Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins, page 17
Both the atoc and the Brashnellan Warrior ran toward Audril. I charged toward her also, but I was twice as far away from her as the two men were.
Atoc Jonathan reached her first, sliding on his knees and grabbing her around the shoulders. He turned and put her behind him, but as he did, the Warrior raised his sword high in the air and lunged toward him.
I watched in horror as the enemy’s sword thrust downward toward Jonathan’s skull.
All of a sudden, there was a loud dull THUD and time seemed to stand still. I saw every detail of what was going on around me. Audril was back in front of the atoc, and had her head buried in his chest; there were two more warriors near the door to the hall who stood watching as the atoc was about to be slain; and Gracielle lay on the floor, her lifeless eyes staring into the heavens.
At that moment, Audril turned around and looked right at me. She nodded and raised her small arm into the air; my arm flew into the air with hers. I didn’t have any control over it—she was controlling me! She opened her mouth to speak, but as she did, the words yelled out of my mouth instead. “ELAHK E BER LOR MANDELA!”
I had no idea what I’d just said, what it meant or where it had come from. But, as soon as the words left my lips, there was a startling CRACK and a flash of blue light . . . and everything was gone! The atoc was gone. . .Audril was gone. . . The warriors were all gone. All that remained was my dear Gracielle’s body . . . and me.
I stood alone in a quiet kitchen, in a quiet palace. I let the sword slip out of my hands; the only sound that echoed through the halls was it, clanging against the brick floor.
That is all I know. I am frightened, and I am alone. I know I must leave the palace, but I fear what I will find. I’ve written this because I don't know what will happen to me once I do leave.
If you are reading this, YOU MUST TRY TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED TO AUDRIL! PLEASE! Her mother said that Lor Mandela will die without her. We need to find her—no matter what—please . . . find Audril!
*^* Part Two*^*
And So It Must End
CHAPTER XVII
THE SWIM
It was a phrase Maggie Baker had heard a million times. Her father, Nathan seemed especially skilled at repeating it. “Be careful what you wish for, Smaggs. You just might get it.”
Despite his warning, Maggie went right on wishing. She longed for something—anything that would exalt her from the mundane, non-eventful, duller-than-dirt existence she had come to despise. Somewhere deep inside her, she felt that she was destined for so much more than the commonplace and her dad’s repetitious recital of the tired old adage only made her crave excitement all the more. Maggie didn’t realize, however, that her dad’s over-used cliché was about to become a surprisingly accurate premonition. “Be careful what you wish for, Smaggs. You just might get it.”
It all began at quarter past four in the afternoon on a sweltering Friday in August. Maggie’s Godfather, Dr. Paul Brockman, who had been staying with them for the last week, was packing to return home to Connecticut when he received a phone call from an officer of the Glenhill, Iowa Police Department.
Now, he found himself standing in the kitchen of the Bakers’ old Victorian farm house in the midst of a situation which, despite his years of training as a physician, was nonetheless quite awkward.
Before him stood a soaking wet Maggie clothed in nothing, save a faded blue bath towel (hence the awkwardness.) Her arms were folded, and there was a hint of indignation on her slightly freckled face.
“What on Earth were you thinking, Maggs?” scolded the doctor, trying not to look in the wrong place or appear too unnerved by Maggie’s near-nakedness. “I thought you had more common sense than to do something this crazy?”
Maggie tucked a sopping black curl behind her ear and plopped dramatically onto a pumpkin-colored, vinyl dining chair. “Oh, please! C’mon, Doc. I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s a hundred and three out, and that pit of a house out by the pond has been vacant for almost two years; nobody would’ve even seen us if it hadn’t been for Lorrine. Besides, what else is there to do in Glenhill? Seriously . . . life here is absolutely, nauseatingly boring! If I didn’t at least try to mix it up, I’d keel over from a lack of stimulation!”
“Ahhhh, so I see we’re still on the ‘my life is so boring’ kick.” The doctor breathed a heavy sigh. “Ya know, Boo, sometimes boring can be good.”
“Uh, yeah, right,” snipped Maggie, “well, my life is way too boring. I mean, how much more blah could it be? I live in Dullsville, U.S.A.; I go to Ho Hum High; my dad is a freakin’ accountant, for heaven’s sake! Face it, Doc; I am the Mistress of Mediocre!”
Dr. Brockman choked on a laugh. “Mistress of Mediocre, huh?” He rolled his emerald eyes and shook his head. “Now I see why they voted you Vice President of the Drama Club.”
“Ha, ha,” Maggie grimaced, “ya know, none of this would have happened if Miss Perfectly Perfect Lorrine would’ve just come with us. She’s supposed to be our friend, but the first time we try to do anything even remotely adventurous, she runs home and tattles. So not cool!”
“Oh, come on, now. Don’t go blaming this all on Lorrine,” he rebuked. “It isn’t her fault you made a poor decision, Boo. She was just looking out for . . . .”
“WHAT! You’re kidding me, right?” Maggie blurted, jumping up from the chair—her fair face reddening with rage. “Why don’t you get it? We were just trying to have a little fun!”
She moved around the table until she was uncomfortably close to Dr. Brockman. “I am so sick of this dinky little town, and my pathetic excuse of a life!”
The doctor took a step backward but Maggie quickly compensated by stepping forward again. “Nothing ever happens here!” she continued bellowing. “You . . . you got to travel all over the world when you were my age! But if I want any excitement, I have to make it myself! And then you just say . . . you can stand there and act . . . how could you? I thought you cared!”
She stomped hard on the floor, causing the tucked-in corner of her bath towel to un-tuck and slip downward. Frantically, she grabbed at the loosening wrap, but to no avail. The edge of the towel slid through her fingers and dropped to the floor.
Dr. Brockman slapped his hands over his eyes and turned away.
Maggie shrieked and snatched up the towel. A flood of crimson washed across her face, as she rushed from the kitchen, both mortified and infuriated.
After a few seconds, Dr. Brockman cautiously peeked out through his fingers to see if the coast was clear, and then lowered onto one of the garage sale chairs and ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair. “How does this happen?” he sighed. “How do I get myself roped into these things?”
Just then, the sound of a sickly car engine sputtered outside the storm door, making a loud clunk as it came to a stop. The sound was followed by the unpleasant screech of the driver’s door swinging open, and the equally unpleasant screech of it swinging back shut.
A frantic-looking, floppy-haired man in his early forties raced up to the door. In his hands he carried a disheveled pile of papers and an old black brief case that looked to have mustard stains splattered across it. He made a spastic effort to push the door latch with his elbow, but when that failed, he angrily kicked the door open with his foot.
“Where is she?” he asked, dropping three or four papers onto the black and white tile floor as he tripped across the threshold. “Where is my daughter, the felon?”
“Now, just relax, Nathan,” answered Dr. Brockman. “She’s upstairs getting dried off and dressed.” He took the papers and briefcase from his friend, and motioned for him to sit down.
Nathan smoothed the front of his orange plaid shirt and ignored Doc’s invitation to sit. Instead, he anxiously circled the kitchen table. “This is the last straw, Paul. Her with her ‘boring this’ and ‘dinky that’! There are plenty of fun things to do in Glenhill, ya know? Things that don’t involve trespassing and nudity—but nooo! Let’s just frolic around like . . . like . . . like naked nudists!”
“Oh c’mon, Nate,” the doctor replied. “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s pretty embarrassed. Besides, she’s already had an earful from me.”
“Well,” Nathan sneered and glared at the ceiling, “that means she still has another ear to be filled.”
“Wh . . . what?” gulped Dr. Brockman, choking on a chuckle. “Did you hear what you just said?” Nathan stared blankly at him for a moment and sniggered; then they both erupted into full-fledged laughter.
Maggie, who was now clothed in faded blue jeans and a dark plum t-shirt, sat on the edge of her bed upstairs listening to the raucous guffawing that permeated the floor and walls of the old house. “Unbelievable,” she breathed, “what a couple of dorks.” She stood and walked over to the open window and looked out past the gnarled maple tree that grew near the house. “And they say I have mood swings!”
Just then, a whisper—louder than was needed—hissed out from behind the maple’s massive trunk. “Maggs . . . pssst! Maggs!”
“Bridge?” Maggie answered. “Shhh!”
A tall, willowy blonde with gleaming brown eyes and a mouth full of braces peered out around the tree. “Get down here. I have something to tell you,” she whispered, once again more than a little too loudly.
“Bridgette! Honestly. You whisper louder than most people talk!”
Maggie could still hear her dad and Dr. Brockman talking and snickering downstairs. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure her door was shut, and then climbed out onto a large branch that hugged the house just below her window.
Skillfully, she scooted across the length of the branch and alongside the rickety old tree house that her non-mechanically inclined father built for her when she was seven. The only structurally sound part of the crooked little house was a chain ladder he had purchased ready-made. Maggie scaled down the ladder and, skipping the bottom rung, dropped to the ground in front of Bridgette.
“Hiya!” Bridgette beamed and gave her a hug and a playful peck on the cheek. “So, how long you in for?”
“Don’t know yet,” answered Maggie. “He’s in the kitchen talking to Doc about his criminal daughter and laughing it up over her naked nudity.”
Bridgette’s eyes lit up. “Doc’s still here?” she asked. “Oh, that’s good. He always takes your side.”
Maggie frowned. “The only reason it’s good that Doc’s still here is because you think he’s cute. And besides, I’ll have you know, it sounded like he was taking Lorrine’s side—not mine.”
“Ewww! I do not think Doc is cute!” Bridgette retorted. “He’s ancient! Maybe he’s cute for my mom, or my grandma, but not . . . oh, wait! Lorrine! That’s why I came over. Lorrine wasn’t the one who snitched!”
“Huh?” Maggie asked, “Whatta you mean? Who else could it have been?”
Bridgette explained. “Well, I heard that totally hot cop—the one who helped you out of the pond . . .” Maggie blushed violently, “. . . tell my mom that a realtor from Cedar Rapids brought a couple of investor guys from Georgia to look at the house. They’re the ones who saw us. Apparently one of the suits saw more than he bargained for and called the cops.”
Maggie blushed violently, again.
“So we can’t be mad at Lor . . . .”
Before Bridgette was able to finish, Nathan’s voice rang out from around the back of the house. “Margaret Amanda Baker, come down here! Now!”
Maggie reacted quickly and began a rapid ascent of the chain ladder. “See ya at school Monday, Bridge,” she called back quietly.
Doc poked his head around the corner of the house and whispered, “Hurry up! I’ll try to stall.”
Bridgette giggled and batted her lashes.
“Ancient, huh?” groaned Maggie, who was already working her way across the big branch.
The doctor paid no attention to either of the girls, but instead turned and rushed back into the house.
Bridgette grinned in his direction as he darted out of sight. “Bye,” she mumbled, waving an airy hand toward Maggie while staring dreamily at where the doctor had been.
Maggie nimbly slipped through the window and ran to her dresser. She grabbed her MP3 player from the top drawer, crammed the earphones into her ears, and dove for her bed—landing not two seconds before her dad stormed into the room.
“Dad?” she sat up and looked at him in faux-surprise while she tugged the earphone from one ear. “Did you knock?”
“No,” he replied, “I was calling for you to come downstairs.”
She motioned toward the earphone that was dangling at her chest and shrugged. “Sorry, couldn’t hear ya.”
“Well, can you hear me now?” he barked, placing both fists angrily onto his hips.
“Yes, Daddy,” she replied, “but are you sure you want to talk about this now? You seem upset.” The words had no sooner left her lips when she realized she probably shouldn’t have said them.
Nathan’s eyes bulged in their sockets and the possibility of steam hissing from his ears seemed to increase by the second, but then suddenly, and much to Maggie’s surprise, he appeared to calm down.
“No,” he began in a subdued tone, “I’m not upset. I’m confused.” He started pacing back and forth in front of Maggie. “I’m confused because I seem to remember a certain young lady dragging me into The Edge Boutique in Glenhill Galleria to show me this adorable little swimsuit that she absolutely had to have. I also remember telling this young lady that there was no way on this green Earth that I was gonna spend sixty-four dollars on a swimsuit. But,” he continued, “this particular young lady looked at me with big, blue, puppy dog eyes, and pouted and whined until finally, I gave in.”
He stopped pacing and looked at Maggie who was doing her best to appear guilty.
“Evidently . . . since you prefer to swim without a suit . . . this was money ill-spent!” His tone was no longer calm and subdued.
“Dad, I . . . .”
“No, Maggie! I really don’t wanna hear it! The way I see it, you owe me sixty-four dollars plus tax, and you will earn this by spending the next four Saturday afternoons cleaning Mr. Pratt’s office for him.”
“Dad, you’re being ridiculous!” she protested. “I’m supposed to go to Omaha with Bridgette next weekend, and my birthday’s the Saturday after that! Why can’t you just ground me like a normal parent?”
Nathan smirked triumphantly. “Because I know what gets to you, Smaggs, and grounding usually aint it! Besides, I’m not a normal parent.”
“Oh, you can say that again,” she groaned as she slumped down onto her bed.
Nathan sat down next to her. “Ya know, Smaggs. What you did could’ve been dangerous. What if some sicko woulda seen you—or what if the boys from school get wind of this? You’ll never live it down.”
“Boys from school?” Maggie smirked. “The opinions of twelve nerds, twenty-five dumb jocks, and six druggies don’t really matter, Dad. Besides, I’ve known them all since we were little. None of them would dare harass me . . . not with the dirt I could dish out.”
Nathan just looked at her and shook his head. “Just promise me you won’t do anything like this again,” he pleaded. “I’m not a huge fan of being called home early from work by the Glenhill PD.”
“Fine,” Maggie moaned.
He held out a hand and helped her to her feet. “Alright then. C’mon. I’ve gotta get Doc to the airport.”
Downstairs, Doctor Brockman was sprawled out on the big, brown, living room sofa watching TV, but sat up and clicked off the television when he saw them coming. Three tan hound's-tooth bags sat on the floor near his feet. “We all good now?” he asked smiling.
“Yeah, we’re good.” Maggie looked at her dad and nodded. “I just came down for a Doc Brock hug to tide me over ‘til next time. You are coming back for my birthday, aren’t you?”
“Of course, Boodle! I wouldn't miss it,” he replied as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground. “Oh, hey, that reminds me. What would Madame like for big number one-seven?”
“Well,” she answered coyly, “maybe a diamond, or a hot little sports car, or a private jet. Ya know . . . teenager stuff.”
“Hmm,” Dr. Brockman played along. “I was thinking just a small gift this year. Like a yacht or a Caribbean island or something.”
“Oh, I understand, money's a little tight,” she giggled. “Well, I s’pose that'll have to do.”
She leaned forward, and pretended to kiss him on the cheek, but instead whispered, “Thanks for calming down the accountant.”
Dr. Brockman gave her another quick squeeze. As he and Nathan picked up the suitcases and headed for the front door, he called back, “Anything for the Mistress of Mediocre.”
Maggie smiled and followed them as far as the porch, waving as they drove away toward the Des Moines International Airport. A twinge of disappointment floated through her, as it usually did whenever Doc left. She viewed his visits as a much-needed break from the endless monotony that was her life.
True, he wasn’t some rich, famous tycoon from an exotic locale, but he had managed to gain some notoriety in his profession, and was from the most populous city in Connecticut, which gave their dear family friend an air of glamour in Maggie’s eyes.
She sighed and slouched back into the house, anticipating the inevitable return to what she called “small town stale-ity”—and stale it was.
The following week was even more boring than usual. Bridgette had been grounded for the escapade at the pond, so beyond going to school, Maggie barely left the house.
By the time Saturday finally rolled around, she was actually looking forward to her cleaning punishment at Mr. Pratt’s office.
The job probably should have only taken about two hours, but Maggie dragged it out to three. It was early afternoon when she arrived home, and had just begun sifting through a pile of mail in the kitchen, when Nathan’s cell phone buzzed on the counter.
