Vision2 (7 page)

They
’
ll be watching you….

Roger awoke to the unmistakable sound of a door being unlocked. He squinted in preparation for the sunlight that would inevitably be streaming in the windows by now.

“Bear. Here, boy.” He paused for a second, his head anxiously tilted, awaiting the onslaught of bad breath and obnoxious barking.

“Bear? Where are you?”
Where
’
s the sunlight for that matter?
Roger wondered as he turned his head toward an unusual smell on the other side of the room.

Something was wrong. And as the blurry edges of sleep cleared, he saw that he was in was a green room, and this disturbed him because there were no green rooms in his house.

It was while staring at the wall that he remembered everything. He let his weary arms collapse underneath him, causing him to sink back onto the bed and watch as the door opened and a little green man hobbled into the small apartment.

Roger slowly moved around until he was sitting on the side of the bed. He thought about the book and knew that he needed to ask Firturro a few things. There had been no pictures, images, or descriptions, nor did it mention whether he was in some kind of alternate dimension or on a separate planet altogether. The articles that did describe Obawok society were very basic and omitted anything not absolutely necessary.

He moved into the living room just as Firturro returned from the kitchen with two cups full of hot brown liquid.

“Here, drink this. It
’
ll help you wake up,” Firturro said, smiling.

“What is it?”

“Coffee,” he said, holding the cup out to the unsure Roger. “Go on, take it. I wouldn
’
t give you something we normally eat or drink.” He laughed. Firturro
’
s laugh had a warm, hardy presence to

Kristi Brooks

it, and for a moment it looked like a wonderful array of colors had embraced Firturro
’
s dwarfish body.

Roger rubbed his hand across his eyes and wrapped his tired hands around the large, oddly designed cup. When he looked up, he sighed with relief that the rainbow glaze was gone.

“What are you drinkin
’
?” Roger asked, studying Firturro
’
s cup.

Firturro smiled. “It
’
s a lot like your coffee, only it
’
s brewed using special dirt that
’
s collected from the surface. We call it Kalika.”

“Oh,” Roger said, unconsciously scrunching his face into a look of disgust.

Each of them drank their morning brews in comfortable silence. It was so quiet Roger could intermittently hear shuffling footsteps and muffled voices as others passed through the hall. Firturro
’
s violet eyes seemed even more welcoming than they had before. On earth the same eye color would seem too glitzy, but the bright colors didn
’
t seem extravagant on these creatures. Dark green skin, maroon and silver hair, violet eyes; this odd assortment actually made the colors harmonious.

“Will you be able to answer my questions now?” Roger asked.

Firturro
’
s eyes shone in the dimness, and it felt like there were cold fingers moving things around in Roger
’
s brain. The chill spread through his whole body until Roger found himself clutching at his arms.

“Some of them,” Firturro finally answered.

“But not all?”

“No, some things are for you to discover on your own. It
’
s an important tradition of the Mezoglike. We take tradition very seriously here, and sometimes it
’
s the most important detail.”

“Whose tradition?” Roger asked, gripping the coffee cup even tighter.

“The council
’
s. They reinforce the beliefs of the ancients.” Firturro scrunched his small face together.

Roger wasn
’
t sure if Firturro
’
s disapproving expression was because of the council or the ancients, but Roger didn
’
t want to find out right now. Dragging out conflicts and angering Firturro wasn
’
t going to help him get answers.

“What exactly is
this Mezoglike
?”

“I told you last night, it
’
s a challenge certain humans are forced to undergo when they make no clear decisions about the impact of fate or freewill in their lives,” Firturro replied.

“No, no, no. I mean, what is the test comprised of? Is it physical, mental, or knowledge based? What am I actually going to be doing?” Roger asked. He felt fairly confident he could handle a physical test. He hadn
’
t smoked in over four years, and he could run well; thank goodness he still played weekend football games with some of the kids in Mulray. Without that exercise, he didn
’
t know what kind of shape he
’
d be in right now.

“It
’
s an equal mixture of all three aspects, but there is no specific paper or physical exam, and the knowledge part of the test assesses your ability to think on your feet.”

“Why do you do this?”

“Because the ancient text tells us that we must in order to maintain balance.” Firturro set his empty cup on the desk and looked at Roger expectantly. “Obawok must treat the scriptures as if they contain the absolute truths of all worlds. There is no way to question the texts, there is only acceptance.”

“So innocent people are kidnapped and brought here to compete in a test they don
’
t understand and no one here can question why?”

Firturro
’
s face dropped so quickly it was hard for Roger to believe he had ever seen him smile. Roger
’
s stomach clinched at the guilt on Firturro
’
s face.

“Last night you refused to answer, but I need to know what my odds are.”

“No one has ever survived.”

“What?” Roger had expected some relatively bad news, like maybe only one out of a thousand make it, but for them to have been doing this for hundreds if not thousands of years and not have one human survive was horrible. His stomach was now clinched so tight he could almost taste the coffee creeping up the back of his throat.

“Our histories tell us no one has ever survived. I believe this to be a true statement from my personal experience. Every human I
’
ve helped bring into Obawok has died,” Firturro explained.

Firturro looked up, and his face was oddly serene and hopeful as he pushed his knotted hands into Roger
’
s and held them there for a moment. When he let go and moved toward the door, Roger noticed a small red whistle nestled against his pale flesh. He raised it to his lips and blew into it but was greeted by nothing more than an empty rush of air.

“What
’
s this for?” Roger asked.

“You
’
ll know when it
’
s necessary, but for now, it
’
s just between us.” Firturro placed his left hand on the small of his back and tapped against the stone door with his walking stick. “I have a meeting with the council. Tigaffo will pick you up soon, so you
’
ll need to get ready.”

“Is the test today?” he asked as he twirled the whistle in between his fingers.

“No, today you
’
re going before the council. It
’
s nothing to worry about as long as you answer the President truthfully. He can always tell when humans lie.”

“How?”

Firturro smiled. “They twitch.”

He rapped three more times against the stone before gesturing good-bye to Roger. The door groaned as it swung open. Two Obawok twice the size of Firturro, both with black hair, entered the room and escorted Firturro back into the hall, shutting and locking the door behind them. Roger made them as the two that had watched him from the shadows yesterday afternoon.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” Roger muttered. As he was turning it over his thumb ran across a mar in the plastic. He turned it over and noticed a crude message etched into the bottom.

How does the defendant plea?

Carved into the red plastic where one would expect to find a legend like “Made in
Taiwan
” were seven tiny carefully printed words. When Roger was finally able to out what they said, he immediately had to reread them.

A child
’
s reality is all that matters.

Roger gripped the whistle for a long time, running his thumb back and forth across the words, muttering them as if they were a mantra. He wasn
’
t sure how long he sat there on the couch, but eventually he went to the bathroom to get ready. As he was brushing his teeth, he searched the small room until he found a blue sweat suit, a pair of boxer shorts, two mismatched socks, and some underarm deodorant. Even though the clothes smelled clean, he tried to decide how many others had used these items and whether or not it they were sanitary. Then he shook his head when he realized that he was worried about germs when he was probably going to die soon anyway, and he laughed so hard his sides hurt. When he stopped, he shucked his dirty clothes, washed himself off with a damp rag and changed.

Roger was retying his shoes when he heard the door open. He turned just as Tigaffo ducked through the door, the two large Obawok Roger had seen earlier flanking him like bodyguards. Just like the day before, Tigaffo began shifting his weight from one foot to the other while staring at the well-worn dirt floor and his lumpy green feet as they moved up and down.

Roger stifled his urge to laugh. “Hi, our introductions were cut short yesterday.”

He was careful to extend his hand in a manner that could only be interpreted as a simple handshake. Tigaffo flinched before reaching out his hand, mimicking Roger
’
s gesture. Roger saw that Tigaffo was coated in a greasy substance and managed to refrain from pulling back his hand, but when their hands touched, Roger almost

Kristi Brooks

wished he had. Tigaffo
’
s hesitant flesh was cold, slimy, and impersonal to the touch, like he was grasping a handful of room temperature liver. The thought of touching liver made the bile rise in his throat, just when he thought he might actually retch the handshake was over.

“Follow me. We
’
re going to the council,” Tigaffo ordered.

Nothing else was said on their journey through the winding tunnels to the entrance to the council chamber. There was a beautiful, intricately carved picture of a meadow with the sun
’
s rays touching down on the surface of the wooden doors. The picture was meant to be warm, welcoming even, but Roger
’
s insides clinched in an icy, suffocating fear when he saw them.

They stood in front of the doors, motionless. The fear had almost driven him into a panic state: his eyes were watering, his hands were clammy, and his skin itched. He looked at Tigaffo, but he wasn
’
t moving.

“Why aren
’
t we goin
’
in?” Roger questioned, his pulse pounding so loud in his ears it had become a thunder that raced through his veins, driving him, commanding him to run, to flee. Somehow he managed to keep his feet steady even as the drumming reached a crescendo behind his eyes.

“When they
’
re ready, the doors will be opened by the servant gnomes.” Tigaffo
’
s voice was flat.

Roger glanced down and noticed a pair of gnomes standing on either side of the entryway. He absently ran his finger over the painful welt in the palm of his hand. There was a small click as the doors were unlatched, and both of them swung outward in unison. When they were fully opened, Roger bit down on his tongue and followed Tigaffo inside.

Inside there were close to thirty Obawok, and at least fourteen of the ugly little creatures were seated in a blockish semi-circle around very large desk. The one in the center had shockingly silver hair and wore thick satin-lined velvet robes. Those seated around him had deep blue hair, directly contrasting with the dark maroon hair of the nine others that stood in the back of the room. As Roger was pushed to the front of the group he sucked in a lungful of cold air and started to cough when he was suddenly confronted with another human not ten feet away.

Then, as quickly as they had led him in, a group of Obawok led the other man out. The man was obviously in his early twenties with a short crop of stark blonde hair, crystal clear eyes, and a tan that made his teeth stand out in stark contrast. Beads of sweat stood out on his dark brow, and the smile that played across the stranger
’
s lips was so tightly wound that Roger thought it might actually break and fall off the young man
’
s face. The guy nodded toward Roger.

Roger found himself nodding back despite his astonishment and watched as the doors closed on his only link to humanity.

After staring at the door for a few seconds, he let out a pent up whoosh of air and looked around the room. As he did, he was surprised to notice that while most of the maroon haired ones appeared to have healthy skin, most of the blue haired ones had large brown grease spots covering their hands and checks.

A shaky breath escaped between his chapped lips in a low whistle, and he looked around the room and took another deep breath. Thick pieces of deep red fabric had been tacked to the walls, but the floors and ceilings had been painted a slightly mismatched shade of red. There were large areas where the paint had chipped away revealing the dark green earth.

A loud scraping of chairs shocked Roger out of his revere, and he felt every nerve in his body clash. All of the Obawok were standing as the silver haired Obawok waited for complete silence before he clucked his tongue three times and held his fat, pale green palms up and out over the desk and wiggled his pudgy sausage fingers. The room was gripped by a silence so deep it was like a blanket.

“Roger Fulright, I am President Darelle, leader of the Obawok, and you have been brought here because of your refusal to choose an appropriate path. In three days you will be sent out to take the Mezoglike. Do you have any further questions?”

“What happens when I complete the test?”

The President
’
s face lit up with a smile that made Roger
’
s stomach turn, and the room, which had been too cold only moments before, was now the temperature of molten lava. Beads of perspiration immediately collected at the small of his back and across his brow, and he wondered if this was what the other guy felt as he stood here in front of this odd tribunal.

An image of a man strapped to a metal table surrounded by a bright blue light and hooked into a giant metal machine popped into his mind. A putrid mixture of decaying meat assaulted his senses when he breathed in through his nose and mingled with the vision.

Roger reminded himself that it was only his imagination, but even this belief shattered when he looked up at the President
’
s smirking face. A thin wafer of cigarette like smoke was coming form the President
’
s mouth and reaching for him. Panic rose in him like bile as the smoke lengthened its stride and he frantically searched the room, but none of the others seemed to notice anything.

When the smoke
’
s fingers caressed his skin, he cringed and bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out. The tendrils coated his skin with a mixture of decay and tension.

Blood filled his mouth and his throat cinched together. Just as Roger thought his lungs would implode, the President leaned back, and reality snapped around Roger. The smoke dissipated from the air, the vision of the man receded, and molten air escaped Roger
’
s lungs as he remembered to breath.

When he looked at the councilmen, he saw a dark, circular form now hovered in front of many of their faces, turning them into featureless puddles.

Not real…not real…not real…
ran through his head like a child
’
s litany against the boogeyman, and Roger turned to Firturro and the other watchers and was again shocked. Unlike the councilmen
’
s puddles, most of their faces shone with a simple brilliance that made him think of cherubs.

Roger shook his head, turned back to the councilmen, and noticed that some of their faces were also slightly glowing. When he looked back at the watchers, he noticed that some of them also had the dirty, hovering blotches consuming their faces. Tigaffo was one of the few watchers now consumed by the greasy blob, the features on his face almost indistinguishable under the dirty haze.

Roger looked to Firturro and just barely caught the slight nod of his head.

A child
’
s reality is all that matters.

The phrase echoed through his head, but its meaning was still elusive. If this was really happening then he didn
’
t want to think of the horrific possibilities that a child
’
s reality might entail.

Then, as he was looking at the councilmen
’
s faces, the dirty haze broke into fragments of dust and fell to the floor, dissipating in much in the same manner as the smoke.

“
If
you make it to the end of the test, you will be rewarded with any life that you choose. It will be based on your ideal version of life. But most importantly, once you choose, there is no going back. You will be forced to remain in that life until you die. So says the words of the ancients,” the President said.

“So says the truth.”

The sudden chorus startled Roger. The voices rose and fell in perfect unison like the obligatory ”AMEN” one heard at the end of a Southern Baptist sermon. Each Obawok now raised their hands, palms forward in some kind of gesture. For a few seconds the air felt alive with electricity as piercing as shards of glass.

Firturro stood on Roger
’
s right hand side, but he hadn
’
t bothered to open his mouth or raise his hands. The President had also noticed and openly glared at Firturro before turning back to Roger.

“Do you have any other inquiries?” the President asked.

“No.”

“None? Are you sure? This will be your only chance to directly address the council.”

Roger saw that his refusal to ask any more questions, especially those the President could use as an example against humanity, had obviously depleted his enjoyment.

“Yes, I
’
m sure,” Roger answered.

“Okay, just remember you chose this.” The President looked at Firturro again. Roger noticed this time the blatant hostility from earlier was better masked, but it was still very much present.

“Firturro and Tigaffo will now lead the human back to his cell. The test will begin in exactly three days to the hour,” the President said before clucking his tongue and dismissing them.

“It has been declared!”

Firturro gently placed his hand on Roger
’
s back to lead him from the room. Tigaffo stood just behind them, and Roger could feel Tigaffo
’
s hateful eyes boring into the back of his skull.

Roger didn
’
t want to think about how he knew this without looking, didn
’
t want to think about the images that had plagued him a few moments before, but he knew something was happening. These weren
’
t merely nervous hallucinations.

A farfetched possibility began to inch its way into his mind. ESP was a bunch of new age hoopla, but what was happening to him now lacked for any other explanation. He
’
d begun to wonder about supernatural occurrences during the trial, but had kept the strange idea at bay. Now he was beginning to think differently.

The big question, apart from
Is this really happening?
was whether or not the President knew about these visions. If he was indeed experiencing some kind of precognitive abilities, then the key to his survival lay in keeping them a secret. The President would no doubt be keeping an eye on Roger, and Tigaffo would most likely be his watchdog.

These details were so vivid because he could sense them: the lingering, horrid stench that had been emanating from the President; the small brown patches of decay on most of the councilmen; the dirty halo-like appearance surrounding Tigaffo; and the warm, rich glow emanating from Firturro were all signs. Hazy and unclear signs, but signs all the same. He just hoped that he was interpreting them correctly.

That night Roger stayed awake, pacing the floor for hours. The disturbing events at the trial made him wonder if he had reached his breaking point. If not for the fact that these hallucinations had started after he
’
d been pulled through a mirror, tossed through a black hole, bitten by a yellow gnome, and introduced to small green trolls, he would
’
ve thought he
’
d gone insane.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head over the back of the chair. The questions danced behind his eyelids, haunting him. If Obawok believed humans could possess these awesome powers, then the very basis of their beliefs and the sacredness of the ancients would be wrong. Humans wouldn
’
t be inadequate beings, but rather ones that had abilities even Obawok seemed to lack. He thought about it again and sighed. His brain felt like it was swelling inside his skull.

In an attempt to get some relief he made his way to the bathroom and stood in front of the tiny shower stall that was in the far corner. The light didn
’
t extend all the way into the back of the stall, and when he opened the door, he saw that most of the area was actually bathed in shadows, but that was probably for the best. He shuddered at the thought of muddy walls and water that was probably pumped in from some pungent underground swamp. Compared to his aching muscles and dirt-scrubbed skin, the dark uncertainties of the shower weren
’
t so horrible.

While the water streamed over his body he felt his muscles relax, and he found himself reluctant to leave. There weren
’
t any towels, so he dried off with the sweat suit shirt and hung it up over the shower stall to dry before slipping into the pants. The light switch for all of the electric-powered lamps was on the outside of the door, and the guards clicked them off as he emerged from the bathroom, reminding him again of how much they considered him either a prisoner or a child. Or maybe both.

Sighing, he shuffled across the dirt floor in the dark to the bed. He lay there for a long time with his hands behind his head staring up into the darkness, remembering his mother and wondering what she would say about this situation. She always found the humor in everything; even when she
’
d been so weak that she could hardly move, she
’
d never lost her sense of humor.