Geth and the Return of the Lithens

  “I don’t want to have to kill you,” Geth urged.

  The Tangle sneered, as if it understood how ridiculous that sounded. Geth took the sword and slipped it back into the sheath as a gesture of goodwill.

  “See?” Geth said, holding up his arms and trying to breathe calmly. “I have no desire to hurt . . .”

  Geth threw his right hand down and grabbed the hilt of his sword. Then with one smooth flash he pulled the weapon back out from the sheath and threw it at the Tangle. It happened so quickly that even Geth looked surprised.

  The Tangle caught the sword with its left hand and the weapon reverberated in the beast’s mitt like a wobbly saw.

  “Uh,” Geth said, backing up, “even I’m surprised I did that.”

  The Tangle grunted.

  “There’s this bit in me that has anger issues,” Geth tried to explain. “Normally I would have . . .”

  The Tangle lifted the sword and flung it to the ground with such force that it cracked through the cobble-stone and sliced deep into the road. Only the tip of the sword’s hilt still showed.

  “Right,” Geth said. “Let’s bury the blade.”

  The Tangle screamed and blew fire straight up into the air. It tossed its head down and with one fluid movement spun around, taking out Geth’s legs with its tail. Geth flew back, crashing down on his rear.

  The Tangle’s tail wrapped around Geth’s ankles and wildly threw him up. Geth was flung over the beast and directly through a large second-story window. His body rolled, allowing him to flip onto his knees and get right back onto his feet. Geth spun around and ran to the window.

  Down below, the Tangle was slamming its long tail into the ground and screeching as it angrily searched for Geth.

  “You should pay attention to where you throw things,” Geth whispered to himself.

  The Tangle roared and blew fire in a circle as it spun. The flames latched onto the surrounding buildings, and the small section of town became a big piece of trouble. The building below Geth was now burning and flames began to grow, sending smoke and heat up and into the window he was looking out of.

  The Tangle stomped around hitting at storefronts and screaming. It tore at the fountain and walked directly below the window Geth was currently choking in.

  “Perfect,” Geth coughed.

  Geth tore off his green shirt and jumped from the window and onto the back of the Tangle. He twisted the shirt and wrapped it around the beast’s neck, pulling it tightly.

  The Tangle lashed at Geth with its tail and arms but couldn’t get a strong enough hold on him to stop the suffocation. Fire raged around the two of them as the beast stumbled from side to side trying to knock Geth off its back. It crashed through the broken fountain and knocked down one of the burning posts. Water and fire were shooting everywhere.

  Geth pulled on the noose, straining and yelling as he tried desperately to put an end to the fight. The Tangle shook and then threw itself backwards against the ground, crushing Geth in the process.

  The impact forced Geth to let go.

  The Tangle was through playing around. It stood up and began to pound Geth with its fists. It then spun around and grabbed Geth by the ankles with its tail. The Tangle stood as tall as it could, raising its tail straight up and lifting Geth up off of the ground. Geth was now dangling by his ankles in back of the beast.

  Geth momentarily tried to fight it, but there was nothing he could do. He exhaled and let his arms and hair hang as he swung like a stuffed sausage from the tail of a remarkable beast. Geth sighed and gave in.

  “This isn’t the worst way to travel,” he yelled at the beast.

  The Tangle didn’t reply. Instead it trudged toward the castle as blood rushed into Geth’s head and the city behind them burned.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Five Questions

  Clover paced back and forth in his cell. The dungeon was filled with dozens of empty cells, all of them with tubes above them capable of dropping prisoners in. Clover stopped to complain and then continued pacing. He held his arms behind his back and remained invisible. He was bothered by the fact that he was confined, bothered by there not being any food, and bothered that nobody had been down to even investigate what they had caught.

  “Like I’m some common raccoon,” Clover groused. “Or a tharm.”

  “Who keeps talking?” a voice shouted from three cells over.

  Clover stopped pacing and kept quiet.

  “I don’t know what fell into that cage,” the only other prisoner in the dungeon said. “I can’t see you, but you should know I’m used to it being quiet down here.”

  “Sorry,” Clover said sarcastically.

  “No need to apologize,” the man said. “Just shut up.”

  Having grown up in a sycophant den that considered shut up a strong phrase, Clover bristled at the man’s comments.

  “Pardon me,” Clover said.

  “That’s not shutting up,” the other prisoner informed Clover. “Be quiet. It’s been years since anyone else has dropped down here. I guess there’s nobody interested in storming the castle these days.”

  “It’s a lost art,” Clover replied.

  “Quiet,” the prisoner shouted back. “I like it still. I can barely stand the sound of my own voice.”

  “Me too,” Clover snipped.

  “No offense,” the man said, “but the guy in the prison cell next to you used to talk and talk and talk. I could barely hear myself suffer.”

  Clover looked at the cage next to him. There was nothing but a skeleton covered in rags.

  “He’s dead now,” Clover pointed out.

  “It’s probably because I wished it on him,” the prisoner said. “Honestly, he was a yapper.”

  “Can I—”

  “Shhhh,” the prisoner interrupted.

  “I have to—”

  “Sh.”

  “Five questions!” Clover hollered.

  There was silence for a moment before the other prisoner spoke. “Okay, five questions, but then you shut up.”

  “Fine,” Clover agreed. “Does anyone ever come down and check on us?”

  “Yes,” the prisoner answered.

  “Do they bring food?”

  “If you can call it that.”

  “You’re pretty wordy,” Clover muttered.

  “That’s not a question,” the prisoner barked. “Get on with it.”

  “What are they going to do with us?”

  “Depends,” the man said.

  “That’s not a real answer,” Clover complained.

  “Payt,” the prisoner mocked. “Payt will try to talk to you first. If his trick works on you, you’ll become one of his sycophantic slugs.”

  Clover cringed at the improper use of his breed’s name.

  “If the trick doesn’t work,” the prisoner continued, “or if it messes you up in a different way, like it did to me, he might leave you here till you expire. That’s what happened to that lucky soul next to you. Or he might haul you off to one of his other prisons scattered around Zendor. Or maybe he’ll force you to help build things like this lovely castle.”

  “Have you tried to escape?” Clover asked.

  “Ha,” the man laughed. “What’s the point? If you do make it out of this death-rigged castle, the boors will get you and you’ll be dragged right back. Getting out of this cage is not the problem. It’s the cruelty of Payt that will kill you.”

  “Well, I’ve got to get out,” Clover insisted, unswayed by the prisoner’s gloomy tale. “Besides, he doesn’t look that scary.”

  “Well, I hope you succeed,” the prisoner snipped. “I could use some peace and quiet.”

  Clover jumped up to the lock on his cell door and reached through the small wire holes.
He could feel the large keyhole on the other side. He pulled his hand back through and extended his claws. He swiped at the bars, but that didn’t do anything except produce a horrible scratching noise.

  “Sorry,” Clover yelled, retracting his claws.

  “I hate to bring it up,” the prisoner said, “but that was only four questions. I don’t want any surprise noise coming at me later.”

  “Right,” Clover said slowly, not actually having a fifth question, seeing as how it had just been a random number he’d thrown out. “Um, where does rain come from?”

  “Now, there’s a question,” the other prisoner said with excitement. “What happens is that water is picked up by . . .”

  Clover had opened Pandora’s mouth. The self-professed phonophobe went on and on about water and clouds and rain and evaporation, precipitation, heat, wind, and so on. Clover tried asking him to shut up three times, but he wouldn’t listen. So Clover proceeded to examine his cage while Chatty kept at it.

  “Uh-huh,” Clover said, tapping his bars. “Fascinating.”

  The prison cell had four sides, and on one of the sides there was a locked metal door. The whole cell wasn’t more than five feet by five feet, and the wire mesh over the iron bars made the cage feel smaller than it already was. There was a one-inch gap under the door, and the holes in the mesh were only large enough for Clover to get his arms through. He did get one of his feet through, but that didn’t prove helpful in any way.

  “ . . . and that makes it round,” the other prisoner continued.

  “Right,” Clover said, still pretending to listen. “I never knew that.”

  Thanks to the wire mesh, Clover was able to easily climb the sides of his cell up to the metal tube he had dropped from. He reached up and tried to climb back into the chute, but the metal was too slick. He tried to use his claws to scratch his way up, but they couldn’t get any hold.

  “ . . . and so that’s why the people from the north say, ‘I’ll rain on you,’ whenever there’s a dispute over land rights,” the other prisoner yapped on. “Which proves you can’t be too careful when parking your wagon . . .”

  “Seriously,” Clover complained, hopping back down to the floor of his cell. “I thought you liked quiet?”

  Clover reached his right hand into his void and fished around. He pulled out a small bag of stale marshmallows. Clover’s void could hold almost anything, but it wasn’t a food preserver. The marshmallows were now shriveled and crusty and far different in appearance from when he had stuck them in there months ago. Clover pulled out a marshmallow and ripped it in half. He shoved one piece in each of his ears. He smiled, barely able to hear the other prisoner now. He tried to dust his hands.

  “Great,” Clover grumbled as he stared at the sticky residue. “Would it have killed someone to put a sink in here?” Clover could barely pull his hands apart. “This stuff is almost like . . .” Clover paused. Had he been visible, a smile as wide as his face would have been evident.

  Clover leapt onto the side of his cage and up to the bottom of the steel chute. While clinging to the wire mesh with his toes, he pulled a marshmallow half out of his right ear. He dug his left hand into the stale but sticky mess. He then switched hands and did the same to the other.

  “Here we go,” Clover said excitedly.

  He jumped up into the bottom of the chute and slapped his sticky hands against the slick metal sides. They stuck like magnets. He hung there smiling, his feet dangling down out of the chute.

  “Nice,” Clover congratulated himself. “Of course, it helps not to weigh much,” the practical side of him said.

  Clover pulled his right hand free and just hung by his left. He bent his leg up and smeared some goo on his feet. He then reached as high as he could and re-adhered his right hand. He kicked and swung his lower half until he had enough momentum to get his feet attached. With all four limbs stuck to the inside of the metal chute, Clover slowly began to crawl straight up it. It took some effort to pull his hands and feet free each time, but it was working.

  “Shoot,” Clover lamented. “Why can’t Geth be here now? There’s no way I’m going to be able to describe how cool this really is to Lilly.”

  In a few minutes Clover was well up the chute and out of range of the other prisoner’s voice.

  “And that’s where rain comes from,” the prisoner concluded. “I believe that finishes your questions.”

  There was nothing but silence.

  “Good,” he said. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pencilbottom Castle

  Waking up in an unfamiliar place is not always fun. If you were spending the week at a beach, it might be nice to wake up in a hammock serenaded by the sound of waves. And I can find no immediate fault with opening one’s eye to discover that one is lying on a pile of money in a posh hotel. But those are the exceptions to the rule. There is nothing joyful or rewarding about, say, waking up in a sealed oak barrel in the middle of the sea during the coldest winter on record. I promise, there is no “right side of the bed” in a situation like that.

  Well, Geth had had many times in his life when he had awakened to circumstances that were less than agreeable. Waking up to discover that he had been cursed and trapped in a seed was not easy. Likewise, when he awoke to find out that he was a toothpick, it took him a few seconds to orient himself. Now, as the light of day crept through the high castle window and dripped down over Geth, he felt out of place but strangely contented at the same time.

  Lithens really are an infuriating breed.

  Geth moaned as all the muscles in his body reminded him of the beating he had taken from the Tangle. Having lost his shirt, Geth was wearing only his black pants and shoes. He looked down at himself, searching for a spot on his body without any scratches or bruising.

  “Maybe I should have stayed bored,” Geth said sarcastically.

  The Tangle had delivered Geth to the castle, where a mess of boors had taken control of him. They had marched him through the halls and up some stairs, then locked him in the room he was now occupying. The space was cool, and the sunlight coming in through the high window felt pleasant against his skin. The mattress Geth lay on was soft but dirty and bare. There was a bucket in the corner and a wooden door with a small barred window. Geth stood up and walked across the room to look out the opening in the door. The only thing he could see was a stone hallway with large lit candles on the walls.

  Geth sat back down on the mattress and looked up at the stream of sunlight trickling down. It had felt marvelous to sleep for a bit, but now his soul was anxious to get things moving.

  “All right, fate, what’s next?”

  The doorknob rattled and turned. Geth stood up and positioned his fists in front of him. The door swung open to reveal three huge boors staring blankly at Geth. The boors were covered in bark and dirt, but beneath that they were wearing some sort of sports uniform. One had on cleats and another was wearing sweatbands. The boors swooped in and grabbed Geth by the arms. They pushed him out of the room and into the hall.

  “Easy,” Geth said. “I’m not going to run.”

  They shoved and pulled Geth down the hall.

  “Where are we going?” Geth asked, looking around for any other boors. “Are there only three of you?”

  The boors didn’t reply, executing their task with no conversation or other diversion. Geth tried to yank one of his arms free, but his captors were too strong and he was too sore. So he focused on memorizing how many hallways and doors he passed while searching the walls and floors for any sign of traps.

  The three beefy boors led Geth in an awkward pattern through a wide room and then up a set of massive granite stairs.

  “Are you stepping where you’re stepping on purpose?” Geth asked, looking closely at their feet.

  T
here was no reply.

  Geth was taken to a rectangular room with a small wooden platform in the middle. On top of the platform were two wooden posts about four feet high. The posts were sticking straight up and standing five feet apart from each other. On top of each of the posts there were leather straps. Hanging high above the platform was a chandelier with hundreds of burning candles on it.

  Geth was pulled and shoved up onto the platform, where each of his arms was then tied to one of the poles. The boors completed their task and left through a door behind Geth.

  Geth stood there bound with his arms outstretched, feeling like a sacrifice waiting for some giant ape to come and take him. He couldn’t turn his head far enough to see, but judging by the silence, he was alone in the room. He pulled at the straps to test their strength—there was no give, and each time he pulled they grew tighter.

  “Huh,” Geth said calmly. “This is way different from how I thought my week would turn out.”

  A door in front of him on the far end of the room opened, and a short woman in a long robe walked in and approached Geth. The light of the open door lit her up, but she was far too knotted and scrunched to be a vision. White hair spilled out of her hood, and her wide, puckered nose looked like a lump of overcooked flan. She stepped close to Geth, favoring her right eye.

  “A little help?” Geth asked.

  The old woman rocked back on her feet and shook her head. “Do you know what’s about to happen?” she inquired.

  “I think so,” Geth replied, sounding like someone had just asked him about the weather.

  “He’s going to talk to you,” the woman explained.

  “Good,” Geth said. “Maybe we can work this out with words.”

  “You can’t,” she insisted. “Words have no power here unless you are Payt.”

  Geth stood still, thinking.

  “You seem unreasonably calm,” the woman pointed out.

  “Trust me, I’m trying to get angry,” Geth said. “I haven’t mastered that part of me yet.”