Redemptor Future Shaman

By Robert Piluso

Once upon an orbit of Planet Fait, a flustered yet resourceful single father and his creative, playful, young daughter must brave together the perils of sickness, exotic creatures, and an evil wizard to find the hero, REDEMPTOR FUTURE SHAMAN, who can cure their people and save their world.

To escape the prison-city TETRAPOLIS, survive crossing the WESTERN WILDS, and defeat the monster-in-disguise at the end of their journey, Rene and Nariah Naza will need all their wits, all their love, and more than a little bit of magic from some helpful sylvas along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543904376

Book preview

2017

Prologue – ON SYLVAN WISHES, SHOOTING STARS & BOGGI INTERCEPTIONS

Quite long ago, during the Second World of Planet Fait, when humans lived in little families in little houses, grouped together into little towns, sometimes, before bed, a child might clasp his or her hands together and point a prayer through his or her fingertips to a certain star in the sky.

The child would send his or her sacred transmission to the star, and sometimes, if the child was a good child, the sylva who was that star would receive the message, and fly down straight away from the Other Side, to Planet Fait, to that child’s town.

A sylva looks just like a shooting star. (Because a shooting star is a sylva, you know.) Once arrived to our world, whether red, orange, yellow, green, blue, or violet, the sylva would go about its magic work making the child’s wish come true, and making life better.

On rare occasions, a boggi may intercept a prayer, and set to tormenting the child. (This is when things are going bad, and then things just get worse.)

While brutish and vulgar in its natural form, a boggi can look just like a sylva, for color is color to the mortal waking eye. We can only know the true nature of a spirit—whether good or bad, helpful or harmful, sylva or boggi—through its effects upon us, and in our lives.

Blessings are most certainly the works of sylvas, you know. But if there is one thing sylvas simply cannot stand, it is when a boggi intercepts a prayer and starts wreaking havoc and misery when things are already rough enough.

When this happens, the original patron sylva—no matter how long it takes—would fly around the town, the land, the planet, or even galaxy, if need be, in order to rally other sylvas to the poor child’s good cause.

Once a shoal of sylvas has gathered—whether five, or five hundred, or five million, however many it takes, however long it takes—the shoal sets upon that foul boggi, casts it out from the house, the town, the planet if possible, and peace can finally, again, be felt by the child, as good as life is supposed to be.

And this, in sylva stories, is what we conclusively call, Happily Ever After. It can take a long time in coming, the happy ending the child deserves, but sylvas are nothing if not diligent, persistent, and loyal, to good little boys and girls.

Chapter 1 – A FAIR CHALLENGE

Once upon an orbit of Planet Fait around its weird sun, about midway down in the city of Tetrapolis—from where no human nor any other kind of creature, once captured, had ever escaped—there perched upon a particular ledge a father and his young daughter, who loved each other very much, yet were also very poor, and, upon this evening, very hungry. When this would be the case, the two would hide on a ledge, like this one, overlooking a Takke Store in Food Court, and set to their game.

Him? the daughter asked.

No, too skinny, the father answered. He’d be too easy.

How about him? Could you beat him?

No problem.

"Him, Nariah said. From their hiding perch overlooking the eatery and its tall yellow and red glass windows, the five-orbits-young girl elbowed her father, on his stomach, too, next to her. She pointed decisively at the biggest, meanest-looking life-form in the place, sitting down to a huge tray of food, and inhaling deeply with all three of his bulbous noses. Definitely. Him."

Him? her father said. He’s like a mountain.

Uh-huh. A mean mountain.

"Now that would be a challenge. Good choice, sweetie." Rene kissed the top of Nariah’s long, brown-haired head.

Beat him, Daddy. Beat him good, she excitedly chimed.

Well, how am I supposed to do that if you don’t give me my magic powers?

Nariah made whooshing sounds, Sylva dust! Sylva dust! while Rene flexed his not-significant bicep, trembling his arm dramatically, as if gaining supernatural power.

Okay, okay, not too much, I don’t want to hurt him. Wish me fortune?

Good fortune, Daddy.

While Rene slipped off into the shadows and swung down, Nariah kept expectant, grinning watch on the Takke Store’s tall windows through her ultra-goggles, which made her big eyes even bigger.

The doors sliding open before him, in strutted Rene Naza to the Takke Store and already the workers treated him bad because, judging from his mottled clothes of blue, purple, yellow, he was obviously a sellstalt, a very poor person of the untouchable caste of Tetrapolis, and one who held no job in the factories (and no black shackle around his ankle). The Takkers in their red and yellow uniforms and funny little red and yellow striped hats tried to throw him out, but Rene protested.

You’re right, I don’t have any money, but I’m meeting my friend here. He’s right over there. He pointed at Mean Mountain Guy chowing at his huge tray. The Takke servers laughed. The guard Takker, who had four arms, quadruply unhanded Rene and said, Go right ahead. If you dare.

Up strode Rene to the big Mean Mountain Guy and Rene cleared his throat, upon which slanted three deep scars, as if from claws. (They were old wounds, long healed.) Pardon me. You don’t know me, but you see, I’m broke, and my daughter, she’s five, the cutest little cutie you could imagine, she’s starving, and I was thinking, would you be interested in arm-wrestling me, for, let’s say, your tray of food?

Shog off, pip. I’m eating.

See, but I promise I will be very quick about it. You won’t barely feel a thing.

Arm-wrestle?

That’s right.

"You? Arm-wrestle me?"

Uh-huh.

The big Mean Mountain double-snorted while laughing out the third nose. He slammed his huge elbow onto the table, enormous hand open, each finger the girth of Rene’s whole arm. Mountain grinned his yellow teeth. Let’s do this.

Looking back over his shoulder, Rene gave thumbs-up to the window. Up at her hiding perch, peering through the ultra-goggles with her big-bigger eyes, Nariah grinned back, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth, and returned the thumbs-up.

Turning to his fearsome opponent, Rene cracked his knuckles, jumped in place, working himself up. He circled a few times around the table. He hummed to himself a jaunty little tune.

We doing this tonight? the Mountain barked. Want to get back to my meal.

Okay, if you’re ready, Rene said.

Rene sat down. By this time, the dining creatures of the whole place had stopped to watch them, and crowd around, and some were even placing bets. Their different-colored uniforms and designs showed the different guilds of Tetrapolis to which they belonged. From the four corners of Planet Fait all types of peoples and creatures came to be enslaved in the factories of Tetrapolis, from where none ever escaped. As diverse as they were in size, coloring, and types or number of body-parts, the Tetrapolitans’ commonality was their captivity. You could tell by their ankle-shackles.

Even still, most Tetrapolitans carried over from their different lands of origin their spejudicial beliefs into their incarceration, and this, unfortunately, resulted in the same old self-regulating segregation among the species, and most Tetrapolitans only talked to others who looked like them, which, most unfortunately of all, resulted in really unexciting, totally predictable conversation (and moping), equally, among the various imprisoned species.

On this singularly strange occasion, however, some creatures of Fait even put aside worlds-old spejudice and actually talked to each other. A Thule, flapping his feathery wings, even talked with a Disasi, who had leathery wings, and guessed wildly about what would possess a lowly sellstalt as skinny as he to be so crazy as to challenge the Mountain for his food. Don’t got a clue. You? Me, no clue, too. Crisp? The Disasi offered a fry-crisp to the Thule, who, although surprised at the Disasi’s generosity, accepted and ate it. While the Thule and Disasi chewed, from the fateful table of Rene sitting across from the Mountain, neither could look away.

Rene posed his hand hovering over the Mountain’s, not gripping it yet. Somebody give us a count of three?

"Three, two, one, go," the Takke server shouted and clapped his four hands together.

In an instant, with his free hand, Rene grabbed the pepper-shaker from the table and flicked it square at the mountain’s face. Pepper particles flew, assailed the Mountain’s six gaping nostrils, and as Mountain gave a huge sneeze, Rene grabbed the Mountain’s unprepared hand and slammed the Mountain’s hand down onto the table.

Victory! Covered head to chest in speckles of blue snot from the Mountain’s sneeze, Rene hopped up, raising his fists over his head in joyous perfect triumph. He bowed to the onlookers, their mouths agog. The Thule and Disasi turned to each other, as if to speak to each other again, yet neither said anything. Both shrugged their wings, and then returned to their separate tables, separate meals, and separate loneliness.

Rene reached down for the tray. Nice doing business with you.

The Mountain whammed his hand down over the tray, holding it down in place. Pip thief. You tricked me.

Trick you? That wouldn’t be very nice. If you’ll excuse me, my daughter is waiting. She’s really hungry, remember.

The Mountain glowered, fuming all three of his angry noses.

Just then, two Sirens in white uniforms walked in through the sliding glass doors. What’s going on here? Sirens were the keepers of General Gorchen’s Law in Tetrapolis, you see, and were oftentimes too quick to violence to prevent violence, and so, were much feared by Tetrapolitans.

At the sight of the Sirens, Rene raised his collar, masking his scarred throat. Distracted, the Mountain released the tray, and Rene zipped toward the exit carrying his prize. Behind his back, the Mountain whispered to the guard Takke server, who nodded. The server hurried back behind the counter. Rene tensed, almost arrived at the yellow and red sliding glass doors of the exit. He mouthed a silent prayer, No blaster, please, sylvas, no