Krymzyn (The Journals of Krymzyn Book 1)
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Authors: BC Powell
KRYMZYN
by
BC Powell
book one
The Journals of Krymzyn
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright 2014 © BC Powell
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
First Edition
ISBN 13: 978-0990500704
ISBN 10: 0990500705
Library of Congress Control Number:
2014910640
For my sons,
Quinn, Evan, and Ryan.
I love you guys.
Special Acknowledgments
To Amy, for reading and supporting my efforts, even through the horrible first drafts. To Pat Thomas, whose initial critique and notes helped me find the path to story balance. To Mickey Reed, for the comprehensive edit, encouragement, and dedication to help make this project the best it can be. To Amanda Krause, for the tedious final proofread. And to Ravven, your cover design is truly beautiful.
The girl looks up to static gray billows overhead. The solemn expression on her face never changes as she studies rays of scarlet and orange that cut through the clouds. Darkness isn’t near, she immediately senses. Her Ritual won’t be interrupted, but the Tree already knew that when it summoned her to Sanctuary.
Standing at the meadow’s edge, she watches as vibrant yellow leaves pass through her vision. Although there’s no breeze, outstretched branches calmly sway in front of her. She lowers her eyes to the monstrous, ancient Tree centered in the crimson field. Unlike the sustaining trees that sleep when it’s light, the Tree of Vision is always alert, forever in motion.
She turns her back to the Tree, contemplative as she scans hundreds of amber eyes focused on her. Statuesque as they stand on the red hills surrounding the meadow, clad in the same black pants that she wears, sleeveless, black shirts hugging their bodies; all in the grace of Krymzyn are here to witness her Ritual.
Black hair laced with shining color drapes the stoic faces that gaze upon her. Her color, her purpose, will be revealed in her own black waves when the Ritual is complete.
The girl’s eyes stop when they reach the other six children of the Delta, each standing beside a Keeper. One boy scowls at her with a noticeably different expression than any other face in the crowd. His anger, she knows, is the result of his not being chosen for the Ritual.
Despite being taller than she, his body more mature and developed than her own, he wasn’t given the sign. The muscles in her lean frame, hints of pubescent curves just beginning to show, sharpen in reaction to his glare. It’s wrong of him to express anger, an extreme emotion. He should feel honor from attending the Ritual. But he’s always been strange, distant. She knows he’ll prove to have a purpose soon—she’s been shown the vision—but his struggle with the Tree will be fierce.
A branch slams into the side of an enormous bell, a deafening clang reverberating through the hills. The girl glances up at light gleaming from silvery metallic curves. The bell, taller than any person in Krymzyn, swings from the arm of a towering steel pole.
“Why do you stand before us?” a woman’s voice bellows.
The girl turns to face the seven Disciples. The woman who spoke, the tallest of the Disciples, steps forward from the center of the row. All seven stand erect, bright orange strands flaming against black hair, focused on her with reverent faces.
“To seek my purpose in Krymzyn,” the girl replies quietly.
“Have you been given the sign?” the tallest Disciple asks.
The girl holds her fists out in front her, slowly opens each hand, and turns them up to the sky. Brilliant golden light radiates from her palms.
“Show Krymzyn the sign,” the Disciple commands.
Raising her hands high over her head, the girl displays the luminous glow for all to see.
“Never has one so small been chosen,” the Disciple whispers just loud enough for the girl to hear.
The girl respectfully bows her head in response while lowering her hands to her sides. Beside the row of Disciples waits her Keeper. She crosses the grass to the tall, muscular man with streaks of flaxen gold in his short black hair. As he crouches in front of her, she looks thoughtfully into his eyes.
“Remember, the Tree only reveals what’s inside you,” the Keeper softly counsels the girl, “but you already know what’s inside you, don’t you? You already know what your Ritual will reveal.”
“I’m grateful to you and the other Keepers for your guidance,” she says with heartfelt sincerity.
The girl turns away from her Keeper and slowly walks around the perimeter of the Tree’s limbs. Branches now slash violently through the air, her path just out of their reach. The last child to be called for the Ritual of Purpose met death. The girl watched from a hilltop, standing with the other children, as one branch clutched him tightly in its grasp. Another limb slammed into the side of his head, crushing his skull.
That boy had no purpose. The girl, unlike anyone else in Krymzyn, had known that before he was ever called to the Tree. Just as she knows from a vision only she was shown that her jet-black mane will soon glimmer with scarlet. Her purpose as a Hunter of Krymzyn will be revealed in her hair. For the girl, the only unknown is what she’ll be shown of the future.
The girl stops walking and stares at the Tree. She could climb to the top of the hill behind her, run back down, and, when the proper speed is reached, blend her light. She’s mastered the ability that only the seven Travelers possess, each of them immensely faster than all others who dwell in the Delta. She looks down at her bare feet, curls her toes in the red blades of grass, and decides that blending her light would be an arrogant display.
She lifts her face to the Tree and marches directly towards the massive trunk. As soon as she’s in reach of the branches, a mighty limb coils high in the air, takes aim, and whips in her direction. In an instant, she visualizes every move she’ll need to make to reach the trunk unharmed.
I dive under the first limb. Roll across the grass as a second smashes into the ground beside me. Jump to my feet, break into a sprint, and leap high over a limb swinging at my legs. Tuck into a flip past another branch. When my feet touch the ground, I charge to the trunk.
The girl sees it, understands each action as though it’s already happened, but instead, she stops and stands perfectly still.
The lashing branch carves the air in front of her, but the girl doesn’t flinch. The limb freezes just inches from her body, a few yellow leaves gently brushing against her face and arms. Gasps of shock cascade from the hilltops into the meadow. No one, the people know, has ever consumed the sap of this Tree without first facing a brutal, often bloody challenge from the muscular branches.
The girl reaches her hands out, softly wraps her arms around the chiseled bark, and cradles the branch to her chest. With an ethereal passion in her eyes, she lays a gentle cheek against the limb.
“I pledge my life to protect all that sustains and nurtures our balance,” she whispers.
Silently, she stands motionless, clutching the branch to her beating heart, face pressed to lustrous carmine bark.
The branch slowly pulls away from her grasp. Her slender fingers caress the wood as it slips from her touch. Every branch of the Tree rises into the air and peacefully waves back and forth. The girl humbly bows her head before striding gracefully to the center of the meadow.
When she reaches the base of the Tree, she drops to her knees, eternal roots dug into the ground beneath her. After extending both hands outward, the girl rests her palms against the trunk. She leans her face forward, opens her mouth, and presses her lips to the bark. Sap flows onto her tongue, freely offered by the Tree, until she swallows.
A burst of light surrounds her, the spectrum of color blinding to those who watch. As the rays engulf the girl, she’s taken to the Vision of the Future meant only for her.
I see my own body, more mature than I am now. I lie on a steep slab of black stone in the middle of the river. Rain pours from the sky. Rapids surge by my sides. Huge waves crash against the edges of the rock and splash high above me. I’m unconscious—no, I’ve met death.
A young man kneels over me. His hair is strange—not black, no color of purpose to define him, just murky brown. Eyes a color different than any in Krymzyn gaze down at my face. Dark-blue eyes, the same color as the needles of steel trees that grow on the Mount, focused on me with intense caring.
He touches the fingers of one hand to a gash in his wrist, bathes them in his own blood, and rubs them inside my mouth. Leaning over my face, he covers my lips with his. Suddenly, he bolts upright and presses both of his hands on the center of my chest. He frantically pumps them against my body while I lie dead. Why is he doing this?
“You have to come back!” he screams.
The desperate pleading in his voice stings me. I don’t see the way he looks at me. I feel him inside. Strange emotions overwhelm me, feelings I’ve never known—feelings foreign to Krymzyn. I have no words to define these feelings. They slip away as my Vision of the Future fades, but something new has opened inside me.
“Chase,” my mother said softly to me, “the nurse wants to ask you about your headaches and what happened in school today.”
I took the phone from her outstretched hand and put it to my ear. My mom hovered over me while I sat at the kitchen table.
“Hi,” I said quietly.
“Hi, Chase,” the nurse replied. “I just want to get a little more detail about the headaches you’re having, especially the one today.”
“Sure,” I said.
“How long have you been having the headaches?” she asked.
“Almost two weeks,” I answered, “but they’ve been really bad the last few days.”
I heard the faint sound of pencil writing on paper before she spoke again. “Do you feel nauseated during them?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “More in the last day or two.”
“Can you describe what happened in school this afternoon?”
“I was just sitting at my desk when the headache started. This one spread really fast, like from the back of my neck into my temples. I started shaking a little. Then it was like a strobe light went off in my brain.”
“Did you lose consciousness?” the nurse asked with a much greater sense of urgency in her voice.
“No, I didn’t pass out. I just heard kind of faraway sounds and saw weird things.”
“What do you mean ‘weird things’?”
“Storm clouds, a field of red grass, and then just really bright light.”
I didn’t say, “And a girl about my age, twelve, kneeling in front of a huge tree and surrounded by streams of light.” It just sounded too crazy.
“How long did you see those things?” she asked.
“Just a few seconds,” I said. “As soon they ended, I went to the school nurse. I told her my head hurt so bad I felt like I was going to throw up. She gave me an ice pack and called my mom.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“Better,” I answered. “Kind of a dull pain, but nothing like earlier.”
“Thank you, Chase. I’m sorry you’re going through this. Can you put your mom back on?”
I handed the phone back to my mother.
“So you don’t think I should take him to the emergency room,” Mom said after listening to the nurse for several seconds. She nodded her head in response to something the nurse said. “Thank you. We’ll be there first thing in the morning.” Mom hung up the phone and turned to me.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“Probably adolescent migraines,” Mom replied with a compassionate smile on her face. “She said they’re not uncommon in boys close to puberty.”
“What about the things I saw?”
“She said we’ll talk to the doctor about what you saw, but brief hallucinations can be part of migraines. Don’t worry, Chase. We’ll get this figured out.” She kneeled and wrapped her arms tightly around me. “I called your dad to tell him you wouldn’t be at practice. He said he’d keep it short and get home as soon as he can.”
Dad had coached my little league team since I started T-ball at the age of five. Even though it meant staying up late to finish work he’d brought home with him, not to mention fighting Los Angeles traffic in a mad dash to reach practices on time, he treasured the time he spent with his children. On the afternoons we didn’t have baseball, he helped out with my little sister’s soccer team.
After a long embrace with Mom, I walked to the family room. I had to navigate through dolls and miniature clothing scattered across the floor. As was often the case, my little sister Ally sat in the middle of the mess. I quickly made my way through the clutter and flopped on the sofa.
My phone had beeped several times since I’d left school. I quickly read the text messages from friends asking how I was feeling. Although I wanted to answer them, the headache was gradually coming back. I decided to reply later, set my phone on the coffee table, and mindlessly tried to watch a game show on television.
“How’s your head?” Ally asked.
“Better, thanks,” I answered.
“I saw Connor when Mom was getting you from the nurse’s office. He told me you were so pale in class you looked like a ghost.”
Connor had been my best friend since preschool.
“I was kind of freaked out,” I replied.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better now,” she grinned.
“Thanks, Ally. I am too.”
We all attended a small K–8 private school located in the San Fernando Valley, not far from our home in Sherman Oaks. News and gossip always spread fast in our school, even something as trivial as me spacing out in the middle of social studies and getting the shakes. I was sure by the time school let out that the story had been exaggerated into me crawling across the ceiling of my classroom like a demon from a horror film.
A handful of smooth, golden blond fur sprouted between my fingers as Casey shoved his head under my hand. With his nose pressed against my leg, he encouraged me to scratch the back of his neck with a wonderful, goofy smile that golden retrievers always seemed to have on their faces.
“Casey! Bad dog!” Ally griped when his tail swished into a blond-haired plastic figure.
He ignored her condemnation while I tried to ignore the rubber mallets gradually pounding harder inside my head. Some guy was spinning a wheel on the TV screen, and I was amazed he had wasted money on a
U
. I mean, my sister could probably figure out what the board said, and she was only nine.
Without warning, the headache exploded. Pressure in the back of my head swelled, stabbing pain ripped through my skull, and my temples throbbed from within. Uncontrollable shaking spread through my arms and legs. When images on the TV screen suddenly burst into flashes of light, I tried to scream for my mom. The sound was strangled in my throat, only a hoarse whisper coming out.
* * *
I stand on a hill. The air around me is perfectly still. No warmth, no cold, no temperature at all, and no movement anywhere. Absolute silence encompasses me, except for the sound of my own sharp breath. My mind races, implodes trying to figure out where I am and how I got here.
My eyes widen as they rise to the sky. Enormous storm clouds, huge billows of dark gray, go on and on as far as I can see. Exactly like the sky before a thunderstorm, except none of the clouds are moving. Orange and red rays slicing through the edges of the clouds cast a scarlet aura over the countryside.
Low, rolling hills blanketed by rich, crimson grass stretch to the horizon. No buildings anywhere, no bushes or flowers, and nothing moving in the air. I see a few trees, but nothing else to obstruct the expanse of hills. Even though I feel like I’m standing inside a surreal fluorescent painting under an ultraviolet light, I know this is real. Too real.
A huge old oak tree spreads from the center of a meadow in front of me. Sculpted bark on the massive trunk, dark brown with a hint of red, seems to shine with an almost metallic luster. Not a single branch or twig on the weathered and worn monstrosity moves. Blazing red leaves, not fading from age or brittle like autumn leaves, but fresh and alive, hang in the stagnant air.
Several giant branches grow outward, fall to the ground, and reach across the field like they’re searching for something. The smooth lines that crease the limbs remind me of muscles in an arm, flexed and tense.
A creature leaps over a ridge at the bottom of the hill—a girl, I’m stunned to see when I focus on her. Sleek and graceful, she lands in a crouch, her back facing me. Long, wavy black hair with dazzling streaks of red falls from the air around her, floats over her shoulders, and flows down her back. I know the color is real, not dyed like some of the girls in my school with temporary strands of purple or blue or green.
As she stands upright, I realize she’s my height. Lean with toned muscles, she wears tight black pants, a sleeveless black shirt, and nothing else—not even shoes. A long, metallic spear, sharp points on both ends, is tightly clutched in one of her hands. Her smooth, porcelain skin seems to reflect the light from around her.
She spins to face me. Like a startled animal in the wild, fierce and alert, the girl locks her huge amber eyes on mine. Thick black lines trace her eyelids, instantly reminding me of a tiger or cheetah. The nostrils in her small, straight nose flare out from her diamond-shaped face when she breathes, and her blood red lips tighten.
I’m mesmerized by her face as she glares at me. She’s beautiful and terrifying and sad and ferocious all at the same time, and it hurts like a gut-wrenching blow to my stomach to look at her. Or maybe it’s not pain, but awe.
“Hey!” I timidly call. “Where am I?”
“On the Empty Hill,” the girl answers.
“No, I mean, like, what is this place?” I ask.
Our words delay after we speak them, momentarily pausing in the air before evaporating into my ears. My words are in English when they leave my mouth but transform into new, strange sounds I can still understand.
“Krymzyn,” she replies.
When I hear the word “Krymzyn,” I think of the color crimson, but I know it’s spelled differently—K-r-y-m-z-y-n. That’s the spelling I see in my mind after symbols, archaic runes of some kind, are separated, translated in the air, and then reassembled for me as a word I can comprehend.
“Do you know how I got here?” I yell down the hill.
She slowly walks to me without answering my question, mystifying amber eyes never leaving mine. There’s no threat in her stride and her arms are relaxed, so I don’t feel scared even though a spear is still dangling from her hand. When she stops in front of me, she squints at my eyes with a puzzled expression on her face.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” I ask.
“I’ve never seen blue eyes,” she answers, “except . . .” She shakes her head and looks down at the ground.
“Except what?”
Her eyes spring back to mine. “I shouldn’t speak with you,” she says sternly. “Only Disciples speak with Tellers when they’re here.”
“Am I a Teller?” I ask.
“You must be if you’re in Krymzyn, although it’s odd you arrived on the Empty Hill instead of the Telling Hill. You also look too young to be a Teller.”
“What’s a Teller?”
“A visitor from another plane. Tellers come to Krymzyn to share stories of their worlds with the Disciples.”
I don’t understand her answer, but something tickles my feet, so I glance down. My face scrunches with confusion as I realize I’m barefoot, blades of red grass between my toes, the shoes I was wearing at home gone. Black leathery pants are in place of my jeans, exactly like the ones she has on. Instead of my polo, I’m wearing a sleeveless black V-neck made of the same material as the pants.
“Do you know how I got these clothes on?” I ask, returning my attention to the girl.
“Krymzyn dressed you in our manner when you arrived.”
Although she’s answering my questions, the answers don’t make sense to me. Her answers really just confuse me. But the pain that was blasting through my head is gone, I’m not shaking anymore, and I feel alert, like my senses are heightened in some way.
“My name’s Chase.” At this point, I’m not sure what else to say or ask.
“I’m called Sash.”
“I like your name,” I remark honestly. “It seems to fit you.”
“Thank you,” she says, but she doesn’t smile. “Yours is nice as well, although it’s odd to have a verb as a name.”
“You’ll have to take that one up with my
parents
.”
The word “parents” seems to stay in the air longer than the other words, never translating, and, instead of transforming into a foreign sound I can still understand, finally just dissipates into the atmosphere.
“I’m sorry, but your word ‘
parents
’ has no meaning here,” she replies.
“Don’t you have
parents
?” I ask, realizing that she just heard the word for the first time.
Ignoring my question, she tilts her head to the side and peers into my eyes. Like beams of light passing through my vision and traveling deep to my core, I feel her inside me.
“You’re in great pain in your world,” she murmurs.
“Yeah, I am, but I don’t feel it here. How do you know that?”
“You’re not frightened being here,” she says in a monotone voice, again not answering my question.
“No, I’m not,” I reply, thinking that I should be scared, but I’m actually fascinated more than anything else. Confused, but fascinated. “Where I come from, they’ll say this is just a hallucination.”
“Do you think you’re hallucinating?” she asks.
“No,” I answer, shaking my head. “This seems real to me.”
Her eyes drift away from mine, focusing on something behind me. I turn to see what she’s looking at and jump backwards from shock.
