Nephilim

By Jonathan Temporal

Tompkins County, Upstate New York. Someone, something, is hunting the Nephilim, the halfling children of angels and humans. The predator known as the Afterburner is leaving clues, wanting to be pursued.

The Afterburner's next target: 17-year-old Johnny Drake. But being top of a serial killer's hit list is just the newest addition to his gr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Think and Command Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781684193608

Book preview

Chapter 1

Siem Reap, Cambodia

1975

Samnang beheld the face of an angel the first time she laid eyes on her husband. She wasn’t aware of this fact when he first approached her, after he had emerged from a fireball that had fallen from the sky. But even then, she knew that he was something not of this world; exactly what, she didn’t know. It was only after, when he held her in his arms and looked straight into her eyes that Samnang knew that she was looking into the eyes of the divine.

She didn’t believe in a god. The Khmer people believed in many gods. Her husband had always denied that he was a god (there was only one, he claimed, and that was the one he served but was now hiding from). But Samnang would not be convinced otherwise. Not after what she had witnessed that day on the rice fields six years ago.

She was only twelve when she saw it. Her brother, three years younger, had seen it too. Immediately after the incident, they had told their father all they had seen, about the fire in the sky. He dismissed this as their overactive imaginations. He said it was an airplane on another airstrike. But their story never changed even with time; no details were lost in the retelling. And as young children do not lie, their father later reasoned, their story must be true.

It happened on a hot, sticky day, the kind that Samnang hated because it always inflamed the prickly heat on her nape. They had been working in the fields, near the majestic ruins of the temples of Angkor, along with a hundred other famers (their father had later sought these people out and found that many of them corroborated what Samnang and her brother had seen; some refused to ever talk about what happened, even after years). One of the other children working on the field had pointed up at the sky, causing Samnang and the other farmers around the child to look up.

The sky burned. Tongues of fire leapt from the clouds, parting and dissolving them, creating cumulous smoke in their wake. Crimson lightning streaked back and forth across the heavens. Then they came. Each one crashed into the wet earth cocooned in a massive fireball of wrath. The earth shook with such violence, many of the farmers believed that the end of all things had finally come. They were wrong. It was only the beginning. Superstitious at heart, they thought that the gods were punishing the earth. In this, they were also wrong. This was not punishment. It was premeditation.

Samnang was just a child when she witnessed their descent. But a child’s memory is forever. She has now grown. Not yet quite a woman, but a child no longer. Old enough to welcome a man into her embrace; and the man she has welcomed was one of them. Granted he wasn’t a man, but it didn’t matter to Samnang. He was her husband, the father of her children.

Tonight, as their two children sleep, Samnang lies beside her husband and looks at his face. No matter how many times she has done this exact same thing, it never becomes routine. How can looking at the face of an angel, a real angel, ever become mundane? She has asked herself this question countless times, but has never been able to satisfactorily answer it.

To be sure, he looks different in human form. That day on the field, Samnang saw a being made of fire, bronze and sunlight. But when he first came into her life, he had adapted, had transformed to blend in. He was still massive in human form, standing over seven tall. This was one of the two reasons he had always been an oddity among the village people. But in other things, he had become Khmer. His face had characteristics common among her people, except for his eyes. Whether deliberate or otherwise, he had never altered the appearance of his eyes. This was the second reason he had always stood out.

The same eyes stare back at her now, consuming her whole. They are the shape of perfectly-formed bamboo leaves; each one holds a grey green iris with a streak of gold in the centre. No matter how long he has lived with her, she has always found his look inscrutable. Right now, he could be staring at her with any one of several emotions—tenderness, warmth, generosity, and, quite possibly, wonder. He moves his hand and runs it gently down the side of her face. She turns her face away, as if by doing so, she could prevent him from thinking the one thought that always comes to her mind whenever he touches her like this. While still young, Samnang has aged since the day her husband came into her life. Years of toil in the fields will do that to you. One day, she will become an old woman. But he has not aged a single day since they first met.

Why won’t you grow old, she says, her voice weighed down by the burden of her own mortality. I wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.

I am what I am, he says. You’ve known this from the beginning

And still you chose me, Samnang says. He nods and smiles.

Samnang breathes, taking all of him in, allowing herself to share in his wonder that two such disparate beings as they could be together. In the moment it takes for her to draw breath, the look in her husband’s eyes change. Gone are all the other emotions from his eyes. In their place, she sees something that she has never seen before. Fear. Unmistakable, unequivocal fear. It takes her a few seconds to hear what he has already heard. The silence of the night is disrupted by a voice calling out. Nimone mok. Come out. She knows it is this call that has caused her husband’s reaction. She doesn’t know who’s calling, but there was something about the person’s voice that causes her pulse to race.

Silence. Then, again: Nimone mok. It sounded like a man’s voice, or what seemed like a voice. Wordlessly, her husband stands and helps her up. He motions for her to rouse the children. Samnang looks at his face and her heart skips a beat. Her husband is petrified. In all the years that she has known him, she has never known him to be afraid of any man, not even the Khmer Rouge. Who could cause him to fear so? She didn’t need any words for her to know what he needs them to do.

Nimone mok, the voice repeats, with the same even inflection. There was no demand in the voice, no insistence. But it was an order nonetheless, a clear command that threatened a terrible consequence if not heeded. Her husband goes behind the front door of their thatched hut, while she goes to the other room, where the boy and the girl sleep. As Samnang goes to her children, she sees a small crack of light on the front window of their hut; she can’t resist the urge to look outside. Before her husband can stop her, she opens the window and looks out. What she sees chills her.

Five figures stand in line twenty feet from their front door. They are huge beings, each one standing level with the window of the elevated dwelling. They are wearing the black tops and pants of farmers; one of them, the being at the centre, wears a krama, a bright red and checked scarf, around his head. But she knows that their physical appearance is just an illusion. She has already seen beings like these change their appearance that day on the field six years ago. Her husband could do it and had done it. Beings such as they could alter their outer form and appearance at will.

She looks at her husband, who continues to stand behind the front door. He’s terrified. But she knows him well enough to know that he is frightened not for himself, but for them, for Samnang and the children. Then his expression shifts. His eyes narrow with resolution; his jaw muscles tighten. He won’t let them take us.

The figure in the centre, the one wearing the krama, calls out. Nimone mok. Although the words he uttered were Khmer, his voice didn’t sound human. It didn’t even sound like it was coming from a single entity, but from several entities, all speaking in unison. But as far as she could see, the other figures had not moved their lips. As the voice faded, echoes of other voices lingered in its wake.

Her husband grabs her away from the window and stand in her place. He turns to her with a look of defiance. Take the children. he orders in Khmer. Run! Don’t look back. He turns again and faces the beings outside. She grabs her daughter and son; they head to the stairs that lead to the kitchen below. The kitchen has a back door that opens to the woods. She has known these woods since she was a child; she knows the location of every hole in the ground and a hundred other places where they can hide. If only they can reach the woods, she knows they can safely disappear.

The girl and the boy begin to go down the steps, with Samnang following. She hesitates before taking another step and looks back at her husband. He again turns to her and screams, Go! As she descends, she hears a rushing, crashing sound. It comes from all directions, like the sound of countless birds’ wings flapping all at once. The children cover their ears and close their eyes. As the sound intensifies, the entire front portion of their hut is ripped apart, knocking her husband down. The children scream.

Samnang can now clearly see the five entities standing outside. They stand still. But for their eyes, they could have been lifeless stone statues. Their eyes are all burning with tourmaline fire. Blue green flames instead of pupils. She has seen these eyes before too, that day on the field. They have been etched into her nightmares ever since.

Two beings on the flanks separate from the group and walk toward the hut. Their faces bear no expressions. They move with purpose, without hurry. Samnang found something menacing in the way they approached. Like lions closing in on a fatally-wounded prey; they take their time, sure of the coming kill.

Her husband forces himself up and staggers forward. The two beings approach the blasted front portion of their hut. Samnang sees that her initial estimate was clearly wrong: up close, they look even more gigantic; each one of them stood at least eight feet high. They merely had to reach out with their arms as thick as tree trunks to be able to reach her husband, who was now standing, wobbly, where the front wall would have been. They grab hold of his ankles and yank them forward, causing him to fall down once again. They drag him forward and carry him into the open. It has now started to rain. Samnang leaves her children at the bottom of the kitchen steps and runs to the edge of the hut. She sees her husband kicking and struggling to break free from the hands that held him. But those hands, looking as solid as iron clamps, would not offer release.

The two beings carry her husband and re-join the other three who have been left standing outside. They force him to kneel on the wet ground, pushing his shoulders and neck. Then the being wearing the krama, the biggest one of them all, steps forward. Samnang sees him raise both his hands to her husband’s face. His hands begin shimmering instantaneously; as they touch her husband’s face, his whole body begins to glow. A fist-sized ball of light appears to have been lit inside his chest; it grows brighter and illuminates his entire torso. The light rises to his neck then reaches his face. It seeps through his eyes, mouth and ears and finally settles on his forehead.

She has no comprehension at all of what is taking place. But she knows this: her husband is being destroyed before her, with their children as witnesses. She screams at the intruders and begs them to stop. The two children, though they more terrified than she was, have run back to her side and embrace her. Samnang knows that she must stop them, even if it kills her. As the rain pours, she goes down the front stone steps and runs toward the group. The krama-wearing one does not notice her approach; he continues to bleed light from her husband’s body. One of the two beings holding her husband down lets go and turns to her. He opens his mouth and a blinding white pulse bursts from it, hitting Samnang directly on the chest and knocking her backward. She falls and cuts her head on a jagged rock on the ground. Blood soon oozes out of the cut. M’daay! her son screams. Another pulse shoots from his mouth and hits one of the flimsy central posts supporting the hut, setting it instantly ablaze.

She lies on the ground, her body contorting in pain. Her insides feel like they are burning after she was hit by the pulse. The blood now flows freely from the cut on the back of her head; it mixes with the rain, turning it light red. M’daay! her son screams hoarsely. It’s the last thing Samnang hears before she dies.

M’daay! the boy cries, as he sees his mother grow still. The floor of the hut catches fire; in seconds, the flames run up the walls of thatched palm leaves and reach the ceiling. The central wooden beam, a thick, twelve-foot long solid piece of timber that supported the entire roof, bursts in flame. Beneath the beam, the two children. They boy sees it about to fall; he turns and shields his sister with his arms. The beam falls; one part crashes on their shoulders, instantly crushing and pinning them to the floor. The boy feels his sister being smothered under his weight.

From outside, his father’s scream of agony call out to him. The boy struggles to turn his head in the direction of the screams. He wishes that he had not. He sees light continuing to pour from his father’s entire body, burning most intensely on his forehead. A thin crown of light begins to form around his forehead. His father’s body now glows so bright, it engulfs his captors and illuminates the whole clearing around them.

The boy knows that his mother is dead; his sister will surely follow soon. But he cannot force himself to look away from the scene outside. The crown of light circling his father’s forehead becomes thicker; and as he looks, his father’s forehead splits open, causing light to explode in all directions. The boy is blinded by the light, which has become brighter than a hundred suns. There is only thing in his mind as he falls unconscious. Revenge. One day I will have my revenge!

Chapter 2

Upstate New York

35 years later

August 13

After years of waiting for the opportunity, Andrew Drake is finally moving back to Ithaca. He was born in Utica but lived in nearby Ithaca until he was nine. His parents then took him and his brother to live in Kansas, where his dad bought a big farm. Deciding that he preferred New England over the Midwest, he went to Rhode Island for college. He had actually planned to be a lawyer and gone to law school. But with just one year left, he didn’t feel like he was cut out for the law, and dropped out. He became a reporter.

His last job was in Helena, Montana, working for the city’s newspaper, The Independent Record. He lived in Helena for fifteen years. He loved living there. It was a beautiful place, a city surrounded by mountains, with lakes and rivers running through the land, and countless hidden parks and nature trails. Ithaca was just like that, but probably even more beautiful. It has four distinct seasons, each of which reveals a different facet of nature’s splendour. He remembers meeting some of the friendliest people in Ithaca; it had always been a place where people never seemed too busy to stop and say hello or help someone who needed a hand with something. He has always known that one day, he would come home to Ithaca. It was just a matter of when.

So when one of the editors at his paper told him that there was an opening in the Ithaca Journal for the news editor post—his current job—he knew that the day he had been waiting for had finally come. He had to wait twenty-three years for it, but it was now here.

No matter how he looks at it, there is a kind of rightness to his moving back to Ithaca. If it had been up to him, he would have done it years ago. But for the last eleven years, there have been other people who have had a say in the matter. One of them is upstairs right now, holding things up as usual and delaying what should have been an early morning departure.

John, come down this instant and have breakfast, Andrew yells, sitting in what used to be his living room. It is now a vacant room, just another empty room in an empty house. That should send him the right message, he thinks. He doesn’t usually use his son’s real name, not unless he’s in trouble. I want to hit the road by half past eight and we’re seriously running late!

Outside their house, a big U-Haul trailer is hitched to Andrew’s rugged Subaru 4WD. Though most of their bigger items and pieces of furniture have already been moved by a moving company paid for by the Ithaca newspaper, he still can’t understand why the trailer is so full. Between his computers and books and his son’s hockey stuff and every small thing that the movers didn’t take with them, surely the trailer should only be half full. But there it is, completely full, with not even a square foot of space left to fit a shoe box. Andrew is still shaking his head and pondering this mystery when he hears steps coming down the stairs.

You’re only pretending to be mad at me right? I mean, that whole thing of using my real name, it’s only meant to make me move my butt right? asks the grinning boy who walks into the dining room.

Does it look like I’m pretending? Andrew asks, taking a bite from his Big Mac and using his hand, with the burger still in it, to point to his mouth. With his other hand, he starts to extract the hot fudge sundae from the brown takeaway bag to give to the boy.

Eat slowly, chew your food, the boy says to him as he grabs the whole paper bag instead. Andrew looks at the boy’s grin and can’t help but grin himself.

His real name is John. That’s the name his mother had given him. But he prefers to be called Johnny. Always has.

Andrew looks at his son closely. The first thing that he notices, and that most people notice, is his height. He’s tall for a seventeen year old kid, standing about six foot three, maybe six foot four. The next thing he notices is his face. An oval face frames gentle brown eyes, a nose, which the boy reckons is too big, and full lips. He takes after his mother in all these traits. His dark brown hair is unruly most of the time, and usually grown well below the ear line. A firm, square jaw, slight cleft chin, and deep dimples that almost split his cheeks when he smiles all make up what can only be described as an interesting face. Andrew wonders if he has inherited these traits from his biological father. He has never met or even seen a picture of the man.

Johnny extracts the food from the takeaway bag, while at the same time giving Andrew an incredulous look. I can’t believe you’re letting me eat this stuff, he says, taking a big bite of the burger. This is a once in a lifetime event buddy, so eat up, Andrew answers. Next week it’s strictly quinoa and protein for you. Johnny devours the burger. We need to hit the highway before everybody else starts going to work. It’s Friday in case you’ve forgotten, and if we don’t get out of town by half past, we could easily lose two, maybe three hours, Andrew says. We’ll then, we’ll reach New York in maybe, Johnny says, raising each finger as if he’s counting, ten days and three hours then. Johnny turns his head left and right, looking for something. Hey dad have you seen my notebook? Johnny’s notebook – a thick, suede bound all-purpose journal, sketch book and scrap book – is one of his most cherished possessions. It’s in the front seat of the car. Come on, sit down, eat your Happy Meal, Andrew says, pointing to the paper bag on the table. Johnny looks at the takeaway food and gives him an incredulous, ‘I-can’t-believe-you’re serving-me-this-for-breakfast’ look. Andrew is a running, camping, hiking-loving health freak who normally abhors eating anything processed. But Johnny stops complaining. He doesn’t know when a great opportunity to eat junk food would come again.

Eventually, they hit the road. In front of them, the GPS system built into the 4WD’s dash board says ‘2,120 miles’ to Ithaca. They ease back and prepare for the long journey ahead. Without stopovers, it normally takes a day and a half to drive from Helena to Ithaca. But they’re not planning to drive straight. They figure that, since they’re not really in a hurry, they would stop over at Minneapolis, Gary and Erie along the way. They enter the I-94 E and hundreds of miles of wide open freeway lay ahead.

***

August. It’s the perfect time to move to New York. The start of autumn. Andrew remembers that everything in Ithaca seems more beautiful this time of the year. The weather in Ithaca would also be cooler. And Johnny would arrive in time for the start of the new school term in the first week of September.

Along the way, Johnny is mostly quiet. He answers Andrew only when he is asked a question. Andrew knows this isn’t because Johnny is being moody. His default state is really just like that. And the wide open roads are conducive to silence. Even Andrew finds his thoughts occasionally drifting to other things. But eventually, he gets Johnny to talk about hockey. Hockey always gets him talking.

He says he’s nervous about the coming tryouts. It never ceases to amaze Andrew that his son, who could do amazing things with a hockey stick and a puck, can still feel insecure about his skills on the ice. He reminds Johnny, as he has done countless times in the past, just how talented he is. And like in all those other times, he’s sure Johnny doesn’t really believe him.

They reach Bismarck by nightfall and check into a motel. After a heavy dinner and a full night’s sleep, they are on the road again by 7 a.m. Johnny wants to drive but Andrew feels well rested and thinks he can easily handle the 12 hour drive to Madison.

When the day started, Andrew noticed right away that Johnny was in a lighter, jovial mood. During the drive, he even asks Andrew questions first, a sure sign that he’s feeling good.

Is it a good newspaper, the one you’re moving to? Johnny asks.

The Ithaca Journal is not the Times or the Tribune, but it’s a pretty big paper considering the size of its circulation area, Andrew answers. ‘And it’s really old, almost 200 years old. So it’ll be around forever."

Dad, with people reading news now through the internet and iPhones and tablets, newspapers will be gone soon, and we’ll have to get you a new job, Johnny laughs.

Nah, they said that 10 years ago, but papers are still here, will always be here. Besides, can you imagine having breakfast and coffee on a Sunday morning and reading the newspaper on an iPad? Andrew snorts.

Ah whatever, we’ll be ok. I’ll get drafted by the Rangers and you can live off my salary. I’ll give you $200 a week plus free room and board at my house, how does that sound? Johnny asks.

Make that $500 and you’ve got a deal, Andrew answers. But seriously, it’s a great paper, from what I’ve heard and I’m excited about heading the news desk over there. Should be fun. I’ve even been invited to my first official function as a representative of the paper, he says with flair.

Seriously? Where? When?

Next month. The annual Future Bank charity ball hosted by Malcolm Kojima.

Who?

Andrew sighs in mock disbelief. He happens to be one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in America. He’s a local and runs his companies from Ithaca.

Never heard of him, Johnny says, shrugging.

The sun begins its descent. Up ahead, a detour sign. Must be some road work going on, Andrew says, as they pass several construction trucks and pickups. They enter a dark and narrow stretch of road just off the main highway. There are no other cars on the road.

I hope this doesn’t go on for too long, Andrew says, looking through his side window.

Up ahead, they spot a stag standing on the left side of the road, about twenty feet away. Johnny looks at it, expecting it to suddenly cross their path. It stays still, as if frozen. It doesn’t move as they approach, but keeps looking at Johnny as the car passes.

Huh? Johnny says suddenly.

What? Andrew asks.

Did you say there was a fallen tree up ahead?

No I didn’t.

Johnny looks at Andrew and then at the radio that’s turned off. He’s about to say something but goes silent.

What is it? Andrew asks.

Nothing, Johnny says.

Twenty minutes later, as the last of the daylight fades, Andrew turns on the car’s headlights. He accelerates the car. A huge fallen tree on the road suddenly comes into view, practically blocking the road. Andrew almost crashes into it.

That’s dangerous, someone could run into that thing! Andrew says, driving around the tree. We should call road patrol or something to clear that up, he says, suddenly stopping in mid-sentence. He looks at Johnny with an odd expression.

How did you know that tree would be there? Andrew asks.

I didn’t say anything, Johnny says.

You did, you asked me about the fallen tree about half an hour ago.

No I thought it was you who said something.

Andrew looks at his son closely, and Johnny turns away. Never mind, Andrew says.

They arrive in Madison by evening, a full hour later than their expected time of arrival. Halfway now to their destination, they again stay at a motel. This one is not as good as the last one. They both find their mattresses a bit creaky and lumpy. Sleep doesn’t come easy to either of them that night. Neither of them feel rested at all when they leave early the next morning.

We’re still making good time, Andrew eventually says once they are back on the freeway. Hopefully we’ll be in Ithaca just after lunch tomorrow. Johnny merely nods and doesn’t say anything.

He’s in a quiet mood again, Andrew thinks. I really can’t predict his moods. He’s just like his mother in that way. She was inscrutable when she wanted to be. You’ll love Ithaca Johnny, he says, trying to draw him out and, at the same time, distract his mind from thinking about his wife. It’ll be a new start for us. We’ll be close to nature. On weekends, we can go camping. Imagine that! One of the other editors even told me that a group of them from the paper regularly goes out camping in the Adirondacks every month. He said we’re welcome to come along anytime. You haven’t really been camping until you go camping in the Adirondacks, just you wait.

But it almost seems like Johnny could read his previous thoughts. Would mom have loved it? Johnny asks, looking through his window at the big, empty fields rushing by.

If you end up loving Ithaca, then you know she would have loved it too. You remember how happy she got when you were happy, Andrew says. Instantaneously, he thinks of the night she left. The hastily scribbled note. The empty, wrecked car off the highway the next morning. Weeks of futile searching. He closes his eyes, dreading the feelings that arise each time he thinks about her.

Again, Johnny seems to respond to what he’s thinking more than to what he’s saying. Well I wasn’t happy when she left. I’m still very unhappy now. So she should be feeling miserable right about now if, he says, cutting his sentence short. Andrew knows what he’s about to say but doesn’t respond. If she’s alive. That’s what Johnny was going to say.

They stay overnight at Erie. The next morning, both of them feel cheerier compared to the gloominess of the previous day. After all, Ithaca is now only about four hours away. Their long journey is almost over. This seems to cheer them both. They are more relaxed and leave at 9 a.m., later than their usual departure time. They enter New York through the Southern Tier Expressway and soon pass through Jamestown, Allegany, Hornell and Corning. Turning left at Horseheads, Ithaca is just a little over half an hour away.

As they drive along the winding Elmira Road, they pass lush, rolling hills on either side of the road. Autumn is in full display everywhere. The trees lining the roads are adorned with the splendid colors of fall—bright red, orange, yellow and purple. The very streets are decked out in fall foliage.

This truly has got to be God’s country, Andrew says.

You said Helena was God’s country, Johnny snickers.

Shut up and go with me here, man, he says with exaggerated solemnity. Johnny laughs.

Welcome to Ithaca, says a sign on the road. Welcome to Ithaca, indeed! Andrew says.

As they stop at an intersection on South Meadow Street, Johnny points to a huge bumper sticker on the car in front of them. Look dad, he says. Andrew looks and they both laugh. Ithaca Is Gorges, the sticker proclaimed. The light turns green and Andrew begins to move the car.

Dad look out! Johnny yells.

The car had almost crossed the intersection and gone past the traffic lights, when a man appeared in front of their vehicle. It looked like he was about to cross the street just after the lights had turned green.

Shit! Andrew says, forcefully swerving the wheel to the left to avoid the man. Not soon enough, though, as the right fender grazes the man. He falls to the ground. To their left, passing cars blare their horns and swerve to avoid them. Andrew stops his car in the middle of the intersection. They both jump down from the car. They can’t see the man at first. But when they reach the front of their vehicle, they see him. He has fallen and is trying to sit up.

God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you all right pal? Andrew says, crouching beside him. The man utters a rough grunt and tries to stand up. Johnny takes his other arm to lift him up. He is wearing a patchy brown coat that reaches almost to his ankles. He picks up his hat from the ground. Feeling Johnny’s arm, the man jerks it away and breaks free from his hold, as if he loathes being touched. With a quick look at Johnny, the man turns and walks back toward the sidewalk. As he disappears down an alley, Johnny realizes he can’t remember a whole lot about the man’s face. He looked old, although Johnny couldn’t be sure. All he can remember are his big eyes, and those obsidian pupils that almost cover them.

Chapter 3

Johnny’s journal

18 August

This is what my nightmare looks like. I’m in a dark cave. A sliver of light coming from somewhere I can’t see shows me that I’m walking on a path. It’s cold in here. But my skin feels warm to the touch, as if I’ve just left the sunlight outside and jumped into this hole. It’s taking a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark. My hand reaches out and feels a rough wall to my right. I grope my way forward. Slowly, I begin to see shifting shadows moving around me. Whoever is casting these shadows must be hiding behind the crags in the cave, because I can’t see anyone. The shadow play continues. I walk forward.

The path winds to the left and I follow it. I hear a sound in the distance and turn to it. My eyes strain to see. There’s a boulder looming in front. I take a few steps closer, and the boulder almost fills my field of vision. There’s something there. A figure seems to be leaning against it. Its outlines are so faint, I can hardly see it. It looks like a man, and he’s chained to the rock. His arms are moving, but just barely. He tries to raise one of his arms and then drops it with a sigh. The chains look heavy. I step closer. There’s enough light to see the man’s head. I take another step. The man’s head snaps up and he faces me. Desperate eyes bore into mine. The eyes of a wounded, trapped animal. He attempts to stand to full height. Even though he’s hunched, he’s immense. He appears to be wearing a dirty tunic torn in places. He lunges at me, but the chains pull him back. I hear the sound of his ragged breathing as he continues to stare at me.

I’m so terrified, I can’t move. The man opens his mouth and the sound of countless flapping wings comes from it. The sound rises and I cover my ears to block it. Light and flames erupt from his entire body, like he’s burning whole. I stagger backward and fall. The man screams, a piercing wail that echoes throughout the cave. I wake up and realize that I’m the one screaming.

August 21

All right, listen up! yells Karl Remek, the head coach of the Ithaca Boys’ Hockey Team.

It’s half past seven on a Saturday morning inside The Rink, an indoor ice skating complex on East Shore Drive. It’s the first day of tryouts for the Ithaca High School Boys’ Ice Hockey Team, the Little Reds. Johnny sits on the third bleacher to the coach’s left. He takes a quick look around him. There are close to a hundred boys sitting on the bleachers. Flanking them are parents, friends and girlfriends who have come to support their players.

Summer is over and by now, you should all be in hockey shape. Make no mistake boys, the next three days will be the most exhausting you’ve ever faced. We will be able to tell right away if you’re in shape or not, and that’s crucial in how we judge you, Remek says, looking straight at Johnny. Johnny takes a few seconds to study the man who could be his next coach. He certainly looks the part. Remek is tall, well-built with a weathered, rugged complexion and close cropped grey hair. He continues studying Remek when he becomes aware of someone to his right staring at him. He looks. At the end of his row, a blond crew cut boy is also staring at him with a menacing look.

If you’re not in peak physical condition right now, you might as well leave, Remek says. All ears around him pick up. Johnny sits straighter. The man smiles as he says this last statement. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. There are close to a hundred of you here competing for two dozen slots. You do the math. Only the best will make it!

It’s an open tryout. The entire 24 slots in the team are up for grabs—even the returning players from last year’s varsity team have to compete for the precious slots against the walk-ons, boys like Johnny who had asked to try out but weren’t personally invited by the coach.

Morning tryouts begin. The boys are divided into five groups. Each group takes turns skating several times up and down the rink. As the group ahead of them dashes off, Johnny stands with his group mates in a far corner of the rink.

They’re looking for everything you know, a short, stocky, dark-haired boy says matter-of-factly. At full height, he reaches just above Johnny’s shoulders. This isn’t really the tryouts proper yet. The coaches and the trainers are looking at skating, stickhandling, passing and shooting. The boy said this with such a maddening air of authority, he should have been penalized. But Johnny finds something funny about the way he said it, as if he were repeating something he read from a book.

So when do the real tryouts begin? Johnny asks, genuinely interested. It’s during the scrimmages, and let me tell you, we’ll be scrimmaging a lot, the boy answers. I’m Johnny Drake, Johnny says, extending his hand. The boy looks at the outstretched hand and then at Johnny’s face, as if he’s considering whether to return the gesture or not. I’m Nathan. Nathan Kristophik, he says, shaking Johnny’s hand.

Johnny is just about to say something when one of the men standing beside Remek shouts. All right, Group 3 line up! Come on, everybody on the side of the rink! Johnny, Nathan and the rest of their group line up single file on the extreme end of the rink. Go! the trainer yells. All twenty boys speed away on their skates. The sound of blades grinding ice fills the rink.

Go! Keep pushing! It’s not a marathon but you gotta go fast! Remek screams. Johnny skates harder. With his height and long strides, he quickly leaves his entire group behind. Glancing back at Nathan, he sees him grimacing. His chest heaves as he tries to keep up with the middle of the pack that’s outpacing him. Johnny finishes the five sets and skids to a stop where they had started, right in front of the coaches and trainers. Nathan arrives 20 seconds later and goes beside him, huffing and puffing and holding his side.

Geez! What the hell is this, a track meet? Johnny tires hard not to smile. Come on, you can do it. Keep pushing but don’t forget to pace yourself. As he says this, he looks over to the coaches’ area. Remek whispers something to the trainer standing beside him and they both look at Johnny with interest.

They spend the entire morning doing a seemingly endless series of drills, each one more torturous than the one before it. Johnny knows these drills are meant to weed out the average skaters from the great ones. One complicated drill is the Slalom Drill that involves a player weaving in and out of a series of parallel lines laid out on the ice. Johnny skates easily around the lines. Passing drills are meant to see which players can work well within a system. In the Quad Passing Drill, Johnny, Nathan and two other players form a moving diamond on the ice, passing the puck at high speed with quick rotations. The Wide Figure 8 Drill tests a player’s ability to pass the puck, weave and turn in a figure 8 and receive the puck as he comes back into position. Shooting Drills reveal a player’s offensive skill. In the 2-minute shooting drill, Johnny and the rest of the boys execute as many different shots as possible—forehand wrist, backhand wrist, snap shot and slap shot—in two minutes. It soon becomes a contest between the players as to who can do the most shots within the allotted time, with the coaches and trainers keeping close score.

The Endurance Drills, which combine every skill in the hockey players’ arsenal, are the most punishing of all. Remek splits everyone into two groups and has each one do the 30-second line drill. It’s an oppressive drill taken from basketball where the players skate to various lines on the ice and dash back to the starting point in 30 seconds. Half the players do not make it back to the starting line, while the other half struggle and just barely make it. Drill after drill follows—the 2 on 2 Speed Rush Drill, the 3 on 2—pushing everyone almost to breaking point.

As we watch each one of you, we’re trying to figure out just one thing, Remek says during the break. Who is ready to play when the puck drops? Skills are important, but having the sense of what is happening on the ice is crucial.

He’s talking about ‘hockey sense’, Nathan whispers to Johnny. Some players have it and some don’t.

And what is obvious to all, coaches, trainers, players and everyone else watching that day, is that Johnny ‘has it’, as Nathan said. While some of the boys are really good skaters or have some skill with the stick, they can’t play. Others, while a little rough in skill, can play. Johnny is different. He is skilled and can play. This becomes obvious during the afternoon scrimmages.

The players are divided into teams of six. Each team will go against another team in a timed game. Johnny, Nathan and other walk-ons are grouped in one team. They hit the ice first. When the opposing team emerges and takes to the ice, Nathan’s jaw drops.

That’s practically the starting line of the varsity team, he says, too afraid to point to the players skating toward them. He points with his puckered lips instead. That big blond dude in front, Nathan says, puckering his lips even further, that’s the team captain, Luke Hegarty.

Johnny follows where Nathan’s mouth is pointing and sees that it’s the blond, crew-cut boy who was glaring at him that morning when Remek first talked to the players. He is still glaring at him. Johnny feels the blood going to his face and knows this is not a good sign. Despite the cold, he feels the sweat creeping down his face.

What the hell’s wrong with you? Nathan asks, eyeing him suspiciously. You sweating dude?

It’s nothing, Johnny says, turning away.

I feel your pain man. These guys will cream us! No way will we make the team now, Nathan says in despair.

On the sidelines, Remek and the trainers look eagerly at the players gathered on the ice. Johnny, who has become his team’s leader almost by default, goes to center ice for the face off. He’s not surprised when Luke casually skates toward him. Up close, he is almost as tall as Johnny. All the players grip their sticks and tense their bodies, waiting for a trainer to drop the puck on the ice. Johnny crouches and looks straight at Luke, who stares right back. Johnny does his best to hold his stare with a neutral expression. He can only hope that the sweat on his face is no longer visible. Luke smirks and shakes his head.

The puck drops. Johnny swipes the puck away from Luke and rushes toward the goal. He passes the puck to Nathan, playing the right wing, who takes Johnny’s place in the middle; Johnny joins his left wing on the side. Getting close to the goal now, Nathan passes the puck back to him. Johnny raises his stick, about to hit the puck to his left wing, who is well-positioned just to the left side of the goal, within easy scoring range. The stick swings downward but never hits its target. Luke and his two equally huge left and right wings slam Johnny into the boards. He feels a punch to his solar plexus and he crumples to the floor.

Are you all right? Nathan yells, crouching beside him. Johnny stands up, groggy and clutching his stomach. He nods to Nathan, letting him know that he’s all right. He looks back at the middle of the rink just in time to see Luke evade Johnny’s two defensemen and hit the puck with a forehand wrist shot toward the goal. Johnny’s team’s goalie, a gangly boy who looks like he’s allergic to the puck, almost steps aside when it rushes to him. The puck sails through the goal.

Ole! Luke yells. Luke’s entire team on the ice shouts as one. On the next offensive possession, Johnny receives a pass from Nathan. He rushes, positions himself ten feet to the right of the goal, and readies a backhand wrist shot. As he does so, one of the opposing defensemen goes behind him and hooks his right leg with his stick. Johnny sprawls onto the ice. He watches helplessly as the two opposing defensemen again slam Nathan to the boards. Johnny stands up and tries desperately to catch up to Luke who is now rushing unopposed to the goal. Luke skates behind their goal, emerges on the other side and backhands the puck into the goal. Johnny’s team is now down 2-0.

Luke’s team goes on the offensive. Johnny and his two defensemen glide backwards, waiting for the play. Luke rushes right in the middle of the pack in front of Johnny. Johnny makes his move. He stops on a dime for a split second then rushes Luke. This throws Luke off and makes him lose his dribble. That’s all that Johnny needs. He steals the puck and slaps it to a waiting defenseman. On the offensive now, Johnny rushes toward the goal, flanked by his two wings. He guides the puck along the left side of the rink and exchanges places with his left wing. An opposing defenseman catches up and barges into him, forcing him to go even farther left. He is almost right in front of the players’ boxes now. Then before Johnny can stop, Luke suddenly appears in front of him. This time, he’s the one who rushes Johnny unexpectedly. Then in one fluid move, he crouches and rams Johnny’s shins with his right shoulder and lifts his legs with his arms. Johnny feels his skates leaving the ice. He tumbles over the boards and crashes straight into human bodies.

He lies on the ground, his neck bent in a weird angle. All he can see is the dark floor, with no clue where he is. He feels several hands lifting him up. As he stands up, his vision still blurry, he sees that he has landed on top of several people sitting just beyond the barrier. He exhales, relieved he hasn’t broken anyone’s neck with his landing. One girl holds a crushed cup in her hand, her jumper splattered with Coke. She looks amused, as though a six foot three hockey player landing on top of her, almost crushing her and spilling soda all over her is a regular occurrence. Johnny looks into her blue eyes and realizes that she’s talking.

Are you ok? she asks him with a worried look.

Huh? he asks, still disoriented.

Are you all right? she repeats. Her friend standing beside her, a girl with straight auburn hair, looks at her in surprise. Um, I’m ok thanks, he says staggering back to his feet. He blinks his eyes and looks at the scoreboard: 3-0. Time left 5:45.

One of the trainers blows his whistle, signalling a quick timeout. Johnny’s teammates skate back to the players’ box. They are slouching and look deflated. "What are we going