Professional Documents
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He’d been
sleeping horribly lately, waking up every couple of hours. It had been going on for a couple of
weeks now, and he had no idea why. Not for the first time he considered going to see a doctor
about it, but, yet again, decided against it. It was probably nothing. Just... nerves. Nerves about
what he hadn’t a clue, but to call it nerves was as good an answer as anything.
He stayed there, on his side, for a few moments before finally willing himself out of bed.
He had to pee, his bladder told him, and it would be damned if it was going to wait any longer.
Or, at least, it was going to make him feel like hell, as bladders have been known to do. Without
bothering to put on a shirt, he got out of bed in his purple pyjama bottoms and lumbered to the
washroom. He fumbled with the lights, cursed quietly and squinted as they flickered on, and
He stared at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. Other than that he looked like
hell, which was to be expected at one in the morning, he noticed that he desperately needed a
shave. Shaking his head, he splashed some warm water on his face and reached for the cleanser
The mirror couldn’t be lying. There was no way for it to lie. How could it, it wasn’t
alive, couldn’t think, so it wasn’t the mirror. Maybe he was dreaming. That could be it. He was
still half-asleep, after all, a dream could very well be what this was. Except that it didn’t feel like
It was a head, almost the size of his chest, with fur all over it. Its mouth spanned the
width of its face, and when it opened all he could see were the flat teeth that were the size of his
biceps, and four fangs the size of his forearms. Large, watery, friendly eyes stared from
underneath the shag that, while it looked soft, was probably the coarsest fur you’d ever felt, like
a scouring pad. The nose was large, flat, and broad, with nostrils that flared.
Kyle found himself without a voice. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He
tried it again. Finally, on the third try, he managed to squeak something. “Lord Pompadoor?” he
croaked.
“Not Lord,” the beast rumbled. “At least, not anymore.” It smiled sadly at him. “I am
dreadfully sorry, Sir Rossi, but we need you. We promised, we did, and we tried, we really did,
but we couldn’t keep the promise. We need you. All of us, we need you. Desperately.”
Kyle Rossi only stared. He couldn’t find his voice. Jaw slack, he blinked, and then the
* * *
It all started years ago. He was eight and he lived out in the wilderness, an only child,
with his mother, who stayed at home, and his father, who worked far too often and often far too
late. He had never been much of a social child, and the distance they lived from the school and
from the town meant that, whatever friends he had, he rarely saw them. Certainly, he could go
and visit, or they could come up, and everyone would make a day and night of it, but they could
never just come up for an hour or so, he lived too far away for that. Eventually he stopped
making friends altogether. He maintained civil relationships with everyone, never going so far as
to turn himself into a recluse while at school, never becoming introverted, but he never quite saw
the point of having people who were more than just acquaintances. So he’d make nice, but when
invited to parties, or to play, or to just hang out, he’d decline. His mother wanted him home for
dinner. His father had just gotten back from a business trip and wanted to spend time with them.
He came up with excuses he never knew he could think of. But they were always feasible, they
had to be, because if you told someone that you didn’t want to go over to their place and watch
movies because you already had a prior engagement that involved a flying saucer, aliens, and
amusingly-shaped instruments (as an example; at eight, had Kyle wanted to be creative, chances
are he would have omitted the amusingly-shaped instruments), not only would they not believe
you, but they’d be mightily insulted as well. So, Kyle stuck with the safe and believable lies.
So, like most shy children, Kyle retreated into his mind. Imagination took him places
other people’s houses never would have. It also took him out of the house, which pleased his
mother, as it meant he wasn’t watching too much TV, a device she had never been able to fully
trust.
So, outside, on the top of that large and snowy hill in mid-February during his eighth year
They were always Them, with the capital T. It had started out as just one of them, before
they were a full-fledged entity deserving of the capital. And, of course, it had been Lord
Pompadoor. The Lord stood at six feet, and there was nothing about him that was small. His
hands were huge, furry, and slightly clawed. His arms reached down to his knees, but were so
large and bulky that they made him look shorter than he really was. His legs were short, his
torso large, his head almost as large as his torso. He wore a suit that was a century too old and a
few sizes too small, with long coat-tails that almost touched the ground. He showed himself to
Kyle on his third day up there. He had been playing, pretending to be a knight who had just
climbed the tallest snow peak with his sword (really a stick that was almost twice his size), ready
to fight the horrible dragon that lived there! It had been threatening the townspeople (his stuffed
toys) and was gearing up to attack the castle (his house), eat the king (his rarely-home father) and
steal the queen (his lovely mother) away to its lair. It was the knight’s job to stop it!
He had just killed the dragon, after a long fight with much dodging, swiping, rolling, and
stabbing. Kyle stood there, panting and feeling quite proud of himself, when a voice boomed
Now he was scared. Even he knew that it had all been in his head. No one else could
have known. He had never even called it a dragon, except in his imagination. During his fight,
he’d called it a beast, a foul creature, a monster. But never dragon. “How’d you know?”
The voice chuckled, a very friendly sound. “Call it, perhaps, a lucky guess.” A large,
furry hand extended from behind a tree. “It is time that I introduced myself, yes?” When Kyle
didn’t answer, he continued. “My name is Lord Dulce Pompadoor. At your service.”
“A pleasure, then, good sir Rossi. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I removed myself from
this tree? It’s quite uncomfortable, and somewhat rude, if I may say so, to carry on a civil
“Umm... sure?”
“Thank you.” Pomadoor unfolded from the tree. “Try not to be too alarmed,” he boomed
as he drew himself up to his full height, which was made a half-foot higher by the top hat he was
Kyle only stared up at him, his jaw slack. The stick fell to the ground, making a small
indent in the snow. “Wow,” was all he could say. Then he found himself again. “You know that
was only a fake dragon, right?” he said matter-of-factly. “Not really real.”
“I know, young sir,” boomed Pompadoor. “But, even for a fake battle, it was impressive.
I am sure that the foul creature would have gone running if it had been real.”
Kyle stood still, still unsure where this was going. “Are you really real?”
He squinted. “I don’t remember imagining you,” he said ponderously. “But things like
Kyle smiled. “It means you’re my new friend!” He pointed gleefully at Pompadoor.
“And you’re tall! I’ve never had a tall friend before. How old are you?”
Pompadoor laughed, a low booming sound that made the trees shake. “Older than you’d
believe, I think,” he said. “I must go, Sir Rossi, slayer of imaginary dragons, but I’ll be back
here tomorrow, at the same time, with more friends. Does that sound good to you?”
“Yessir.”
The Lord beamed, the smile almost splitting his face. “Then it’s a date!”
* * *
It was the only thing he could think, that morning. His sleep for the rest of the night had
been horribly erratic. Odd nightmares had terrorized his sleep. Pictures of murder, and flames.
He didn’t understand any of it. And now, as he looked in the mirror before a shower, he realized
how horrible he was starting to appear. He looked haggard, with huge circles under his eyes.
His hair was a mess, but that was to be suspected after getting out of bed. He sighed. At least a
cleared out his sinuses and loosened up his muscles. After ten minutes he turned off the shower,
let the water drip from his body for a few minutes, then opened the curtain.
A parrot stood there. Except it wasn’t a parrot. First, it was as tall as a medium-sized
man. Second, it had the legs, nostrils, and eyes of a person. “Hey, kiddo.”
Kyle only stared. Again, his mouth worked, but nothing came out.
“Jackie?”
“But... but...”
“Listen, I don’t have time, I really don’t, I just wanted to see if it would work! Wow,
Dulce was right. You’d think I’d learn to stop doubting him, huh?”
“Huh.”
A few moments passed. “I’m going crazy,” he muttered to himself. “I’m going
completely insane. Batshit insane.” He glanced at the clock. “And I’ve got to be at work in an
He hurried through the rest of his morning routine, barely able to focus on one thing for
too long. Breakfast was a hastily eaten bowl of cereal, milk spilling on the table with each
spoonful. He had to try three times to put his underwear on properly, four for his belt, and six to
button his shirt properly. Out the door he almost forgot to do up his zipper, remembering only
when he noticed, fleetingly, his shirt sticking out the hole under the belt buckle. Briefcase in
hand, city bus pass in his pants pocket with his wallet (double checked), keys (triple checked) in
his jacket pocket, he dashed out the door and to the elevator. He’d just hit the button when he
realized he’d forgotten to lock his apartment door. Dashing there and back was the exact amount
of time it took for the elevator to arrive, open its doors, and almost close the doors again. He
made it in time to shove his arm through the opening, forcing the doors to open, and giving him a
chance to dash in. At least the elevator was empty. He hated crowded elevators. He hated
elevators in general, but knowing his luck if he took the stairs today he’d just end up tripping and
falling down the five flights, end up in the hospital, and start seeing all these imaginary creatures
Come to think of it, he was surprised he hadn’t seen them in his cereal.
No. Don’t think about it, he told himself as the elevator jerked to a start and began its
crawl down the shaft. The walls were mirrors, and he stared at himself as it moved. Don’t think
about them. The more you thought, the more credence you gave to their existence. They didn’t
exist. They couldn’t. It was the bare basics of what the word impossible meant. They were just
Then why had Pompadoor seemed so real? It was almost as if he could touch—
No! Stop, don’t think about them. Just stare at yourself. Yes. That’s right, just stare at
your haggard, sleep-deprived self. Good God, it was surprising the more gossipy women at work
hadn’t stopped him to ask if he’d started taking drugs lately, like crack or heroin. He looked like
an addict. His cheeks were slightly sunken, his eyes tired, and his hair looked dishevelled even
after a shower.
Maybe it was time to go and see the doctor. And tell him what, he wondered as the doors
opened. That he was having hallucinations about the imaginary friends he’d had back when he
was a kid? He’d be laughed out of the office, or sent to the looney bin, or something. No, if he
let it alone, it would all go away. Maybe he could go to the pharmacy, get some sleeping pills or
The doors to the elevator slid open, and Kyle squeezed through before they’d finished.
He ran through the lobby and slammed through the front doors. The street was noisy with traffic
as he sprinted to the corner where the bus stop was. A few more metres!
He watched in dismay as the bus drove up to, then past, the stop. Kyle slowed himself to
a stop and bent, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. So far, a perfect start to a perfect day.
So, he’d missed the bus, and there wouldn’t be another one along for at least fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes, and the bus ride took a half-hour, give him another five to walk from the stop to
his work.... Okay, then. If, and it was an important if, the bus was on time, and traffic was going
Kyle turned around and lifted an arm as a taxi drove up the street towards him. As he got
in and gave the driver his destination, he considered that, in the end, he didn’t quite care to
* * *
Two hours later he was sitting at his desk, contemplating not much of anything as he
entered the numbers into their respective fields. Taking the cab, it turned out, had been a good
idea, considering there had been an accident on the bus route, putting everyone there a good half-
hour behind. The cab had ensured that he made it to work with time to spare, and with that time
he’d bought himself a coffee, the life-blood of the morning, and a chocolate chip muffin. The
muffin had long-since been devoured, and he was nursing the final cold dregs of his coffee, made
even more disgusting by the sugar that had floated to the bottom of the mug.
His desk was the typical desk you’d find in an office floor made up of depressing
cubicles. Cheap ply-wood made up the bulk of it, with cheap metal comprising the extra handles
and hinges and screws and other bits that couldn’t be made of cheap wood. His computer was an
aging old thing that ran slowly even at the best of times, and crashed constantly at the worst. E-
mails, faxes, memos, and voice-mails to tech support, to H.R., and even to Mark down at
Supplies were left unanswered or disregarded. But the computer did its job, at least, and that was
let him punch numbers into their proper fields to ensure that people got billed the proper amount
on time, and to make certain that they’d paid the proper amount on time. One consolation was, if
they didn’t, then he’d forward the invoice with a note attached to Betty, his supervisor, and she’d
take the necessary actions, which often involved ordering a letter suggesting payment, and if it
was two months overdue, then ordering Customer Service to give them a trite phone call asking
them to please make their payment, followed by a cutting off of their services should it go into
No pictures sat on his desk. It would have been odd if he’d had someone else in his life.
As it stood, he was almost painfully single. Oh, he tried, of course, he definitely tried. He spoke
to women in the supermarket, he tried to flirt at the video store, the book store, even the bar. But
he was an awkward kind of person when it came to women, and more often than not his
flirtations were met with kind smiles and polite but definite replies, or awkward looks with
awkward smiles and awkward excuses, or simple bluntness. Even at the bars, even being drunk
and flirting with people as drunk or drunker than himself, he had no luck. Maybe it was his
approach, maybe it was his shy and awkward manner (which it most likely was), but whenever
So while his desk was empty of photographs, his cubicle walls played house to a few
humourous ones he’d found online that were workplace friendly. One was of British actor David
Tennant, peeking up over a cubicle with a shit-eating grin on his face, with the caption “Not
Even Cubicles Can Hold A Time-Lord!!” plastered on the bottom. There was another of actor
Gerard Butler’s screaming face Photoshopped onto a suit, the caption “Madness? THIS! IS! MY
OFFICE SPACE!” It had the same level of humour that a mug with the words “It’s Monday, I
Know, This Is My Friday Face” on it; that stale, sterile, and safe office humour that you’d have
to work hard to offend someone with. There were a few pictures of cats in funny or cute poses
In short, his cubicle was just like your average cubicle for your average office worker in
your average workplace. Except these days Kyle wasn’t feeling very average. Run down was
“You okay?”
Kyle shook his head and glared at his friend, his heart trying to escape from his chest.
“Bullshit.”
He pretended to think about it. “True.” He snickered to himself then gave his friend a
more critical look. “You okay, Kyle? You’ve got luggage under your eyes, man, how late are
you up at night?”
“Ten o’clock? Eleven?” Kyle shook his head. “It’s now how late I go to bed at, Sam,
it’s how well I sleep, and I haven’t had a solid eight in weeks.”
Again, Sam cocked his head. “You know what you need?”
need is booze. How about we go to the bar tonight? Maybe you could hook up? When was the
“High school.” He glared up at Sam. “Do we have to talk about this now? Really? I
mean now?” He motioned to the computer screen. “I’m working. Does my sex life really have
“Can it be tonight?”
“Sure.”
“Then yes!”
“Great! I’ll meet you in the lobby when we get off work. We’ll grab some fast food...”
“Nuh-uh. No fast food. Last time we did fast food I had the runs the rest of the night.”
“Okay,” Kyle conceded. “Fine, it’s a date, or whatever you want to call it. Now will you
leave me alone?”
“Sure, sure.” He walked off and waved over his shoulder. “See you later, brother.”
Kyle looked back to his computer, frowned, and called out his cubicle. “Sam! Sam!”
His friend came walking back, a puzzled look on his face. Kyle lifted his mug and gave him a
questioning grin. With a roll of his eyes, Sam swept up the mug, walked off, and said over his
“Thanks, Sam!”
Fire. Flames. Flickering and floundering. They cast yellow and orange shadows over
everything. His cubicle almost seemed like it was on fire. What looked like people flashed
across the screen, writhing and reeling, their mouths open in silent screams, fire dancing from
their throats.
Kyle wanted to cry out but nothing came out. Then the flames shot out from the
computer screen, licking at the desk, at the chair, at his clothes. The heat was stifling. Kyle
found it hard to breathe as smoke filled his cubicle. He wanted to drop to the ground, get below
the choking smoke, but he was stuck to his chair. The flames started to eat at his skin, burning
him, almost melting him, burning away the hairs on his chest and arms; he tried to scream but
nothing came out. His eyes wide, mouth agape, he could do nothing but suffer as the fire worked
Kyle blinked. He was still in his chair, back arched, staring at the ceiling. There was a
certain lack of flames now. The computer monitor displayed the worksheets he’d been working
on all morning. People walked by his cubicle as if nothing had happened. The phone rang again.
What the hell...? Kyle slowly settled into his chair, letting his feet touch the ground. He cleared
his throat and straightened the paperwork on his desk. Again the phone rang, and he finally
picked up the receiver. “Hello?... Oh, hi Sally.... Yeah.... Yeah, I’m still working on it.... How
soon do you need them?... Okay, give me thirty minutes, okay?.... No, no, it’s not that, Sally,
I’ve got them all right here in front of me, there’s just a few more than I thought there was....
Yeah, damn those time-management skills, huh? They’ll be in your in-box in half an hour,
okay?... Okay, good.... Yup. Promise.” He hung up the phone and stared at the monitor, the
cursor blinking, waiting for input of some sort. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
* * *
He was eight, and it was the next day. He’d finished his homework, and had told his
mom that he was going to play outside. Now outside, he was waiting patiently on his hill where
he’d fought the dragon yesterday. They weren’t there yet. He wondered how long it would take
for them to show up. He’d have to entertain himself somehow, but no dragons had threatened his
family today. With a sigh, young Kyle plopped himself down onto a tree-stump and pondered.
Well, maybe there was a goblin king somewhere? That might do it. He’d grab his sword and go
off in search of the goblin king, Gork! That sounded about right. After all, Kyle had meant to do
that a few days ago anyway, except that he’d gotten interrupted by an early dinner, and then it
So, sitting on the stump, he waited for them; not Them, mind, because they had yet to
earn the capital T. Just them. He didn’t even know who they were, just that Lord Pompadoor
had said he’d be bringing friends, if Kyle wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t minded, of course, why
would he? If they were anywhere near as interesting to look at as Lord Pompadoor, why would
he refuse?
His mind began to wander back to the goblin king. Gork? No, that name was no good.
Perhaps that’s what normal people called him, because they didn’t know his real name. No, his
real name would be something inspiring! Bel’hast. That sounded better. It also sounded kind of
like a city he’d overheard that man on the news talking about a couple of days ago, but that
didn’t matter. Bel’hast sounded like the name a deadly goblin king would have! Somehow that
made up his mind: if Lord Pompadoor didn’t show up soon with his friends, then Kyle would go
off in search of the Goblin King Bel’hast, scourge of the lands! Knowing goblin kings, he had
He’d pay!
Kyle stood on the tree-stump, swishing his stick-sword in the air. Oh, yes, he’d pay all
right! And Sir Kyle Rossi would save the castle and the queen and the king from his threatening
tyranny once and for all! He’d slash him, and stab him through the heart, and ride back to the
castle with the goblin king’s head on a pike (because that’s what knights did with the bad guy’s
head, for proof that he’d done the deed) and he’d be praised, and there would be a great feast for
the hero, and they’d rejoice, and he would get hugs and, he supposed, a few kisses, and maybe
Kyle swirled around to face the forest, stick held in front of him. But then the deep,
“Ah, but a promise is a promise,” the voice rumbled. He emerged from behind a tree.
“And, as promised, I brought friends along. They’ve all been dying to meet you. Would you like
to meet them?”
“Only if they’ll agree to come with me to slay the Goblin King Bel’hast,” Kyle declared.
Pompadoor laughed, and it sounded like the deep rumbling of an underground river. “I
doubt a problem will be found there.” He beckoned. “Come out, now, come out and let us all
meet!” Slowly, almost shyly, others came out from behind the other trees. Each one was unique
Other than Pompadoor there were six total. He introduced each in turn as they appeared.
The first to appear was an odd cross between a parrot and a man: Jackie. The next was a stout
thing made entirely out of rock and stone, with pointed ears and eyes made of rubies: Granite,
was his name. A woman showed herself next, tall, with a neck that stretched for a foot, a long
and languid face, with large, watery, oval-shaped eyes, and a tiny mouth, ears the size of most
people’s thumb-nails, and long, thin white hair; her fingers were long, too, with nails that looked
like small claws: Tambora. One was short, reached up to Kyle’s waist, with a squat face and ears
the size of his chest; large elliptical, watery eyes peered over a squat nose and large, wide mouth:
Farcry. One who looked like a six foot lizard, except it had armour, a small round shield, a tall
spear that reached over its head, and walked on its hind legs, appeared: Jacob, which wasn’t his
real name but was what they called him because his name was unpronounceable except to those
with lizard tongues. A woman, half the height of Tambora and as fat as Santa Clause, stepped
out; she was covered with soft orange fur, and she had whiskers on her cat-like face, pointed
ears, and a twitching tail that she held in her large paw-like hands: Calista.
Them.
Kyle stared at them, his jaw slack. A few moments of awed silence followed the
introductions, then Kyle grinned. “Woooooooow.” He slowly walked forward, his sword
forgotten. He’d never dreamed that people as fantastic as these were really real. Of course, this
was all in his imagination, so they weren’t real at all. But they looked real! He approached them
and ran his hand along the closest one, Jackie. They felt real. Smelled real. Even their breath
fogged in the cold air. Either they were honest to goodness actually physically real, or his
He knew creatures like the ones in front of him were impossible, so he knew it had to be
“It’s a bad idea,” Granite said, his voice deep and rumbling and gravelly, “to charge in
without a plan.” He spoke slowly, as if every word was worth the same amount of thought as the
last.
“That’s because he’s always right,” Jacob rasped. “We need to be careful when dealing
with goblins. Nasssssty little creatures when in a corner.” He looked around at them, and
despite looking like a warrior, he didn’t seem keen on fighting. “I know Bel’hast, he’s not
“Yeah?” barked Farcry. “An’ what if he doesn’t, eh? What if you go up to talk to him,
an’ he just goes ‘Sure, I hear ya, but I like sendin’ dragons out to torch castles an’ the like, so,
“He won’t. He’s not like that. This isn’t like him.” Jacob turned to Kyle. “Please, Sir
Kyle blinked. Wow. He hadn’t been expecting this, it was like right out of a book! Neat!
“Of course,” he said to Jacob. “If we can avoid killing, then that’s good.” He wasn’t sure if he
“Thank you,” Jacob said, saluting by tapping his shield with the spear-head. “I shall
“Sounds good.” Kyle nodded, trying to look important while really not knowing what to
“There is a tradition among my people,” said Tambora, her voice a chiming, two-toned
harmonic sing-song. “When a new person is introduced into the tribe, a celebration is held,
welcoming them into the fold.” She walked forward, her body swaying gracefully like a dancer.
Kyle stared up at her. “Golly,” he said. A smile cracked open across his face. “That’d be
great fun!”
The smile she gave him was small but pleased. “Good, then.” She looked up to
“Of course, my dear.” He grinned as he took it. “I’ll have to admit, I was expecting
this.”
Tambora only laughed, a melodious, gleeful sound. “Now, Sir Rossi, stand yourself on
that tree-stump, please. Granite, Calista, go to either side of him. Farcry, Jacob, to either side of
me, please. Jackie, if you be so kind as to stand with Dulce? For a band to be a band, more than
one is needed, after all.” Everyone moved to their requested positions as Lord Pompadoor lifted
the flute to his lips, ready for when he was needed. “The ceremony we are about to have is a
symbolic one. It represents a new birth, a new beginning for the initiate.” She nodded to Kyle.
“Granite and Calista represent your guardians, caretakers, parents. They are the ones who must
vouch for you. Farcry and Jacob represent the people who are accepting you, the doubtful, the
ones who must be won over. I am representative of the race as a whole, and when the people
She smiled again, a small, knowing grin. “You do not. But you will, in time. I will talk
you through the ceremony, so there will be no need to worry about getting things wrong.”
“Nothing right away. Granite and Calista must vouch for you first. They answer the
questions posed to them by Farcry and Jacob. I will let you know when it is your time for
action.” She turned to the impromptu musicians. “Dulce, Jackie, if you two would do the
Dulce inclined his head and started to play, Jackie joining in with his bird’s song a
moment later. It was a slow, haunting song, almost sad, but solemn. It brought a lump to Kyle’s
throat. Despite this, he stood on the log with his chest stuck out in pride. Tambora stood there,
looking graceful even when still, her hands clasped in front of her. She whispered to Jacob for a
few moments, who, in turn, whispered to Farcry. When the conferring was done, Tambora took a
breath. “We are here,” she intoned, “to seek the worth of Sir Kyle Rossi and his petition to join
the Tribe of Assan. Two speak for him. Are those two present?”
“And two must speak for the people. Are they also present?”
Tambora spared him a smile before continuing. “Would those who are questioning his
worth speak now, lest his acceptance occur without proper authority.”
Jacob stepped forward. “I ask you, have you done deeds worthy of our tribe?”
Calista stepped out. “I have slain dragons! A more worthy deed, I doubt you’ll find!”
As Jacob nodded and both he and Calista stepped back, Farcry came forward. “Are ye of
moral worth an’ ethical whet? Can we count on ye ta protect th’tribe should all fail?”
Granite stepped forward. “This you can! I protect my people with zeal, with courage. I
know not the coward’s way, nor the thief’s or the murderer’s. Even when faced against a foe, I
shall seek all opportunity to move forward without violence before resorting to bloodshed. This
“Indeed.”
“Aye!”
“Then let it be known that the people accept Sir Kyle Rossi, as does the Tribe!” She
flowed forward and held out her hands. Kyle, his mouth dry, let her gently take his face in her
hands. “Do you, Sir Kyle Rossi, accept this? Do you confirm this as your want?” She smiled
encouragingly at him. “This is where you say that you do,” she whispered to him.
He blinked. “Huh? Oh! I mean,” he cleared his throat, “Yes. Yes, I do.”
She bent down and kissed his forehead. Her lips were warm and moist, but the kiss left
shivers down his spine. “Then let it be known from here on that you belong to the Tribe Assan!”
Then Pompadoor and Jackie picked up the tempo and turned the music into a celebratory
melody, one you could dance a jig to if you chose to. “Now,” Tambora said, picking Kyle up and
placing him on the snow, his hand in hers, “we celebrate!” She took his other hand and started to
dance, dragging him with her. He grinned and giggled and, after a few moments to get his
bearings, danced with her, forgetting his inhibitions for at least a little while. It wasn’t long
before Farcry joined in, and Jacob, dancing a graceful, slithering jig, pulled an unresisting Calista
into it, her decidedly slinky and graceful feline dance an odd compliment to his. Lord
Pompadoor stayed back, content with playing the flute and tapping his foot to the rhythm, while
They danced and played for over an hour, until the sun started to set. Kyle looked up at
this point, saw the red and orange sky, and realized how late it was. “I have to go,” he said. “My
“Of course,” Granite intoned. “Jacob, how long until you return from the goblin lands?”
“Perhaps a few days. It is not an easy journey, but I have made it before.”
“Aye, then, let’s say we all meet back here in a week’s time, does that sound good ta
“That long?” Kyle hadn’t meant it to sound like a whine, but that was how it had come
out.
Pompadoor smiled at him. “I shall meet with you again, young sir, in two days’ time.”
“I shall be there as well,” Tambora said. “It would not do to leave such a new member of
“Count me in, too,” Jackie announced with a squawk. “I’ve got nothing else better to
do.”
“It is settled, then,” said Pompadoor, with a small smile to Jackie. “In two days,
Tambora, Jackie, and I shall meet you here. We shall have stories to tell you. Does that appeal
to you?”
The grin on Kyle’s face threatened to split his head in two. “Yessir!”
“Excellent! Until then, Sir Rossi.” Lord Pompadoor bowed deeply and the others
followed suit, then they walked behind their respective trees and, basically, disappeared. Kyle
checked behind each tree and saw nothing. Wow. His imagination sure was something! That
had been great fun. Even the fat cat lady, Calista, had been a wonderful dancer, surprisingly light
His imagination, he mused, was so good that he could still see the footprints in the snow.
They would still be there two days later, when he returned to exchange stories with
Pompadoor, Tambora, and Jackie. They spoke about their people, and told him about their
myths, their legends. For three hours the four of them sat on and around the tree stump, telling
Kyle about gods and ghosts and magic and a multitude of other wonders. It made him sad to
have to go back to the house, to the boring life behind its walls. But he had to, unless he wanted
to get in trouble with his mother, which was something he did not want. Ask any young boy: a
Time passed, as it does when one is young. The days meld together, and school goes on
and on for what seems like forever, until it is done and then the vacation starts and it feels like a
week even though it’s actually a few months long. Kyle spent a lot of his free time, when he
could, out on the hill, visiting with Lord Pompadoor and at least one of Them, sometimes a few,
sometimes all. Over the course of the months he would learn many things. The goblin king, for
example, had been under the thrall of an evil baron, Marcus, whose lust for power included
destroying or otherwise taking over every castle in the land. In exchange for his life, however,
Bel’hast promised to stop sending the dragon out. Instead, he put it to sleep using a special
powder only his people knew how to make, and it would sleep for years until the goblins gave it
This put a kink in the baron’s plans, and while he tried to form another alliance with an
even more powerful faction, Lord Pompadoor, Jacob, and Calista pooled their resources and
convinced many of the kingdoms and duchies to rise up and take down this baron. Many were
uncertain, but when they saw the destruction that had been caused with Bel’hast, as Kyle’s castle
had only been the last in a long, long line of bullied kingdoms, and when they saw the duke he
was trying to ally himself with, Saviel, a practitioner of dark, evil magics, did they agree to help.
The duchies agreed in principle only, unable to offer actual aide, but the ten kingdoms gave them
their very best troops in order to march on Baron Marcus and Duke Saviel, along with the
Sixteen kingdoms would march against the might and madness of two.
But Kyle, who had participated in the hearings, in the investigations, in much of this,
riding beside Pompadoor, his forests and plains turning into the wild and wondrous vistas and
buildings he was shown, would not be able to find out how the conflict ended. Because one
night, after his mother had asked him what he was doing so late at night, and he’d told her...
His new friends, six of the most wonderful people his brain had ever created, stopped
That night he cried in his pillow. He cried, and he cried, and he cried until he fell asleep.
But still, that very night, he climbed up to the hill, and sat on the stump, and waited. When no
one turned up, he went back home broken-hearted and disappointed, but the next day he did the
exact same thing. And the day after that. Every day for the rest of the summer he sat on the
He started the school year afraid to make real friends. If his imaginary ones wouldn’t
Perhaps, if they had stuck around, his entire life would have turned out better.
* * *
He gazed at the shotglass in front of him. Dinner had been excellent, if not a bit too
expensive, but still, it wasn’t something that he did very often. The atmosphere had been good,
with music pumped through the speakers that had been loud enough to drown out other people’s
conversations, but not so loud that you couldn’t hold a conversation yourself. The service had
been prompt and courteous. Overall, he had to say, it had been worth the money to have gone at
least once.
And now he was pretty sure that he was drunk. He stared hard at the shot-glass. Yes,
definitely drunk. He had to be, there were three glasses where only one should have sat. He
made a reach for the one on the left, then the right, then finally the one in the middle. Kyle could
hear Sam somewhere in the background, flirting with some young girl, probably just old enough
to enter the bar, and knowing Sam, he’d be getting laid tonight.
Kyle lifted the drink to his lips when someone sat down beside him. “Hi there,” she said.
Wait. She?
Kyle slowly turned his head. Yes. Yes, definitely a woman, unless a very attractive man
with breasts had just sat down beside him. She looked to be around thirty, with long brown hair,
green eyes, almost elfish cheek-bones, and a slightly husky voice. He could have spent the rest
of the night looking at her. But then he remembered about his drink.
“Martini, please,” she said to barman. “How are you?” she said to Kyle as he clumsily
“Drunk.” He picked up a pretzel and took a bite. A few moments passed before he
realized that, perhaps, more was expected of him on this side of the conversation. “Umm...
how’re... how’re you?” He wasn’t slurring his words, not yet. Another drink would take care of
that.
“Thinking about getting a bit drunk, myself, actually,” she said with a smile as the
bartender gave her her drink and she gave him his money.
Kyle stared at her for a short time, watching her as she lifted the drink to her lips and took
a short sip. “Y’know,” he said, “I wouldn’t norm’lly say this, but you’re fuckin’ gorgeous.” He
tried to lift a finger but failed. Maybe he was more drunk than he’d thought. “Norm’lly I
wouldn’t say it, but I have booze, so I’m not my norm’l sel’. Self? Whatever the word, you
“I dunno.” He turned to Sam. “Hey, Sammy, how many’ve I had? Drinks. Drinks.
Sam turned from the young thing he was courting. “Six, I think?”
Kyle turned back to the woman. “Six. Ish.” He finished the drink and rapped on the bar.
The barkeeper, with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, poured him another one.
“Only drinkie I’ll drinkie.” He lifted the glass. “Oh, rye, my rye, how right you are!” he
“Lyla.”
He turned to Sam and pointed at her. “Me an’ Lyla are talkin’. She was askin’ me if I
“Yeah, and then you started to recite an ode to rye. I could hear you from across the bar.”
“Y’know, I think you’re cut off.” Sam reached for the drink, but Kyle pulled it away and
“Listen,” Lyla said, putting a hand on Sam’s arm, the other on Kyle’s shoulder. “I’ll look
after your friend for a bit, okay? It’s no trouble. I find inebriation entertaining.”
“Okay, but if he starts getting out of hand, you let me know, okay?”
She gave him a mock salute before he walked off, rolling his eyes. Lyla looked at Kyle,
who was apparently trying to figure out exactly how to put his glass down on the coaster. She
obliged him, and he smiled at her. “So, what’s a gorgeous lookin’ gal like yersel’ doin’ gettin’
pissed?”
“I’m not getting drunk, just getting a bit drunk. Tipsy. What’s a guy like you doing
“I’m sorry?”
Kyle shook his head. “Nah, ferget it. Y’wouldn’t believe me, anyways.”
She lounged in the barstool, drink in hand, as best she could. “Try me.”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep for two weeks. Couple hours a
night, tops!” He frowned at his drink, still half-full. “Keep getting nightmares. Fire. Fire.
That’s all to ‘em. Fire an’ burning. Flames an’ screams an’ fire.” Kyle looked up at her, his eyes
haunted, dark bags hanging beneath them. “An’ I know, y’see, I know that I’m s’pposed ta go
there an’ help out. I know. I just don’t know how.” He shook his head. “Damned Them!” A
swig and the drink was burning its way down his throat. “Y’hear me Pomp’door?” he shouted to
the room. “Do ya? Damn you!” He turned to Lyla. “An’ today the flames came for me. ME! I
was in my chair an’ the flames came outta the comp’ter screen an’ they ate up my cubicle!” He
grabbed a handful of peanuts and shoved them into his mouth; a few missed and clattered to the
bar and floor. “So, I figure I’m goin’ nuts,” he said between chews. “Figure th’booze’ll help
make it all seem norm’l. Or somethin’.” The peanuts went down with a hard swallow. “Hey,
barkeep! I’ll take tha’ cheque, please.” And he fell, face-first, into the bowl of peanuts.
Lyla sat there, staring at him. Pompadoor, eh? She waved her hand to Sam. “Excuse
me?” she called out. He looked over her way and she pointed down at Kyle’s passed-out form,
his snores making the peanuts shake a bit. Sam sighed, bid farewell to that night’s possible
“He wasn’t much of a bother, was he?” Sam pulled Kyle out of the peanut-bowl, some of
the nuts stuck to his face, some to his drool, some both. He snored. Sam shook his head and put
Sam dug into his wallet. “Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been acting weird lately. I thought
that, maybe, I could get him good and drunk and maybe laid, at least have him enjoying himself
a bit.” He pulled out a few twenty-dollar bills and smiled at the bartender. “How much do we
owe you?”