Martin looked about him. He was seated in a chair in a large room filled with paintings. No, seriously, there were paintings on the floor, paintings of the ceiling, even paintings on the chair.
Martin slowly got up a walked towards one of the paintings. It had a picture of a Winged soldier in silver amour reaching out to touch… what was that? A piece of paper? The paper had musical notes on them and it looked like the Winged soldier was trying to grab it.
Martin suddenly realized he wasn’t going to grab it. He was going to sing it.
Martin walked over to another painting. This one had a picture of a city.
“Antica,” he thought.
The painting right next to that was the same city… except without any colour and there was fire and people running away.
The next painting had nothing on it except two big red eyes staring straight at him.
Martin shivered and he walked towards another painting which had a picture of a Winged Soldier made entirely out of stone.
Martin looked at more paintings:
Another picture of big eyes except with music notes on them.
Another one with a boy falling from the sky with a music notes falling down with him.
Suddenly a whole opened up in the ground and swallowed him up.
. . .
“And you said he has a grandfather?” Mulligan questioned, stroking his long grey beard.
The room they were sitting in was small and cosy with a fire blazing on the conner of the room.
Clotilda was standing on one side of the room, her hands behind her back, Tomas on the other, Mulligan by the fire, and Martin slumped on the floor in a deep sleep.
Tomas tossed a glass tube in the air containing an orangish substance.
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Tomas was quite a person to describe: He had red hair, a red pointy beard, glasses, and shoes that made him look like he made them himself, which isn’t a compliment.
Mulligan, on the other hand, was a much older man with a long grey beard and not much hair on his head.
Clotilda had two small green eyes, a pointy nose, and long brown hair that reached her toes.
“That is what he said,” she confirmed.
“Did he say, ‘I have a grandfather?’,” questioned Mulligan. “Or did he give you some sort of… hint?”
“He cried out ‘Gramps! He’ll be worried,’ so I guessed.”
“I do not like guesses,” said Mulligan. “I do not like estimation, prediction, speculation or even theories.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” announced Tomas. “We’ve heard that a lot from you, you know what I mean, Mully.”
“Don’t call me Mully.”
“But Mully is such a short, happy and-need I say It-positive sort of word.
“Oh look! He’s waking up!”
Martin drowsily rubbed his puffy eyes, looked around him and then quickly sat up.
Was he home? Was all that a dream? Yes! Yes! It must’ve been! All that wasn’t even re…”
“I see you have woken up,” announced Mulligan.
This wasn’t a dream.
Martin took in his surroundings. One by one, Martin starred at each person in the room: First Tomas, then Mulligan and then Clotilda.
“Where am I?” he murmured. “I was in a room… with… paintings and…”
“So, it worked, did it?” asked Tomas excitedly.
“Did what work?”
“The formula! While you were sleeping we put it in your mouth so you would enter the painting room. I wanted to make a new one, you see, so that it was easier to understand and…”
“Silence!” bellowed Mulligan. “Let the boy speak.”
“Who are you?” began Martin.
“I am Mulligan. This is my companion, Tomas.”
Tomas waved.
“And this is our loyal Clotilda.”
Clotilda puffed out her hair.
“Where am I?” asked Martin.
“You are in the safety of… The Treemen!”
“The… Treemen?”
“Yes, The Treemen. Quite an unimaginative name if you think about it. I wonder who could’ve come up with that.”
He shot a glare at Tomas who raised his hands in defence.
“What exactly do you mean by safety?” asked Martin.
“You will know all in good time, my boy,” said Mulligan. “Although I presume you saw the paintings?”
Martin nodded slowly.
“There was… a monster… and a war… and the city was infected by the war… and there were these winged soldiers who protected the city… and one of them sang a song to the monster, which angered him and…”
Mulligan raised is eyebrows in surprise.
“I wasn’t expecting you work out that much, but now, we need to ask you some questions: What is your name?”
“Martin Healthway.”
“Age?”
“14.”
“Date of birth?”
“June 5th ND[1].”
“How you arrived in Antica?”
Martin bit his lip.
“I… uh… thought it looked cool… so I… uh… ran away from home, but my gramps told me not to go anywhere near Antica… but I… uh… didn’t listen.”
The room was silent, and then Mulligan spoke, “Clotilda, take this boy away and take him to cabin seven.”
He looked at Martin.
“Welcome to Camp Treemen.”
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[1] The New Days