Oracle--Mutant Wood Page 8

  Ret had never been to Moscow before. It seemed a typical capital city, large and in charge with all the sights and sounds of a bustling metropolis. The place reeked of history, overflowed with color, and Ret was grateful Mr. Coy knew where he was going. They seemed to be headed into the heart of the city.

  “Here we are,” Coy announced as they arrived at a very official-looking building. “The Kremlin Senate.” It was a commanding edifice, centuries old but still impressive. Its neoclassical architectural style gave the yellow structure a parliamentary look and feel. In the shape of a triangle, two of its sides met in the middle at a large rotunda, the state flag waving above its green dome.

  “Is this where the president lives?” Ret asked as they walked across the square.

  “Maybe,” Coy answered. “I know it at least houses the presidential administration, so let’s hope the president is working today.” When they arrived at the entrance, Coy turned to Ret and whispered, “Okay, you wait here. There’s a chance they might recognize you.” Then, with his characteristic confidence, Mr. Coy turned on his heels, struck up his chest, and waltzed inside.

  About ten seconds later, Mr. Coy came back through the door, accompanied by a pair of unhappy officers who escorted him to the top of the stairs and shooed him away.

  “Apparently, this place is closed to the public,” Coy told Ret. “That’s Russia for you.”

  “Well, now what do we do?” Ret wondered.

  “Don’t ask me,” Coy shrugged. “Ask your scar.”

  Ret looked down at the tree on his palm. Then he looked up at a tree around the corner. He smiled; it just might work.

  Ret led Mr. Coy to one of several large spruce trees that were growing along the backside of the three-story Kremlin Senate building. Ret hid himself among their dense boughs and then instructed Coy to start climbing one of the trees.

  “What?!” Coy asked.

  “Trust me,” Ret pled.

  “Alright,” Coy warily obliged as he took hold of one of the sturdy lower branches.

  When Mr. Coy had climbed to a height that allowed him to see inside one of the windows of the first floor, Ret called out to him, “What do you see?”

  “Some guy, talking on the phone.”

  “Is he Topramenov?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, keep climbing,” Ret said, looking around to make sure no one was watching them.

  Grumbling, Coy made his way farther up the tree. The spruce’s spiky needles weren’t exactly kind to his hands, and the higher he went, the more flimsy the branches became.

  When Coy arrived at the second floor, Ret asked, “Now what do you see?”

  “The kitchen.”

  “Okay, keep climbing.”

  “I can’t,” Coy said. “I’m at the top of the tree.”

  Ret glanced upward. Sure enough, Mr. Coy had reached the top, looking like an ornament in a Christmas tree as he clung to the trunk.

  “Alright, hang on.” Knowing he had just recently grown an apple tree from seed, Ret wondered if a living tree might respond in the same way. He pressed his palm into the grass at his feet and directed his energies into the tree’s roots. Soon, the spruce began to grow.

  “Oh boy,” Coy said as the trunk started to extend. “Easy does it.”

  When the window of the top floor had been reached, Ret relaxed his hand and asked, “Well?”

  “It’s a storage room.”

  Despite the third strike, Ret wasn’t about to call it quits. It was time to branch out.

  Ret planted his hand firmly in the lawn and let his newfound power run wild. He directed the tree to grow out instead of up. The stump swelled as it prepared to support the onslaught of lateral growth. The spruce’s limbs began to extend outward, taking Mr. Coy with them.

  “Where are you taking me?!” Coy softly yelled at the ground.

  “Just tell me what you see.”

  “Two secretaries,” Coy reported as the limb carried him past another window. Then “restrooms,” followed by “an empty bedroom” and “a computer lab.” Ret bent the branch back down to the second floor, where three consecutive windows belonged to a “ballroom” and two to a “dining hall.” Ret was about to give up when he heard Mr. Coy say, “Wait, go back!”

  Ret brought the limb back.

  “There he is!” Coy proclaimed in hushed tones. “It’s Topramenov!”

  In his excitement, Ret sent the bough crashing through the window. Mr. Coy rolled into the room amid shattered glass.

  “What the Kremlin?!” the alarmed president exclaimed. Then, speaking through the intercom on his desk phone, “Quick, get me security!”

  “Please, sir, I mean you no harm,” Coy reassured him. “I come in the name of your late brother, Ivan.”

  As soon as he heard his sibling’s name, Serge’s animosity melted into curiosity. When security arrived a moment later, he sent them away.

  Mr. Coy introduced himself. Then Ret came through the window, flying on a spruce.

  “And this is Ret Cooper,” Coy said. The president had heard both of their names before.

  “Sorry about the window, sir,” Ret apologized. “Here, I’ll fix it.” Before Topramenov could tell him not to worry about it, Ret had already repaired the glass.

  “Remarkable,” Serge said in awe. “So everything they say about you really is true.”

  “Well, not everything,” Coy inserted.

  Over the course of the next hour, Mr. Coy fed Serge the true story. He told of how he met Ivan—rescued him, brought purpose to his life; how Ivan became part of their family; how his martyr’s death at Sunken Earth had been a tragic accident for the sake of a good cause. He spoke of Ret—a hero, not a heretic—and the Oracle—a wondrous sphere, not a wrecking ball—and how their ultimate objective was to cure the world, not take control of it.

  Through it all, Ret didn’t contribute much to what was said. Instead, he was paying attention to what was unsaid. The dialogue had commenced with the look and feel of a face-off, the president sitting on his side of the desk with skepticism in one hand and uneasiness in the other. But all of that changed when Mr. Coy started talking about Ivan. The simple fact of knowing what had happened to his long-lost sibling seemed to heal a deep wound within Serge’s soul. They reminisced about the man they both knew. Among other memories, Mr. Coy fondly recounted the night of the winter formal dance during Ret’s freshman year of high school when Ivan was blamed for a bomb scare. They laughed together, they cried together—one his former boss, the other his forever brother—eking out a eulogy that had been much deserved but never given. And, as Mr. Coy had hoped, the simple act of telling the truth had the effect of begetting trust.

  “I thank you for all that you have shared with me today,” Serge said sincerely. “My brother and I were best friends. Nika and I were crushed when he disappeared.”

  “Who’s Nika?” Coy asked.

  “My younger sister,” Serge replied. “Surely Ivan told you about her?”

  “No,” said Coy. “Ivan never talked about his family.”

  “Understandable,” Serge said. “Well, soon after Ivan ran away, Nika did the same. She had a skin disease and was afraid to tell our parents because she thought they would shun her like they did Ivan. I told her she could hide it, that I would help her, but the disease kept spreading, and we knew our parents would find out eventually. One day I woke up and found she had left.” Serge’s emotions overcame him. “I haven’t heard from her since.”

  Mr. Coy grasped his shoulder and said, “There’s still hope.”

  “Yes, well, you’ve done enough for me already,” Serge said broadly, wiping his eyes. “Now, what can I do for you? I’m sure you’d like to see this tree that you’ve heard so much about.”

  “Yes!” Ret rejoiced. “Please!”

  “Very well,” said Serge. “We’ll leave at once in my helicopter.”

  Traveling with a president was a whole lot better than traveling in a suitcase. Within the
hour, Serge and his two VIP’s were en route, headed due east to a destination that was pretty much in the dead center of Russia. On the way, Topramenov told Mr. Coy and Ret all about the mystery of the Tunguska Explosion and his elephantine efforts to unearth it. In the process, he mentioned Lionel’s recent inspection visit.

  “So Lionel has known about this for weeks but never told us?” Mr. Coy stated more than he asked, glancing at Ret.

  “And he was the one who pressured me into joining the cause to attack the Manor,” Serge added.

  “What?!” Coy huffed. “Is he in league with Lye?”

  “I doubt it,” Serge said. “He told me it was the UN’s idea. Plus, Lye speaks of Lionel with great disdain.”

  “Well then, Lye and I have something in common,” Coy said with frustration. “That guy is a thorn in my side, too.”

  “Lionel did tell me before we left Antarctica,” Ret spoke up in defense of his friend, “that the real challenge going forward would be for him to help us while making it look like he’s trying to stop us.”

  Coy stared at Ret, rolled his eyes, and repeated, “Thorn in my side.”

  Ret wasn’t sure what to say, so he looked out the window. He got a little startled when the seemingly endless forests abruptly ended and the helicopter flew into the airspace above a massive open-pit mine. Conversation in the cabin died as all eyes flocked to the windows. The tree was easy to spot, somehow still holding its ground despite the ongoing excavation effort. Ret’s scar was throbbing in his hand.

  The helicopter lowered into the mine. Serge radioed the project’s superintendent, instructing him to call it a day and send the workers home. Though surprised, they gladly obliged.

  As Ret climbed down from the helicopter, he felt as though he had just landed on Mars. The dirt was dry and red, the landscape totally barren all around them. They made their way toward the lowest level of the pit while the last of the laborers were making theirs to the top. By the time the trio reached the bottom, the mine was silent.

  Serge looked to Coy. Coy looked to Ret. And Ret looked to the tree. It was high above them, still clinging to its original soil like a birthday candle in a cupcake. Many of its roots had been exposed, jutting out from the dirt like the stakes of a circus tent. Ret couldn’t help but feel sad to see such a glorious creation being treated in such an inglorious manner. It looked so unnatural and even a bit abusive.

  Ret approached the nearest root, whose massive girth made him feel remarkably small. He placed his hand on its strong and sinewy surface, hoping it could somehow feel his sympathy.

  Just then, a noise stirred the silence in the mine. It sounded like the underwater call of a great whale, neither loud nor harsh but still strong and deep.

  Ret took his hand off the root, waited a moment, then put it back. The sound was heard again, this time consisting of a few different tones coming from multiple places around the site. It almost seemed as though the roots were communicating with one another.

  “What’s he doing?” Serge whispered to Coy.

  “Shh,” Coy replied, straining to hear the sounds.

  Ret removed his hand. The noises died. Then, with all his might, he pressed his hand against the root and blasted it with all the power that was pounding in his palm. The entire tree instantly groaned, and a roar rattled the mine. The roots began to vibrate, and the ground started to shake. Serge lost his balance, but Mr. Coy steadied him.

  Ret backed away from the root. He had set something in motion. The tree knew there was someone with the scars in its presence.

  Suddenly, a crack appeared in the ground, coming towards Ret like a gopher tunneling through the dirt.

  “Ret, look out!” Mr. Coy called.

  Ret could sense the earth being disturbed all around him. He turned to face the crack that was headed towards him and mentally held the soil together, sealing it like cement. But then another crack appeared, this time from behind him, followed by three more on his right and two more on his left. When he couldn’t contain them all, he decided to make a run for it.

  Ret ran for cover behind one of the massive roots, but while his back was against it, he felt something being wrapped around his wrists. The main root was sprouting smaller ones, and they were tying him down! Ret wiggled himself free and took off again.

  The mine’s entire floor was agitated now. Worms, snakes, moles—whatever they were, they were all making their way toward Ret. He wasn’t safe anywhere on the ground. Just as they were closing in, Ret pushed off the ground with a gust of wind, narrowly escaping the clutches of whatever was pursuing him.

  He soon discovered, however, that the foes at his feet were roots, and they were as clever as weeds. A few of them lunged from the earth and wrapped themselves around Ret’s feet. Ret tried to hover higher into the air, but the roots were too strong. Desperate, he hurled great fireballs down at the ground, hoping to burn the roots away, but they proved to be indestructible and refused to be consumed.

  More roots joined in, latching onto Ret’s legs and pulling him downward. He was powerless against the onslaught as the vine-like cords began to cover his entire body, like a spider wrapping its prey.

  From the sidelines, Mr. Coy and Serge watched in helpless horror as the roots dragged their catch beneath the dirt and Ret disappeared underground.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE UNTIMELY GUARDIAN

  Although he couldn’t see anything, Ret knew the roots of the great tree were dragging him underground—quickly but safely, and far underground. He could feel the dirt becoming harder and more compact as the seconds passed until, eventually, he broke through it. Like coming to the surface after being underwater, the earth gave way, and his journey came to a stop. The roots unwound themselves around his body and slithered back into the ground, leaving Ret lying on his back.

  Ret opened his eyes but quickly shut them, blinded by bright light. He gave his vision time to focus, squinting as he surveyed his new surroundings. He found himself in a vast wilderness, its dry feel and barren look belonging to a desert place. When he stood up, the parched soil crunched beneath his feet, consisting more of coarse gravel than smooth sand. Void of any substantial vegetation, the landscape was dotted with spindly-leafed shrubs, a breeze away from becoming tumbleweeds. The smell of dust hung in the warm air.

  Although the scene before him stretched out for untold miles, the view behind him was blocked by a massive root: the taproot, to be exact. Obviously the primary root of the mother tree from aboveground, this bulbous system clung to the earth, sending out dozens of secondary roots that were as tall as buildings and as long as rivers. Resembling the tentacles of a monstrous octopus, these appendages of the main bulb cut into the ground as they snaked out of sight, spawning their own offshoots that further deformed the landscape.

  It was about this time when Ret realized he must be standing upside-down. He felt perfectly normal—no blood rushing to his head or anything like that—yet the fact that he was in the presence of the tree’s central root system was proof enough that he had been taken into the earth and was now on the flipside of life on ground level. It was an anomaly that left him in a stupor.

  “Welcome.”

  Startled, Ret spun around to locate the speaker. Not far away, in the shade of one of the towering roots, there was an older man sitting peacefully on a wooden bench.

  “Who are you?” Ret asked cautiously.

  “I am Neo,” the man calmly replied with a gentle smile, “Guardian of the Wood Element.”

  “What?” Ret said in shock. “You’re the…the Guardian?”

  “Does that disappoint you?” Neo chuckled.

  “No, no—this is great,” Ret explained, coming closer. “Usually it takes a lot longer for things to come together like this.”

  “Well, I’m glad I could speed up the process for you,” Neo said humorously. Such a statement seemed out of character for an elderly fellow who seemed to have all the time in the world. He was a thin man, his hair gray and clothes
plain, who did everything in the most unhurried manner. Even his breathing seemed delayed.

  A few awkward moments passed. Ret waited for the Guardian to say something—anything—but the man seemed wholly disinterested in the fact that one with the scars had finally arrived to collect his element. Ret wondered if Neo was all there. Maybe he suffered from narcolepsy.

  “So…” Ret said broadly. “Where is the element?”

  “It’s over there.” Without lifting his hand, Neo used just one finger to point toward the giant bulb of the taproot. “Inside the main root there, somewhere.” Neo’s flippant attitude toward something as important as the element didn’t sit well with Ret.

  “Okay then,” Ret said, groping for words. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “By all means.”

  Confused, Ret asked, “Aren’t you going to come with me?”

  “Maybe later.”

  Ret was beside himself. “Okay, well, I’m going to collect the element now…” He was waiting for the Guardian to take control of the situation and commence with the usual protocol. But Neo did no such thing. He just sat there like a bump on a log, staring into space.

  Ret took a deep breath and said, “Look, I realize you’re very old, and you’re probably tired of being a Guardian and all, but there are a couple things that need to happen before I can get the wood element. First off, I need to pass some tests in order to prove to you that I have power over the first four elements. You also need to give me the relic that was given to you by my First Father.”

  Neo looked over at Ret and said, “I know.” Then his gaze returned to the landscape.

  With a sigh, Ret threw his hands up and began to walk away, heading toward the great root. “Fine,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll just do it myself.” He stopped a few steps later, however, after checking his pockets and coming to an unfortunate realization: he didn’t have the Oracle. It was aboveground, still with Mr. Coy. “Great,” he mumbled. “Just great.”

  Still undaunted, Ret strode over to the nearest root and placed his hand on it, fully expecting a similar series of events to follow that would transport him back to ground level where he could get the Oracle from Coy. He waited for the root to utter its whale-like sound again, but it didn’t. He pressed harder but still nothing—no noises in the air, no cracks in the ground, nothing.