nitwit Sodorfians by giving the Dachwaldians a good drubbing, the Dachwaldians turn around and ask for protection! And they get it! Several thousand of our fine soldiers now make up part of a defensive force in Dachwald to help them while they recover. What, good sir, may I ask, is this world coming to? It is not as if we don't have our own worries, you know! Metinvur lies to the north, and heaven knows they're always scheming about.

"Well, Dachwald started the damn war; let them face the consequences if they get invaded while they rebuild their god-forsaken country! It's all due to the influence of that Pitkins fellow! He's a cocky one, let me tell you. First, he's found guilty of treason—and that verdict still stands in my court, if you will permit the metaphor—and then he returns and asks the king for soldiers!"

"It was my understanding—while perhaps incorrect—that his name had been cleared in the matter."

"So they say; so they say. But if you ask me, where there's smoke there's fire, and if it turned out that one of the pieces of evidence against him was rigged, well, I'm sure there were plenty more pieces of evidence just waiting to be found!"

"It's all very interesting," responded Lord Hutherton, "and I'll have to ask your most merciful pardon, but I've had a long, rather dreary day, dealing with tortuously mundane matters at the Senate. There's a vote to be had soon, and as if the bill were not painful enough to parse through, I've got representatives from various competing concerns vying for changes in the wording. There's a lot of money at stake, and I don't hope to make enemies of the vanguards of industry, but in this case their interests are too conflictive. I'll make enemies of all if I'm afraid to make enemies of none." And having said this, he let out a sincere yawn that seemed to originate from the very marrow of his soul.

"Oh, forgive me, dear sir, for boring your already fatigued mind with such trivialities. Please take a complimentary gift from King Valen's court," he said producing a small, handsome box and handing it over to Hutherton. "The king's finest botanists have recently discovered what appears to be the very nectar of the gods. The botanists call it calinus ominesferus. We mere mortals call it Orgone."

Not wanting to insult Lord Hutherton by forcing him to ask humiliating questions that would reveal his ignorance as to the meaning of Orgone (a form of energy), or as to how to consume this nectar of the gods, the fine ambassador produced his own box, extracted a small gold tube from a dainty coat pocket that seemed made precisely for holding the instrument in question, placed a small portion of a green powdery substance onto the table in front of him, stuck the tube up his left nostril, and performed the quickest disappearing act Hutherton had ever seen.

His body seemed to make a brief, delightful shudder. "There, I think I'll have energy until at least dawn, should I not choose to mellow the ride with brandy," he said smiling.

Then he looked slyly at Hutherton and said, "You may find this takes a bit of the dreary sting out of your tasks tomorrow."

Lord Hutherton went to bed early that night and had a modest amount of energy this morning, but it seemed that with each clause and subclause and sub-subclause that he read, he kept hearing the ambassador's words ringing in his head: You may find this takes a bit of the dreary sting out of your tasks tomorrow.

Every second that went by, it seemed as if the words were being repeated more and more frequently and more loudly, while the mind-numbing words of the proposed legislation tortured both his eyes and his brain.

"Excuse me," he said suddenly to a subordinate, and then exited the room, headed towards the gentlemen's room. The kind ambassador had been so magnanimous as to give him one of those attractive tubes—which, while not made of gold, was made of a fine silver—and as Lord Hutherton sat down inside a stall, he quickly produced the box of Orgone. He hadn't had the foresight to bring a flat instrument with him, so he pinched out a little of the powder and placed it into his right palm, pulled out the silver tube, stuck it in his right nostril, and inhaled.

For a second, he felt nothing and wasn't sure if perhaps the fatigue of his taxing labors had rendered his mind unreceptive to any form of assistance, no matter how potent.

Then, like an avalanche at full speed roaring down a steep mountain slope, it hit him.

"Wo!" he huffed in a most undignified gasp. It suddenly felt as if he were flying around the room, looking down on himself and all around him from above. His heart began beating rapidly; his thoughts focused. It seemed as if millions of thoughts were entering his mind at once; and, like an angelic clerk rapidly sorting out the millions of prayers coming up to heaven, his mind was quickly filing and assorting his thoughts into their proper places as if the task were no more difficult than arranging a dozen eggs.

The bill started to seem incredibly simplistic to him now, and he suddenly realized how Lord Melgers, president of Melgers Mining Co.; Lord Childers, president of Steel and Copper Industries, Inc.; Lord Robbins, president of Selgen Bank; and a great many others all had parts of the bill that would benefit them. And as to those parts that did not, in a blink of an eye he envisioned three straight-forward options he could present to all of them, giving them certain benefits and concessions, arranged in order of greatest to least benefit, depending on which one lined his pockets the most generously.

While Lord Hutherton was just one amongst forty senators, he had an influential voice in the senate and knew he could attract at least ten votes at a minimum should he choose to do so, and that would probably be sufficient to tip the balance in favor of his . . . clients' preferences, as many of the senators were finding the task as dreary as he had been until moments ago and would probably be quite readily inclined to jump on board if they sensed the wind blowing in a particular direction.

With an energy and optimism he hadn't felt since being elected to the august senate body—something at the time he had believed would bring him immeasurable satisfaction and joy for the rest of his career—he marched back to the chamber where he and some aides were piecing together various proposals and counterproposals to the bill.

"Write this down!" he said, with a contagious and powerful energy in his eye. His dutiful aides, who had been as bored as he but better at hiding it, found his enthusiasm innervating and began transcribing their suddenly passionate master's words as quickly as their rapidly bobbing wrists would allow them.

Chapter 23

Big Timmy had a lot on his mind tonight. In fact, he had had a lot on his mind over the last several days. Poor old Brian had died. And it hadn't been a pretty death either. He had heard from his dad, who was pretty good pals with Brian's dad, a few of the gory details. Moaning, groaning, and coughing up blood until he suddenly gasped his last.

He never had gotten around to deciding what nickname he would give Brian if he pulled off the successful raid of that runt's tree house, and with no small amount of relish, he realized that it wouldn't have to trouble his mind any longer. Brian's dad was Big Timmy's dad's boss at a local furniture store, and while they were good pals, Timmy never felt too comfortable about the fact Bri's dad ("Bri" was as close as he ever got to a nickname, Timmy noted with sick satisfaction) was his dad's boss. It only served to increase his suspicions that Brian aimed to prove the maxim like father like son and unseat Timmy from his rightful place as head of the gang.

But Timmy aimed to make something out of himself, and he didn't like it too much that his dad seemed so comfortable working as a lowly manager for Brian's dad, who was the owner. Timmy had far bigger ambitions, and he knew that if Brian unseated him now, he would never be able to turn back that course of events, and he would probably end up working for Brian someday, a cruel fate he had been dead set on avoiding at all costs.

Thus, the death of Brian seemed like a harbinger of good things to come. There was no way Snobby or Hairy would ever dream of challenging his authority, and he could easily see those two louts working underneath him someday at his store. What kind of store he had no idea because Timmy wasn't exactly the most committed student, and he scraped by with Ds—or, if he really tried—Cs, but he was thinking that was going to change now soon. He saw a brighter and brighter future by the moment.

He had cried such impressive crocodile tears he was convinced he had not only persuaded his and Brian's dad of his intolerable grief, but that Snobby and Hairy had bought it as well.

"We were just playing, Mr. Ruggins. Brian said, 'Bet I can climb across that tree branch,' and off he went. We ne-e-ever thought ANYTHING like this was going to happen!" he had told Brian's dad. He smiled widely, as he recalled the memory. He had coached those two runts Hairy and Snobby about what had happened, from start to finish, and none of it involved a wizard-drawing weirdo named Eddie.

"We'll take care of Eddie ourselves soon enough," he had told them and convinced them it wouldn't be in their interests to let it be known Eddie was in any way involved. That could have led to Mrs. Reichart bringing it to somebody's attention, Brian's dad most likely, that she suspected Brian and some others had been bullying Eddie severely outside of school and that she thought maybe this whole matter ought to be looked into a little more closely before it was all deemed a tragic accident .

"I want it cut down!" Brian's dad had roared, grieving over the body of his lifeless son. "Some other kid'll fall off and b-b-b-break himself into pieces!" he had cried and then broken down completely into tears.

That was when the ingenious idea that currently occupied Timmy's mind this dark evening had been born. Cut it down? No, that wouldn't be too convenient for me just yet.

He knew somehow that very branch was going to be the means by which he took care of Eddie once and for all.

From his right hand dangled a saw he had swiped from his old man's shed before slinking away in darkness that would have been complete if not for the hauntingly full moon beaming above like a large Cyclops's eye. He was going to cut underneath that branch just enough to weaken it.

Let's see that creep's balancing act when the branch starts dancing!

Tomorrow, he was going to announce to the gang he'd just like to see that Eddie kid try the same trick on him because he was going to climb up that tree after him, march across that branch—come hell or high water—climb up to his tree house, and pulverize it in order to avenge Brian. He would then give Eddie one hell of a trouncing, and all would be made right in the universe.

And he knew his subordinates like a mother knows her children. They wouldn't dare miss out on a spectacle like that.

When that little creep Eddie went running across it, thinking all was going to be safe and sound, he was going to climb up after him and then watch the show.

He arrived at the tree.

Without so much as a second's hesitation, he grabbed the first branch (unlike Eddie, this required no acrobatic jump), and with the saw strapped to his back, he began climbing.

There was a chill in the night air, and Timmy wasn't sure if it was cold out or if it was because of the deed he was about to do. Swatting this bothersome thought like a mosquito on his arm, he proceeded upwards, a gleam in his eye as bright as that of the full moon above.

After several minutes, he reached the branch. Here goes nothin', he thought to himself.

He was directly underneath the branch, pulled out his saw, and began feeding wood to the sharp metallic teeth adorning the blade like a shark's mouth.

SI-SU-SI-SU-SI-SU-SI-SU

He swore vehemently as sawdust fell and entered his eyes. "Ah, you're gonna pay, Eddie boy," he told the inanimate branch and then wiped the sawdust out of his eyes furiously.

SI-SU-SI-SU-SI-SU-SI-SU

"It's a touching note you wrote."

The saw fell from Timmy's hand, nicked his arm but didn't break through the garment, and went clanging against just about every branch the tree had on its clumsy, unceremonious descent to mother earth.

A squirt of urine stained Timmy's pants, and a chill went down his spine like a splash of ice cold water.

For a moment, he wished his two runts were there so that he would have a better reason to play tough. Somehow, being without his mates seemed to drain his valor.

Nonetheless, he tried.

"Who's that?!" he asked stupidly, knowing the answer, but hoping he was imagining the whole thing.

"Should I read it to you?" the voice asked, ignoring Timmy's question.

"Look, Creepy Eddie; I don't know what you think you're doing up here. You killed Brian, and I covered for you. I told my dad and Brian's dad that Brian did it on a dare. Now, they said this branch had to be cut down, and I'm here CUTTING THIS BRANCH DOWN FOR MY DEAD FRIEND—GOT IT?!" he yelled. He had aimed for a tone of self-righteousness, but shuddered when he heard nothing but fear in his voice.

"I hope I put enough spelling mistakes in this to make it look like yours, but I realize the very fact this message is written might cause some to doubt your authorship."

"What are you talking about?" Timmy demanded.

"Dear Mr. Ruggins:

"I told a big li to you the other dey, and I'm ril sorry. Brians dead, and its my fault. I dard him to clime that branch. It wasnt hiz idea. I told him to do it, and hed get a nikname. Its my fault. Now, I cant fix it. Sorre, evrebode."

"Does that sound about like something you would write, or is it a little too apologetic? It might be a hard sell that you'd actually apologize. I brought a pen and some extra paper, if there's anything you'd like change. I wouldn't want to put words in your mouth."

"Listen, Eddie boy—I mean, Ed—you're an alright kid but just a little strange. That's why we pick on you. But, I tell you what, if you come out of wherever you're hiding and talk about this with me, maybe I'll let you join our club." As he said this, he pulled out a small pocketknife with his right hand and held it behind his back.

"It sounds like you're okay with the note's general content. You're not as picky as I thought you might be."

Suddenly, Timmy felt something wrap around his neck. It was a rope, and it was cinched tight. As Timmy's two hands went instinctively towards the noose that was now around his neck, the knife went clanging down the tree and joined its partner, the saw, on the ground.

Out of nowhere, Eddie emerged.

He was smiling, but it was a subtle smile. No big crocodile grin here, but an unmistakable pleasure was on his face.

"So, you say you might let me into the club?" Eddie asked.

Timmy bobbed his head up and down. "Yhee-e-es," he gasped.

"We were going to have a little meeting here tomorrow, weren't we?"

Timmy did his best to look confused.

"Is that what the saw was for?"

Timmy looked dumbstruck.

"Ah, what am I being so hard on you for, Timmy? After all, I've always been a special friend to you, and now you're going to let me into your club!" Eddie said with a strange smile on his face that looked sincere.

Timmy bobbed his head up and down rapidly. "Yes, yhhe-e-es, YEEES!"

"I accept," Eddie said.

For a brief moment, Timmy breathed an immense sigh of relief and began to imagine the thrashing he was going to give this creep as soon as he undid the noose from his neck.

Then, he noticed something terrifying in Eddie's eyes, and he realized he would be giving out no more thrashings to Eddie or anyone else . . . ever.

"Thanks, friend," Eddie said and then grabbed Timmy in a bear hug and jumped from the tree.

Timmy went swinging through the air with a new friend hugging him thankfully for admission to the club over which Timmy would no longer be presiding.

Chapter 24

It was another backbreaking day at the beloved lumberyard for Righty. But instead of dreaming about his glory days or the fourteen beers he was going to pour down into the bottomless pit of his stomach, he was thinking about . . . studying!

Over the past several months, instead of draining the liquor shelves at Toby's Bar each evening, he had been raiding the bookshelves in his wife's home library. When she had first started his education, she knew she was going to have to start at the basics, but she assumed those basics were algebra, introductory biology, and literature. Thus, it had taken some self-restraint on her part not to smirk when she realized they would instead be starting with basic arithmetic and the alphabet.

Early on in the program she had discovered to her horror that her husband was almost completely illiterate. She had never suspected him of being a closet genius staying up into the wee hours of the night working on some esoteric mathematical formula or fine-tuning the aesthetics of a deep philosophical poem. But she had thought he could read for Kasani's sake!

She soon discovered that he had been taught to read—to the small extent he could read anything—via something called the look-say method. He pulled out the town newspaper to show his wife he was not a complete fool, and although he never hoped to breathe a word about liquor around her again if he could help it, he also didn't exactly enjoy looking like a moron in front of her. Thus, two powerful, yet contradictory, desires were at play when, upon scanning the newspaper, the only words he knew were those such as "liquor," "bar," "whiskey," etc.

His pride excelled his judgment, and he proudly pointed to one of these words and pronounced it, thus showing that the look-say method could work moderately with excessive repetition.

Janie taught him phonics, and once he could read moderately well, she gave him extensive reading assignments, telling him, "Reading well-written books will teach you spelling, grammar, vocabulary, and philosophical insights."

As for math, she had gotten him through the multiplication tables up to twelve and was now starting to show him long division and multiplication.

He was starting to see the world through different eyes. New vocabulary often expressed succinctly for him what before he might have struggled to communicate before with several words. Under the guiding hand of grammar, his thoughts and words flowed more succinctly and organized, and on those rare occasions during the day when the foreman stopped by to quiz him on the progress of his small crew, he found the foreman looking at him differently. He wasn't sure it was an altogether pleased look. In fact, he thought he saw something like suspicion in the foreman's eyes, but mixed with it was something he was sure was respect.

When Janie had first begun her curriculum for him, it had been like pouring rain over a parched, barren desert with seeds hidden deep beneath the surface waiting to sprout upon coming into contact with the heavenly substance of water. But whereas the soil of a barren desert is parched from years of deprivation of water, the soil of his mind was barren from years of whisky, bareknuckle brawling, mind-numbing labor, and a complete lack of mental stimulation. As the words and numbers from pages rained down through his eyes and into his soul, they had at first met little in the way of seeds. But buried deep within the stupefied mind of this man who had abused his mental faculties for over a decade were seeds of intelligence supported by an iron determination, and after the first month and a half, both he and Janie were starting to see results.

With the gains he was making in his intelligence, there was a tinge of sorrow. He hadn't the slightest idea what he was going to do with everything he was learning, and the more he learned the more he became aware of his profound ignorance and of how little he knew compared to successful men of the world, such as bankers, lawyers, accountants, and senators. He feared that even if he learned all these men knew—and that might take him the rest of his life—he might never find an escape route from the hellhole upon which he was utterly dependent for putting food on his family's table. Those men, he figured, in addition to all the knowledge they had, also had held apprenticeships during which they received practical training. At his age, and still quite a few years short, even with prodigious effort, of acquiring their knowledge, nobody would want to give him the chance of becoming an apprentice and getting hands-on training.

Janie, who considered his transformation nothing short of a miracle, which had restored her faith irreversibly in the supernatural, was not about to let the ugly pits of self-doubt and despair ensnare her husband and coax him back into a nightmarish cycle of self-loathing and binge drinking down into which he would drag himself, her, and poor little Eddie. When she saw him beginning to think this way—and especially if he said so out loud—she would sit on his lap and look at him lovingly and tell him it wouldn't be that way.

He didn't know why, but this seemed to always snap him out of his negativity. He had a trainer once with that knack. His trainer hadn't sat on his lap, and he sure as Kasani didn't smell like Janie, but he did have fiery eyes, and he would snap Righty out of self-pity if he was getting frustrated and doubting himself.

With all of his newfound focus, he had all but forgotten about his son. It wasn't entirely for lack of interest, although truth be told, when he got home his main focus was eating something to fuel his exhausted body, drinking about half a pot of black coffee that Janie always had ready for him, and then diving headfirst into his books and hoping against hope that they might someday produce within his mind the solution to leaving the captivity of his job, which he considered little better than slavery.

Usually, by the time he got home Eddie was already in his room with the door shut and the lights off and—he assumed—asleep. On Sundays, Eddie would go off into the woods the entire day and come back late at night and go straight to his room. Sundays were a particularly important day to Righty. He would get up at the break of dawn, drink half a pot of the darkest black coffee Janie could find, and then dive into his books. At midday, he would have another half pot of coffee, and get back to the books and keep at it until about midnight. Sundays were special not only because of all the studying he got accomplished—he figured one Sunday was worth about four workdays because of all the extra time and energy he had—but because they gave him the sweet taste of freedom, the soft whisper of the life he might have one day if he worked really hard.

He had been alarmed only momentarily a few months back when he learned first of some knuckleheaded kid in Eddie's class falling to his death off a tree branch not too far from his and Janie's house and by a suicide just days later of the young fool's friend, apparently due to remorse he felt for having given him the dare in the first place.

Kids nowadays lack both guts and common sense, he philosophized. When I was a kid, you didn't take a fool dare like walking across a branch that'd kill you if you fell off of it; you took fool dares like walking across a branch that'd break your leg if you fell off of, he thought and then smiled upon realizing that if a branch was high enough to cause you to break your leg if you fell it could probably kill you too.

He had asked Eddie the next chance he had if everything was okay. For all he knew Timmy and Brian might be friends of his, and he didn't want Eddie getting any fool-headed ideas like now it was his turn to kill himself because some knucklehead in his class had done the same.

"No, Dad; I didn't really know either of them that well," was all he said.

That had satisfied Righty just fine, and he didn't see any need to prolong the conversation. Janie, with her motherly instincts and extra time, had done a bit more investigation and had gone to see Eddie's teacher, Mrs. Reichart, who had told her, "Well, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Simmers, no—they weren't friends at all. In fact, they teased Eddie quite a bit, calling him their 'special friend' in a very unflattering tone. I often suspected the bullying might have been a bit more severe outside of school, but I never heard any complaints from Eddie."

That had briefly alarmed and then pleased Janie. She was alarmed at the bullying, but pleased the bullies were done for: "Even though," she would add unconvincingly whenever broaching the subject, "they certainly didn't deserve to die."

Finally, the day was drawing to a close. Approximately ninety times—eighty-seven to be exact—he had picked up a large piece of lumber from the receiving zone and carried it to the factory where a group of more-skilled employees either cut the lumber to certain basic specifications—for example, if it were to be used for building a home—or where a few highly skilled craftsmen took lumber and crafted it into things like tables, chairs, and desks.

As the day drew to a close, he was feeling nervous. He was getting back the old thirst, and only with great resolve was he able to remind himself of his resolution and the perdition that awaited him if he went back down that path.

But it was calling, calling, calling.

Worse still was the fact he figured if he went home he would fall directly to sleep and not make the slightest bit of progress on The Escape. The Escape was the secret name he had given to his pipe dream of escaping his miserable job and moving onto something better. He found it kept a bit more allure if he romanticized his goal a bit. He imagined himself being locked cruelly in a dungeon somewhere as the result of a wrongful conviction. Every day, he dug a little out of that prison. Every day he didn't dig meant one more day in that prison. Thus, he knew he had to keep digging, digging, digging. He liked the prison analogy in particular because he knew that he had been put there wrongfully—put there by Oscar Peters and the rascals on the boxing commission.

He tried to play the prison analogy over and over in his mind, but he knew the day would come when it wouldn't be enough—when his will would break, and he would desire death or a drink, and either way the result would be the same.

"Hey, Righty?"

It was Thomas, the guy who had long since given up on dragging Righty to the bar and knew better than to rag him about it.

"Hey, Tom."

"Not interrupting any important thinkin' there, am I?"

"No, nothing important," laughed Righty good naturedly, feeling his spirits lift a little bit.

"Look, Righty; I know you quit drinkin', and don't tell any of the boys I said this, but 'tween you and me, I'm damn proud of you. Now, don't take this the wrong way, but I know you said you've been book learnin', and, well, I can see in your eyes that you's as tired as a dang dog and probably wishin' you could go for a beer or nine rather than goin' home to read over them books and such. Well, put a little of this in your nose 'fore you get home, and see if those books don't suddenly seem a little less tiresome. It's the last of it I got left, and somethin' tells me it'll go to better use with you than with me."

Tom gave Righty a pat on the back and a friendly handshake and withdrew at about the same time Righty realized Tom had deposited something into the palm of his hand. Righty looked down and saw a small box.

He was suspicious, and probably would have been more suspicious if he hadn't been as tired as a dog that's just hunted down a very tenacious fox, but true suspicion requires mental energy, and Righty's was too low to feel more than mild curiosity.

Practically in a dream state from his fatigue, he began the arduous journey home. It was a good forty-minute walk, and he looked forward to it with the relish of approaching the gallows.

He plodded home, and as he did so, his mind kept going back to Tom's words: Put a little of this in your nose 'fore you get home, and see if those books don't suddenly seem a little less tiresome.

By the time he got home, those books sure were seeming tiresome. To neglect them would be to neglect a day of digging the tunnel out of the prison that Oscar Peters had put him in. But to approach them tonight, he felt, would lead to him passing out from fatigue after the first line of text, after which he would have to fight back tears of rage and shame at realizing he had let another day go to waste.

See if those books don't suddenly seem a little less tiresome.

He was at the porch now.

A little less tiresome.

Less tiresome.

Less tiresome.

He was beginning to feel the words drilling into his head like the beak of a woodpecker. He wanted to just fall down and go to sleep right there on the porch.

"That you?"

Kasani, her voice is so beautiful.

And as the thought came to him of letting her down by walking in there and falling asleep and perpetuating their miserable existence, he realized he had nothing to lose.

Slightly suspicious, now that he was actually considering trying this strange substance that Tom had given him, he opened the box and took a hard look at it.

"Just a minute, Hon'," he said.

It was a green powdery substance. He put his nose close to it and smelled. A sweet, pungent odor rose into his nostrils and almost seemed to lift his spirits by the vapor alone.

It's the last of it I got left, and somethin' tells me it'll go to better use with you than with me.

Trusting his instincts, he pinched a small piece of the powder out and put it onto the palm of his hand, leaned down, and inhaled.

For a second, nothing.

Then, like the arrival of an asteroid, so far at first from the observer that its approach seems little different than a fly soaring high above in the sky but that then reveals itself as the mountainous, powerful structure that it is, the effect of the powder hit him. But "hit him" would be an understatement. It crashed through the surface of his mind, burrowed itself deep, and then exploded, as if it had searched for and found the energy and intelligence centers of his brain and delivered a jolt so powerful that it stimulated them within a hair's width of destruction.

He felt as if he had awakened from a one-hundred-year nap, felt he had the energy of a young boy awakening the day of his twelfth birthday party, felt like a man on the night of his honeymoon—all at the same time.

"Hey, Hon'," he said cheerily as he walked into the house.

"Hold the coffee for now; I'm feeling kind of anxious to get started."

"Sure, Honey," Janie said, a bit perplexed, as she had lately noticed his brow looking more and more tired each day he came in.

"Now, look, Janie. I don't believe in secrets. You're my girl—heck, you're my wife—and I told you a few months ago I aimed to fix things, and that's what I aim to do."

Janie felt a shiver of fear run through her.

"Tom gave me some kind of . . . well, I don't know what it is." And he paused momentarily to let Janie see. "It's some kind of herb. Well, anyway, it's got a kick to it, and I'm feeling pretty energetic right now, so just don't get too alarmed if I seem a little fidgety!"

A wave of relief flooded over Janie. She herself was an avid consumer of various herbs from Sally, a local botanist, that she believed to be vital for health and energy. She was thrilled to see Richie was starting to think about his nutrition.

"No need to explain, Babe," she said, rubbing his back. "We've got work to do."

By the end of the night, Janie realized this was nothing even remotely close to anything she had ever purchased at Sally's store. Richie hadn't even yawned the entire evening or barely looked up from his book, which she saw him devouring like a lion would a succulent animal. The pages turned rapidly, and she could tell by the rapidly darting eyes inside her husband's head that he was not skimming: He was reading.

By the time she had gone to bed at 2 a.m., he was on his second book that night and had taken a sizable chunk out of it. Janie wasn't sure what to think.

Chapter 25

"Glad you arrived on time."

Eddie was standing in front of Tristan, deep inside the woods, on a large branch about the width of a stagecoach, several hundred feet up in the air.

Eddie thought momentarily about saying something enthusiastic like, I wouldn't miss it, but realized his previous strategy of keeping his mouth shut and doing a lot more listening than talking seemed to work pretty well with this old man, and it was his personal preference to boot, so he figured he would try it again.

"I was thoroughly impressed with your handiwork yesterday, Eddie. You sensed the trap Timmy was preparing for you, preempted it, and defended yourself."

"Thank you, sir."

"We wizards are an unsociable breed, Eddie. We prefer isolation and very rarely pass on our skills to more than one person. And even to do that, we have to feel a very powerful connection and see something inspiring. Do you know what inspired me about you?"

"Sometimes, I know what people are thinking . . . ?"

"Exactly. Wizards rarely choose an apprentice unless they see he already has some innate gift that will make him receptive to instruction on magic. Do you know what magic is?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Most people think they do but don't. Can you wiggle your ears, Eddie?"

Eddie moved around his scalp, his eyebrows, just about everything on top of his head, thus causing some minor movement of his ears.

"Okay, can you move them without moving anything else?"

Eddie tried a few times and realized he couldn't.

"Why not?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You haven't practiced. Your brain has the ability to send the message, and your ears have the ability to receive the message and initiate the motion, but you haven't developed that pathways. But you could if instructed on how to do it."

"Yes, sir."

"When a man lifts his arms or lifts a rock, no one considers it anything special. When a man uses a lever to lift an object he could never lift with his bare hands, that is considered ingenuity. When a man lifts an object without touching it, people call it magic." And as he said this, Eddie saw a branch come bending towards them. Closer, closer, and closer till it touched Eddie's nose. Then, suddenly it released and went springing back into its normal position.

"They call it magic because they can't explain it. That's what magic is, Eddie—that which man cannot explain. But it is a physical force, just like when you lift an object with your bare hands or with a lever. There is a part of your brain that could control your ears and make them move without all that silly squinting, eyebrow raising, and cheek twitching you did a moment ago. But you haven't trained it.

"There are physical forces surrounding us right now, Eddie. I can see some but not all of them. I can manipulate some, but not all. When I moved that branch a moment ago, I merely instructed my brain to exert an action upon the physical force to which that branch is connected. You have that part of your mind too, but it is untrained. In most people's minds, it will remain untrained throughout their entire life.

"Sorcerers possess much more than secret information. That is only a small, but very important, part of it really. The magical intonations will stimulate parts of your brain that otherwise would rarely, if ever, be stimulated throughout your entire life. But those parts of your brain are like a baby's legs. A parent can show a baby how to walk, but the legs take many months to develop the strength and coordination to do so.

"In the case of sorcery, I am afraid, it is still far more difficult. By teaching you incantations, I will thus merely give you the basic tools with which to develop these parts of your brain. It will take long periods of tedious practice. Do you wish to proceed?"

"Yes, sir."

"I asked you if you were aware of what special gift you have. In my case it was the power to move things around that caught my master's attention. That is called telekinesis. Like your gift—which is called, telepathy, Eddie—mine was innate. But it was weak and had to be developed through rigorous training. Likewise, your telepathy can be taken to a drastically higher level with the right training. It is always one's innate magical gift that one can take to a higher level than any other, but to be a great sorcerer, you must develop some strength in many areas."

Eddie nodded silently.

"I see your natural strength of physical balance as a good starting point, a base upon which we can later build your skills at telekinesis. Repeat after me: 'Iksun'"

"Iksun."

"'Iksun' means balance."

"Say it again."

"Iksun."

"You'll find that most of your training will be solitary. I will check on you from time to time, and when you think you are ready to move on to the next stage of your training, you will receive a rigorous test—one that could prove fatal to you if you do not pass it. Thus, I would advise not to request to move on until you are sure you have attained a high skill level in each lesson. To practice your balance, stand upon a branch, and repeat the word 'Iksun' over and over. Imagine yourself becoming one with the branch. Imagine roots growing out of your feet, burrowing themselves in to the pulp of the branch beneath your feet, and fastening you to the tree as if you were part of it. And as you do this, repeat the word over and over and over. It can be silently or out loud; either way, you will be building the part of your brain that attains balance with the forces surrounding you. When you believe you are ready, you will send me a signal."

"Yes, sir."

"You may call me 'master,' Eddie. For you are now my apprentice."

To some, the news that one can now address another as "master" would bring about less than a felicitous response. But in Eddie's ears, he had never heard a more pleasing sound in his entire life.

"Yes, Master."

Chapter 26

The next day at school Eddie marched to his desk as usual, but the classroom was anything but usual. There were two words on the chalkboard in large font:

DARE SUICIDE

Mrs. Reichart's manner was grave.

"Class, today we have two very important concepts to talk about."

Eddie drifted off into his own world as Mrs. Reichart began a monologue on the dangers of accepting dares and on the foolishness of suicide. In Eddie's mind, her thousands of words could be boiled down to two aphorisms: "Don't do something stupid just to impress others, because you just might drop dead like Brian," and, "Don't kill yourself, because hard times never last forever."

Confident that he had adequately absorbed the philosophical pith of her message, he began focusing on his chant. If it took thousands of repetitions and possibly months to master, he figured every waking moment of the day he spent upon it the better.

Unlike his usual daydreams, in which he buried himself into a world of wizardry by drawing slyly on a piece of blank paper stuck between the pages of some mind-numbing textbook, such as mathematics, today he held his head high and looked right at Mrs. Reichart and feigned the most noble attention, while repeating the chant over and over in his mind like Master had instructed.

Although not perched on a branch hundreds of feet above the air, as he would have liked, he did his best to imagine that his feet were growing roots into the wooden floor beneath him and that even if a hurricane came he would have held fast to his desk.

At one point, Mrs. Reichart broke his reverie with the words, "Hairy, I know you were good friends with Timothy and Brian. Is there anything you want to say?"

There was a silence, and since he noticed other people doing the same, he seized the moment to turn around in his desk and look at the object of Mrs. Reichart's inquiry. But unlike the other students, who scanned tough Hairy Larry's face for the hint of a tear or even a sob, Eddie only glanced once rapidly at his face before averting his gaze to Larry's general vicinity.

Larry noticed the glance and the diverted gaze, and he felt his skin crawl. So, did Bobby. They both got a creepy sensation in the moment Eddie's gaze came anywhere near them, as if it held some foul power that would cause them great harm.

"No, ma'am," he said, trying with every ounce of strength in his body to sound tough, but he knew it didn't sound tough. Not by a long shot. He hadn't sobbed, but the tremor in his voice was unmistakable. The gang had been cut in half. Brian's death had been Eddie's fault. That much Hairy knew for sure. As for Timmy, he wasn't exactly sure how, but somehow he suspected Eddie was involved. He'd get him one day for that. As long as there was life in his body, Creepy Eddie just better be careful.

Eddie picked up on that before he returned to his world of "Iksun, Iksun, Iksun."

Chapter 27

Hilfen walked into the bar with a wide grin on his face.

"Hallo, mates," he said cheerily, in that strange Sodorfian accent he brought with him from Sodorf's southernmost regions. He had only been with the Lumber Reconstruction Unit 40 for several days, but already he was as well-liked as if he had been cutting wood with them for years. The fact of the matter was that their unit, like most of the units currently traipsing off into the forest each day to challenge their ax blades against the fortitude of the trees, was recently formed, as the City of Sodorf was in dire need of new lumber to complete the reconstruction of the august city. Other units were planting trees where the Dachwaldians had so recently felled them to the ground to use as materiel in their devilish missiles.

But the Sodorfian nobles wanted to rebuild Sodorf fast, and thus, the Noble Council had approved millions of dollars for the reconstruction. This created a lot of jobs, and the word soon spread throughout the forests that there was money to be made for those that could swing an ax. This quickly created a motley assortment of hardy woodsmen, many speaking with different accents and some with different dialects. Their lack of acquaintance with one another often turned them into the best of friends, as there were few cliques to contend with, and these were simple folk who liked to swing their ax ten hours a day, douse their gullet in beer and whiskey for five, sleep, and then repeat the process. Hilfen seemed as adept as any of them at this trifecta, and thus, he rapidly assimilated into the good graces of nearly all.

When they were five beers deep into backslapping, arm wrestling, joke telling, and storytelling, Hilfen suddenly said, amidst heaving giggles, "No, wait—I've got one better. They say that the day Dachwald was defeated, giant, flying birds came down from the heavens—"

At this point, he was interrupted by a chorus of laughs so raucous that, had a tornado touched down, they wouldn't have noticed before being scooped up and hurried away by that devilish sky monster that has long haunted mankind.

Hilfen joined in with them for several moments, before saying, "Gents, gents, let me finish! It gets better!" The laughter died down to that of a low thunder roll.

"They say that these birds then started havin' a little chitchat with one of the generals!"

"As they indeed DID!" Like a bolt of lightning piercing the darkness of a pitch-black night, the voice cut through the raucous laughter that was just starting to erupt.

The good-natured tree whackers turned round to see what esteemed gentleman they had offended, perhaps intending to teach him a lesson or two in the art of not taking himself so seriously by bashing their fists against his skull.

They faced the steely eyes of a man wearing mail armor about his chest, and his waist was adorned with a sword against which they didn't think their fists would fare too well, perhaps not even their axes, which they didn't have with them. The bartender wisely required those be deposited in a side room prior to entering the drinking area.

"As they indeed did," he said confidently yet more softly. The ax men felt their muscles relax a bit, only to be replaced with a chill running down their spine. "Those birds were bewitched. It's not in its nature for a majestic bird like the pholung species to allow a man to ride upon its back as if it were a domesticated horse. And with my own two ears" (as he said this he rotated his head each way just enough to show these gents he did indeed have two ears, and in the process revealed several nasty battle scars) "I heard one of them talk. He was talking to my former general. Perhaps you've heard of him. His name is Pitkins."

A shudder washed over the room. Even to these newly arrived forest folk, Pitkins was a household name. His rise from sword smith to noble, his marriage to the most beautiful woman in Sodorf, his disappearance, and then his act of rescuing Sodorf from total annihilation was not a story they needed retold. And the man's precise description of Pitkins' status as his former general identified the man as one of the famed Nikorians, who were also now legendary due to their heroic participation in the battle.

"No offense was intended, good sir," stated Hilfen diplomatically. "Stranger things I have seen deep in the forests. Sometimes, a good laugh in the company of good comrades and plenty of ale help a man forget the things that sometimes disturb him in his sleep."

This amiable response seemed to catch the somewhat agitated Nikorian by surprise, and it appeared to Hilfen that, if it had not been for a similarly armored comrade who gave a slight tug to the man's arm (as if to say, You've said too much already), the soldier might have invited himself over to Hilfen's side of the bar and unburdened his soul by a full retelling of the adventure.

He then noticed the soldier's comrades stand up and begin heading towards the door.

Hilfen counted to about thirty, and then told his comrades, "Tomorrow there's trees to fell and stories to tell, but as for right now I'm tired as hell." This brought out a half-hearted chuckle from most of the strapping, stout men who seemed to have lost some of their good humor.

"Tomorrow then, Hilfen," they exclaimed, raising their beer mugs in honorable salute.

Hilfen walked outside. He had no need to grab his ax, as he had secured its location on his person. Two wooden staffs adorned each leg, strapped tightly, and neither betrayed their appearance nor discomforted him in the slightest. The ax head was strapped to his chest, providing a convenient shield to his heart, lungs, and upper stomach, and was also readily accessible to serve as a weapon if at any moment he had the fancy to lift his arm underneath his shirt and extricate it. With a one-foot handle that extended down to a steel cup protecting his groin area, it could still be wielded effectively, even if it lacked the power it had when the steel pieces (painted to look like wood) were assembled to form a single handle.

He reached down to his chin, pulled back a thin material, and then pulled it all the way over his head. In an instant, a long-haired, bearded man of dirty, tanned complexion and blondish hair was transformed into a pale-white, clean-shaven man with shortly trimmed, raven-black hair. He stepped aside briefly into an alley, removed his baggy flannel shirt, turned it inside out with practiced, effortless speed, and then flung it over his head. A similar act was done with his pants and shoes. Lastly, he pulled out the steel shaft from his right leg, pulling the top, and twisted it several times.

From the alley emerged a fine gentleman, with a top hat, a smart-looking suit, a handsome cravat, and an enviable cane. Looking the part of a wealthy businessman out for an evening stroll after a pleasurable evening at some elite club, he plodded along the street merrily, not a thought in his mind, other than that of not letting the soldier with whom he had just spoken not disappear from sight.

After several blocks of walking, he saw the soldier and his pals disappear into a small tavern that he already knew had lodging on the second floor. He had reconnoitered this area many times, as he had the entire city. Slipping calmly from the sidewalk into the bushes hugging the side of the establishment, he then pulled a black hood over his face that covered everything except his eyes, which gleamed from within the narrow slits in the hood.

Throwing a light grappling hook onto the roof of the building with the ease of a seasoned card shark dealing an ace, he then ascended the rope with the finesse of a cat burglar. Once on top of the roof, he slithered his way towards the point just above the window of the room where the soldiers were staying. Then, he flipped a lever on his boots, causing a pair of vicious spikes to emerge. He edged to the side of the roof and dived forward, his spiked boots catching him. He then contracted his abs and moved his head towards the window.

From his pocket, he extracted a tube-like device with a large opening on one end and with a small hole on the other. He placed the large end against the window and the small end into his ear. He listened.

"Why are you talking about that with those bumbling forest folk?! Pitkins said never to talk about it!"

"You're right," the voice said calmly. "It just seems silly sometimes because at least several dozen people heard the bird talk to Pitkins, and several hundred must have seen us get on top of the birds and fly away.

"If we keep our mouths shut, it will still produce nothing but loud laughs amongst drunken country bumpkins and be dismissed as a silly legend."

"Perhaps. But why does it matter?"

"Pitkins didn't want to say, but I believe it's because he fears that if it becomes known that these birds were tamed, people would soon be hunting them down to use them for their own ends. He said one of the birds saved him from a prison he was being held in and that these birds had all been the slaves of some dreadful wizard, and that he wouldn't see these birds hunted down to be enslaved by anyone ever again."

"They would be a fearful weapon, you know. Can you picture it? Aerial cavalry units!"

"Yes, I can picture it. That's the problem. If we do it, someone else will, and I can guarantee you that if we hunt down these birds, we won't get all of them; someone else will get to the others, and then they'll be itching to use them in a war."

"It just seems . . . such a waste."

"Pitkins decided it. He's no longer our general, but he gave the order while still our general, and Sworin's never changed the order. It's really not our place to question the matter, now is it?"

"You're right, comrade. I'm just looking forward to getting out of this forsaken country. I have immeasurable respect for Pitkins, but this was never our war. We've left our country less able to defend herself against attack."

"Maybe you're right, but it's not our problem. When you're made a general, then you can worry about grand strategy."

"All right; mum's the word."

"That's more like it."

Silence.

"But, that was somethin', wasn't it?!" the soldier insisted, chuckling.

Seeing that his comrade was now daydreaming more than anything else, he indulged him: "Yes, I won't argue you with you there. I regret not getting to see the wizard's face, but he sure had one formidable hideout. Where was it—just a dozen or so miles north of the Sodorfian-Dachwaldian border, almost straight above the town of Seisphen? That was a savage wilderness, I'll say. From the backs of those majestic pholungs, I found myself happier by the minute to be safely above the ground. The enormous bears and large packs of wolves I could see from the sky suggest man has not yet brought that area under his dominion."

"Nope."

"And that explosion!"

This seemed to elicit slightly more enthusiasm from his comrade who until now had seemed rather tired of the whole conversation. "It was like nothing I've ever seen! It was as if the gods themselves waged war in that valley. The devastation must be something to behold. All I could see was that terrible cloud of destruction issuing from the explosion and then from the collapse of the cliff!"

"I wonder what it looks like now . . . ."

"Forget it."

Silence.

As Irkels reassumed his position on the roof, he found himself in a state of shock—a group of pholungs, tamed, possessed with speech . . . . Bewitched was the word the soldier had used earlier.

These pholungs had been under the exclusive dominion of some wizard who had for some reason seen fit to give them speech. Could this be Tristan? Every Metinvurian spy was well-acquainted with the story of the King Veros who had centuries ago sent out one of the most legendary spies ever to exist—Koksun—to seek out and find the grand wizard Tristan for the purpose of either turning him into the king's faithful servant or killing him, only to receive a letter from this Tristan thanking him for the present of the spy, whom he had turned into his pet cat.

It was well known amongst the Metinvurian spies that Tristan had resided in the general area just alluded to by these Nikorians, but after the ignominious fate of Koksun, no king had ever dared risk sending his spies against this unspeakable fiend, for fear that they would be killed or, worse still, that they would be made slaves of Tristan's.

Nonetheless, it had become a promise that all Metinvurian kings since King Veros had made—that if the opportunity ever presented itself, they would flay alive the vile Tristan, who had so badly humiliated King Veros and the entire Metinvurian spy and assassin organization: Varco.

It was an element of the earliest training any Varco initiate received, it was continually inculcated into the recruit throughout the process of his training, and it formed part of the ceremonial oath a student made upon being formally inducted into the shadowy organization.

It now appeared that Irkels had found himself so unlucky as to have the mission of finding and taming a pholung intersect with the fateful mission all Varco agents were—at least in theory—actively engaged upon: killing Tristan. Except, the mission of finding and taming pholung was a real mission, not a theoretical one, and thus, the thought that it could take the unenviable task of confronting Tristan from the realm of the theoretical to the actual brought what was perhaps the first shudder Irkels had experienced in decades.

He had no choice now but to go and investigate the area, for it was now the only real clue he had as to where to find the pholungs. Everything he had received before tonight in the way of intelligence had simply been drunken stories about seeing the pholungs land at the City of Sodorf the day of the battle and, occasionally, a wild claim that one of the pholungs had talked.

But tonight, he had met his first eyewitnesses, and Irkels' fine-tuned instincts told him they were telling the truth.

The fact the canyon had allegedly been destroyed meant Tristan was possibly dead, but Irkels' instincts told him he was alive and well. Koksun had carried out missions so difficult and daring they were legendary amongst the Varco and were studied as paradigms of flawless execution of the core Varco principles of preparation, practice, and execution. So, if this fearsome assassin had been turned into Tristan's kitty cat, he shuddered to think of the lowly chances of survival he would have.

Nonetheless, duty was duty.

Chapter 28

Chip felt an incredible mixture of trepidation and excitement as he soared off into the heavens, having nobly kept his part of the bargain with Koksun by leaving him in the kind and loving care of Donive, who—Chip had long ago observed with confidence when he surveilled her and Pitkins—had a benevolent heart and would faithfully take care of Koksun.

His mind now turned to the great difficulty he feared he would have finding Master and that, upon finding him, he would likely accomplish this only to be killed for disobeying his orders to stay put in northwestern Dachwald. To his immeasurable relief, he found that before these angsts reached an unbearable crescendo, they were fought off by the memory of his intolerable boredom he had been suffering before setting out on this noble quest, and the thought of returning to such doldrums almost immediately recovered for him his previous state of mind, which was to prefer dying on this mission rather than spend another minute with his indolent, unjustifiably celebratory comrades.

His wings beat through the air with a vengeance now, his mind inalterably focused. Soaring high above the savage lands through which he had so painstakingly guided Blackie, he was making rather quick work of what had been such an arduous task while guiding Koksun.

When he finally reached the valley over which Tristan's majestic cliff had once towered, he was awestruck. He had expected unimaginable devastation, but his mind was not fully prepared for what he encountered. He knew he was getting close when he noticed an occasional uprooted tree lying flat on the ground below. He knew he was getting much closer when upright trees became the exception to the rule. And he knew his journey was nearing its end when he approached the base of what was now a large sloping pile of rock, some of which was pulverized to dust and some of which contained large boulders strewn about like the toys with which a group of rambunctious young boys have just played some violent game.

He didn't know exactly what he expected to achieve by carefully surveying the damage, but perhaps the curious nature of his recent companion had been more contagious than he realized, and he felt an insatiable desire to explore this devastated region. He sailed near enough to the ground to carefully inspect every nook and cranny—for what he knew not—of the desolation, but not so near as to put himself at risk of a fatal surprise by the lightning-bolt strike of some hidden viper coiled underneath a hidden space between the rocks

Hours passed by in this close analysis, although he rarely saw anything other than rocks and powder, although the occasional fragment of a sword or the tiny portion of what once must have been some prodigious book of deep wisdom occasionally broke the monotony.

He was simultaneously occupying his mind with the thought of just what to do if he found nothing here that was useful to him. He remembered that Blackie had told him Master had gone underground towards the Seleganian border far east of here, near a border town called Ringsetter, just inside Selegania, but whereas for those accustomed to seeing the world as a series of carefully drawn lines on a map this might have seemed to offer a clear explanation, Chip had little use for national boundaries when traversing the sky above and instead relied upon the much more detailed guide of topography.

Just as he was about to resign himself to the odious task of flying east and beginning surveillance of every town he came across until he heard one of the denizens thereof state the word "Ringsetter," a shadow caught his eye. It was far above, above the point where the large, lazily sloping pile of rocks and dust hugged what was left of the cliff wall. Above this stretched several hundred feet of cliff wall that, while not completely vertical, was solid stone and of a precipitous angle.

Chip flew over the large mound towards this spot for closer inspection. What he saw astonished him. There was a narrow opening visible of what appeared to be a tunnel large enough for a man to stand comfortably inside of. A large rock covered most of its circumference, but entering it would be easy enough for his tiny frame.

He nearly did so without thinking over the matter further, but then he asked himself why. Was he sure that no terrible danger awaited him inside the merciless darkness of that tunnel? And was he sure that tunnel would lead him anywhere useful? He considered the possibility that the explosion had merely denuded some erstwhile hidden cave of its massive rocky clothing and that upon entering this tunnel he would, perhaps without even realizing it, promptly take multiple turns through forks in the tunnel that his eyes would no better distinguish than if the tunnel had been made of a single passageway, leaving him hopelessly lost.

But then something like the belief in destiny gripped his mind, and Chip plunged into the cave.

Chapter 29

When Janie woke up at 5 a.m., she was alarmed not to see Richie lying in bed with her. Whereas she had recently adopted the custom of gently coaxing him from his sleep with a gentle scalp massage and reassuring kisses, she now found herself utterly alone.

Feeling a sense of dread, she rushed out of the bedroom and first peeked into Eddie's room—all was well on that front, as he lay sleeping the enviable sleep of innocence, or so she thought—and then she headed towards the living room.

To her shock, there she saw Richie, knee deep in a book on business strategies that she herself had once begun but given up on after a dozen pages due to the tediousness of it.

"Hon'—everything okay?"

Richie looked up from his studies with a look she imagined many a professor or high-level executive has when approached by either a student or employee.

"Sweetie—I'm going to propose something to you that I think you'll like, but I have to warn you first that you're going to think I have completely lost my mind. But since the insane never know they are insane, I thought I should first immunize you insofar as possible to the shock by letting you know I'm aware of the lunatic impression this is going to create."

Not feeling necessarily comforted by this remark from her husband—who only months ago spoke in rough, grammatically infantile sentences—she was at least distracted from her trepidation by her curiosity, which now was stronger than the former.

Interpreting her silence and dumbfounded stare as an invitation to continue, Richie said, "From the time I asked you to start teaching me, it was with the mindset that I am but a slave inside of a prison yard. I thought that perhaps via the knowledge contained in books I would elevate myself above that miserable station in life that my prowess as a boxer failed to do. However, I have lately come to the disturbing realization that this prison is in part my own construction and that without first dismantling it I will be unlikely to ever escape.

"You have long wanted to work as a librarian. But in my naïve chauvinism, I have insisted that you stay at home long after that was necessary by any practical consideration. If I continue to work full-time in that miserable occupation while needlessly keeping you here at home, I am ignoring the key that unlocks several of the doors to my formidable prison. Do you still desire to work as a librarian?"

Janie nodded, more dumbfounded than before. "Yes," she whispered, suspecting there was more Richie had to say.

"Good. As of today, effective immediately, I quit my job at the lumberyard."

"What?!" Janie couldn't help but scream, although without being sure why.

"It's a business calculation essentially, my dear. Based on the savings we currently have—and all the numbers are right here, my love—" (he said, pointing to several sheets of paper covered with what seemed like calculations worthy of a doctoral dissertation at the local business college)—"which while admittedly are not much, even if it took you three weeks to obtain part-time employment at the library, something I highly doubt, our savings would still last easily until a week or two beyond that. Now that I have relieved our household of the onerous expense of liquor, even a part-time librarian position should cover our most basic expenses.

"I find this to be likely to bring us a positive return of investment in the mid- and long-term. Based on the previous rate of progress I was making, studying a few hours each night in a state of nearly complete exhaustion, I was probably on track to learning the basic skills necessary for an entry-level desk job in, say, ten years." And upon stating this he raised his eyebrows in a professorial manner.

"By that time, I will probably seem far less employable due to the unflattering effects age has upon the body and the prejudices that employers so often hold towards less-youthful applicants. Furthermore, I fear a pernicious psychological effect will be at play, which is that the fear of losing my lumberyard job will make me unwilling to take the risk of applying for positions, attending interviews, etc., as these are most likely to take place during normal business hours, something my current occupation will not allow me in the slightest, and furthermore, to arrive at an interview sweating so as to look like a man who has just emerged fully clothed from a river is unlikely to make a favorable impression upon most employers.

"By my calculations, with you temporarily assuming the role of breadwinner for the home, I will begin to study a minimal fifteen hours per day. You will, of course, continue to guide me in the direction of my studies, bringing me an ever-replenishing supply of materials from your new position at the library, and within two to three months' time I believe I will be knowledgeable enough to find an entry-level desk job somewhere, which will serve as a basis upon which to build a career, earn more money, and then free you of the burden of working as a librarian, unless of course you were to find said task desirable in its own right."

Janie was stunned. For a moment she believed her husband's soul had been abducted by some ghoulish gaggle of witches and replaced with that of a business investor.

"There's just one problem I see with your theory, Mr. Smarty Pants," Janie said, approaching her husband with a mischievous look in her eye, placing herself firmly on top of his lap in spite of the book he had cradled there and giving him a kiss on the lips; "you're already qualified. More than qualified for a desk job. You're going to start looking today while I apply at the local library. As for right now, I think you've been thinking and working way too hard and need a little rest and relaxation. Can I borrow the professor for an hour?" she asked playfully.

Not wanting to spoil the moment with any witticism, especially since he felt nowhere nearly as confident as she did about his current eligibility for a job more complicated than hauling objects around and in fact was starting to doubt himself already, he scooped her up in his arms and accepted her offer.

Chapter 30

Irkels woke up early that morning, assembled a ferocious-looking array of weaponry, left the lodge looking like a respectable woodsman, mounted a large black horse, and headed north out of the city. Irkels had a deep fondness for horses, and since he knew this horse was not fit for the savage journey that lay ahead of him, once they got to the place where signs of civilization had long since disappeared, he dismounted his fine stallion, removed a few items he had packed, and gently turned the horse around until it was facing south, gave it a slap on the hindquarters, and bid the animal adieu. It went galloping proudly back towards the City of Sodorf, much relieved to be going in the opposite direction of the smells it had been detecting with increasing potency that signified grave danger.

Irkels removed the lid from an airtight container with some difficulty, from which immediately emanated a foul odor. It was lion dung. But not from any lion. It was from what the Metinvur spies jokingly called King Protector. He was a regal beast held in gentle captivity by the Varco who esteemed him far too greatly to confine him to a miserable cage. He walked about proudly inside a large, high-walled enclosure replete with natural vegetation. Every day he was served some hapless animal, of which he made short work.

King Protector's dung inspired fear in the heart of any animal that loved life, and as Irkels walked forward into the savage wilderness, animals might see a man but would smell a savage king.

Thus, it was without noteworthy incident that Irkels arrived at the scene of utter devastation left behind by the terrible explosion of one of nature's most prodigious displays of craftsmanship. The smell of King Protector emanated from him like an invisible plague warning away beasts that otherwise would have been irresistibly tempted to probe the taste of this strange guest.

Irkels had much in common with his avian counterpart, as he had also not known exactly what he expected to find at this scene of desolation. He found little in the way of clues as he walked over the array of solid and pulverized rocks. He did, however, take interest in the occasional fragments he found from books and put these pieces into one of his many pockets.

Lacking the luxury of ascending and descending the mountain of rubble with relative ease when compared to Chip, he might easily have missed the small shadow on the cliff wall that Chip had opportunely noticed after having scoured the entire area many times. However, as opportunely as Chip had noticed the shadow, Irkels had noticed Chip, and for reasons that defied logic he instinctively hid from this small, harmless bird.

It was fortuitous that he did so, as this bird would have found his presence suspicious and paid him great interest.

Irkels watched the bird scour and re-scour the area with an interest that seemed quite peculiar. Having already been in the mindset of hunting for talking birds that were until recently the slaves of the grand wizard Tristan, he perhaps was more attuned to the possibility that the pholungs were not the only birds who had entered into Tristan's service.

He received ample reward for both his instincts and reasoning when he noticed the small bird disappear into a small hole in the side of the cliff that he might easily have missed himself. He waited several minutes to make sure the bird was quite gone and then began moving stealthily towards the mysterious aperture.

Chapter 31

Sometime after Janie left the crash came. As it hit him like a lightning bolt directed with sadistic precision towards the very heart of the pain center in his brain, he found himself looking back on the moment when his wrist snapped nearly in half over Oscar's frustratingly strong pate, hoping to find in the memory some consolation—perhaps remembering how much worse the pain had been then and how light his current suffering truly was.

This vain effort only served to cruelly inform him that the pain he was experiencing now was so great that he would have sold his very soul to exchange it for the agony of his wrist injury.

He writhed in bed, moaning like a little boy afflicted with some strange illness against which his body's immune system had little in the way of an effective response. He noticed Eddie looking at him through the doorway.

"Dad—everything okay?"

"I've made a mistake, son." More squirming and groaning.

Eddie turned and walked away without saying anything else, but in his mind Righty imagined his son's thought: And here I thought you quit drinking.

Just when he thought the pain couldn't get any worse, he suddenly felt sleep coming upon him—that sweet angel who had been robbed of her visit the night before and who was now coming to visit and overcome the pain he felt.

Like a man in a stormy sea taking the extended hand of a man onboard a sturdy ship, Righty grasped Sleep's hand and allowed himself to be pulled onto her merciful ship and sail away from the pain.

"Hon?"

It was Janie.

Shame. It hit him between the eyes like the flat end of an ax. She's going to think I've been drinking again. How long have I been out?!

Janie was alarmed. And, yes, she was a little disgusted. When she had come home thrilled to tell Richie that she had been hired on the spot and that life right now seemed to be a luxury vacation and that she loved him more than anything—yet worried she might find him a bit too engrossed in some book that he would not be distracted from easily—she felt crushed when she saw him passed out in bed at 7 p.m. and had assumed immediately that he was drunker than a skunk.

She had approached him cautiously, the way one might if confronted in one's own house with what appears to be a dead rattlesnake but that might suddenly rouse from its still state to deliver a nasty bite. To her fathomless relief the putrid smell of alcohol had not crept into her nostrils like the vile stench of a rotting carcass as she neared her dozing husband.

Then, her fear of him being drunk turned to fear that he had perhaps overworked himself so severely he had suffered a stroke. But she relaxed as she heard his deep, peaceful breathing.

But when she heard him say "I'm sorry, Janie," she once again grew alarmed.

"Sorry for what, dear?" she asked. "You stayed up all night studying."

And then it hit her. He had mentioned taking some kind of herb yesterday.

Before she could resume her analysis, he demonstrated he had anticipated her thoughts by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small box.

"I don't know what it is, Janie. Tom at the lumberyard gave it to me yesterday. It made an entire pot of black coffee feel like a sleepy tea by comparison. It hurt something awful when the effects suddenly wore off. Maybe I shouldn't take it anymore."

"Just take it easy, hon," she said. "I'll take it to the local botanist and have her tell me what it is and whether you shouldn't take it anymore. Maybe you just took too much, or maybe you're only supposed to take it in the morning."

Wanting to dispense with this conversation for the time being, she told him, "Honey?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I got it! I got the job!"

Brushing aside his shame for having slept all day, he stood up out of bed, lifted her into his arms, and covered her with kisses.

"I love you so much. You're my inspiration for living. Don't ever forget that!"

"I won't," she said, a tear in her eye.

Chapter 32

Lord Hutherton and Righty Rick had about as much in common as mud and bedsheets, steel toe work boots and a white wedding dress, and a cravat and a double-edged sword. One had been born into a plush, upper-class home, where the road to success was laid out for him via top-notch private schools, private tutors, and important introductions—so guaranteed a formula for success that he had been practically hand-delivered into his senator position, and it was only there that the silk hands of privilege propping him up finally lost some of their vigor, forcing him to achieve a few things on his own.

The other was born into a dirt-poor, two-room cabin; son of the town drunk; and who, if he had never discovered he had a right hand as quick as a rattler's strike and as powerful as a kick from an angry bull, would have never even caught so much as caught a whiff of that tantalizing smell of success that caused him to dream of more in life than a beastly job hauling around lumber for dirt wages.

Nonetheless, at approximately the same hour of the same day their souls experienced the same torture session produced from the same plant. Where their circumstances once again resumed their divergent paths, as nature perhaps intended, was upon recovery from the drug's effects . . . .

As the doors to Selgen's exclusive Gentlemen of Selegania Club opened, Lord Hutherton's eyes emerged like the gleaming pair of menacing spheres many a hapless traveler has perhaps seen emanating from the partial cover of a bush alongside a path in the wilderness where the intrepid explorer ought not to have ventured. They darted around searching for something, and they appeared to have accomplished their mission, for their wolflike demeanor relaxed somewhat—perhaps to that of a rabid dog.

He was fathomlessly pleased to see Ambassador Rochten there flirting with the dancing ladies and whispering sweet nothings into the ear of some dazzling brunette—or perhaps these whispers were of some import, as one had to make certain financial arrangements before coaxing one of these beauties away for more-private conversation—although, had a trifecta of these sumptuous beauties accosted Lord Hutherton at this moment, he would have dismissed them with the same impatience he would a housefly buzzing around his ear.

Ambassador Rochten noticed Hutherton out of the corner of his eye, and a rapid nodding from his partner in conversation and a furtive glance from her towards Hutherton suggested Rochten had postponed his current matter of business in order to make way for what seemed to be a pressing matter that Hutherton was bringing to him.

"Ah, Lord Hutherton. I am pleased to find we delight in the same locale. Perhaps you will be so kind as to share a drink with me."

"Why, certainly," Hutherton responded with a tone that suggested that while he would indeed do so he would not waste an extraordinary amount of time before arriving to the business at hand. His tone proved consistent with his intentions, for no sooner had he and Ambassador Rochten sat down upon the opulent leather chairs seated within safe viewing distance of the sights their eyes could continue to feast upon than Hutherton stated flatly, "I need more!"

"Well, I do admire a man unashamed to come to the point," Rochten responded calmly, handing over to his guest a small box.

Hutherton looked at this with pleasure in his eye and with a more subdued tone said, "Ambassador, I will pay you immense sums of money for this . . . I know not what it is—herb of the gods? I appreciate most humbly your largess, but I would consider it even more generous of you if you will allow me to express my thanks," Hutherton said, reaching into his pocket and producing a massive billfold.

"Don't be silly, senator."

"Then, will you inform me where I can purchase a large quantity of this material so that I might cease molesting you?"

"Why certainly," Rochten stated, pulling a small card from his pocket as if he had it waiting there all night for the arrival of the senator.

Reading it, the senator remarked, "Thank you . . . I thank you immensely! I will go to this address tomorrow morning."

The ambassador looked at the senator calmly as if he had provided no greater service than to provide the address to a local store. Sensing there was perhaps something the senator wished to say but feared to do so, he asked, "Is there something else?"

"Does it always hurt so bad once it wears off? I didn't think I could ever take that kind of pain again, but I need this; I" (and as he began speaking, he was unaware of the somewhat desperate tone he assumed) "have an important meeting soon with vanguards of industry, and I need that . . . that . . . that—"

"Focus?"

"Yes! That focus I had yesterday. Will it always hurt so badly once it wears off?" he repeated, in case the ambassador had been distracted from his question by the assistance he had given him in completing his thought.

"As I tell virgins—it'll only hurt the first time! And in each case, the lie is ever so small." He chuckled at his earthy remark, for which he offered no apology. "Now, if you'll forgive me, senator, I was engaged in a rather high-stakes financial negotiation of my own at the moment you flattered me with your company; if you'll be so kind as to excuse me . . . ."

"I'm forever your servant," Hutherton stated, extending his hand warmly.

Rochten accepted it with equal warmth and then went searching for the goddess he had been conversing with earlier regarding her other-worldly services before being interrupted by the senator.

Chapter 33

When Chip went soaring out of the cave like the proverbial bat out of hell—and he had felt for some time some not-so-proverbial bats had been following him through the hellish tunnel—he felt a joy he had felt few times in his life. He went soaring high into the air, basking in the sun, of which his body had been so cruelly deprived, his happiness only slightly threatened by what he feared might be a brood of fearsome bats close behind him ready to nip at his tiny body at any moment and deprive him of his meager quantity of blood.

When he finally dared look over his shoulder he was relieved to see nothing following him. His joy then met a sudden obstacle, as he realized he still had a prodigious task ahead of him in finding Master.

But then he felt a reassurance mixed with a tinge of dread: He wouldn't find Master; Master would find him.

Bearing the weight of this bittersweet epiphany, he flew into the large forest, knowing that Master's preference when not inside his cliffy lair was to seek the safety of the tops of the largest trees—trees that few humans would dare attempt to climb.

Sure enough, within a short amount of time, he began to feel the subtlest urges pulling at him. So faint at first that they could be confused with the most innocent whim, they began growing in strength until they reached the point that he may as well have had a map drawn out for him pointing the way.

He passed what he felt was surely the town of Ringsetter. From the height of the tallest trees surrounding it, it appeared a small dot compared to the City of Sodorf. Deeper and deeper into the forest he travelled, until the town behind him was not visible in the slightest behind the thick mass of gargantuan trees.

Suddenly, he felt himself stopping, and his heart began fluttering even more than it had done while he had been beating his wings at nearly full speed. Then, he saw him.

While the unpracticed eye may have seen a somewhat scholarly looking old man sitting as comfortably on the branch overhanging hundreds of feet of empty space with the same ease and dignity with which he might assume a seated position in a leather chair within some professorial office, and while the practiced, yet hostile, eye may have seen a demon seated in attack position waiting to spring from its position and somehow defy merciless gravity, the awestruck eyes of Chip saw a regal god seated on his royal throne awaiting the arrival of an audacious subject.

Chip took some small comfort in the fact Master had drawn him here, but Master's purpose in doing so might be to dispense with this insubordinate bird without delay.

Chip approached.

"Have a seat," Tristan invited. "You've flown along way and have a lot to tell."

Chip flew to a portion of the branch some feet away from Master, bowed as low as the branch would permit, and said, "Your Majesty, my life is in your hands. I have disobeyed by coming here."

"Look at me," Tristan commanded. This Chip did not find entirely pleasant. The piercing blue eyes of his master were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen yet even more terrifying. A mystical energy emanating therefrom was almost palpable as it pierced Chip's soul and searched around as if it were merely a question of opening a book in large font and reading the pages. Tristan looked at him long and hard, Chip maintaining eye contact only because of a kind of lock he felt around his head that would have made any movement impossible had he willed it.

Tristan's own thoughts were as imperceptible to Chip's as Chip's were transparent to Tristan. Tristan had felt extraordinary alarm when he sensed the presence of something looking for him, even when it had been several dozen miles away. He was beginning to think he was no longer safe here.

He had initially felt some relief when he realized it was just one measly konulan, but this was short-lived: How did Chip find him? Why would he want to find him? Who else was looking for him?

Although Tristan detected benevolence issuing from Chip, more thorough information would have to be derived through questioning.

"How did you find me?"

"Black De—I mean Koksun—told me you would escape through an underground passageway that went almost all the way to Selegania, opening near the town of Ringsetter. I found the passageway and flew through it."

Tristan became alarmed upon discovering the passageway was accessible. He had considered the pholungs' use of pheorite—whose use he had recognized by the earthquake-like repercussions that had ricocheted throughout his passageway during his brisk trot away from his lair—almost fortuitous, in that he assumed it would destroy all evidence of a passageway. The knowledge this passageway was accessible and quite capable of leading anyone to the area where Tristan had just begun to feel a sense of comfort left him as alarmed as his poor winged subject.

Then, his thoughts were distracted—"Koksun's alive?!"

"Yes, Master."

Tristan had assumed his chances of survival to be nonexistent, and at the moment he had left his furry fiend behind, he had been unsure if his feeling of sadness was due to separation from his longtime adviser or fear of his imminent demise, as he did not expect the treacherous pholungs to show him any quarter.

"Where is he?"

"I led him on a harrowing journey to a safe home, Master."

Glad to learn of his esteemed counselor having at least reached temporary safety, his mind returned briefly to the traitorous pholungs and burned with rage.

Putting aside that issue for further reflection later, the way one might place a file into a carefully chosen slot on a bookshelf titled Cases for Review, he decided to focus on the matter at hand.

"Why did you leave your vacation?" Before Chip could answer, Tristan felt his insights into Chip's mind deepening, the way a nail, after many skilled strokes with a hammer, begins to burrow its way deeply into wood.

"That's okay, little one. You needed something to do, I take it. Vacations never end up being as fun as we think they'll be, do they? Life's true joy comes from arduous pursuits and challenges."

Chip felt his fear disappear to be replaced with an awe he himself had never experienced.

"Since Master already knows my heart, I cannot even think of obfuscating the truth."

"You've always been special, Chip. And I've always appreciated that about you. The vacation was a test—to see which konulans preferred working for me and which would just as soon be rid of me. After all, no honest konulan could really think that a year-long vacation was more than a test, could it?"

"No . . . Master," Chips said, unsure if this was a trick question.

By now, Tristan had burrowed through almost every layer of Chip's brain, aware of thoughts and memories Chip himself was not.

"You'll have to set an example, Chip. It's a hard thing to ask of you, for they're your brethren. But I know personally that Max has betrayed me. He convinced the pholungs to turn against me."

Horror filled Chip's heart, quickly turning to rage. Not thinking it wise to show anything but deference in the face of his master, he concealed his fury, but said, "I am your humble servant for whatever task you choose for me."

"Kill him," Tristan said calmly, as if he had said, Warn him, or, Keep an eye on him.

Tristan was inside a library entitled Chip's Mind, wherein all thoughts, feelings, and inclinations were carefully organized and on display for Tristan's viewing pleasure. What Tristan saw nearly took his breath away and fully brought him a sense of satisfaction he had perhaps never felt before in his entire life. In a word: loyalty.

"You're going to be promoted, Chip. Firstly, your name has changed. You are now Harold the Loyal. Such a name would be better suited for a slightly larger animal, don't you think?"

Chip believed he was about to die. He had so many thoughts rushing through his mind he believed his small head was about to explode.

"Master decides; I merely follow," Chip said.

Tristan stood, stretched his hands out, lifted Chip into the air, and began chanting.

He felt his body growing hot—sizzling hot—and it began shaking. Then, he started to feel pain all over. It felt as if the several dozen pholungs had hooked him with their beaks and begun pulling him in different directions. His body quivered. He moaned. Suddenly, he felt popping all over his body. His wings grew on each side. His head expanded like a fleshy bubble. His talons extended as if they had been the retracted claws of a cat. His beak protruded longer and longer and with razor-like sharpness.

He now had a torso the size of a lion, a wingspan that would dwarf an eagle's, and talons that would make a pholung jealous.

"Hold out your wings," Tristan commanded calmly.

Harold obeyed.

"Do you swear unquestioning fealty to me, without exception, until the day that you die?"

"Yes, Master," he said, glad to receive such an easy question.

Tristan now scanned the depths of Harold's psyche that he had already reached, perusing every catalogue in his mind, searching for the slightest whisper of doubt or treason. The mere suspicion of either would have ended Harold's life immediately.

SHINNNGGG!!

Harold heard something near the edges of his wings but felt nothing other than the slightest added weight, though nearly imperceptible.

"Look at my hands," commanded Tristan.

Harold watched as Master touched the edge of his wings with the slightest caress and blood began to trickle down from Master's hand. The thought that he had injured Master alarmed him so much that he gave little thought to the lethality with which his wings had just been endowed.

"You are my most important agent, Harold. Do not let me down."

Harold bowed.

"You will have a new master one day, Harold. His name is Ed. You'll meet him when the time is right."

"As Your Majesty commands," Harold said.

"Bring me Max's head."

"Yes, Master."

Once a konulan, now a savage beast devoid of description in the most voluminous annals of zoology flew off into the sky.

Chapter 34

After Harold the Loyal went flying off into the horizon, Tristan's mind returned to a gnawing feeling that was beginning to grow with ever-increasing intensity: He was being stalked. This feeling had been weak for a while, but upon seeing Harold arrive so near his exact location, he realized his suspicions were well-founded.

It was time to move on, but this sense of self-preservation clashed with his desire to continue the mentoring of his protégé. Then an idea occurred to him.

While Tristan grappled with this dilemma, Eddie dueled with another. His rival was confidence, and Eddie's concern was that it had grown too fast, too prematurely. Mere months after Master had given him the assignment of mastering balance through the use of the chant, he felt he had it. And that was what worried him. Because he could recall Master saying: "When you think you are ready to move on to the next stage of your training, you will receive a rigorous test—one that could prove fatal to you if you do not pass it."

Yet, he felt he was ready, come what may. Just yesterday he had been perched atop a branch hundreds of feet above the ground when a savage tempest came out of nowhere and began to cause the branch to sway back and forth violently like a porch door. But he had retained his balance even though at one moment—he was quite sure of it—his body had listed so much to one side that there was no natural explanation for his not plummeting fatally to the ground. Yet he had stayed there as firmly as if he had been but another branch protruding from the tree.

Having recalled this to his mind, he decided the time had come. He was ready. Not entirely sure whether Master would be able to sense his state of mind, he nonetheless focused deeply and sent his thoughts out into the air as if they were correspondence dispatched via invisible birds.

Tristan heard Eddie's thoughts as he neared him for his own purposes and found himself relieved to find Eddie calling him simultaneously, a sign Tristan interpreted as auspicious at first, but then he began to feel a sense of dread for Eddie, as he realized that for Eddie's own benefit he could not hold back in the slightest. To do so would encourage Eddie to complacently announce readiness on future tests that would be far more dangerous and kill him as a result. If it has to be so, better for it to happen before you invest too much in the boy, a cynical voice retorted. Tristan found it convincing and smiled.

Tristan was soaring through the air with his staff, something he did only rarely, due to the amount of energy it drained, but he felt perhaps its appearance would further challenge Eddie's resolve.

Tristan alighted at the end of the branch Eddie was standing on.

"Are you ready, Eddie?"

"Yes, Master."

Gone were all of Tristan's avuncular concerns. Self-interest beckoned him to leave this place quickly. A silent snarl spread across Tristan's lips as naturally as if he had been a wolf.

He went bounding down the branch with the ease of a squirrel. As he reached Eddie, he pushed him as hard as he possibly could without the use of magic and discovered to his extreme surprise that he felt as though he had just encountered the trunk itself.

Eddie was looking at him with a haunting stare and a focus so intense, Tristan almost shrieked in terror. Glad upon remembering that he had merely used physical power against the boy, he recovered his confidence but did not lose his awe. He had half-expected Eddie to fall to his death and half-expected Eddie to survive but only after a lot of undignified windmilling of his arms in a desperate fight for balance. He had not expected this in the slightest.

He felt an internal ecstasy upon realizing this boy was indeed special and that any efforts invested in him would not be wasted and on the contrary would generate a wizard perhaps even more powerful than he had been at the zenith of his powers.

"Today, you have survived your first test. There will be many more to follow, but only if you can leave this place. It is no longer safe for me here."

Reading Eddie's thoughts, Tristan said, "Don't worry about that. She'll approve. I loved my mother very much too, you know. Just wait and play the part. You'll know what I mean soon enough. The only thing I need to know is whether from this day forward you will obey unquestioningly all that I ask."

"I will, Master."

"Then, I formally accept you as my apprentice."

Chapter 35

"Mrs. Reichart, I presume?"

Mrs. Reichart looked up calmly from her lessons plan for the day. She had about ten minutes before school started and then approximately seven hours to look forward to dealing with students that ranged from rascals to diligent.

"It is. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"To Sir Baron Henderson, Esquire, formerly professor of antiquities at the esteemed University of Sodorf, where I specialized in pre-Dachwaldian civilizations in the regions that lie to the west of our esteemed nation. Upon relinquishing that noble chair, I found great satisfaction in the proffering of my services as a tutor to brilliant young minds. I recently had the bittersweet experience of seeing my last apprentice accepted into Sogolia's elite bar as a barrister at the age of eighteen! Can you believe it?

"Normally, an attorney-at-law must struggle quite arduously until the age of twenty-five before such a post could be deemed less than fantastical, yet there he now practices, using the subtle philosophical arts of persuasion and inquiry to ensnare both judge and opposing party alike as if he were merely a prestidigitator putting on a routine performance at a theater. But, alas, in an age where philosophy is seen as meriting no inclusion in primary or secondary schools and is at best offered as an elective in most 'universities'—if that name can be honestly applied to what nowadays substitute for the bastions of brilliance and learning of the past—can a contrary result genuinely be expected when a man has embraced the heavenly disciplines of philosophy, logic, and rhetoric since boyhood?"

He then handed her "letters of introduction," which she could promptly see were written in the most exquisite calligraphy on august sheets of beautiful stationery, worthy of use as a doctoral diploma from an esteemed university. She also promptly noticed they were written in Ridervarian, a dead language used currently mostly for decorative purposes, such as on monuments, but also used in correspondence by the most elite scholars, as it was a language from which many of the surrounding countries' modern languages had formed, and thus fluency in Ridervarian enabled academics from various countries to engage in scholarly debate with one another even if not fluent in the vernacular languages of their colleagues' respective countries. Mrs. Reichart decided she did not want to announce to this esteemed guest that she could understand very little Ridervarian.

With the exception of the two or three students that made what could generously be described as "an effort" in her class and whom she actually taught, Mrs. Reichart generally spent most of her day scolding, rapping knuckles, and handing out lines to the rambunctious, uninspired oafs that filled the currently empty chairs of her classroom. She had long ago begun to count the days till retirement with the same passionate obsession as a man serving a sentence in a damp prison.

To hear this visitor talking about focusing his energies on an apprentice whom he chose caused a wave of envy to flood over her, but in her sweet mind it was quickly replaced with a thrill for at least having the opportunity to help guide this learned man in his decision. After all, in the hands of this august instructor, she might be able to one day point to a celebrated professor, an esteemed attorney, or perhaps even an eloquent statesman and state, "He was my student!"

"Well, Baron Henderson, Willie is probably the sharpest, but he has a tendency to misbehave. Julie is the hardest worker but perhaps a hair duller than Willie. Then," she began but paused.

"Yes?" said the baron, with the sincerest interest. His blue eyes seemed so calm and captivating to her. She could imagine herself thirty years earlier. Young, beautiful, and idealistic, being courted by Robert Johnson, who was now her beloved husband. She imagined that if she and this wonderful gentleman had met, she would have used every wile imaginable to divert his pleasurable gaze towards her.

Snapping out of her daydream that combined nostalgia with alternative history, she said, "There's Eddie . . . ."

"Ah, then we have a trifecta to consider. Yet I see there is something about Edward that gives you pause. Does he excel Willie in mischief? I must confess I'm looking for a solitary boy, one that finds the thick textbooks of philosophy, science, and history more inviting than fishing, picnicking, chasing girls, and all the other vain distractions that prevent the mind from truly flourishing. Please tell me he does not share these vices, or I will have to discount him immediately."

"Who? Eddie?!" she chuckled and then promptly stopped herself, wanting to make the best impression possible on this man, who she now suddenly wished would choose her as his new protégé—but she quickly shut that voice up with the stern voice of reason.

Putting on her most dignified expression, she said, "Forgive me; it's just that Eddie is solitary if ever anyone was. He has no friends in class. So, on that front, I think he would meet your expectations splendidly."

"But the problem is . . . ?"

"Well, he daydreams terribly. It's hard to keep him focused on any task. He spends most of his time drawing wizards whenever he feels he can do so without being caught."

"Ah, as the great Seleganian philosopher Merclére said in his treatise on human development, 'What is man to achieve, if man does not first dare to dream?'"

Not entirely sure if this was a mere recitation of the great Merclére's aphorism, or whether her erudite guest expected a reply, she found herself uncomfortably silent, which was also due at least in part to her having forgotten most of what she had read so many years ago from Merclére's works in her university days, something that now seemed to have been from a previous lifetime.

Granting her a pardon from any further distress over the matter, the baron said, "Yet, to your credit, I must concede that even reveries, if taken to excess, can prevent full self-actualization, as the creative mind must also be disciplined by the martinet of science and mathematics. If I defend the boy, it is only because I once shared his vices," and then he smiled again at her with his clear blue eyes in a way that made her want to fight tooth and nail to make sure Eddie—no, Edward was the name the baron had used for him—was chosen.

"Well, I see that any apprentice you choose will be most fortunate. I hope one here today finds himself or herself to be so lucky and that their parents will have the lucidity to realize that, even if this means sending their child away, it will be a small price to pay to have a near assurance their child will one day become a member of the highest ranks of society. You can count on my full support in urging any recalcitrant parents to come to their senses."

At this moment, the children began trickling into the classroom. When Snobby Bobby and Hairy Larry saw the man's eyes, they cringed inwardly, feeling the same ominous sensation they had begun feeling around Eddie lately.

When all the students were in the classroom, Mrs. Reichart gave a flattering introduction to the guest they were privileged to have amongst them and explained his purpose. This would likely have elicited a smarmy comment from Hairy or Bobby under other circumstances, but they found that every time the man's eyes crossed theirs, they wanted to dig a hole about two hundred feet deep and jump inside of it to escape his gaze, even if the hole were filled with venomous snakes.

To Mrs. Reichart's amazement, Edward showed off an amazing rudimentary knowledge of science, math, and philosophy to her esteemed guest—so much so that she felt quite sorry for Julie and Willie, as she saw they held no hope of being chosen.

After the class was done, to no one's surprise, the baron asked Edward to remain.

"If you like, I will accompany you to his parents' house," Mrs. Reichart said.

"I would honored, Mrs. Reichart," the baron said warmly.

Chapter 36

Things were feeling a little dead today at Jimmy's Saloon in Ringsetter. Henry was there slurping away at his sixth beer with his buds Sam, Josh, and Chris, but it seemed the jokes were all falling flat, the music from the piano sounding dull, and the atmosphere languishing.

Sam suddenly looked at Henry with a furtive eye, as if he had something he wished to say but wasn't quite sure if he should. Henry caught notice of this easily enough.

"What's up, Sam?"

Like a child reluctantly pulling out a toy he enjoys so much he fears sharing it with anyone, yet cannot resist seeing if others find it as heavenly as he does, Sam pulled out a small wooden box and opened it.

"Is that some kind of 'bacco?"

"Naw, you breathe it in through your nose, but you don't smoke it none."

"Don't smoke it?" Henry asked, as if he had just heard someone try to convince him you traveled on a horse standing rather than sitting.

With eyes far more furtive than they were just moments before, Sam looked around slyly from side to side, as if he were about to reveal he had just robbed the bank and was going to give precise coordinates to where he buried the loot. Satisfied no one was paying him excessive interest, he pulled out a slender wooden tube, tossed a small amount of the green material onto the table, and then sniffed it.

He looked up, an animated glee written all over his face.

"Woooo, doggie!" he said crazily.

Thinking that anything would be better than the monotony of what was shaping up to be the most boring beer-drinking session of his forty-two-year-old life, Henry snatched the box rudely from his buddy Sam and then eyed it warily.

"What's in this 'ere stuff?"

"Don't know, don't care—it feels good!" he said with a wildness about him that would have dissuaded a prudent man from sampling the material, yet commensurately coaxed the bored Henry.

Henry snatched the tube from Sam, who was no longer seated with his fine comrades but had gone over to where the pianist was cranking out a tune they had all heard some four thousand times and gotten bored with approximately three thousand repetitions ago, and begun dancing wildly like he heard savages did in distant lands.

Grumpier now than ever and eager to prove just how straight-faced he would be after making the acquaintance of this strange tobacco, Henry put the tube into his nose with all the enthusiasm of a man about to accept the dare put to him by a group of young children so that he could show them how silly the whole thing really was to an adult.

He sniffed, and then, BAM!!—it happened.

He felt like if he could take every happy moment—no, every single detail of every happy moment—that he had had during his entire life, removed any impurities that might have existed in those rare moments, and then concentrated them into what he felt right then and there in that moment, he would maybe feel a scintilla of what he felt right now.

"YEEEEEEEEEE-HEEEEEE!!!" he said in a chillingly high voice that caused several men in the bar to turn around and wonder whether Henry was a closet opera singer.

"TAKE SOME, FELLAS!!" he said to his friends, who were now staring at him wide-eyed, wondering if perhaps some poison had been inserted into their drink, causing them to see strange visions.

Henry jumped up on top of the table, paying no mind to his cowboy boots smashing a couple of bottles in the way.

"I LIIIIKE IT!!" he shouted, in case his doltish pals weren't getting the hint yet.

Before his pals had partaken of the mysterious green substance, Henry snatched it from them.

"No . . . BETTER!" he said and then deciphered his own cryptic message by pouring out a small portion of the substance for them, the way a judicious mother might for two ravenous children who otherwise might snarf down the whole of some delectable dessert if left to their own devices.

Then, having declared himself lord protector of the green tobacco, he marched over to the blind pianist who was still belting out that tired tune. Grabbing the poor man by the back of his hair, he pulled his head backwards, stuck a tube into a nostril, extended a hand with green powder in it, and said, "Don't ask; just sniff!!"

The pianist sniffed all the contents of Henry's palm. Satisfied at the pianist's obedience, he then gave him a hearty slap on the back and said, "Now, let's hear what you'll play!!"

The musical mind, being more inclined to express itself through the other-worldly language of music than through the more vulgar language of speech, proved itself that day to not deviate from this truism, no matter what potent seed nature casts upon the soil of that mind.

Rogers, the pianist, was silent for a moment. Then, like the slowly opening curtains of some wondrous play that is about to divide all theatric performances into those coming before or coming after this one magical moment of artistic genius, a smile slowly parted the lips and grinned the teeth of this customarily sullen man.

Looking down upon the piano keys that he did not need human eyes to see—for he now had the all-seeing eye of the gods—he then and there created a style of music which was to be often imitated but never truly replicated.

What had before been a dull journey through C Major suddenly became a chariot race through Pentatonic Minor in E: da-da-da-DA!-da-da-da-DA!---DAAAA!-da-DA!-DA-DA!!-DA!!

The piano keys began belting out some unwholesome melody that soon prompted the grumpiest from their seats. Boots shimmied across the ground. Skirts began to twirl! Glasses were raised in cheers no one would have thought imaginable moments ago in the dull place that had sounded almost like a library!

A party began right there that Thursday evening which would soon pass into Seleganian folklore as "the moment it all began."

Smokeless Green had arrived! It would soon be known by many names, as are all substances man cherishes.

Chapter 37

"What do you think, honey?"

"Brilliant. Is she sure it will work?"

Janie had made a trip to Sally, a local botanist, and showed her this strange new substance that had first lifted her husband to a realm of tireless study and concentration and then dropped him like an egg from the sky to be splattered onto the rocks below into tiny pieces of miserable fatigue and depression.

After doing several days of tests on it, she told Janie it was the most potent substance she had ever seen, and after spending an additional week or two examining it, she came up with a series of eight measuring spoons, each corresponding to an hour of the day, starting at 6 a.m. and ending at 1 p.m. Each was successively smaller than the other, corresponding to later hours of the day. She had told Sally no one should have more than one dose of this unknown substance in a given day, nor should he have any after 1 p.m.

Righty hadn't touched the stuff since his last encounter with it, for fear of another painful plummet into the abyss, but when he saw the measuring spoons, he realized that what he had taken last time late in the evening was around six times what the botanist recommended if taking the dose at 6 a.m. This relieved his angst about possibly using the substance again the next time he needed a little extra mental fuel.

"That's good to know, sweetie. I've got something to tell you as well."

"What?"

"I've got a new job!"

"Really? That's great! Where?"

"It's nothing to brag about. Just a clerk position at Roger's Grocery Store. But it beats slaving away under a hot sun all day. Plus, he gave me some tests to make sure I could read, write, and do basic calculations, so I guess I'll be using at least some of what I've learned."

Janie could tell there was something eating at him. She walked over to him, hugged him, and kissed him on the lips.

"I'm really proud of you. Is there something else you want to tell me?"

"Well, it pays a little less than what I was earning at the lumberyard."

"Look, honey; you'd made the same amount at the lumberyard for years. You were never going to move up. This is different. You're learning new skills. You keep studying every night and building up your résumé, and, you'll see, it will pay off. Knowledge is power, hon!"

A knock at the door delayed further philosophical analysis of that painful reality that sometimes work fit for a beast pays more than work fit for a man.

When Janie opened it to see Mrs. Reichart standing there—something she wouldn't have expected in a million years—her first thought was that Eddie had gotten himself into some kind of trouble, maybe even bad trouble, or had perhaps run off (he had been acting more and more aloof lately, she had noticed). But Mrs. Reichart's face didn't seem stern or overly anxious—although perhaps a tinge of eagerness could be seen in her countenance upon closer inspection.

And when Janie saw Eddie, who also didn't seem perturbed, Janie decided she could safely rule out his having gotten into trouble. But none of this did much in the way of alleviating her confusion about the presence of an old, wizened man, well-dressed and with eyes that beamed intelligence.

"I hope I haven't come at a bad time . . . ," Mrs. Reichart said politely.

"Oh no, not at all," Janie responded, realizing that the intent analysis she had been conducting upon the situation must have been written on her countenance.

"Do come in," Janie then added, smiling at everyone, so as to ensure all knew they were included in the invitation.

Righty's curiosity was certainly aroused, and he headed towards the trio that had just entered the home.

"Mr. and Mrs. Simmers, we had a very special guest today at our school, and he has taken a special interest in tutoring Edward." Continuing, she said, "He conducted a series of what I must say were rather academically challenging evaluations today and Edward did quite well. In fact, he outdid everyone in class handily, and this fine gentleman, who is about to introduce himself, is interested in turning him into an apprentice."

All eyes now turned upon the strange guest, waiting with great anticipation to hear his introduction.

"Esteemed hosts, if I may paraphrase some wisdom from the great Mertehnoise, 'Titles are the most cogent summation of a man's achievements.' Were it possible to belie this poignant truism, I would most gladly introduce myself without dependence upon such vanities. Alas, all efforts I have previously made have only served to reinforce the late philologist's well-known axiom."

Having made this humble overture, he then proceeded to rattle off a list of titles and accomplishments that made their heads swim.

"Well, Sir Baron Henderson, Esquire, Professor Emeritus of Antiquities," Righty said, recounting as many as he could recall, "my wife and I shall think this over tonight."

"That sounds perfectly reasonable. If I will not overly impose upon you by doing so, I shall take the liberty of stopping by tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. I will need to catch the 9:30 a.m. stagecoach to the capital if I am to continue in my search because if young Edward is not going to be permitted to become my apprentice, I will need to waste no time going to the capital. I have often found that true genius is a product of the bucolic ambience, and for this reason I have traveled throughout many of the towns of this fine country searching in vain for an apprentice worthy of the privilege.

"But, alas, although it would be bitterly ironic for me to find the one youth in all of rural Selegania capable of the academic rigors to which he will be subjected, only to have his parents negate him this opportunity, I will woefully begin to search in the capital city, whose inhabitants know not the subtle inspiration that can be found from reading a poem in the countryside or contemplating a paradox of physics whilst perched loftily at the zenith of a majestic tree. There, those hapless denizens of brick and pavement surely have at least one amongst their number whose ingenious mind has enabled him to escape the urban shackles of the imagination through careful contemplation of the transcendental works of scientists and philosophers. Yet, let all here bear witness that such was not my first preference!"

Righty and Janie were both thoroughly stunned by the odd, though articulate, man who by his appearance could easily have been their grandfather or great-grandfather.

Righty ended the silence. "We'll be honored if you stop by tomorrow morning to hear our decision."

The man bowed and dismissed himself cordially. Mrs. Reichart stayed behind and talked incessantly about how convinced she was the man was no vile impostor, and she was careful to point out that all of his letters of introduction were in Ridervarian, and to explain in full detail to Mr. and Mrs. Simmers what Ridervarian was. She overlooked mentioning that she could not read Ridervarian in the slightest.

After the necessary thank-yous from Mr. and Mrs. Simmers for her kind visit, she bid adieu, and Righty and Janie were left to contemplate the situation.

Janie, bracing for Righty to offer some objection, while hoping herself that he would not do so, waited for him to speak.

Righty, bracing for Janie to offer some objection, while hoping he could use his burgeoning powers of persuasion to convince her, took the lead.

"Janie, I know this is going to sound a bit crazy. But I think this is a sign. I received so shortly ago what may have just been some random impulse to turn my life around and stop being such a dirtbag, but I sunk my teeth into that impulse and am trying to hang onto it for as far as it will take me. For as far as it will take us. I felt like the world was snatched from my fingertips when the debacle with Oscar Peters happened and spent more than a decade in mourning over it. Perhaps that's what happens when you have a special gift. You count on it, and it alone, to sail you through life. And if that one gift is lost, you're lost. I never thought I needed to learn how to do anything in the world but box because that was my ticket to fame and glory. It got snatched from me, and my soul went with it.

"I know I've neglected and mistreated Eddie, and he'll probably never forgive me for it. But it appears our Eddie has something special. I think he got your smarts and my determination, and with the right guidance he could really become something great in life. If we say no, he'll forgive you, but he'll hate me forever. Please tell me you'll say yes."

Janie had silent tears crawling lazily down her cheeks, but her eyes held a joy Righty wasn't sure he'd ever seen.

"I'll go talk to him, love," she said and hugged her husband tighter than she ever had before.

The next morning when the professor arrived at their house, Righty half-expected his son to leave without saying goodbye.

To his shock, Eddie turned around and gave him a hug.

"I love you, dad."

Righty had to make a monumental effort not to break down into heaving sobs. He was immeasurably grateful Eddie did not look up into his dad's eyes, for several dozen tears had made their way stubbornly past his defenses and streaked down his face.

"I'm proud of you, son," he said. Squeezing these words out of his mouth without sobbing felt as difficult as running a mile without breathing.

Janie sobbed openly as she gave Eddie a long hug goodbye.

In his last gift of philosophical insight before taking leave of the fine parents of Edward, the professor told Janie kindly, "Ah, as the philosopher Beaucamp stated, 'A mother's tears, saltier than the oceans, purer than the glaciers.' He will return a different person, Mrs. Simmers; that, I promise you."

"Thank you," Janie said.

Chapter 38

Lord Hutherton had indeed made use of the card given to him by Ambassador Rochten. Upon leaving Ambassador Rochten, he had given it to his chauffer, who drove a fine coach with gold-decorated spokes, and he had been thence whisked off to one of Selgen's most elite neighborhoods. The chauffer had taken him to a spectacular mansion, and, quite contrary to his usual custom when he was performing what he considered "errands," he exited the coach himself, walked to the front door, and knocked.

He felt extremely nervous without quite knowing why. Perhaps he feared no answer at all, or perhaps he feared being subject to ridicule upon making a request that seemed more fitting for a drugstore than for the front door of an exquisite mansion past midnight. The more he pondered the matter, he became convinced it was his reputation that worried him more than anything else.

The door, upon being opened, presented a strange irony to him. Just as he had deviated from normal protocol by quitting the carriage himself to perform this task, he realized immediately based upon the dress and bearing of the man now standing in front of him that he was not confronting a servant but rather the master of the house.

"Senator Hutherton? Or do you prefer Lord Hutherton?"

Lord Hutherton was quite taken aback. Before he had fully digested the shock of the master of the house knowing his identity, he had been forced to answer to this gentleman which was his preferred title.

"From you, sir, I would be honored by the use of either. Let us then say the first—Senator Hutherton—as it was your initial suggestion and thus perhaps the most fitting."

The man gave a warm yet impenetrable smile.

"Here."

Now, Senator Hutherton had to brace himself to avoid falling backwards into the gentleman's well-trimmed bushes. Recognition of his identity by this man he had never before met was a shock he could absorb temporarily and store for severe scrutiny later without overtaxing his nervous system at the moment, but to be handed a large leather sack containing the very product he had come for—which was betrayed to him by its unique, pungent smell that rose through the air and seduced his nostrils far more powerfully than the most beautiful harlot ever could—without even stating what it was that he had come for, hit him like a surprise jab to the solar plexus.

Senator Hutherton quickly produced a sack of gold and was about to hand it over in its entirety when the man said, "Next time. The ambassador insisted this be a gift. He says you are a very good-natured fellow and that you will probably become a good friend."

This seemed incredibly bizarre to the senator but no more so than any of the other idiosyncrasies of the night. He found himself wanting more than anything to just be gone with the Orgone (and he nearly giggled when this pun hit him) so that he could later decide just how much of this had been a dream and how much had been reality.

Before he could contemplate further, the door was closed in front of him. He turned around promptly and headed back to his carriage, overwhelmingly grateful to find his chauffer patiently waiting for him. This added a bit of reassurance to him on a night that was starting to feel like one long dream.

While on the way back to his own mansion, which—while no less exquisite—was quite far from the one he had just visited, he found himself thinking gleefully about how well his meeting had been with the vanguards of industry. They had all found his proposed amendments to the bill more than satisfactory, and in turn they had lobbied quite vigorously that all other senators approve these amendments. Senator Hutherton, having consumed a little Orgone beforehand, gave such an eloquent speech in the senate that the secret hand of the lobbyists pushing the senators had not even been necessary—or so he humbly believed.

He became so seduced by his own happy fortune as of late that he was home by the time he realized he had given so little thought to the bizarre occurrences that night. You've got bigger fish to fry, a voice told him, and he found its voice quite cogent. After all, why play detective when he had more important concerns, two of which included a new piece of legislation due for consideration next week and also the compensation he needed to request from those no-good, lousy lobbyists for his last bit of assistance if they ever expected to see his good side again. A grin spanned his face as this last thought hit him.

He woke up the next day feeling like the world was his personal chessboard where he owned all the pieces, and when his chauffer was driving him into town the next day, he caught sight of a suit so handsome he ordered his driver to stop immediately. He nearly hopped out—he was feeling a bit energetic, having had a small helping of Orgone that day, just to be ready for anything important that came up—and ran into the store.

As he walked briskly by the counter on the way in, he suddenly felt his eyes yank him backwards as rudely and abruptly as an eight-year-old pickpocket grabbed by a hulking policeman.

His eyes scanned the display ravenously, darting back and forth like a viper's trying to figure out what had caught his attention. He saw a small display:

TOBACCO ITEMS AND ACCESSORIES FOR GENTLEMEN

He saw no reason why that should have caught his attention, so he now found himself wondering whether that new little green friend of his wasn't maybe playing a few tricks on him.

Then he saw something:

SMOKELESS GREEN! A NEW KIND OF TOBACCO!

Following his instincts he approached the display carefully.

"Sir, may I be of assistance?"

He turned around to see a pleasant-looking, well-dressed young man.

Although he would have liked to tell him to go commit some unmentionable acts, he instead said, "You may. Would you please indulge me by telling me a little about this new product of yours?"

"Frankly, sir, I'm glad you asked when you did because it probably won't make it until afternoon. I've never seen anything sell quite like this."

A wave of childish, yet murderous, jealousy swept over the senator, only to be followed by the condescending voice of reason: What – did you think no one else would get a slice of this pie?! A primitive level of his brain vowed at that moment to ensure that somehow, someway, he would accomplish that very thing, although he hadn't the faintest idea how.

He then heard his mouth asking the polite young fellow if he could have a look at it. He looked at it and smelled it, and to his immense satisfaction—although he wasn't sure whether he was imagining things—found that it smelled less potent than Orgone, although lamentably it did appear to be some form of it.

"Interesting. Nonetheless, it is a suit that fancies me at the moment."

Although he went through the motions of buying the suit, he was in a state of utter shock the whole time upon realizing that what he had naïvely thought to be his new secret weapon with which he would take the world by storm was actually going to be available far and wide and thus offset any edge he got from it.

That is . . . unless you can think of a way to make it not available far and wide, a voice told him, which brought a sinister smile to his face as he exited the store, suit in hand.

Righty shared none of Senator Hutherton's delusions about using the substance to achieve great things. He had hated the sensation after his first use so much that he wasn't sure whether he would ever use it again, even if the botanist had prescribed a safe regimen for doing so. In his mind, he feared it might be alcohol's half-brother, and even if it promised mental concentration and energy, he realized things often didn't deliver on what they promised, or they delivered unpleasant things—like waking up next to a sobbing wife with a black eye screaming—without the need for the mouth to do so—You created me! I'm your handiwork!!

He didn't want to go back to that, and although he did see liquor and this strange smokeless tobacco as polar opposites—one numbed your senses and helped you forget your past while the other heightened your senses to the peaks of mountains and gave you fathomless energy—he also recognized that becoming dependent upon the latter might ultimately not lead to much happier an outcome than his alcoholism.

He was feeling pretty happy that day. He was stocking the shelves, and he realized it was the first time in his entire life that he was doing work that was not under a sadistic sun and that required intelligence surpassing that of an animal's. This pleasant reflection was interrupted when he came across the next item with which he was to stock the shelves:

SMOKELESS GREEN!

YOU'LL NEVER WANT REGULAR 'BACCY AGAIN!

Righty's uncommon willpower enabled him to keep moving about diligently while on the inside he was in shock to see that what he had thought to possibly be some rare contraband from a faraway land was lining the shelves of Roger's Grocery Store.

Chapter 39

Righty did indeed find that he preferred the mild atmosphere of the grocery store compared to the cruel sun under which he had slaved for so many years. And as the months went by, he found that Rog (Mr. Roger Wilson had taken such a liking to Rich (as he called Righty) that he actually insisted that he call him "Rog") was very pleased with his work. He had gotten a couple of small raises, and he occasionally got to apply his burgeoning knowledge of business. Rog let him review the accounting from time to time to check for errors, and Rog lately was even starting to let Rich do some of the accounting.

This was all fine and dandy, but Righty realized the only person above him was Rog, and Rog owned the blamed place, so there really wasn't any room for promotion. He had talked to Rog from time to time about the possibility of him opening up another store. He thought that, if Rog ever expanded, that might give Righty the opportunity to make a major step forward, such as becoming a store manager, and with a salary like that, who knows, maybe he might even save up enough capital to buy his own store someday. He was learning a heck of a lot about how to run a store, and he figured that it wouldn't be too long before he would know how to handle everything by himself.

But these talks led nowhere. He could tell that Rog was plumb satisfied with the way things were. Well, that was all fine and dandy for Rog, but for Righty it was getting quite annoying. He found Rog's lack of ambition stifling, especially since his complacency translated into a dead-end job for Righty.

He thought about looking around for something else, but he knew that most employers weren't fighting each other over who got to hire former boxers who had been disgraced, had barely graduated from high school, and just recently were beginning to learn some white-collar skills due to nightly autodidactic study.

In fact, he realized he had been lucky to get this job. Rog had been a classmate of his, and though they had never been friends, Righty had made the fortuitous decision to help out Rog one day when a group of guys were pushing him around. Rog had almost allowed a tear or two to escape during their initial interview when he reminded Righty of the incident that he had long since forgotten. Once Rog recalled it to Righty's attention, Righty had said, "Well, I never liked bullies much," and Rog had laughed good-naturedly and given him the job on the spot.

He didn't tell Rog that the chief bully, Mikey Simson, had been flirting with Heather Duncan, a girl Righty had had a large crush on for some time, and it had seemed to Righty the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one punch. He had decked Mikey so hard he had gone flying three feet backwards and had a pretty decent nap thereafter before waking up with a rat-sized bruise under his left eye. Mikey and the other bullies had decided that—whatever it was that endeared Roger to Mike—it would probably be a wise course to leave Rogey (as they had called him) the hell alone. As a result, Roger had a pleasant, bully-free rest of high school, thanks to what was really just a stroke of luck.

A decade later, the stroke of luck was Righty's.

However, knowing that he was probably hired out of a feeling of indebtedness had a deleterious effect on Righty's confidence because he figured that, unless he was lucky enough to find another employer whose long-ago bullies he had providentially dispatched with his vicious right hook, he would probably have little chance of getting a better job.

It was while these grim prospects spun round and round in Righty's mind that he suddenly saw something that rendered these insecurities child's play. Down the aisle from where he was currently stocking shelves he saw someone. But not just anyone.

No, it can't be him, stupid! a not-so-friendly voice told him.

Embarrassed at his mistake he went back to stocking shelves.

Then, he heard a voice. "Sir?"

He turned around and saw a well-dressed man gazing at him intently.

"Yes, sir—may I be of assistance?"

"Yes, my master wishes to inquire whether your store sells any of that Smokeless Green tobacco . . . it goes by so many names. In Selgen, we sometimes call it Orgone or Smokeless Green. My master has heard that the purity of this substance in Ringsetter peculiarly surpasses quite remarkably the potency of the brand sold in the capital city, and thus, he has made a special trip to either prove or dispel this rumor. He has asked me to make the necessary inquiries but then to submit it to him for his examination before he makes the purchase."

"It's labelled Smokeless Green here." Righty brought the finely dressed man—whom Righty would have mistaken as a gentleman had he not referred twice to his master—two aisles over to where the Smokeless Green was kept."

"You've come at an opportune moment. It rarely makes it through mid-afternoon. There are three sacks left, each weighing two pounds."

The man then turned and said, "Master, they have it over here."

And it was at that moment that he realized he had tragically not been mistaken about whom he had momentarily thought he saw earlier.

Wearing a fine suit and tie so exquisite to behold even a country bumpkin would have known in an instant it was hand-tailored by some accomplished, first-rate designer, the man listened with his head slightly cocked, yet looking away from his servant as if not to trouble his eyes with the sight of something so inferior. His large, meaty hands toyed with a large, gold-crested cane that Righty guessed in an instant probably cost more than three years' worth of his clerk salary.

Righty felt lower at that moment than he even thought possible. If he had been stripped naked, tarred and feathered, and paraded through the town square below a sign stating "Town Jackass," he would have been less humiliated than he was right then at that moment, and yet no one gazing upon the scene—perhaps with the exception of Janie—would have found anything humiliating about it.

It was Oscar Peters.

As Righty looked upon him, every ounce of progress he had made over the last several months was nearly lost in an instant. All his book-learning seemed to mock him at that moment. There, standing in front of him, was the irrefutable evidence that Righty Rick was a cursed man. A man born for the sole purpose of having success within his grasp, even titillating his fingertips, only for it to be rudely snatched away by the unseen cruel hand of Fate who laughed at him with its cruel, condescending sneer.

In an instant, all the unspeakable bitterness and indescribable emotional pain he had endured for years from being diverted from a life of fame and riches to one of beastly labor and misery that he had thought he had overcome now crashed upon his spirit like a merciless ocean swell onto a shipwrecked man who naïvely thought the tempest had subsided only to find himself facing yet another towering wave, this one sure to drown him as easily as a newborn kitten.

His legs shook, and his knees nearly buckled. He wanted to turn his head to the side and avoid being seen—avoid the gaze of a man who had it all and who had robbed it from him!

"Ask him how much it will be," he heard the voice calmly instruct.

Then, he realized his cruel commutation—he was not to be forced to look into the eyes of a man of unspeakable success and riches who could have been him. No, but only because this man did not deign to look at those in so lowly a station as his.

This double-edged outcome brought him some small relief; nonetheless, inside he could feel something growing. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was powerful—unlike anything he had ever felt before in his life.

Realizing that the least painful way to end this encounter was to do so as quickly and as professionally as possible, Righty heard his voice say, "Ten dollars. Will there be anything else I can assist the gentleman with today?"

He made sure to speak to the servant rather than dare direct his speech to his master directly. In addition to eliciting extreme displeasure, it would have possibly obligated the gentleman to turn and face him, thus ensuing the fateful eye contact Righty was determined to avoid.

To Righty's immense relief, the servant politely told him that was all and handed him the money. Righty asked if he would like a receipt.

The servant said no and appeared to turn to leave, when Sir Peters said, "Well . . . tip him, boy," as calmly as a mother might remind her child to use his fork rather than his fingers.

Sir Peters then handed the rebuked servant a small gold piece, who then passed it on to Righty, without even looking abashed, perhaps due to having long ago been accustomed to such reprimands, whether in public or in private.

Seconds later to any objective observer, yet an eternity later to Righty, the gentleman and his master were out of the store.

Righty stood there, his hand clasped around the gold coin. His mind now returned to the sensation that was growing inside of him like a roaring flood.

It nearly took his breath away, and he found himself leaning against the shelves to avoid falling over. In his mind a resolution was growing. It was much like the resolution not to drink again, in that it was ironclad and not to be seized from his soul even by a team of horses. But whereas that resolution had mostly been formed in the negative—not to do X—with only a vague goal to do something positive with his life, he now formed a new resolution, one that was affirmative.

Somehow, someway he was going to become rich.

And not just wealthy, but filthy rich. One day, he was going to walk up to Oscar Peters with a gold cane in his hand that would make his look like a dirty twig found in a trash heap. He was going to approach him with an entourage of servants that would make his one servant look like a lonely cry in the desert. He was going to look Oscar right in the eye and tell him he was a no-good, cheating piece of trash who never would have lasted one round with him had his wrist not been half-broken when the fight began and who never would have survived the rematch that should have taken place.

He didn't care if he had to lie, cheat, or steal—Kasani knew the world had done plenty of that to him already. He knew only one thing. He was going to become a rich man.

Chapter 40

Senator Hutherton, many months after first coming face to face with the terrible shock of seeing Smokeless Green for sale at that fine suit store, was fuming mad. He sat at home alone, large puffs of smoke emanating from his lips and rising lazily into the air like soap-filled bubbles.

It wasn't fair! He had felt like he had just been given a secret weapon halfway through a high-stakes poker game, only to discover the rules had been changed and that everyone would now get the secret weapon. He had been so ecstatic when the bill had been passed with all his proposals, and when the fine leaders of industry had lavished gold upon him in thanks, that he thought the presidency was a foregone conclusion.

He had gone to the fine Gentlemen of Selegania Club and visited nearly every goddess in that heavenly abode, gambled wildly and cared not when he lost, and bought rounds for everyone in the establishment. What was money after all when the world was yours?!

As he knew it would, from the moment he made the ill-fated encounter with that package of Smokeless Green that just seemed to grin at him with evil glee mocking him sadistically, his luck began to change quickly thereafter. He found that Smokeless Green had made its way around the upper echelons of Seleganian society like a piece of enticing gossip, and the very next time he had excused himself to go to the restroom to get a little green lift, he was appalled to simultaneously hear at least two or three other senators sniffing away shamelessly in the surrounding stalls.

He had almost quit Smokeless Green right then and there out of spite, but when one of the senators emerged from the stall with a cocky smile on his face and congratulated him in the most insincere tone about his "great accomplishment" with the recent legislation and asked him whether he thought he "would get so lucky with the next one" with a transparent gleam in his eye that seemed to say, Don't count on it! he knew that taking Smokeless Green was going to be a matter of survival.

Before he had even come close to a satisfying solution to the problem of Smokeless Green's ubiquity amongst the senators, his mind then drifted to another: the populace!

As if he were contemplating termites or ants sneaking their way stealthily into his kitchen in search of some delectable treat such as honey or sugar, his bowels tied in knots as he thought of the riff-raff possessed of this fine substance. Imagine how much more difficult they would be to control! a stern voice warned him.

Sure, they could vote, but most were as gullible as children being conned by a magician. He didn't know what the effects of Orgone would be on the rabble of this nation. Then, a flattering thought occurred to him: Perhaps for men not possessed of great intelligence such as himself, this substance would merely serve to greatly energize them but without honing their wits. He chuckled to himself mightily as he imagined them drinking for hours and hours with unprecedented mirth, laughing at the most trivial of jokes.

But there will be those in between.

This voice cut off his chuckle rudely. His father had always warned him about "those in between." There were an elite few born to rule in luxury over the rest, while most were born to live meaningless lives, performing arduous labors for little compensation, which they would then try to forget over an endless string of drinks at the local tavern, while their pitiful wives waited at home for the beatings that would accompany their husbands' return if they nagged.

Yes, that was how it should be: the privileged and the riff-raff. But the "in-betweeners," as his father had referred to them, were dangerous. They weren't born into families that could afford to send them to the best schools, give them all the right introductions, and then insert them into a privileged lifestyle from which they could not fall unless they made an almost purposeful effort to do so. No, these were men born into humble homes but with kingly ambition in their hearts, perversely unfitting to the humble futures Destiny had chosen for them. These men would work twice as hard as the privileged in order to climb to their lofty perches.

Fortunately, the many obstacles strewn in their paths—poor schooling, crushing university costs, introductions that could only be obtained by the most strenuous efforts—usually brought these hapless men to an even lower state than simple riff-raff. Having never dared to aspire to anything more than a life of beer guzzling and beastly labor, riff-raff never knew the indescribably painful sting of working day and night for a goal that the elite had designed to always be outside their grasp.

But this pain the in-betweeners knew all too well.

And on the rarest occasions, one of them, in spite of all the obstacles Nature (and the elite) had put in their way, one of them would somehow crawl his way to the top like some unwholesome corpse out of the grave and attain his place at their table. These were men that true gentlemen would always despise inwardly, Hutherton's father had taught him, and they were to be sabotaged at all costs, for they, upon reaching levels never intended for them, were those that would challenge the established order.

Lord Hutherton was nearly quivering with fear and rage at this moment as he sat on a luxurious chair inside his sumptuous mansion—servants available at any moment if he decided to ring the bell that sat next to his chair—and contemplated this grotesque risk to the established order that lay right beneath the noses of his fellow senators.

The loss of advantage he had momentarily held over his fellow senators no longer seemed like the catastrophe it had only moments ago. After all, he reasoned, it was natural that they, like any respectable gentleman, would have to vie with one another, as they often did at the local polo club. It was suitable for gentlemen to vie with one another.

It was not suitable for in-betweeners to vie with gentlemen.

He nearly felt his skin crawling with in-betweeners. He could imagine them one-by-one discovering the nearly insatiable energy that Orgone provided. No longer would the ten-, twelve-, or even sixteen-hour work day be an insurmountable obstacle for these in-betweeners. He could see them diligently poring over one textbook after another, day after day, week after week, month after month—never growing discouraged, always chugging ahead . . . then inspiring other in-betweeners.

It would only be a matter of time before their ranks would begin to produce great orators who would question the crushing taxes hoisted upon them and ask whether these taxes were being put to good use. There were a great many unfitting questions these in-betweeners would begin to ask the populace and that the populace would then ask themselves. Revolutions had started with such questions. He would not sit idly by while this calamity brewed.

After a sniff of Orgone that would have killed a large horse—and that certainly would have killed him a few months ago—he set off to see Ambassador Rochten. It seemed he always had the solution to everything, and he, being a gentleman, must surely appreciate the risks Selegania was suddenly under. And had he not said that Orgone was recently discovered in Sogolia by the king's finest botanists? Well, then surely they had already developed a proper response to the problem Selegania was now facing.

Chapter 41

"Do you think it could really work?" Lord Hutherton asked Ambassador Rochten, as they separated their time between glancing at one another and their much longer glances at the beauties they were beholding at the Gentlemen of Selegania Club.

"Of course, it will work. It's really a question of whether you're willing to get your hands a little dirty."

"You mean . . . ?"

"Don't be silly. You're a gentleman. I don't exactly propose you go running naked through the street waving an ax, but someone or some people are going to have to do some dirty work if this public crisis is going to get the attention it truly deserves. I must confide in you—" The ambassador paused, looked away from the goddesses, and said to the fine senator almost in a whisper, "We've been having a rather similar problem in Sogolia, but as I'm sure you're aware monarchies can dispense with such problems rather easily. The king has already declared it a capital offense for anyone not of the nobility to use Orgone.

"Alas, in republics these things cannot be done by royal fiat. Cleverer methods must be used." Then, breaking his somber tone and smiling cheerily, "But if you ask me, that's why it's republics that get to have all the fun." Although he didn't know why, for the first time the senator found the ambassador rather chilling, but this was a short-lived sensation, as the thought of in-betweeners brought him back to the focus at hand.

"Tell me, ambassador, what kind of fun do you suggest this republic ought to have?"

The ambassador looked at him with wolfish eyes and then began to speak again in a whisper.

Chapter 42

"What was the score today, Sweet Tooth?"

"Three on Durham Street, half on Maple."

Michael Hathers, better known as Knuckles, sat in council with Chris Culmeyer, better known as Sweet Tooth. Knuckles had earned his name due to a tendency to end arguments by knocking a man senseless rather than let them devolve into something obscene like a debate. Sweet Tooth had earned his name due to a proclivity to stop and grab pastries and begin munching away even if he had not yet finished his chore of emptying the cash register of the store he was robbing.

Knuckles was head of the infamous Rattler gang, a name whose copyright he defended vigorously by murdering the head of any start-up that sought to steal it. He had invented the gang's name himself, due to a particular fondness he had for that venomous viper, even though the love affair did not appear to be mutual, ample evidence of which seemed to exist, in most people's minds, in his missing pinky finger, which had to be amputated following a nasty bite one of these critters had given him.

But it was not Knuckles' sordid endearment towards these vicious animals that earned his clique the notoriety they had achieved throughout the capital of Selegania but rather his tendency to insert them by the bagful into the stores of those in his dominion who did not seem to take his toadies seriously enough when they were so kind as to pay a congenial visit, explain the dangerous nature of the area, and politely suggest a generous business arrangement by which the store in question could receive top-notch protection against the many evildoers in the area . . . and all in exchange for a very reasonable sum.

Knuckles found that those who were immune to such gentle means of persuasion typically saw the light once they were forced to leap on top of their tallest counter quicker than a kangaroo—whilst urging their terrified customers to do the same—in order to avoid the scaly, buzzing vipers patrolling the store. The gang's name had become legendary throughout the entire city even though its dominion of control was limited for now mostly to slum areas of the city's north side.

Knuckles had plans to change that though. He was a visionary. And he knew that the many smaller gangs dominating the city's south side were just waiting to be gobbled up one by one like mice inside a hole being visited by long, slender visitor.

As for now though, he was sitting in council with Sweet Tooth, an underling he didn't exactly admire, but he found him predictable, and Knuckles liked predictability in underlings. Creativity was the domain of leaders, he believed, and he was very suspicious as a general rule of any sign of outside-the-box thinking amongst his inferiors . . . except when he demanded it, and even in those cases his keen eyes and sour face scanned the hearts of every man before him searching for any hint that they might be conspiring against him or showing signs of independent thought.

He and Sweet Tooth conversed intently about the day's extortion tally, using all the lingo and indecipherable grammar that criminals invent instinctually, while failing to grasp the vernacular of polite society.

During the course of this conversation, Knuckles became adequately convinced that Sweet Tooth was doing his job and wasn't pilfering any undue amounts of the protection money that their clients had provided them today. It was Friday, and Friday was payday. That usually made Knuckles a happy camper, but today a worm of anxiety was digging through his mind—so much so, in fact, that if Sweet Tooth had ever had a mind to pull one over on Knuckles today would have been the perfect day to do it.

The perpetual snarl that was tattooed on Knuckles' face, however, came in handy for situations such as these, for—whether he was feeling giddy or sad—his face always wore the same sinister expression that kept peons in a state of healthy fear.

Knuckles' apprehension had to do with the fact he had been summoned. It has been said that everybody answers to somebody, and Knuckles' situation—lofty though it may have been over his gang of several hundred cutthroats—offered no rebuttal to the axiom. He didn't know all the ranks of the mysterious underworld. In fact, for all he knew, his boss answered to no one except the gods themselves, but Knuckles didn't worry too much about unpractical issues such as these.

What he knew was that Sir Charles had sent for him via his messenger. Charles was one of those men that—without ever having to put it into words—illumined Knuckles' savage mind to the fact there were spheres of power in this world so far greater than the tiny garden Knuckles tended that he was like a ladybug looking up at the eagles soaring high above.

With polite manners, refined vocabulary, perfect grammar, and an overall gentlemanly bearing, at a distance he would have presented no more a force to be reckoned with than any banker, lawyer, or doctor leaving his office upon the conclusion of a day's work. But it was his eyes that belied his otherwise gentle mannerisms.

Knuckles (who was now in his late twenties) had arrogantly thought he had reached the zenith of power when at the age of eighteen he had strangled his boss to death over a disagreement about the expansion of the gang. Knuckles saw the gang's future as depending upon swallowing up smaller gangs. Steel, his former boss, had seen that as likely to attract too much unwanted attention from the city's police force. "Better to survive as a dog than get hunted down and shot as a roaring lion," he would say.

Knuckles disagreed with him, and as he had never seen much benefit in arguments—whether he dealing with superiors or inferiors—his crocodilian brain had instinctively told him he had to either accept it or "fix it." He fixed it. He had jumped on Steel's back as soon as he turned around—that was Steel's unwise method of letting Knuckles know their conversations were over—wrapped his right arm around his throat, grabbed his left bicep, put his left hand behind Steel's head, and choked him to death on the spot.

He had been somewhat surprised a week later when Sweet Tooth had told him, "Suitie at the door, mate." They weren't used to seeing "suities" in that area of town. That was before they were the Rattlers. That was when they were just a two-bit cabal of thugs clinging for dear life onto several blocks of low-revenue turf. The self-flattering thought had entered Knuckles' mind that perhaps this was a shop owner who hoped to come and plead his protection money tax down to a lower rate, since, after all, Steel was dead and maybe the gang wasn't going to be able to offer the same high-quality protection that it used to.

Knuckles had been fully ready to tell the man off viciously and let him know his rate had just gone up and to bear that lesson in mind should such a foolhardy scheme ever again enter it. To his surprise, a well-dressed gentleman—one whom he had never before seen, and he had made the acquaintance of every shop owner on their turf and that of most shop owners in the surrounding blocks, since Knuckles had already been out sightseeing and sizing up his new potential customers—had entered the small house that Knuckles now occupied (having dispensed with the previous owner), took off his handsome top hat, and then waited calmly, as if he were not so brutish as to step any further into another man's abode than that which he was explicitly invited to.

This caught Knuckles attention. He almost told him, Well?! Comin' or goin', old man?! I've got better things to do than observe what I'll look like in forty years! But some unseen force had stayed his usually cruel tongue, and to his surprise he found himself saying, "Do come in," an expression he had occasionally heard polite members of society say to one another, but it was not one that was often directed towards him and had never, to his recollection, been employed by him.

Entering calmly, as if he had never even considered an alternative scenario to that which was now unfolding, he entered calmly, top hat in hand, and then sat down on the table and looked directly at Knuckles.

"You did what had to be done," the man said.

Somehow, Knuckles instinctively knew the man was talking about Steel, which made him a bit apprehensive, as Knuckles had convinced the rest of the gang that Steel had been killed by a rival gang that, jealous of Steel's ambitions, planned to send a stern message to them that they would soon follow Steel if they didn't wise up about their silly notions of expanding.

Knuckles had told the gang—all twenty of their number, which at that point was referred to as "Steel's crew"—that they wouldn't be intimidated and that they would carry on Steel's vision of expansion. This had served as a surprisingly effective rallying cry for the gang, who beforehand had been rather skittish about expanding.

To his immeasurable relief, he sensed his guest didn't seem to feel any further discussion of the demise of Steel was warranted. After all, as the gentleman had said: He did what had to be done.

"Steel—as do many individuals—paid me thirty percent each month. Unlike the protection racket you peddle, this is genuine. I have contacts in the top tiers of the city and national police forces and am able to make certain recommendations on police priorities. This is no shakedown. This is a one-time, take-it-or-leave-it offer. Truth be told, I had been getting so bored with Steel's lack of ambition and measly payouts that I was about to consider getting out of the business arrangement altogether, but when I would hear Steel complain to me about you, I took his criticism of your ambitions as a sign there was hope for your outfit after all. Thus, I consider your recent action to have proven my instincts correct."

Knuckles' scowling countenance scanned the bizarre visitor like the nose of a top bloodhound sniffing for any sign of weakness or deception. He at first felt an immense delight when his acute senses told him this man was telling the truth and that he would be an excellent contact to do business with. But then, he detected something else. Something that chilled him to the bone. There was something in the man's calm gaze that told Knuckles that if at any moment he chose to do so he might produce a weapon from the most unexpected of places—perhaps a kirk from inside that large top hat he had carried so affectionately and placed on the table within easy reach—and slash Knuckles to ribbons if he so much as took a fancy to do so.

Nonetheless, a deeper instinct told him that he was a businessman first and foremost and would only kill if it made business sense to do so. Knuckles felt that perhaps there was no better kind of man to do business with, and so he had heartily agreed to the arrangement and kept his word to him ever since. To Knuckles' immense satisfaction, he noticed that other gangs in the city were harassed somewhat frequently by the police, while his operated with virtual impunity.

However, he usually only saw the gentleman once every few years. He would draw considerable satisfaction from these visits because to him this gentleman, with his keen, sometimes savage eyes, represented a bigger world. A world beyond small-time rackets. A world of immense power—hidden power. And it was perhaps the hidden nature of it that he was so enamored with.

Usually, once a month, the gentleman's servant would come to Knuckles' abode, give a signature knock on the door—RAP RAP RAP, RAP, RAP, RAP—and then one of Knuckles' underlings would open it, make a visual confirmation of the servant's identity, and then give him a sack of gold coins.

Thus, it was with immense surprise that Knuckles received a visit from the messenger weeks before the usual day, and it perplexed Knuckles still more so when the messenger explained to him that Sir Charles wanted to see him. When he had given Knuckles the address for their meeting, his notorious scowl had helped disguise what in reality had been a tsunami of shock that had crashed down upon him.

Somehow, he managed to grunt, "I'll be there," as if it were no big thing, but it was a big thing. Every year when he met with Sir Charles, he felt like a child might who has been sent away to a boarding school and who once a year sees his father for a single evening and who hopes against hope that his father will be thrilled to see him—so thrilled that he will tell the child that he wants to see him more often and that he will see him more often. Yet, although Sir Charles continually complimented him on the growing enterprise over which Knuckles presided, the meetings always left Knuckles feeling a bit empty.

He wanted more—much more. He didn't know what "much more" meant, but he knew that for starters it meant living in a mansion rather than in some dingy hideout in one of the city's worst neighborhoods. Sure, the inside of his dingy hideout was adorned with all the fine accoutrements that might be found inside a well-bred gentleman's house: fine leather upholstery, servants, fine food, etc. But he felt that he couldn't leave the neighborhood, because, as the saying goes, when the cat's away the mice shall play. He didn't feel he could keep sufficient control over his gang if he moved away to some plush neighborhood.

And he wasn't quite there financially either, although he was well on his way, given the gang's increasing expansion. But he suspected that perhaps there was something deeper. Maybe he was just afraid he couldn't fit in with high society. He wondered if, upon being dressed up in a nice suit and decorating his hand with a gentleman's cane, he would feel something like a pig dressed in a tuxedo and sprinkled with expensive cologne. Maybe he wasn't meant to be more than a two-bit leader of a two-bit gang of hoods, but he wanted to be. He felt like being in Sir Charles' presence was akin to basking in the sun. He often found that after their meetings he would adopt certain phrases and mannerisms that Sir Charles used, the way a child might mimic his father.

Thus, it was with great trepidation that he donned his finest suit, finest boots, and even a shiny new top hat that he had purchased just for the occasion, bid adieu to the rabble (he was beginning to sometimes think of his subordinates as such, even though almost all of them were from the same neighborhood), and took off towards the address. He did, however, permit ten of his most vicious rabble to escort him to the first coach, something that must have presented the spectacle of a fine gentleman being stalked and harassed by a relentless gang of toughs. No observer would have guessed they were his entourage.

Chapter 43

When Knuckles arrived at Sir Charles' mansion, he was greeted politely by a well-dressed servant who bid the guest to enter and invited him to sit down.

To the immense surprise of Knuckles, several minutes later he heard a voice that he recognized say, "Please admit Mr. Hathers." If any of his subordinates had ever called him anything but Knuckles—an appellation that he was particularly proud of when in their presence—he would have reminded them of his real name by using those blunt instruments upon their heads.

But in the presence of Sir Charles, he had always felt an immense sense of honor when being referred to as "Michael." Now, to hear this man that he regarded as a near deity refer to him as "Mr. Hathers" was such an honor he nearly fell to the floor. His rapture was almost unbearably intensified when the servant came out and said, "Mr. Hathers, Sir Charles will see you now."

He supposed that, while he didn't really know if there was such a thing as heaven after you died, he now had adequate proof at least of the concept of a state of pure ecstasy, for if the house had fallen down upon him at that moment, he would have died content.

The sensation only grew more and more—almost to the point he wished someone would slap him, pinch him, or give him a dirty look . . . something to make him snap out of an ecstasy so powerful he almost felt as if he were under the power of some potent drug. Yet he knew that couldn't be the case, as he had neither drunk nor eaten anything intoxicating.

"Please be seated, Mr. Hathers," Sir Charles said so calmly that Knuckles almost forgot he had ever been referred to by another name.

Knuckles sat down. The power of the moment was now so great it almost effaced the protective scowl from his countenance.

Almost.

Any observer would have concluded, upon watching Knuckles carefully, that he was in a rather foul mood and was hoping the visit would not be a long one. That is, with the exception of Sir Charles. To Knuckles' discomfort, he felt the keen eyes of Sir Charles boring through him like a nail through paper, and Knuckles didn't doubt for a moment that his feeling of helpless intoxication was written in large bright letters inside his soul, to which it seemed Sir Charles' eyes had access.

"Do you ever play chess, Mr. Hathers?"

Knuckles would have liked to lie—to say, Of course, who doesn't? But I really don't have time for games, gramps, so let's get on with it, shall we? But he dared not lie to this man any more than he would to his creator.

"No, Sir Charles," he heard a meek voice respond.

"You should, Mr. Hathers. For it is the game of kings and those who live like kings. I find living in the second category pleasant enough and consider myself lucky not to have the burdens that a real king would have. Mine are sufficiently vexatious."

He then studied Knuckles closely, his keen blue eyes penetrating deeper and deeper.

"You're a smart man, Mr. Hathers. Much different from the others I normally deal with in my line of work. If you had been born into a different family, you would now be a shrewd politician or a business magnate, moving around millions of falons like the pieces on this board," Sir Charles continued, moving around a couple of rooks to demonstrate the point.

Knuckles' state of ecstasy now was so overwhelming he almost considered jumping headfirst off of the large veranda on which they were currently seated on the third floor of this exquisite mansion, overlooking a marble floor issuing from the wall below and giving way to well-manicured grass and beautiful plants, many of which were of a species Knuckles had never even heard of before, much less seen, in his shabby neighborhood. He felt that it would almost be better to die right now while he had this feeling rather than endure the plummet back to earth he knew would inevitably come after his meeting with this deity had concluded. Perhaps euphoria such as this was not meant to be experienced in this life.

He felt himself pinch his own finger so hard he almost drew blood. To his immense satisfaction, his ecstasy lowered just enough that he felt he had a semblance of control over his state of mind.

After a game or two of chess, Sir Charles said, "Mr. Hathers, you have demonstrated important traits to me throughout the years we have worked together: honesty, punctuality, and ambition. You've never cheated me on one red cent. You've never been a day late in payment. And you've continually grown your enterprise. I deal with some very wealthy individuals, Mr. Hathers—far wealthier than I" (Knuckles found himself immensely grateful at Sir Charles' compassion by not saying "far wealthier than you," although that would have been a much truer statement, he believed). "Some of them would perhaps look at you and ask me, 'What do you see in him?' To which I would respond, 'I see what can be, not merely what is.'"

Knuckles' head was swimming.

"Mr. Hathers, there are times when a man must use his pawns in order to further a larger objective. Does that make sense?"

Knuckles felt his head nod and his mouth stay sealed shut.

"I would like to bring to your attention a proposal that I believe may be crucial to you in the further growth of your enterprise."

Knuckles felt his head nod again.

Several hours later, Sir Charles said, "Well, Mr. Hathers, what do you think?"

Knuckles nodded.

"Excellent!" Sir Charles said. "Another game of chess?"

Nod.

Knuckles was not in the slightest aware of the enormity of what he had just agreed to. Historians would later view it as the singular act that steered Selegania towards destruction.

End of The Almost Champion

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