The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four) (2 page)

Not to worry, the words that I have added
probably weigh much less than anyone else's words; they are like
plastic---hollow like aluminum cans, and are easily tossed away in
the wind for anyone to pick up again. Yes, my words are small, tiny
ones that can be reused, or discontinued. But I do hope that a few
of my smallish words weigh more than the rest, and mean more, and
live on long after I pass away, and my whiskers fall from my face.
That you may glean some polished piece of gold and keep it, and
pass it on to someone in need of light.

Oh, and before I go, just in case you have
forgotten what this book may be about, and what happened previous
to this dreary now, I will give you a short accounting so you will
not be as lost as I feel at the moment.

In the last book, "The Shade's Trees," The
Declaration of Dependence was announced, and a new area of mingled
shadow and light was welcomed in by the people of the world.
Lancedon, and Sterling were nearly burned to death by the evil king
Morack. But Coral rescued them.

Andrew, Freddie and Croffin journeyed through
the land of the Brittlewambers, where Andrew received a magic shell
made by the Brittlewamber, Shellbee. And Croffin, who tragically
got his beautiful raccoon tail chopped off, received a new tail, a
skunk's tail, in its place, from the kind Endfinder. From there,
they left the land of Brittlewambers, and sojourned in the land of
the Wishchant, where Freddie rescued Andrew from falling to his
death, and acquired a new scar burned into his hand similar in
shape to Andrew's own peculiar marks. Not long after that, they
faced Inkgryphons, and were rescued by the book hermit Kesper. They
were welcomed into his vast library, where Andrew was given a
letter only to be opened when he found himself utterly alone.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, Croffin then
found a special, mysterious book called, Weeds, where he received
special messages that made him do naughty things, and eventually
led Andrew and Freddie into The Lacid Grove, where they were
separated from their horses. Then, in The Shade's forest, after a
terrible struggle, Andrew defeated The Shade's trees, and Freddie
and he sought shelter under the new, beautiful, white, good trees
Andrew planted.

So now, Andrew and the others are out there,
somewhere, I hope, trying to do what I know I cannot.

Last but, yes, least, I, me, a Twisker, was
commissioned to ring the Bell of Conroy, to awaken hope in the
hearts of the hopeless. Perhaps when I ring it, I myself will not
feel so hopeless and helpless as I do now. I will help summon
500,000 people, by ringing the bell, if there be that many in this
dreary world left who desire truth and freedom. And if there are
such people to be found, we will unite, and raise our battle cry of
truth, a sound that has not been heard for many years. We will put
an end to the darkness, and The Fallen will no longer reign, nor
darkness consume us.

So, that is where we are, at this starting of
this book---everything, discombobled, and askew, with darkness in
every shape and form breathing down our necks, threatening to
devour us.

I have been told that this book could stand
alone without the other three books to hold it up. It very well may
be true. I think so, as well, because this book is all about
standing alone, and also together---of being able to hold on, and
hold together even when alone.

It is a book all itself, with its own soul,
and if you choose to read on, I hope you do not get lost amongst
its lengthy pages.

Alone, I set out to do my very best.

That is all any one Twisker can do.

Try. And that is all. If I die trying, then
it will be no less than what my friends have done before me.

Yours Sincerely,

Gogindy, The badest, worstest, horriblest
Twisker The Dandelion Den ever produced.

Only In the womb of Darkness, in the chrysalis of
night, in the clutches of adversity, can great light be
born.

Summons

The morning was cold, with hints of frost
coating the ground, desperately trying to glitter as if trying to
light up a world that was growing darker. The sky that was normally
a crisp blue, was a hazy brownish-gray. The shadow that had fallen
over the earth was growing thicker, day by day, especially over
Danspire.

Morack’s constant lies had accumulated so
much that it polluted the air so that everything was obscure and
gray. The lies and darkness that came from his lips grew and spread
out over the land, causing very little to go untouched. The burnt
platform on which Lancedon and Sterling had been placed, only the
day before, had been consumed by flames. The only things left
standing were blackened posts and chains.

Morack stood in the midst of the ashes, his
long black velvet cape dragging on the ground as he moved through
the remnants of Lancedon’s execution, unaware that his beautiful
cloth adornments were getting soiled. He stopped and smiled. His
smile grew wider and wider. Hardly able to contain his triumph, he
started laughing fiendishly. Gasping for air, he sniffed, trying to
gain composure. Yet he could not contain himself. Still chuckling,
he bent down and fingered the ashes, letting them sift through his
fingers, like dark sand. He watched the ashes fall with a contented
kind of satisfaction. Lancedon was finally ground down to powder,
to the sand between his fingers, tossed by the wind.

“Not so important now!” he cried, stomping
the ashes with the fervor of a child throwing a temper tantrum. The
ashes flew up around him in a cloud, coating his face and clothes
in a thick layer. He sighed, watching the ashes settle around him.
He always knew that it was his destiny to reign over Danspire’s
people, to herald in the age of shadow, where day and night wed,
bound together in the eternal union of gray, and welcomed him with
open arms. Evening was coming, and with it, something more powerful
than anything the world had ever known.

The happy king picked up another handful of
ash, rubbing the coarse grains between his thumb and forefinger. “I
have finally contained you, Lancedon.” He dropped the dust, then
bent down and filled a glass container with the ash. He stared at
the ashes in the glass with morbid delight. “Come, Lancedon. I have
so much to show you.”

He pocketed the glass, turned from the scene
of his nephew’s execution, and made his way back to the castle.
Once there, he waltzed through the spacious rooms and into his own
gaudy chamber, still gloating in his victory. Glancing around to
make sure no one was watching, he slipped behind a lavish tapestry,
and through a hidden door. He glided through the secret hallway and
into a private room lined completely in mirrors, floor to
ceiling.

“Welcome home,” Morack murmured, taking the
glass jar of ash out of his pocket. He held it high. “All hail to
Lancedon, last son of Danspire. How does the world look now from
your lofty resting place?” He kissed the jar, laughed, and set the
glass on a shelf full of hundreds of other jars containing the
ashes of dozens of the beloved of Danspire’s finest that he had
executed. Now all he needed was the boy, Andrew. He’d heard from
shady sources that the boy was weak and hadn’t survived his trip to
The Shade's forest. Even if the boy did kill The Shade’s trees, the
earth had already gone too long with the trees’ roots poisoning the
soil. Nothing much would change. There was no stopping the movement
of shadow. NOTHING!

So all was better than expected. Much better.
Everything was perfect. He was perfect. How he loved himself. How
he loved his devious mind and every twisted thought that swam
through its depthless channels. There was no other like he. No one
who surpassed his amazing stature, wisdom or strength. How he
praised and admired his amazing looks and abilities. He leaned back
in a cushy chair and examined his reflection at all angles for a
full hour. Unsatisfied with a particular expression, he stood up
and walked closer to the mirrored walls. Morack smiled at his
reflection, stroked his mustache, raised his bushy brows, cocked
his head to one side, itched his nose, opened his mouth and
inspected his brilliantly white teeth. He picked out a piece of
spinach that had lodged itself between his molars.

“Sire?” a voice behind Morack inquired.

Morack jumped back as the reflection of a
dark, shadowy figure polluted his own magnificent reflection in the
mirror.

“How dare you!” Morack snapped, whirling
around. “What on earth are YOU doing in here? This place is
private. I’ll have your head for intruding!”

“Nothing is private to a Shade,” the figure
laughed like a great moaning wind, causing the doors in Morack’s
chamber to slam shut.

“The S-Shade? Impossible.”

The Shade crept closer to Morack, looming
over him like a black summit. “You sound frightened, Morack. Why?
Are you scared of the dark?”

“No. Of course not! But aren’t you suppose to
be in your forest, casting your shadows, watching your trees? What
are you doing here?”

The Shade moved lightly over to Morack and
whispered in his ear. “I should ask you the same question. The king
of Danspire is supposed to be eliminating his enemies. But instead,
I find him in a room filled with mirrors, staring at his own
reflection!”

Morack held his head, cringing from the
unbearable sound of The Shade’s voice. He stepped away from The
Shade’s dark figure. “You don’t understand, I have been eliminating
my enemies. I came here to celebrate my latest victory.” He pointed
to the rows of shelves filled bottles of ashes. “Do you not see!
These are the ashes of those I have destroyed.” He grabbed a bottle
and handed it to The Shade, his eyes lighting up with pride. “This
one is my most recent addition---Lancedon.”

“Your nephew?” The Shade inquired, looking at
the ashes with critical eyes.

“It is,” Morack said, smiling with pride. “I
have done everything the lord of dark and light has asked.”

“Not everything.” The Shade held the glass so
tightly that it cracked in two, under the pressure, causing the
ashes to fall to the floor. “These are not your nephew’s ashes, you
idiot!”

“Of course they are,” Morack retorted,
sweeping the fallen ashes with his feet. “Whose else would they
be?”

The Shade’s dark eyes filled with cruel hate.
“No ones, you fool. And if you aren’t careful, I’ll fill a bottle
with your ashes and keep them on my shelf for me to stare at!”

“What? You’re wrong!” Morack cried. “These
are Lancedon’s ashes! I saw Lancedon burn with my own two eyes. He
and his companion are dead.”

The Shade crept behind Morack and put his
dark fingers on his shoulders, squeezing tightly. “Are you really
sure you saw him burn?”

The breath of The Shade caused Morack to
shake in fear. Uncertainty filled Morack’s eyes. He began to sweat.
His hands trembled and his nose began to twitch. “Y-yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am NOT!”

The Shade’s shadowy cape grew in size and a
dark mist filled the room, bubbling up from The Shade’s feet.
Shadows swam into the room, reflecting from the mirrors, splitting
in twos, threes, and fours, creating more and more until the room
was filled with hundreds of The Shade’s own shadows. “Morack, do
not suppose that you can lie to the one who created lies in the
first place. I gave you the power to speak deception, and I can
take that gift back. You may deceive the people with your trickery,
but I, who am the master of such arts, can see right through you.
You did not see Lancedon burn. Sources tell me that a lightning
storm caused you to turn tail and run for your own pitiful life,
before you saw the fire consume your captives.”

“They are dead!” Morack huffed, shaking off a
shadow that was twirling its dark finger round his mustache. “You
don’t understand. It wasn’t just any lightning storm. It was as if
the gods themselves were making war on the whole city. It was
dangerous. I was nearly struck by a bolt, myself.”

“So you ran?”

“Only after I was sure that Lancedon’s death
was certain. I saw the fire with my own eyes. It was devouring the
platform on which they both stood. There was no way for them to
escape. You can look for yourself. Nothing remains.”

The Shade grabbed Morack’s collar and pushed
him against a mirror, shattering it into a million pieces. “You
were certain? Don’t you know that nothing is certain. Especially
when it comes to your nephew. You, of all people, should know that.
You’re a fool in love with your own reflection. Nothing in life is
certain. NOTHING. Not even your own life.”

“Please,” Morack pled, struggling against The
Shade’s strong grip. “You don’t understand. Lancedon was chained to
a post. He was surrounded by flames. There was no way he could have
escaped.”

The Shade laughed and his shadows swirled
round the room in swarms. “But he did.”

“It couldn’t be.”

“Yes, it is true. Your nephew is…alive.”

Morack’s face turned white. “Oh my,” he
gasped. “There was no way he could have survived. How did this
happen?”

The Shade lifted Morack above the ground by
his collar, and then dropped him to the floor. “It happened because
you are frightened of your own shadow!” The Shade let out a shrill
laugh, shattering all the mirrors in the room.

“No!” Morack yelped, crouching on the floor,
as the glass fell around them like sharp rain.

“Stand!” The Shade ordered. “You really are
pitiful, Morack. Pitiful.”

Morack stood up slowly and brushed the broken
glass off his clothes, trying to retain some dignity, as he glared
at The Shade. “Me pitiful? Ha. Well I don’t see how a shadow, such
as yourself, can get any more pitiful than you. Just look at
yourself. You don’t even dare step out into the sun.”