Chapter Eight
The huge troop carrac hovered as impossibly still as if it rested on solid earth in the center of the commotion that was the daily business of the hangar bay, one of many such facilities in the military quarter of Arbomagnus.
Amidst the work and noise of the place, Autumnal Guard, a company strong, were filing in tight groups up one gang planked side of the vessel while a fair number of Warchanters and their instruments were being loaded from another, among them were David, Alvin and Brittany.
"What?" David's squeaky question sputtered while they waited to be loaded. "Don't be ridiculous, you two."
"Come on, Dave," Alvin replied in the jocular. "It's like the song says, 'She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.'"
"You can't be serious. Nira's in love with me?"
"Actually, Dave," Brittany said smugly. "We only told you that she had a crush on you. However, if your heart feels the need to embellish the fact, well, who are we to stop that, hmm?"
David shook his furry head and stared at the massive ship ahead of him, waiting to carry him to whatever fate this new profession entailed. He couldn't honestly say what made him more nervous. That, or the prospect of Nira's affections.
"She has to know that I already have a girlfriend back home, Marsha," he muttered fretfully. "I don't want to string her along like that. When I get some free time from all of this, I'll have to have a talk with her."
Alvin smiled, gave his father a look of world-weary patience and patted his shoulder with masculine camaraderie.
"Why sweat it, Dave? In one world or another, you can't help it if babes fall for you. That's like blaming the candle for the light that attracts the moth." He suddenly stopped for a second, cognizant of the unexpectedly flowery prose he just said. "Hey, I have to remember that one! Anyway, Dave, it's just the ol' Seville magic."
Brittany, who had been quietly listening to all of this, gave out an exasperated sigh. To her, the only thing more universal than good looks was Alvin's cocky trash talk, which ran the spectrum from enamoring to infuriating. She reached over and took Alvin by the arm, pulling him towards the transport as the ship's departure bell sounded above the bay's din.
"Yeah, right, Houdini," she said. "Come on."
"Hold on, guys," David called out. "I'm coming. Let me get my bag."
He reached down to get the duffle he was assigned, which was laden with a few personal effects and survival gear. The crowds of musicians were receding away to the transport briskly and he was about to stand when the sharp click of boots on hardwood from behind alerted him.
"Hello, David."
He knew the voice immediately. "Uh, Nira?" He stood and turned to face her nervously. "Uh, hi, Nira. What can I do for you?" he asked, smiling but anxious.
"I don't want to keep you from the transport," she said, also a little tentative. "I just wanted to see you off and give you this for luck."
She produced a small object from a concealed pocket in her clothes, a braid of her jet-black hair, woven tight, and capped on both ends with a bead of gold.
David took it from her reverently and regretfully feeling the ability to tell her his situation back home slipping from him every second he stood there.
Although he was aware of the time before the transport sailed off without him, he was also trapped in the bubble of the moment, cut off from everything else of consideration.
"And this," she finished, as she reached over and gave him a quick kiss on his soft cheek.
David was hit with a paralysis he never knew. His body didn't freeze into position, it simply couldn't move. His mind couldn't will it to move. He just stared at her, his face a portrait of pleasant surprise, fear and an inner turmoil he couldn't fully reconcile.
"Uh, th-thank you, Nira. I..."
"Dave, come on!" yelled Alvin urgently.
"You're gonna miss the boat! Come on!" Brittany accompanied.
The moment's bubble broke instantly, making David more aware of the time, of his new duty and of his stewardship of Alvin and Brittany.
"I-I'm sorry, Nira. I have to go."
The sadness in her eyes was so easy to read. "I know. Good luck on your journey and may The Great Green Father keep you in his shade."
"Thank you, Nira." he said softly.
David whirled around to run to the now thinning gang plank of Warchanters and didn't see the bay crewmember walking by. Both slammed into each other and fell hard.
After brushing themselves off and standing again, David apologized and flew full tilt towards the boarding ramp.
As the crewmember walked past Nira, she clearly saw something on the floor ahead of her where David had his accident.
She bent down to pick it up and examined it closely. It was small, squared and slightly thick, completely covered in leather. Judging from the scent, it wasn't from the crewmember. It had to be David's.
On the thought of him, Nira lifted her eyes worryingly to the sound of the immense troop transport backing away from its berth, and, in a manner that looked much too graceful for its bulk, swing about and glide slowly out of the mouth of the hangar and into the unknown of the late afternoon.
Arthur stood among MunkTechs in gleaming white tunics and uniforms as they gathered around a rather clinical looking machine in a bright, clean, steely room full of other clinical looking machines.
The one they stood around consisted of a boxy device with a small glass scanning table built into its side and a large monitor set above it. One of the MunkTechs, the team leader from the colored piping on his tunic, spoke up.
"When the MunkTechs who worked on The Archive found passages alluding to the existence of the weapon ,they discovered a page in the book called, "Vlox's Vision". As you know, sir, Vlox was, by all accounts, the founding father of I.T.O. and his poem gives us the clearest idea of the nature of the weapon."
"How so?" asked Arthur, slightly intrigued.
"Well, sir, the poem goes, 'The weapon sleeps in darkest place, a pit of deepest gloom. When brought to light, your foes, it smites, its seeds, a blossomed doom.' Right below that, on the page, was a spot of dark blue wax."
He then motioned to the device's scanning table. On its center was a fleck of bluish material.
"To be thorough, we ran the wax through our Omnispecter. This is what we found in it."
The Munktech tapped a button and the monitor came on, focusing on a piece of the material under extremely tight magnification. Within, cells of an unknown type could be discerned easily, since its composition and structure were noticeably different than that of the surrounding wax molecules.
"Although most of what was in the wax was deteriorated by age, enough of it was intact to do tests on it, which led us to what we called you here for." He reached in his breast pocket for a small penlight. "Keep watching the monitor, sir"
Arthur did as asked as the team leader trained the penlight on the wax dot. The monitor grew bright as the light shown on the specimen. On the screen above, Arthur could see, in the illuminated space of the surrounding molecules, the unknown specimen's cells slowly quiver and then, incredibly, expand and grow. Arthur crooked a malevolent smile.
"It's organic," Arthur conjectured.
"Yes, sir, and not only that, it's some type of plant tissue. Its aggressive growth is triggered by light only. My penlight has been modified to emit ultraviolet rays and those rays, or in an extreme case, sunlight, is causing the cells to grow specifically," said the team leader. "We're prepared to search and analyze every plant on the planet for a genetic match. Whatever it is, it's the weapon we're looking for."
Arthur walked off to the side of the room, deep in thought, the MunkTech respectfully silent as he mused. Then he turned to them again.
"Research Vlox and find out where he lived on EverSpring before he and the others left for Earth. If his home isn't there anymore, comb the natural features of his home village and the surrounding area. It's a hunch, but it might prove to be a good one."
The MunkTechs looked faintly skeptically, but nodded and gave their obeisance.
He could see their questions in their faces. "There is a method to the madness, people. Vlox may have found the weapon and discovered its properties to kill non-Chipmunk life and then wrote the fact as a simple poem to hide it from The First Author of The Archive. The wax must have acted as both a preservative and protection from the light."
"That could be, sir," the team leader said, brightening. "How did you come by this?"
Arthur slowly walked to the doorway, preparing to leave. "Simple," he shrugged. "Vlox founded the Iron Tree Organization. He's also my ancestor. It's what I would have done if I were him. Carry on, people."
When The Prince had left from the door of the humid, dark room that would become her prison, Eleanor hadn't paid much attention to the light and sounds of birds, leaves and wind that came in from the opening then.
Now, as the scuttling, semi-sentient flower bud carrying her tray of mashed fruit opened the door, Eleanor thrust the back of her hand against her eyes, becoming very aware of the near-blinding rays of sun that made a painful haze in her dark-accustomed vision. She luxuriated in the cool breeze that took the warm blanket of warmer air from her temporarily and she could detect the slight tang of ozone in the wind. 'Rain?' she wondered.
Blinking away the spots from her eyes and focusing in the creature, she took several steps from it as it approached on its root tentacles, using a set of them to place the tray by her feet.
Although she had every right to be suspicious of foul play from her captor, the sweet, rich scent that roiled up from the bowl to her nostrils made the meal all the more appealing, especially since she was both hungry and slightly weak from blood loss, courtesy of the vampiric Prince. Apparently it was time to feed his little cow before the next withdrawal, so it wasn't likely he would poison her. She took another look at the flower servant.
'Okay, Ellie,' she thought as she stooped down to take the bowl off the tray and quietly picked the tray up. 'This thing's pretty small and I don't think he locked the door behind him. I'll just whack him and make a break for it.'
Eleanor raised the tray as she sneakily closed in on the now returning flower-servant, its supposed "back" to her and her attack.
Then it stopped, aiming its fat, closed flower-bud up at her, the sealed petals opening at the ends just slightly.
Time seemed to stop, but somehow Eleanor reacted, just bringing the tray up to her face and closing her eyes in hope.
When she reluctantly opened them again, she could see the woody tip of a thorn the length and thickness of a Human index finger, punched through the center of the tray.
She slowly looked around the side of the make-shift shield at the creature, bewildered.
"Don't tell me," she joked shakily, her heart hammering from the close call. "Eyes in the back of your head, huh?" The plant-thing continued to the door, the portal opening on its own as soon as it was a few feet from it.
Eleanor glanced up from pulling the thorn free from the tray to watch the doorway. Since the door didn't need to be opened any wider than needed to allow the for the flower-servant, she could just make out the nature of the sunlight, which, she noticed, was more diffuse and dimmed that a sunny day could be considered.
The few broad leaves and creepers that peeked through the threshold while the door opened, suggested that the doorway, if not the whole prison cell facade, was not only out of doors, but overgrown with vegetation. Then the room was brought back into the gloom again as the door closed.
She sat down and made herself more comfortable on the floor and began to dig into her repast, literally bringing whole handfuls of the crude jam into her mouth.
"Bon appetite, Ellie," she gripped to herself quietly. "At least if Theodore were here, the food would be better."
Then a thought from the past made her laugh in the dark. "Unless it was rutabaga pie. He hates that," she chuckled. Then she sobered when she realized what she was doing. Holding on to every memory of what came foremost in her mind. Theodore. She needed to think of him, to use him as the life preserver in her troubled sea. Her light in this dark place.
"Oh, Theodore," she sighed despondently, trying to maintain her flagging good cheer when her last thought of him, fighting off the fern-flyers that took her, came unexpectedly.
Then it hit her like cold water, she had to escape. She knew her family and friends wouldn't give up on her. Theodore, especially, she made herself believe firmly, but they wouldn't know the first place to look. She had to make effort to free herself, or, at the very least, let others know where she was. Skulking in the dark would be suicidal.
"I've got to get out of here," Eleanor resolved. "That's all there is to it. They'll never know where I am if I don't to do something."
Picking up the tray and walking up to the door quietly, Eleanor, more out of wishful thinking than out of any real concrete plan, reached the door and began pushing at it experimentally.
Gently at first, but soon with stronger shoves, she was hoping to push it open and make a mad dash out with the tray, ready to wallop any guard too slow to react. Whatever happened next, it wouldn't be stealthy.
She took a breath and mentally prepared herself for whatever worst-case scenario would arise. Then she held on to the doorknob and rammed the door with all her strength.
With a shock, she found the door swing out freely from the threshold, completely unlocked as she desperately hoped. Her eyes closed to the momentary flash of an errant stroke of lightning and wind-whipped rain in her face.
And the sickening sensation of the earth swooping away from under her feet that made her heart and stomach lurch up in her body with frightening force. The reaction made her eyes snap open and the sight made a scream fly from her throat in pure terror.
Hanging on with every intent she could muster, one-handed, by the rain slicked, jam-covered doorknob, Eleanor could watch the space of one hundred feet yawn between her and the seemingly endless jungle canopy far, far below.
The view ahead and above proved no less disheartening. Swaying in the growing tempest's cold wind, like a parody of trees, stood a loose group of wide, single-door wooden domes, each one supported by a strong, relatively slender pillar, all of them covered in vines and foliage.
Painfully craning her neck up to see, Eleanor could see from her lowered vantage point outside, the same architecture and support beam of her own prison gently moving to and fro to the winds.
Turning her head again in a wild-eyed stare, Eleanor learned the truth of her surroundings. So high was she, the whole turbulent vista stretched out before her water-logged gaze. In the green distance, to what she could discern where jungle land may have terminated, was ocean, leaden and choppy.
There was nothing beyond the iron seas she could identify, no other lands or cities, and although the storm hadn't really cut loose with stronger torrents of rain just yet, its angry skies covered her and everything else below in an overcast as thick as a blanket.
Where was she? An island? Some private coastline on the continent that sheltered Arbomagnus? She couldn't think.
Until she felt the horrible slip of her fingers across the wet doorknob and her body starting to sway stiffly in time with the door being blown back and forth in the storm.
Raw self preservation over rid her already overpowering fear and she clumsily swung about, slowly reaching out, fumbling in the rain, and finally finding a struggling purchase for her other hand to the doorknob.
'No wonder they hadn't locked the door,' she thought ruefully. 'They probably never did. How could you escape? Fly? The plants must climb up and down the support beam to deal with prisoners.'
The wind buffeted the door in the direction of the threshold after a few moments in the other direction, so Eleanor prepared to gather herself in a pull-up that she hoped would get one or both of her feet back up into the doorway.
She took a strengthening breath while feeling her fingers lose more of their grip. Very little time left.
Her eyes opened in the rain to see yet another disheartening sight. Off to the side of the doorway, crouched like a floral spider, yet completely a part of the look of the vegetation that grew around the little prison cell, the flower-servant aimed its petal bulb down at her. It clearly was reacting to this chance escape attempt and there was no way it could miss perforating her with its projectile thorns now.
A fact Eleanor was hit hard with. Her arms shook with the strain of holding herself up for so long by such a slippery object as she began to weigh which was the least painful of deaths, falling to her death, or having a nearly three inch shaft of wood driven into her body somewhere vital and then falling to her death.
Gravity ultimately made the decision for her. She couldn't maintain the hold any longer.
The dart-like thorn sailed and impaled the door just where Eleanor's head was a moment before. The flower-servant wordlessly watched Eleanor tumble swiftly away in the storm, her body now too far for its senses to detect, her sorrowful scream lost in the roaring wind and the celestial drum of the thunderclap.
For the tenth time since he left the massive protection of Arbomagnus, Theodore wondered if he was doing the right thing. Probably not, in the grand scheme of things.
Due to the sheer size of Arbomagnus, when he risked a look back to it, only half its canopy was visible on the horizon. He was quite a distance from it and any consideration to recanting his choice, he figured.
He closed his eyes and tried to stop his hyperventilation and flip-flopping stomach. Although he was comfortably seated in the creaking wagon that went along the well-worn road, he felt like he was in a plane that was about to crash.
"You're lucky I was going by," said the wagoneer, an aging male Chipmunk whose work clothes spoke of a lifetime of hard work. "There's a town in the same direction as where you said those fern-flyers flew towards. I've got to say that you've got some dangerous hobby trying to study those foul things."
Theodore opened his eyes and looked away slightly, feeling a bit uncomfortable lying to this kindly 'munk and at the same time thinking up more of the lie.
"Well, the more information I can get on them, the better our chances at beating them. Like one of my brothers always said, 'Knowledge is power'." Then he punctuated it with a nervous chuckle that hinted at the stress he was trying to beat back.
"Well, you know your business, I suppose, but it still isn't a good idea tracking something that could snatch you up like a caught fish and whisk you away to who-knows-where. Right, Pella?" the wagoneer said and then smiled at something up ahead.
Theodore followed the smile to the docile-looking, humpbacked, claw-footed beast of burden pulling them at a measured pace. A low, musical rumble from the creature answered back.
"That's my girl," the wagoneer chuckled.
Theodore went on to ask, "What's that?" He pointed to Pella.
Pella's owner seemed a little taken aback from that.
"Wha? You've never seen a choreen before? What do they teach you in school these days?"
"Oh, uh, the, uh, usual," Theodore stammered slightly, hoping not to offend. To change the subject, he asked in modest conversational tones, "How long before we reach that town?"
"Don't worry, son. You'll make it, we're almost there," the elder 'munk sighed, giving the weathered reins a snap for more speed. "I need to get indoors, anyways. The sun'll go down soon."
"What'll happen then?"
"Thorn soldiers," the wagoneer said grimly. "Sometimes people see them during the day, but they like to hit us at night most times. Well, them and the bandits."
'First fern-flyers, now these Thorn Soldiers and bandits coming out of the woodwork, as well,' Theodore fretted internally. 'More things to make this...interesting.' He closed his eyes again, trying to relax and calm his mental seas, which were churned by his growing misgivings.
"There it is," Theodore heard the wagoneer say. He reopened his eyes to see a wood-trimmed stone wall curved slightly around for thousands of yards in either direction.
The road had now branched off into a smaller road that led to a small, fortified portal and guard station built into the side of huge wall.
They rode as far as the guard station, then stopped. The wagoneer reached in the top of his worn tunic and pulled out a medallion held on a length of strong twine.
He held it up to the guard on duty, who visually inspected it and then went deeper into his station for a moment. A moment later, the reinforced doors parted.
The wonder Theodore felt as he took in the sights of the walled town dispelled some of the self-doubt and worry that persisted to nag at him. Everywhere he looked he could see the long history and quaint atmosphere of the place.
Small shops and homes were built into the heart of large trees, similar in appearance and style to his mother's and The Chipettes' homes on Earth, and arranged in orderly rows as a type of city planning.
Children ran happily among adults busy with their living and livelihoods. Vendors and shop keeps beckoned to any who passed too close and looked too burdened with money.
"Where can I go for information?" Theodore asked while he gawked at everything at once.
"The way I see it, the best place for news, rumors and gossip would be The Broken Bough," said the wagoneer as he steering into the direction of a section of the town where the population became somewhere sparser. "These barrels of Nutwine are for there. I know the bar keep personally. I'll introduce you to him."
"Thank you, sir."
It was after a few minutes traveling that Theodore noticed a change in the surroundings. Several large specimens of trees sported more than one home. Each dwelling was placed in a staggered arrangement, going up along the trunk in a type apartment style that was curious in its own right. However, these examples were rundown, showing visible signs of wear and decrepitude. Somehow, dilapidation had set it.
The trees themselves that supported them, despite their tremendous sizes and age, looked ill-maintained, near-black with burgeoning disease and thinly canopied. These, Theodore surmised, were the slums.
The wagon cruised among Chipmunks of either sex that sported a harder edge on their faces than the ones Theodore had previously seen.
Eventually, the wagon came to a stop at the rear of a wide, squat tree that had a tavern built into it a ground level.
"Here we are, son," the wagoneer replied as he stepped off briskly and wrapped his choreen's reins around a nearby hitching post. "Let's go in."
Theodore stepped down, clutching his shoulder bag close, not wanting to have it taken in some sudden, Fagin-like fashion. Around here, he could feel, anything might happen, both around him and more distressingly, to him. Hence, his worrisome stare at the rear entrance. What was beyond that portal?
Watching the porters file out to handle the barrels, Theodore followed the wagoneer through the doorway.
From the storeroom in the rear of the building, Theodore could hear the weighty sound of talk, laughter and drink, underscored by the jaunty, light airs of simple music.
He took a nervous breath and then he paused at the closed door leading into the back of the bar. It seemed so unreal to him. He opened the door.
It was a scene from every swashbuckling movie he had ever remembered seeing. The dim, primitively rustic atmosphere. The strategically placed crys-lamp lighting that gave enough illumination to see, but also granted enough shadow for dangers and intrigues to take root and flourish unnoticed.
The patronage, too, was just as he pictured it. Cute and not-so-cute serving girls slalomed around tables and booths, taking orders and either accepting or trying to avoid the occasional pinch or pat.
The tables, booths and the far, dark corners of the place were populated by an assortment of types. Hard drinking, no-nonsense males and females eyed everyone, keeping one visible hand on their drinks and a lower slung one on their hilts. Desperate youths hung close to the bar, either trying to find their fortunes or trying to escape their pasts, and the smattering of youthful, long-stocking-ed strumpets, sweet-eyed, comely and perfume-nosed, but just as rapacious as sharks, glided in their territories throughout the tavern.
Theodore felt that if he could look into their minds, he'd find stories as diverse, dark and exciting, as any Dumas, Sabatini or MacDonald story. This was a world all its own, with its own laws and punishments, pleasures and taboos, diplomacies and betrayals. If any of them had ways of dealing with the outside world, that was fine enough with them, but in here it was different. This was tavern life.
"What are you doing back here?" shouted the barmunk, a pudgy male with a handlebar moustache, wearing a stained apron over an even more stained tunic.
Theodore was snapped out of his reverie and stammered to give an answer. "Uh, um, uh, I..."
"Danaan, you old nut hoarder! How are you?"
Theodore noticed that the barmunk was not addressing him just now, but to someone behind him and to the side. He glanced over and saw the gruff wagoneer looking at the barmunk with a jovial air.
Oh, I'm fine enough, Pent. Just wanted to introduce you to, uh..." He turned to the teen. "What did you say your name was again?"
"Theodore."
"Theodore," the wagoneer finished.
Pent the barmunk gave the youth a critical eye. "Theodore...hmm, sounds like one of those names from the 'munks from the southern islands."
"Uh, yes, it is. I came a long way," Theodore agreed, hoping that would stop the barmunk's sudden scrutiny.
The wagoneeer, Danaan, gave Theodore a comforting slap to the back, which almost knocked his shoulder out of alignment.
"Aww, let the boy be, Pent. He came here for some information. Figured you'd be the one to point him the right direction."
Pent leaned against the counter and looked slyly at the two of them. "Depends." He regarded Theodore. "What does he want to know about?"
"Fern-flyers," Theodore said simply.
Pent gave a strong chuckle from that. "What's to know, boy? They swoop and fly for The Prince. They're plants, y'know?"
Theodore's mind clicked at that. "Prince? Who's The Prince?"
"Ha! I knew you were from the islands," Pent scoffed. "They always were a bit behind the times. The Prince. The Prince of Weeds, boy. The one who started this blasted war with us since before my great-great grandmother had her first litter. The fern-flyers and the Thorn Soldiers and who knows what else, are at his beck and call."
"Why?"
"Cause he made them, lad, to carry out his dirty business of hunting us down, rounding us up and doing away with us. It's a hard time for us right now."
Theodore took a seat on a nearby stool. "What about Queen Winna and her people?"
Pent sighed. "She and the others do what they can, Green Father, bless her, but The Autumnal Guard can't be everywhere at once. Towns like ours have to look after ourselves."
"I see," Theodore admitted. He was learning a lot, but he needed to know about Eleanor's possible condition. So it was with obvious hesitation that he asked, "Um, do those fern-flyers, uh, always eat who they catch?"
Pent seemed to ponder that for a moment, then said, "I'd have to say not always. I knew of someone who told me that flyers just take Chipmunks to The Prince's island and then they're never seen again. Why the interest in fern-flyers, anyway?"
"Oh, I'm just studying them so we can win the war a little sooner, that's all," Theodore replied while glancing out to the rest of the tavern and its motley crew of patrons. Worry for Eleanor painted an anxious picture on his face.
"Want a drink?"
"Huh?" Theodore said, waking from the lapse in attention.
"You look kind of down," the barmunk offered. "Sort of get your mind off of fern-flyers for awhile. So, what'll it be?"
Theodore suddenly remembered where he was and hopped off the stool. "Oh, wait. Let me get over here first." He opened the small door built in the far end of the counter, went around to the front of the bar and took an empty stool. Facing Pent, he then said, "Now, I'm a customer."
"Okay," Pent said with professional courtesy. "What can I get for you, sir?"
"Uh, do you have any fruit juice?"
Pent gave a skeptical smile. "I've got fruit juices, all right," he said, gesturing at the shelves of various and exotic wines. "But they may be a bit strong for you."
He stooped under the counter for a second or two and then arose with a bottle of clear pink liquid. Upon its opening, Theodore caught the scent of peaches.
"This is the safest drink I've got here. Sun's Hill Berry juice. Try that on for size," Pent said.
Theodore took a tentative sip. It was sweet and mellow, but no different from any of the other juices he grew up with. With that, he drank more, listening to the social cacophony and music all around him. He felt excited to be so immersed in this culture, even if it were temporary. Whatever these people did with their lives, good or ill, they were still his people. His link.
The band on the low stage was dispersing for a break and one of them, a gangly, low-keyed male leaned on the counter next to Theodore and ordered an ale.
The musician wearily placed his string instrument on the counter and drank deeply, while Theodore studied it with casual interest.
"Nice, huh?" the musician asked.
"Yeah!" Theodore piped up. "Is that a violin?"
"Violin? Never heard of it, friend. This is a laversy, hand-made and makes the sweetest sounds you've ever heard."
"May I?" Theodore asked, gesturing to the instrument. The musician nodded.
Theodore studied it more appraisingly. "I'm kind of a musician myself, back home. Do you mind if I give it a try?"
The musician gave him a dubious look, obviously fearing for the laversy, but something in him wanted to trust a fellow music maker. One of his peers would certainly treat any instrument with the utmost care.
"Alright, but be careful. That's my livelihood you'll be playing with," he said evenly.
Apart from some surface tapering and cosmetic elements, it looked very much like a standard violin. Theodore cradled the laversy in violin fashion and picked up the curved bow that rested next to it on the counter.
People close by began to hear him play the scales to get a feel for the instrument and slowly started turning their attention towards the stranger.
"What are you going to play?" a female asked.
The attention made Theodore a bit self-conscious. He remembered wistfully that he hadn't picked up a violin and played it since his elementary school days, but the prospect of entertaining the folks was beginning to take his mind off of the war. Eleanor, he'd never forsake, but a calmer head was far better for finding her than a hot and bothered one.
"Maybe...maybe something I heard in Ireland once or twice," he told her. He put bow to string and the area nearest him quieted.
The melody was spry, rising and falling in notes like the steps of the jigs that it inspired. Because the song was so lively, Theodore had to stay on top of it the whole way, his concentration demonstrated by the practiced blur of his fingerings upon the taut strings.
After a few minutes, most of the patrons listening knew how the light-hearted, repetitive melody went and were tapping their mugs on the tables, stomping their feet and clapping hands in time to the music. Others were just content to listen, like the elderly male who sat in a booth in a dim, distant part of the tavern, watching everything from his vantage point. The tip of his weapon, a spear, caught any appreciable light from the area and gave a menacing glow.
The other members of the band joined in, making the impromptu jam complete. Soon the makings of a party could be felt and for a second, a loose second, Theodore forgot about his mission, forgot about Eleanor in the revelry.
And then remembered just as quickly when the void in his mind concerning her was discovered.
Theodore turned in the direction of the band and gave them a sharp nod, telling them to finish the song soon with him. At that, the music repeated the last part of the melody one more time and then finished with a joyous flourish.
In the midst of applause, backslaps and the exuberant handshake of the laversy's owner after he returned his instrument, Theodore excused himself, saying he was getting some air and would return in a few minutes.
Theodore felt elated as he left the tavern and took in a lungful of late afternoon air. He had surprised himself in there with his little virtuoso and it felt good to know that his talents weren't diminished from the stress of his arrival to this world.
He took a stretch and strolled along the front of the tavern. 'Independence sure feels good,' he thought. 'The hardest thing will just be getting Eleanor back. I can handle my punishment later on.'
Then he felt surprised again. He never was one to be blasé about pending punishments but now that he could feel himself on the move, taking action and being responsible for everything he did and said, he could hear himself sounding like Alvin quite easily and understand his brother's bravado firsthand now.
He craned his head to what sounded like a scuffle coming from nearby. He would have stopped at the sounds and seriously debate with himself about the need to get involved, but when he stopped to hear, he found that he was in the very line of sight of the phantom fracas.
Off to the side, in the shadow of the tavern, in full view of each other, Theodore saw three males, teens not much older than he, cornering a graying male who was holding a spear in his hand with a loose yet confident grip and a quick eye.
One of the teens was favoring his forearm, his club lying by his feet. The other two noticed Theodore staring blankly at them, stuck in mid-decision, then they turned back to the older 'munk.
The adult Chipmunk began to back away towards the rear of the tavern while still facing his attackers, oblivious to the club wielding youths who crept forward as he retreated with weapon raised.
The reaction was immediate. One moment, Theodore was frozen in indecision. His 'Fight or Flight' mechanism setting every second to 'Flight', the next, a warning rose from the depths of his gut at the sight of the coming ambush.
"Behind you!"
The old 'munk didn't even turn to the attacker, but simply pivoted to the side and lashed out with a thrusting kick that propelled his younger opponent back at a humbling distance.
When he looked back to his earlier foes, they were gone. He found them where he wished they weren't, congregating around Theodore, one with a blade flashing close to his exposed throat.
The adult dipped his spear low in a wary submission posture, his eyes never straying from them for the sake of his momentary savior.
Theodore couldn't breathe and a bitter tang painted his dry cheek pouches and tongue. He kept asking himself why. Why did he leave the safety of his family and friends so soon? Why did Eleanor have to be taken from him? Why did he fall in love with her so hard that he wound up being captured by club and knifepoint in his search for her?
What he feared, as much as his apparently pending death, was the growing spirit of failure that closed its numbing hand around his banging heart. He would not live to find Eleanor, alive or otherwise.
His concern then turned in the direction of the old Chipmunk with the gleaming spear. The old 'munk's concern mirrored his for the space of a few heartbeats. Within that time, although they never met before and, as it looked, they would never know each other in life, both were brothers-in-arms.
Something in Theodore flared again to rebellious life with a need to once again warn this supposed innocent, when the opponent the elder adult brought down with a kick, brought his club crashing down hard to the back of the older Chipmunk's skull from behind.
He felt for him as the oldster collapsed alongside his weapon and lay still. Then, his captors chose that moment to laugh conspiratorially amongst themselves, making Theodore even more uneasy, if such a thing were possible. The dancing blade near him was enough.
The blade started to glint in the sunlight, then glow, almost hypnotically, in Theodore's eyes. It quickly multiplied into three blades, wavering and blurring, and the laughing became distant and more and more muted, like the sounds of a departed dream.
As the pain and nerve-jangling shock of the club's strike on the base of Theodore's skull spread throughout his brain, worry about failing Eleanor flickered, weakened and soon faded with the light.