Thunder: The Shadows Are Stirring (Thunder Stories Book 1) (33 page)

Where the path leaves off, a short steppingstone walkway leads right to the front door. The door, made from a dark wood, has a variety of leaves and acorns carved all over it. The exterior walls are shingled and the windows, some of which are hidden in little peaks around the house, are gridded with small square panes. Flowerbeds, planted around the porch, bloom with late color, despite the cool air. Taking in the house as a whole makes me think of Hansel and Gretel or Snow White, without the Grimm effect.

When we step onto the first cluster of paving stones, the man pulls down his feet and unfolds his body, standing tall and straight. Around Gunther’s height, but skinnier, he seems even taller. Long white hair glows like a halo around his head and reaches below his shoulders; a mustache droops over his top lip and his beard hits several inches below his collarbone. His eyes spark with humor, like he’s just finished telling a joke and he’s waiting for someone to get it and start laughing. He is also regarding us with some amount of recognition, which is weird because I know I’ve never seen him anywhere before.

“Welcome, boys!” he calls out to us, his voice solid and deep, belying his aged appearance.

“Hello, sir,” Jamie and I respond, as Storm runs excitedly up the walk to reach the man.

“It’s him!” he calls back to us, “It’s Mr. Nicholas, exactly like Thunder described to me. Sweet! I got us somewhere right!”

“Of course you did, Bud. You haven’t steered us wrong yet,” I reassure him. Dude, the kid’s maybe eight? I wouldn’t have been comfortable zipping around new territory, responsible for transporting people and stuff when I was eight. I was all about Tinker Toys and remote-control cars back then. Jeez, Mom wouldn’t even let me navigate our neighborhood unassisted. And our last stop was not his fault anyway, and I tell him so.

Jamie and I get to the porch and I say, “G’morning, sir,” introducing all of us. “Storm tells us you’re Mr. Nicholas?”

“Yes-sirrie, that’d be the name. Howdo?’

“Uh, fine thanks.”

“You’ve come a fair way; I can read it on you. How’s about you come inside and join me for a warm drink. Even better if you have a tale to share. It’s lonely out here, until my crew rolls in.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

He opens the door for us and I notice the knob is shaped like a little smiling face with pointy ears. Gesturing for us to enter first, Mr. Nicholas gives us a clear view of the interior of his home. It’s like a showroom for a specialty handcraft store. Every surface is hidden beneath heaps of wooden things. Stuff you’d see at shows, like statues of animals or people, carved pictures, toys, puzzles, plates and bowls, and knick-knacks Mom would have loved. There are even a couple long toboggans tipped against a wall, along with a sled or two.

Exposed beams run across the ceiling and from these dangle various wooden chimes, little kid mobiles, shaped kites, and hoops that are like some hybrid dream catcher/mobile thing. We take it in, with our jaws somewhere on the floor, when a voice behind us says, “Like it, do you?” and I realize we’re blocking the man from entering.

“Oh, sorry!” I exclaim, as I pull Jamie to the side and let the old man pass. I don’t know where to sit, since everything is holding something else.

“Ah, yes.” Sounding bemused, Mr. Nicholas waves his hands towards the various stashes around the room. “I’ve been trying to catalogue everything I’ve finished this month and haven’t had time yet to put it away.”

This month? I raise my eyebrows at Jamie. Amazing doesn’t even begin to describe it.

“I’ll just go heat up some hot chocolate? Tea? Feel free to move things around, try things out while I get us squared away.  You can tell me your story while we relax.”

We all opt for the hot chocolate, and he returns shortly with three steaming mugs and one shallow saucer on a tray. There’s also a plate of assorted cookies, croissants, and pastries. My stomach growls as I help clear off a table and some chairs. Storm hangs out by Mr. Nicholas’s feet and laps up his drink. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Thick and creamy, perfectly heated, sweet but with some spice kick to it. Seriously, I could live on this.

Mr. Nicholas sits across from me and waits expectantly. I tell him everything because he looks like he already knows it anyway. He doesn’t react until I get to the last bit, with those freakish Bigfoot things. I watch the humor drain from his eyes, replaced by a glint of steel. Still, he waits for me to finish explaining about where we’re meant to be heading before making any comments.

“I do not like that the Sliders are making their way through my mountains. Whether they’re miles away or not, it doesn’t matter. Every so often, there will be a little fuss and hub-bub rankled by a group of Sliders, but not like this, with groups wandering around and tracking down specific targets like yourselves. I suppose it’s been awhile since we last had a tear between the layers. I remember that occasion still, and a time or two before. They get keyed into keeping the rift open, no matter the cost. Which simply cannot happen. Your sister will need every decent Dweller to be backing her. I know the path you need to take. First, perhaps you can help me?” His expression is hopeful and I find it impossible to say no to him. He knows what we’re doing and why; I trust he won’t ask anything of us that will slow us down too much.

It ends up he wants our help moving the items he has catalogued back to a small warehouse-type building next to his workshop. With everyone pitching in, we move pretty fast, and before lunchtime his house is half cleared out. I’d been wondering why he hadn’t just sorted and recorded his inventory in the bigger building to begin with when we walked through the wide open doors. I’ve never seen a place jam-packed with this much stuff. And it’s not like any of it’s junk or anything. I mean, some of this is stuff he could sell for hundreds of dollars apiece, even more. I wonder what he does with it all.

When we finish the last load, he offers us lunch and a tour of his workshop. We’ve got to eat anyway, so we agree. The shop, not too far from the stable and barn, is more impressive than the warehouse. Every tool and workbench imaginable must be in this place. Dad, who liked tinkering in his off time, would have loved this. Mr. Nicholas watches us as we wander around, and his face lights up when he sees Jamie reaching out to touch a small wooden ring laid out on a workbench.

“Oh—presents!” he cries out. “You must make something to take as a gift, to remember your time here.”

I open my mouth to decline the invitation, but his eyes sparkle out at me, and my words die before they are formed.

“As a thank you for your help. Really, you must. And it will be fun. And quick. Don’t think I don’t know what’s running through your mind, Samuel Williams. You’d be surprised, the things I know.”

Somehow, I don’t think I would be so much.

“Since James has found the beginnings of a dream catcher, let’s work on that, shall we? Storm, you may like these.” He reaches up to a shelf and pulls down a pair of painted wooden balls, like from a croquet set, and places them on the ground in front of Storm. With a purring growl, he pounces on them and they clatter away, rolling between table legs. He’s off like a shot, trying to corral his new toys. Jamie and I follow behind Mr. Nicholas who leads us back to a corner table.

“For these to work at their fullest potential,” Mr. Nicholas starts, “it is best for the intended user to have a hand in the making. It puts a little of your essence into the creation. Have you seen these types of protective charms before?” At our nods, he continues. “Good. They’re to help ensnare nightmares.” He holds up two very small hoops, like the size of silver dollars. “This wood is willow, an important, even sacred wood for many people, in many layers. These are smaller than normal; I’d made them on a whim. Now I know why. They’re meant for you. Usually, you hang a catcher at the head of your bed. These, you can tuck into your pocket; I’d keep them on you at all times. I sense strange stirrings in the world, and there’s no harm in carrying an amulet of sorts.” He beams at us from under his thick white brows and hands us thin strands of red yarn to start tying the interior webbing.

As we’re looping and twisting, Mr. Nicholas wanders to some kind of wooden hutch, which has knobs all over it. He pulls out drawers and, from them, little pouches, puffing out his cheeks when he apparently doesn’t see whatever he’s searching for.

“Well, boys, I can’t find the traditional trappings that are supposed to hang from the ring, but I’ve got an idea.” He walks to a big box in a corner close to the doorway and returns with a cloth-covered bundle, which he lays down on our table. Unwrapping it, he holds up the contents. They’re like tiny icicles made of translucent crystal. With a tip of his palm, the pieces roll together and make a clear tinkling sound as they hit each other. They’d be good for a mobile.

Mr. Nicholas moves his hand, like he wants us to take them; there are six. We each grab for three.

“Man, they’re freezing!” yelps Jamie.

The old man tips his head back and chuckles. “Yes, son; they are what I call ‘Heart Ice.’ It’s formed in the deepest of midwinter in a cave not too far from here. Certain minerals leech into the glacial melt and, from the surface of the cave, these grow. They will never melt and, though they may feel colder than regular ice, they will not freeze-burn your skin. If found and harvested correctly, they can be used for many purposes in the Shadows. They can make the temperature in a hot room quite comfortable, if the room is small enough and the icicle is left exposed or in something thin, like a pocket. Which is why I keep them specially wrapped. It gets quite cold enough here without employing that use. They’re extremely rare and hard to locate, but I have my ways. We’ll have you tie them up and use them as the baubles at the end of your catchers. They’ll be lovely.”

I grin over at Jamie. This Nicholas guy may be a little extra-prolific with his wood skills, but he’s certainly generous with his time, knowledge, and supplies. We finish the tying and knotting and hold our finished pieces in the air, two miniature dream catchers, about two-and-a-half inches long. Mr. Nicholas hands each of us a little bag and we slip our projects inside, and, following the old man’s suggestion, put the tiny packs into our pockets. His shoulders seem to relax as he watches our movements. Then, he calls Storm over to us.

“All right, let’s see what we can do with getting you all to the right place.” He regards the playful tiger, who seems to have grown even bigger since leaving the Hills. “I have a fair amount of mind-seeing qualities, just as your Thunder does. Let’s see if I can define your destination a little more clearly than it was before.”

He places both hands atop Storm’s head, and they break into a staring contest of sorts until Storm pulls back his head and shouts, “Of course! I can see it plainly now! I wonder what happened earlier because this doesn’t look at all like the last place we ended up. We’re set now, guys.”

“Sweet. Thanks a lot, Mr. Nicholas, for the food and gifts.” Jamie hugs the man and steps back, letting me say my own goodbye. As I walk forward, I feel the old man’s gaze penetrate me, like he’s trying to find something inside me.

“Young Samuel, do not doubt yourself. Travel well and safely.”

I hadn’t thought I’d been doubting myself. Until right now. Should I be questioning my role in all of this? I shake it off and give the guy a quick hug, reiterating our gratitude. As we grab onto Storm’s harness, we leave him standing there. The smile on his face clouding with concern.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Leap of Faith

(SAMUEL)

W
HEN WE HIT GROUND
, we’re perched on a precipice so high I’m literally left breathless. The wind whistles shrilly around my body, howls in my ears, dries out my eyes, and tries to rip off my clothing. I shout, “Is this the right place?” But my voice disappears before the words can leave my tongue, carried over the tops of the jagged peaks, which are covered in a layer of iced snow.

From what I can see through my narrowed, sandpapery eyes, we are way above the tree line. In fact, there’s no vegetation of any sort around us. My pulse is too rapid. I try to think through the logistics of high-altitude survival. Before I can form a coherent plan, an unexpected rush of warmth surrounds my body in some sort of air-current-bubble. Inside this pocket, I can breathe again—which is the right start. Both the roaring and buffeting stop. I glance over to Jamie and Storm, who seem to be experiencing the same calm.

Jamie wheezes out, “Jeez Louise, what is this place, Storm?”

“Uh, the gateway to the People of the Wind. Mr. Nicholas said receiving permission to come can be tricky. We’re supposed to wait here and be open to possibility. I know I’ve got the right place this time, but I don’t like it any more than that monster mountain. It’s too high up and the wind’s too strong.”

 “Just wait, huh? Maybe the Dwellers here use the wind like some kind of sentry, to sniff us out or something,” I say, moving a little to test my bubble. “This is weird. Check it out.”

I extend my hands in front of me and I can almost see the wind as it flows around me, without touching my body. As soon as my words are spoken, a stray draft shoots my hair straight up and my arms get blown out to the sides.