~
The Gnomes
By
N.P. Swan
~
Copyright © 2011 Nelson Pahl; All Rights Reserved
ISBN:
First Edition
Published by LuckyTown Press at Smashwords
First Book in The Gnomes Trilogy
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CHAPTER 1
Tallak caressed her photo, as he sat watch upon an ancient redwood tree’s top branch, 200 feet above the forest floor and fifty feet from the beach. She’d been gone more than 120 years, yet it seemed like they’d walked hand in hand only yesterday. Tallak’s eyes welled up. He whispered, “I miss you so much.” He sniffled while he eased his fingertips along the photo, as if he brush-stroked her cheek once again. “On this day…I will honor you with all my heart.”
One hundred and twenty-two years earlier, in a Western Norway boreal forest, he’d lost her, his beloved Veny.
They’d lived a tranquil life together, amid their stone cottage at town’s edge. She ran the hamlet’s post office, which served all Anders Village, home to 237 gnomes. Six days a week, she greeted fellow town folk at the counter with a radiant smile and pleasant tone, then helped them send gifts, parcels, and letters to other hamlet residents.
Tallak maintained a woodworking shop two blocks from the post office, on the village square. Here, he turned fallen forest trees into custom furniture, carved garden statues, and hand-made cuckoo clocks. Each day, he met Veny for a quick lunch at either the corner café or on the village square’s lawn. Each day, they’d walk home, a twelve-block journey, hand in hand, often stopping to chat with friends and neighbors along the way.
They lived a productive, loving, idyllic life.
Then came the trolls.
On a damp and rainy night, Tallak and Veny enjoyed a romantic dinner before their glimmering fireplace. Side by side, at their living room coffee table, they dined on fresh greens, homegrown vegetables, and wild herbs by candlelight. They sipped elderberry juice from handcrafted wine glasses, toasting their life together. Often, Tallak would gaze into Veny’s large hazel eyes, stroke her flowing blonde hair, and smile. Every once in a while, Veny leaned to Tallak and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, my dearest,” she’d whisper. Each time, Tallak blushed.
As Veny leaned to Tallak once more, with lips puckered, about to thank him for the wonderful dinner he made....
Panicked screams ripped through the village.
Tallak jumped to his feet and raced to the front door, Veny close behind. When Tallak flung open the door, he found Anders aflame; up and down the street, homes, shops, and cafes burned. The onslaught headed straight for Tallak and Veny.
“Get back!” Tallak slammed the door shut and raced to a large wooden cabinet across the room. He pulled a key from his pocket, slapped it in the door, torqued it, and the door popped open. He yanked a large stainless steel sword from it and darted back to the door, where Veny still stood. “Stay behind me!”
Tallak cracked the door and peered through the narrow gap. A squadron of trolls marched in his direction, led by their power-hungry czar, Ogma. As the trolls fanned out to each home and shop, Ogma marched straight down the middle of the street, sword drawn. Everything in the troll’s wake had been destroyed, including many gnomes Tallak and Veny called friends.
Tallak turned to Veny and whispered, “You stay behind me!”
With wide eyes, Veny nodded.
Step by step by step, snorting and scowling with fists clenched tight, Ogma stomped down the street.
Tallak eased Veny behind him and peered through the narrow gap. The ground beneath their feet quivered; the shelves in the corner rattled; the paintings on the walls trembled. Tallak glanced over his shoulder. “No matter what happens…you stay right behind me!”
Veny, eyes still wide, again nodded.
Just as Ogma passed before his cottage, Tallak burst through the door and slashed his sword at Ogma. But the troll was too quick; he ducked the swipe. Ogma turned, his red eyes ablaze. “You’re dead, gnome!” he said, his voice deep and syrupy. Ogma glared at Veny, just behind Tallak. “And so is she!”
Tallak raised his sword and lunged toward Ogma, only to have the troll block the advance. His rebuttal sent Tallak flying to the ground. Tallak sprung to his feet and held his sword upright. He glanced at the abandoned Veny. “Get behind me…now!”
Veny raced to Tallak and slid in behind him.
For minutes on end, Tallak battled the much bigger Ogma tooth and nail. Both clenched their jaws tight and slashed at each other; clangs filled the smoky, evening air. Inch by inch, Tallak and Veny backpedaled; Ogma wielded great strength. Yet, the troll grew impatient. He glared at Tallak, “Enough!” and lunged at the gnome with sword drawn.
Tallak sidestepped the attempt. Ogma stepped back and again lunged toward Tallak. Another weave from the gnome. Ogma again missed. The troll gritted his teeth, squinted his eyes, and raised his sword with both hands, high above Tallak. As he prepared to slam the sword into the gnome’s chest, Tallak noticed what looked to be blood on the blade. Yet, he felt no pain. What the…? He thought.
In an instant, Tallak realized what had happened. He spun toward Veny. She lie on the ground, hand on chest. Tallak’s eyes sprung wide. “Nooooooooo!”
“You’re dead!” Ogma shouted. The troll heaved the sword downward.
Tallak jerked his head toward Ogma and threw his sword up to block the troll’s boom just in time. As he did, Tallak thrust Ogma backward with all his might, with shock-induced super strength. Ogma landed ten feet away, in a heap, his head slamming to the ground.
Tallak sprinted to Veny. She lay bloodied, motionless. He dropped his sword, knelt, and wrapped her in his arms; he held her tight, as tears poured from his eyes.
Fifteen feet behind him, Ogma lay on the street, dazed, confused, head ringing. The troll moaned and groaned.
Tallak continue to sob, Veny in his arms. As he squeezed her lifeless body, rocking her back and forth, Maiken’s voice rang out in the distance.
“Everyone must run!” she yelled. “Women must run! Children must run! Everyone must run now!”
Four hands grabbed Tallak from behind and yanked him to his feet. Tallak fought the force and reached for his beloved. “Vennyyyyyyy!!”
“Tallak!” Ragnar snipped. “We must go now!”
Kai glanced over his shoulder then to Ragnar. “He’s coming!”
Ragnar pried Tallak from Veny. “She’s dead, Tallak! I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, my friend, but there’s nothing we can do. We must go now!”
“Noooooooo!” Tallak kicked and clawed and squirmed and screamed as Ragnar and Kai, his two lifelong pals, clenched him tight and hauled him down a side street then into the thick of the forest. “Vennyyyyy! Vennyyyyyyy!”
Tallak caressed the photo once again; a tear ran down his cheek. He whispered, “I love you, darling Veny. Forever.”
A wave slapped the white-sand beach 200 feet beneath him. Tallak snapped from his trance and glanced downward, eyes wide. Another wave crashed onto the beach. Tallak stuffed the picture into his pant pocket, rolled to his knees, and hopped to his feet. Tallak peered through the telescope, gazing toward the sea. He plucked his head from the lens, blinked twice, then looked through the telescope again. Tallak’s eye did not deceive him. He jerked his head toward the forest and screamed, “Intruuuudeeerrrrs!”
He leapt, and through the air Tallak flew, until he landed upon the vine. He wrapped both hands and legs around it, then sailed down its pulley system, between branches and redwood trunk, 200 feet to the forest floor. Tallak hit the ground with a thud. He scrambled to his feet and sped through the forest. “Intruders! Intruders!”
~
In a Whole Foods store, a slender, twenty-something male employee with short brown hair and wearing green store apron stuffed small pouches into a black, mesh display bin. The words “Summer Frost” stretched across the bin. Three large men, bouncer-type guards, encircled the employee as he worked; they faced three-dozen women that ached to get at the display's contents.
When finished, the employee, Josh, turned to the guard on his right. “Done,” he whispered. “Now…get me outta here!”
The guard glanced over his shoulder, toward Guard 2 and Guard 3, his voice deep and stern. “Clearing him out.”
Guard 2 and Guard 3 stood with back to the display rack, facing the women; each stood with chest puffed out, mighty biceps flexed, and arms folded across his midsection.
“One moment, ladies,” Guard 2 said.
The women moved a couple steps closer.
Guard 3 threw up a hand, in stop-sign manner. He barked the order, voiced raised. “Be patient and remain orderly!”
The women groaned, as many shifted weight from one foot to another and the group as a whole bulged at the seams.
After Josh and Guard 1 had disappeared from sight, Guard 2 and Guard 3 turned and scampered up the aisle.
“All yours!” Guard 2 shouted in stride.
Elbows flailed and purses slammed into bodies, as the women descended upon the display like vultures on roadkill.
One by one, Summer Frost pouches flew from the display and women raced up the aisle, toward the register, as if each wanted to make sure she got a receipt in hand before someone tried to steal her stash.
After the onslaught subsided, one pouch, seemingly forgotten amid the mad rush, rested upon the display bin’s bottom grate. There it sat, all alone. Somehow, it had survived the chaos.
In a split second, two hands plunged into the bin and grabbed the bag, each hand belonging to a different woman.
Both in their late-fifties and dressed like hip teenagers, the two women stood toe to toe. One sported long, frayed bleach-blonde hair, tanning booth tan, and enhanced lips. The other woman boasted short, teased, highlighted brunette hair, implanted cheekbones, and skin that didn't move an inch no matter how hard she grimaced, thanks to repeated Botox injections.
The two women locked eyes, as they each tugged at the last remaining pouch.
The blonde yanked at the bag. “That’s mine!”
The brunette, too, gave the bag a forceful tug. “No it isn’t! This belongs to me! I got it first!”
The blonde snipped, “It’s the last bag. Don’t rip it.”
The brunette snipped back, “Don’t you rip it!”
With a mighty yank, the blonde shouted, “It’s mine! Let go!”
The brunette smirked—although her lips and face didn't budge. “Listen, sweetie…” She glanced at the bag then back to the blonde. “This isn't gonna do you a bit of good.”
The blonde’s jaw dropped; she stood with eyes wide. Then, she scowled. “Whatta ya mean by that?”
The brunette looked the blonde up and down. “Look at yourself. You're nothin’ but an old hag past the point of return.”
The blonde’s eyes grew wider. “Old hag?!” She gritted her teeth and eagle-eyed the brunette. “Look who's talkin’, Botox bimbo.”
The brunette stood with mouth agape. “Botox bimbo?” She grimaced, “Ohhhhhh…you're goin' down, hag!" The brunette let go of the bag and flung her arms around the blonde's neck, taking the woman in a headlock.
The blonde screamed, her voice muffled but audible. “Bring it on, bimbo!” She wrapped her arms around the brunette's waist and flung her to the ground, she herself falling atop the woman.
Through the air the Summer Frost pouch tumbled, to the ceramic tile floor; it burst open upon impact. A small white mushroom cloud rose to knee level then dissipated, as the two women bit, scratched, and clawed at one another.
~
Two feet tall, slender, beardless, and clad in Brown mid-length coat and matching pants made from wild horsehair, shed each spring and gathered thereafter by helper gnomes, brown knee-high boots, crafted from gnome-grown hemp, and red, pointed burlap hat, which he held on head as he ran, Tallak sprinted through the forest in highest gear; never before had he run so fast!
“Oh no!” he uttered amid piston-like strides. “Oh no! Oh no!” Tallak pumped his fists even harder, in an attempt to accelerate. “Intruders!” he screamed. “Intruders!”
~
A gentle tide splashed the shoreline. In the distance, a 52’ yacht—with “Super Nutrition Corp.” painted upon its crest—sat anchored, still. The mid-morning sun ricocheted off its pure white body.
Malcolm and Wyatt steered the lightweight, aluminum fishing boat to the beach, a fifty-foot deep white sand stretch that led to a dense temperate rainforest. Both men wore khaki pants and button-down long-sleeve shirts, black military boots, and beige panama hats.
Thirty-four-year-old Malcolm Watts stood a rail-thin six one, with crew-cut brunette hair and searing blue eyes. A three-day stubble sprouted from his jaw-line, and he spoke with efficiency, in a gruff, disciplinarian voice.
Wyatt Kinsley, on the other hand, measured a stout and muscular five nine. His voice, however, didn’t match his frame, as its boyish pitch radiated vulnerability and indecisiveness. At twenty-four, he still sported a teenage skateboarder's long, shaggy blonde hair; it cupped his oval face, while his soft hazel eyes often pleaded for help with everyday tasks.
Malcolm slid his forest green nylon backpack over his shoulder, “This looks good,” and jumped from the boat, into the water, then trekked to shore.
Wyatt stood. He glanced around the boat.
Malcolm headed toward the forest. “Make sure ya grab the satellite phone,” he said over his shoulder, in stride.
Wyatt stood with hands on hips. “Should we bring everything?”
Malcolm stopped and turned around. He sneered. “There's not another soul within miles. Who's gonna steal our stuff?”
Wyatt shrugged.
“OK then...” Malcolm shook his head with a sigh, as he turned toward the forest and stomped up the beach. He muttered, “How’d I end up with this clown?”
Wyatt plucked his backpack from the boat’s aluminum floor, slid it over one shoulder then the other, and jumped into the water. He grabbed the rope attached to the boat’s bow and trekked up the sandy shore. Once the boat became beached, he dropped the rope and followed Malcolm toward the forest.
Malcolm shouted over his shoulder, “Now, grab that machete and slash anything that moves.”
Wyatt screeched to a halt just before the forest, eyes sprung wide. He whisked his machete from his belt and glanced from side to side. For a long moment, he perused his surroundings; back and forth, forth and back he scanned his environs. Then, with caution, Wyatt tiptoed into the forest, eyes still wide, hunched over in attack mode. His head swiveled from left to right and right to left. “Ohhhh, man…I’m not havin’ fun!”
CHAPTER 2
Twenty to thirty feet apart, vast antique redwood, spruce, hemlock, pine, and cypress trees jetted skyward, creating a "canopy" some 200 feet above town. Narrow sunlight shoots speckled the forest floor; large ferns, pinecones, and pine needles made up the forest floor itself. A hundred varieties of birds sang; fifty mammal species hid from plain site. The air hung heavy, misty.
Deep in a temperate rainforest and more than two miles from sea, built amid oversized mushrooms, robust tree stumps, and vast nurse logs—dead, fallen trees that sprout and nourish new plant life—Epsen Village included a barber shop, a tailor, a boot repair shop, a blacksmith, a market, a florist, a bank, a coffeehouse, a community theatre, a concert hall, holistic dentist and doctor's offices, two restaurants, a cafe, Summer Frost headquarters, a chamber of commerce, and Epsen City Hall, all entwined with second-story apartments and single family homes around a central plaza, and all painted in brilliant pastel colors made from natural dyes.
The plaza itself—called Epsen Town Square—featured a central fountain and cobblestone walkway, both made from forest stone, four wooden park benches, a large "green space" lawn area, wild flower and fern landscaping, and a dozen candle-and-wick lanterns hung on five-foot brass posts along its perimeter.
Edgar the sloth sagged like a hammock from a tree branch at town's edge; he kept watch over the village. So, too, did Riley the koala bear, which perched atop a tree branch at the other side of town. Hootie, a mountain pygmy owl, also on the watch team, hopped from tree branch to lamppost to tree branch, every few minutes.
Just off the plaza, a gnome dove toward the forest floor from a tree branch fifty feet high. Then, just before impact, he sling-shotted back toward the sky, a bungee-like chord attached to his ankle. “Wheeeeeee!” he yelled with a giggle. Up and down he bounced, never hitting the forest floor. “Wheeeeee!”
On the plaza, one gnome played the fiddle, one a drum, another a harmonica. Streamers and balloons fluttered about in the breeze. A food stand provided fruit/veggie bowls. A beverage stand offered fresh juices. Beside the juice stand, a gnome bobbed for apples in a small wooden tub.
A bonfire roared on the plaza lawn. Several gnomes extended sticks with marshmallows upon them over the flames. Others danced. A dozen conversations took place.
Maiken stood with arms extended and hands over the bonfire. Small, round spectacles dangled from a neck chord. Her flowing sandy-blonde hair wafted on the breeze; her plump cheeks and ocean-blue eyes glistened in the fire’s gold hue. A slender one foot eight, Maiken wore, as always, pink ribbons around ponytails and a matching ankle-length hemp dress, with white hemp blouse. Like all gnomes, she sported a woven, pointed cap, hers black and made of milkweed pods, and wooden shoes, the same color. Maiken grinned, as the fire's warmth soothed her and its glow hypnotized her.
Through round, wire-rim glasses, Ragnar ogled Maiken from across the fire pit. After 312 years of marriage, he remained ever-so smitten with her. “She’s so lovely,” he muttered, his eyes fey. “So very, very lovely.”
Ragnar, himself, boasted many female admirers. Well-spoken and poised, he stood two foot two, one of Epsen's tallest citizens. White-gray locks sprouted from the red cap. A matching beard ran his entire jawbone, upper and lower lips shaved. Tender, maple syrup eyes rested upon rosy cheeks. A fern-green, hemp button up shirt and khaki wool pants adorned his stocky-but-lean frame. He wore tootsie roll-brown wooden shoes.
As Maiken looked from the fire to him, Ragnar smiled. She returned the gesture...
Just before a group of town-folk swooped in, grabbed her, and hoisted her upon their shoulders.
One gnome punched his fist into the morning air and shouted, “A salute to the world's greatest mayor!”
The crowd punched their fists into the air and responded in chorus, “To Maiken!”
A stampede of miniature horses, led by Nanna—who boasted lavender and black candy cane stripes wrapped around her entire body, large blue eyes with long eyelashes, a black bushy tale, and long black mane—raced around the perimeter of the town, euphoric.
The day, September 29th, marked the 120th anniversary of Epsen's constitution, and the town loved to celebrate, especially its mayor and her husband, the Honorable Ragnar.
Ragnar held up his lemonade glass, high above his head. He shouted, “Hereto! Hereto!”
The music stopped. The conversations ceased. The dancing halted. The town-folk lowered Maiken to her feet. All eyes fixed on Ragnar.
“Today,” Ragnar said, voice poised and stern, “as we all know, is the 120th anniversary of the Epsen Constitution.”
The town-folk cheered.
As he stood with glass still high, Ragnar motioned with his other hand to lower the applause. “This is a day to celebrate, yes. And celebrate we shall!”
The town-folk roared.
Ragnar once again used his free hand to request the town-folk hold off their cheers. “But first, as we all know, this also is a day to honor those we left behind in our quest for independence, those we lost in the War with the Trolls.”
All faces grew long. Not a sound could be heard.
Ragnar’s tone became solemn. “I ask you, loyal neighbors, to offer a moment of silence with me, in salute of those left behind.”
The town folk traveled back, in their heads, to another time, a time 122 years prior…
From a rocky cliff amid the Wilander foothills above Anders, they stood…and stared…in awe, as Anders and its homes, shops, and parks smoldered, bloodied gnomes strewn about the hamlet streets and plazas.
Ragnar, Maiken, Tallak, and Kai stood side-by-side with several dozen other gnomes atop the small ridge, a half-kilometer away; overlooking what remained of their former village.
Tallak sobbed as he surveyed the village from afar. Ragnar and Maiken stood hand-in-hand; tears welled up in their eyes.
Maiken muttered, “My dearest Dagny.”
Kai stood next to Maiken, his arm around her. He eyed the village in bewilderment. He whispered, “Travel in peace, my friends.”
All other gnomes upon the ridge wept.
“Well…” Ragnar’s voice cracked; he wiped a tear from his eye and attempted to collect himself. “Time to find a new home, a new life.”
Maiken buried her head in Ragnar's shoulder and wailed. Tallak buried his face in his hands and collapsed to his knees. Ragnar patted Tallak on the back while he squeezed Maiken.
“We'll make it.” Ragnar fought more tears. “I promise you all…we'll make it.”
Kai leaned in and wrapped his arms around Maiken and Ragnar while reaching for Tallak, who still knelt, face in hands. Kai clasped Tallak's shoulder while hugging Maiken and Ragnar. “Together…forever.”
Around the bonfire in Epsen, all gnomes, Ragnar and Maiken included, bowed their heads for a long moment in remembrance. As they did, each replayed the images in his/her head. The fire, the smoke, the blood, the scars…the heartache…the grueling, two-year journey to The Isle…the constructing of Epsen…
Then, Ragnar raised his head and his glass. In respectful tone, he exclaimed, “Next, please help me salute those that work The Plantation as we celebrate. Harvest season is tough, and we all know they'll be here after five, but I'm sure I'm not alone when I say, I wish they were hear with us now.”
The crowd applauded.
Ragnar tipped his glass toward the crowd. “I thank you for your kindness and for your respect. Now, my valued friends...” Ragnar raised his glass high one final time and shouted, “Let's celebrate like only gnomes can celebrate!”
A deafening roar poured through the crowd, as fists punched the morning air.
Again led by Nanna, the miniature horse herd zoomed around the town’s perimeter.
Ragnar stared across the fire. Maiken stood on the other side. She clapped while smiling. Ragnar grinned and offered a nod.
Kai pulled up alongside Ragnar. One foot eleven, dark and handsome, Kai wore a red waist-length coat and pants, both hemp, brown knee-high boots, trousers tucked in, and brown pointed hat. “Judge.”
Ragnar scoffed. “Kai. Please. We've been friends for 135 years. Just call me ‘Ragnar,’ especially on a day like today, when we celebrate not only our independence but also our equality.”
Kai grinned. “OK then...Ragnar, great celebration.”
Ragnar nodded. “As always.”
“We owe it all to you and the mayor.”
Ragnar looked to his wife, who conversed with a friend. “No. There were many brave souls back then, you included.”
Kai, too, stared at Maiken. “But none more courageous than you two. I know you lost a lot on the journey here—“
“We're all in this together,” Ragnar interrupted.
“Judge…” Kai turned to Ragnar with a sigh. “I'm trying to show my appreciation, OK? It's a very special day. Can I do that?”
Ragnar smirked. “You just did. And I think you meant to say ‘Ragnar.’”
Kai fought a smile.
The two stood silent for a moment, eyeing the fire. Kai noticed that Ragnar stared at a busy Maiken. “How long you and Mayor Maiken been married? What, 300, 310 years maybe?”
Ragnar stood in trance; he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He muttered, “Three-hundred-twelve years, three months, and eighteen days.”
Kai beamed. “Really?”
Ragnar looked to Kai, blushing at his overreaction to the question. After several seconds, he regained his cool. “Something like that.”
Kai laughed.
Both men returned their attention to Maiken.
“There's not a more perfect union in the universe,” Kai said.
Ragnar again blushed. “Thank you,” he muttered.
“Intruders! Intruders!”
Ragnar torqued his head toward the cries, at town's edge.
The village folk still danced and chanted.
Tallak appeared in the distance. Exasperated, he flailed his arms while he sprinted and screamed with all his remaining might. “Intruders! Intruders!”
Ragnar and Kai trotted toward the frantic Tallak. They met him twenty feet before the bonfire. “What is it?” Ragnar asked.
Tallak slammed on the brakes and gasped for breath. Winded, he tired to explain. “It's...it's...someone's on the island.”
Ragnar squinted. “Someone?”
Tallak leaned to his knees and pulled for more breath. “Two men…two men in a boat…a big boat.”
Ragnar spun toward the crowd and held up a hand. He shouted, “Everyone!”
A few faces turned; many still danced and chanted.
Ragnar roared, “Everyone! Everyone listen up!”
No one danced. No one chanted. Everyone eyed Ragnar.
The judge calmed himself then continued. “Tallak reports that we have unwelcome visitors.”
Gasps and sighs filled the air.
~
Seattle served as home to Super Nutrition Corp’s glamorous headquarters. In the lobby, marble floors gleamed, high-priced art hung on the walls glistened, and the central water fountain and its two adjoining statues sparkled. Ringing the lobby, offices with vast, spotless windows facing toward both the lobby and Seattle skyline bustled with business-day activity.
Super Nutrition Corp., or SNC, operated as a distributor of high-grade supplements, herbs, and superfoods. SNC distributed its top-shelf goods, in large part, to American Baby Boomers via natural food co-ops, Whole Foods locations, and GNC stores. A multi-million dollar corporation, SNC had its sights set on the billion-dollar mark.
Behind a receptionist desk at lobby’s edge sat Janie, a slender brunette with hair in bun, square black-framed eyeglasses, and charcoal business suit. She answered phone calls, greeted clients, and took notes at a hectic pace.
Returning from a morning meeting, company founder and CEO Devlin Black, thirty-eight, stepped from the elevator and strode through the lobby with confident swagger, eyes glued to his mobile phone. A muscular six feet, he sported slicked-back brown hair, clear blue eyes, and a goatee with gray corners. His tan skin had few wrinkles. He wore a black pinstriped suit, gray button-up shirt, and black tie, all upscale labels.
“Janie,” Devlin said, as he strolled past the receptionist desk, never taking his eyes off the text message he read. “Any word from Malcolm and Wyatt yet?”
Janie rose to her feet. In mousy voice, she replied, “No, Mr. Black. No word yet.”
Devlin came to a halt; he still eyed his phone, his voice deep and stern “Are you kidding me?!”
Janie stood startled. “Uh…no…no, sir, I’m not kidding.”
Devlin shook his head, then continued on his way toward his office, never taking his eyes off his phone.
~
Malcolm Watts and Wyatt Kinsley worked for Super Nutrition Corp. On this day, they’d set sail from Seattle in search of a rare, exotic herb company founder and CEO Devlin Black believed could take him and his company to the billion-dollar mark.
Rumored to not only banish wrinkles forever but to halt and then reverse aging in virtually every human organ, Summer Frost, Devlin figured, could be sold for more than $500 per gram.
The white clover featuring four symmetrical leaves grew but one place on earth. Yet, next to no one knew where. A small Vancouver firm, New Age Exports, acted as Summer Frost’s sole distributor. But the firm kept its source a well-guarded secret. For $600 per gram, New Age sold the herb, in modest—and controlled—quantities, primarily to the American and Canadian Baby Boomer markets, with 50% of Summer Frost proceeds earmarked for Canadian charities. However, due to tremendous demand, New Age had worked from back-order status since the day it introduced the world to Summer Frost.
Now, Devlin searched for the source, in hopes he could take over exclusive world distribution and become the world’s next billionaire.
Enter Malcolm and Wyatt.
The two SNC employees had been sent on a Super Nutrition Corp. scouting trip. Today marked Day 23. Each morning, they set out from Seattle to explore a chosen island in the San Juan/Gulf Islands chain; after extensive research, Devlin concluded Summer Frost must grow somewhere in the U.S./Canadian island chain. He also believed, in his gut, that his two-man crew would soon find it.
A squawk rang out. It bounded through the forest, multiplying itself many times over. A nearby fern rustled. Then another.
Wyatt swatted the air, as his head swiveled from bird squawk to eerie rustle, his eyes wide. “I'm ready to go home, Malcolm...right now! I'm sick of this Indiana Jones crap!”
Malcolm trudged along, several meters ahead, stepping over nurse logs, around giant mushrooms, and through ferns, machete in hand, paying no mind to Wyatt's whimpers, whines, and complaints.
“Every day,” Wyatt continued, “it's the same thing...twenty-three days of island-hopping, of living like savages in the ‘bush,’ and for what? Absolutely nothing—nada! We're getting nowhere, man!”
Another rustle then a chirp from a nearby nurse log.
Wyatt slammed on the breaks and eyed the log. He stood frozen for a long moment. Exasperated, he whined, “I want to go home and be the marketing rep I'm supposed to be! I want to go home!”
Malcolm stopped dead in his track and spun 180 degrees. He leered at Wyatt from afar. “Shut! Your! Mouth!”
Wyatt stood speechless.
Malcolm stomped toward him with a scowl; his eyes burned holes through his co-worker. When he reached Wyatt, he looked down at him and jabbed an index finger toward his face. “You know, that's the problem with your generation: you're a bunch of freeloaders. No one wants to roll up his sleeves and work. You all want it now, you all want it for free, and you're all so bored with everything, like life's supposed to be lived on Facebook and YouTube!” Malcolm threw his hands in the air and mimicked the words he quoted. “Wait, boss, I can't work today. I have to spend the entire day texting my cousin's hamster. It's a matter of national security!” Malcolm flipped the brim of Wyatt's hat and it tumbled to the ground. Malcolm turned and continued on his way through the forest, stomping his boots in disgust. He took ten steps, stopped, and spun toward Wyatt.
Wyatt kneeled to pick up his cap.
Malcolm stood with hands on hips. He gritted his teeth as he spoke. “You know, Wyatt, there are plenty of people in this country dyin’ for a job these days. They’re scared about how they’re gonna put food on the table, how they’re gonna care for their families. They’re really scared, fool.” Malcolm jabbed his arm and index finger at Wyatt as he screamed, “Be happy you still have a job!”
Wyatt said nothing; he didn’t move.
Malcolm turned and thundered onward.
As he eyed Malcolm, who pulled further and further away by the second, Wyatt slid his hat back on.
Another squawk rang out.
Wyatt stood wide-eyed, surveying the trees overhead. “Ohhhh….” he muttered. “I hate this place.”
CHAPTER 3
The Starbucks coffee shop didn’t have an empty seat in it; a line stretched from its counter to door, and a dozen individual conversations took place at the same time, creating a fine line between symphony and sheer noise.
Devlin sat at “two-top” table with potential Summer Frost distributor Torrie Cook, who measured five eleven with stocky frame and short blonde hair; he wore gray slacks and a stylish black zip-up, mock turtleneck sweater. A tall coffee cup rested before each man.
Torrie sat erect in his chair, caressing his cup up while he listened to the SNC founder’s pitch.