Iconic Reflections

By Jeffrey Stoker

Peter Placket dreams of being a hero. Like most heroes, hes confident, charismatic, and cunning. Also, he works at a fire station, the perfect venue for showcasing his bravery. Theres just one small problem: Hes made out of paper.

How can Peter be heroic when the fire chief forbids him to get within ten yards of fires?

The answer comes one day when the lower classes revolt against the aristocracy, turning the Apple Kingdom, Peters home, into a war zone. Realizing that someone must put an end to the violence, Peter flees to the countryside, searching for an ancient magical object that renders its user all-powerful. Only as a sorcerer can Peter return to the Apple Kingdom and conquer the rebel army.

Its a grand, sweeping journey, during which Peter will find both allies and adversaries, witness bizarre, deadly magic, attempt to cross an uncrossable sea, and visit an island that technically doesnt exist.

Ultimately, the magical object he seeks may do more than end the revolution it may provide the answer to a mystery as old as time!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 26, 2008
• ISBN: 9781453502037

Jeffrey Stoker

JEFFREY STOKER lives in Layton, Utah, taking his dog for walks, working out at the gym, and hoping to one day regain his sense of smell. Iconic Reflections is first book, although he’s also written a novella, a one-act play, and numerous film reviews. He’s currently working on a collection of short stories.

Book preview

Part One

The Revolution

Chapter 1

The Road to Staplehorn

Eve couldn’t believe her eyes. The road had moved. It had actually moved. She’d gotten bored of its path and tried to walk off the edge of it onto the grass, but the road had followed her. That was something she’d never seen before, and she’d seen a lot.

What the hell? she said, setting her things, a bindle and a breadbasket, onto the ground. She had to make sure she’d really seen the road move. She had to make sure she wasn’t losing her mind. The road’s behavior wouldn’t have been so hard to believe if this had been, say, New York or California; after all, bizarre things happened in places like those all the time. But this was Iowa, and in Eve’s experience Iowa was the type of place where bizarre things never happened, even when you were so bored that you secretly wished for them to.

By and by, Eve began to jog along the road, gradually picking up speed until the jog turned into a full-on sprint. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and dived for the grass.

THUD!

Wincing, Eve opened her eyes—but she knew even before opening them that she hadn’t made it. She could feel the dirt beneath her outstretched arms, could feel it mashed into her nose, mouth and chin. With effort she turned onto her back, then lay there for a while, groaning. Finally, she scrambled to her feet, dusted herself off and, by rote, tossed her hair braids over her back.

Why THIS road? she thought, looking on. What makes THIS road so damn special? I mean, it’s just an ordinary dirt path in a quiet, run-of-the-mill backwater!

Heaving a sigh of frustration, Eve gathered her belongings and continued on her way, pulling the road farther and farther off course. Eventually the road brought her to a golden archway (or to be more precise, she brought the road to the archway) and she prudently stopped to look it over. The resplendent structure was over ten feet from top to bottom, its poles positioned several inches past either side of the road. Situated across the top of it, going with the curve, was a series of tall, gothic letters. Eve shaded her eyes from the sun, trying to make the letters out. She was only 5’3", so she had to crane her neck.

Stay . . . pull . . . horn, she said.

Strange.

For the past twenty years—ever since she was fourteen and her parents got divorced and she ran away from home—Eve had lived a nomadic existence. In that time, she’d sailed the seven seas, been to all seven continents, traversed exotic jungles and deserts and climbed all manner of mountains. She knew the planet inside and out—especially America, the country where she’d spent the pre-nomadic years of her life.

Due to her itinerant lifestyle, Eve had, by degrees, developed a sixth sense when it came to geography. She was Sister Place, so to speak—second cousin to Jack Frost, great granddaughter of Father Time. She watched over direction and area, the veins in her body were like the lines printed onto maps.

And yet . . . and yet she’d never heard of a place called Staplehorn. What was it? Had it been here all along? If so, how had she managed to miss it up until now?

Her curiosity was piqued. An odd, wonderful mystery had just been dropped into her lap, and no matter what, no matter how long it took her, she was going to get to the bottom of it.

*     *     *

The moment Eve passed under the archway, ready to take on the vast expanse of sloping hills that stretched ahead, the archway sank into the ground, disappearing without a trace.

Sch-WUMP!

Glancing over her shoulder, Eve watched with bewilderment as grass started to grow over the dirt-paved road.

Pl-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t!

The grass grew quickly, and it wasn’t long before the road, like the archway, was no more.

Eve scowled. Um . . . okay. So I guess this means I’m stuck here, right? She cast her eyes skyward, as if thinking the answer to her question might be up there somewhere. Well, we’ll just see about that! I’m gonna investigate this place and learn its secrets, then find my way back out. Mark my words!

In a huff, she turned from the defunct road and set off in search of civilization. Going up the hills she took long, even strides (or as long as her short legs would allow, anyway); going down them she jogged, finding that the best way to avoid stumbling.

All the while one word kept repeating itself in her head: kaleidoscopic. The grass was covered with flowers of every color and type imaginable, almost as if Mother Nature had poured a giant bucket of potpourri across the landscape. Oddly enough, the flowers grew in patterns, the kinds of patterns normally seen on quilts or garments—concentric circles, stripes, paisley, argyle, polka-dots, they ran the gamut from the simple and mundane to the elaborate and bizarre.

They oughta call this place ‘The Patchwork Wonderland!’ said Eve, boringly sidestepping a pink and green swirl that was situated at the base of an expansive dale. That’s a much more appropriate name than Staplehorn!

As the day wore on, passing, slowly, into night, Eve’s feet began to drag. She was exhausted and she felt like turning in for the night; however, being the dogged and determined person that she was, she forced herself to keep going. There were so many things that she wanted to know about this place, and so far she didn’t know any of them.

At one point, hoping to revive herself, she started whistling.

You there! Cut that out! Some of us are trying to sleep!

Startled, Eve instinctively moved into a defensive stance, then turned her head this way and that, looking for the person who’d spoken.

But there was no person. There was only a fox. It was sitting on its haunches on top of a smallish hill, staring at her.

Who’s there?

Me.

Eve hesitated. Me? Erm . . . that’s pretty vague. Could you be more specific?

Could you be more observant? I’m right in front of you, lady. See the fox on the hill? That’s me.

Eve did a double-take; her bindle and breadbasket fell to the ground. Then, fidgeting uneasily, she managed to say, Y-you . . . c-can . . . t-talk?

Mm-hmm. I can also sleep. Speaking of which . . . Laying back down, the fox curled itself into a ball and closed its eyes.

Wait.

At this, the fox opened its eyes. What do you want now?

Can all the animals around here talk?

Except for newborns and the occasional mute, yes.

Eve furrowed her brow. What exactly is this place? A city? A state?

It’s a country—goodnight!

Scoffing, Eve turned from the fox and sauntered off. She had more questions she would have liked to ask, but she was still relieved to be moving on. This was the first time that she’d ever conversed with a fox—or conversed with any animal, for that matter—and she found the experience unsettling.

Once the fox was out of sight, Eve sat down on a long, broad stretch of orange-and-blue-checked grass and kicked off her weather-beaten running shoes.

I wonder what the natives are like, she said. Then she snorted, derisively. Probably just as petty and naïve as they are everywhere else!

Eve couldn’t be certain, but she suspected that, when she passed through towns, the residents made snide comments about her appearance—anonymous people, peaking out through the curtains of whistle stop cafés, watching her from behind fruit stands at the Farmer’s Market, slowing their cars down as they drove past her on the byways and highways.

Hey, look over there! A full grown woman wearing her hair in braids and carrying a breadbasket! What’s up with that?"

Beats me! To be perfectly honest, I thought it was a little girl!

No matter. What these people failed to realize, what they failed to grasp, was that Eve’s braids and breadbasket weren’t meant as fashion statements. Nothing quite so trivial. In truth, both were important pieces to something much larger than themselves, something almost cosmic in its scope and implications.

For as long as Eve could remember, she’d had busy hands. Crafty hands. Not only did she braid her hair every morning, not only had she weaved her breadbasket herself, using nothing but a pile of straw and a bottle of glue, she also knitted her own clothing, sutured any serious cuts that she received amidst her travels and, on occasion, made arts and crafts to sell for money, food, or shelter.

It all came down to destiny. Eve believed that there was greatness in her future, and, as crazy as it seemed, she believed that this greatness was inextricably linked to her skills with her hands. She wasn’t sure how the two were linked, she just believed that they were.

Feeling as if her destiny was closer than ever, Eve lay on her back, took out her braids—her thick, golden-brown tresses providing a first-rate cushion for her head—and gazed up at the stars. Before she knew it she’d fallen asleep and deep into dreams.

*     *     *

Early the next morning, Eve came upon a forest of apple trees and, knowing she’d want the shade once the sun rose, went inside. She walked for hours, eating apples from the trees whenever her stomach growled, occasionally stopping to rest. It seemed like the forest would go on forever, but then, by mid-afternoon, the trees finally began to thin out.

Eve tightened her grip on her breadbasket’s handle, bracing herself for whatever lay ahead.

Soon the canopy of leaves melted into sunlight and she found herself standing at the edge of a huge, grassy clearing. Unlike the grass from the day before, here the grass was devoid of flowers, making it a solid green.

In the center of the clearing, a half a mile from where she stood, was a pair of large, spherical cities. The city to the left was black; its buildings had windows made from dark, tinted glass. The city to the right was reddish-brown; some of its buildings were made from brick, others from wood. Behind the cities stood an azure sky with broad, welt-like clouds spread across it.

Apples . . . said Eve, a look of awe coming over her small, pointed face. They’re supposed to look like apples!

For each city had an arched skyline, and in the skyline’s center was a tower that, like an apple stem, rose high above everything else. Wrapped around each city was a carousel of buildings, each building bowed on the end facing out.

Eve set her things on the ground and reached into the breadbasket, rummaging through various odds and ends like hairpins, handkerchiefs and tampons. After a minute she pulled out a pencil and a writing pad, then flipped the pad open and got to a blank page. With her pinky finger out, she wrote:

UNREALISTIC THINGS ABOUT STAPLE-

HORN THAT I’VE NOTICED SO FAR

1—OBJECTS THAT DISAPPEAR

2—TALKING ANIMALS

3—CITIES SHAPED LIKE APPLES

Stooping down, Eve put the pencil and the writing pad back into the breadbasket. That finished, she gathered her things and pressed forward.

Chapter 2

The Life Race

If Peter moved, he’d die. Plain and simple. No question about it. He was sitting on an old, termite-infested chair in the spare bedroom of a dilapidated brownstone, staring into the business end of a double-barreled rifle. The rifle was pointed at his neck, rigged to go off if he made any attempt to escape. It wouldn’t be messy—no brains and skull and blood splattered across the wall, or anything like that—but he’d definitely die. Even someone who’s origami, like Peter, needs a head in order to live, and if Peter tried to move the rifle would blow his head clean off.

Outside, the great clock on the top floor of Sepia Tower marked the time with a series of chimes. Three chimes. 3AM. The kidnappers would be asleep for approximately four more hours.

Behind Peter, pushed up into the corner, a neatly-made, twin-size bed suggested days when the room had been used for less nefarious purposes. Next to the bed stood a narrow desk that went with the chair Peter was sitting on, and resting upon one end of the desk was Peter’s firefighter helmet. This was big and red and shiny, its front side sporting an enormous gold shield that read SABLE CITY at the top and FD NO. 6 at the bottom. The kidnappers had placed the helmet on the desk in case the rifle went off and the shield somehow protected Peter’s head from the bullets.

Come now, Peter thought. You’re dashing, you’re six foot two. You look like a hero—ACT LIKE ONE! How are you going to get out of this? How are you going to escape?

Wending its way into the room this morning, through a hairline crack in the window to Peter’s far left, was a sliver of wind. Although the sliver was frail, it still had enough force to send small ripples across Peter’s broad, propeller-shaped mustache and cause his long, sharp beard, which was flat on the sides, coming straight out like a shark fin, to flutter about. Lucky for Peter that’s all the wind did. Had it been any stronger it might have thrown his hands off his lap, knocked his left foot into his right or shifted his buttocks a centimeter or two over on the chair, setting off the rifle.

Peter sighed. Today was his tenth birthday, and sitting here in this room, alone, unable to move, wasn’t his idea of fun. He would have much rather been at the firehouse, unwrapping presents from his fellows—or perhaps antiquing, or watching a play, or perusing sculptures and paintings at an art gallery.

Blast it all! he said, aware that he might wake the kidnappers but not caring. What an awful, awful predicament!

*     *     *

Two weeks after he was born, Peter, along with the scientists responsible for bringing him to life, ascended a secret stairway beneath the Himmish Mountains. Then they opened and clambered out of an equally-secret hatch, whose surface was designed to blend in with the mountains’ black, jagged, shiny terrain. Apprehensively, Peter climbed aboard a hot-air balloon (the balloon part was scarlet-colored), then made his way to the edge of the basket and glumly waved goodbye to the scientists, whom he’d come to think of as his family. As the balloon lifted off, he watched the mountains grow smaller and smaller and smaller. He felt a slight twinge of nostalgia at seeing them go, but for the most part he considered his leaving them a good thing. Made from mica and shaped like giant, lethal-looking stalagmites, the mountains were anything but attractive.

Once the mountains disappeared from view, Peter turned to face the pilot, a towering, well-dressed brown bear. I say! Where the devil are you taking me?

To the capitol, Mr. Placket. To the Apple Kingdom.

The Apple Kingdom, Peter thought. Located in the center of Staplehorn. Comprised of a pair of apple-shaped cities, one black, one reddish-brown. Surrounded, a half a mile out, by a thick ring of apple