MystikQuest, Jeff Schanz [red seas under red skies .txt] 📗

"MystikQuest" by Jeff Schanz, (6 chapter sample only)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A novel by

Jeff Schanz

 

 

Copyright 2020

All rights reserved

 

 

**6 Chapter Sample Only**

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

 

 

Wes pulled back the curtain that served as the door to his treehouse. He dipped his shoulders through the entrance, slouching to pass under the low clearance. There was no place in his house he could escape the daily drama of his mom and stepdad sniping at each other over whatever thing triggered them that day, and all he needed was a quiet spot to get out of the verbal storm. It wouldn’t be for long since they all had a get-together at his friend’s house that evening.

His hideaway and sanctuary was the treehouse that he and his father had built in the woods years ago, before his dad died. Since his dad’s death, a new stepdad moved in, which was fine for a while until his mom and stepdad started fighting. Then the old treehouse became a refuge of tranquility. It and the makeshift camp surrounding it were the ultimate cool when he was seven or eight, but he was thirteen now, and he had other things to do rather than play imaginary adventures in the woods.

If he was honest with himself, he still played imaginary adventures, they had just taken different forms like video games, movies, and recently, a tabletop, role-playing game called MystikQuest. Most of the other kids he knew were entranced with the visual extravaganza of the latest video games which strived to look and feel real. Though definitely cool, Wes felt the high drama of realistic-looking zombies trying to eat you, or gangsters brutally killing each other, or alien monsters trying to rip your head off, was too stressful for what was supposed to be a fun escape. There were times when he enjoyed those video games, but lately, he and his friends had been immersing themselves in an old-fashioned game that utilized written descriptions, vivid imaginations, and rolls of dice to create their fantasy refuge. Wes’s refuge at that particular moment was nothing imaginary, rather the simple solitude of the quiet old treehouse.

His real house sat high on a hill, an acre of yard surrounding it, and several acres of woods separating the valley neighbors. Typical of many Connecticut neighborhoods built prior to the 70s, instead of fences, property lines were marked by tree lines and colonial-age stone walls. Thickets of brush and trees obscured the view of his wooded camp from the house. Despite being within cell tower range, for some reason, the area around his camp was a dead zone for cell signals, so when his parents or friends wanted to reach him, they had to yell from the top of the hill. The camp area was originally designed with a functional fire pit, spear-throwing target, and a rope swing. Over time, the rope snapped and never got replaced, the spear target fell apart, and the fire pit filled with mud and leaves. All that was left was the treehouse.

Wes kept it in good shape, somewhat clean, and supplied it with a few necessities. Since the outdoor elements were harsh on any food-stuffs he left out there, he stocked snacks with hardy packaging. His current treehouse “pantry” consisted of cans of Vienna Sausage, granola bars, bottles of orange soda, and a jar of peanuts. Except for the soda, he didn’t really care about the items he kept there. As long as they stored well, he wasn’t too picky. Food wasn’t usually necessary since he rarely stayed out there long. Eventually, after his parents finished fighting and noticed that their son had been gone a while, either his mom or stepdad would shout down from the hill.

The treehouse floor was made-up of wood planks stolen from the trash heaps of construction sites. Several were smeared with paint, or dripped plaster, and sometimes had splinters that scratched his bare legs if he wore shorts. Today, he wore jeans, so he could stretch out comfortably if he wanted. In his current mood, it felt better to draw up his knees and tuck his face between them.

Several years ago, his dad died in a sudden accident so mysterious, no one understood it. It didn’t allow for a lot of closure. Wes took it better than most kids his age because he had a clinical mind that occupied itself with information, questions, and solutions on a variety of subjects. Most days he would only miss his dad a little. Today was not most days.

Concentrating on just keeping a calm, steady, relaxing breath, the world outside his skin was slowly washing away like chalk on a rainy sidewalk. If it wasn’t for the tiny vibration of the floorboard beneath his haunch, he wouldn’t have noticed something moving in the dark corner of the treehouse.

Wes jerked upright, fearful that a rat or raccoon had taken refuge in his fort. Not that raccoons or rats are normally vicious, but any animal cornered, or perhaps injured, might lash out if it thought it was threatened. There was a long, polished stick within reach that Wes had been working on to create a cool spear, complete with carvings and feathers. The tip was not a separate spearhead, just the wood shaved to a point with a knife. He gripped the spear and drew it to him, careful not to make noise. The animal could probably see him, but if Wes kept his actions smooth and slow, the animal might not panic. With the spear firmly in both hands, and the tip now pointed at the suspicious corner, Wes shifted his body to get on one knee. Taking a quiet, measured breath, he prepared what he was going to do.

What am I going to do? He’d never killed an animal before. Practicing spear-throwing in his camp was just for fun, never intended as training to harm anything.

The treehouse corner was too close to throw the spear, and he was reluctant to lean forward to stab with it. No option sounded good. The only thing that seemed reasonable was to patiently wait for the creature to show itself. Maybe it wasn’t dangerous. Like what? A rabbit? Rabbits don’t climb.

Wes squinted to focus on whatever was scuffling around in the corner. He could make out part of a silhouette. Small furry body, hunched back, some kind of fleshy tail. Way too big for a rat. An opossum? Eww. Those things are gross. And they could be dangerous if panicked. The head turned toward Wes and it had long, pointed ears. Huh? What the heck…? Nothing Wes could recall seeing in any book looked like the thing he was staring at. Well, that wasn’t quite true. In one of his MystikQuest books, there was a… Stop it, dude. This wasn’t some made-up, fantasy goblin in his treehouse. This was something real, and probably dangerous.

Wes steeled himself to either run away or stab it with the spear. If the weird creature made any sudden moves, Wes would defend himself, and if it just sat there, maybe Wes could slowly retreat down the ladder. The problem was that once Wes was on the ladder, how would he be able to hold the spear defensively and still climb down?

These thoughts were circulating through Wes’s mind when the creature’s eyes caught the light filtering through the curtained entryway. The eyes looked human.

Holy…

And then the creature spoke. “Stay away, boy!” it snarled.

CHAPTER 2

 

 

Wes was sure he had heard correctly, there was just no way it was possible. Opossums don’t speak English. Weird opossum things that look like goblins with long ears and human eyes might.

No, dude. No way. It’s a dream or something. You fell asleep.

The low crossbeam above the treehouse threshold bumped the back of Wes’s head as he inched toward the exit. If he was dreaming, the sudden pain would’ve woke him up, and since the weird opossum-goblin was still visible, his dream theory was dispelled.

The opossum-goblin thing spat at him, then spoke again. “I warn you, human. Touch me and die!”

Ok, definitely not dreaming. The hideous little creature seemed fearsome and Wes had no desire to touch it, whatsoever. After all, Wes wasn’t an idiot. He also wasn’t too frightened to do some quick mental deductions. If this thing could attack him, or even run, it probably would’ve already. Wes had been in the treehouse a while and the thing hadn’t moved most of that time. In fact, it had likely been hiding. It could have pounced on Wes at any time without warning, and also could’ve run out the exit before Wes registered its presence. No, this thing was stuck in that corner for some reason. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing since injured animals can be vicious and very dangerous, but this wasn’t any normal animal. Or possibly an animal at all. It speaks English and has human eyes.

Wes had no idea what to do next, so his mouth decided for him. It spoke faster than Wes could stop himself from saying, “What are you?”

If you ask a run-of-the-mill opossum what he is, he likely wouldn’t say, “Well, sir, I’m an opossum of course. Sorry to have frightened you. Please forgive me, and I’ll just get out of your hair.” Nope. He would more likely hiss and scurry, or lumber, away as fast as he could. Wes had no idea how opossum’s moved because he’d never seen a live one. Only dead ones on the side of the road. He assumed that meant they probably didn’t run very fast. But this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill opossum, and Wes figured it would respond in an abnormal way, he just had no clue what that would be. He held his spear tightly and waited.

The creature surprised Wes again. Instead of answering in English, or running away, or attacking, it leaned against the treehouse wall, groaning in what sounded like pain, and began muttering in another language that Wes didn’t recognize. German? Russian? Wes was good at languages, studied Latin and Spanish, a little Japanese, knew some Elvish and Klingon, memorized fun words from his favorite sci-fi TV shows, and liked to invent his own languages just like his hero, J.R.R. Tolkein, did in the epic series “Lord of the Rings.” Despite that, this creature’s language wasn’t familiar, and that bothered Wes even more. Like an opossum-goblin who speaks English isn’t bad enough? It’s multilingual.

Wes screwed up more courage and pushed the spear tip closer to the creature. “Answer me in English!” Wes demanded. God, that sounds so stupid.

The creature snarled again, in no particular language, grumbled something, then spoke in a strained voice, “Stay – away. Will – kill you.”

Wes didn’t buy that. This thing was in no condition to do much of anything, and posturing was possibly its only defense. It could be faking an injury, though Wes didn’t think so. He was a smart kid, so smart he was given special classes at school to advance his thinking. Too smart because it drew a lot of mocking from the other kids: Wesley Walker, the alien brain; Wesley Walker, teacher’s pet; Wuss-ley Walker; Dork. Most mean kids weren’t very creative, and there were a few other uninventive names he was called. Wes never apologized for his intelligence, and shrugged off most insults as best he could, though it never felt good. Any way you sliced it, Wes wasn’t dumb, and though he had the same fears