The short hallway between his old bedroom and the intersection with the kitchen, upstairs steps and the living room transformed into a jungle of oddities. The carpet grew to a luscious coat of moss. Shade wrapped the walls in new, ugly life sliding down from the ceiling and darkness above. Thin crevices reached out from this shade and melted into the walls. Inside, thin vines grew and sprouted barbs as long as eyelashes.
As shade pools spread, a flimsy triangular shape floated to the surface. Against the black waters its mushroom like head revealed two slits like eyes on the underside of a stingray. They expanded like nostrils and a mustache unfolded beneath like a hairy black caterpillar.
Tim wound up and threw a baseball, but nothing materialized. Why would it?
No time. The snarling mustache sucker was cooking up a snot rocket and bubbled to the launch. Shield.
It burned and cut clear through to punch him in the chest. A black charred hole shown clear through his arm. The landing site singed a similar hole in his Richfield Coliseum Cavs shirt, one of his favorites. Now ruined. Oh, the pain! What’s wrong with this world! Tim thought with childlike angst.
Chris threw a towel, catching a second snot rocket in the weight and folds. He hooked his arm around Tim’s good one and pulled him out of the wall ray’s range.
The living room kept a tiny resemblance to their home, with the couch and his father’s brown recliner still safe from the burbling black and mossy swamp invading their house. They jumped onto a couch and grabbed flannel and scratchy designer pillows to shield them from the next trippy monster. Their babysitter’s giggle wafted from somewhere close, concealed by the mist shrouding their escape back through the hall. Did they need to rescue her to escape this nightmare?
Tim stuffed one of the pillows to his arm, then his chest, his mind aflight without a compass. Both wounds burned and bled, but the chest hole’s living heat gave a greater concern than what to do with his blood-leaking arm. Mom would be so upset he ruined his new shirt. Now he’d ruined her pillow and probably got some on the new couch. Why’d he think he had a shield? None of his toys matched the idea that had popped into his head. If they could get back to his room, he had a baseball bat and some sports gear, but nothing close to the axe he intended to throw or the made-for-TV shield with Aura…
Aura…
Something rose from the swamp, head blanketed in moss. One eye blinked open despite the black ooze sluicing past and dribbling past a parting mouth. White fangs ended in sharp tips and ragged breaks. Gray mottled flesh spotted the cotton-mouthed tongue within.
Tim threw his pillow at the thing’s head with the might of the world and the effect of a toy’s squeak when it popped inside the croc’s bite. The beast’s body splashed etherial waves of darkness against the fronts of the furniture. Tim grabbed his brother’s hand and pulled him as he leapt for the croc’s spike plated back. His landing buoyed and his balance shifted with the creature rolling. Dexterity normally reserved for rounding third base guided his second step to the narrow landing near its hindleg and he sprung for the opaque mist and hopeful safe landing.
His bare feet squished into saturated moss cool as the night and teaming with wigglies. A raunchy sucking sound from his left signaled the wall ray’s next snot rocket. Angry desperation welled within Tim. He clenched a fist, strode at the wall and delivered a full-bore uppercut to the mustache. The wall ray tensed in a cushion of muscle. Tim only cared about surface area for his follow up. His left fist punched down and clipped its head. The ray reeled under the blow, stretched out and back around like a clock winding itself slowly back into normal use.
“Outta my house!” Tim’s corner kick pelted the ray in center mass and sent it deep into the wall, out of sight.
A plant sprouted from the floor with a purple fan of green spikes.
Despite the ominous looking expansion in the flower petals, Tim sensed its upward growth toward him was not hostile.
A roar from the swamp beyond the mist shook the house, as though the croc was lost and pissed at being deprived of its meal.
He snatched the flower off its vine and Tim pulled Chris into his bedroom. He slammed the door shut, then followed his brother to leap for his bed. “I never thought I’d be glad to see you, innocent-looking geese,” Tim said to the wallpaper fit for a Canadian hunter’s happy place. His mother’s guest room fittings to his bedroom never felt as much like home sweet home as they did now. “What are you looking at, swan?” he said to the image on his pillow.
“What’s happening?” Chris scooted in, comforter pulled up over him like a robe of protection failing to prevent his shaking.
He’s so young…
Tim had an inkling to eat the weird fruit to heal his injuries. The question of why stayed his hand. Why in the world would he eat something so strange? Mom wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole. Memories faint as yesteryear projected visions of his hand scooping a mushroom like purple bulb. Strength unlike any game winning home run filled him with a spark.
Tim bit into the crunchy green tips. Candy sweet. He widened his bite to the purple center. Blueberries and sunshine. Cool like a fresh Snapple in the heat of the dugout. His head rocked with its nourishment.
Chris’s face grew in a blink. Adult and hairy. Better yet, aware. Then gone. Back to frantic eyes and wrung out blanket.
His brother was locked inside. This whole world, basketball hoop atop the closet door and trophy laden shelves weren’t real…anymore. Something truer hid layers deep, and he had to find it.
A roar erupted outside, closing with ferocity and wrath. The door ballooned inward and a great light filled the cracks. Stitches ripped out of the carpet from the recursive ripples.
“G-g-g-Get und—d-d-er the b-b-b-blankets,” Chris cried. His voice trembling and stuttering. Tim played along to by time.
The monster on the other side hit the door again. A great crack splintered the middle, casting a beam of white light into the dark.
“Q-q-q-quick. P-p-p-re-tend…s-s- sleeeping.” As Tim scooted under, Chris mumbled something in another language, if he had to guess. Short and barbaric. “Padstoligan” was the only word he recognized. “Goshella” was the only other catchable morsel from that verbal vomit.
Tim set his hand on his brother’s throat, not to harm, but to soothe. Have I done this before? Tim inhaled deep into his abdomen, churning a strange heat slowly becoming more familiar.
A ghost woke in his forearm, prowling into his hand. He commanded it to take the bad from his brother.
“Give me your fears,” he said.
Magic Hunt evolved new ability: Fear Breaker
What is that?! Was he in a movie or something that could explain the writing in the air?
Didn’t he come here with someone who could explain? What’s his name?
Whatever he’d done, it calmed Chris’s breathing—
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The bedroom door cracked clean in two, erupting in splintered white light. Tim touched the bed. Battleground. Hand to Chris. Brother’s Keeper.
What was he doing? Strange power coursed through his fingers into the bed, sturdy and rising into a dome. Light reflected off the arch and cast a beautiful purple light around them. Beyond, the ray illumined a triple entwined vine with barbs long and sharp enough to cleave a horse. Thinner, yellow vines climbed the towering plant.
Tim grabbed Chris’s hand and climbed onto the bed backboard. His next step landed on something like snakeskin on a giant asparagus.
The monster behind them rose into a furry black blob crossing a disgusting meatball with a tiger-toothed gremlin. Cute. Then not. Hell’s crunchy turd launched at the bed, fangs spread. One cracked on the Protection dome. Turdball whipped itself into a frenzy. Every bite into Tim’s invisible dome spiked nightmare flashes. Its frenzy blurred into a mini tornado and sprang at the bed again.
Chris tugged at Tim’s sleeve.
Darkness and chaos replaced with a chill wind and sunlight reflecting off white clouds.
Chris looked Tim in the eye, back to his normal age, suffering in the same suddenness of change.
“We’re good,” Tim said. Then realized he had no idea where he was. Again.
Twenty feet above them, the ladder they clung to led to a lily pad within this skyborn city among the vines. Stable as a thorn on the pad, a store sat upon the pad with shelves and aisles presenting a plethora of tools, weapons and colorful trinkets. A beautifully painted wooden axe had holes in the mane beneath the blade. Pinpricks of light dotted around the holes and along the blade. Aura lived there, as enchantment circled the ridges and ran along the tube running top to bottom to create a wind chamber. It could make music or cleave your enemy in two. Roz would love it.
Tim took a deep breath, shocked at the sudden absence of sound and fury.
“You can come on up, now,” a voice fit for a farmer market corner spot, elder with wit and lives for a crowd. Something connected between Tim and the shop owner, Rhal’g. This troll was no threat. In fact, his essence flowed with warm waves more akin to an ally.
Tim poked his gaze into the narrow angle into the shop. Rhal’g smiled yellowing teeth with gums desperate for a dentist. Rings sparkled on his wiggling fingers. His skin was an aged green with shades darkening over patches of a rougher texture. His eyes evoked life in sunflower yellow and orange, the vertical oval angled like snake’s. It blinked and a third eye opened in its cheek. Blue sunshine with beauty giving life from the light in its center. Definitely nothing creepy about that. Yet his smile bespoke an ease with hospitality. “Well, come on. Any Farar with the oyhingas to climb Roan Dusaa is welcome to my best human prices.” The way he said human sounded like he’d had it once for dinner and didn’t care to try again. No big deal. Sometimes a brother has to eat.
Tim had negotiated with craftier salesmen. Warryn came to mind. Chris was there. His skin was hard like tree bark. Eyes acquainted with the worst of war. “This dose will end it. You’ll wake in about a week…”
The replay took place while Rhal’g chewed on a newly dead bird, feathers and all. Any other time, Tim thought for sure that would be the craziest thing taking place at the moment. Any other time because Tim hadn’t remembered Chris saying that to Warryn. What dose? Y… he’ll wake? Tim glared at Chris, who was playing cute as his school picture. “Don’t give me that.”
“What?”
“This. I saw you tell Warryn he’d wake up in a week.”
“How about we handle our business here, then we can handle our business somewhere else?” He growled the stage whisper and glared right back.
That’s the Chris I was looking for. Tim gave him an f-u wink back and addressed the potbellied troll. No big deal.
Tim patted his chest. His pockets. Looking down, jammies and cut toes. Then an idea. “You ever seen a Farar before?”
Rhal’g flossed some bird out with a bone. “Nope.”
“How could you tell I’m Farar?” Tim flaunted a hand across his wardrobe and thought, Forage.
“Is this some kind of joke? Your vest. Your axe. Pretty thing. Wanna make an offer?”
Tim’s old body had returned, including his pouch and 124 gold. “No thanks,” Tim said, buying time as his mind evolved with memories tied to Vignyia. “I’m more interested in information. And maybe that axe in the corner, but first.” Tim flipped a coin Rhal’g’s way. He caught it with a shrug.
“You want to toss twenty more little sisters and brothers with that last one?”
Oh, now he wants to play. Tim flipped five more and retied his pouch.
Rhal’g scowled and pocketed the treasure in a hough. “If you want a tip, you smell particularly bad for a human. Is it a teeth thing, or… Fungus? Is it fungus? I hate fungus.” Rhal’g absently perused his brown nails, dusted with gray and cracked all over. “That one’s free, I suppose.”
“Why would it take oyhingas for a Farar to climb Roan Dusaa?” Tim asked.
Rhal’g’s brows bent forward. “Either this is a test or you’re a fool. Do you dare grace Roan Dusaa and not know the danger you’re in?” Rhal’g barked. “I don’t think it matters. Troll prices all around. Except for her.” He pointed at the wind-enchanted axe Tim had admired. “She’s full price for everyone. The magdolin herself could blow a song and I’d still charge her the going rate.”
So, it was musical. Tim had to have it.
Rhal’g, being the seasoned storeowner, already knew.
“Wouldn’t be smart to start off your relationship with the next Jewel victor in a bad way. Tim Leifman’s the name.” Details fell into place like a remodel in fast forward. Crisp and greatly welcomed.
A hand shook him and his grasp on reality’s building blocks. His new pieces were Dark. Dank. Dirty sewers. Hip deep, he swayed with the new environment. The smell filled his mouth like nuclear waste in a sock. He strained against hurling, winning the internal argument by thinking if he did that would make the smell somehow worse… “Where am I?”
“West side. You, Jil and Khempal have all been pretty out of it. You don’t know where you are? Oh dear.”
“Who are you?”
She scoffed. “Really? Sho-ree you’re a trip. Hatlee,” she said, with a hand to her chest. “Nothing?”
Tim took that in with a mix of confusion and faked assurance as though it would come to him shortly.
“Really?” she said. “I think I’m gonna need a minute…”
Hatlee and her dark sewer faded like a lost memory. His new present fit in without chance for refute, back with his brother on the Roan Dusaa. No longer bright in the sky, murky green smog clouded visibility to a couple yards. Their vine walkway wide as a sidewalk had conspicuously missing railings to guard them from the fall into smoke and shadow. Fires lit hotspots far below, muted by the thick smog. Tim’s feet traversed the bald places between inter wrapping vines striving to join their mother in perpetuity upward and earthward.
Chris regained his sorcerer’s cloak and thick backpack that appeared to bear no weight. No Jogey in sight, or Dryfu. He turned back to check on Tim, and the swirling of sand in his pupils stopped him in his tracks.
“You okay?” Chris asked.
Tim shook his thoughts into reset, closing his eyes to prepare for the new Chris and his sorcery. Still, he flinched when they met gazes.
Chris chose mercy and didn’t mention it, waiting for Tim.
“No. I had another flashback. What happened at the, uh, market troll?”
Chris squeezed a tense muscle in Tim’s neck, massaging with brotherly love. “I got you. Welcome back. I get it. I’m not all the way here, wherever here is, either." He side stepped to clear the path forward. “Your negotiations with Rhal’g included a key to the Thread Gate, whatever that is and how you knew about it I couldn’t begin. That’s not the only question I have for you. Can we talk on the way?”
Tim agreed, leading the way with Danger Sense guiding his steps and Chris hooking a finger through one of Tim’s belt loops. Navigating the wind and birds in the air gave him a chance to think about the Thread Gate. Troll. There was a side entrance… a woman named Bie. Gift her the nugtol tail in exchange for another key to get into Dosek Montryl, one of the shaman’s hideaways with a view.
When in Roan Dusaa, the prism refinery capitol of the Troll nation, stick around for the noon lifting of the clouds. The view is to die for.
Tim found that little gem in a bit of aura remnant on one of the shelves inside Rhal’g’s shop. Basic information filtered in as he drew more spirit memories from the cracks and crevices. He learned troll prisms were as artistic as they were lethal. Glass and mineral refined with cultivated aura to add high powered boosts to whatever item it fuses with. The minerals and university were the central focus to life on the Roan Dusaa.
Tim recalled their purchases in neatly packed vignettes brought to life through Spirit Memory he absorbed in the shop. He’d negotiated a fair price considering his loot was stacked higher than last he remembered. His team was busy on the other side, too. Somehow, he had access to that but not his dagger, or Dryfu… many things. In his perusal of the shop goods, he found compatibility between the whistling axe and Roz’s wind chime weapons. He bought that at Troll price despite Rhal’g’s bitter agreement and added the backpack for Chris because dude liked to use every part of the bull when looting and harvesting. Tim also picked up local seeds so Chris could practice growing on troll soil. Tim used a form of Brother’s Keeper to fuse horticulture tips he picked up via Spirit Memory drawing and packed them in like catching a cloud with a net. The seeds absorbed the aura and would awaken when Chris planted them.
The more time Tim spent in this place, the stronger his foundation stood for him to orchestrate the threads as their caverns and winding routes led to a new way of viewing the real threat.
“Ajin poisoned us,” Tim said, remembering the troll aura that started these nightmare realms too real to escape.
Chris’s eyes flicked left in recognition before he asked, “Who?”
Just what Tim was afraid of. Chris’s secrets were unraveling.
At this point, Tim’s suspicions were theoretical. Hence the show and dance to come. However, it wasn’t looking good for Chris and Tim having a fairy tale ending.
Tim had a lot left to sift through. He knew being his brother’s keeper wouldn’t be easy.