The Elister Chronicles: The United National Council of Elister

By Bahhaj J. Hockley

Matt Hartsbain is asleep one morning when he wakens to the sound of his mother screaming in the living room as she watches the World Trade Center towers come crashing down. His mind in shock, he wanders out later that day to meet his best friend Tom in the busy streets of Baltimore when suddenly, he and his friend find themselves snatched from this world, traveling back through time, millions of years before recorded history. Tom, as it turns out, has been to this world before, and knew that Matt had to follow him back, as he was the sole savior of their disintegrating world. Tom and Matt’s chief mentor, Omdule, a frail wizard with a multitude of knowledge and ulterior motives, explains to them that they have been brought back hundreds of millions of years in time, to an Earth that was once inhabited by wizards, elves, dwarves, and other mythical creatures. He explains that the prophecies describe Matt as the one person who can unite the people of that world to defeat the evil essence known as the Shadowspawn, which was allowed to prevail many years ago, and which has been the cause of so much strife in the world of recorded history we know today. There, in the land of Elister, as ancient Earth was once known, was the one place they could be defeated.
After they arrive in Elister, they travel to the human-occupied city, Elister City, and forewarn the king of an army of Shadowspawn marching toward them to attack. Caught in the middle of the war, they become separated in the commotion and are forced to flee the city. The two groups make their ways to a mountain city known as Roanoke and are reunited there. While there, Matt is ambushed one night by a group of religious zealots determined to squash all belief in the prophecies. In his attempt to escape, he befriends the daughter of one of the Generals of the United National Council of Elister, a force of unity in Elister that struggles to keep the Shadowspawn at bay through international collaboration and cooperation. This begins a relationship which will help to sustain him throughout the trials and tribulations of the task ahead of him.
Matt and his companions make their way to Elianer, the capital city of the Elves. In the city this year, the United National Council of Elister is holding its 372nd annual meeting to determine how to respond to the attack against Elister City. There, Matt fulfills one of the greatest prophecies that signify the coming of the Omega, or the One, by claiming for his own the ancient weapon of incredible magical capability known as the Sword of Orthanke. As he accomplishes this feat, another Shadowspawn attack besieges Elianer with the intention of quelling the UNCE, which has grown more powerful in recent years and threatens to unite the nations under one banner. With no way to escape, Matt uses his new-found power to conjure a Twimaraan, or a lucid dream, to Valnar, the capital city of the Wizarding nation, Zauber. Begging for assistance and with the proof of his identity present in the Sword of Orthanke, he convinces them to join the fight and relieve Elianer. Meanwhile, Matt returns from this dream and infiltrates the UNCE building to ensure the safety of all the delegates, and in so doing, wins the favor of the UNCE representatives.
The novel ends as the Battlemages sent by the High Council of Valnar finally break through the lines of the confused and defeated Shadowspawn and liberate the city. Matt and his companions look upon a battlefield of victory with high hopes that their actions in rescuing the city will propel Matt to his rightful stage in the world from whence he can unite the rest of the nations in a fight against the Shadowspawn that will redefine the future and save both Elister, and 21st century Earth from further disasters such as September 11th. Meanwhile, the consequences of his heroic and unprecedented actions will be leveled against him as the obstacles between him and his goals intensify in the next book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bahhaj J. Hockley
• Release date: Jul 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466159693

Bahhaj J. Hockley

I am 22 and a senior in college attempting to get my Bachelor's Degree in aerospace engineering at Embry Riddle Aeronautical University. I started writing at a fairly young age and have continued to do so on and off throughout adolescence. As my writing has improved over the years, I have decided to take on more and more ambitious projects, culminating in the trilogy I am currently working on called The Elister Chronicles. I finished the first book several months ago and have been thinking of ideas for the sequel simply because I enjoy the story line and feel there is room for it to continue. I am hoping to hone my skills with this novel and others to come. I genuinely enjoy the craft which I have taken as a hobby and invite you to follow my progress as a writer and enjoy the fruits of my labor.

Book preview

The Elister Chronicles:

The United National Council of Elister

By Bahhaj J. Hockley

Copyright 2011 Bahhaj J. Hockley

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: 9-10

Chapter 2: 9-11

Chapter 3: The One Arrives

Chapter 4: The Dark Lord Stirs

Chapter 5: Rumors of a Nameless Fear

Chapter 6: The Nigreden Guild of Mages

Chapter 7: The Fat Man’s Mug

Chapter 8: Into the Breach

Chapter 9: Fleeing the City

Chapter 10: Behind Enemy Lines

Chapter 11: War Mongering

Chapter 12: The Twimaran

Chapter 13: On the Road Again

Chapter 14: Earned in Blood

Chapter 15: The Shirine

Chapter 16: First Encounter

Chapter 17: The Mountain City

Chapter 18: Fight or Flight

Chapter 19: Walking a Fine Line

Chapter 20: The Daemons

Chapter 21: Elvendom by Night

Chapter 22: The Letter

Chapter 23: The Heart of Laralander

Chapter 24: Gathering Information

Chapter 25: Silent Night

Chapter 26: How About Dinner?

Chapter 27: A Call to Action

Chapter 28: In a Dream

Chapter 29: Taking Sides

Chapter 30: A War Begun

About the Author

To my dearest friends and family members who believed in me from the beginning, without whom I could never have made it past the first page.

Prologue

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Long, long ago, when the world was still a babe cradled in the vast expanses of shimmering stars and planets of this galaxy, there lived a wise king who ruled the city of Valnar and the Wizards that dwelt therein. It was the era of the Ancients, when all the peoples of the world of Elister fought for survival and fear ensnared the hearts of many an innocent creature. The Shadowspawn, or the Rebellious Ones, a group of dissidents who broke away from their countries and formed their own society with the sole purpose of conquering the five nations of Elister, were known to be the source of such strife. The Council of Five, consisting of King Verabon of the Wizards, Queen Elwood of the Elves, Lord Captain Commander Balidurn of the Dwarves, High Lady Mehwindune of the Free Men, and Chancellor Estridge of the Gnomes, signed a pact forming an alliance of the last free peoples of Elister. And so, the Alistor Deinen Herun was formed, which, in the ancient tongue of kings and queens long dead, meant The Elister United Confederacy. It is said that the Confederacy became as ruthless as many on the Dark Side, even so much as to have lost the honor and valor for which they stood and fought, however none now live to tell such a tale.

Elves, Dwarves, Wizards, Gnomes, and Men united to form an army of 100,000 strong. As a red sun ominously foreshadowing the death to come peaked over the Misty Mountains, the army set off down the muddy road to Farand Doyheir and Ruhiden beyond, the capital stronghold of the Shadowspawn. Gloom hung on the brave soldiers’ faces, and after 30 days and nights galloping, they reached the Mountains of Dhoom and Death Pass, the fastest way into The Blackened Lands, and Ruhiden.

The battalion marched through the rock-strewn fissure and endured countless skirmishes and ambushes. When they reached Ruhiden, they were half their original number. After five days and nights of relentless fighting and heavy losses on both sides, the hopeless attack was called off. With most of the world unable to defend itself, Lady Mehwindune and the nation of men, who were so easily corrupted and blinded by greed, saw this as their chance to expand their borders. They gathered the last of their troops, for unlike the four other nations, they had not enlisted the entire army into the Confederacy. With orders to accept nothing but full victory, the army of around 50,000 led offensive assaults on every city that was not under their control. Men, who had always been respected and highly thought of among nations, had betrayed their allies and killed the innocent with naught but the thought of complete world domination on their minds. It consumed the leaders of Templor, the great nation of Men, and drove them into a frenzied, massacring obsession. Without an army to defend themselves, there was little opposition from the other four nations, and before long, Men ruled all inhabited parts of the world. They cheered for the downfall of the Shadowspawn. But the enemy was cunning and, contrary to popular opinion, not so easily vanquished.

Centuries passed and slowly, the land began to shift. It split and cracked, putting giant fissures through the middle of cities. Volcanic activity greatly increased and some went so far as to claim that it was the work of the Shadowspawn returned. Thousands of years passed with wide spread panic and disruption until the landmasses finally slowed, forming six large bodies of Earth and smaller pieces, like splinters in the water. The shift caused devastation in the world. Casualties were astronomical and the civil disorder that ensued was on a scale never witnessed by any alive today. Selindur, now the King of the Free Men decided, against the word of many wise advisors, that taxes had to be raised to pay for the damage. Riots broke out, protests arose, and raids on government buildings and establishments became commonplace.

The world of Men fell into disarray and descended into anarchy. The Shadowspawn, whom the people now believed to be lost to myth and legend, saw this as their chance of revival. Dreadlords, Wizards who had gone to the Dark Side, were permitted by their master to use one of the worst of the Dark Magic spells, Ardaman Dora, the curse that corrupts a person’s free will and makes them extremely susceptible to suggestion. Some people joined willingly on false promises of power and riches beyond any king’s wildest dreams. The Shadowspawn built an army and prepared to overthrow the government of the Free Men. But they were ill favored in the ways of luck.

As the army of Shadowspawn marched to what remained of the capitol, Elister City, they were ambushed by rioters. They had been mistaken for Soldiers of the King’s Guard and were attacked without warning. Completely caught by surprise, the army was slaughtered and even as the retreat began, a brave marksman by the name of Jaedin Natal speared the King Samahail of the Shadowspawn through the heart. With their King dead, the other soldiers were helpless and confused. By the end of the massacre, all the Dreadlords were slain, and the last days of the tale of Wizards were lost to legend.

Word spread quickly, as it always did, that the Shadowspawn had returned and were once again defeated. But that news was not enough to unite the world of Men again. They were permanently divided among one another, and as thousands of years passed, the tribes and groups they had formed began to take on new names like the Vikings, the Aztecs, the Romans, the Greeks, and then still further into what became known as countries. These countries were constantly fighting for land and riches, never fully uniting under a common banner. Strife and devastation entered the hearts of men once more, and the Shadowspawn, who had for so long been disbanded, disgraced, and leaderless, saw another opportunity. They who had lain in the shadows and waited so long for the return of their king - the one who would lead them to victory and conquer the world - had been given another chance.

Chapter 1

9-10

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Matthew Hartsbain awoke suddenly to the sound of his alarm and smacked the top of it to silence the irritation. He lay in bed for a moment, staring up at the ceiling fan overhead as it spun around lazily. He rubbed his temples and let out an eye-watering yawn. It was another Monday morning. Fantastic. He had only been back at school for a few weeks now and he already hated waking up for it. He really wasn’t a morning person; he hadn’t been for as long as he could remember. Unfortunately for him, his twelve year-old sister was at that age when energy seemed to ooze from her pores day and night.

Matty, Matty! It’s time for school! yelled Mikayla as she darted past his room and stomped down the stairs two at a time.

Matt shook his head. Some days, he wished he could make it a crime punishable by law to be that peppy in the morning. He sat up and looked around his room in the dim light. A pile of dirty clothes lay on the floor near the foot of his bed next to a dresser that had several drawers hanging out. On the other side of the room were two overflowing bookcases and a very respectable desk piled with papers, drawings, and other scribbling. If there was one thing he loved and used most, it was his desk space. That and his bed of course. He yawned again as he thought longingly of returning home after school that day and collapsing onto his soft, cozy comforter.

Knowing he had already wasted enough of his limited time to get to school, he hoisted himself out of bed and stumbled over to the pile of clothes on the floor. He sifted through the heap lazily, picking up and sniffing one of the shirts and promptly dropping it in disgust, wrinkling his nose. He must have picked up the marching band shirt he had worn under his uniform for the game last Friday. Rubbing his nose as though it would help him forget the horrendous smell, Matt walked over to his closet and flipped the light switch.

There was about a square foot of open space for him to step into. The rest of the floor was covered with various, unorganized items. A box of old teddy bears sat in one corner against the wall, but piled on top of it were several old pairs of jeans that did not fit him anymore. Three empty shoe boxes lay in a pile along with a gym bag and a few scattered sheets of band music.

Matt nudged the piles of music aside with his bare feet as he thumbed through his hangers to find a suitable shirt to wear. He finally chose a green shirt with some simple white stripes with which he knew he could wear the white and green plaid shorts he owned, if only he could find them. He sifted through several more hangers, but didn’t see them. He stepped out of his closet and toward his dresser, wrenching open each drawer. Again, the elusive shorts did not reveal themselves. It wasn’t until Matt remembered that he had worn the same shorts in a different outfit last week that he gave the pile of clothes on his bedroom floor a generous kick, scattering its contents from his dresser all the way to the door of his closet, and uncovering the hidden plaid shorts. Matt grabbed them hastily, shoving his legs through the holes with two successive steps and stumbling out of his bedroom door toward the bathroom as he buttoned them.

He smacked the light switch in the bathroom on and stared at his sixteen year-old physique in the mirror. He was of very average height, about 5’ 10", with a mop of golden brown hair and pale blue eyes. He wasn’t particularly muscular, but he could hold his own if he had to. What he most definitely was, though you wouldn’t know by looking at him, is fast as lightening. He could run a mile in just under five and a quarter minutes consistently. It was one of his few hidden talents.

He grabbed his tooth brush and the tooth paste and quickly ran them over his teeth. He looked up at the mirror again and frowned at his hair, sticking out in random directions with no rhyme or reason. His hair always seemed to have a mind of its own. He ran his hand under the water and quickly combed his hair with his fingers, matting the stray patches down enough to look respectable. Satisfied with his appearance, he darted down the stairs to grab a half bagel before he missed the bus to school.

The bus stop wasn’t far from his house, and he made it there in time to watch the yellow number 93 pull up with a screech. Three other students waited at his stop, a red-haired, freckled boy who was a year older than Matt, and two other freshman students Matt hadn’t bothered, and had no interest, to get to know. Matt took the steps up to the aisle of the bus last, returning the old driver’s smile as best he could, given the fact that it was still 7:30 a.m. He was well aware of how irritable he could be early in the morning, even without any intention of being rude.

He took an open seat near the middle of the bus, placing his black Jansport on the seat next to him; there was usually no need for students to double up seats anyway. Matt’s stop was second on a route of five, which meant that the next twenty minutes were bound to go by dreadfully slow. He reached into the front pocket of his back pack and pulled out his Ipod, stuffing the ear buds into his ears and scrolling through his playlists.

‘There was nothing like a little Death Cab for Cutie to brighten up a Monday morning,’ thought Matt as he stared out the window to the horizon. The sun had been up for almost an hour now, glowing sinisterly and illuminating a nearly cloudless sky. Matt squinted his eyes against its radiance and warmth, scowling angrily. He hated mornings. He directed his gaze inside the bus again as it came to the third stop on its route and several other students took their seats.

Matt decided to make sure he remembered what he had going on that day in school. He had a book discussion in English 3-4 Honors for Romeo and Juliet, for which he had prepared by reading Cliff’s Notes. Then, there was Jazz Ensemble second hour—his favorite class of the day. Third hour was Calculus 1, in which he was fairly sure he had a quiz he hadn’t studied for. That wouldn’t be a big deal though; he’d practically done their last homework assignment in his sleep, no sweat.

The bus lurched and screeched to its fourth stop, jarring Matt out of his state of concentration and forcing him to place a hand on his back pack to keep it from falling to the floor. He scowled again and returned to his musings.

His fourth hour was lunch, which would give him just enough time to finish the homework for World History fifth hour that he hadn’t even looked at yet. Sixth hour was a mandatory foreign language class for which, between Spanish and French, he had chosen French. And his last class of the day was another abysmally unchallenging science, Chemistry Honors. He shrugged his shoulders as the bus came to its fifth stop. Just another typical day. At least he didn’t have any tests. Although, he doubted he would have been worried at all if he did. School was not a significant struggle for him by any means, a fact he frequently took for granted.

After a few minutes, the bus finally pulled into the parking lot at Lansdowne High School. A dozen other school buses were already there, dropping off students for classes and Matt joined the queue waiting to clamber off number 93. Students were milling around the front entrances to buildings in groups, talking loudly and waiting for the first bell to ring, telling them it was time for class. Matt stuffed his Ipod back into his back pack and scanned the crowds, looking for his normal group. He found them after a short walk, leaning against building one and talking jovially.

What it do? said Tom jokingly as he approached. Tom had been Matt’s best friend through most of his schooling. He was wearing a torn pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt. He was slightly taller than Matt and somewhat more muscular, which made him quite an imposing figure. He had blonde hair about the same length as Matt’s with greenish eyes and a deeper voice to match his heavy-set appearance. The others around him were a blonde-haired, slim girl Tom had been after for a while, a dark-skinned girl named Jasmine with whom Matt had first and second hour, and another boy named Phil who was almost the spitting image of what one would think of if they were asked to characterize Harry Potter, and was in Chemistry Honors with Matt.

Hey, guys, said Matt in a dull, tired voice, returning Tom’s fist pound and nodding at the others.

You finish that history assignment last night? asked Phil.

Psh, yeah right, replied Matt with a laugh.

Tom didn’t do it either, replied Phil.

That’s what lunch is for, said Tom.

Exactly, nodded Matt.

"Did you finish Romeo and Juliet for English?" asked Jasmine.

"Nah. Just read the Cliff’s Notes," replied Matt.

How you actually pass your classes, I’ll never know, said Phil, shaking his head.

It’s a simple matter of prioritization, said Matt, shrugging his shoulders.

The ability to distinguish that which needs critical attention from that which doesn’t in order to best allocate time and resources in such a way that does not exert more energy than is absolutely necessary to get an ‘A’, said Tom, nodding his head in agreement. The others chuckled.

Oh yeah? said Phil challengingly. "Is that the Urban Dictionary definition?"

That’s the ‘up yours’ definition, retorted Matt sarcastically to another round of laughs. The first bell rang.

Ah, crap, said Tom with a frown.

Here goes nothin’. See you guys later, said Phil with a wave, and they all went their separate ways. Only Matt and Jasmine had the same first period and they walked toward the English wing of the building.

"So, you didn’t even read Romeo and Juliet for the discussion today?" said Jasmine.

I read part of it, offered Matt. I skimmed the rest and then looked up some notes for the analysis.

Jasmine shook her head. Unbelievable. A classic tragedy and you don’t even read it, she said with a laugh.

It’s a tragedy. I try to avoid tragedy as much as possible, said Matt chuckling.

Well, let’s hope that continues, then, said Jasmine as they reached the class room door.

Amen, replied Matt, laughing as he followed her in.

Matt’s first class of the day passed without much incident. The discussion of Romeo and Juliet was nothing difficult; Matt made a few good comments, enough to earn him his participation points for the day. When class finally ended, Matt and Jasmine headed toward the Performing Arts building for Jazz Ensemble.

Jazz Ensemble, and in fact band in its entirety, was Matt’s favorite class, not least because he had great respect and admiration for his band director, Mr. Richard Ashworth. The man was one of those people who seemed to almost naturally understand how to interact with others, which was essential in any leadership position. But more importantly, he inherently knew how to interact and communicate with students. And most importantly, he had a passion for what he did and the impact he had on his students’ lives. Put plainly and simply, he did his job to the best of his ability, all day, every day, regardless of his measly salary. He was the most influential teacher Matt could remember having thus far in his educational career.

As he and Jasmine reached the door of the band room, Tom walked up to them. Hey guys. How was Shakespeare? he asked as they entered the band room and headed for their instrument lockers.

Tragic, retorted Matt with a laugh as he opened his trumpet case.

How ‘punny’, said Tom, smirking. Jasmine rolled her eyes at this pathetic excuse for humor.

Today in jazz, they were continuing their rehearsal of the incredibly challenging piece of music, Riverdance. It was a jazz arrangement of the main theme from the famous show. The rehearsal went fairly smooth, though they were far from a concert-worthy rendition. All things considered, however, Matt felt they had made considerable progress. Mr. Ashworth apparently thought so as well, because he congratulated them on their hard work that day, before extending marching practice by one hour the following night.

Fantastic, grumbled Tom as he packed away his tenor saxophone in its case. Five to nine. As if I had nothing better to do with my evening.

The way you march, Tom, it should be three to nine, chided Jasmine.

Psh, whatever. I march just fine, thanks, retorted Tom.

He just wants to make sure the new sets are solid for the game on Friday, said Matt.

Did someone just use ‘solid’ and ‘game’ in the same sentence? ‘Cause I’d appreciate it if you guys would let me know when you talk about me, said one of their band mates jokingly.

Matt rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dom. We were talking about how your game is as solid as a cotton ball." Everyone in the locker room laughed.

Matt, Jasmine, and Tom all went their separate ways as they reached the band room door. Matt’s third period was Calculus and he knew he had a quiz he didn’t want to take. It wasn’t that he thought it would be difficult; he didn’t want to take it because he just didn’t want to answer problems he could already do backwards, forwards, and sideways.

Matt entered the room and sat in his usual seat. The quiz was already on his desk. He fished around in his back pack for a pencil. The first problem was an infinite limit question, no sweat. He burned through the second problem without much trouble, a simple derivative of a polynomial. The third and fourth problems were quotient rule derivatives. The fifth and final problem was a sort of math trivia question on a concept she had shown them to pique their curiosity. ‘What is the name of the figure which has infinite surface area, but finite volume?’ Matt scratched his head for a moment. She had mentioned this conundrum in class before; he remembered it. When the graph y=1/x was rotated about the x-axis, you ended up with a shape whose volume approached the value of pi when computed, but whose mathematical surface area was infinite. But what was it called?

He struggled for several more minutes, until he remembered the image of an angel blowing a trumpet on the web site his teacher had shown them when she explained the phenomenon. Gabriel’s Horn! That was it. Matt quickly scribbled the name down and handed in his quiz. The last half hour of the class passed slowly and uneventfully.

When the bell finally rang, Matt made his way to the lunch room as quickly as possible. He and Tom had half an hour to finish their World History homework. It wasn’t much, just a one-sided worksheet with short answer and multiple choice questions. Matt sat down at their usual table without even bothering to get lunch and pulled out his worksheet. Tom joined him a minute later as the lunch room began to fill with hungry students.

Hey, man. Did you get any of these? said Matt, pointing to the first five multiple choice questions.

Yeah, here, said Tom, showing Matt his answers.

Are you sure these answers are right? asked Matt, looking at an ‘A’, ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘B’, ‘C’ pattern.

As sure as the sky is green, said Tom through a mouthful of fries.

Good enough, said Matt, quickly circling the same letters on his paper.

I’ll start on these short answer questions, said Tom, taking his paper back.

In their frantic hurry to finish the assignments on time, the half-hour lunch period passed quickly. They did, however, manage to complete two fairly respectable worksheets, and the marks they received during peer grading in fifth hour did not reflect their procrastination. Matt scored a nine out of ten, and Tom an eight. Pleased with their work, they decided to take the rest of the class easy, only mildly participating in the lecture when it was absolutely necessary.

Matt was on his own again for sixth hour, French. Most of his friends were either in Spanish, or had already taken their foreign language class in their freshman year. He sat in class, listening to his teacher drone on about French culture, staring at the clock with a blank face. It was about 12:30 p.m.; he’d only been in class for ten minutes. At this point in Matt’s day, his body typically became acutely aware of the fact that he had been rudely awakened at 6:45 in the morning by the loud, beeping black box from hell on his night stand. Yawning quickly followed this realization. He made a concerted effort to try and focus on the lecture for that day, but even staring at the incredibly amusing way that the hair on his balding-teacher’s head seemed to form an upside down smiley face every time he looked down couldn’t hold his attention. Matt glanced over at the clock again. Three minutes had passed, three measly minutes. He scowled angrily at the clock as though it was the mechanical object’s fault that he was stuck there. He couldn’t fight his body’s urge to sleep anymore. At least he sat at the back of the room. He looked at the teacher again. ‘Sorry buddy,’ he thought. ‘C’est la vie,’ and he closed his eyes.

The sound of the bell awoke him with a jolt as he saw the students around him grabbing their bags and heading for the door. Matt made to do the same, but at that moment, he heard his name called from the front of the room.

Mr. Hartsbain? Could I have a word? said his teacher. ‘Crap,’ thought Matt.

Yes, Mr. Pierre? said Matt as he approached his teacher at the front of the room.

Now, I know you are no average student by any means; you are far above it. But you still might try and do a bit more of your sleeping in the evening and a bit less of it in the back of my class room, hmm? said Mr. Pierre, his voice carrying with it the slightest hint of a French accent.

Yes, sir, said Matt, nodding with a sheepish smile. See you tomorrow.

Matt made his way to his final class of the day. Though he had paid the price of getting caught for it, the nap had done his body wonders and now he felt alert and even cheerful. He met up with Phil on his way to chemistry; they had paired up as lab partners at the beginning of the year. Phil was a genuinely good guy at heart. His only social irritation was that he was an incessant over-achiever, and an irritably over-sincere gentleman.

Hey! said Phil happily, smiling broadly as he fell into stride next to Matt.

Matt cringed as he responded. He was feeling cheerful because it was the end of the day, but he wasn’t that cheerful. Hey, Phil, he said, slightly more depressed than he actually felt so as not to give Phil much of an invitation to continue. Naturally, he continued anyway.

How’s your day been? said Phil, still with that sickeningly bright smile on his face.

Ask me when it’s finally over, grumbled Matt as he reached the door to the chemistry room. It wasn’t so much that he hated the fact that Phil was being happy and friendly at that moment. He hated that Phil was always happy and friendly. Mornings, evenings, lunch time, 3 a.m.—you could punt his dog down a flight of stairs and Phil would still ask you how you were doing with a smile on his face.

Matt cleared his head and took his seat next to Phil as class began. They were having a lecture on molecular geometry today and tomorrow in preparation for a lab on Wednesday. Matt pulled his notebook and a pen from his back pack and prepared to take notes, though his efforts were only half-hearted. Phil would catch anything and everything their batty, old teacher said, and then some. He had a four-color changeable pen and three different colored hi-lighters in front of him. Matt shook his head as he watched Phil fly through his notes, color-coding sentences and bullet points in some sequence only he could understand. By the end of class, Matt’s notes totaled a page and a half, a weak comparison to Phil’s five and a quarter.

They packed their things quickly as the final bell rang, signaling the release of school for the day. Phil followed Matt toward the parking lot. Phil’s parents had bought him a car as soon as he had gotten his license, a silver 2000 Acura TL. As they rounded the corner and the bus lot came into view, Tom caught up with them.

Hey, what’re you guys doing later tonight at about 7:00? said Phil cheerily.

Oh, I have a trumpet section practice at a friend’s house, said Matt. Tom gave him a funny look, but said nothing.

Aww, bummer, said Phil, his cheerful voice and unnatural smile undaunted. Well, we’re getting some people together for a volleyball game at my house. You down? he said, now directing his question at Tom.

I’ll have to see what my family is up to, but I’ll let you know, replied Tom.

Alright! Seven p.m. Be there or be square! said Phil, pointing at Tom as he walked away toward the student parking lot. Matt closed his eyes and gave a small shake of his head.

I didn’t know you guys were having a sectional tonight, said Tom as they headed toward the bus lot.

We’re not. Some days, I just can’t stand that guy, said Matt quickly. Tom laughed.

He just needs to feel liked. Just like the rest of us, said Tom earnestly.

He needs a muzzle, retorted Matt sarcastically. Tom chuckled again.

I think you just want to see him get angry for once.

Get angry or shut up, yeah.

Well, I could loan you my ear muffs.

Very funny, said Matt sarcastically as he approached bus 93. Tom’s bus was a few rows farther down.

We still on for tomorrow afternoon? I’ve got something you’ve got to see, said Tom, walking backward toward his bus.

Yeah, man. I’ll be there, said Matt as he stepped onto the bus and took the same seat he had sat in earlier that morning.

The ride home was fairly uneventful. He got off at the second stop and made the short walk back to his house. Both his parents were still at work and his sister, having just started middle school, didn’t get out for another hour. His mom worked at Baltimore Memorial Hospital as a laboratory manager and sometimes kept some ridiculous hours. Matt’s dad was an engineer for Boeing. It was to this fact that Matt, and indeed the rest of his family and all of his teachers, attributed his innate mathematical prowess. His father usually returned home at about 5:00 p.m. regularly, which meant that he and Matt typically took care of dinner preparations for the family.

Matt climbed the steps to his room, flinging his back pack to the ground and kicking off his shoes as he opened the door. He flopped on his bed lazily, letting the cool sheets envelope him as he rested his head on the pillow. He knew full well that sleep would soon follow if he remained in this position and the thought didn’t bother him one bit.

The next thing he heard was the slamming of the front door and his name being screeched from an excited little girl’s voice downstairs.

Matty! yelled Mikayla from the bottom of the stairs.

Matt groaned groggily, rolling himself out of bed and heading downstairs. Hey, Mika, said Matt as he entered the kitchen. She was perusing the contents of the refrigerator looking for a snack. It was then that Matt’s stomach seemed to remember that it hadn’t had lunch, and gave an acutely painful twist. How was your day at school?

It was great! said Mikayla happily, grabbing a bowl of grapes and sitting at the kitchen table, swinging her legs as they dangled off the edge of the chair. We learned about ancient Egypt and then we did algebra and then we read a play and then we learned about the periodic table of elements, she said through successive mouthfuls of grapes.

Matt grabbed a container of leftover chicken from the previous night’s dinner and threw it in the microwave. That sounds great, Mika, said Matt distractedly. The hunger pain in his stomach was making it increasingly difficult to focus on anything but food at the moment. He grabbed the bowl out of the microwave as soon as the timer rang, not even caring that the chicken was still only room temperature at best, and began wolfing it down.

How was your day? said Mikayla, still munching on her grapes.

Oh, it was alright I suppose, mumbled Matt through a mouthful of chicken. Lots of big kid stuff.

I’ll be a big kid soon, just like you, said Mikayla with a cheesy smile.

Yes, soon enough, replied Matt with a smile.

What’s for dinner? said Mikayla, collecting another hand full of grapes.

Dunno. Dad might have something planned. I haven’t heard, said Matt, finishing the last of the leftovers and tossing the empty plastic container into the sink. Mika, I’m going up to my room, kay? Start on your homework when you finish your grapes. Mikayla nodded, her blonde, shoulder length pig tails wobbling back and forth.

Matt clambered back up the stairs to his bedroom and sat down at his desk. He supposed he should look and see if he had any homework due the next day, but in all honesty, he really didn’t want to. He looked, instead, at the pile of papers on his desk. They were all drawings and maps and note pages for a book he had been working on for as long as he could remember now. Ever since he was a little kid, he had liked to write. In fact, even before he could actually write, he used to make neat, ordered lines and scribbles of complete and utter gibberish and give them to his dad when he got home from work. He loved writing. It was the one forum in which he could tell any story he wanted, where ever, how ever, and when ever, he wanted to. He would love to get published some day. The feeling of satisfaction he would receive from walking into a coffee shop or a book store and seeing someone reading his book was beyond anything he could describe. His eyes closed as he thought of this and a shiver ran down his spine.

He smiled and opened his eyes again. He was such a nerd. He thumbed through his notes pages for several hours, adding sentences or bullets here or there and making sure the outline of events was clear and concise. If there was one thing he could tell a person about what it’s like to write a book, it was that it was incredibly, unbelievably, ridiculously, time consuming. Matt had just begun to write a new chapter in his manuscript when he heard the tell-tale signs of his father’s arrival from work. The soft purr of a smooth-running Mazda RX8 came to a halt outside his window and a car door slammed. A few moments later, Matt heard the front door open and close.

Kids? said his dad, closing the front door behind him as he walked to the bottom of the stairs.

Daddy! yelled Mikayla from her room, running past Matt’s open door and down the stairs to her father.

Hey, Mika! said her father lovingly, rubbing her head as Matt appeared at the top of the stairs. Hey, kiddo. How do tacos sound for dinner?

Sure. Sounds good, said Matt. Mom working a normal shift tonight?

I haven’t heard otherwise, replied his father.

Alright. Need any help with dinner?

Nah, shouldn’t be too difficult. Hey, Mika, why don’t you come tell daddy about your day? said Matt’s father as he steered her into the kitchen to begin preparing dinner.

Matt returned to his paper-strewn desk and continued writing. Fairly soon, the warm, inviting smells of taco seasoning and Spanish rice reached his nostrils, wafting through the house like the scent of orange blossoms on a cool spring morning. Matt’s appetite responded almost immediately.

At about a quarter past six, the front door opened for the fourth and final member of the Hartsbain family. Assuming that dinner was just about ready and that they could eat now that everyone was home, Matt headed downstairs and into the kitchen. His mother was still wearing her white lab coat. His father and sister were hastily dishing refried beans, taco meat, lettuce, tomatoes, shredded cheese, and salsa into separate bowls.

Hey, Matt, said his mother as he entered. How was school?

Fine. The usual, responded Matt, shrugging his shoulders.

Well, did anything exciting happen?

Not really.

Did you learn anything new?

No.

Okay, then. Glad we had that discussion, said his mother sarcastically, sitting down at the dinner table to eat. How was your day at school, Mikayla?

The dinner time conversation was mostly dominated by Mikayla’s third rendition of her day at school. A few words about his parent’s days at work followed this. Matt ate his meal in silence, listening with mild interest at best. When everyone had finished eating, Matt got to his feet and carried the dishes over to the sink. He knew it was his turn to clean up and he preferred to get it done as quickly as possible. His mother and father moved to the living room to watch a bit of the evening news with Mikayla sitting on the couch between them.

Matt finished the dishes quickly; it hadn’t been a very complicated meal. He informed his parents that he would probably turn in early and bid the family goodnight as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom again. He had considered continuing to write in order to finish the chapter he had started, but he simply didn’t feel the creativity flowing anymore, and it wasn’t a good idea to force what wasn’t there. He opted, instead, to do a bit of light reading before bed. He laid down, leaning against the head board and picking up the book on his bed side table entitled, What is Art by Leo Tolstoy. In less than an hour, his exhaustion got the better of him, and he lazily tossed the book onto his night stand before rolling over and closing his eyes for the night.

Chapter 2

9-11

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Matt! Matt! yelled his mother from downstairs in a terrified voice that was badly masked in as much calm as she could muster. Matthew! Wake up! Something terrible is happening!

Matt bolted upright in his bed, dazed and confused as to what was going on. His first thought was that he had slept through his alarm and was now late for school, but that couldn’t warrant the kind of terror and urgency he had heard in his mother’s voice. Matt could hear Mikayla from downstairs asking what was happening; the TV was on as though someone was watching the morning news. Something strange was going on. No one in his family ever turned the TV on in the morning. Most of the time, they woke up in time to grab a piece of toast and head to work or school. Matt pulled on a pair of shorts and headed out of his room. Whatever was happening, he had overslept and no one had woken him. It was almost 9:00 a.m., two hours after he normally got up. Why had no one woken him up sooner? As he got to the top of the stairs, the muffled sounds of the TV now became audible.

At 8:46 Eastern Daylight Time on September 11, American Airlines flight 11 slammed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center…

Matt’s mouth fell open in shock as he clambered down the stairs to get a look at the TV screen. Where the two World Trade Center towers had once stood was a mound of twisted metal and concrete, like a gaping wound in the heart of New York City. He stared in disbelief, unable to think of anything to say. It was such an unbelievable sight to see, like something out of a movie, as plumes of smoke rose in waves, burying lower Manhattan.

His mother was sitting on the couch with her hand over her mouth, silenced by the devastation that was unfolding. His father was standing behind her, a grim look on his face, while Mikayla stood beside him, arms around his waist, watching. Matt tried, briefly, to imagine what the spectacle might look like through her eyes. Surely she couldn’t understand the scope and magnitude of what was happening. But what was happening? Who had done this?

Matt’s father broke the silence in his soft voice as his mother let out another hushed, ‘My God.’ This is not going to bode well for my industry, he said, shaking his head.

Daddy, what’s wrong with the buildings? said Mikayla in her innocent voice. Her father simply rubbed the top of her head softly.

After several more moments, Matt decided he’d ask the question, despite the fact that it seemed like the answer was obvious. Are we still going to school?

Absolutely not, said his mother dismissively.

A lot of parents are keeping their children home today, said his father. Matt nodded; it was understandable. Whatever was going on was a monumental event in the worst possible way. We’ve been told to take the day off, continued his father. Your mother, on the other hand, has been put on call.

Matt looked again at the horrifying images on the news. It was almost too much to take in all at once. He sat on the couch and continued to watch the reports for another hour or so; his mother hardly moved an inch. Mikayla’s attention span quickly waned and she went to find something to eat in the kitchen. Her father followed her, growing tired of the gloomy headlines. Matt decided he’d best get something to eat as well, and went to the kitchen to toast a bagel. No one had much to say that morning. His mother was terrified and in shock. His father was silent and solemn. And Mikayla was still unaware of the sheer expanse of the devastation.

Matt took his bagel up to his room and sat down at his desk to eat it. Somehow, it felt proper to him to be alone right now. Apparently, Air Traffic Control in America had just announced the first ATC Zero in the history of flight. All planes in the skies over America had to land as soon as possible, and no flights were allowed take off. All aircraft on their way to American airspace had to be diverted immediately and land elsewhere. That was over four thousand airplanes over America itself, and hundreds more over the Atlantic scheduled to land. It was an incredible and unprecedented undertaking. Matt’s father understood better than any of them the immensity of such a task.

He shook his head and looked through the papers he had left on his desk last night. He needed something to take his mind off of the morning’s events, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus much. The world was going to be very different from now on. Airlines were going to lose a lot of business after this. The question on his mind now was how all of this could have been coordinated without anyone else knowing. How did no one find out about this? Where was American intelligence? The CIA, the FBI, the NSA—wasn’t this their job?

Matt rubbed his eyes and sat with his head in his hands. He’d wasted nearly an hour in a semi-catatonic state as these thoughts drifted through his mind. He looked at his clock; as far as he knew, he was still meeting Tom sometime around 2:30. It was almost 1:30 now and the day was clearly not getting any better. When Matt finally made his way downstairs again, the events of that morning were confirmed and all over the news. The World Trade Centers had fallen, with estimates of three thousand or more dead. A plane had crashed into the pentagon, and another plane had gone down in Pennsylvania. Four aircraft, and over three thousand lives.

Matt entered the kitchen to fix something to eat. A ham and turkey sandwich seemed to call his name, and he pulled bread, mayonnaise, cold cuts, and some lettuce from the refrigerator. His mother and father seemed to have disappeared somewhere else in the house and his sister had gone to her room. The TV in the living room was still on CNN, and was likely to remain so all day. No one dared turn it off for fear that something else might happen.

Matt fixed his sandwich and ate it lazily, listening to news anchors and analysts repeat themselves dozens of times, trying to draw conclusions and give answers to the tragedy that had befallen America that day. As he finished, his mother entered the kitchen looking distraught.

Mom? said Matt in a worried tone. Being gloomy was one thing, but her face was tear-stained and she looked haggard. What’s wrong? His father entered the kitchen several seconds later, looking stern and dismal.

Dad? said Matt, his confusion growing.

We think uncle Edward might have been in the North Tower, said his father plainly. We have no way of knowing if he got out or whether he was even there that early in the morning. There’s no way to find out yet.

Matt’s heart sank. He looked at his poor, distraught mother again. His uncle Edward was her older brother, Edward. She seemed to be lost in a semi-trance, as though the events of that day were slowly becoming a dream that could not have been a reality. Matt didn’t know what to say. He looked at his father with solemn eyes. His father gave a nod of understanding. There was nothing that could be done. They could pray. They could put out notices and watch the news for any word of survivors. But the efforts would not assuage the pain if the fears became a reality.

His mother, still in an unresponsive state, got a glass of water and headed out of the kitchen for her bed room. Matt exchanged glances with his father again. This is just unbelievable, mumbled Matt.

Yeah, it is, said his dad, nodding. Things will never be the same.

My head hurts just from listening to all this.

Imagine how she feels. It just became a hundred times more personal for us.

Matt nodded. He had always liked uncle Edward. The man had a fantastic sense of humor and a story to go along with every situation you ever encountered. Does Mikayla know yet?

His father shook his head. We’ll tell her later tonight. Mom doesn’t want to be a wreck when Mikayla finds out. It’ll just make things worse for her.

Matt nodded again. Hey dad, I’d agreed to meet Tom out by Cabin Coffee after school, around 2:30.

His dad looked at his watch; it was almost two now. What for?

Not much. Just to hang out. Tom said he had something neat to show me. Besides, I need to get out of here. I can’t take much more of this, said Matt frowning.

His father seemed to understand. He looked at his watch again and then nodded. Alright. A bit of fresh air will probably be a relief after this morning. Don’t be gone too long.

I won’t, said Matt, getting up from his chair and making his way to the living room to pull on a pair of shoes.

And stay safe, added his father, following him into the living room.

We will, said Matt, opening the front door and stepping out in the warm afternoon sun. He grabbed his bike from the side of the house and wheeled it out onto the sidewalk, hopping on it and heading toward the coffee shop. The summer sun shone white hot as it neared mid-afternoon and if it hadn’t been for a semi-cool breeze filtering through the city, the heat would have been unbearable. Matt and Tom were regulars at the coffee shop they were meeting at. Cabin Coffee had been