The Lore of Wind Drivers

By J. T. Stadd

I'm ecstatic to announce my completion of a YA fantasy novel entitled Slaves of the Bijou, roughly 83,000 words, book one of a three-part series entitled The Lore of Wind Drivers!

Slaves of the Bijou portrays a prospering and innocent society from an

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. T. Stadd
• Release date: Jan 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985509410

Book preview

Chapter One

N o! Absolutely not! It’s final. I can’t believe you even have the nerve to ask! Mom yells.

Storming off she abandons me, frustrated, alone, holding a crumbled paper as she slams her door in my face and on my dreams. Of all times, all times, this is the one favor I’d trade all others to embrace. Tell me no for the rest of my life to hear ‘yes’ just this once. The disappointment. The embarrassment my friends will refuse to let go! Funny thing is, though annoyed and irritated to no end, a small part of me, deep inside is mush. I lean into the thin door, hearing her muffled cries penetrate the pillow burying her face.

Tortured, conscience torn in two, I head to my room. Plopping on my squeaky mattress I stare at the empty consent form. Her absent signature means a world of living a dream, or a suffocated fantasy.

However, a thought crosses my mind. Yeah, that thought. I shouldn’t. She’d kill me. But I can’t resist thinking it. Every kid does this at some point in his life. Why not? I’d cowardly practiced it before but never had the balls to do it. Teacher’s notes, homework assignments, all with a big fat F slapped on the top page. Make sure your mother signs this, teachers frequently nag.

But this is different. My heart pounds as I sit up in bed. My rebellious side nudges me to act. I slide the black pen and a blank paper from my top drawer, warming my fingers as I scribble that god awful ‘S’ mom jots with such ease.

Five times. Ten times. I think I’m ready. Here goes nothing.

Chapter Two

To say I lost sleep would be an understatement. I tossed and turned all night with charged anticipation, believing the nocturnal hours were punishing me with extended darkness.

By no means an angel, I’m an average teen delving into my fair share of mischief. What teen hasn’t? But something about this wayward decision weighs a little heavier on me than most. More is at stake. With me and most of all, mother’s sanity. She’s been through the gutter the last few years. But even so, if not now, when? Never have I felt so strong about anything in life, but for unfeigned reasons, with this I do.

There’s only one problem. I overslept! I knew it the moment I believed my rough, twin bed sheets actually felt smooth. I spring from my comforter and slap the blaring alarm clock I somehow snored through. Seems the endless tossing and turning robbed me of sleep, cozying me in the late hour of my supposed departure. Grabbing both sides of my head I catch my bearings then blaze into action.

Good thing is, mom will never know. If I make it, that is. She’s long gone to work by now, allotting me the lone role of disobedient, morning adult. Usually, not a problem. I grab my backpack, dump my books, laptop and strayed papers into a heap on the bed. Lunge into the closet. Knee and elbow pads? Ready. Head lamp? Check. Gloves? Got em.

Running to the kitchen, I step over Growl, the old lab never moving from the rug in front of the sink, and fill a bottle of water. I lace up the overly heavy hiking boots and head out. Wait, one more thing, my helmet. I grab it and the leftover granola bar sitting on the counter.

The squeaky screen door slams behind as I rush past my dusty broken motorcycle to the driving service awaiting me. Time to get it fixed! Something about the strong rush of air peeling my face has always felt right.

No way I’m making it to school in time to catch the field trip bus. They’re probably more than halfway through the drive. So to our hiking spot I head, hopeful, to catch them before they’re too far in.

Permission slip, without permission, flaps between my lips as I jump in the back seat to peel off. From my house, it’s a twenty-minute ride. I’m so nervous! Exhilarated! Finally!

Chapter Three

I spot the busted yellow school bus parked up front as the car tires coast over crackling rocks to our location. The bus is empty. I jump out and pound the closed door, waking the slobbering driver snoozing across the front bench.

Did they already head in? I yell, pretending I can see him through the dusty window.

Yeah, he mutters in a groggy voice, reluctant to open the door. No more than ten minutes. Give or take, he guesses. Good enough for me.

Ten minutes alone, I’ll catch up with them no problem. I strap the light and helmet onto my head, and slap on the knee and arm pads before sliding on my gloves. I clip the water bottle to my belt and toss my empty backpack on the front seat of the bus.

Wait! Your permission slip! he barks. As if he cares. I think he’s still grumpy from being startled awake.

I hand him the half-crumbled, half-wet sheet that somehow found its way back between my lips.

Thanks. He waves me off, already slumping back into his chair.

Running up the embankment of sliding rocks, I spot the mountainside’s empty hole, the cavern entrance. I made it. If only I could get there quicker with these pointlessly heavy boots. Running against the insistent downward-tumbling rocks with the extra weight on my feet, coupled with drowning humidity, I believe I’d done enough for the day. A sweat ring already seeps through my shirt to attest. But I’m not about to slow down. Not for this. On with the charge.

Footing my way up, I balance on level terrain, dazzled by the twenty-foot archway waiting to swallow me whole. Jagged V-shaped rocks grace its bow like the teeth of a great white.

The shark, I whisper respectfully.

A chill wiggles up my spine. The hair on my arms frizzle north, not for fear of the monster before me, but the toll of knowing what it’s done to our family. One deep breath fills my lungs with the mountain’s moist air, siphoning strength and courage before dashing headfirst into the beast’s belly.

Fifty feet in, the first trickles wet my sleeve from the ceiling. I keep moving, crunching over damp rock, diving further in darkness with daylight dwarfing to a small hole behind me. Wet stone glistens the walls. Splash. My boot squishes soggy wet moss, gushing arctic water into my socks. The chill shocks me, loosens my balance from slick rock, as my right hand slips and slams onto the wet surface. There goes one dry glove, and that will definitely bruise. I rotate my wrist, crackling it back in place then push on. Still no one to be seen or heard, but they couldn’t have drifted too far. Another hundred feet across scraggly rocks and hello darkness. Time for the headlamp.

Woohoo! I yell at the walls. The echo bounces back like a lone basketball dribbled in a vacant gym.

An infinity of weightless water droplets illuminate my horizon, each dancing across the black backdrop like snowflakes on a windy winter night. Entrancing, they guide me further along, deeper, alerting me to the real challenge ahead, the back of the cavern’s throat. Halting to a dead end I hunch over, face to face with a five-foot wall of trickling water. Below, left to right, several small nooks branch from my location. Which way? I snatch the folded map from my back pocket and glance over the infamous names marking each nook.

The Fender Bender.

The Ab Cruncher.

The Skin Scraper.

Last but not least, the Dungeon.

I crawl into the Skin Scraper but hesitate. Wait. Was it the Skin Scraper or the Dungeon? I remember hearing one in class, the other being the one I hoped for. I could’ve sworn it was the Skin Scraper, but for some reason, the Dungeon rings familiar the longer I linger unsure.

I poke my head into the Skin Scraper and close my eyes. Calming my breath, my ears search the distance, straining to hear any echoed sounds of tumbling rock or laughter. I sift through a symphony of trickling water, dripping and splashing at varying intervals, but hear nothing more.

Hellooooo? I yell.

My echo claps the empty distance. No response.

What about the Dungeon? I repeat the effort, yielding the same empty result. I can’t help but wonder, did I have the correct time? And the bus driver said no more than ten minutes. Could his siesta have disoriented him about the actual time they’d been gone?

Okay, time to make another grownup and probably slightly childish decision. Which entrance? My gut whispers the Dungeon, and so does my desire. Strengthening my resolve, I head in without looking back. Here goes nothing. Kneeling on all fours I begin the crawl as if reliving my days as a toddler. Quickly, I gain distance. The pace is smooth, the pathway spacious, and at this rate, I’ll reach them in no time.

Mindlessly skipping from one rock to the next it occurs what I’ve managed, summoning the courage to defy Mother as well as make it this far on my own. I would’ve died for this chance, and now that I have it, I’ve done nothing but haste from one step to the next. Slow down, Jordan! Soak it all in. Take a deep breath and own the experience. I’ll catch up, eventually. Besides, there’s no way the others could have ventured very far. After all, there are close to thirty of them, and from what I remember in class, the geology trek all in all is no more than an hour and a half to two hours max.

Off my hands and knees, I flip on my back, shining my head lamp onto the coated ceiling of droplets. An instant chill from the damp ground pushes through my fabric, but nothing I can’t handle.

Straight above, at arm’s reach, I graze the droplets onto my glove. Cold, wet, the canopy above is tinted with nature’s recurring shades of brown. Yet enduring, sturdy, strong enough to carry the weight of the world above. It’s so peaceful, so quiet. Not a murmur stirs beyond the clamor of my own imagination.

My mind wanders from the cave to my dad. Why his love of being a geologist? Why such fondness for Earth and the foundation it’s built upon? He would sit at his desk for hours, magnifying glass engorging the shape of his eye, endlessly picking apart stones, mesmerized by the slew of design, color, shape, and size he’d discovered.

He’d often catch me peeking from the crack of his office door at night before inviting me in. Plopped on his lap, I’d gladly sit as he explained and pointed out intricate details I could never grasp alone. Still, it was my favorite spot, where I cherished to be. A warm memory to comfort the chilly draft of air when a drop of water splats between my eyes. The shiver brings me back to reality.

Time to move on. I have to catch up.

Chapter Four

Forty-five minutes! I’ve been crawling for forty-five minutes and still no sign of my class. My lower palms ache from relentless pressing on hard rock. Every ten to fifteen minutes, stopping to stretch my ligaments sort of helps. The front of my knees are okay. Thank god for the kneepads, but the skin crease behind has rubbed raw from the straps.

I ease my thumb beneath the elastic bands, temporarily loosening the tension as I stare ahead, slightly worried. Up to this point, it’s all been fun and games, but now comes the challenge.

From here out, for who knows how long, any additional wiggle room is not in the cards. The size of my tunnel drastically shrinks, from a hole I could somewhat sit up and move around, to a narrowed crawl space now forcing me to mimic a worm. Three feet wide and maybe two and a half feet tall, there’s just enough room if I flatten to my belly.

I have no issues with claustrophobia, but doing this, alone, shakes me a little. I need my best friend, Nijal. Naturally, I question myself. Where are they? How fast are they moving and how have I not caught up? Then there’s the obvious, did I crawl into the wrong opening? That’s the one I shake from my head, especially if I’m to have the balls to see this through. Should I crawl back?

Faced with two options, which do I choose? This is my one and only chance to turn back, literally. Once I dive in, there’s no room for U-turns to cower back in the opposite direction. All forward! Do I want to do this? Hell, no!

Plopped on my behind for the last time, I mindlessly gaze into the opening. Either way, I’m halfway there. So why not make the best of it? It would require the same effort to reach the other side than it would to turn back?

A deep chilled breath gathers my nerves, keeping them from sprouting loose. I take a small chug of water, unsure of my next chance to squeeze an arm down my side to unclip the bottle from my belt, and into the strenuous part I head.

Okay, okay, okay, I whisper, bolstering myself. You’ll be fine. You’ve got this. A liter of water and a granola bar, who can stop me?

Bottle clipped, I breath in bravery and plop back to my knees. Arms stretched ahead, I scrape my way in by grabbing protruding rocks from each side. Instantly I realize, this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. At least I brought gloves, already allaying my first deep cut. The fabric soaks the red stains emanating from the gash on my knuckles. Most of me will resemble ground meat by the time I come out. A dead giveaway. What will mom say? Didn’t think of raw skin betraying my disobedience. Oh well, can’t think of that now. Focus.

I poke my butt in the air till it hits the top. Scooch my knees as far up as they’ll go and push with my lower half, all while pulling with my arms. That’s one way. The other? Placing a foot along the sides to push forward, inch by inch, inspiring new respect for inch worms.

This is going to take forever! How on Earth did my father enjoy doing this, alone? The silence renews my appreciation for sound. There isn’t any. My ears ring, constantly searching the slightest drip, crack or thud, away from my heavy, paranoid breathing. Good thing no one hears what I sound like.

Same goes for my eyes, eagerly searching beyond my headlamp in anticipation of what’s to come. Speaking of light, better dim it. I drop the lead beams from five to two, more than enough to scour the pitch dark.

Damn! Another scrape on the arm. If not a scrape it’s my helmet getting jammed, if not my helmet, my shoelace getting caught. If not the shoelace I’m taking off my glove to wipe the spattered mud from my eyes, while trying not to gunk it back inside my glove.

Oh yeah! My water bottle too! I shout inside, giving in to frustration. It jams just as I’ve settled the chain effect of everything else.

The air becomes cooler, the mud, more frigid to touch. My gloves drink the moisture from the ground, and now that I’ve pushed through an exhausting twenty-minute belly creep, I pray my eyes deceive me as to what’s ahead. My body-hugging slither space blocked by fallen rubble.

Chapter Five

C ome on! I belt in frustration. Are you kidding me? My muffled words give no comfort in my desperate situation.

No, my eyes don’t deceive me. Reality strikes as firm as the obstacle of rock I meet up ahead. How is this possible? Why me? What kind of cruel joke? Have I truly crawled into an irreversible situation?

I move backward, water bottle gridlocking me. My heart begins to sputter as I thrash, panicked from the notion of being wedged. Okay, so much for backward. Forward? My breath thickens.

Jordan. Relax. Don’t panic. Am I speaking aloud or just thinking very loudly? I can’t tell. I pause for an inhale of fresh air and fresh ideas. You’ll be out in no time. This time I’m sure I hear myself.

I gather myself for a second attempt against the mound. A couple rocks shift forward, then more. Yes! Not stuck after all. I shimmy my arm down my side finding enough space to cram a stone. It’s tight, but my arm fits back and forth between my hip and the wall.

Okay, here we go. You got this Jordan, I think, boosting confidence to shove off the jitters rushing to eat me alive.

Most rocks are the size of a baseball. One by one I grab on, scrape it down my side before giving it a gentle toss to my foot. Wiggling my shoe on top, I kick it as far back as it’ll go.

London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady, I chant.

Why this song? At first, I haven’t a clue why it of all tunes would pop in my head, but then it clicks. It’s comforting to sing of a sturdy, fortified structure crumbling to its knees.

I echo the lyrics a hundred times, snagging a rock, kicking it back, repeat. Only problem is the buildup behind, gradually becoming harder to kick, till suddenly, nothing moves, ahead nor behind.

Something’s gotta give! I yell, disrupting the rhythm of my once merry tune.

Claustrophobia now becomes real in ways I have never experienced. Sandwiched from head to toe, the earth seemingly descends. I swear it crushes me, tightens along my back, pressing me further in ground. My mind plays tricks on me. I hyperventilate, but know to use my glove to stiffen the flow of oxygen. Desperation swells my throat like a balloon. Panic grabs me by the neck when suddenly, a glimmer, buried on my left catches my eye. What is it? I lose sight, frantic to find it when my light catches the glisten from beneath a stone. My eyes congeal, my face slowly descending against my cold, gritty hand, determined not to lose sight of it a second time. I don’t reach, just stare. It calms the roiled thoughts scrambling my mind. My breathing slows and the cramming walls seem to retreat. Relaxed, I hold tight to the glimmer, contrasting the scraggly stones I’d shoved till now.

With only a few chunks between us, I find purpose and distraction, jostling closer, hoping something of value will offer companionship as I rot in this cave. My helmet impedes me, clamping my head from getting closer. I remove it and my left elbow pad then distend my arm, cheek scraping the pile ahead, carving my jaw with stone the further I lunge. Every tendon my arm renders stretches through a daggered gutter.

Almost. Almost. I strain, skimming it with the tip of my glove.

My stretch collapses. My arm is like jelly, lacking give. I pull back through the gauntlet, tasting the earth as I grip the mud slung glove with my teeth to tug it off. Yuck! Round two. Nestled closer I stretch again, cheek back against the grinding surface with cavern knives puncturing my fingertip up to the pit of my arm. Over extended, I nip the stone’s edge with my nail. Clawing, clipping, it spiders within the grasp of my hand. Got it.

Guiding it back through the cut throat lair exacerbates each gash and laceration. Trickles of blood seep over the gutter’s edge, coloring red droplets of water along the clay surface. My arm feels shredded, but relief presses in from the cold wet ground. My cheek is numb from the stone in my jaw, but even still, my plight eases. For the moment, nothing could pull me from the fascination in my hand. What did I just unearth?

Eighty percent of a black obsidian shell as small as a baby mango hides beneath the grit of coarse stone. The few parts exposed are as smooth and cold as metal. My thumbs crumble the outer edges like a shell from a hard-boiled egg. But what caught my eye lies deeper, buried beneath the mystery black. A million flecks of glitter suspended at its heart, glistening in a galaxy twirled configuration.

I grab a jagged stone, using the edge to chisel off the hindering rock around, then flip off my headlamp. Each speck emanates a soft glow, a constellation. Am I hallucinating? I must be. Ironically, lying here beneath the earth in pitch black, a universe from above illuminates my hand.

My morale leaps into overdrive. I flick on my light, and shove it in my cargo pocket.

London bridge is falling down, I continue, now with ambition.

Elated with my new find I resume, mind burning with a squillion questions. How did this get here? What is it? Where is it from? My father never mentioned anything of its kind. Did someone lose it? Has it emerged from the depths of earth’s crust? Would I find more if I dug deeper? How did I of all people stumble upon something this rare during a trek of sheer stupidity and recklessness?

Thoughts fuel my dig. However, it’s not long before my spirits burst like an overtaxed balloon. My helmet bottlenecks again. Neither the heap in front nor the heap behind budge. I won’t get stuck again. Furiously, I kick, push, shove, but not a squeak.

No! I scream.

Tremors of familiar panic creep in. My heart pummels the murky earth, pushing me in intervals against the wall above. Am I atop the ground or is the ground atop me? Each inhale is heavier to take in, even harder to expel.

Help! I desperately yell, over and over.

Dry earth cakes the back of my throat until I’m unable to yell. Who was I yelling for anyway? Who would heed? Could someone on the other side hear my panicked screams of desperation echoing through the icy air? I must’ve yelled a thousand times, rattling my throat till a compulsion of coughs replace words. Careful not to choke, or freak beyond what I already have, I stop again to breathe.

I give up. I whisper.

Out of all my troubles, I foolishly think of how my mother is going to kill me! Not only did I disobey, thinking I could get away with it, but now I’m buried alive! My mother’s scourge should be the least of my worries, yet somehow it burns vibrant. We’ve already been through enough of this in our lives.

Seeing there’s not much I can do, I decide making the dreaded call. One hand from the glove, I squiggle my phone from my pocket, reluctant, yet hopeful.

Come on, come on, come on, I plea with the ground beneath me.

However, buried this deep, the fear I tried shedding is the first revealed. No signal.

Grrrrr! I growl in frustration.

I knew it. Time to face reality, I’m trapped.

Chapter Six

Despite it all, I never give up kicking and thrashing, squirming and wiggling. Two hours now, I grasp from my phone, although it feels like days with no progress. My palms are tender and my soles ache for rest.

Reassured I’m helpless, I pause and purposefully rest my aching body. The moment I stop, I realize my next concern, the moist ground. Hadn’t paid much attention to how wet I’d become or how low the temperature had dropped given all the other exigencies. Having worked up a sweat, it won’t get any better.

I remove my gloves, careful not to trap the cold to my fingers. Mud has coated and sealed the gashes along my arm, about the only positive thing in my condition. I place my hands beneath my armpits, try and cuddle my knees to my chest. With not enough room to fold in a ball, I huddle all extremities as tight as possible.

Checklist. Think. What to do if stuck in a cave? Turn off my light. No need to waste batteries. I sit my elbow pad under my neck like a pillow before