The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(19)
Being the son of a dentist wasn’t easy. I spent every day under the shadow of my dad’s ego. He wanted me to be everything that he was—squared. A day at my house began with bubble gum toothpaste, mint dental floss, and cherry cough syrup flavored fluoride rinse—yuck!
‘Lincoln, you need to get up. Now!’ My dad yelled.
I said, ‘Dad, I am still tired. My stomach hurts . . . I don’t want to go to class today.’
Then of course he said, ‘Lincoln, if you miss the bus one more time, I am going to double your piano lessons—for good this time. Do you understand me?’ He cared so much about those damn piano lessons.
‘Yes sir,’ I said. I lowered my voice and told him how I really felt: ‘Piano is boring.’ It pained me to tell the truth because my late mother had so loved the piano.
‘Make sure you are quiet,’ he said, ‘I am going to read the paper for a bit before work.’ He retired into his room, because his first patient wasn’t until nine.
From my bed into the bathroom, it was an obstacle course full of comics, ancient philosophy books, and dirty clothes.
Mr. Mom was constantly on my case about getting up, picking up after our family dog, and building my portfolio of knowledge so that I could one day be the dentist who worked side by side with him—and someday, take over his practice. I wasn’t keen on being a dentist. My dad was A-type: Annoying type of person, who constantly bothered me about my punctuality.
After pushing my thoughts aside, I remembered it was time to get out of bed. I stepped gingerly around my pigsty, and entered my bathroom. I stared at the mirror of my bathroom with blurred eyes, lined with mucus. I threw some pomade in my hair, completed my dad’s prescribed teeth ritual, and put on some clothes that were stylish but indeed dirty, because the laundry was piling up. Content, I gazed at lingering fog through my bedroom window.
This day, today, would be so pivotal, so paramount, that any hushed mention to the Multiverse Council would render them into fits of gnashing desperation. Yet, I dared not breathe a word of this day. What was the honest gist? The dirty secret? Theodore Crane wasn’t the first of our group to meet Zane or know of Odion.
Let me explain.
I remember it as clear as the cellophane that encased Carolina Jim’s—my mother’s favorite smokes. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and I had about twenty minutes before the bus arrived.
I was walking through the morning dew in my back yard, toward the pond. My designer sneakers drew up dew from the ground and saturated the bottom stitch of my pants. The morning fog was thick like pea soup; I could not see two feet in front of me.
A light bulb clicked off above my head. Would it be possible to test a scientific theory: if I circulated the moist, saturated air in my own backyard, could I clear out the fog? The challenge engaged my over-active imagination.
‘Ready, set, go!’ I told myself. Laughing out loud, and gasping for breath at the same time, I sprinted, waving my arms for maximum disruption of the heavy mist. Darting back and forth with glee, I started panting with exhaustion. I was enjoying myself in the backyard until I slipped. In falling, I almost did the splits. I lay upon the ground on my side, holding my groin, and whimpering like a possum in heat.
Suddenly, from the sky, there was an ear-shearing scream, then a blast of wind against me, as if a sonic boom had exploded in front of me. I sat up, mesmerized, and the dew that wet my socks and shoes, and the left side of my shirt and pants, was now soaking my ass.
I thought to scream for my dad for a moment, but I was spellbound by the spectacle of a creature standing erect, awash in tendrils of fire that greedily swirled about, dramatically displaying a fiery aura about him.
A whirl of dazzling light danced around the masculine creature and cooled his body. Steam hissed as the fog rapidly evaporated in contact with his body, preventing me from identifying him. When the steam had wholly dissipated, the being spoke:
‘Boy. Don’t scream. I have only a few moments to explain why I am here. In one minute and twenty-seven seconds, your dad will run out of that house in his silk boxers. He will ask if you are okay, and if you were talking to someone. You will say no. Everything that you hold dear is in jeopardy.’
The man briskly hovered towards me, his feet not touching the ground. His hair was white; long; braided cleverly behind his head. A regal crown floated still above him. He settled next to me, and said, ‘There are a few imperative things that you must remember. My name is Zane, and I hold the key to saving this beautiful rock you live upon. Listen carefully. Was there a boy whom you met yesterday?’
‘Yes,’ I said, my voice tinged with awe. ‘His name is Theodore.’
‘Tomorrow you will skateboard over to Theodore’s house to ask for him.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or on the sixty-ninth year of your life—after years of servitude to an alien race known as the Dacturons—you will watch as the Earth you live on becomes a tomb to five billion dead earthlings.’
‘This is a joke. I am dreaming. Ha! That is it—I never got up. I didn’t listen to my dad, and I fell back to sleep,’ I said, laughing and starting to walk away. I was soon proven wrong.
The mysterious voice beckoned to me. ‘Lincoln, you must agree or the end is inevitable for all of us and all the multiverse. You will pretend that this meeting didn’t happen. You will tell no one of our encounter, and if you do, you will never see or hear from me again. Moreover, the fate that I have presented to you is real, and must be avoided at all costs. Do we have an understanding?’