The Adventures of Larson and Garrett, Epic the First

The Adventures of Larson and Garrett Epic, the First

A Larson and Garrett novel by Aaron Dennis

Published by StoriesbyDennis December 2018

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Introduction

The Adventures of Larson and Garrett, Epic, the First, is an ongoing compilation of adventures. The short stories have been combined and edited to read as chapters in a novel, and yet they retain their individuality. I am proud and very happy to bring them together in this first epic.

The Adventures of Larson and Garrett began long, long ago when I was a lad, myself; I used to spend one night a week rolling dice while our dungeon master, David, narrated the outstanding story. Eventually, those who lacked the sobriety required to survive the adventures died off, and Larson and Garrett were the only two heroes to remain, and yet the other members—those who died, those who wandered off, those who came and went—are remembered.

Let it be said that The Adventures of Larson and Garrett is in no way plagiarized; these are not cut and pasted transcripts from sessions of Dungeons and Dragons, no. The Adventures of Larson and Garrett outgrew their own medium, and they took on a life of their own, a life that no longer adhered to the rules and regulations. They became an entity, a thing-in-itself, and after many, many years, they have been recreated.

The following compilation of stories are very loosely based on just a handful of gaming sessions, and to be perfectly honest, little more than the characters themselves have been replicated, yet the spirit of the sessions has remained, and I want to pass them on to you, the reader, so thank you for purchasing this book. Thank you, David, for your creative narration. Thank you, Darrell, for your friendship and support.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter the first

Chapter the second

Chapter the third

Chapter the fourth

Chapter the fifth

Chapter the sixth

Chapter the seventh

Chapter the eighth

Chapter the ninth

Chapter the tenth

Chapter the eleventh

Chapter the twelfth

Prologue

During the First Age, what is formally called the Era of the Gods, or the Age of the Gods, the world was but an agglomeration of fields of energy, of magick, of power. Each force represented its own individuality and their commiserate relationships in uncertain terms. After all, it would be impossible for men, dwarves, elves, or any other creature to pin down how a God feels.

All we know for certain is that Gods either got along or didn’t, and when they didn’t, they pitted their might against one another. To our knowledge—that is to say—it is common knowledge that some Gods such as Ruolla, God of Blood, were defeated, but even defeated Gods do not die. These murky details slip into and out of tomes, tales, and weird traditions, but the conclusion of the First Age is simply that the Gods stopped trying to kill each other directly, accepted their inexhaustible life source, and created planes wherein new things, things called creatures, were given awareness, summoned, manifested, and bred. This, naturally, led to the Second Age, or the Age of Life, or sometimes called the Age of Strife, though that name is probably more suited for our current age.

The Second Age is when the different planes came into existence. Not all of them are physical, but their residual magicks or energies are of a confluence that can be described as bands or bundles of energy, and as such, each is distinct; each has its own rules, its own creatures, and so on, yet before the planes, everything—the Gods—is all there was and intent, though uniquely individual, was simply inconceivable by human standards—and really by all living standards since no living creature can grasp the true nature, the essence of the Gods. Although the elves claim that they can, it is impossible to conceive the incommensurable.

It was during the end of the Second Age that the intelligent creatures were forged—humans, elves, dwarves, orcs, goblins, but this is not altogether accurate; before the creation of those creatures, there were others with perhaps far more intelligence, at least far more than orcs or goblins. Once, there were giants, drollgors, daemons, and creatures forgotten by everyone save the eldest of sages and liches. They are not common knowledge, though, and so humans and elves and dwarves, and whomever else, worshiped one God or another and fought for some cause or leader, or what have you, until peace was finally achieved, but peace is never complete, never eternal. The universe, the world, is a composite of opposing forces, ebbs and flows in the tides of magick.

We are in the Third Age now. Some call it the Age of Enlightenment. How could it be known as such when we know less now than we did two thousand years ago? Certainly, times are mostly safe, yet pillagers and bandits still roam countrysides. Goblins and orcs occasionally raid the townships, but in these times no one—or at least very, very few people—war in the name of a God. At this time, no nation is besieged by another. It is during these times that universities dedicated to magicks house elves and humans alike. It is during this age that a church of Devloa can be erected across the street from a Temple of Han. A human might even bed an orc, and though most would be disgusted, the mention of having had a few too many drinks as the reason is more than acceptable.

So you must be wondering why I said this should aptly be called the Age of Strife. It is because this age is still rather new, yet old enough for those who remain living to forget how dreadful times were, and this sort of forgetfulness leads down well-traveled paths. Stay the course much as a true hero does, and behold the war, the tyranny, the villainous deceit and suffering that lays brooding just beneath the surface of the world of Ahkai, and there, you will find that all opposing yet complimentary forces, yes, the Gods, still hold sway. Two unlikely friends may argue about this, but when something greater than themselves reveals itself, they take up arms, clear their heads, empty their souls, and act rather than talk.

I will tell you of a man called Larson and a man called Garrett. I will tell you of a timeless quest to battle forces greater than themselves, forces so powerful they stagger the mind. I will tell you of Akalabash, God of War, of Tarielle, Goddess of Magick, and of Lagos, God of Destruction. Sit back, and I will recount to you the adventures of Larson and Garrett, a true tale of epic proportions.

Chapter the first- The Sleeping Tree

Flotsam was a small town in the country of Ruvonia, and while the majority of the country was wooded, Flotsam was no exception. The town, however, had an odd history. A ship had wrecked in the Derring Sea, and after the survivors coasted down the river, they used what remained of the wreckage to start a small camp in a clearing by a tributary. Years later, the town came to be what it is now, a small place surrounded on the north and west sides by Red Pine woods with farmlands to the east and south. The tributary from the River Jons ran from west to east away from the sea rather than towards it as the Jons itself did.

The Third Age had led to the sprouting of innumerable, small townships and farmsteads like Flotsam; if there was running water and some form of protection, people were sure to build. Like many other human towns, Flotsam was relatively new, a quaint town home to a handful of families—descendants of the shipwrecked—and little else. The Ross family, however, were newcomers, at least the parents were. The boys, Largo and Larson, were born there. Margaret Ross, the boys’ mother, died shortly after Larson’s birth, leaving their father, and in part Largo, to raise Larson. The boy’s father, Mathew, was a gentle yet imposing farmer, and while he instilled obedience, he also made certain the boys learned respect, honed their bodies and minds, and understood the value of hard work.

****

An unceasing disturbance accosted Larson’s face. He shut his eyes tight, bit his lower lip, and rolled his face away and into his soft, goose down pillow.

Wake up, ya’ lummox, Largo howled.

Larson scrunched beneath the woolen sheets and pulled them up over his head. The morning light along with his brother’s antics—slapping him softly but repeatedly on the cheek—was enough to work him into a foul mood. Ensconced in semi-darkness, Larson tried to resume his slumber, but suddenly the blanket was yanked off so brazenly that he nearly went flying off the bed.

What’s the matter with you? Larson cried out.

Largo, the older of the two, stood with a mischievous grin on his face. The boys were nearly ten years apart. While Largo had light brown hair and some stubble on his face, Larson’s hair was nearly black and long.

You’ve got school now, kiddo, Largo chuckled and left the room.

Larson grumbled. Since the boy had turned eight, his father had decided it was time for him to enroll in school, so that was his morning’s duty, and Larson trudged down the wooded steps of the room he shared with his brother and into the common area. Their home was large but modest. Mathew was no carpenter. Still, there were wooden floors and squared walls, which was more than some of the nearby homes boasted. Larson ambled about the table and chairs.

There’s no breakfast? he called out.

Eat your grains, Largo replied from the adjacent storeroom.

For a moment, Larson looked around for the alleged grains, which he didn’t really want since there was smoked rabbit in the storeroom, and then realized that his brother had not brought the grains out yet. Largo rounded a corner with wooden bowls of grains. He slid one across the table to his brother.

I don’t want grains, and I don’t want to go to school, Larson snipped.

Tough.

How come you don’t have to go to school? Larson complained and crunched on the hard grains.

Chew with your mouth closed if you wanna’ keep your teeth, boy, and I already did my schoolin’. Now I gotta’ help Da with the farm work, Largo replied.

That sounded even worse to Larson. He arched a brow in wonder. Largo laughed. That action was something their dad did when he was about to ask a serious question or was duly confused about something.

What do I do in school?

Just do what they ask. It’s easy enough. Da says the school here is easy, nothin’ the like of universities, or magick schools, or whatever.

The young boy ran his fingers through his hair. He thought reading was neat, but cared little for what else school provided. There were older people in Flotsam, however, who didn’t know how to read, but his dad and brother knew, and they had read a few books out loud, which always entertained the boy. Larson was excited about reading, but what he really wanted to learn was fighting. He saw his dad teach Largo once, but for some reason they stopped, and no one fessed up to why. Suddenly, he realized something had eluded him; his dad wasn’t there.

Where’s Dad?

Travelin’ to Half Pine, downstream, Largo said, indifferently.

He go by ferry?

Save your questions for school, boy. Now, hurry up. I gotta’ get ya’ there soon.

I can go on my own! Larson complained.

And yet I’m comin’ anyway, Largo grinned.

Flotsam was a small town, and Larson had been left to play outside enough times that he knew where the school was. Largo insisted on walking at least part ways, and after crossing the bridge by the miller’s, he watched his little brother enter the schoolhouse.

Inside, Larson scrutinized the large room. The wooden walls were covered in large canvases. Some of them had letters on them; others had paintings of people or castles, lands, boats. There was a fat woman behind a desk at the far end of the room opposite the doors. She stood, dusted off her buff colored apron, and motioned for the boy to come in.

Good morning, Larson, she said. The boy walked past the chairs and tables. They were empty. No other boys and girls had arrived yet. You’re early. That’s good. I’m Mrs. Graham.

Larson remained silent. He looked her over. She was an older woman with gray strands of hair rampant in an otherwise auburn ponytail.

Where is everyone?

They’ll be here soon, she replied, apathetically. I taught your brother. He’s a sharp lad. I expect as much from you.

Larson furrowed his brow. He didn’t understand why she expected anything of the sort. They looked at each other for a long moment. Mrs. Graham bore a happy smile. It made Larson feel safe, and he finally smiled back.

She motioned at a long table with three chairs behind it. He took a seat, and then suddenly turned around. Children were noisily making their way inside. Some of them were a bit older. A few were his age. He had played with some of them by the river before. The boys, Larson included, wore tunics and trousers while the girls wore drab dresses; country clothing was simple, utilitarian.

The first day of school was both fun and boring. Larson learned about letters from one of the older girls. Mrs. Graham spent most of her time teaching the older kids, and in turn, they taught the younger ones. By the end of the day, all Larson had to show for his attendance was a book about the alphabet and a book about counting. Upon exiting the schoolhouse, he spotted Largo standing by the bridge.

At first, Larson smiled and started to run over, but there was something about Largo’s appearance that made him uneasy. Slowing down to a trot, he noticed his brother’s hair was a mess. He was sweating profusely, although it was not an altogether hot day, and there were splotches of something dark red or brown on his green tunic.

How’d it go, Largo asked once Larson reached the bridge.

What’s wrong?

Nothin’. Let’s get home, Largo snipped and started off.

Water swirled under the bridge. It was brownish but clear and Larson noted a school of mullet swimming against the current.

What’d you learn?

His brother’s voice jolted the boy for a second. He looked up. Largo didn’t look as carefree as he usually did.

Letters, and numbers, and stuff.

Letters, and numbers, and stuff, Largo echoed quietly and nodded.

Dad back?

Largo didn’t answer. By the time they made it indoors, the sun was making its descent behind the farmhouses at the eastern edge of town.

Sit down and eat, Largo ordered. I made rabbit stew.

Larson then figured his brother had been upset by having to scrounge for fresh rabbit and gutting it; something Largo hated doing. After eating, and while Largo tended the crops outside, Larson decided to fiddle with his new books. They were interesting, but not as interesting as swordplay.

As he started to leave the dinner table, Largo came in. He had removed his tunic while working. The young man was toned and muscular like some of the paintings of the warriors in the schoolhouse.

When’s Dad coming home, Larson asked.

Tonight, tomorrow, who knows?

What’s he doing?

I told you, he’s got business in Half Pine.

Larson was an astute boy, even if young and uneducated. What aren’t you telling me?

The older boy’s jaw clenched a few times; same as their dad did when he didn’t want to reveal something that might upset them, but then Largo’s demeanor relaxed and he smiled. Don’t worry about it.

The next few days went by pretty quickly in Flotsam, at least for Larson. Waking early for school made him tired early, so apart from Mrs. Graham’s lessons and being forced to relive them at his brother’s request, nothing happened. Oddly enough, their dad had still not returned. Late that evening, while Larson was upstairs washing himself out of a bucket with a clean cloth, someone pounded on the door downstairs. Freezing on the spot to listen, Larson heard his brother answering the door.

Yes, Largo asked.

Where’s your da? a man’s gravelly voice demanded.

Half Pine on business, Largo replied. Why?

There was silence for a moment and Larson capitalized; he slunk to the stairs and peeked. Whoever was at the door was blocked by Largo, and the boy wasn’t able to distinguish any features. Besides, it was dark, and only three candles illuminated the common area.

There’s some strange happenins’ goin’ on, the man said. I need to speak with your da.

Well, I told you, he ain’t here.

They grew silent again, and Larson skulked down some steps, but one creaked and Largo turned. He winced at Larson then gave a barely perceptible gesture with his head; an order to go back upstairs. Larson frowned and sat down instead.

Children been disappearin’, the man said.

"What’s that got to do with Da?

Don’t be glib, boy, the man grunted then checked himself. Sorry, but we both know your da’s a retired soldier…he ain’t some half-drunk farmer like the rest o’ us here born an’ bred in Flotsam.

That bit of news made Larson jump, and he stood, making the stair squeak again, and once more Largo turned except that time he snapped his fingers at his brother. Go upstairs, boy!

Larson grumbled, and since his brother didn’t turn away, he had no other alternative and went just far up enough to hear without being seen.

All right, Largo conceded. Let’s talk outside.

Larson heard the door shut and no more voices. He figured the two were speaking outside, so he snuck all the way to the window and pressed his ear against the shutters.

Your da teach you the sword, right, the man asked.

Suddenly, Larson recognized the voice. It was Mr. Thatcher from town. He was an old man whose son had died years back, even before Larson was born.

Yes, Largo answered, but I’m not about to go out and hunt whoever is takin’ children. I got my brother to worry over, hear?

Well, that’s why I’m here…but…you know, Thatcher trailed off.

Look, if you’re worried about this, put the word out. There ain’t so many people in town that bringin’ this to light don’t solve the problem.

Well that’s just it, Thatcher said. I don’t think it’s any of us.

Who’d it be, then?

I don’t know. Word is, these kids wandered into the forest an’ vanished. Hunters gathered at Fletcher’s yester eve, an’ went out as a party, but they didn’t find nothin’.

And you wanted Da to lend a hand, Largo pried.

Aye, but you could in his stead.

No, I couldn’t, Largo replied. Sorry.

With that, Largo came back inside. There wasn’t any place for Larson to hide, so he just stood there, leaned against the shutter with his mouth open, staring at his brother.

I told you to go upstairs, Largo chastised.

You could go on an adventure like George, the Dragon Slayer!

Don’t, Largo chuckled. Don’t be stupid. That old paintin’ is still up in old woman Graham’s schoolhouse, isn’t it?

I guess, Larson shrugged.

There’s no dragons and no monsters anymore. They went out with the coming of the Third Age.

Then, maybe it’s a band of goblins, or orcs, or ogres looking to eat young boys, Larson cheered.

And, what, you’re happy about that?

Well, no, I mean, Larson trailed off and looked at the floor.

Put your clothes on, and go to bed, Largo smiled.

When’s Dad coming home?

Go to bed, Largo replied, sternly.

Sleeping was the last thing on Larson’s mind, and he would have snuck out to go on his own adventure if Largo didn’t sleep in the same room. Eventually, after wild fantasies of him, his brother, and dad fighting off scores of monsters, he fell asleep and dreamt about a tree.

It was an odd tree, old and twisted and big. There were no leaves on it, and the trunk was dark gray, almost black as charcoal. The tree had a face like an old man, and its long limbs were bent like it had elbows. The thing suddenly lurched right out of the ground, and Larson felt as though he’d been scooped up, but then he was awake.

Get up for school, Largo yelled. Today’s the last day then you get two off to be lazy.

Larson looked at his brother. It was the first time he wasn’t angry at being awakened. I dreamt of a tree, Larson said.

Excitin’, Largo replied, sardonically.

It was trying to eat me, I think, but you woke me up.

Largo looked at his brother. His long hair was disheveled, but he looked happy or relieved to be awake.

Glad I could be of service. Now, get yourself ready.

Largo insisted again on bringing the boy to school. Larson argued, but his brother’s mind had been made up. Upon reaching the schoolhouse, the boy saw the parents had all brought their kids, at least the parents of the younger children.

Inside, he sat down at his table with his books and looked around. Everyone, Mrs. Graham, the older kids, and the younger ones all looked nervous. Larson noted some kids were late. Class started, but they never showed.

Larson was too preoccupied with the possibility of an adventure to pay attention in school, and likewise, everyone there seemed too preoccupied to care that no one was paying attention. Twice, Mrs. Graham lost her place in her lectures. An older boy, Michael, had to step in. Before the day ended, when it was time for questions, Larson stood.

What’s happening to the missing kids?

The room grew silent. Mrs. Graham’s smile flickered. That’s not for young boys to worry over, Larson. Go home, everyone, and study your books, she said, nervously.

Larson frowned. When he left the building, he saw all the parents were there waiting for their kids, but his brother wasn’t there, so Larson went to Mr. Thatcher’s house. It was on the way home anyway. He knocked on the door, and old Mr. Thatcher answered. He was wearing a leather tunic that hung on his timeworn body. White whiskers grew over his upper lip, and his short but scruffy beard gave the look of someone with very little patience.

You’re Mathew’s boy, the little one, he smiled a gap-toothed grin.

Larson.

Right, Thatcher breathed. What’re ya’ doin’ here?

You told my brother kids were disappearing, and you said my dad was a soldier.

Thatcher rubbed the white scruff on his chin and looked off towards the tributary. You should go home, he finally said. It ain’t safe no more.

They stared at each other for a moment then Thatcher figured it best to walk Larson home since Largo wasn’t around. Strolling past the sparse, thin pines out of town east to the farms, Larson and Thatcher looked at the crops. Corn, beans, and greens were coming in nicely. Then, Thatcher left the boy at his door.

As the old man turned to leave he looked over his shoulder and spoke. Keep your wits about ya’.

Larson watched the old man amble off; it was the disjointed gate of a man in refusal of his old age. He finally disappeared behind rows of corn. The boy went inside, ate, got cleaned up, and waited around for Largo, who showed up just after the sun set.

Where’ve you been? Larson accosted him.

Out, Largo answered and tossed a short sword, still in its sheath, onto the table with a clamor.

Larson had only seen that sword once. He looked at it then at his brother. You went out to look for the kids, Larson said in surprise.

Largo winced and vacillated before replying, Yes, but there ain’t nothin’ out there.

Everyone’s scared…Thatcher even walked me home.

I should’ve been there for you…it won’t happen again, Largo sighed.

Don’t be silly, Larson howled. These people are farmers, not soldiers like Dad, and you know how to fight, don’t you?

Don’t worry about that…besides, they got hunters in town. Those fellas can track better than I can.

What are they tracking?

Largo remained silent. He looked his brother over for a moment then grabbed something to eat and a bottle of wine.

You’re not supposed to drink that, Larson snipped.

Well, Da’s not here to say so, so shut up, Largo joked.

He’s not coming home, is he, Larson whispered and looked at the sword.

Sure he is…he’s just held up or somethin’.

You know something.

No, Largo sighed, and that’s what bothers me.

Can we go to Half Pine tomorrow?

And who’ll look after the house?

They both grew quiet. Hours went by. Larson had never seen his brother so impassive. There was a look on his face he’d never before witnessed; it was like confusion and determination. Once Larson started to nod off, a knock on the door rallied his attention. Even Largo jumped. He then hopped off nimbly to answer the door. Larson trotted behind.

Go upstairs, oh who am I kiddin’, Largo said and opened the door. It was Thatcher again. What is it?

The old man came in and everyone sat down at the table. Another child gone missin’, the old man started with a trembling voice. The Gettys girl. Her older brother saw her wander off towards the woods to the north. He ran in after her, but couldn’t find her. Thatcher grew quiet and fought to hold back tears. This ain’t normal.

Vanishin’ kids is never normal, Largo corrected.

I mean these kids ain’t bein’ takin’. They’re wanderin’ off on purpose.

Anyone find anythin’?

No, but they’re talkin’ about gatherin’ everyone at the schoolhouse with Mrs. Graham, an’ a few townsfolk keepin’ guard over the children. I volunteered to help at that end.

What’s the plan, Largo asked.

Thatcher sighed and rubbed his scruff before saying, While the children are kept together an’ safe, the hunters are goin’ to go out to track the girl. They won’t come back until they find somethin’.

And you want me to go with them? Largo said more than asked.

Thatcher’s gaze pierced Largo’s eyes. People need ya’. Children need ya’. At the rate we’re goin’, whatever’s out there’s gonna’ destroy this town.

Whatever’s out there? Largo howled, argumentatively. There’s no more monsters, damn it.

Who’re you to make that call?

Largo was stunned. But…but there can’t be.

Well, this ain’t men, or orcs, or dwarves, is it? Somethin’s lurin’ these kids away into the forest…an’ short of burnin’ it down to the ground, we don’t know what else to do. Strangely enough, whatever this is don’t seem to pose a threat to adults, so you should be safe.

You’ve got to go, Larson interrupted. Dad would go. Largo clenched his jaw a few times. Larson cocked an eyebrow. I’ll get my books. You get your sword, and we’ll go to the schoolhouse.

At that moment, the boy looked just like their dad. Largo smiled involuntarily. Larson’s jaw was smaller, and he was a pint sized duckling, but the eyes were the same—fierce, with purpose, even though it wasn’t him going out to fight.

Dad says when people ask you for help, you’ve got to do it because one day you or someone you love will need help, and you’ll wish everyone would get together to help you, Larson said.

Largo turned back to Thatcher and nodded. Alright.

The three readied themselves, and in the middle of the night, they marched to the schoolhouse. Even before arriving they noticed the light shining through the school’s windows. Several people were gathered just outside. Some bore torches.

Go inside, Largo told Larson.

The boy maintained a stiff upper lip and passed the adults. Within the school’s walls, Larson saw the multitude of children. There were almost two dozen ranging in ages from infants to perhaps thirteen. The oldest child who had disappeared was only nine, but no one wanted to take any chances, so everyone old enough to grab a sword, dagger, axe, or bow claimed a weapon and journeyed into the forest.

Larson, a boy called.

Michael, one of the older boys in Mrs. Graham’s class, was sitting at the tables. Larson joined him. They glanced at the other kids and the few older adults and women. Some of the women had apparently joined the hunting party, leaving only six adults in the schoolhouse including Mrs. Graham.

Don’t be scared, Michael finally said.

I’m not, Larson whispered. I want to help.

When you’re older, Michael smiled.

Michael was slender with long, dark hair. His clothes looked like they had belonged to someone else, but he was firm and nice.

All right, children, Mrs. Graham announced. There’s no reason to fret. To keep our minds busy, we’ll go ahead and start on Monday’s lesson plan.

Groans followed suit. She then instructed those who had their books to open to a certain page. Most of the children had to share as they had come unprepared. It didn’t really matter. While Mrs. Graham haphazardly started teaching, most of the boys tried to listen to the other adults. They were speculating about goblins, and orcs, or ogres—the common, child eating monsters. Someone suggested it was a troll because they only hunt at night.

Sunlight turns ‘em ta’ stone, an old man said.

It don’t turn ‘em to stone, Mr. Thatcher argued. That’s an old wives’ tale!

Before long, since it was getting late, or early, some of the children placed their heads on folded arms and drifted off. The slow progression of time was grueling. Larson was antsy, but he was also tired. He rifled through the pages of a large book with a green, leather cover. He couldn’t quite make out the title.

Leon’s Tr-treeump, he asked himself.

"Leon’s Triumph, Mrs. Graham corrected in a whisper. Larson looked up at her, and she smiled providing that safe feeling. It’s about a brave knight who defeated an army of the undead for his king."

Undead, Larson asked. Like skeletons?

Like skeletons, Mrs. Graham acknowledged.

Can you read it to us?

She smiled again and nodded. Then, she called the children to sit on the floor around her. She took a wooden chair and sat facing them to read the story. It had a slow beginning about the history of an evil wizard named Lorknar. Larson was sprawled out on the floor and asleep before the story got interesting.

Words were just background noise like the sounds of flickering torches, or the swirling river. From the blackness of sleep, Larson heard a melodious sound. It was unknown to him, but somehow reeked of home, of sweetness. It was something like a woman’s voice, but there were no words spoken. The sound then morphed into shapeless colors, and eventually solidified into the image of a tree, a great, old tree with the bark cracked and the limbs bare.

The trunk was very dark gray. No leaves grew on the branches. The old man’s face appeared again. It was mouthing something, but Larson wasn’t able to hear the words.

"Who are you," the boy asked.

"Rog less fur."

"What?"

"Rodles four."

"I can’t understand," Larson complained.

"I am Rollesforth," the tree croaked.

The evil tree lurched out and scooped Larson off the ground. He was suddenly over a dozen feet in the air, gazing into the black hole of the tree’s gaping mouth. Just as the anguish of falling assaulted the boy’s guts, he noticed Rollesforth was on a barren hilltop in a clearing of the forest. He awakened with a jump.

No one seemed to have noticed. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. Mrs. Graham was still reading. She was saying that Leon journeyed into the evil wizard’s cave armed with his magickal sword, Hodgeburn, a sword given to him by Mael, God of Valor. At that point, one of the children interrupted and asked if there were any stories about Gerancho, God of Nature, which was the commonly, if lackadaisically, worshiped God in Flotsam.

There is a story regarding Gerancho, but you’ll have to ask Mr. Bright about that. He says his bow is blessed by Gerancho and never misses its mark, Mrs. Graham answered.

Larson had met Mr. Bright once. He had come over to talk to his dad about something. Mr. Bright had also joined the hunting party, and a magick bow was indeed intriguing, but Larson wondered what good it truly was if no one knew what to shoot. Then, he realized he had dreamt of the tree again.

Michael, Larson whispered.

Yeah?

Have you dreamt about a tree lately?

A tree, Michael asked while wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Use a cloth, Michael, Mrs. Graham interrupted.

The older boy smiled sheepishly and turned beet red. All the kids were staring at him. I ain’t got a cloth, he mumbled.

Mrs. Graham returned to Leon’s Triumph and kept on reading.

Yeah, an old tree that looks like a mean, old man, Larson maintained.

Michael shook his head, and asked one of the little girls. Her eyes grew wide, but she shook her head and pretended to go to sleep. Larson arched a brow, looked at Michael, and they started whispering to the other kids about an old tree. Minutes later, the children were in an uproar.

Settle down, boys and girls, Mrs. Graham chastised. What’s the meaning of all this ruckus?