The Search for Artemis (The Chronicles of Landon Wicker) (21 page)

“Landon, look at me,” Dr. Brighton pleaded. “Who? Who did you kill?” He crouched down beside Landon. This was the purpose of the torturous exercise, and Landon needed to say it in order to confront his inner demons and accept his past.

“My mo-th-er,” he answered between sobs. Landon was broken, beaten to the point of total submission, but the fire in his core was beginning to subside. His body writhed with pain, and his heart ached with grief.

“No, Landon. You’re wrong,” Dr. Brighton said. “You didn’t do it. You are
not
responsible for what happened.”

“But I couldn’t control it. . . . I couldn’t stop.”

“No, you couldn’t. What happened to your mother is terrible. It was a terrible accident—but it was an accident. You have to let her go. There was nothing you could do. It wasn’t you who did it.” Dr. Brighton screamed to be heard over the deafening sound of the rain and thunder. “I saw what happened. I saw the pictures. It’s a tragedy, but you have to honor her by conquering your abilities. Use them—
control
them—so that something like that never happens again. We cannot dwell in the past. We must only look to the past for guidance as we press forward.”

“I never even said goodbye,” Landon said through his tears. “I was too scared. I just ran away!”

“Do it now. . . . Say goodbye now. . . . It’s never too late. Tell her what you need to say.”

“I don’t have the strength.”

“Yes, you do! I’ve seen it! Over these past weeks, I’ve seen how strong you are. You’re stronger than anyone I know.”

Dr. Brighton’s words struck Landon like a hammer to an anvil. He forced back his tears and managed to look up into the eyes of his mentor. They were sad and compassionate, glassy with water as tears slowly built up in his eyes.

“Tell her,” he pleaded. “Tell her. It’s just you and her.”

Landon’s eyes stung as tears started to flow once again. He lowered his head onto his arms. Dr. Brighton gently placed his hand on Landon’s back, and sat up on his knees, staring off into the sky as lightning flashed and thunder cracked overhead, attempting to comfort his student while also giving him some semblance of privacy.

“Mom,” Landon began, whispering the words to her. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry, mom. I couldn’t stop myself, and I don’t know why I ran away. Why didn’t I help you? Why didn’t I fight harder for you? Why couldn’t I have been stronger, mom?” Landon could barely speak through his violent sobs. “I think about you all the time, and read to you every night. I miss you so much.” The words forced their way through his cries, but his voice became stronger as he realized what he needed to do. “But Brighton is right. I have to move on. I can’t stay this angry with myself forever. I can’t! I have to accept what I did and make sure it never happens again. I’m going to make you proud, mom. I’m going to make this right. I swear I will. I’ll make you proud.”

Landon let out a few more tears before he forced himself to choke them back. He then pulled himself up from the ground and staggered to his feet. He was exhausted and drained, emotionally and physically. The pain lingered all over his body, and the cold rain made him shake incessantly, but Dr. Brighton was there to support him.

“Come on. Let’s get warmed up. We’ll stay in the pagoda until the storm blows over,” Dr. Brighton said as they moved down the path. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Dr. Brighton supported Landon’s trembling body as they made their way up to the third floor of the pagoda and he led him over to a large, fabric-covered couch, setting him down gingerly. He then wrapped Landon in a heavy woolen afghan before walking away and disappearing into a small kitchen hidden in the back of the room.

Landon sat silent, shivering uncontrollably while staring at the wall. He hadn’t spoken a word yet; his fatigue and emotional exhaustion had left him numb and unresponsive. He didn’t even attempt to comprehend where he was. Dr. Brighton soon returned carrying two mugs of steaming black tea laced with soothing vanilla. Landon took the cup with both hands and sipped it. The warmth of the liquid coursed through his body; the gentle heat seemed to emanate from his core and delicately rise until it rested just below the skin. His muscles relaxed and he sank into the couch cushions.

When Dr. Brighton took his own mug of tea away from his mouth, he looked over to find Landon fast asleep, clutching his cup loosely on his lap. Dr. Brighton grabbed the cup, which sat on the verge of spilling its contents all over his sleeping pupil, and set it delicately on the coffee table to keep from waking him. The storm continued to rage outside, as strobes of blue light lit up the room and the booming thunder shook the walls.

THANKSGIVING

When Landon woke up, he was laying under the covers in a large bed. Sunlight streamed through the numerous windows along the wall, bathing the room in warm, bright light. He groaned as he lifted himself up. Every muscle in his body ached, but as he moved to the edge of the bed, he felt a subtle heat running through his veins. It wasn’t painful or overbearing, but more so like the heat of a furnace or winter’s fire, providing a calming warmth.

The trip to the window was slow and painful, and he soon realized he wasn’t in his own clothing. He was wearing a pair of white pants drawn around his waist and a blue cotton t-shirt.
Where am I?
he thought, but once he reached the window he realized he was still in Dr. Brighton’s Secret Garden. It took him a bit longer to realize he was in the pagoda, but he’d only ever been on the first floor, where it was open and empty.

Landon cautiously walked into the next room. It felt like walking out of his old bedroom in the city. Built-in bookshelves encompassed the room, broken only by the many windows that lined the walls. Each shelf was filled to the brim with volumes and volumes of books. Landon looked at the shelf to his right, moving his finger along the spines, nosily studying the library. Unlike his mother’s wealth of fiction, this collection contained ancient-looking editions of works by philosophers and scientists from the East and West.

The room had small figurines and items set up on tables and peppered between the books on the shelves. These appeared to be historical relics from around the world: ornate jade statues from Asia, painted vases depicting the stories of heroes from ancient Greece, sketches from the European Renaissance, Samurai weaponry and Roman coins. It appeared that every great civilization since the dawn of man had donated something to Dr. Brighton’s collection.

Then Landon noticed Dr. Brighton sitting on a dark couch. He was like a statue, poised with his elbow resting on his knee and his chin resting on his fist, a perfect representation of
The Thinker
. The image brought memories of his mother lying lifeless on the apartment floor with the replica of that titular statue beside her, covered in her blood. Unmoved and unaware, Dr. Brighton leaned over a chessboard, studying the game.  

“Knight to a4,” he said with a raised voice.

“Queen to a3.” The voice that returned with the next move was feminine and coming from somewhere behind Landon.

He turned around to find a small door he hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Knight to c3 taking White Queen’s Knight,” Dr. Brighton said, triumphantly, after pausing a moment to contemplate his move.

“Pawn to c3, which should eliminate your . . . King’s Knight.” Sofia Petrovanya emerged from the door. She was carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches.

“Landon!” she exclaimed in surprise.

Landon hadn’t seen her since his orientation, and of all people, he wasn’t expecting her to come out of the small room he now understood to be a kitchen. She was more beautiful than the first time he’d seen her. Her ice blue eyes gleamed like gemstones, and her blonde hair hung casually in loose tendrils that cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face.

“We wondered if you’d ever wake up,” she continued.

“Landon’s finally up?” Dr. Brighton interjected from the couch. He’d taken his attention off of the chessboard and was leaning over to look at Landon standing in the hallway.

“Come. Join us.” Sofia motioned with her head toward the seating area, telling Landon he should follow.

Dr. Brighton slid over to make room for him on the couch. Sofia, after setting down the tray beside the chess game, sat in a chair across the table and started to pour tea for everyone and divvy up the sandwiches.

“Please eat,” she said after handing Landon a small plate with two egg salad sandwiches sitting on it. “You’ve been out for quite a while. I imagine you’re very hungry.”

Landon took the plate gratefully. He was starving and devoured one of the sandwiches, not taking a second to even taste the food. He almost could feel the physical sensation of the quickly chewed morsels fall into his empty stomach.

“So what happened?” Landon asked after swallowing down the last bite.

“After our session, I brought you here,” Dr. Brighton began. “It was the closest place for us to wait out the storm where we could warm up and you could rest a bit, but next thing I knew you were out like a light.

“I figured you’d nap for a few hours, but when the sun started to set, I wondered why you hadn’t woken up. I was afraid something was wrong so I asked Sofia out here to help me. She said you were fine, a little feverish, but fine, and she insisted that I move you off the couch and out of your wet clothes. So we put you in those and laid you in the bed. You’ve been there ever since and we’ve been waiting for you to wake up. That was three days ago.”

“Three days ago?” Landon asked in shock.

“You went through a pretty big ordeal out there . . . no thanks to me. And I’m hoping it worked. How do you feel?”

Peaceful.
Once Landon thought about it, he realized he actually felt calm and rested. The gruesome nightmares of his mother’s lifeless body and the terrifying display of power he’d unleashed the night of his apocratusis had since left him without a single uninterrupted night’s sleep. From his three-day slumber, however, Landon couldn’t recall a nightmare—or a dream for that matter—that had entered his mind. His brain had finally shut off, and he actually just slept.

“Rested,” Landon replied. “But sore.”

“Understandable. I shoulder some of the blame for the, uh,”— Dr. Brighton motioned to the area covering his entire torso—“bruising.”

Memories of the stones pelting him over and over again flashed through Landon’s mind. “So who’s winning?” he asked, directing the conversation to the chessboard.

“Ah, my pupil, such cannot be determined.” Dr. Brighton spoke in a strange altered voice, attempting to imitate someone in an accent Landon couldn’t imagine was appropriate. “When it comes to chess, you must ‘be like water making its way through cracks. Do not be assertive, but adjust to the object, and you shall find a way around or through it. If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves.’

“You must ‘empty your mind, be formless, shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle, and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water, my friend.’”

Sofia sat across the table with a grin stretched across her face, laughing softly.

“Who’s that? Confucius?” Landon asked.

“Bruce Lee.”

“Well, Bruce Lee,” Sofia interjected as she moved a piece on the board. “This time you crash. Check mate.”

“Wha-?” Dr. Brighton blurted in surprise.

“You went on the offensive to quickly.” Sofia’s response was pointedly nonchalant, a sort of passive-aggressive gloat directed at the heart of Dr. Brighton’s ego. “What is it you always say? ‘The two most—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Dr. Brighton interrupted as he waved his hand around in front of him, seeming to swat away Sofia’s triumphant words. “You’ve won this time my Soviet Siren. Don’t expect it to happen again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she commented as she rose from her chair. “But now that Landon’s awake and I have sufficiently defeated the king of the gods, I have to return to some work I’ve been neglecting. Landon would you like to come with me back to the Gymnasium?”

Soviet Siren?
King of the gods?
Landon felt like he was witnessing a moment not intended for him to see. The banter between Dr. Brighton and Sofia was uncomfortably personal and informal.

“Sure . . . I bet Riley’s freaking out. He’s probably thought up all sorts of things for what’s happened to me,” Landon replied.

“Good. I’ll go get your things, and a jacket—it’s a bit cold outside—and then we’ll head back.”

A few minutes later, Landon and Sofia made their way through the woods and were soon back at the Gymnasium. Once inside, Sofia gave Landon an unexpected hug and then silently departed, heading toward the Restricted Tower. Landon watched her slender body slink gracefully away. As she disappeared from view, the question of what was truly going on in the prohibited section of the Gymnasium returned to the forefront of his mind, but he dismissed his conjecturing and theorizing for the moment and went to find Riley and let him know he was all right.

• • • • •

On Thursday, Landon eagerly woke up to Thanksgiving morning, but he quickly realized the day would be nothing like to what he was accustomed.

At his family’s apartment, Landon would wake up a bit late in the morning. The cool fall air would chill his bare arms and torso as he rose from under the warmth of his comforter, making him work quickly to pull on a long sleeve t-shirt or light sweater. At that time of year, every window in the apartment would be opened to its fullest, circulating the perfect fall air.

Once dressed, he’d take in a long, deep breath through his nose; he loved the smell of Thanksgiving morning. The cool weather made it dry and crisp with the mellow aroma of burning pine coming from the numerous wood fires roaring in hearths across the city. Seeping in from the crack at the bottom of his door was the sweet, mouthwatering smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls his mother made from scratch for breakfast.

Leaving his room, he’d find his father sitting on the couch with a plate of rolls in his hand as sports analysts ran through their pre-game reports and predictions on the football games scheduled to air throughout the day. Apart from a small stint at the dining table for dinner, Mr. Wicker would stay on the couch for the entire holiday, and if the beer continued to flow, he generally stayed in a good mood.