The Adventures of Larson and Garrett - The Sleeping Tree

The Sleeping Tree

Larson and Garrett Adventure the First by Aaron Dennis

Published by www.storiesbydennis.com March of 2015

New edition released December of 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Sleeping Tree

Flotsam was a small town in the country of Ruvonia, and while the majority of the country was wooded, Flotsam was no exception. The town, however, had an odd history. A ship had wrecked in the Derring Sea, and after the survivors coasted down the river, they used what remained of the wreckage to start a small camp in a clearing by a tributary. Years later, the town came to be what it is now, a quaint, little place surrounded on the north and west sides by Red Pine woods with farmlands to the east and south. The tributary from the River Jons ran from west to east away from the sea rather than towards it as the Jons itself did.

The Third Age, as humans call the current era, had led to the sprouting of innumerable small townships and farmsteads like Flotsam; if there was running water and some form of protection, people were sure to build. Like many other human towns, Flotsam was relatively new, a hamlet, and home to a handful of families-descendants of the shipwrecked-and little else. The Ross family, however, were newcomers, or at least the parents were. The boys, Largo and Larson, were born there. Margaret Ross, the boys' mother, died shortly after Larson's birth, leaving their father, and in part Largo, to raise the younger son. The boy's father, Mathew, was a gentle yet imposing farmer, and while he instilled obedience, he also made certain the boys learned respect, honed their bodies and minds, and understood the value of hard, honest work.

****

An unceasing disturbance accosted Larson's face. He shut his eyes tight, bit his lower lip, and rolled his face away and into his soft, goose down pillow.

"Wake up, ya' lummox, " Largo howled.

Larson scrunched beneath the woolen sheets and pulled them up over his head. The morning light along with his brother's antics-slapping him softly but repeatedly on the cheek-was enough to work him into a foul mood. Ensconced in semi-darkness, he tried to resume his slumber, but suddenly the blanket was yanked off so brazenly that he nearly went flying off the bed.

"What's the matter with you?" Larson cried out.

Largo, the older of the two, stood with a mischievous grin on his face. The boys were nearly ten years apart. While Largo had light brown hair and some stubble on his face, Larson's hair was nearly black and long.

"You've got school now, kiddo, " Largo chuckled and left the room.

Larson grumbled. Since the boy had turned eight, his father had decided it was time for him to enroll in school. Sleepily, he trudged down the wooded steps of the room he shared with his brother and into the common area. Their home was large but modest, and Mathew was no carpenter, so the common area held little in the way of décor. Still, there were wooden floors and squared walls, which was more than some of the nearby homes boasted.

Larson ambled about the table and chairs and stumbled for the kitchen. "There's no breakfast?"

"Eat your grains, " Largo replied from the adjacent storeroom.

For a moment, Larson looked around for the alleged grains, which he didn't really want since there was smoked rabbit in the storeroom. Then, he realized that his brother had not yet brought out the grains. Largo rounded a corner with two, wooden bowls. He slid one across the table to his brother.

"I don't want grains, and I don't want to go to school, " Larson snipped and rubbed his eyes.

"Tough."

"How come you don't have to go to school?" he complained and crunched on the hard grains.

"Chew with your mouth closed if you wanna' keep your teeth, boy, and I already did my schoolin'. Now, I gotta' help da' with the farm work, " Largo replied.

That sounded even worse to Larson. He arched a brow in wonder. Largo laughed. That action was something their dad did when he was about to ask a serious question or was duly confused about something.

"What do I do in school?"

"Just do what they ask. It's easy enough. Da' says the school here is easy, nothing the like of universities, or magick schools, or whatever."

The young boy ran fingers through his hair, still chomping on the bland breakfast. He thought about school, and figured reading was neat, but he cared little for what else school provided; early rising, rigid structure, homework. Looking over his husky brother, he remembered Largo told him there were older people in Flotsam who didn't know how to read, but their dad demanded they learn because it was important for a strong body to have an agile mind. In fact, it wasn't long ago that they had read a few books out loud to him, which had always been delightful.

Larson was excited about reading, but what he really wanted to learn was fighting. He saw his dad teach Largo once, but for some reason they stopped, and no one fessed up to why. Suddenly, he realized something, which had eluded him; his dad wasn't there.

"Where's dad?"

"Travelin' to Half Pine, downstream, " Largo said, indifferently.

"He go by ferry?"

"Save your questions for school, boy. Now hurry up, I gotta' get you there soon."

"I can go on my own!"

"And yet I'm comin' anyway, " Largo grinned.

Flotsam was a small town even by small town standards, and Larson had been left to play outside enough times that he knew where the school was. He complained again, but Largo insisted on walking at least part ways, and after breakfast and dressing, they strolled beyond the crops. The sun had barely peaked through the western canopies by the time they reached the bridge by the miller's. Dark water swirled beneath them.

Larson turned around at the edge of the bridge and stomped his foot, stating the school was in sight. Largo rolled his eyes, nodded, and as Larson tottered off, he watched his little brother enter the schoolhouse. The boy didn't so much as turn back around.

Inside the long, wooden building, Larson scrutinized the large room. The wooden walls were covered in large canvases. Some of them had letters on them. Others had paintings of people or castles, lands, and boats. There was a fat woman behind a desk at the far end of the room opposite the doors. She stood, dusted off her buff colored apron, and motioned for the boy to come closer.

"Good morning, Larson, " she said. He walked past the chairs and tables. They were empty. No other boys and girls had arrived yet. "You're early. That's good. I'm Mrs. Graham."

Larson remained silent. He looked her over. She was an older woman with gray strands of hair rampant in an otherwise auburn ponytail.

"Where is everyone?"

"They'll be here soon, " she replied, apathetically. "I taught your brother. He's a sharp lad. I expect as much from you."

Larson furrowed his brow. He didn't understand why she expected anything of the sort. They looked at each other for a long moment. Mrs. Graham bore a happy smile, though. It made Larson feel safe, and he finally smiled back.

She motioned at a long table with three chairs behind it. He took a seat, and then suddenly turned around. Children were noisily making their way inside. Some of them were a bit older. A few were his age. He had played with some of them by the river before. The boys, Larson included, all wore tunics and trousers while the girls wore drab dresses; country clothing was simple, utilitarian, and handmade.

The first day of school was both fun and boring. Larson learned about letters from one of the older girls. Mrs. Graham spent most of her time teaching the older kids, and in turn, they taught the younger ones. By the end of the day, all Larson had to show for his attendance was a book about the alphabet and a book about counting. Upon exiting the schoolhouse, he spotted Largo standing by the bridge.

At first, Larson smiled and started to run over, but there was something about Largo's appearance that made him uneasy. Slowing down to a trot, he noticed his brother's hair was a mess, he was sweating profusely, although it was not an altogether hot day, and there were splotches of something dark red or brown on his green tunic.

"How'd it go?" Largo asked once Larson reached the bridge.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothin'. Let's get home, " Largo snipped and started off.

Water swirled noisily under the bridge. In the light of mid-afternoon, it was brownish but clear, and Larson noted a school of mullet swimming against the current.

"What'd you learn?"

His brother's voice jolted him for a second. He looked up. Largo didn't look as carefree as he usually did.

"Letters, and numbers, and stuff."

"Letters, and numbers, and stuff, " Largo echoed quietly and nodded.

"Dad back?"

Largo didn't answer. By the time they made it indoors, the sun was making its descent behind the farmhouses at the eastern edge of town.

"Sit down, and eat, " Largo ordered. "I made rabbit stew."

The boy then figured his brother had been upset by having to scrounge for fresh rabbit and gutting it; something Largo hated doing. After eating, and while his older brother tended the crops, he decided to fiddle with his new books. They were interesting, but not as interesting as swordplay. As he started to leave the dinner table, Largo came in. He had removed his tunic while working; the young man was toned and muscular like some of the paintings of the warriors in the schoolhouse; very few of the people in town were built like warriors.

"When's dad coming home?" Larson groaned.

"Tonight, tomorrow, who knows?"

"What's he doing?"

"I told you, he's got business in Half Pine."

Larson was an astute boy, even if young and uneducated. "What aren't you telling me?"

The older boy's jaw clenched a few times; same as their dad did when he didn't want to reveal something that might upset them, but then Largo's demeanor relaxed and he smiled. "Don't worry about it."

The next two days went by pretty quickly in Flotsam, at least for Larson. Waking early for school made him tired early, so apart from Mrs. Graham's lessons and being forced to relive them at his brother's request, nothing happened. Oddly enough, their dad had still not returned. Late one evening, while Larson was upstairs washing himself out of a bucket with a clean cloth, someone pounded on the door downstairs. Freezing on the spot to listen, he overheard his brother answering the door.

"Yes?"

"Where's your da', " a man's gravelly voice asked.

"Half Pine on business, " Largo replied. "Why?"

There was silence for a moment and Larson capitalized; he slunk to the stairs and peaked. Whoever was at the door was mostly blocked by his brother's stature. Besides, it was dark and only two candles illuminated the common area, which made it impossible for the boy to distinguish their guest's features.

"There's some strange happenins' goin' on, " the man said in a tremulous tone. "I need to speak with your da'."

"Well, I told you, he ain't here."

They grew silent again, and Larson skulked down two steps, but one creaked, and Largo turned. He winced at his brother then gave a barely perceptible gesture with his head; it was an order to go back upstairs. Larson frowned and sat down instead.

"Children been disappearin', " the man said.

"What's that got to do with da'?"

"Don't be glib, boy, " the man grunted then checked himself. "Sorry, but we both know your da's a retired soldier...he ain't some half-drunk farmer like the rest of us here born an' bred in Flotsam."

That bit of news made Larson jump, and he stood, making the stair squeak again. Once more, Largo turned except that time he snapped his fingers at his brother.

"Go upstairs, boy, " Largo howled.

Larson grumbled for a second. Since his brother didn't turn away, he had no other alternative and went just far up enough to hear without being seen.

"Alright, " Largo conceded. "Let's talk outside."

The boy heard the door shut and no more voices. He figured the two were speaking outside, so he snuck all the way to the window and pressed his ear against the shutters.

"Your da' teach you the sword, right, " the man asked.

Suddenly, Larson recognized the voice. It was Mr. Thatcher from town. He was an old man whose son had died years back, even before Larson was born.

"Yes, " Largo answered, "but I'm not about to go out and hunt whoever is takin' children. I got my brother to worry over, hear?"

"Well that's why I'm here...but...you know, " Thatcher trailed off.

"Look, if you're worried about this, put the word out. There ain't so many people in town that bringin' this to light don't solve the problem."

"Well that's just it, " Thatcher said. "I don't think it's any of us."

"Who'd it be then?"

"I don't know. Word is, these kids wandered into the forest an' vanished. Hunters gathered at Fletcher's yester eve an' went out as a party, but they didn't find nothin'."

"And you wanted Da' to lend a hand?"

"Aye, but you could in his stead."

"No, I couldn't, " Largo replied. "Sorry."

With that, the young man came back inside. There wasn't any place for Larson to hide, so he just stood there, leaned against the shutter with his mouth open, staring at his brother.

"I told you to go upstairs, " Largo chastised.

"You could go on an adventure like George the Dragon Slayer!"

"Don't, " Largo was angry, but the look in the boy's eye made him chuckle. "Don't be stupid. That old paintin' is still up in old woman Graham's schoolhouse, isn't it?"

"I guess, " Larson shrugged.

"There's no dragons and no monsters anymore. They went out with the coming of the Third Age."

"Then, maybe it's a band of goblins, or orcs, or ogres looking to eat young boys, " Larson cheered.

"And, what, you're happy about that?"

"Well, no, I mean, " Larson trailed off and looked at the floor.

"Put your clothes on, and go to bed, " Largo smiled.

"When's dad coming home?"

"Go to bed, " Largo replied, sternly.

Sleeping was the last thing on Larson's mind. While stomping his way back to the steps, he imagined sneaking out to find out what was going on, but Largo slept in the same room, so slipping away in the night was out of the question. Ultimately, he was left with no alternative and lied down to sleep.

After wild fantasies of him, his brother, and dad all fighting off scores of monsters, he fell asleep and dreamt about a tree. It was an odd tree, old, and twisted, and big. There were no leaves on it, and the trunk was dark gray, almost black as charcoal. The tree had a face like an old man, and its two, long limbs were bent like it had elbows. The limbs also ended with gnarled twigs like claws. The thing suddenly lurched right out of the ground, and Larson felt as though he'd been scooped up, but then he was awake.

"Get up for school, " Largo yelled. "Today's the last day then you get two off to be lazy."

Larson looked at his brother, wide-eyed, alarmed. That was the first time he wasn't angry at being awakened for school. By the light of candles, he stared at Largo.

"I dreamt of a tree, " Larson said.

"Excitin', " the young man replied, sardonically.

"It was trying to eat me, I think, but you woke me up."

Largo looked at his brother. His long hair was disheveled, but he looked happy or relieved to be awake.

"Glad I could be of service. Now, get yourself ready."

Largo insisted again upon bringing the boy to school. Naturally, Larson argued, but his brother's mind had been made up. No sooner had they stepped off the bridge that the brothers exchanged a look. Outside the schoolhouse, they saw that parents had all brought their kids, or at the least the parents of the younger children had done so.

Inside, Larson sat down at his table with his books and looked around. Everyone-Mrs. Graham, the older kids, and the younger ones-looked nervous. He also noted some kids were late. Class started, but they never showed. Larson was too preoccupied with the possibility of an adventure to pay attention in school that day, and likewise, everyone there seemed too preoccupied to care that no one was paying attention. Twice, Mrs. Graham lost her place in her lectures; an older boy, Michael, had to step in. Before the day ended, when it was time for questions, Larson stood.

"What's happening to the missing kids?"

The room grew silent. Mrs. Graham's smile flickered.

"That's not for young boys to worry over, Larson. Go home, everyone, and study your books, " she fretted.

Larson frowned. When he left the building, he saw all the parents were waiting for their kids, but his brother wasn't there, so Larson went to Mr. Thatcher's house. It was on the way home anyway. He knocked on the door, and old Mr. Thatcher answered. He was wearing a leather tunic that hung loosely on his timeworn body. White whiskers grew over his upper lip, and his short but scruffy beard gave the look of someone with very little patience.

"You're Mathew's boy, the little one, " he smiled a gap-toothed grin.

"Larson."

"Right, " Thatcher breathed. "What're ya' doin' here?"

"You told my brother kids were disappearing, and you said my dad was a soldier."

Thatcher rubbed the white scruff on his chin and looked off at the tributary. "You should go home, " he finally said. "It ain't safe no more."

They stared at each other for a moment then Thatcher figured it was only proper to walk Larson home since Largo wasn't around. Strolling past the sparse, thin pines out of town east to the farms, the two looked at the crops. Corn, beans, and greens were coming in nicely. Then, Thatcher left the boy at his door.

As the old man turned to leave he looked over his shoulder and spoke. "Keep your wits about you."

Larson, his brow furrowed, watched the old man amble off; it was the disjointed gate of a man in refusal of his old age. He finally disappeared behind rows of corn. The boy went inside, ate, got cleaned up, and waited around for his brother, who showed up just after the sun set.

"Where've you been?"

"Out, " Largo answered and tossed a short sword, still in its sheath, onto the table with a clamor.

Larson had only seen that sword once. He looked at it then at the worrisome, young man.

"You went out to look for the kids, " Larson said in surprise.

Largo winced and vacillated before replying, "Yes, but there ain't nothin' out there."

"Everyone's scared...Thatcher even walked me home."

"I should've been there for you...it won't happen again, " Largo sighed.

"Don't be silly, " Larson howled. "These people are farmers, not soldiers like dad, and you know how to fight, don't you?"

"Don't worry about that...besides, they got hunters in town. Those fellas' can track better than I can."

"What are they tracking?"

Largo remained silent. He looked his brother over for a moment then grabbed something eat and a bottle of wine.

"You're not supposed to drink that, " Larson snipped.

"Well, Da's not here to say so, so shut up, " Largo joked.

"He's not coming home, is he, " Larson whispered and looked back at the sword.

"Sure he is...he's just held up or somethin'."

"You know something."

"No, " Largo sighed, "and that's what bothers me."

"Can we go to Half Pine tomorrow?"

"And who'll look after the house?"

They both grew quiet. Hours went by. Larson had never seen his brother so impassive. There was a look on his face he'd never before witnessed; it was like a curious mixture of confusion and determination. Once Larson started to nod off, a knock on the door rallied his attention. Even Largo jumped. He then hopped nimbly from a chair to answer the door. Larson trotted behind.

"Go upstairs, oh who am I kiddin', " Largo said and opened the door. It was Thatcher again. "What is it?"

The old man came in and everyone sat down at the table. "Another child gone missin', " the old man started with a trembling voice. "The Gettys girl; her older brother saw her wander off towards the woods to the north. He ran in after her, but couldn't find her." Thatcher grew quiet and fought to hold back tears. "This ain't normal."