Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Fantasy
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
ISBN-10: 1508851840
Type: Fiction
Pages: 349
Copyright: March 11, 2015
ISBN-13: 9781508851844
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
The Complications of Being Lucy Book 1
Never Go Into The Park
NEVER GO INTO THE PARK.
Lucy was never afraid of the dark. She never questioned her family. She never thought that the world of logic and science could be a lie. But on her ninth birthday everything changed when a strange boy came into her life from the very lands she was forbidden from ever entering and she finds herself immersed in a conspiracy that was created before she was born. Her reality is shattered by the existence of magic and things of legend. The bonds of family are tested by a lifetime of deception and the truth of who she actually is, becomes the least of Lucy’s torments. For someone has unleashed a nightmare, and Lucy, her family, and her new friends, are soon on the run from a creature that even darkness fears.
Excerpt
As It Is
My name is Lucy Bison. It’s pronounced Bay-soon, not like the lumbering animal. It is not an easy name to grow up with. Noncreative people call you a cow, which is probably why I force myself to stay so skinny. That and a grandmother who pokes my stomach and proclaims how fat I am getting. That was when I was six. I am presently nine years old exactly which makes it my birthday. I know I could be like most kids and be spending my morning running around playing with children my own age in preparation of some big slumber party celebration. But I am not like most kids, thank you very much. Plus, I live with my uncle and he would never stand for such things.
His name, my uncle, is Mortimer Claus. Uncle Mort is the most he will tolerate for informal address (his words, not mine). He might sound strict which is fair because he is. The rules were laid down the first day I came to live with him when I was, well, too young to remember. They have remained unchanged and, wisely, on my part unbroken.
1. I will wake up promptly in the morning at six and consume a meal that meets the nutritional requirements for someone of my age and height as outlined by governmental guidelines.
2. I will attend school every scheduled day, unless deemed physically unwell and obey every rule laid down by the administration and staff.
3. I will return briskly home at the end of school and immediately locate myself to the dining room table, unless it is already in use and then an alternative location will be designated, for the completion of all homework.
4. Dinner will be served at seven. After its completion I will clean myself, brush my teeth, and lay out my clothing for the next day.
5. I will place myself in bed at nine. Lights out.
6. I will never go into the park.
Now the last one there may sound a little strange, but we do live next door to a large park. One of those big conservation preserve ones that was all trees and no camping. I never asked Uncle Mort why he had that rule, but I never broke it either. Not until I met Frankie Friday.
The Intruder
“Whose brother are you?” I asked Uncle Mort while he was cutting vegetables for dinner at a speed I thought only possible in cartoons.
“Your parents.” Uncle Mort answered in his thick German accent, his S's coming out like a hard Z, making quick work of an onion before a tear could reach any eye.
“I know, but my mom’s side or my dad’s?” I tried again.
“Yes.” Uncle Mort’s piercing blue eyes never twitched away from his work and his face never gave anything away, but it never did. Uncle Mort was tall and thin with short blonde hair and a desire to wear only black clothing like a second skin. I remembered, of what little I could remember some days, that my father was tall and thin and my mother had long blonde hair, but nothing clearly enough to say which one matched my uncle the closest.
“Well which one?” I pressed on. This was a conversation I had tried to breach several times in the past. Usually with the same result.
“Which one what?” Uncle Mort crushed a garlic clove with the flat of his knife and a loud bang of his fist that shook the cutting board. Anyone else would have taken that as a sign of irritation, but I had never seen Uncle Mort irritated, or angry, or anything resembling an emotion. I had failed a science project in school on purpose once, just to see what he would do. He made it clear that it was my own fault for failing and that I should try harder in the future. He even went as far as to inquire if I needed additional educating or assistance from professional tutors. Once I told him no, he walked away from the subject and never mentioned it again.
“Are you my mother’s brother or my father’s brother?” I tried to be clearer in my inquest. “I mean my name is Bison and yours is Claus--“
“Claus!” Uncle Mort snapped his name as a correction to the way that I said it, though I was never sure how we said it any different from each other.
“--and I don’t know what my mother’s maiden name was--is, so I was just curious as to which of my parents you are a sibling to.”
“Both.” I opened my mouth to ask again differently, but Uncle Mort cut in. “It is clear to me that at this moment you are either seeking attention or incredibly bored. Idleness.” He said the last word like it was a curse. “Take yourself outside.” Uncle Mort pointed out the window that looked over the side yard. “If you cannot find suitable entertainment for yourself, there are plenty of sticks lying about that could be collected and piled up behind the shed.”
I knew not to argue with my guardian and promptly headed towards the door.
“You will not be late for dinner.” Uncle Mort ordered and I mouthed right along with him. “No going into the park.”
There were a few times I thought of actually taking those daring steps from the back porch that could easily lead me to the edge of that forbidden ground. I mean what kind of person lives next to a place and never goes in or allow anyone else to go in. It would be like living next to a restaurant and never stopping in for a sandwich, I suppose. I have never tried my hand at analogies. Uncle Mort insists on accuracy in all things. He was right though, there were plenty of sticks to clean up.
I lived in one of those two story, shingle sided, gray gothic houses that most kids in school had thought was haunted until they found out that I lived there, which won me no popularity. The broadleaf trees that surrounded the house, allowed no light to reach the yard and with its own deposits, plus all neighboring trees, grass was nonexistent. Instead year after year of fallen leaves had collected and formed a patchwork of orange-brown splotches mixed with hard dirt packed paths. One path lead to the shed where yard tools hung but were never touched except as punishment and Uncle Mort didn’t believe in horticulture. The stick collecting was mostly an endeavor to limit the chances of anyone stupid enough to walk around outside uninvited from tripping and getting hurt. The other path led around to the driveway where Uncle Mort’s embarrassingly old car skulked.
There was one other path from the creaking old porch that I had made sure to not follow more than once. I didn’t want anyone, especially my uncle, to know where it led. During the heavy winter that had just passed, a large branch had fallen down under the weight of some ice. In its absence it had created a small hole to the sky. It wasn’t much, just a few squares, but the light that shown through it was precious to the few plants that it caressed each day. The spot was obscured from the back windows of the house or the steps of the porch by the tangled remains of some old bush which made it all the more special to me. It was an oasis and had recently started to show signs of greenery returning to brittle limbs and even a scrap or two of something that would probably end up being a weed, but I didn’t care. It was my garden, in a sense. Something I had wanted but always been denied as adamantly and unreasonably as the park.
That might have been the other nefarious joy of the small plot I sat myself in on my birthday. If I was to fall over on my side and stretch out my fingers, I could just touch the vines that climbed and engulfed the tarnished chain link fence that surrounded the old preserve. Technically it wasn’t breaking any rules but it did bend them savagely.
It was there, sitting on the warm dirt, feeling the sun on my skin, enjoying the tickle of a newborn leaf on my arm, and humming the pattern of a bird that called from its nest hidden high in the trees, that I first met him. Technically, I met his backpack first as it came sailing over the fence and crashed to the ground a few feet in front of me. I barely contained a shriek of surprise as I scrambled backwards on my palms and butt to get away from the sudden invader. I didn’t make it far from the spot as there was no shortage of dead growth about to get tangled in. My hair became snagged in a clutch of twigs and branches and I stopped, partially to free myself and the rest because from the other side of the never to be crossed fence came a loud crunching sound. At first I thought it was an animal, thrashing or hunting for food, but they never came that close to the house. Nor did they emit childish curses.
“Sand of the witch.” A boy’s voice, angry, rose through the tumble of vines. Other comments were made but they were drowned out as the crashing and twisting of plant life dominated the sounds in the air. I didn’t recognize the voice, but that was no shock. I didn’t socialize greatly with the other kids my age or they didn’t with me. It was an unspoken agreement between us. They didn’t think I was cool enough to be friended and I didn’t think any of them were smart enough to carry a conversation past hello. But this boy didn’t speak like anyone I had even heard in passing. He didn’t look like anyone I knew either.
A head of black hair, sticking out in the crazy angles of the recently risen from slumber, popped up at the top of the fence. It was joined by a face red with effort and half covered by glasses so large the neck that supported the head didn’t seem strong enough to hold the extra weight of the gray framed lenses. Reaching the peak of his assent he was quick to throw his scrawny leg over the fence and attempt a dismount. He landed as gracefully as his bag, kicking up a small cloud of dust that coated the heavily stained striped shirt he wore.
“Capricorn!” He muttered getting to his knees and reaching for his bag. At the sight of where he had landed finally caught his greatly assisted eyes, his mouth fell open and he froze.
It was his immobilization that made me realize that I had stopped moving as well and I carefully reached for my imprisoned locks. Not surprising, the branch they clung to only yielded with a loud crack. The boy snapped his head towards me so fast I expected his large glasses to fly from his nose under the centrifugal force. I thought his eyes would be greatly exaggerated in size by the spectacles he wore, but they looked normal enough behind the thick lenses. Just a touch paler than most I had seen.
We sat stock still staring at each other for several minutes it seemed. He made the first move by closing his gawking mouth. I took it as my opening to respond.
“What the heck are you doing in my yard?” I thought I sounded perfectly authoritative, which hopefully covered for the fact that I had been scurrying in fear of the invisible boy a moment before. He didn’t flinch from my demand, but flicked his eyes side to side quickly. Probably looking for a chance to escape or calculating lies, I figured. I stopped fiddling with my hair and instead put my hands on my narrow hips, adding effect to my words.
“It’s not much in the way of a yard.”
This was not the admission of guilt or humble apology I felt I deserved.
“What?” I will admit that it was not the best response to what I was slowly deciding was an insult.
“Most yards have,” he looked around slower and shrugged. “yard.”
“Well it’s my house and I say it’s a yard. My yard.” I puffed up and delivered the most threatening word I could muster. “And you are trespassing in it.”
“Yep.” The boy started to stand up and feeling it necessary to not lose ground in our confrontation, I shot to my feet faster. Or tried. The hair still tangled jerked my head back down and I half stood, bent sideways for a minute, as I painfully pulled free of the dead plant. “Sorry.”
“Why?” Feeling the first victory in our conflict I rode the rush.
“Why what?” Puzzlement mixed with sarcasm. “Why am I sorry?”
“No.” I had an inch of height on the boy, unless you counted his unruly mop top standing on end. “Why are you trespassing? Are you here to burgle my home? To vandalize it? Are you some kind of miscreant? A scalawag? A reprobate? Do you have lecherous intentions?”
I had no idea of what I was saying after vandalize. They were all words that I had heard my grandmother mumbling about teenagers, children, adults, and anyone else she didn’t approve the actions of. They sounded adult and usually that was all it took to get your way. Even with other adults.
“I don’t think you know what lecherous means.”
Crap.
“Of course I do.” I confidently proclaimed, sticking out my chin for emphasis. “I am very advanced for my age. I am not surprised that you don’t know it.”
“I could be advanced for my age too.” He tried sticking his chin out too, but it lacked some effect since he didn’t have much to work with.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re a boy. You are naturally stupid.” Any battle of wills and wits between a boy and a girl will eventually degrade down to the simplest argument of whom thought the other sex was the dumbest. I had four years of school to support my argument.
“I’m not stupid.” The boy answered back.
“Then why did you end up in my yard? Most kids around here think it’s stupid to be anywhere near my house.” I realized that what I said was partially an insult to myself, but figured I needed some proof of his limited intelligence plus an answer to the question.
“I wasn’t trying to get in your yard.” He fiddled with the zipper on his bag. “I was in the park and I got lost. I just jumped the fence to get back out. I didn’t know where I would come out.”
“Well that’s your first mistake.” I quoted my uncle. “You should never go in the park.”
“Why not?” He responded after a moment of considering my remark.
“Because.” I knew that wouldn’t be a good enough reason, so I came up with the only one that made sense for the way Uncle Mort acted about the park. “It is dangerous.”
By the look that came over the strange boys face I had apparently grown a second head suddenly. His big eyes studied me with confusion as he slid his bag over his shoulders.
“Yep.” He said at last. “But so is cheating on your taxes.”
“What does that mean?” I tried to mask my own confusion with anger.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It’s something my dad says a lot.”
Perhaps it was lingering resentment at my uncle’s evasive behavior earlier, a general sensitivity about my birthday, or just years of familial frustration but what he said rubbed me the wrong way like nothing else.
“Get out of here!” I yelled and angrily pointed towards the front of the house. “Go home!”
“Okay.” He threw up his hands in defeat and started to walk where I pointed. “Sorry.”
“I don’t ever want to catch you here again!” The shouting was probably sufficient, if not a little over the line. Shoving his back because he wasn’t walking fast enough to my liking however was not the best idea. Especially because I had not cleaned up any of the sticks that Uncle Mort had asked me too. One particularly gnarlsome branch became tangled up in the boy's skinny legs as he had been trying to step over it and sent him face first to the rough ground.
As irritating as this strange intruder had already been to me, it only became worse when he sat up enough to look at the scrapes on his palms and the small amount of blood that oozed from a deep one. His shrill shriek of pain rivaled anything a baby could muster and before I could get him to stop, not out of concern mind you, another shout cut his down.
“What is going on?” Uncle Mort demanded, arriving at the scene in a blur of black. My annoyance with the crybaby fled at the unfamiliar angry tone of my uncle’s voice. For the first time in a long time it took considerable effort for me to look him in his eyes. They were not on me.
“He fell.” I reported pointing a finger to the fallen boy.
“Do not tell me what I can see for myself.” Uncle Mort’s tone was icy as he slowly crouched. “What is your name boy?”
Tears streaked the dirt on the boy’s face as he turned a trembling lipped face to my uncle. If my crying had never broken his crusty exterior, a stranger was wasting his efforts. Uncle Mort narrowed his eyes in what was, apparently, recognized universally as his ‘my patience wears thin’ stare.
“F-F-F-Frankie.” He finally managed to stutter out and blissfully with it the sobbing diminished.
“Full name.” My uncle commanded.
“Francis.” My giggle was hidden by the loud sniff that Francis made. “Francis Friday.”
“What happened Francis?”
“I fell.” Frankie sniffed again and showed his wounded hand to my uncle.
“Clearly.” A growl of irritation rumbled in Uncle Mort’s throat.
“He came over the fence.” I finally found it necessary to contribute to the conversation again. “He was--.”
“From the park?” Uncle Mort snapped his head around to me and hit me with his most penetrating glare. “Where were you?”
“In the yard.” I took a step back, suddenly afraid that that would not be a good enough answer. “The whole time.”
“What were you doing in the park, boy?” Uncle Mort must have accepted my response and moved in closer to Frankie.
“I…I…” Frankie no longer looked hurt but a bit afraid of the adult that was boring down on him. “I was just exploring. I…we just moved here. I…”
“Let’s go inside and take care of this hand.” Uncle Mort shot to his feet and picked up Frankie by his knapsack straps. Francis looked relieved at the sudden attention to his injuries, but I couldn’t believe the quick change in my uncle’s actions. I had never seen him acting as he was. Ever. I knew it wasn’t concern. Caring was laughable. Perhaps cautious but with hints of anger.
Uncle Mort beckoned me to enter the house ahead of him and Frankie, and even when I stopped to hold the door open for them both, he just grunted and glared at me to keep moving.
“Fetch bandages from the lavatory.”
“You have a laboratory?”
“It’s what you call a bathroom.”
“I call a bathroom a bathroom.”
Almost wishing he was crying like a baby again, I left Frankie with Uncle Mort at the small kitchen table to search for some bandages. The bathroom was adjoined to the kitchen and well stocked with first aid supplies and just about every over the counter drug available. I never understood why we had so many medicines, because Uncle Mort refused to use them himself, and I had never seen him have need of them, and generally I didn’t need much more than the occasional shot of cough syrup or a throat lozenge.
Once I had found all I could think would be needed, I returned to the kitchen where Uncle Mort had Frankie’s hand pinned open on the worn surface of the table and was roughly dabbing at the wound.
“Very good.” It wasn’t praise from my uncle for doing exactly what I was told. He twisted the cap off the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured it directly into Frankie’s upturned palm. Not surprising this caused him to cry again. “What is the matter?”
“It stings.” Frankie managed after a sob and some of the bubbles in his hand dispersed.
“Are you unfamiliar with the effects of this product?” Uncle Mort showed him the bottle.
“No. It’s just usually my mom tells me it’s going to sting before she--AHH!” Frankie shouted as more peroxide cleaned out his cut.
“I am not your mother.” Uncle Mort seemed satisfied and set the bottle down. “Did you strike your head?”
“No.” Frankie glowered at my uncle, but it came across as a pathetic pout.
“Then your confusion is a pre-existing condition.” Uncle Mort unwrapped a fresh roll of gauze and began to cover Frankie’s still slightly bleeding palm. “Scissors, please, Lucy.”
I turned to the drawer beneath the cutting board for the trusty rusty scissors kept there. I noticed then, that the vegetables that my uncle had been cutting for dinner were only half done, with one potato just starting to be diced. He must have come out immediately when he had heard Frankie scream. What I failed to notice before I found the scissors was that the knife was nowhere to be seen.
“Change the dressing regularly and you should not fear losing the hand.” Uncle Mort gave his warm diagnosis to a still frightened Frankie, and the boy pressed his hand protectively to his chest. “If your parents wish to charge me for additional medical expenses they feel I am responsible for, I will gladly inform them of your trespassing.”
“Um, okay.” Frankie moved from frightened to confused. “I am sorry about that.”
“Do not be sorry.” Uncle Mort frowned at the young boy. “Be gone. We have company arriving shortly and your presence is most inconvenient. Lucy, please show him out as I need to finish preparing dinner.”
“You having a party?” Frankie asked, surprisingly cheerful, as he got up from the table.
“It’s my birthday.” I don’t know why I bothered to tell him that. Maybe to avoid stupid questions.
“Wonderful.” Frankie beamed. “I love birthday parties.”
“Then you must be looking forward to your own with much anticipation.” Uncle Mort gestured to the door. I quickly showed Frankie out before he could bother my uncle further.
***
Once the children were out of sight, Mortimer extracted the kitchen knife from up his sleeve where he had hidden it after rushing outside to investigate what was happening to Lucy. Learning that the boy had been in the park, he had to control a tremor of fear and the desire to use the blade on the intruder.
“What is befalling this house?” Mort whispered under his breath, stabbing the tip of the knife in the cutting board. Glancing out to see that the children were out of eyeshot still, he darted back to the table to gather up the towel that still had some of the boy’s blood on it. The towel was pure cotton and undyed, making a read from it easier. There was more than one sample sight, so Mortimer saved the largest for later and took a tentative lick of the smallest. He tasted nothing unusual which gave him no relief.
***
“What kind of pizza are you having?” Frankie asked me as I ushered him towards the front of the house.
“We aren’t having pizza.”
“You are supposed to have pizza on your birthday. It’s a rule.” Frankie smiled. “Pizza, lots of cake and ice cream, and you get to stay up late if it’s not a school night.”
“Those aren’t the rules here.” I shrugged. “And my uncle’s rules are very specific about things like this.”
“What are all your friends going to say when you don’t have any pizza for them for dinner?” Frankie persisted in making his argument.
“They have never complained before.” Because I have never had any friends at my birthday parties. Never really had any friends at all.
“Weird friends.” Frankie laughed.
“No weirder than some kid that climbs over stranger's fences in the middle of the day.” I countered with all I had to go on. And then nagging curiosity bit me. “What were you doing in the park anyway?”
“My mom told me that there were fairies in the park. I was trying to find some so I could take their picture.” Opening the door, I was able to study Frankie for the telltale signs of a really bad lie or a stupid joke. He was either the best fibber I had ever met or very gullible to what his parents told him. I guessed that he was just getting under foot of the movers and his mom had filled his head with ideas to send him away. “Is my hand really going to fall off?”
“I don’t think so. I scraped my knee a few months back and my leg is still there.”
“Capricorn. I was hoping if it did I wouldn’t have to go to school and I could get a hook put on. Then I could be a pirate.”
“I have never seen pirates with such big glasses.” I decided not to point out the other physical drawbacks that I felt would disqualify Frankie from a life of piracy.
“Maybe they wear the eye patches so they don’t need glasses.” Frankie smiled hopefully.
“I don’t think so.” I stopped at the top step to the porch and let Frankie walk on alone. “Maybe ask your mom about it.”
“Yeah. She knows all sorts of neat things.” Frankie stopped at the end of the walk and turned around to wave. “Happy birthday. I guess I’ll see you around.”
I waved back out of courtesy and made a note to make sure my birthday wish was to prevent such a thing from ever happening.
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