Thunder: The Shadows Are Stirring (Thunder Stories Book 1) (4 page)

A throat-clearing snore erupts from the bed below me. Ha! Opportunity: I recognize the vulnerability of my brothers. Without a sound, I climb out of bed, pillow in hand. Ready to move into attack mode, I realize I can barely stand, much less heft a pillow. My thigh muscles twinge in a way that tells me our horseback ride belongs in the “Reality” column in my mind.

Dropping my pillow, I experiment with my arms, making small rotations to feel out which movements are still manageable. Judging by the sting, my skin has been shredded; but I can bend my elbows without tearing any scabs, so I’m guessing ointment has been applied. I can even smell a familiar pine scent. Moving my hands over my body, I decide the “Fantasy” column I’ve started in my head will remain sadly empty. Over the material of the clean shirt I am now wearing, my fingers bump into small bandages and tender bruises.

As I lift my shirt over my stomach to check a gash along my ribcage, the bedroom door opens without warning. Feeling awkward, I yank down my hem and don’t know where to look. I haven’t seen a person beside my brothers in way too long, and even if this is Gunther, I feel a sudden lack of social skills. I stare at my feet, frozen.

“You guys awake?” a stranger’s voice asks.

So. Not Gunther.

My eyes lift and meet the friendly gaze of a boy about my age, maybe a year or two older. His eyes are green and when I realize I’m staring, I glance back down, but not before I notice the quirk of his lips. I did
not
even just do a double take. Did I? Cripes, how embarrassing. I refocus my brain. He must be one of Gunther’s kids, and the thought crosses my mind that we might be, too.

Both Sam and Jamie groan from their beds, and Jamie tries to turn over, but goes the wrong way and thumps to the ground. I’d laugh, but if his body feels anything like mine, that little tumble hurt a lot. I reach out my hands and help him to his feet, keeping ahold of his wrist once I realize he grounds me enough to respond to the stranger-guy.

“Hey, yeah, uh, we’re getting up now ….” My voice fades away. Brilliant. I could not have spoken with more sophistication or poise.

The infectious grin flashes again. “Well, when you’re ready, the Ol’ Man’s got some lunch for you in the kitchen.” He raises an eyebrow. “He’s been worried about all of you; you should get down there soon.” Keeping his eyes on me, he backs into the hallway, adding, “My name’s Ethan. There are other kids around, too. They kind of come and go, though. Right now the place is almost empty. Anyway, come down when you’re ready.” He tips his head and leaves.

“Thanks!” I call at his retreating back.

Before I do anything else, I check on Sam. I’ve just remembered his bloody shirt. Bad, bad sister—how could that have slipped my mind?

Though he’s pale, Sam is awake and claims to be fine. Lifting his tee to prove his point, I see fresh white gauze taped diagonally across his chest. No blood, no ooze. He’s got several good cuts and scrapes across his torso and running down his arms, but they already seem to be fading. I’m impressed because it had looked awful the day before.

“What happened to you anyway?” I ask, gesturing to where he’s rearranging his shirt. “And what was that
thing
?” At the thought of the beast, my pulse quickens. Then it stutters at the memory of what I’d witnessed from the horse’s back. There’s some sort of connection here, I’m sure of it, but the pieces shift and slide from my grasp before I can hold onto anything concrete.

“I don’t know, Livs.” Sam shakes his head and his hair falls into his eyes. “Jamie and I were climbing around, doing some target practice. He was aiming into a crevice between these rocks, which were forever away. It was awesome; it went clean through the gap. Since we couldn’t see where the arrow landed, I climbed a tree to trace it. That’s when the bushes started flattening and this crazy bear thing came charging in our direction. I yelled for Jamie to run and I fell out of the tree. A branch must’ve jabbed me before I hit ground. And, well, we ran.” He trails off and glances over at Jamie, who’s standing barefoot in the doorway. “That’s all, isn’t it, Squirt?”

Jamie makes a face at the nickname, but agrees. “Uh-huh, that’s pretty much it. ’Cept it looked like the same thing that went for our car, when we were on the horse.” I can see his brain processing and I wonder what connections he’ll make. The kid’s quick.

His face doesn’t reveal much besides a slow wash of sadness. When he talks his voice is even. “Everything really happened to us, huh? Mom and Dad died in the crash, which was caused by some animal and not another car or anything. I know we thought they were gone, but seeing it …. And nothing makes sense. The horse was straight out of Mom’s stories. And now we’re at Mr. Gunther’s, where we were supposed to be in the first place. How’d we get here?” He stares at Sam like he really wants him to shout, “GOTCHA!” Instead, Sam and I glance at each other and shrug.

We have no explanation for anything.

My stomach growls. “Alright,” I decide. “Let’s find the showers and track down Mr. Gunther. He’s got to know something.”

~~~

O
NCE WE’RE WALKING DOWN THE STAIRS
, wearing fresh clothes we’d found in our closet, our new reality hits me. We have to pass through a huge living room full of stuffed chairs and ottomans and dark leather couches—not the type that feel stiff and plastic. These couches are supple and warm, the kind that can swallow you up and by the time they spit you back out, you’re as soft as melted butter.

The room, with walls painted a deep golden yellow, has splashes of cranberry, sage, and slate blue in the details. Built-in shelves with more curios, books, and board games flank a stone fireplace so huge, I could stand in it. Two ceiling fans hang from the vaulted ceiling, which is spanned by thick wooden crossbeams. Several large plate-glass windows almost fill an entire wall space, facing the front of the house where the land falls away into cliffs and boulders and ancient trees.

With my whole issue of heights, I’d never been able to make myself look out these windows. Now it’s this view that makes me gasp. Not for its belly-dropping altitude, nor for its wild beauty, but because it’s almost a duplicate of where we’ve lived for the last year and a half. I flash to the way the land there seemed to change and offer different landscapes for us to explore. It’s how we practiced the survival techniques from those books. Our cave seems to have been placed in the center of some pieced-together crazy-quilt of Gunther’s own property and surrounding views. Turned inside out, shown a fragment at a time, I had not made the connection before.

I can’t help it—I swat the back of Sam’s head and jut my chin in the direction of the windows and the view, which now makes me queasy for a whole new reason.

Sam rubs his head, but all he says is, “Yeah. I know.” And he keeps on walking.

We round a corner into the kitchen, and there we find
home
.

Chapter Two: Gunther’s Story

(OLIVIA)

G
UNTHER
, who’d been leaning against a counter, practically leaps across the floor and manages to both pull us in for a colossal bear hug and push us away to read our faces. At roughly 6’4’’, Gunther is muscled enough to look intimidating without being bulky. He’s remarkably agile and obviously athletic, but he is the kindest, warmest soul ever. He’s our uncle through and through.

He slaps a plate into each of our hands, nudges us to seats at the polished rock-slab bar, rumbles “food first, details later,” and sits down to watch us. He shows no surprise we have shown up at his house after one and a half years of … well, I don’t know what the term would be. Had we been considered missing? Dead? And he plainly isn’t planning to ask
us
any questions. Apparently ‘details later’ refers to both of our stories.

My eyes eat off the plate before my mouth gets in on the action. We haven’t had regular homemade food in far too long, and Gunther has taken care to prepare a meal he knows we all like. We dig into wild rice and chicken salad with walnuts (a mixture we roll up in lettuce leaves), assorted fresh berries, cheese cubes, mini carrot sticks, and small glasses of milk. Of the chocolate variety, still frothy from stirring. Heaven! Though it’s good to eat, we want to get going on the ‘details’ bit of the program, so we swallow fast.

Gunther’s eyes have never left our faces, as if by sheer will he can stare us into feeling normal again. Which is kind of working for me. I’ve seen him do this before, with his other charges. It’s like his eyes are saying you’re the one person in the whole world who can reach your fullest and best mind-blowing potential. I mean, since he looks at everyone like that (and even expects it), it means you’re actually not the only person who can reach that potential, but still … I guess it’s all in the expectation.

“Mr. Gunther ….” I state. Whoa, I’m feeling bold! I’m talking first
and
making eye contact. Mr. Gunther is what we’ve called him since we were wee little nubbins, dangling from his ankles, coveting rides down the hallways during our frequent visits. Maybe it’s easier adjusting to him, since we knew him well.

He holds up his large brown hand and motions to the kitchen, indicating our being babied is over. We need to take care of our dishes. He’s always been big on responsibility, and it does us good to be thrown back into the game of being regular people.

When everything is tidied, Gunther grins us his thanks and herds us to his study. This room is navy blue, trimmed with mahogany paneling. Wherever there’s wall, desk or shelf space, he has photos. His foster kids, his friends; his travels, their travels. Very eclectic and inclusive.

The three of us perch on a small velour couch, which in reality is so cozy it wants to suck us into its depths, but we are anxious for information. Gunther pulls over his desk chair, his body carefully relaxed.

Sam takes initiative this time. “What’s been happening, sir? Do you know?”

“Well, now, son ….” He leans forward a smidge, his dark eyes sliding out of focus as if searching for the right starting point. “I suppose I have a fragment of a tale for you. Not the whole of it just yet; some of it will have to wait till tomorrow when more of my kids can get here. However, this part of the story is yours and you might do better hearing it alone. If you don’t mind, I’ll spin it in story form. Though, as I said, some things I’m leaving out until tomorrow.”

We bob our heads in a whatever-just-tell-us motion.

“Well, then. Once upon a time there were two amazing children—” Here I twitch; it sounds so much like my mom’s opening line “—named Joseph and Julia. They lived here and there in several different homes. Some of these were loving environments, others were decidedly not. The two met one day in a cabin at the tip top of a beautiful mountain where—”

I interrupt without meaning to. “Wait, I thought they met at some summer camp, like they were counselors together or something. I mean, they were always talking about Circle Time around a bonfire and the kids and—” Jamie kicks me in the ankle in a not-so-subtle ‘be quiet and mind your manners’ gesture. Gunther, himself, shoots me the hairy eyeball and I bite my lip.

“Tomorrow, you’ll understand a little better, I think. Today, you listen.” And he picks up where he’d left off. “—where someone watched over and guided them to their True Purpose.”

“Wait, I knew you were Dad’s ‘Big Brother.’ But, you’re saying our parents were both, like,
here
, here? They were some of your
foster
kids?” Kick! This time from Sam.

“Eh-hem. True. Purpose. Kids in the system stay in the system until they’re eighteen. Sometimes, at this point, they need a spot to land for a rest; other times they need something to boot them in the rear. This beautiful mountain seemed to provide for
all
needs. The two amazing children accomplished many great and amazing deeds, which benefitted humankind. When they grew to adulthood and welcomed three amazing children of their own into their lives, they had one request of their mentor: Could he please accept full custody of their offspring should anything dire occur. The request was granted and, one snowy evening, was put into use.”

Gunther pauses and studies each of our faces, searching for understanding. This time I can’t find it in myself to ask.

“There was an accident, of sorts. The authorities were relieved to discover the parents had been traveling alone to join their children, who had preceded them to a holiday destination. In fact, the children were already in their new guardian’s care, and very little paperwork had to be shuffled. They would live at the tip top of that mountain.

“What the authorities did not know—nor could anyone else for that matter—were the specific ‘where’ and ‘how long’ of the physical arrival of those three children. Each child has his own story to live and his own lessons to learn.

“These particular three apparently have dangerous and important feats to accomplish, and therefore were faced with quite a longer training period than most. And were introduced to something they were not prepared to meet. Yet, they made it through. And have now arrived.” Gunther takes a deep breath. “That is the story. There is no ending yet, for it is still being written. Do you understand, children?”