The Games of Ganthrea Page 4

  “Because I’ve seen a glimpse of what’s inside of you, Brenner. How many books have you read in the past year?”

  “I don’t know…two or three a week…so…well over a hundred.”

  “And over eight or nine years, that’s around a thousand books, and a thousand more ideas. Those biographies and stories and essays have shaped your thinking…given your experiences into how people behave, how battles and game strategies work, and how nature ebbs and flows. After you spend a couple years at the academy in Silvalo honing those thinking and athletic skills, you will possess enough talent to make an extraordinary life.”

  Brenner leaned forward.

  “There are dangers of course,” said Windelm, “but in my opinion it wouldn’t be fun otherwise. For starters, Ganthrea’s inhabitants don’t cage wild creatures, and at some point, you’ll likely be confronted with them. Also, the larger cities have their share of thieves and swindlers, but you’ll learn how to protect yourself against those, too.

  “And of course, there are the Games, which, with any luck, you’ll get into during your second year at the academy. Since you are already twice as agile with just the amulet, imagine what you can do on the Zabrani field with a mircon and a spell or two.”

  Behind Windelm the sun was setting, giving him an orange silhouette.

  “My bet is that you’ve longed to be elsewhere for quite some time, Brenner. The door to Ganthrea hardly ever opens, and right now it could use someone like you.”

  Brenner sat transfixed by his words, weighing the pros and cons on a mental scale. Part of him tried to figure out what ‘Silvalo’ meant and what these Zabrani games were like, while the other tried to imagine what sort of wild creatures lurked in Ganthrea.

  “Or, if you’d like,” Windelm said, “you can stay here in Colorado—you do have a nice tree tower,” he gestured to the walls and zipline, “and I’m sure you’d grow to lead a perfectly normal life, which for many people is fine. If you choose not to come, I’ll understand. But I’ll need your amulet back, to find another holder.”

  That got Brenner’s attention. Now that he had tasted the magic of the amulet, could he really give it back? To go through his life with raspy, deflated lungs?

  “How long would I be there?” Brenner asked.

  “Two years at the academy to start. Longer if you’d like.”

  “Would I be able to talk to anyone here while I’m gone?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Windelm. “Aside from myself and a small handful of others, people of Earth do not know of Ganthrea. Most wouldn’t believe it if you told them. To avoid unnecessary wars, that’s how it should stay.”

  Another question bubbled to the surface of Brenner’s mind. “How do we get there…to Ganthrea?”

  Windelm looked to choose his words carefully. “I’ve brought enough elixir to make a path for us—a rabbit-hole, so to speak. It’s not the most comfortable…but it doesn’t need to last long.”

  There was one last thing nagging at Brenner: uncertainty. What would happen to him there? Would this academy be any different than his current high school? His fingertips drummed the back of his knuckles as he mulled it over. Was it possible to reinvent himself there…and instead of being ridiculed, actually compete? Gain not just knowledge…but, maybe, acceptance? But, the rational side of him argued, perhaps it was better to play it safe, give back his amulet, return to what he knew: books, security, and solitude. He played that choice out like chess: In ten years he’d be even smarter, in twenty, financially secure, in fifty, retired, older…and at his current pace, alone, looking back wistfully and wondering…what might have been?

  Brenner breathed out deeply, nearly arriving at his decision. “If I say yes, when would we leave?”

  “As soon as we inform your parents that you’ve been accepted to a top-secret government program.”

  “Brenner, what’s this about?” his father, Albert, said Thursday evening while brandishing an envelope he evidently had just torn open. “It’s bad enough you got in a fight yesterday, now this?”

  Brenner had just returned home after an afternoon in the woods, thinking hard on Windelm’s offer. Last night he searched boxes in their crawl-space under the house and scoured an old trunk, which contained spiderwebs, old photographs, papers and mementos. Sifting through old letters, he found a few faded pictures at the bottom, of his Grandma Laura at a school in Colorado Springs, of Lester playing basketball, and of not two but three younger kids in front of an old barn.

  There were no names on the back of that one, just small print that read, ‘White Rock, AR.’ While he recognized the faces of Lester and Laura, there was a boy between them with dirt on his pants, holding a fishing pole—could it be…Windelm?

  He looked over to see what his father was waving about.

  “Says it’s from the government,” Albert continued gruffly. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Wahlridge…we are pleased—right, pleased, when are they ever pleased unless there’s more taxes involved? Hmph—to announce that your son, Brendon, has been chosen to enroll…in a two-year training school for future CIA operatives…What?” he paused, squinting at the page, clearly uncertain whether he had read the sentence correctly.

  He shot Brenner a look of accusation, before continuing in a baffled voice, “Because of the confidential nature of this program, I will need to share more with you in person at your residence, at 5:00pm on Friday, April 3rd. ”

  His irritated tone swelled into exasperation. “What?! That’s tomorrow!” he shook his head, then continued in a mocking voice, “Congratulations on this prestigious opportunity. If he accepts, Brendon’s training will begin immediately. Sincerely, Lt. Col. W. Crestwood.”

  Brenner was almost as surprised as his father. He almost thought he had dreamed the whole offer. He was interrupted by his father’s loud, irritated sigh.

  “Brenner, what have you done now at school?”

  “Gone to class like usual,” Brenner said defensively, “and I still have all A’s and B’s.”

  “Then why do we have this?” said Albert, brandishing the letter at him, “Why is the federal government suddenly interested in you?”

  Brenner could see through his words. By ‘you,’ his father meant himself. He was always paranoid another IRS audit was looming around the corner.

  “Well? ” his father demanded. “What in blazes is this about?”

  “I suppose,” Brenner said, thinking on his feet, “Since the government is monitoring pretty much everything, maybe they liked my civics essay on why the U.S. should increase their quotas of annual immigrants.”

  Albert shook his head, “I don’t buy it.” With each year, Brenner failed to live up to Jeff’s normal interests. And now here he was getting the government tangled in their affairs.

  “What are you doing in the woods all the time?”

  “I’ve told you, working on my tree tower.”

  “Right…right…” Albert said, rolling his eyes, “your tree fort. Listen, I’m not sure what this is, but it had better not be some prank of yours,” he said, a warning look in his eyes. “If it is, plan to be grounded for the summer. Since I’ve already planned to be home early tomorrow to set up for Poker night—you’re lucky—we’ll just see what sort of government official turns

  up at five.”

  He threw the letter on the counter. With much restraint, Brenner held his tongue. Here his father had been given a letter praising his son’s merits, and Albert had warped it into some government surveillance plot.

  Yanking open the fridge, Albert grabbed a can of beer and ended the conversation by huffing down to the den to watch ESPN highlights, leaving Brenner alone with the letter.

  He picked it up. The handwriting on the envelope was cursive; the letter was typed and formal, crisply formatted with date and emblem of the White House on top. Brenner was impressed: for being crafted, sealed, and delivered in just a day, it looked quite official.

  His mother, Miranda, got home an hour later. Gla
ncing at the letter with mild distaste, she walked over to Albert and said dryly, “Well, if they want him, they can have him.”

  Brenner looked up from his book to see his father’s crossed arms and stormy expression, and Miranda adding in what she evidently thought was a quieter tone, “What are you so worked up about? It’s either a fake or we get him off our hands.” Albert’s demeanor softened. Miranda reclined on the couch with her tablet, idly clicking on little candy pieces to burst as she rummaged through a bag of gourmet cookies.

  That night his parents slept soundly on their waterbed, Albert snoring deeply, as if they had gotten a letter that Brenner had been selected to the Honor Roll, rather than one inviting him to leave for good.

  Brenner looked out the window to the clear night sky, holding the amulet aloft and comparing the red and green swirls of it to the pale yellow of the moon. He ran a hand through his sandy-blond hair.

  While he didn’t know what would happen once he joined Windelm and somehow got to Ganthrea, he knew that his life with the amulet was better than his life without; hopefully, with the same grit he applied to building his projects and understanding strategies, he could harness some of the magic that Windelm conjured forth so effortlessly. His eyelids started drooping shut, and he drifted to sleep hoping that he wouldn’t have to face the worst thing of all: that he would wake up, and discover that this unexpected adventure had been a fleeting dream.

  Chapter Five

  Through the

  Rabbit Hole

  Friday morning his parents didn’t say much to him, probably still thinking he had concocted the letter. At school, Brenner sat quietly through his classes with tempered restraint, determined not to disrupt some cosmic balance that might ruin everything. In gym class he told Mr. Burliss that he’d pulled a muscle and needed to sit out. Mr. Burliss seemed to buy the excuse, as prior to Wednesday Brenner had been entirely unspectacular.

  Although he was the target of stares and whispered rumors for the rest of the day, Brenner succeeded in keeping his excitement to himself.

  When he got home, the minutes seemed to crawl by. He busied himself with his weekly chore of vacuuming, noticing that for once in his life he didn’t mind it now that his lungs were working. He looked at the clock—only 3:45. Walking onto the soft carpet of his room, he wondered what he may need for the trip.

  Glancing at his alarm clock, desk lamp, and computer still open to a screen of a 3D building he was rendering, it struck him that Ganthrea probably wouldn’t have electrical outlets. With magic, why would they?

  He opened his closet and looked at his hanging shirts. Since he didn’t know what to expect, he emptied his backpack, then packed both thick and thin shirts, socks, underwear, and his metal canteen.

  Shortly after four o’clock he heard footsteps below: his father was home. He continued packing some of the smaller essentials—his knife, compass, journal, pen—and deliberated if he needed matches, finally packing them in case he got separated from Windelm. He looked at his bookshelf, and got absorbed in guidebook on wilderness survival.

  Light conversation came from downstairs. His mother, Miranda, must be home early. Brenner looked at the clock, and his stomach fluttered. It was ten to five. What if Windelm didn’t come? What if he changed his mind, or found someone else? Or…what if my parents say no? He slung his backpack over a shoulder and went downstairs.

  His mother was lounging on the sofa, watching TV as if nothing was different. His father had fixed himself a bacon and ketchup sandwich in the kitchen, lifting an eye to look out the front window between bites.

  Albert turned as Brenner entered the kitchen, and asked suspiciously, “Well, what do you have planned next?”

  Brenner wasn’t sure how to reply. “You saw the letter. It said five. There’s still a couple of minutes,” he said, giving an imploring look out the window.

  “Yeah, a whole two minutes,” Albert said, his mouth half-full. He swallowed and took a sip of beer. “Boy, if I find out you’ve been pulling my leg, I—” but at that moment he was interrupted by the sound of a car engine purring up their driveway. Brenner bounded to the living room window.

  A black sedan with tinted windows rolled to a stop; the passenger door clicked open. A tall man in a black suit exited, flattening his sleek blue tie with one hand, and clutching a leather briefcase in the other. He strode purposely toward their front step and pressed the doorbell.

  Albert muttered something in disbelief.

  Opening the door wide, Albert found himself face to face with a clean-shaven man with trimmed brown hair, removing his dark sunglasses.

  Brenner heard a familiar voice from the entryway say, “Mr. Wahlridge?”

  “Yes…” his father said suspiciously, the usually proud tone from his voice checked, “…that’s me.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Crestwood,” the man said confidently, extending his hand, “pleased to meet you.” Albert gave a limp shake.

  Crestwood, seeing Brenner walk over from living room behind his father, said, “And this must be Brendon, yes?” A glimmer of light from the entryway chandelier caught his green-blue eyes as he smiled at Brenner.

  “You should know who he is,” Albert said, his distaste for government rising to the surface, “since he’s been selected to this ‘elite program’ of yours.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Crestwood said, ignoring Albert’s comment and reaching out to shake Brenner’s hand. Seeing Windelm’s clean-shaven face, military-trimmed hair, and silver necklace, Brenner found it hard to believe this was the same man to whom he had spoken two days ago.

  From the way Albert was warily eyeing Crestwood, it looked like he was being forced to choose between getting a finger removed or a lobotomy. After a tense moment standing on the threshold, Windelm asked Albert, “May I come in?”

  “I suppose,” said Albert grudgingly, and then he called to the far living-room, “Hey, Miranda! Turn the TV off and get in here. The…uh… corporeal is here.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel,” Crestwood corrected him, stepping into the foyer.

  “Right,” Albert said, looking away.

  “May we please speak in your dining room?” Crestwood continued, covering for Albert’s lack of manners.

  “Fine, take a seat in there,” Albert motioned.

  Crestwood went in, set his briefcase on the table, then sat with perfect posture, folding his hands together in front of him. Albert, Miranda, and Brenner pulled up chairs.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wahlridge,” said Crestwood once they all were seated, “You should be thrilled that your son has been selected for our elite academy. We only take one or two recruits each year from around the country.”

  Albert and Miranda raised their eyebrows, seeming to find it strange that anyone had selected Brenner for anything at all. “Just how did you pick him?” ventured Miranda.

  “Through a combination of aptitude and merit tests. Every other year, students across the country take standardized tests, and we see which students score high in multiple areas.” While this cover story was interesting to Brenner, as soon as he had mentioned tests, Albert and Miranda’s faces glazed over.

  “This year Brendon scored brilliantly in many categories, from science to math to psychology and others.”

  “Have you seen him run?” Albert asked with a scoff.

  “We have,” said Crestwood, “And if necessary, that is something that can be improved. But because of his strong mental qualities, he has been selected to enroll at our academy for future CIA officers.”

  “And just where is that?” said Albert.

  “I’m sorry but that’s classified information. We need to take every precaution to protect new officers, one of our nation’s most precious resources.” Miranda and Albert looked at each other in astonishment: this man had just referred to Brenner as both brilliant and precious.

  Albert cut to the chase. “How much is this elite academy going to cost us?” He crossed his arms.

  “Brendon’s room, bo
ard, and tuition will all be paid for by the U.S. government. You won’t be billed a dime.”

  As if he had won the lottery, Albert’s head perked up and his eyes widened. He tried to compose himself. “Where do we sign?” he asked, pleased as though he had just single-handedly negotiated the deal. Miranda, too, had a faraway look, as though a masseuse had melted her cares away on a tropical island.

  “I’ll get the papers,” Crestwood said, reaching to his briefcase. “But just a couple more items to discuss,” he said, placing a small stack in front of Brenner’s parents, who were now nearly beside themselves to grab pens and sign him away before the deal was snatched from them. “Brendon will have access to top-secret information, and both he and you will not communicate for two years’ time to protect the integrity of the program. After that, if he decides to come back, he may, or, he may choose a different name and begin his career with the CIA.”

  Albert and Miranda paused only slightly at this, and Brenner could see the gears in their heads whirring at full speed, probably planning cruises and wine-tastings abroad.

  Crestwood continued, “We will also inform his high school that he has been enrolled at a new educational institution, and will no longer be taking classes there. You’ll need to sign an agreement document for that as well. Brendon’s complete care, his clothes, food, and welfare will all be provided for.”