Wondrous, page 1
WONDROUS
Travis M. Riddle
Copyright © 2017 by Travis M. Riddle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover design by Travis M. Riddle
Cover illustration by Aaron Griffin - AaronGriffinArt.com
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
Wondrous/Travis M. Riddle. -- 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1539343677
For all of you.
“I speak of wondrous unfamiliar lessons from childhood, make you remember how to smile good.”
―CHANCE THE RAPPER, coloring book
CONTENTS
INTO BLACK
THE SPIRIT OF THE FLAMES
LIKE RICKETY CRESCENT MOONS
PEPPERS
EVERYTHING WILL ALWAYS BE OKAY
HEAVY THINGS
A LITTLE WINDY
A LIE
GET ANGRY
LIKE A MAGIC TRICK
SAY BYE
THREE DEAD FLOWERS
ONLY SECOND CHANCE
RIDE
SPLIT APART
THEORIES
THERE IS PLENTY YOU CAN DO
CHURN
KYRFISH GLIDING
THE SWORD AND THE STAR
LUKEWARM
THIEF-ANT
SPEAKIN’ OUTTA TURN
THEN HE HEARD THE SOUNDS
THE TRICK
MESS
WINGS
REGARDLESS OF WHAT HAPPENED
TOO MUCH
EVERYTHING BLURRED TOGETHER
CHAPTER ONE
INTO BLACK
There were loud shouts. Angry noises. Things to make Miles’ skin tingle and stomach flip. He was soothed with quick I Love Yous and goodnight forehead kisses, and then the room blackened into stillness.
Light from the hallway couldn’t eke its way into his bedroom how he liked. His mother never closed the door all the way, just in case he needed something in the night and called out for her or his father. But tonight she had closed it.
He wanted to crawl out of bed and crack the door a little, but the angry noises had resumed. Better to remain under the snug safety of his fluffy Pokémon comforter. He shut his eyes but it was no different than what he saw with them open.
“I can’t believe—”
The words were sucked away and Miles felt like his body was turning inside-out. He wanted to cry, he started to cry, clutching his comforter and pulling his legs up to his chest.
He felt anxious and uncomfortably warm. He suddenly wondered when his sheets had last been washed, and it made him even more restless. He needed to do one of his calming exercises. Deep breaths. In. Out. He was more than warm now. Hot. Too hot. He flung the comforter aside and opened his eyes.
The air was humid. Sticky. There was a bit of a breeze but it was fleeting, only briefly satisfying. Insects buzzed all around, and the scampering of woodland animals on branches above rustled the leaves.
It was a far cry from the twin-sized bed that Miles had been in moments before. The only similarity was that the grass was a similar shade as his sheets. He was still wearing his faded gray pajamas, which clung to his skinny legs from the moisture.
The first words he heard were a raspy “Are you a spy?”
This was especially unsettling for Miles because not only did he not have any idea who he could be a spy for, but the creature asking the question was not a human being.
It wasn’t exactly an animal either. It was a cross between a man and a scorpion. It—he?—towered over Miles, his body thick and muscular, skin like sand. He was completely bald, with a neatly-trimmed jet black goatee that came to a fine point at the end of his defined chin. His eyes were black with white pupils that appeared to always be dilated. Three arms jutted out from his sides—two on his left and one on the right. The two left arms were normal, humanoid, but the right was an enormous pincer.
“Are you a spy?” the scorpion-man repeated.
Thunder crashed overhead, rattling the frightened boy’s bones as he stood. His pants were dripping with wet mud. The moon shone a sickly green through slight cracks in the treetops.
From behind the stranger’s back rose a segmented tail covered in crusted mud with a sharp stinger at its end. The tail slithered like a snake through the air around Miles and came to a stop pointed at the back of his head.
Miles was suddenly astutely aware of how close he was to the man. Monster. Whatever it was. His breathing became ragged and uneven, his warm tears coalescing with the bitter raindrops that pelted his face. “Mom!” he screamed. “Dad!”
The stranger leaned forward and their eyes locked. Miles could taste the creature’s warm, rotten breath. “Don’t toy with me,” he said, his white eyes leering at Miles.
Miles felt the tip of the stinger lightly poke against the back of his head as a warning.
“Jericho? Sir?”
The call came from somewhere behind the seething creature. From the thicket of trees emerged a man similar to the one threatening Miles, though he only had two arms: one normal, one pincer. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice lighter and calmer than Jericho’s.
“Think I found one of the queen’s spies,” said Jericho, his eyes trained on the shivering kid. Rain came down harder and faster.
“That doesn’t look like one of the queen’s spies, sir. He’s pink and small.”
“Just go fetch some rope, Vinzent. Stop arguin’.”
As Vinzent disappeared back into the forest, Jericho asked, “What’s your name?”
The young boy had been taught to never talk to strangers, but Jericho took that moment to remind him that there was still an exceptionally sharp stinger aimed at the back of his head, so between sobs he whimpered, “Miles.”
“Are you a servant of Queen Alys?”
Miles shook his head.
“If you’re lying, I’ll have you killed. Might even do it myself, if I’m feelin’ like it. You understand?”
Miles nodded. Jericho pulled his tail back.
Vinzent returned with a length of rope and proceeded to tie Miles’ hands behind his back, which was a considerable feat as he only had one real hand. He swiveled Miles around and asked, “Too tight?”
“No,” Miles whispered. He sniffled as snot ran down his upper lip.
“Don’t need to show him any courtesy,” Jericho hissed.
Vinzent frowned, his tail drooping slightly. “He’s small. Looks like he’s just a child, Jericho.”
“And we’re in the middle of a war and we don’t know who or, more importantly, what this thing is. There ain’t no exceptions.” Jericho turned on his heel and marched out of the glade. Vinzent pushed Miles along.
The trio trudged through the thick underbrush, Jericho clipping long branches that obstructed their path. Beetles scuttled along tree trunks and birds cawed high above their heads, seeking shelter from the storm. Flowers sprouted from many of the trees, their petals a faint bluish-purple that seemed to glow in the growing darkness. Long orange tendrils protruded from their centers, trailing down to the forest floor.
Rain fell heavier with each passing minute.
As he marched between the two hulking figures, Miles was finally able to regain a bit of composure. His mind was focused on how cold the rain was making him. A shiver coursed down his spine. He wished he was wearing his red hoodie, or at least had some slippers on.
Mud squished between his toes with every step and he tried not to think about the microscopic germs that were crawling all over his feet. His eyelids fluttered and he took a deep breath.
After almost half an hour of walking in tense silence, they approached a camp situated under a thick canopy of trees that for the most part shielded the area from rain.
In the clearing were four tents, one in each corner of the camp, with a large bonfire at its center. A small makeshift awning of fallen branches and leaves, tied together with rope, covered the fire to give it extra protection from the rainfall. Nestled between two of the tents, about ten feet from the fire, was an iron cage holding something vaguely human but bulbous and slimy green.
There were five other beings similar to Jericho and Vinzent traipsing around the campsite, tending to various tasks. Two were feeding broken sticks to the fire while two others were chopping a variety of meats and vegetables and tossing them into a pot. The fifth was conversing with the caged green man.
“What’re we doing with this one?” Vinzent inquired, giving Miles a gentle shove toward the fire. The two humanoid scorpions that were preparing dinner looked up at their new prisoner.
Jericho said, “Throw him in with the Rompun. And don’t forget to lock it,” he added.
“The hell is that thing?” one of the scorpion-men asked as Vinzent and Miles passed the bonfire. “Looks like a forn, but it’s got arms and legs.”
“And it’s a lot bigger than a forn, moron,” said the other chef.
“It isn’t a forn,” Vinzent said. “We aren’t sure what it is.”
“We gonna eat it?” the second man asked, snipping a branch in half with his chipped pincer. He smacked his lips hungrily.
“No, no,” Vinzent told them. “He’s being locked up with the Rompun. C’mon, now,” he said, pulling Miles along.
Vinzent fumbled for a ring of keys in his pocket, muttering softly. “Wish this rain would ease up just a toonce.” The ring held three distinct keys: two silver, one larger than the other, and a dull golden one. Vinzent slipped the large silver key into the hole on the cage door and clicked it open.
“Some company for me, eh?” the large green man groaned, scratching his protruding belly. “He looks funny.”
“I’ll bring you two dinner in a while.”
“Merci, chief.”
Vinzent slammed the door shut as Miles shuffled in. Heeding Jericho’s words, he made sure to lock up before departing.
Now that he was closer, Miles was struck by how frog-like the creature the others referred to as a “Rompun” appeared. He was much taller and fatter than Miles, his skin a grimy shade of green that glistened with fallen raindrops. His head was round and shiny, and his lower jaw jutted out in an impressive underbite. His nose was flat, with wide nostrils. The eyes were large and amphibious, a dirty yellow color with a black slit slicing vertically down the middle.
He wore a chunky brown jacket adorned with several pockets on top of a plain white t-shirt and baggy cargo shorts. It was an interesting look, topped off with flip-flops.
The Rompun smiled cordially and greeted Miles, patting him on the back. He only had three large fingers on each hand.
“Name’s Mortimer,” he said, extending a hand for Miles to shake. When the boy only shivered in response, Mortimer retracted and said, “You pretty cold, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
The frog-man burst out in deep-throated laughter. “Sir, he says! Ha-ha! Ain’t been called ‘sir’ before. That’s not necessary, kid.”
“Okay.”
Mortimer shrugged off his musky, muddy coat and placed it on Miles’ shoulders. The boy nearly toppled from the weight.
“Um,” Miles started, his voice barely above a whisper, “can you please take this off of me?”
“What for?”
“It’s dirty.”
Another laugh from the Rompun. “So? You in the middle of the Violet Woods, kid. Everything’s dirty.”
Miles felt his stomach begin to knot. It felt like an anchor had been tied to his waist and he was being dragged to the bottom of the ocean. “Please take it off me,” he requested.
“You not a fan of dirt, huh?” Mortimer asked as he lifted the coat from the boy’s back. “You know you just standing in the mud with your bare feet, don’t you? Not too sanitary either, if that’s your concern.”
Miles shut his eyes, welcoming the dark. He steadied his breaths, half time in comparison to his heart. He was suddenly aware of the wet mud between his toes again. He tilted his head down, then looked back up and pictured his shoes tucked safely away in the hallway closet back at home.
“Yes.” He opened his eyes. “As long as I don’t think about it much, I’ll be okay. I think,” he amended.
Mortimer chuckled. “Alrighty. Good luck with that.”
Miles could still smell his mother’s lavender shampoo. He could feel her damp hair brush across his cheek as she leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. A sigh as she pulled away, a faint smile for her son. “Get to sleep, bug.”
He was tucked soundly in his bed, his toes rustling against the soft sheets. His comforter was pulled up to his chin, and he reciprocated the smile.
His mother edged out of the bedroom, flicking the light switch. A sliver of the hallway’s light crept into his room from the slightly open door, his mother’s shadow passing through it. Miles could just barely make out his father’s voice asking, “How is he?”
“You alright, kid?” Mortimer asked, dangling a burnt piece of meat above his gaping mouth. He dropped it in, gnashing away as Miles shook his head.
“I don’t know how I got here,” the boy said.
“Well, where you from? I never seen you around Trafier before, so I know it’s not there. I would remember someone as goofy looking as you. You from Merrikar?”
“No,” Miles replied, not knowing where that was.
“You from, uh…that town near Maulage? I can never remember its name.” He tossed another slab of meat into his eager mouth.
“I’m from Austin.”
Mortimer looked perplexed.
“Austin,” Miles emphasized.
Mortimer let his plate drop to the ground carelessly and scratched his bald head. “Haven’t ever heard of that one. Is it in Ruhig or something? I don’t travel to Ruhig all that often. Too hot for my tastes.”
“It’s in Texas.” Miles had never heard of Ruhig, but Texas shared its “too hot” characteristic.
The Rompun’s grin wrinkled into a frown. “Texas, huh?” he murmured. “Never heard of a place called Texas.” He cocked an eyebrow at the boy. “Kinda like…” but he let the thought trail off. It was replaced with, “How old are you, kid?”
“Nine,” Miles answered. He tried taking a bite of his food, unable to identify what kind of animal it had come from. His was less burnt than Mortimer’s, but the meat was still tough and hard to chew.
The Rompun’s expression grew friendly again. “Only nine years old and lost out here in the woods? You must be scared outta your wits. Don’t worry, Mortimer’ll look out for you.”
They shared silence while Mortimer studied Miles, who continued fighting his meal. He’d also been given a stale roll that he accidentally dropped on the ground. He offered to let Mortimer take it, which the Rompun happily did.
“My name’s Miles.”
“Miles, eh? Good name. Starts with an M. You know what they say about men whose names start with M, don’t you?” He prodded Miles playfully and the boy shook his head. “Me neither,” Mortimer laughed. “Hopefully it’s something good, though.”
The rain had not let up even the slightest bit. The ground under their feet was soft and they sunk half an inch into the soil, which made Miles’ skin tingle.
“Do you know where my mom and dad are?” he decided to ask Mortimer. Now that he had been in the cage a little while, he had begun to calm down somewhat and his thoughts turned to his parents.
“Can’t say I do. Never seen anything quite like you before. You one of a kind.”
This worried Miles. He could only assume he was in one of the countries way on the other side of the world—the ones he could never pronounce or spell correctly. That could be the only explanation for all the unfamiliar types of people that surrounded him. But he had no idea how he got in bed and ended up here.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“In Rompu. In the Violet Woods, specifically.”
Miles frowned. “I’ve never heard of Rompu,” he said.
Mortimer blinked several times, his eyelids sliding together like the doors of a supermarket.
“Really? It’s much bigger than Ruhig. Probably bigger than, uh…Texas, too,” Mortimer said.
“I’ve never heard of Ruhig either,” Miles admitted, feeling foolish.
Mortimer could read the uncomfortable expression on the boy’s face. “What’s wrong, kid?”
Miles slammed his eyes shut once again. He tried not thinking about the mud and the rain and the germs and the animals and the woods. He thought about laying in his bathtub, the soapy water rippling under his nose. Blowing bubbles with his mouth, wiggling his two big toes on the other end, near the faucet. His chest tightened, his breathing faltered.
“I can’t stand in this mud,” he choked out.
Without skipping a beat, Mortimer reached down to his own feet and removed his wooden sandals, presenting them to the kid. “Here, wear these.”
Miles snatched them without a second thought and plopped them back onto the ground. He lifted his feet one at a time, delicately wiping mud off on the top of the wet grass, and placed them in the sandals that were three times too big.
Mortimer put his hand on Miles’ shoulder, his bulky fingers stretching out across most of the boy’s back.
“I don’t think you gonna like Rompu much, kid.”
Miles drummed his toes against the wood. “Why?”
“Because, like I said,” Mortimer told him, “everything’s dirty.”
