Call of the Quilo

By TS Scott

The Quilo, a race of Spirit Warriors, older than humanity itself. The original 32 Quilo were animal spirits. The Great Spirit had gathered when the world was still young. The original 32 were the strongest and most agile of the animal kingdom, the wisest and most clever. Together the 32 lived in harmony on one land mass. Tajet-Yedd, they dubbed it, in the language of The Great Spirit. The Great Spirit taught them a great many things, on Tajet-Yedd they gained knowledge beyond knowledge.
But as with all good things, they must end. The Great Spirit fell and Tajet-Yedd was fragmented by this godly force and sent adrift in The Great Sea. The muddy jungle earth was torn asunder and launched higher than the blue of the sky could touch. The muddy ground rained down on the fleeing Quilo, covering their spectral Gray bodies, giving them physical form once again.
As the stunned Quilo and the surviving animal life sat on their great continents set afloat, something unexpected happened. Humans crawled from the massive pit The Fall had created. Inside of the humans surged the very spirit energy of The Great Spirit, giving birth to something new...the human soul.
Quilo attempted to institute themselves as leaders and teachers, many eager to teach the humans just as The Great Spirit had taught them. Others sought to dominate and control the humans as they bred and began to populate the world. While a very peculiar group of 5 Quilo sought to live among the humans, to protect the young race. The found that they could breed with these humans and soon these five spread their seed wide with no regard for the superhuman power their spawn held. War broke out in the land they had claimed for themselves, the children of The Five became warlords and kings. Their children caused so much mayhem that The Five had no choice but to hunt down and fruit of their loom. The Five then vowed to only pass one line of succession. At this time, The Five were beyond ancient, they’d lived countless lives and hunting their heirs had left them exhausted.
The Five sacrificed their forever youthful physical forms and began passing their vast amounts of spirit energy to the first born child of their particular line, and so began The Five lines, Mato The Great Bear, Wabli The Great Eagle, Keya The Turtle, Sunmanitu The Coyote, and lastly, Sugmanitu The Great Wolf. The first generation that had been granted the powers of their line launched a massive campaign to unite the the scattered clans and tribes that remained after the terror brought on by the fallen children of the Quilo. This first generation successfully established a council of elders that governed the landmass that we know as North America. These elders founded The United Native Nations, and for thousands of years the powers of the Quilo were passed from parents to first born child or in some cases, the child that was most fit for the duty.
For those thousands of years the Quilo were a great many things. They were farmers, they were soldiers, they were teachers, they were what the people needed them to be, what The Calling needed them to be.
Enter Isaac Stockdall, the youngest ancestor of Mato. Mato, The Great Bear, number four of the Original 32. Follow Isaac as he is thrust into a cold war, reignited as his location is discovered by a scouting group of Skinwalkers. Stand beside him as he encounters terrifying secrets, hidden from him by his own parents.
Enter Atlas, Isaac’s elder brother. Born with a crippling case of Gigantism, his weakened body stretching an incredible 9 feet tall. Follow along as Atlas attempts to follow the path of the hero he has always wished to be and learn with him as he becomes aware that The Calling works in only shades of gray, in the world of Quilo and Skinwalkers, there are no heroes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TS Scott
• Release date: Feb 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311887863

Book preview

Call of the Quilo

By T.S. Scott

Copyright © 2015 T.S. Scott

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, copied, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

Table of Contents

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

XXXIX

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank both my Mother and my Aunt. My Mother, who from the time I was a small child, encouraged me to tell her stories, and would read me Stephen King novels for bedtime stories. My Aunt, who organized my literary vomit into a readable form and hounded me to vomit even more on to the page. Without those two women there would be no book. I will remain eternally grateful for their words of encouragement and the hounding that led to the creation of this story.

Next I would like to thank my grandparents, who brought me along to the Rendezvous they attended and brought the Native American culture into my life. Without their stories and the culture they introduced me to, there really would be no book.

Lastly, I would like to thank Chyanne, for supporting me completely while I chased this crazy endeavor.

Dedication

For all of those that spend their days dreaming and are told that you will never amount to anything. Only you pull the strings to your destiny.

Prologue

What if I told you destiny was real? What if I told you there was a force that maintained the balance of our universe, a force not unlike gravity or relativity. We have christened this force, The Calling. There is never perfect evil, there is never perfect good, The Calling will always maintain balance through select entities, be they human, or others. This is but one tale of The Callings' creation, through The Calling there will always be balance.

ISAAC

I

I slowly squeeze my eyes shut, shrouding my vision is a red tinted abyss. I focus on my scents of the woods, touch my snout to the ground and take one large whiff. All the different smells thread themselves into my consciousness, my mind quickly identifying every scent. I quickly zero in on my target, an alien in these parts. In an instant I’m off, speeding along the ground, darting in between the trees, my claws throwing trails of grass and dirt in my wake. I'm nearly to my preys location, 300 feet away maybe, as I slow my approach down to a crawl. The grass has gone wild here, too dense to crawl through like this. My view slowly begins to rise as I stand to my feet, with my head well above the grass I continue my slow approach in stride, my long legs clear many feet at a time. My prey has hidden itself in an even larger tangle of weeds; if I approached any closer in the grass it would carry my intent straight to it.

I study the giant of a tree closest to me, noticing a new route has opened. I dig my claws into the resilient bark of the Redwood and began ascending with great speed, as I sped up the tree I look over my shoulder and leap to the next tree. My left hand digs into the trunk, my velocity sends my half way around before I plant the balls of my feet and jump to the next timber. I continue in this manner until I'm directly above it, nervousness rages inside my stomach and the fumes rise into my chest. I study the grasses below, they are deathly still. My sight fans out and I comb the area for movement, there is none. I release the tree and begin to plummet towards my target, wind bellows through the fur of my jaw, chin and the mane that covers my head.

My claws impale a mount of soft flesh; blood wells up into my palms as I hoist my prize above my head. Only then does the Jackal know it's caught and its death screams fill the air. It's huge for a Jackal, easily seven feet long. I open my mouth as I prepare to rip it in half; its screams begin to nearly sound human as I tear its belly in two, as the blood showers my outstretched tongue and fangs, only skin falls into my mouth. I open my eyes in confusion; I am greeted by a very hard kick by and an outstretched human foot. The force of the kick snaps my jaws down over my tongue.

ISAAC

II

THE OFFICE

Ahh! My tongue! I scream as I jump up from my desk, knocking my chair down behind me. My eyes open to reveal I was no longer in the giant forest but in a building, a classroom, filled with startled children and a very angry adult.

I was awake.

Laughter reverberated off the walls of the classroom, butterflies bred in my stomach and fluttered until I felt ill, I hate being embarrassed. Mr. Braxley didn't even have to point me to the door this time. I was hailed by laughter as I shuffled to the door with my head hung rigidly and my teeth clinched to avoid blowing my top. I glance at the hallway analog clock before sliding down the rail of the stairs, trying to decode the time before my feet reach the floor below, it reads 2:30PM. It’s a gamble as to who is going to meet me in the principal's office as I reach Principal Jones' gaudy name plaque outside of his office.

Shit, I think to myself as I run headlong into my Mom's death stare as I enter the room. To attain the proper level of fear she tilts her head down just a fraction, tightens her lips, arches her brow and trains her obsidian eyes on mine. The look of impressiveness painted across her face sent a shiver down my spine; her hair was messily tied into a bun which means they called her out of work. Shit, I think to myself again as I gulp loudly and take my seat next to her.

Mr. Jones looked rather unimpressed himself; his thick glasses teetered on the brink of falling off his bulbous nose. His skin is a patchwork job of pink hues, except for his cheeks, they were a shock of red that I am sure was caused by the presence of my Mother. He has gray hair that has been combed to the side for so long that I'm sure that he wakes up that way. To complete the package he has a large bushy mustache he likes to stroke as he speaks.

How many times has it been just this month, Mister Stockdall? my eye twitched at the question, he is mocking me.

Mr. Stockdall is my father, Tom; call me Isaac, please. And I dunno don't you keep score of that? I smugly reply, quite proud of myself.

My Mother slaps my thigh as Mr. Jones' bushy brows narrow, Six times, just this month Isaac, he replied.

New high score? I ask quizzically.

My Mom utters a guttural sound in warning before speaking, We are so sorry, Mr. Jones, we will adjust his bedtime to make sure that this will not happen again. She pleads, looking intently into his gray eyes.

His eyebrows release their clutch on his face and his look softens as he returns her gaze and the red miasma on his face spreads from his cheeks to his nose. This fool is always putty in my Mom's hands, Oh, well if we can just rein this boy in so he can stay awake during class maybe he can succeed in class as well as he does outside of class on that football field... he says, the words ooze out of his mouth as he makes doll eyes at my Mom.

Will do, sir! She says with a flash of her perfect teeth as she grabs my arm and pulls me up, dragging me out of the office.

Isaac, I can’t keep leaving work to come bail you out of trouble, she growls at me, glaring out from under her brow.

I didn’t ask you to bail me out mom, why didn’t they just call dad? He said he would be back this morning. I asked her, with only a hint of venom in my tone.

You don’t need to worry about where your father is, it’s grown folk business. He will back, he always comes back. She retorted, her voice cracking slightly when she mentioned my father, the one topic she was sensitive to.

Grown folk business seemed to be her favorite term lately, she lorded it over me like it was some exclusive club 16 year olds weren’t allowed to enter. It tasted bitter in my mind, the term of a woman abandoned. Not wanting to bring further punishment upon myself, or waste the time asking her where he really was, I gave her a tight smile and began to retreat back to class.

Boy, did I say you could go yet? she called after me.

I can’t miss this lecture mom; I'll catch the verbal ass whoopin’ later! I called back and made haste back to class.

As I reach the door I can hear Mr. Braxley preaching about The Great Indian War. Who can tell me which year our forefathers landed here in America? he asks the class just as I walk into the room. Hands shoot into the air in droves, easy question, for them. Of all of the well versed historians in my class he picks the greatest. Welcome back Isaac! Since you were paying such great attention to our lecture earlier, you can answer this question rather easily, I'm sure? He asks me, quite obviously knowing I have no idea, I hate being embarrassed. I stop mid step, my teeth and fists clenched tightly. I scour my brain, what year? What year?

Err...17...09? I ask painfully through clenched teeth.

Err, incredibly incorrect, Mr. Stockdall! Mr. Braxley cooed at me, his stupid beard couldn't hide his stupid crooked smile. Fury cultivated in my chest, my heartbeat sending it coursing through my veins. My skin began to jump as I teetered on the edge of expulsion, Braxley kept his eyes trained on me, daring me. The dangerous silence was broken by Zak Bautista, my best and only friend. The only person in the world who knew what I was capable of.

The winter of 1620 sir! he called from the desk ahead of mine. Mr. Braxley seemed to catch the answer with his nose and fling it in my direction with a whirl of his head.

Thank you Zak, you’ve got yourself a great partner Isaac, might want to compare notes of the lecture. He said, dismissing me back to my desk.

Thanks. I whisper rigidly as I dip back into my seat.

It’s cool bro, just relax, you can get my notes after class, he whispered back from the corner of his mouth, not wanting to draw The Brax Wrath. Zak’s stocky frame was hunched over his notebook; his almond shaped eyes squinted badly due to his terrible eyesight. His writing hand was nearly a blur, catching every word of Mr. Braxley’s lecture.

Not long after landing in America, our forefathers soon began to be terrorized by the indigenous peoples who had resided there before them. Braxley preaches at the class. After quickly clearing his throat and taking sip of his coffee he continues, Of course in the beginning our forefathers sought out these Native Peoples’ leaders to come to a kind of peace agreement. Which, despite our leaders' greatest efforts, were fruitless. Regretfully, The Forefathers chose to call in reinforcements to take the land we required, by force. He says, pausing for a few moments to allow the ignorance to sink in.

After five long years of skirmishes, General Ambros Harvey declared war on the savages. We now know this war as The Great Indian War. The war lasted a mere six months, with a combination of a far larger fighting force and guerrilla tactics, the Indians managed to repel the general back clear to Plymouth. Where apparently realizing and respecting the general’s fighting spirit, they granted him land rights to Plymouth. The general accepted their proposal to end the war and peace spread throughout the colony. He finishes, sweeping his hand across the classroom with another crooked smile.

Not one minute after Braxley’s rant ended the bell reverberated throughout the school, signifying schools end and the 10 minutes I had to change into my practice uniform. Tomorrow we talk about Plymouth’s independence and transformation into a sovereign nation! Braxley called after the retreated students. I sigh and bump fists with Zak before darting off to the gym locker room.

ATLAS

III

A moment ago I was in bed, but now I stood on a city street, transported by my slumber. I look upwards and scan the building that lies in front of me as the rain pours down around me. It reads Briar, I’ve never heard the name with