The Eye of the Stone (3 page)

“Huh? What the …?” He must be imagining things. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them wide. The river and island of mud were still there.

A deep, penetrating chill swept through Jackson's body. He lurched to his feet, slipped, staggered, and spun to find himself gaping up at the massive beams of a large wooden bridge arching high over his head.

Jackson looked around in wild-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment. Along one side of the river, dense stands of strange grasslike plants grew to the height of small trees. He whirled about, mud squishing beneath his feet. On the opposite side of the river stretched a field, brown earth plowed and harrowed, ready for planting. He looked up. Above it all the bright orb of the sun shone in a brilliant blue, cloudless sky.

Jackson clamped his eyes shut and kept them shut this time. No. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be. It was just a dream, an extremely strange dream, but a dream nonetheless. It
had
to be. He'd wake up any second now and it would all be over. As would the storm. So he could go home.

Yes, home. And Becky would be there, still eating her sandwich, the smell of peanut butter on her breath. She'd make some smart-aleck remark, but he would ignore her, leave her sitting there on the kitchen counter. He'd cross the living room, stepping over the dark coffee stain on the beige carpet the way he always did, then turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Hand on the familiar wood railing, he would look up toward his room.

That's right. He would want to be alone for a while after a dream like this. He'd climb toward his bedroom door—first one step, then two. The third step would squeak, like always. Halfway up would be the purple crayon mark on the wall, which Becky swore she didn't do. He'd gain the landing at the top, and there would be his room with the Trailblazers posters on the wall, the purple beanbag chair in the corner, the Corvette model next to the deer antler on top of his dresser, his unmade bed, and his dirty clothes on the floor. His wonderful room, all his. That was what Jackson longed for. Slowly he opened his eyes once more to see … river, bridge, giant grass, plowed field, sunny sky—all looking incredibly real. A warm breeze brushed his cheek, bringing with it the smell of spring.

Jackson's legs went weak, his stomach queasy. He hunched over, his hands on his knees. “What—What is happening?” he pleaded.

“I was going to ask
you
,” came an urgent whisper from the bridge above him. “Is the river still going down? It's not a good sign, is it?”

Jackson bolted upright, his heart in his throat. He could see no one, only the underside of the bridge. “
Who's there?
”

“Not Father, thank goodness.” It was a girl's voice, with a strange accent like none Jackson had ever heard. Her words echoed, seeming to shift from one part of his mind to another. “He's furious, says the Yakonan are to blame for all the troubles, even the earth shaking. The roof of Jal's old barn fell in this time. The village is in an uproar.”

Jackson whirled to run, then whirled again. Run where?

Footsteps sounded on the bridge planks. “He and Yed have raised the banner of the Steadfast Order over the main gate. What are we going to—”

Then the girl was in Jackson's sight, leaning over the bridge railing, a look of shock on her face. “Oh! I thought you were—” she grew flustered. Fear flickered in her eyes. She looked over her shoulder, “I—I mean I was expecting—”

The girl cut herself short, took a deep breath, composed herself, then looked down again at Jackson. “You're covered with mud.” She leaned farther over the bridge railing, eyeing Jackson from head to toe. “Those are
very
strange clothes.”

Jackson gaped at his mud-smeared jacket, then back up at the girl. “
Strange?
” The word came out with a manic, desperate edge to it. “What's so strange about—”

Then he noticed what the girl was wearing: a long, loose-fitting cream-colored dress with a dark blue apron over it. Across her shoulders hung a maroon shawl, pinned at her throat with a large brooch. She appeared as if she had walked right off the pages of a book on ancient history.

Jackson looked around him again at what simply shouldn't be. His lower lip began to tremble. “What is going on?”

The girl tilted her head to one side. Her thick wavy hair, the color of honey, fell over her shoulder and down to her elbow. She pursed her lips. “You mean you don't know?”

“I have no idea!” Jackson blurted out. “Last thing I remember, I was in a cave at the base of Cougar Butte and—” An abrupt sob racked him. He choked it back. “Where
am
I?”

The girl's face softened. “In the Vale, of course.”

“The Vale?”

The girl nodded, then motioned expansively with her hands. “Yes, home to the Timmran and Yakonan people who—”

Jackson shook his head. “But that's impossible! Just a minute ago I was in
Oregon
.”

“Or-y-gun?” the girls said, stumbling over the syllables. “What is Or-y-gun?”

Jackson's answer came out in a frantic rush. “It's where I live! In Timber Grove! I was in the woods and a storm came up, and I hurt my knee, and I went into this cave and then—”

He stopped, clamping his hand over his mouth. In a sudden flash he'd realized that although he'd been thinking in English, what he'd been speaking had been something else altogether. The words had been echoing in his mind for an instant, then shifting somehow as they crossed his tongue. He stepped back, mind reeling. The girl hadn't been speaking English, either, and yet he'd understood everything she had said. This was too much, just too much. He was losing his mind.

“Could it be?” the girl murmured, her eyes filled with wonder. “I thought you were from the North, but if this Or-y-gun is just another name for the Otherworld, then …”

A cold sweat broke out on Jackson's forehead. “Oh, my God,” he mumbled, a dizzying blur of confusion crashing over him.

“Yes, of course!” the girl exclaimed. “Dedron was right! Panenthe has answered our Prayer Song and sent you to us!”

Jackson's knees buckled. He staggered forward.

“You are the Instrument.”

And everything went dark.

4. Right on the Mouth

“Here, have some Daru tea.”

The voice, soft and gentle, floated through the fog in Jackson's mind. A hand touched his arm, then moved behind his head and lifted it. He tried to open his eyes but couldn't. The lids, like his entire body, felt numb, lifeless.

“It'll bring back your strength.”

With great effort he tried again, and finally was able to force his eyelids halfway open. All he could make out was a small clay cup before him. Steam rose from it in wispy fingers, carrying a strange but pleasant scent.

“Drink.”

The cup moved forward until it touched Jackson's lips. A tiny sip passed onto his tongue. It tasted slightly sour, but good, like hot lemonade. He swallowed. A soothing trickle of warmth glided down his throat and into his stomach.

“That's it. Have more.”

The cup tilted. Jackson swallowed again, then still again as the warmth in his belly grew and began radiating out with amazing quickness, thawing the numbness first in his arms and legs, then in his fingers and toes. Up the back of his neck it went, rising like a small sun in his mind. The fog there broke, then thinned to a haze … and thinned more … until only a filmy trace of vapor remained.

“Good! You're feeling better already, aren't you? Ernt tea mixed with Daru. The combination never fails.”

Jackson blinked and opened his eyes all the way to see the girl from the bridge sitting at his side, looking down at him. Panic shot through him like quicksilver. He bolted upright, a thin blanket falling from his shoulders, but he went lightheaded and fell back to the crunch and smell of straw beneath him.

Broken images flashed across his mind: being lifted out of the mud by strong arms … a voice, then two … hands steadying him through knee-deep water, helping him up the riverbank … stumbling along a path … a gate, then a door … whispers … a dark room … the smell of wood smoke … his muddy jacket gone, then back, clean … a warm washcloth on his brow … and through it all talk about things—an instrument or something—that made no sense.

Jackson shook his head.
Nothing
made any sense. “Tell me I'm not crazy,” he begged. “Tell me this isn't real.”

The girl's face came closer, her forehead furrowed with concern. She smoothed the blanket and tucked it under Jackson's chin. “But it
is
real. You've been sent to us, and you're in my home in the village of Timmra. And whenever you're ready we can go and you can fix the Shaw-Mara and stop the Baen from …”

Her words trailed off as Jackson struggled up onto his elbows, frantically looking for a way to escape, a way to get back to reality. A small fire burned on an open hearth a few feet away. From its dim, flickering light he could make out a crude table and benches built of rough-hewn planks, a wooden barrel, a clay crock, windowless walls of straw and mud, a heavy door bolted shut. He was trapped.

Fear and confusion merged in Jackson to form a desperate anger. “
What is this place?
” he demanded. It was like nothing he'd ever known. There were no signs of electricity or running water, much less a TV or phone. “
Where have you taken me?
”

The girl flinched at Jackson's harshness, but her voice held steady. “I was afraid you were getting sick, that the journey from the Otherworld had weakened you. I thought that if I brought you to my house and gave you my special teas, it would help you to rest.” She tried to force a smile. “My teas are good. Dedron's mother showed me how to gather the roots, then burn the skin off in hot coals and boil the pith down. A little of the dried paste goes a long way. You've been asleep for two days.”

“
Two days?
” Jackson flung the blanket onto the floor. Oh, man, was he in trouble now. Dad would kill him!

The girl's face went red. Her mouth set into a firm line. She stood and picked up the blanket. “You don't have to be rude. I was just trying to—”

“Trying to
what
?” Jackson demanded. He lunged off the straw bed and grabbed her arm. “Make me crazy? This is not real! Say it isn't!
Say it!
”

“No!” The girl jerked free of Jackson's grip, but in doing so she fell back, tripping over a bench. Spinning as she went down, she crashed against the plank table with a sharp cry. “Ow!”

Jackson's anger dissolved in a great rush of guilt. “I'm sorry. Are you all right?” He hadn't meant to shout so loud. He hadn't meant to grab her like that. “Really, I'm sorry. It's just that …” Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes. “It's just that I … I don't understand what's happening to me.”

The girl clutched her side. Her voice trembled as she spoke, but there was steel in it. “What is happening is that you are the answer to our prayers. You can save everything, my life.”

Jackson gawked. “Save your life?
Me?
”

The girl took a deep breath and pushed her long hair back over her shoulders, then straightened herself. Her eyes glistened with intense emotion, and for the first time Jackson noticed, even in the dim light from the fire, how incredibly blue they were, like the sky on a clear autumn day. It was as if he could see through them into her soul. And he realized that despite her nose (which was kind of big) and her freckles (he'd never liked freckles), what he saw there struck him as … yes, beautiful. Not beautiful like Melissa Porter at Timber Grove Middle School, not like those fashion models he'd seen on magazine covers at the Stop and Go Market, but, in some way that he couldn't put his finger on, beautiful just the same.

And she was taking one of his hands in hers. “Help us,” she said, her voice now as soft and warm as her fingers. “Please.”

“Uh—well,” Jackson stammered. Never in his life had a girl held his hand. Girls had always acted like he didn't even exist.

The girl stood and moved close to him, her autumn-sky eyes gazing deeply into his. “You have the Power,” she said, grazing his cheek with her fingertips. “I can feel it. Use it to help the people of the Vale and you'll be a great hero.”

“A hero?” For a moment the image of himself as someone important, someone famous, filled Jackson's head. He could see it all: the cheering crowds, throngs of people singing his name, lines of fans begging for his autograph. He'd give anything for even just a day of that. Anything! Imagine the feeling. Just imagine. Wow!

But then, as if turning a corner to find himself facing a mirror, Jackson almost laughed aloud at his own ridiculousness. This was just more unreal craziness. A hero he was not. Never had been, never would be. He was Jackson Cooper from Oregon, not the Otherworld or wherever she thought he was from. He shook his head.

“Look,” he said, “I'd like to help—”

“Wonderful!” The girl broke in, grinning with delight. “Dedron said not to give up hope! He knew!” And before Jackson could say another word, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him right on the mouth.

5. Jackson Cooper—Jackson Cooper

At the touch of the girl's lips, Jackson felt as if a cage door had been flung open and he'd floated out and up into the air. The fear, the anger, the heaviness of only a moment before all vanished, replaced by a lightness so startling it made him dizzy.

Could it be? Had it really happened? Had he actually been kissed? He'd spent hours dreaming that one day a girl might notice him, want to talk,
really
talk, something more than “Can I borrow a pencil?” or “What's our math homework?” He'd imagined them eating together in the cafeteria, meeting at her locker between classes, going downtown for fries at the Dairy Queen after school, or just for a walk by the riv
er, or maybe even to a movie on the weekend. But to really actually be kissed? No matter how hard he'd tried, he'd never been able to conjure up in his mind what it might feel like. It had seemed beyond dreaming, unreal.