A World Without Heroes, 1 Hardcover - 2011

Summary

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1
THE HIPPO

Over the centuries individuals have crossed from our world to Lyrian in a variety of ways. Although some travelers have journeyed between universes deliberately, normally the sudden voyagers are caught by surprise. They become lost in deep caves and emerge into an unfamiliar landscape. They pass through the natural stone arches that occasionally link our realities. They sink into deep wells, enter passageways near mountaintops, or, less often, crawl through petrified logs. But nobody has ever passed from Earth to Lyrian in a less likely way than Jason Walker.

At the age of thirteen Jason resided in the town of Vista, Colorado. Since his father was enjoying a prosperous career in dentistry, and his older brother had just been accepted to dental school, most of his acquaintances expected Jason would one day become a dentist as well. His parents openly encouraged him in that direction. The expectations had rubbed off, and JasonâÈçs vague plan for life included earning a baseball scholarship to a university where he could begin his quest for a dental degree.

He could not recall ever deliberately choosing this courseâÈ'he had no real passion for tooth repair. The routine struck him as dull and monotonous. Scraping teeth. Taking X-rays. Applying fluoride. Deep down Jason craved something else.

Ever since he could remember, Jason had felt drawn to animals. He read books about them, watched nature programs, and begged for pets. After he consulted with his father, this passion inspired his interest in a zoology major on the way to his dental degree. Unlike many prospective zoology students Jason actually worked in a zoo. Understandably, he had never imagined that his volunteer job might lead him to an alternate universe.

During an unseasonably warm week in late February, Jason leaned against the railing outside the fast-pitch batting cage at the local sports park. Tim stood in the cage, knees slightly bent, chipping a lot of foul balls as he struggled to regain his timing. Matt, the best hitter on their club team, had gone first, blasting nearly every pitch to the back of the cage with his fluid swing.

âÈêDonâÈçt try to murder the ball,âÈë Jason suggested.

âÈêIâÈçd settle for assault and battery,âÈë Tim grumbled.

On the next pitch Tim crushed a hard ground ball to the left side of the cage. Jason alternated glances between Tim and a labeled image in his biology textbook. He was memorizing the human skeletal system for a test.

âÈêGet your nose out of that book,âÈë Matt murmured to Jason as Tim fouled the next pitch back into the netting.

âÈêI have to head to the zoo after this,âÈë Jason apologized. âÈêI wonâÈçt have much time to study today.âÈë

âÈêTrust me,âÈë Matt said, nodding toward their left.

Jason turned his head to find a pair of girls coming toward them. They were April and Holly Knudsen, fraternal twins in his grade at Kennedy Middle School. The girls were not much alike in appearance or interests, especially for twins. Prettier and more studious, April was in three of JasonâÈçs honors classes, including biology. Louder and sportier, Holly held a softball bat in one hand and a batting helmet in the other.

Only two girls at school made Jason feel queasy and self-conscious: Jen Miller and April Knudsen. They were pretty, and smart, and seemed down-to-earth. Jason harbored secret crushes on both of them.

âÈêHey, guys,âÈë Holly called.

Jason tried to smile. He was suddenly very aware of the textbook in his hands. Would it make him look like a nerd, reading a biology book at the batting cages?

Matt said nothing. He seldom spoke much around girls. Jason tried to make his voice casual. âÈêHi, Holly. April.âÈë

âÈêGetting ready for your last season before high school ball?âÈë Holly wondered.

Tim whacked a hard fly ball.

âÈêCoach Thayer is already scouting Jason,âÈë Matt said. âÈêHe might end up pitching for varsity as a freshman.âÈë

It was true. Jason had hit a growth spurt at the end of sixth grade. His hitting had initially fallen apart as heâÈçd adjusted to his height, while his pitching had started to gain some real speed. He now stood almost six feet tall. His hitting was recuperating, and his fastball was up into the eighties, but his control had suffered.

âÈêWow, freshmen boys almost never play varsity,âÈë Holly admired. âÈêThey almost took state last year.âÈë

âÈêIâÈçm not sure how much I impressed Thayer,âÈë Jason confessed. âÈêMy pitches were all over the place.âÈë

âÈêOnly one guy on next yearâÈçs high school team throws faster than you,âÈë Matt said. âÈêWhen you throw your best stuff, I canâÈçt hit you.âÈë

âÈêI tense up lately,âÈë Jason admitted with a grimace. Over the past year, during games, he had started to feel very self-conscious, and erratic pitches had been the result. He had blown some games by giving up too many walks, and heâÈçd lost a key game with a wild pitch. He had also hit a few batters, and at the speeds he was throwing, that was a big deal. No opposing batters had been seriously hurt, but they could have been.

At first Jason had assumed the increased speed of his pitches had caused the problem. But then Matt and Tim had begun to notice that he routinely threw better during informal games or practices. It bothered Jason to think that he had lost games because he lacked the guts to throw well under pressure. Maybe the problem came from dwelling on how much others expected from him. Maybe he was expecting too much from himself, fixating on perfection. Or maybe his skills were simply fading.

His friends on the team expected him to overcome his control issues and carry them to glory. But he was not yet the star others expected him to become. He sometimes wished his friends would brag about him a little less.

April pointed at JasonâÈçs textbook. âÈêAre you getting ready for the bio test?âÈë

âÈêIâÈçm trying,âÈë Jason replied.

âÈêWhatâÈçs the name of your cheekbone?âÈë she quizzed.

He resisted a grin. âÈêThe zygomatic arch.âÈë

April raised her eyebrows. âÈêNot bad.âÈë

Holly rolled her eyes. âÈêYou guys are such geeks.âÈë

âÈêGeeks rule the world,âÈë Jason countered.

Holly grabbed her sister. âÈêWe better get over to the softball cage.âÈë

Jason wanted to ask them to grab a snack or something. Well, specifically, he wanted to ask April, but asking both of them would be less intimidating. They were two girls; he was with two other guysâÈ'it would just be a small group hanging out. There would never be a more perfect moment to casually approach April. Who knew, they might end up with a study date for the biology test.

But he couldnâÈçt make his lips move in time. The twins were walking away.

âÈêHey,âÈë Jason called, feeling awkward, squeezing his biology book. âÈêDo you guys want to grab some food when youâÈçre done?âÈë

Still moving away, Holly pushed her hair back over her ear as she apologized. âÈêWe canâÈçt. We have to go to our uncleâÈçs birthday party. Maybe some other time.âÈë

âÈêOkay, thatâÈçs cool,âÈë Jason said, even though nothing about it was remotely cool.

Behind him Tim exited the batting cage. âÈêYou like April?âÈë Tim asked.

Jason winced, stealing a glance over his shoulder. Was he that obvious? âÈêNot so loud. A little, I guess.âÈë

âÈêI think Holly seems more fun,âÈë Matt mused.

Tim tossed Jason the batting helmet. âÈêYouâÈçre up. HereâÈçs your chance for back-to-back strikeouts.âÈë

âÈêYouâÈçre a riot,âÈë Jason said, sliding on the slightly oversized helmet. A red light glowed near the pitching machine. Jason adjusted the strap on his batting glove, grabbed his bat, entered the cage, and took several practice chops, overswinging at first, then settling into his regular stroke.

âÈêYou ready?âÈë Matt asked.

âÈêGo for it.âÈë

The light turned green. Jason crouched into his batting stance, bouncing a little, anticipating the first pitch, trying to ignore the possibility that April was watching. He tended to swing late on the first ball. It hissed out of the pitching machine and blurred past him. He swung way too late.

âÈêHeâÈçs a lover, not a hitter,âÈë Tim kidded.

Jason focused. The next ball zipped out of the machine. His timing was right, but he swung too low, and the ball skipped up and back off the bat.

On the third pitch he made a solid connection. The ball rocketed to the rear of the cage, a high line drive.

Matt whistled. âÈêNot bad.âÈë

Jason glanced back at his friends, grinning. Shifting his gaze, he noticed that April was watching her sister enter the fast-pitch softball cage. When he turned to face forward, a ball was streaking toward him. Jason twisted his head just in time to prevent it from striking his face, but the hard sphere thumped against the side of his helmet, knocking it off his head and sending him sprawling.

Artificial turf prickled against his cheek as Jason tried to fathom what had happened. Suddenly Tim and Matt were at his side, asking if he was all right.

âÈêIâÈçm fine,âÈë he muttered, standing up and swaying into Tim, who steadied him.

âÈêYouâÈçre out of it,âÈë Matt warned. âÈêYou got tagged hard.âÈë

âÈêIâÈçm just a little rattled,âÈë Jason protested, shaking Tim off and heading out of the cage. The ground seemed to be teetering, as if he were balancing at the center of a seesaw. âÈêI just need to sit down.âÈë

Jason plopped onto the bench outside the cage and put his head in his hands. âÈêI should have warned you,âÈë Tim said. âÈêSome of those balls were coming inside for me too. Somebody needs to recalibrate that thing.âÈë

âÈêIt isnâÈçt your fault. I wasnâÈçt paying attention. Just bad luck.âÈë He put his face in his hands and massaged the sides of his forehead.

âÈêMaybe we should get you to a doctor,âÈë Matt suggested.

âÈêNo, IâÈçm good. It just shook me up a little. Take some swings; IâÈçll be fine.âÈë

âÈêYou sure?âÈë

âÈêYeah. Go avenge me. Knock the covers off some balls.âÈë

Jason concentrated on his breathing, trying to ignore the clanging of aluminum bats. He began to feel more centered. He made eye contact with April, who squinted sympathetically. By the time Matt left the cage, Jason could stand without the ground tilting much.

âÈêI want to snag some grub before I hit the zoo,âÈë Jason said.

âÈêSorry, IâÈçm supposed to meet up with my cousins,âÈë Matt said. âÈêIâÈçll already be a little late.âÈë

Tim checked his wristwatch. âÈêI canâÈçt go either. You would have been on your own with the twins. My brother is picking me up in about five minutes. We could give you a lift.âÈë

âÈêI have my bike. IâÈçll catch you guys later.âÈë

Tim and Matt returned the helmets to the counter, while Jason went to the parking lot and claimed his bicycle from the rack. A string of warmish days had melted the snow, even most of the roadside drifts, leaving the streets unseasonably welcoming to cyclists. Although the sky was currently overcast, the temperature remained much too warm for snow. If anything it might rain.

As Jason pedaled up the hill to AndersonâÈçs grocery store, his head began to ache, and he started to feel unbalanced. Rather than push through the discomfort, he opted to walk his bike the rest of the way.

Leaving his bike chained near a soda machine, Jason entered through the automatic door and went to the Chinese food counter off to one side. He ordered the lunch special, and the guy behind the counter spooned orange chicken, beef and broccoli, and chow mein onto a compartmentalized Styrofoam plate. The broccoli was a bright, fluorescent greenâÈ'a color that would seldom occur in nature. The broccoli always looked that color here, as if it were spray-painted or made of plastic.

After finding a seat at a little table near the deli, Jason started eating. The orange chicken mixed with the chow mein was his favorite, but he only made it through half the food before he began to feel nauseated. He took a long sip of water and rubbed his temples. Then he unwrapped the fortune cookie, cracked it open, and removed the slip of paper. New experiences await on the horizon.

They should be a little bolder, he thought, and assert something like, âÈêYou are about to suffer from violent food poisoning.âÈë

Jason headed outside. As he biked farther up the hill, traversing a few crosswalks, his head felt clearer, although a dull ache persisted, pounding a bit as climbing the slope elevated his heart rate. Before long he reached the Vista Point Zoo parking lot. Although the family-owned institution was no match for the Denver Zoo, Vista Point housed a respectable population, with more than four hundred animals representing almost one hundred and sixty species. Typical for an afternoon in winter, the lot was mostly empty.

At his locker Jason pulled on a set of gray coveralls and replaced his shoes with work boots. He was a few minutes early, so he thumbed through his biology textbook. The words seemed a little fuzzy. Closing his eyes periodically, he recited the names of various bones and processes.

Glancing up, Jason noticed the clock. Time to clean the hippo structure.

When he entered the hippo viewing area, Jason paused to admire a glass case on the wall labeled: MONUMENT TO HUMAN STUPIDITY.

It contained various items workers had fished out of the hippo tank over the years: aluminum cans, glass bottles, coins, cigar stubs, two cigarette lighters, a dental-floss dispenser, a pocket knife, a tangled Slinky, a plastic wristwatch, a disposable razorâÈ'even a few rounds of ammunition.

Pacing behind his push broom, Jason watched debris accumulate in front of the dark bristles, wondering how some idiot could top the random dangerous items in the display case. Maybe by chucking in a lawn mower. Or a few bars of uranium.

Jason paused to stare over the railing at the enormous hippo resting motionless below the water on the floor of the tank. Hank was the only hippo in the zoo, an adult male with his fortieth birthday coming up in the summer. Jason shook his head. The majestic hippopotamusâÈ'hard at work as usual. They might as well replace it with a statue. No visitor would know the difference.

Faintly, on the edge of perception, Jason heard tinkling music rising from the water. Head slightly cocked, he wandered around the area trying to pinpoint the true origin of the sound. As the volume of the music increased, growing richer and clearer to where he could discern different instruments, he returned to the water and had to admit that the melodic strains seemed to emanate from the submerged hippo.

Had they installed underwater speakers in the tank without his knowledge? Some new technique for soothing the obese mammal? Perhaps it was a pathetic attempt to give the hippo more crowd appeal.

The melody was unfamiliar, supported by harmonies and complemented by interweaving countermelodies. A deep, gentle percussion kept time. Jason leaned over the rail, perplexed by the bizarre phenomenon. He wished another person were present so he could verify that he wasnâÈçt having an auditory hallucination.

The hippo stirred, vast mouth momentarily yawning open, and for that instant the music became much louder and more distinct, as if the hippo truly were the source of the elaborate tune. Then the great mouth clamped shut.

The music became muffled again when the mouth closed, but continued to gradually increase in volume. Could the hippo have swallowed a stereo? That was the only plausible explanation, but it seemed just as ludicrous as the idea that the hippo was spontaneously producing the sound.

Maybe there was no music. Maybe he had been thumped on the head more severely than heâÈçd realized. But his mind felt clearer than it had earlier, and the unsteadiness was fading.

Scanning the area, Jason saw no other people around. Would there be time to run and fetch someone else? He thought of the Warner Bros. cartoon about the singing and dancing frog that clammed up whenever witnesses were present.

Leaning his stomach against the top of the railing, Jason teetered far over the metal bar, baffled by the beckoning melody. If he could get an ear closer to the water, he could confirm whether the music was really coming from down there. The hippo remained motionless.

As his ear descended toward the rippling surface, a powerful sensation of vertigo swept over him. Jason overbalanced, lost his grip, and plunged head foremost into the pool above the massive hippo. As if this were the chance for which the lethargic beast had waited its entire captive existence, the hippopotamus surged upward with jaws agape, the music chiming louder than ever.

Before Jason could react, his hands were grasping at a slimy tongue, and his face was sliding against a greasy surface. Sprawled on his belly, he raced along a dark, slippery tunnel. No creature was this big! What was happening? In counterpoint to his distress, melodic music rang clearly as he sloshed along the humid corridor. He tried to brace himself against the rubbery sides to slow his slide but failed, until his arms and head suddenly emerged from an opening in the side of a dying tree, near a river lined with ferny vegetation.

Night had inexplicably fallen. A silver path of moonlight trembled on the water. The music he had heard was coming from a wide raft drifting on the lazy current. He squirmed out of the gap, his coveralls drenched from the plunge into the hippo tank, and turned around to inspect the hollow inside of the tree. The inner walls felt moist and rotten. He could locate no opening save the one through which he had emerged and an aperture directly overhead, at the top of the hollow trunk, through which he could see stars.

This was impossible! Where was the tunnel? How had it led to this tree? Where was the hippo? Where was the zoo? There was no river half this wide in his whole town! Jason blinked, wondering if the blow to his head at the batting cage had knocked him out.

Bracing himself against the interior walls of the trunk, he managed to scramble up until he came out at the top, twelve feet above the ground. Still no sign of a hippopotamus or of the Vista Point Zoo. He did, however, command a clear view of the raft, which had drawn up even with his current location.

Small colored lanterns illuminated the vessel. A narrow man in a pale outfit hammered at a xylophone. A stocky woman blew on a curved flute. Another man alternated between racks of chimes and a tall set of bongos. A flabby woman with at least five chins plucked a strangely shaped stringed instrument. A short figure held an enormous brass horn with tubing that snaked around his broad chest and rested on his shoulders.

The raft swept behind a screen of weeping willows before Jason could apprehend more details, though a few other musicians tinkered with a variety of less discernable instruments. The haunting music permeated the air, floating to him across river and riverbank.

JasonâÈçs head swam with questions. How had he gotten here? Why was it nighttime? How would he get back to the zoo? Falling into the hippo tank was one thingâÈ'careless but possible. Passing through the mouth of a hippopotamus into a tunnel slide and coming out of a hollow tree beside a river was tougher to process. Everything he had ever assumed about reality had just been turned inside out. But his surroundings seemed so tangible. There was no denying his senses. He felt the damp, splintery texture of the bark beneath his hands; he smelled the faint odor of decay rising from a standing pool at the riverâÈçs edge. Oily sap clung to his skin. He sniffed his palm, and the pungent resin reminded him faintly of Fig Newtons and black licorice, but he had never smelled anything quite like it.

Jason sighed. He knew the difference between the vague impressions of a dream and the sharper sensations of wakeful consciousness. He certainly felt awake. Yet he could not help doubting the unreal situation. Perhaps this was simply a vivid dream. After all, a baseball had bashed him in the head. He could still be lying unconscious in the batting cage. Then he shivered. Maybe he had diedâÈ'there could have been a clot in his brain. Or maybe the hippo really had eaten him. Could he have crossed over to some sort of afterlife?

He scratched his chin. The sensation felt genuine. His wet clothes clung authentically. His head throbbed gently, and he remained mildly dizzy. Would the symptoms of a concussion persist in a dream? In the afterlife? He listened to the music and the gentle lapping sounds of the river. Wherever he was, whatever the explanation, he remained alert, and he was immersed in a vivid, perceivable environment. He surveyed the vicinityâÈ'the mossy trees along the river, the shrubs below, the insects buzzing nearbyâÈ'mildly astonished at how acceptable the impossible became once it had transpired.

Jason promptly discovered that his immediate problem would be getting down. He sat awkwardly on the lip of the tall hollow trunk, trying to position himself so he could descend as he had climbed. He couldnâÈçt seem to get it right, and he began to experience light-headedness at the thought of sliding down the interior of the trunk, accumulating splinters, before breaking an ankle at the bottom. Attempting to climb down the exterior of the tree appeared even less inviting. Why was climbing up always so much easier than climbing down?

Finally, after many hesitant twistings and turnings, he lowered himself back into the trunk in a position where he could brace himself. Once he had squirmed down to the bottom, Jason exited the hollow tree, glad for the moonlight, and decided to follow the raft, since it represented the only trace of civilization.

Shortly he came abreast with the music, though foliage along the riverbank hindered his view of the vessel. Jason trotted ahead until he found a gap, and he discovered a little hunched figure squatting on a log.

âÈêHello,âÈë Jason said.

A head whipped around. The face belonged to a kid, maybe ten or eleven. As the boy shifted, Jason realized he had a sizable hump on his back. âÈêWhy are you sneaking up on me?âÈë the boy snapped.

âÈêIâÈçm just following the raft,âÈë Jason replied defensively.

Looking calmer, the boy scooted over on the log to make room. Jason took a seat.

âÈêWhatâÈçs with the musical raft, anyhow?âÈë Jason asked.

The boy turned a skeptical eye. âÈêYou joking? ThatâÈçs the funeral dirge of the Giddy Nine, the best musicians around. Most folks are waiting for them down by the falls. ThatâÈçs the only part they care about. But I like to hear the music. ItâÈçll be the last time.âÈë

âÈêTheyâÈçre headed for a waterfall?âÈë Now that he listened for it, Jason could hear the distant roar.

The boy nodded gravely. âÈêTheyâÈçre trying to make some kind of statement. They were banned from playing together in public. I donâÈçt see how this solves anything.âÈë He gave Jason a hard stare. âÈêYou must have heard of them. Right?âÈë

âÈêNo. IâÈçm a stranger here. Just arrived.âÈë

âÈêWhere are you from?âÈë

âÈêVista, Colorado.âÈë

âÈêNever heard of it.âÈë

Jason hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to hear how the boy answered. âÈêHow about America? Or the planet Earth?âÈë

The boy scrunched his face. âÈêNot really.âÈë

âÈêCan you tell me where I am?âÈë

âÈêThe riverbank, obviously.âÈë He returned his gaze to the river with a start. âÈêTheyâÈçve passed us by. WeâÈçd better move on or weâÈçll miss the finale.âÈë

Jason tromped along behind the boy, who moved surprisingly fast along a good route that skirted several marshy areas and shadowy thickets. The night air seemed to help his head, although a faint pulsing ache persisted.

They climbed a steep rise crowded with vegetation and came out on an overlook high above the river. The falls boomed louder. From the elevated viewpoint Jason peered upriver to see they were now well ahead of the little craft. The music sounded far away. Looking in the other direction, he could see where the river seemed to abruptly end. The falls.

âÈêWeâÈçd better keep moving,âÈë the young boy urged. âÈêWeâÈçre ahead of them now, but the river picks up. Soon theyâÈçll be traveling much faster than we can.âÈë

Jason followed the boy down the rise, back under the gloom of overhanging branches. Soon he could hear the water flowing more swiftly. The roar of the falls grew to a constant thunder, drowning out the distant music. Jason found himself short of breath as he hustled to match the increasing pace of his guide.

They came through a dense stand of trees and beheld a moon-silhouetted multitude congregated beside the top of the waterfall. At the very brink of the falls sat a few tiers of makeshift bleachers crammed with spectators. âÈêFind a good spot,âÈë the boy advised before scampering over to the riverbank.

Jason jogged over to the far side of the bleachers, discovering that they came right up to the edge of the dizzying precipice, over which the water tumbled like an endless tsunami. He had been to Niagara Falls once with his familyâÈ'this looked almost as high with nearly as much water. Cool vapor misted his face.

Jason walked back around the bleachers to the riverbank. People lined the bank upriver from the bleachers for some distance. Some of them looked somber. Others munched on snacks. One group swayed as they tunelessly sang an unintelligible song. Jason moved upriver in search of an open spot. The majority of the people wore simple, homespun clothing, though occasionally he saw a sleek fur coat or embroidered vest. Nobody wore what he considered normal, modern attire.

After jostling forward a little, he found a space that would offer a good view of the craft flowing off the brink, although too far upstream to observe the downward plunge. He stood beside a middle-aged woman wearing a floral bonnet and a dress fashioned from heavy material. She stared anxiously up the river, wringing her hands.

âÈêCan you believe this?âÈë he said.

She turned to him. Her rather wide-set eyes came to his chin. âÈêCan I believe that my brother is about to kill himself to create a ridiculous spectacle?âÈë

JasonâÈçs eyebrows shot up. âÈêYour brother is on that raft?âÈë

âÈêHe never had any sense. Or any backbone. He obeys whatever Simeon tells him. That madman has convinced the whole group to throw their lives away.âÈë

She gazed back at the rushing water. The raft was still not in sight.

âÈêWhy are you here watching?âÈë Jason asked.

She shrugged, her cheeks coloring slightly. âÈêTo show support. The Giddy Nine believe this sacrifice is important. I suppose that whatever happens, itâÈçs better for Darren to leave this world feeling appreciated.âÈë

âÈêIs that what brought all of these people?âÈë

She looked down the line toward the improvised bleachers at the brink of the falls. âÈêThese are mostly admirers of their music. Nobody gets what this is really about. I imagine many are here simply because it sounds like great fun to watch a raft full of musicians plummet off an enormous waterfall.âÈë

Jason inwardly conceded that it would be an impressive sight. But at what cost! The waterfall was much too high for any of the musicians to survive.

âÈêI wish there were something I could do,âÈë the woman fretted.

âÈêWhy doesnâÈçt somebody try to save them?âÈë Jason asked.

âÈêThey donâÈçt want to be saved. This is a funeral.âÈë

Jason looked around. People stared expectantly upriver, some gloomy, some eager.

Should he try to rescue the musicians? It seemed like a tragic waste of lives. If he were out there, no matter what his convictions, he figured he would be changing his mind about going over the falls as soon as he got beyond the point of no return. What sane people would willingly drift off a tremendous waterfall? What sort of useful statement could that possibly make? From what he had been told, it sounded like the others were following the orders of one crazy leader. What if he had brainwashed them, like with a cult? Most of the people on the raft would probably rejoice to be rescued.

âÈêI want to help you,âÈë Jason said in a low voice. âÈêDo you know where I could find some rope?âÈë

The woman glanced at him, hope flickering in her gaze. âÈêYou want to stop this? The rescue squad has a rope. DonâÈçt count on them using it.âÈë

âÈêRescue squad? Where?âÈë

âÈêTheyâÈçre just a precaution. TheyâÈçre not far upriver.âÈë

Some in the crowd began to cheer. The raft had come into view. At the very limits of perception Jason heard the music playing.

Leaving behind the group of spectators, Jason took off up the riverbank at a full sprint until he encountered a pair of men. They had a long line secured around the thick trunk of a knobby tree that towered over the rushing water.

âÈêAre you the rescue squad?âÈë Jason asked.

The short man with one arm answered. âÈêAye.âÈë

âÈêDo you intend to rescue them?âÈë The musicians were approaching rapidly on the swift current. Their instruments screeched and hiccupped as the raft pitched on the foamy water.

âÈêOnly if they call for assistance,âÈë the short man affirmed.

Jason saw that the other end of the slender line was affixed to an arrow held by a slim man leaning on a longbow. The three of them stood approximately fifty yards upriver from the falls. The raft was racing along about twenty yards from the bank.

âÈêWill your arrow reach, carrying that rope?âÈë Jason asked.

âÈêCertainly, long as I aim a little high,âÈë the lean man replied.

âÈêYou a good shot?âÈë

âÈêNone better.âÈë

âÈêMaybe you should just save them. I bet theyâÈçll end up thanking you.âÈë

âÈêDoubtful,âÈë the lean man sniffed. âÈêThey didnâÈçt even want rescuers present. IâÈçll interfere only at their request.âÈë

Jason turned to face the imperiled musicians. If he tried to swim the rope out to them, he would be swept away downstream before he got close. The tree did not overhang the river far enough to climb out to them. Time was running short.

âÈêTry to save them,âÈë Jason insisted. âÈêThis is wrong.âÈë

âÈêNot unlessâÈ',âÈë the short man began.

âÈêI hear them calling for help,âÈë Jason lied.

âÈêGo away,âÈë demanded the lean man, his wide lips peeling back to reveal yellowed teeth. âÈêThe last thing we need is interference from some desperate, aspiring hero. If they really did cry for help, we wouldnâÈçt hear it over your racket.âÈë

âÈêThe sister of one of the musicians sent me,âÈë Jason tried.

âÈêI donâÈçt care if the king of Meridon sent you,âÈë the lean man said. âÈêThis is their decision.âÈë

The raft would soon draw even with them. There was no time to think. Jason shoved the short man. Caught by surprise, he stumbled back over the steep bank and into the river.

âÈêWhatâÈçs wrong with you?âÈë shouted the lean man, dropping both bow and arrow to dive into the torrent after his fellow rescuer. The one-armed man had already washed some distance downstream and could be seen flailing lopsidedly. Even immediately beside the bank the current ran strong.

Trusting the lean man to rescue his comrade, Jason wasted no time collecting the fallen bow and arrow. He nocked the arrow and pulled it to his cheek, straining against the heavy tension of the string, one eye squinted shut. He hadnâÈçt handled a bow since earning an archery badge at a summer camp two years ago.

The raft heaved along, twenty yards out, now exactly perpendicular to his position on the bank. Many of the instruments and musicians appeared lashed in place. He tilted the bow upward, hoping he and the lean man understood âÈêa little highâÈë to mean the same thing.

He released the arrow, and it streaked across the distance to the raft, ending its flight embedded in the shoulder of the man playing the bongos. The percussion stopped as the man sank out of sight. The line on the bank continued to uncoil, paying out as the raft progressed rapidly forward.

Jason gasped. Had that really just happened? Shooting somebody had not been part of the plan. He eyed the uncoiling lifeline. Was it too long? It looked pretty thin. Would it hold?

The line pulled taut with a sudden jerk. The raft lurched in response, sending up a spray of water as it swung toward the riverbank. The crowd cried out in astonishment.

Thirty yards downriver the lean man hauled the short man out of the water. The lean man stood watching the raft arc toward the bank, hands on his hips. Something in one hand glinted in the bright moonlight.

Whether or not the musicians wanted to be saved, the raft was going to collide with the bank. The wounded percussionist must have become firmly entangled with some of the equipment, because the strain on the line was extraordinary. Most of the musicians continued to play. A couple of them seemed to be attempting to free themselves from their lashings.

When the raft crashed against the sheer bank ten yards shy of the falls, buckling somewhat, many of the spectators groaned. But moans turned to exclamations as the impact launched the stocky woman overboard along with her curved flute. The ruckus reached a climax as she washed over the brink and down the thunderous cascade.

JasonâÈçs eyes widened in horror, and he felt the bile rise up in his throat, barely able to believe what he had just witnessed. All around him cheering broke out, as the lean man slashed the taut line, and the crippled raft once again surged ahead with the current. Jason thought one person might have jumped from the raft to the bank, but he could not be certain. The uproar from the crowd reached a jubilant crescendo as the raft sailed over the falls directly below the packed bleachers, vanishing with a cymbal crash and a final squeaky note from a woodwind instrument.

Jason stood frozen, feeling like he had been kicked in the stomach. None of those people could have survived!

Knife still in hand, the lean man and his waterlogged colleague were swiftly returning up the riverbank. Jason shook himself out of his paralyzed shock and hurriedly retreated back into the trees away from the river.

Âû 2011 Brandon Mull

Media reviews

Citations

• Booklist, 02/15/2011, Page 75
• Bulletin of Ctr for Child Bks, 03/01/2011, Page 0
• Hornbook Guide to Children, 07/01/2011, Page 363
• Kirkus Reviews, 01/15/2011, Page 0
• Publishers Weekly, 01/31/2011, Page 0
• School Library Journal, 03/01/2011, Page 166
• Shelf Awareness, 01/01/0001, Page 0
• Voice of Youth Advocates, 08/01/2011, Page 0