Forts: Liars and Thieves Read online

  Having successfully navigated his way quietly through the darkened kitchen and into the living room, Tommy was abruptly frozen in his place when the sternly deep voice of Ed Williamson cut through the darkness. “Welcome home, bud.”

  A lamp in the corner of the room suddenly clicked on, bringing everything into a blurry focus. Seated in an old chair underneath it, dressed in a pair of very old-timey striped pajamas and a long blue robe with a weary look stretched across his wrinkled face, was Ed.

  “Don’t worry, I covered for you with your dad, Edna, and the girl from social services. I convinced them you just weren’t ready to come down.”

  Not sure what to say and more than a bit confused by the situation, Tommy responded with a simple “Thanks.”

  Using both arms to brace himself, Ed pushed himself into a standing position with an obvious wince. “I guess I could ask you where you were tonight but I have a sinking feeling that you might think it’s none of my business, so I won’t bother.” Slowly he moved toward Tommy, one hand pressed firmly against his sore lower back. “I know it’s hard forgiving your dad, believe me. I understand what you’re going through more than you might think I do, bud.” Less than three feet from Tommy, Ed reached out with one hand and placed it firmly on the boy’s shoulder. His boney old fingers tugged softly at Tommy’s flesh for a moment before patting it three times gently. “You can’t hold on to the anger forever, trust me. It’ll mess you up if you do, eat you up inside. It’ll change the way you look at things and change the way things look at you. Once that happens, there’s no coming back.”

  Tommy lowered his head, looking away from Ed and to the floor. The single lamp in the room was casting long, deep shadows underneath his eyes as his hair hung loosely in his face. Ed was unsure if anything he said would get through to the boy – unsure if he was even listening. Like most men of his generation, Ed Williamson’s father was never completely at home with the concept of affection. It made him uncomfortable. He found it to be strange, awkward and ultimately pointless. Carl Williamson’s idea of disciple was simple; the back of his hand or a whack from his belt - both seemed to get the job done well enough. A bit of a troublemaker, little Eddie Williamson spent his most formative years becoming all too familiar with both. In Tommy, Ed could see a bit of himself. It was all there: the anger, the resentment, the silence and the shadows – the similarities were undeniable. Though age had erased many of Ed’s earliest memories, like microscopic particles of blood left at a crime scene, there were some things even the years couldn’t dispose of. Maybe the words wouldn’t mean much to Tommy now, but eventually they might sink in.

  Despite the general perception of most, definitions are by no means constants. What means one thing today might mean something entirely different the next. The truth is that words are as varied and unique as snowflakes - ultimately a matter of perspective.

  Glancing at the antique grandfather clock in the opposite corner of the room, Ed took note for the first time of just how late it was. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall the last time he was awake at this hour. The undeniable, unrelenting urge to sleep instantly began crawling into the space behind his eyes, making them heavier than a pair of sandbags covered in concrete. With a deep yawn, he turned from Tommy, tossing a half-smile and a heavy sigh in the boy’s direction before heading toward the stairs leading to his bedroom.

  “Try to get some sleep kiddo,” he added with a subtle gesture of his wrinkly hand as he approached the base of the stairs.

  Surprised by the lack of annoyance in Ed’s voice, Tommy allowed himself a moment to breathe. He had expected the old man to yell or at the very least give him that “disappointed grandfatherly” look that he’d shot Tommy’s way on numerous occasions since coming to live with the Williamsons. In the end, what he got was the exact opposite.

  Noticing the old man was almost halfway up the stairs, Tommy called out to him with a half whisper: “Ed?”

  Stopping, Ed turned in the direction of the boy, taking advantage of the opportunity to let the joints in his knees rest. “Yeah? What do you need bud?”

  “Why were you waiting? Down here I mean. Why were you waiting for me?”

  Ed paused for a moment, his eyes drifting to his bare feet. His toes were chilly. Edna purchased him a pair of slippers years ago; he’d never worn them though, believing they looked entirely too much like exactly something an old man would wear.

  With a wrinkled grin, he turned again to Tommy who was now standing at the base of the stairs with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. “Just making sure you made it home alright.” A moment later Ed Williamson resumed the long trek upward. “See you at breakfast, bud.”

  For ten minutes after Ed disappeared from view, Tommy sat silently at the foot of the stairs with his knees pulled close to his chest. Through a window to the right of the front door he stared at the bluish-gray moon, lit up like a low wattage bulb across the pitch-black sky. Unlike most other nights, there were almost no visible stars – only an endless blanket of blackness stretching outward for eternity. So much nothingness. A void so deep that no one could ever hope to see its bottom – the occasional, sporadic light representing an eternity of possibilities floating among a vacant pool of perpetuity. It was quite scary and quite beautiful.

  Grabbing a flashlight from a drawer in the kitchen, he slowly made his way upstairs and into his bedroom, taking care not to wake Nicky. From a tote bag crammed underneath his bed he retrieved his sketchpad. Lying on his stomach, he pulled the covers over his head and clicked on the flashlight. He would spend the next three hours sketching in silence before eventually falling asleep. It had been weeks since he’d drawn anything.

  It felt good.

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 8

  A CALL TO ARMS

  *

  Owen’s directions proved astoundingly accurate. It took Roustaf a little more than ten minutes to make the trip across town under the cover of darkness. During the day, while doing his best to stay out of sight, he was forced to move slowly — most of the time feeling as if he was spending more time ducking in and out of bushes than making any real progress. Zanell’s awful directions hadn’t helped matters any, leading him to believe that maybe she didn’t see things quite as clearly as she claimed.

  “No matter what happens, no matter how long it takes, make sure you stay out of sight.”

  That’s what she said to him before leaving. Roustaf followed her instructions to the letter and spent twelve days sneaking around in this weird new world because of it. The time spent wandering around aimlessly searching while living off the strange fruit growing from the occasional tree wouldn’t have bothered him so much if he hadn’t been in such a hurry. Time was not on his side. He needed to find the children. He needed to bring them back to New Tipoloo safely and he needed to do it quickly. Everyone was counting on him.

  Donald Rondage’s dwelling looked smaller than the ones on either side of it, just as Owen said it would. The grassy area in front was mostly dead, and the wood making up the outer walls looked old and worn. Cutting through the air, Roustaf quickly made his way over the broken metal fencing toward the rear of the home. He pressed his face against the glass of the second window from the left and peered inside, but saw no one. Owen specifically said the second window from the left, and this was the second window from the left. Donald should’ve been there. So why wasn’t he? A feeling of annoyance bubbled up from Roustaf’s stomach. Reaching up with one hand he began gently stroking his mustache, trying his best to remain calm. The food on this world wasn’t agreeing with him. Two days ago he ripped open a discarded bag containing a very thin, remarkably salty and extremely crunchy circular chip-like thing. By God it tasted good — completely and totally unlike anything that had ever passed through his lips. At the same time though, it left him with a seriously awful case of heartburn and messy runs the likes of which he didn’t ever want to think about again. Why would anyone mass-produce
a food that resulted in such nasty leakage? It did taste delicious though – there was no getting around that.

  Roustaf was quickly growing weary of this place. The creatures here were weird in a way that made weird sound like a bad thing. They came in so many varied shapes and sizes and colors, each of them dressed in clownish garments, and a select few with terrifying bits of technology attached to their bodies or sticking out of their ears. He wanted to find the children and go home. He needed to find the children and go home. Thankfully, after a day and a half of surveillance at the big building where large groups of youth seemed to gather for periods of time every day, he spotted Owen. After failing to convince the boy to return with him to New Tipoloo, he managed to locate the dwelling of Donald Rondage. Unfortunately, the pudgy-bodied bully was nowhere to be found.

  Long story short, his mission was going horribly.

  “Holy crap …you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The instantly recognizable voice came from behind Roustaf. Spinning in mid-air, the tiny red man turned quickly in its direction. Standing a few feet away, the soft blue moonlight glowing from behind and casting him in a dark silhouette, was none other than Donald Rondage.

  “Seriously? Is it really you? What are you doing here, Squirt?” Donald chuckled, taking a step toward the little winged man. “How the hell did you manage to find me?”

  Ecstatic over the fact that he managed to locate Donald, yet a bit annoyed that the boy seemed as cocky as ever, Roustaf moved closer to him, coming to a stop twelve or so inches from his face. “Why is it that you kids seem intent on asking me the same stupid question? I’m here because I need your help, Slick. I need you to come back to Fillagrou with me.”

  Donald’s smile disappeared. He’d dreamed of this moment – dreamed of the time he could return to Fillagrou, dreamed of having powers, and dreamed of being able to pick up giant boulders and knock down trees with his pointer finger again. Of course, a very large part of him always assumed that the opportunity would never actually present itself. With it suddenly staring him in the face, Donald couldn’t help but feel as if his dream were instead a nightmare.

  “What do you mean go back? Like, right now? Like — go back with you right now? Why do you need me to go back?”

  “Yes, like right now. Like right now, right at this very moment,” Roustaf responded, moving a few inches closer to the boy and staring directly into his eyes. “Something has happened. Things went wrong. There’s a new player in the game. Let me just save us both a heap of time and say that we need help from you — all of you. We’ve needed your help for days now, but trying to hunt down you damn kids has been a much larger pain in my patoot than I thought it would be. By the way, if anyone asks, it was Zanell’s fault.”

  Upon hearing Zanell’s name, Donald suddenly perked up, “Zanell? How is she — wait — what? All of us? Tommy? Have you talked to Tommy yet?”

  “No, actually I was hoping that you could help me out with that kid. Owen told me that he wasn’t sure where ol’ Tommy and his brother were holed up these days …said that you might be able to point me in the right direction.”

  Donald’s breathing began to slow, yet remained noticeably awkward as he began to find it more and more difficult to inhale deeply with the pace of his heart slowly quickening. “Yeah …the, umm, Williamsons …wait, you’ve talked to that little dork Owen? Where is he?”

  Sighing with annoyance, Roustaf ran his hand over the top of his bald head, letting his fingers trace the shape of the tiny protruding horns. “Look kid, I’d love to fill you in on the all the details, but how’s about I do it on the way to Tommy’s place? I’ve already wasted way more time in your world than I’ve got to spare. We need to get crackin’ if we’re gonna have any chance of getting done what we need to get done in the time it needs to get done. So what do you say? You wanna come along or what?”

  Donald paused for a moment, a sudden gust of wind whacking his hair against the side of his face and spinning Roustaf’s miniscule body in mid-air. Suddenly the reality of returning to Fillagrou, of putting his life on the line, of getting shot with an arrow through the shoulder again — or worse — terrified him to the core. Was this really something he wanted? After all, none of this had anything to do with him. These monsters weren’t his family and this most assuredly wasn’t his war — was it?

  “What - what’s the rush? I mean, why-why are you in such a hurry?” Donald added sheepishly as another gust of wind threatened to knock Roustaf to the ground.

  Struggling to steady himself, Roustaf replied sternly, “They got Walcott, kid. They got Walcott.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 9

  THE JARVIS BOYS

  *

  Pencil still gripped between his fingers, blanket still over his head and flashlight still in the On position, Tommy Jarvis finally succumb to the alluring siren call of sleep. It had been only a matter of minutes, but his eyelids were too heavy to hold open any longer. His weighty head flopped to the bed, providing a moment of much needed rest for the aching muscles in his neck. The boy’s sleep proved short lived, however, as the sound of a pebble bouncing off glass abruptly jolted him again to the waking world. A second similar yet more substantial clank of stone on glass caused him to toss off his covers, his weary eyes glancing across the dark, empty room and toward the moonlit window. Snatching the flashlight, he pointed it in the direction of the sounds just in time to see another rock smack against the glass. What in the world? Who was throwing rocks at his window in the middle of the night? Maybe Staci? No, sneaking around at one-thirty in the morning was never Staci’s style. Sure, she had recently begun going to the tree fort every couple of weeks to sit and talk with Tommy without her parent’s permission, but she never stayed out late enough to arouse suspicion. Tommy was still off limits as far as the Alexanders were concerned. Launching pebbles at the side of his foster parents’ house in the wee hours of the morning is a chance she simply wouldn’t take – no matter the reason. Nicky remained sound asleep in his bed on the opposite end of the room as Tommy quietly made his way to the window. Carefully opening it up, he poked his head halfway out. His eyes traveled down to the dimly lit backyard. Barely noticeable in the dark, arms waving wildly in his direction with a cocky smile across his face, Tommy spotted the undeniable outline of Donald Rondage.

  “Hey weirdo, get your ass up.” Donald called out, his voice two-thirds a whisper, one-third a yell.

  Worried that the burly bodied, naturally deep-voiced Donald was going to wake the Williamsons, Tommy responded with more than a hint of annoyance. “What are you doing? Get out of here.”

  Instead of answering back, Donald pointed to Tommy’s right. Before Tommy could fully turn his head to see what his tormentor-turned-acquaintance was motioning toward, something buzzed past his ear, causing him to stumble backward into the bedroom and land hard on his rear.

  The sound of his body crashing to the floor instantly woke Nicky. “Tommy? What are—” The youngest Jarvis boy was stopped mid-sentence when a reddish blur zoomed past his face, causing his dark hair to scatter wildly in every direction. Making a loop in the air just above Nicky’s head, the blur that was Roustaf came to an immediate stop on top of the headboard behind him. Though the room was still quite dark, the nightlight Edna plugged into the wall for Nicky provided just enough illumination for Tommy to recognize the tiny man.

  “Roustaf?” He whispered, eyes staring blankly over his little brother’s shoulder.

  “Roustaf? What’re you — huh?” Nicky questioned, more than a bit frazzled, unsure of exactly what was going on.

  Noticing the direction in which Tommy’s eyes were staring, Nicky slowly twisted his body, turning his head to look behind him. Standing on the headboard, arms resting on his thin hips, the ends of his mustache curled into perfect bushy loops, was the familiar face of tiny Roustaf.

  Instantly Nicky’s fear dissipated, replaced by an overflow of excitement. “Roustaf!” He yelped lou
der than he should, his voice cracking noticeably.

  Tommy quickly moved to his brother’s side. “Nicky, keep it down; you’ll wake Ed and Edna, dope.”

  Nicky smacked his hand over his mouth and mumbled “Oops, sorry,” through his fingers apologetically.

  Crawling onto the bed alongside his brother, his legs hanging over the edge, Tommy now spoke in questioning whispers: “Roustaf, what are you — what are you doing here?”

  The tiny red man groaned deeply. “I swear, the next person that asks me that question is going to get a swift kick to wherever it is that they stash their reproductive organs.” Shaking his head, Roustaf lifted himself off of the headboard, his tiny wings carrying him across the room, then set down beside Nicky’s nightlight.

  “What’s the point of this thing?” he asked with noticeable confusion, cautiously poking it with one finger, half expecting it to be scorching hot.

  The proximity of the little man to the nightlight exposed every wrinkle on his miniature face, making him look much older than Tommy remembered. Quickly losing interest in the bizarre wall torch, Roustaf returned his attention to the Jarvis brothers, who were now staring at him from the bed four feet away.

  They looked so young. Their pale faces, messy hair and blotchy skin only added to the overall effect. For a moment he almost felt bad about being there, about having to ask them to do what he knew he had to ask them to do. To drag creatures so young into such danger …there was something inherently wrong about this, something he hadn’t yet made his peace with.

  “Look kids, I’m going to make this short because we don’t have a whole lot of time to waste. As much as I’d love to say that I’m here to take a nice long nap on that incredibly soft looking mattress of yours, the truth is that I was sent to bring you back to New Tipoloo.”