Drinking Life (Keeper of the Water Book 1)

DRINKING LIFE

Keeper of the Water: Part One

By: Kevin George

This is a work of fiction. All stories are products of the author’s imagination, not to be construed as real. Copyright 2011.

I’m the first person to see the attackers though I have plenty of reason to be focused elsewhere. I don’t know how, but it’s like I sensed the danger approaching and looked up in time to see a pair of behemoths charging out of the nearby woods. In the split second I first lay eyes on them, my mind registers every minor detail: two men standing well above six feet, biceps rippling like steroid-laced professional wrestlers. One has long, greasy blond hair and wields a sword almost as long as his body; the other has brown hair just as long and greasy and wields a massive axe. Their teeth are equally brown and rotted, evil sneers of blood lust plastered across their lips. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’re both ugly but I can’t see their faces behind metal helmets that cover their heads and most of their faces. A single slit in their helmets allows them to see, their eyes focused in my direction.

Had I not spotted the attackers right away, I surely would have heard them soon after they appeared from the trees. They wear matching suits of armor that cover their chests and legs,
clattering
and
clanging
with every step they run. I can’t imagine how a normal human could
walk
in such bulky suits let alone run but the two don’t seem slowed at all. For the second time in seconds, my mind surprises me with something else I can’t quite explain: somehow, I know these soldiers are from the Spanish Armada.

Logically, I think this should be some sort of ill-advised joke. This type of soldier hasn’t been seen for centuries. Others around me must have the same thought. It takes only a few seconds for the first scream to cry out from the large crowd. I stop staring at the soldiers once I feel a heavy smash against the back of my leg; I’d almost forgotten I was in the most important game of my life.

Did I forget to mention that I’m in the middle of a field hockey game? And not just
any
game. It’s the semi-finals of the Colorado State championships and our bleachers are filled more than I’ve ever seen. The crowds have grown increasingly larger throughout the year and though it’s embarrassing to admit,
I’m
the reason for the increase in interest. From what I’ve heard, soccer has always been the game of choice at my high school; the fastest, most athletic girls gravitated to the sport with the richer tradition here. The soccer coach witnessed my natural athleticism in gym class—I’m pretty much good at every sport I try—and practically begged me to join her squad. But soccer isn’t rough enough for my taste, not enough action to get my juices flowing. Field hockey has an element of danger with the solid wooden sticks swinging wildly and the rock hard ball just an errant swing away from smashing someone’s face.

I know that makes me sound a bit crazy but I promise I’m not a violent person. The competition brings out a primal side of me that nothing else can; it taps into my soul, allows me to become a totally different person than I usually am. And it’s worked out with great success on the field. I led the entire state in goals despite this being my first year playing. My mother never wanted me to play sports but when we moved to a new school during my senior year, she finally agreed to sign my permission slip. Supposedly my team never even had a winning record before I showed up but here we are now, playing for a chance to reach the title game.

The team we’re playing is tough—not exactly the most skilled girls but some of them look like they could be related to the huge soldiers. We jumped out to a big lead—I scored three goals alone in the first half—before the other team started to get dirty. I took plenty of whacks to the knees and shins and barely avoided having my teeth knocked out by an ‘unintentional’ high stick. These chicks became nastier once they realized defeat was imminent but I didn’t care. No matter how much they try to injure me—no matter how many times I get hit with the club-like back of their hockey sticks—they never slow me down. I’ve always had an uncanny ability to take a lot of punishment without getting hurt, though that didn’t stop them from trying. But they only succeeded in fueling my fire and I nailed home two more goals in the opening minutes of the second half.

That was around the time when the first distraction came. My coach always praised me for my focus (not to mention my speed, size and agility). I barely noticed the huge crowd during the first half. My parents couldn’t make the game—a last minute business opportunity too good to pass up in this bad economy—so there was little reason to look at the sea of faces watching the game. I’d heard a few of my teammates mention that some reporters from the local newspapers had come but I didn’t try to find them;
nothing
could distract me from winning.

Or so I thought.

Soon after I scored the fifth goal, I felt one particular set of eyes focused on me. I guess this is how some girls feel when a cute guy is looking in their direction. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a boyfriend or even gone on a date. But the eyes I felt watching me belonged to the furthest thing from a cute guy. The bleachers along both sidelines were packed but a lone old man stood beyond the field behind my team’s goal. He openly stared at me and nobody else. I couldn’t help but keep glancing over my shoulder at him.

It’s not like it’s the first time anyone’s ever stared at me. At just over six feet, I’m taller than every other girl in my entire school and I look nothing like the others. My olive complexion and long black hair make me stand out in a crowd, whether I want to or not. I’m obviously the tallest girl on the field but my mother always tells me I look the most graceful, not hunched and awkward the way other girls appear with their sticks in hand. My father describes my hockey stick like an extension of my arm but I think he’s being a bit too poetic.

“Come on, Zannia, eyes forward,” my coach finally yelled at me. I’d missed a chance to score another goal but that probably wouldn’t matter in the end.

Still, I forced myself to get my head back in the game and didn’t look over my shoulder again. And when I
did
peek at the old man a few times while running back on defense, I made sure my coach didn’t notice. Upon closer inspection, I realized he wasn’t merely old, more like
ancient
. His wrinkles had wrinkles. I could hardly believe he could stand without a cane or walker or something. But his eyes were alive and didn’t miss a single one of my movements. I wondered whose grandfather had come to watch the game…

I’ve barely forgotten the old man when the attackers rush the field. The girls on the other team are confused and I think some might be foolish enough to trying fighting them. But the screams from both sides of the crowd send everyone scattering, my team and the other. Chaos ensues around me. When it’s clear that the field is the soldiers’ target, both coaches rush to get in the way.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” my coach yells. He’s usually a pushover but his mad-voice comes out every once in a while (but rarely directed at me). I guess interrupting his chance to make it to states is reason enough. “You better get off my field before – ”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish. The brown-haired soldier smashes him in the face with the handle of his ax. Despite the sounds of chaos around me, I still hear the
crack
of my coach’s nose and see the spatter of blood. The blond-haired soldier follows with a swift kick that drops him to the ground. The other team’s coach turns and runs off before becoming the second victim. If there was any doubt whether this is merely a prank, my coach’s crumpled, bleeding form has answered that. He’s totally helpless and the soldiers could finish him off with one blow from their weapons but they continue forward. Coach obviously isn’t their main target.

The first attack has whipped the crowd into a frenzy. They push and trip over each other to get off the bleachers. Instinctively I look for familiar faces in the crowd—it’s rare that my father misses a game. Of course he’s not there but that makes me think of another person usually with him, someone else not here today. With the soldiers near and the field area quickly emptying, I turn to our bench and see Cassie sitting all alone, frozen in shock.

Cassie is the closest thing to a friend I’ve got though she’s a year younger than me and we’re total opposites. In fact, most times we don’t even like each other much. If we didn’t share a common bond, we probably would’ve avoided each other like the plague. But Cassie’s mother and my parents have been business partners as long as I can remember. Every time we’ve had to move—every different school we’ve had to start anew—Cassie and I have gone through it together. Usually we stick together the first few days before she attaches herself with the popular crowd, the ‘cool kids’ who thrive on being cruel to anyone that dared be different from them. Popular girls never like me, probably because I refuse to act the way they act, something Cassie has never had qualms about.

I still can’t believe Cassie’s even on the team. I imagine she’s not very athletic but I couldn’t tell you for sure; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her run or attempt a sports-related movement. Her mother forced her to join the team—Celeste was always trying to keep the two of us together. I’m sure the only reason Cassie hasn’t gotten kicked off the team is because she and I come as a package. If Cassie wasn’t on the team, my mother wouldn’t let me either. So Cassie spent the season on the bench, trying to look as cute as she could in her ‘hideous’ field hockey skirt.

My brain tells me to escape the soldiers like the rest of the crowd, to grab Cassie by the hand and drag her to safety. After all, the soldiers seem to run straight for me. But a strange calmness washes over me in the face of danger. I remain still, standing between Cassie and the attackers. My instinct is to fight, to protect, to stop anyone who tries to hurt me or Cassie. The
last
thing I want to do is run.

My field hockey stick is still in hand but not for long. I take aim at the closest soldier and hurl it at him. The curved, solid bottom of the stick crashes into the facemask of the brown-haired soldier’s helmet. Apparently, the metal isn’t thick enough because he drops like a ton of bricks, blood from his face and mouth exploding.

That’s for you, Coach,
I think to myself. But there’s no time for gloating. The other soldier is stunned by the sight of his partner writhing on the ground but it only slows him a moment. Luckily for me, players from both teams dropped their sticks before running away, leaving me a field full of weapons. I grab the nearest hockey stick and hurl it at the second attacker. But I no longer have the element of surprise in my favor. He swats it aside with his long sword. I aim lower for my next throw but his body armor must be thicker than the helmets. The hockey stick
pings
harmlessly off of his leg.

I’m out of room and have no more weapons close enough to grab. The blond soldier swings his massive sword at me. Though he moves with the speed of an expert swordsman, everything seems to slow down for me, like I know exactly what he’s going to do. This is the same feeling that sometimes overcomes me in the middle of games, allowing me to be the best player on the field. But unlike those times,
this
time I see the glint of sunlight shining off the razor-sharp blade speeding toward my neck.

I dive to the ground as the sword barely misses my head. I roll out of the way as the blade smashes the grass beside me. The soldier stabs down at me time and time again, grunting with the exertion of each attempted death strike. I continue to roll and dive out of the way until I come across a few more hockey sticks, which I grab and use to block his sword. I swing at his legs and sweep them out from under him. He falls like a massive oak tree.

I scramble to my feet and consider running away but the other soldier—his face still spurting blood from beneath his mask—has recovered and charges me with his huge ax. He swings wildly but I pirouette out of the way and swing my wooden weapon, crushing him in the back of head, sending him smashing into his partner in a symphony of
crashing
metal. I’m like a deadly ballerina and I don’t let them off the hook. As they struggle to untangle themselves from one another, I rain down blows of my own, making sure they think twice before coming after me or Cassie or my team ever again.

The soldiers yell at me in a language I don’t understand. It’s probably not a stretch to imagine them calling me all sorts of unflattering names. It’s not bloodlust that keeps me continuing my assault on the downed soldiers. Instead overwhelming urge to protect has gripped my soul. I keep beating them until their metal suits are seriously dented and I splinter both hockey sticks.

I finally stop when I feel a strange tingle in the back of my brain, like something is suddenly inside my mind. I look down at the pair of wounded soldiers and feel a sense of worry, a feeling that almost seems disconnected from everything else I’ve experienced throughout the attack. This sensation is almost as confusing as the attack itself. But as suddenly as this feeling arrived in my mind, it disappears. I grab the nearest hockey stick, waiting for the soldiers to get up.

My opponents still fumble on the ground so I steal a quick glance at the crowd rushing away. Most of them are reaching the parking lot several hundred feet away. Parents drag their daughters to safety but I don’t think any of them were in serious danger in the first place. I’m pretty sure the soldiers were after me, though I have no proof to back that up except yet another strange feeling in a series of inexplicable events.

My mind recalls the first of those events: spotting the mysterious old man. I see a few glimpses of him among the fleeing crowd though he remains still, his eyes glued on me. I’m starting to seriously doubt whether he’s simply someone’s grandfather. I’m drawn to him and want to call out or rush over to him but the
rustling
of metal forces my attention back to the soldiers. They both stand and retrieve their weapons, towering over me just a few feet away. Hockey sticks in hand, I crouch in a defensive stance, ready for the next attack. But the soldiers glance at each other—see the blood flowing on each others’ faces—before simultaneously turning and running back toward the forest.