The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four) (13 page)

Andrew nodded, and slowly took the key. He
walked over to the chest. It was a great chest, with a hefty lock
on the front of it. He bent down and touched its dirty surface.
Almost instantly the chest throbbed with subdued sounds, shouts,
moanings, and loud thump, thump, thumps.

Startled, he jumped away from it, nearly
falling. He stared at the thumping, throbbing chest that held what
words Andrew dared not imagine. What words were locked inside that
chest, what words had he not yet said, but should have?

Footprints

Andrew lay on the ground, near Freddie’s cot, with a
pillow under his head, listening to Croffin snore.

During the night, Freddie had slept soundly,
almost noiselessly. Andrew however had not. The chest Drust and
Whab had dredged up from the earth throbbed incessantly, waking him
every time he fell asleep, pounding as if begging to be freed.
Andrew held the key in his hands, wanting nothing more than to open
the chest, to free himself of the noise. How tempting it was to
open the chest, how easy to free himself of the burden. But he had
given his word. Whab and Drust were counting on him to open it when
the time was right, and not a moment before.

He yawned and sat up, unsure if it was
morning or still night outside. He stood over Freddie watching him
sleep.

“Don’t you worry,” Drust said behind him,
Whab is an excellent doctor. He gave him medicine that will ease
the pain, and help him sleep for many hours. Oh, don’t look so
concerned. Sleep will help him heal better than if he were awake
and in pain.”

“How long will he be asleep?” Andrew
asked.

“Probably well into the day, and most of the
night.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t feel any pain,”
Andrew said.

“Oh, Whab made sure of that. He is sleeping
soundly, without pain, you can be assured.”

“Good,” Andrew breathed, setting himself on a
chair, and closing his eyes. “I should have asked Whab to give me
some of that sleeping potion. That chest kept me awake most of the
night.”

“Did it, indeed?” Drust asked, bumbling
around the cave, with a single candle lit. “I didn’t hear a
thing.”

Andrew frowned, wondering if the man was
deaf. Drust was staring at the shelves filled with the jars of
footprints. He drummed his large toes against the floor as if very
pleased with himself. Drust’s pocket’s bulged with scavenged
footprints. And over his shoulders were small satchels of
footprints he had collected while Andrew had been asleep. He
unloaded his sand-filled pockets into empty jars, labeling them
with care. After that task was done, he put the jars back on the
shelves. Each bottle looked unique and different. There were labels
on the every jar, ranging from every kind of footprint imaginable,
from dog, to human, to bird, to monster. When Drust had finished
emptying his pockets, he stared at the shelves filled with his
jars, in pleasure, as if he was looking at a large bookshelf filled
with his favorite novels. “Andrew, by the way. I forgot to tell
you. I have found something that might interest you.”

“What?”

Drust looked from side to side, making sure
no one was listening. “The Drought.”

Andrew stood up, and faced Drust. “How do you
know I’m interested in finding him?”

Drust breathed out, and drummed his fingers
against the bottles of footprints. “You want to stop him, don’t
you?”

“Yes…but…”

“But what?”

“I don’t know where he is, or how to stop
him.”

Drust closed his eyes, and moaned. “Oh,
Andrew. You don’t have to know every step you take before you begin
a journey. You start. You take the first step. You know where you
want to go, but you leave the rest to be found. The journey is what
gives the story of your life meaning. The hidden byways, the paths
of sunshine laced with shadow, and music. All of it is yours for
you to discover. If you knew what lies ahead, the mystery, the joy,
the possibility would be gone. To not know should not be a burden,
but a blessing, a gift, a journey that is yours to discover. You
don’t know it, but you find it, you experience it, you enjoy it,
endure it, command it, and conquer it. It finds you, and you find
it. You find beams of light on undiscovered paths. That is the key
to all journeys. If you get lost, you ask directions. If you
stumble, you get back up. If you don’t know where you are, you look
to something higher than yourself for guidance. You can’t
plan ahead for what is to come. You become
open---a tool, something free and good. Yours is to act, to step,
to run, to move, to have faith. That is your job. You want to break
The Drought. That is enough. When you need to find out how, you
will. You posses a gift to see both strengths and weaknesses. But
not a second before you need to know. That is the way of the road,
the way of all journeys.”

Andrew took a deep breath. “So…you really
know where The Drought is?”

Drust nodded. “I do.” He turned to his vast
shelves of bottles, and scanned them, his fingers hovering over the
bottles as he pushed and shoved them, looking for the desired one.
“Now where did I put it? I’m always hiding things from myself,” he
murmured, grabbing one of his chairs, and standing on it to reach
the higher shelves. He scooted back several blue and red bottles
marked: “Mismatched prints, terribly boring. Good for confusing,”
and withdrew a large, rusty, red bottle with a clay-like powder
filling it.

“I have it!” he cried, grabbing the bottle,
and stepping down from the chair. Drust leaned over a small table
in the corner of the room and beckoned for Andrew to watch.

Drust uncorked the rusty-colored bottle and
poured the sandy clay-dirt on top of the table. As the dirt fell
from the bottle, and settled it formed several perfect footprints,
as if the sand had somehow been chained together like links of
armor.

Andrew stared at the prints, unsure of what
he saw. They were footprints. But not like any he’d seen before.
They were large, and shaped very much like a man’s footprints.
Except within each print were dozens of squiggles, like waves of
heat burned into the sand. The sand surrounding the prints
glittered a golden hue, and gave off a warm glow. Just to look at
the footprints, made Andrew suddenly thirsty.

“Amazing,” Andrew breathed. “Whose are
they?”

“Whose do you think? The Drought’s
footprints, of course!”

“Oh.”

“Oh, is all you can say?”

“Sorry, I don’t know what else to say.”

“Say, ‘thank you Drust. How clever you are
for finding The Drought’s footprint.’”

Andrew chuckled, and nodded. “Thank you
Drust. You are clever.”

Drust grinned, then leaned in close to the
footprints and inspected each imprint, each squiggle, each line,
with careful eyes. After a long time he stood up and stared at
Andrew, his brown eyes glistening in the candlelight. His face was
very solemn. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep, and laced
with foreboding. “The Drought is closer than you think he is.”

“Where?” Andrew asked, accidentally leaning
in too close and smudging part of the footprint with his elbow.

Drust’s eyes filled with wrath. “You just had
to go and do that! Mess up perfectly good footprints. You probably
don’t even watch where you step. I’ll bet you are that nasty type
who messes up perfectly beautiful tracks in the clean, white snow
with your big, clunking feet!”

“I don’t have big feet,” Andrew protested.
“You do.”

Drust's face reddened. He chewed on his lower
lip, and breathed out slowly. “Yes. I suppose I do. But that’s
beside the point.” He pointed to the footprint. “Morack summoned
The Drought. Gave it life. The Shade put him up to it. He knew that
once you destroyed his trees, the grip of darkness held over men’s
hearts might slacken. The Drought was summoned purposely to restore
The Fallen’s balance, and keep all in fear and obedience. Andrew,
you must stop it before you release the unsaid words, or they will
have no effect on the people. People who are starving and thirsty
only care for their hunger and thirst to be quenched, nothing
else.

Andrew’s face fell. An overwhelming feeling
of guilt crept in around him accusing him of the suffering he had
witnessed. “So everything Croffin said was true.
I am
responsible for this Drought. If I hadn’t destroyed The Shade’s
trees, I wouldn’t have brought this upon the world.”

“But you did,” Drust said. “And I’m glad you
did.”

“Morack was the one who summoned The Drought,
not you.”

“That doesn’t really make me feel much
better,” Andrew replied.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel better. You
are the only one who can make yourself feel better. I was merely
stating a fact. And the fact is, if it was you who caused The
Drought to be summoned, it is you who must stop it before it stops
you. I gathered The Drought’s tracks not many days ago. By their
age, I can tell that these tracks are only a few days old. His
steps were deliberate, full of purpose. He has covered much land.
His reach has spread out farther than I first supposed. Only a few
northern kingdoms have been spared from his parching gaze. He heads
now to the sea to evaporate it.

“The sea?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, the sea. Don’t act so dumbfounded. It
is to be expected after the great and terrible roots of The Shade’s
trees were yanked from the earth. All felt the jolt as you downed
them. Something just as terrible had to replace them---a Drought so
powerful and potent that fear would grip the world tighter than
before. So great a Drought has not walked upon the earth
before---one that has covered much ground in so little time, and
has stayed this long. If he is allowed to persist, all the oceans
and waterways will dry up, and all men will surely be lost.”

Andrew chewed his lower lip, thinking. “How
far is it to the ocean from here?”

“Not very far. Perhaps two or three days’
journey.”

“Three days? He will be gone before we get
there. And if The Drought is as terrible as you say, then the ocean
will be gone, as well.”

“No.” Drust said, his eyes growing dark. “He
waits for you. He will wait until you come.”

“He’s waiting for me? But why?”

“You are the reason for his existence. The
creation yearns to behold its creator. It wishes to defy you. To
destroy you. And it will, if you are not careful.”

Andrew sat back in his chair and sighed. “I
never asked for this. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t know if
I can do it.”

Drust lowered his brows, scrutinizing Andrew.
“You may not ask for trouble. But when you act, you must face the
consequences of your actions. The Drought is one of those
consequences. And you must face it!”

Andrew nodded. “Yes. You’re right. I won’t
run from it. I will face it, though I haven’t a clue what to do
when that time comes.”

Drust scooted the sandy footprint back into
the bottle, corking the jar tightly. “I knew you would. You are a
good lad. Like I said before, you will know what to do when you are
faced with that choice.”

Escape

Andrew had spent the day browsing Drust’s collection
of footprints, feeling ill at ease and pensive. The large chest of
unsaid words hummed and throbbed like a disturbed beehive.

Freddie had slept most of the day, and so had
Croffin. Andrew figured Croffin was catching up on all his missed
sleep. He wished that he could do the same.

Whab had spent the day caring for Freddie’s
wounds, with great care and consideration. He was as silent, as he
was sincere. He had tried to make Andrew comfortable as well.
Though they didn’t have much food, Whab and Drust had graciously
shared what little they had.

During most of the day, Drust had been out
collecting footprints. Now that it was evening, Whab was out, and
Drust was sweeping the floors, though Andrew couldn’t understand
why. He swept the dirt floors with such intensity that it caused a
great red dust to fill the cave. Still he swept. Swish, swish
swish.

Andrew coughed, and fanned the air. “What are
you doing?”

“I’m sweeping!” Drust answered. “What do you
think?”

As the dust settled, Whab appeared at the
cave door, his face stricken, his eyes bulging from their sockets,
his mouth pregnant with words that he couldn’t say. He had a purple
bruise on his forehead, and blood dripped from a cut in his
cheek.

“Whab?” Drust asked. “Are you okay?”

Whab stood there for a moment, dazed

“Whab!” Drust cried, shaking him. “What
happened?”

As if awoken from a trance, Whab broke free
of Drust, and ran to a small drawer. He drew out a small piece of
parchment, and wrote the words with a long quill and ink.
They know the boy is here. They know what he
intends to do with the chest of unsaid words. They are coming. He
and his friends must leave now, or it will be too late.