When I was 16 years old, I revamped a story from my childhood--a story called Happy Halloween! This gradually unfolded as a series, beginning as Happy Halloween! 1 in 2005 and finding its fourth installment in the brilliantly illustrated Santa Claws in 2018 (credit again to Derek Nochefranca for the incredible artwork). The fifth and final story of the series begins here. I intend to post the entirety of this final installment in six parts; the last portion should go up the day before Halloween, 2019.
To read the other stories in the series (highly recommended, as you will probably not have any idea what in Ghost's name I'm talking about in the latest release), click on the following links. Enjoy! Have fun! Don't talk to strangers (unless you want to)!
Happy Halloween! 1 (2005)
Happy Halloween! 2 (2012)
The Day the Thanksgiving Turkey Ran Away (2014)
Santa Claws (2018)
Happy Halloween! 1 (2005)
Happy Halloween! 2 (2012)
The Day the Thanksgiving Turkey Ran Away (2014)
Santa Claws (2018)
Prologue
Armenor
They need to know.
He was lying on a rock, his energy
expended. The sky, blurred in his fading
vision, was painted with long strokes of dark cloud. Every few moments his consciousness would
lapse, but only momentarily; then he would awaken once more, and only one
thought pierced his mind.
They need to know.
He hoped that he might have some untapped
reserve of strength, but it did not come to him. And so he waited. He waited, and the chilling wind that heaved
the clouds from south to north dissipated.
He waited, and the murmur of the beasts around him died down. He waited, and energy was revived anew in his
limbs. Breathing in and bracing himself,
he rolled over until he was facedown and pushed himself up to his feet. He tottered for a second, dizzy with the
exertion, but managed to steady himself long enough to allow his vision to
clear. He was alive. No, he was not in the underworld of which the
world’s lore often spoke, and for that he felt a degree of thankfulness; he had
long doubted that he would be permitted eternal bliss, where there was light
and joy and peace, a place devoid of pain and tears. Perhaps this was a second chance for him to
attain to that perfect realm.
He turned to the side and almost fell onto
his back once again—not from exhaustion, but from fear. The massive eagle loomed above and looked
down at him. He was not quite sure if he
was being considered as a snack or commanded—with an unflinching glare—to quit
his trespassing. It would be better not
to linger for the answer, he decided.
Slowly and cautiously, and fixing his eyes on the preposterously grand
creature before him, he backed away until he was nearly on the opposite side of
the summit. It was only then that he
remembered to breathe and survey the rest of the landscape.
To his right stood the rudimentary,
elevated building off of which Jonathan had kicked M.D. He shuddered as the scene replayed in his
mind: the sorceress berating the boy and hinting at sinister plans, the battle
across the mountaintop, and using the last of his power and physical energy to
knock the cauldron off the cliff. He had
collapsed and watched with relief as his companions had disappeared into the
portal and the turkeys swarmed over him...but he was alive. He lived, because the cauldron and its
contents had been destroyed upon impact; Melhrir and the turkeys had instantly
become docile and the portal had vanished.
Now he was alone and without direction...but not without purpose. In fact, he quickly realized that another
mission lay ahead of him. But how would
he begin?
Melonir permitted view of the surrounding
world for seventy leagues, so he moved to the nearest edge of the summit and
gazed at the lands beyond. The Zedroc
Plain extended in every direction, but to the south and southeast the jagged
Shadow Hills prodded the heavens. He
knew that, beyond the great huddle of hills beyond, stretched the Vale of
Val-Neor, the frost-tipped Casponin Mountains, and Sarnost Shores. And beyond that? he asked
himself. The Eastern Sea and the islands
of Kalunas and Volu-Nor. Volu-Nor. That’s my best chance, and the nearest. Off I go, then! There is no time for delay.
The journey was lengthy and
painstaking. He was thankful to stumble
upon a spring of fresh water after an hour’s descent down the mountain, where
he refreshed himself and managed to regain some of his strength. Nonetheless, his body was so weighed with
exhaustion following the battle that any attempt to exercise his power was
fruitless; the final act of blasting the cauldron off the cliff had drained his
magical reservoir. There was no telling
when he would make a full recovery, or if this was even a possibility. After all, it was not until recently that he
had learned that he could use magic to fly—and not once had such an exercise so
depleted him. All he could do was walk
and wait to see if he would be granted his powers once more.
Walk he did, taking over a day to reach
the base of the mountain; then he made slow progress southeast along the
plain. He hoped to find respite in some
of the towns of that region, inhabited by humans, but they shooed him away and
threatened the use of dark magic if ever he showed his face there again. The plain was calm and safe in the evenings,
so he often began his treks at sunset and ended prior to sunrise. During the day, fierce and ravenous hounds
roamed the land in packs; he would therefore deny sleep until he had come
across a tree capable of cradling him, or a rock capable of concealing
him. Save for a week-long stay in the
hut of three amicable desert gnomes, this was how he passed the month before
reaching the southern Shadow Hills.
It was there that he nearly
despaired. Although he was able to
travel by day in these parts, the hills were so lofty that they blocked his
view of the sun most of the day. It was
not until he ascended the peaks that he would find how far he had traveled, and
in which direction. To make matters
worse, in most places the hills were blanketed with slivers of rock the color
of obsidian (the scales of war-fallen dragons, in fact), causing him to slide
far more than he liked. Being a pumpkin,
and therefore round in form, the slightest slip often resulted in the most
absurdly long and excruciating tumble.
He imagined that he was now hardly recognizable as the appetizing squash
of his former life.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into
months. Though he did not know it, the
ninth month of his journey was coming to an end when he crested a hill
overlooking a dense cluster of trees.
Unfolding on either side of the forest was an expanse of untrodden fields
and golden patches of earth. The only
forested region in the Vale of Val-Neor is Soira Forest, he thought. He turned to the west and saw the faint glint
of buildings. That, then, must be
Tarsen Town. I will find relief there
before starting on the final stage of my quest.
But alas, I am far too weary to continue today. He sighed and sat on the nearest rock. His travels had exhausted him in both body
and mind, and he was doubtful that his stubby legs could carry him the rest of
the way. Perhaps Tarsen Town had donkeys
for sale. But there is no steed
capable of fording the sea beyond; I will need a ship. The Spine of Crel stood beyond the forest
to the south, blocking view of the tumultuous seas. M.D. said Jonathan needed a reason to kill
Apo....
He was dozing when he felt movement
beneath him, and he thought that he had set off a rockslide—a common occurrence
in this area. Now having grown
accustomed to this phenomenon, he prepared to move to the side and set up camp
for the night...but the movement was repeated with greater force. As soon as he looked down, he noticed two
craggy eyes meeting his gaze.
“A petrein!” he exclaimed.
The creature, a lustrous humanoid studded
with bronze stones, let out an irritated grunt and rose to its feet quickly. The squash was hardly able to believe the
strength he felt in its body; he was propelled down the cliff in a single
motion, and thanks to momentum, he found himself bursting down the hillside. His disturbance of one petrein apparently
resulted in the disturbance of the entire petrein community, for during his
stomach-turning descent, he noticed the hilltop coming alive with their
movement and grunts. They were no more
than dots in the distance when the force of some object knocked him
unconscious.
“I have seen things few people would
believe, and have fought battles with enemies more terrifying than you can
imagine,” said a young man who was crouched in front of a tree. “I have been acquainted with magic I may never
be able to explain, and I grew up on a farm.
But among all the experiences of my short life, never have I encountered
a pumpkin with consciousness.”
He realized that he was seated on a rock
(not a petrein) in what was presumably Soira Forest. Groggily, he hopped to his feet and surveyed the
terrain; the trees were scant here, and the red light of sunset projected the
silhouettes of their leaves upon the cold earth. The ground ascended to the north, specked
with the dark scales of the Shadow Hills.
Save for a light breeze flicking the leaves against one another, all was
silent and still. He turned his
attention again to the young man and assessed whether or not he would be able
to put up a fight if their meeting proved hostile.
“Pray don’t move too quickly,” said his
host. “You took quite a tumble down that
hill; I imagine you’re a bit rattled.”
The squash sensed no deception or ill-will
in his tone, but remained on guard.
“Your speech is unlike any that I have heard. I presume that you don’t come from this
area?”
“From the south, actually.” The stranger
motioned to his left. “Beyond the
borders of this world. My name is
Hargolan, of the country Farlenas by the sea.”
“Farlenas.
Indeed, no region within these lands bears such a name.” He stepped
forward and extended his arm forward. “I
am Gourdo of the city called Zierro, also to the south...though perhaps not as
far south as Farlenas.”
Hargolan shook the arm-stem and
smiled. “Well met, friend. I’m glad to see you awake and aware rather
than falling helplessly down a slope.
What brought you to these hills? A solitary hiking expedition?”
“Not by choice.” Gourdo would have
appeared mournful if he, a perpetually grinning jack-o'-lantern, could have
accomplished such a feat. “I am afraid I
have been tasked with an urgent mission.”
“You have been tasked with an
urgent mission,” said the young man, “or you tasked yourself with an
urgent mission?”
The squash paused, rubbing the area where
his chin might have been. “The boy is
astute, perhaps because he, too, has tasked himself with an urgent mission.”
“This is true.” Hargolan’s face fell, and
his hand touched the pommel of a sword at his hip. “But I sense that this is my fate; my path
was chosen for me. To deny it would be a
breach of what has already been willed for me.
How can I possibly resist? If I do nothing...well, more than Farlenas is
at stake.”
“Are you hinting that you must save the
world?”
“Yes,” replied Hargolan, “or at least...I
must find the one who has been foretold to save the world. Someone far stronger than I. Unless the prophecy is a false tale.” He took
a seat on a nearby stump and studied Gourdo for a moment. The wind died down and all was quiet, as if
the world held its breath to better listen to an important conversation. “You wouldn’t know of one called Sage, would
you?”
“Sage,” said the squash
contemplatively. “Sage....Do you mean a
sage? A seer, or perhaps a wizard of some kind? Or do you speak of the
pungent shrub that people sometimes use for tea?”
“No, that’s not what I mean, though I
could really use some tea right now!” The young man chuckled, but he seemed
discouraged. “Oh well, I guess my search
continues. And what about you, fair
squash? What is your mission?”
My mission. Pumpkin, his cousin, had been leaping,
spinning, and slashing at the bellicose turkeys atop Melonir while he had been
striking magical blows at the cauldron.
He had begun to feel exhaustion setting in, but even in his weakness he
had used his magic to listen in on Jonathan’s conversation with M.D. The boy is...well, just a boy. It is unlikely that he made sense of anything
that wicked woman told him. But he
had heard enough to surmise that a great evil would soon visit the boy’s
world—assuming it had not already manifested during Gourdo’s long journey.
“You wanted me to kill Apo?”
Jonathan had asked the sorceress.
The woman’s response had been smug: “Yea,
even he willed to give up his own life—to please Mother Dearest. Had thou properly disposed of the ashes of
thy antagonistic professor that lay at the base of his cauldron…thou wouldst
shoulder less responsibility for thy—and thy world’s—future.”
They need to know, Gourdo thought again to
himself, if it isn’t too late.
“My mission,” he told Hargolan, “is to travel
to the magical island of Volu-Nor, still a long way south of here, and take a
portal to another realm—a realm that is in grave danger.”
“Another realm,” the young man whispered to
himself. He stared off into the
distance. “And you feel responsible for
this...other realm?”
Gourdo moved his body in a nod. “If it still exists, then yes. Just as you are tasked with saving this
world—or at least finding this ‘Sage’ and aiding him in doing so—I must not
neglect to save a different world. It is
a world filled with love and family. My
cousin, and others dear to me, currently abide there.”
“That sounds like a world worth saving,” said
Hargolan. “May I ask what it is called?”
“It is called ‘Earth,’ though I am most
familiar with the humble town of Vacaville.”
Hargolan pursed his lips and took a step away
from the stump on which he had been sitting.
“You look weary with travel, and even wearier with your burden to
protect. I know that burden well,
Gourdo, and I have a good feeling about you—even though we met just a moment
ago. My search continues...but there is
no reason for yours to do the same.”
What in the world is that
supposed to mean?
the squash asked himself. “If you mean
to dissuade and deter me from my quest, then I must inform you that I am fully
prepared to continue on despite the weariness and burden.”
“I would expect no less from a fellow hero,”
said Hargolan with a smirk. He muttered
something unintelligible and waved a hand in the air. Suddenly, rainclouds swarmed together in the
heavens and cast deep shadows upon the forest.
The wind picked up again, at first intermittent gusts, then longer
squalls, and finally heavy gales that nearly knocked Gourdo on his face. He grabbed onto the rock behind him and
watched the surprising display; Hargolan’s hand remained in the air, waving
ponderously. While the phenomenon was
certainly unusual, Gourdo did not feel any fear as he watched the shadows
deepen and the wind shake the trees. The
young man’s countenance, peaceful and resolute, put to rest any initial
anxieties within him.
“Hargolan, what is this?” he shouted as
thunder joined the wind’s chorus.
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like dark magic!”
The young man laughed. “You are correct, my friend!”
“But--but is not dark magic reserved for
those who are evil?” His voice betrayed his befuddlement. “Those who practice wicked deeds?”
“I wish I had time to tell you my story,”
said Hargolan. At that moment, a purple
orb appeared in the space between them and expanded slowly. “But alas, I don’t. It’s quite long; I’m convinced it would take
three books to explain it in full.”
“I hope to read it some day!” Gourdo
clasped the stone more tightly, and the purple orb grew to the size of a small
house. It looked awfully familiar. A portal, he thought. Hargolan has created a portal. What sort of power is this?
“Do me a favor, Gourdo,” said his new
friend. “Join your cousin and the others
on Earth, and help them save it. I am
not sure if I will succeed in my quest, but you make sure to succeed in yours.”
“I will do everything I can!” he promised,
noticing that his body was beginning to lift from the earth. The portal was drawing him.
“Farewell, friend, until we meet again!”
“Goodbye!” Gourdo released the rock and
spiraled into the portal, disappearing in an instant.
