Trial of the Elements: Book 2 of the Creativity Series

By Brad Owens

Matt and John are recovering from the ordeal of The First Story. John is out of the hospital but is still having troubles. The trial of Little Bill, the boy who attacked John and left him in a coma, is starting and Matt and John are on edge because of that. In Creativity, the Elements are beginning to act

• Language: English
• Publisher: Superbia Publishing
• Release date: Dec 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798869071484

Book preview

1

Prologue

The rain fell, slowly at first, with little whispers of splashes, and then it dropped faster becoming a steady drone of sadness. The little girl, not just yet a teenager, huddled close to the ancient oak tree, her knees pulled to her chest. The gnarled bark bit into her back, even through her denim jacket, and the wind muttered a dirge that did nothing to quell the intensity of her loss.

Water trickled down the sides of the mound atop the freshly filled grave, loose grit and stones pooled on the injured ground, and the little girl watched the bits of earth that had settled on the base of the granite marker. Tenacious nuggets of filth that refused to be washed away by the timid rain.

She sighed, the little girl, more of a gasp for breath than a weary expression, and tried to take in more air than she had been. The curious thing about continuous weeping, she thought, was the complete lack of breathing. She turned her face to the sky, allowing the steady rain to wash away her angry tears.

What makes Sad Rain? the wind asked.

The tears paused. The question was clear, concise, completely beside the point. What? the little girl asked the rain. There was a long moment of silence, a rustle of leaves, and a flutter of air.

What makes Sad Rain? The words floated down, around, through the little girl.

Is this a joke? The little girl stood and addressed the rain directly. Silence answered her. You interrupted the story. The little girl jabbed an accusing finger at the sky. Why?

There was no response from the wind, and the rain stopped altogether. The little girl found herself alone under the ancient oak, sadness giving way to confusion, anger. She contemplated the story around her and the disruption that had just occurred. There was something dangerous, something that needed more examination, more scrutiny. She needed to speak with someone who might have answers.

The little girl’s eyes grew larger, more round, more orb-like, more monstrous, and the Sister of Monsters stepped out from under the oak and into the world of Creativity. She was at once grotesque and innocent, a little girl with the eyes of a great spider, a vicious predator and a helpless victim in one small body. Her hunter’s eyes scanned for signs of a presence but there was none. She began a slow, deliberative stroll through the Gloaming Woods.

2

The Inn at the Edge of the Woods was bustling as it had been lately. Creativity had grown in the time after the Upheaval, which was what the citizens called the near destruction of their entire world. The First Story had been stolen and used to reshape the world, which caused one of the oldest and most powerful Aspects to awaken and nearly destroy the world herself. Finally, after so much chaos, the world was settling into its new condition; its new normal. The First Story had been returned to its cave and new stories, complete with Aspects and Elements, even Devices, of their own accord, began popping up all over Creativity. Every new resident, eventually, found their way to the Inn. The Innkeeper and his daughter, Mel, worked to keep the new patrons happy, but they were two and the customers were many.

We need to hire staff. Mel slapped her hand on the counter as she finished loading her serving tray, and then she hefted her bosoms, readjusted them, and let them fall back into her blouse. Her father waved his hand dismissively over his head. Yes, we do. She grabbed her tray and hurriedly put it on the table nearest the door, allowing the customers to take their own drinks before she snatched up the tray and headed back to the bar. Three beers, one wine, and a flagon of mead for the back table.

The Innkeeper began to fill the new order when the air shifted. A tint of danger painted the bar, the table, the walls, dripped from the ceiling, and sloshed across the floor as the Sister of Monsters stepped through the door, her enormous black eyes surveyed the room as a predator might gaze into the jungle. Her little-girl ponytails bobbed up and down on the sides of her head, her little-girl teeth grew sharp and pointed, and her eyes, those spider-orbs, oozed a viscous intelligence that trickled down her little-girl cheeks.

One of the Council, Mel whispered too loudly, which made her father grimace and purse his lips in a quiet shush. He motioned for her to offer a seat to the Sister of Monsters. We are going to hire someone to help out around here, she stated before crossing in front of the bar.

With every seat in the place taken, Mel quickly set about forcibly moving several patrons from the back table. There was resistance at first, until the customers, a few Elements with one Device in tow, saw the Sister of Monsters. After that, they willingly gave up their seats.

Your usual? Mel asked as the Sister of Monsters took the seat pressed against the wall. She kept her eyes, dangerously, angrily fixed on the door.

Yes, and I’m expecting company. The Sister of Monsters nodded. We will need a beer and a glass of white wine, chilled. Very chilled.

Mel’s eyes grew wide. The beer was a pretty common drink among the Council. It could be associated with just about any of the other members, but the chilled wine could only mean Frau Iver was coming. She hurried to the fireplace and stoked the fire just a bit before she returned to serving.

Baba Vedma, her wild hair tucked haphazardly under a handkerchief tied awkwardly around her chin, staggered through the door and headed straight to the back table. Her well-aged bones creaked and she wobbled a bit on her ancient legs, but the air changed again as she entered. Whereas the Sister of Monsters had brought danger, Baba Vedma introduced fear, morbid fascination, and the vague smell of herbs. She was the witch, not a witch, but the witch. She was the grandmother of witches, and she was power, old, ancient, mysterious power. She walked with all the confidence of her status, and she sat just as Mel placed the beer mug in front of her. In one swift motion, Baba Vedma took the mug and drained the contents, wiping a bit of foam from the sides of her mouth and her chin before handing the empty glass back to Mel. Keep ‘em comin’ please, she huffed.

Baba Vedma, the Sister of Monsters said by way of greeting.

We got problems brewin’ me thinks. Baba Vedma’s words were conspiratorial.

What have you noticed?

A drizzle talked to me in a story.

A drizzle?

Aye, Baba Vedma paused as Mel placed a full mug and a chilled glass of wine on the table. She waited until there was a reasonable expectation of privacy again. Twas one of me best new stories. One of me favorites.

Sad Rain?

Twas a sad rain indeed.

No, I mean Sad Rain, the Sister of Monsters leaned closer to the old woman. She’s an Element. You must have noticed her. She’s in quite a few stories, especially ours.

An Element? Baba Vedma’s voice was louder than she intended. Speaking in a story? Why? How?

I don’t know, but she spoke in one of my stories too.

The room became cold, a mist rolled in through the door, and Frau Iver was there. Sadness swirled around her white hair, despair billowed in her white gown, and hopelessness drifted from her white hands. She exhaled and her white breath caused everyone in the room to shiver, just a little.

She sure is handy at keeping the beer cold. Baba Vedma pushed newly formed ice crystals up and down the sides of her mug as Frau Iver flitted into her own chair and wrapped her hands, ghostly, ethereally, lovingly around her wine glass.

3

You ready? Matt called as he poked his head through the open door to John’s bedroom.

John was adjusting his tie and paused in frustration. How do you get these things straight?

No idea, Matt admitted but stepped forward to help anyway. You nervous? John shook his head, unconvincingly. Matt began to fuss with John’s tie. We don’t have to go y’know. We could totally skip out. Go to the park, do some writing.

John’s mouth pinched and twisted to one side, a sure sign he was considering the offer as Mat loosened the tie and repositioned the knot. After some pulling, quite a bit of twisting, and a fair amount of tugging, the tie looked fairly centered. The end was still just a bit too far past John’s waistline, but not enough to worry.

There, Matt exclaimed. That’s better.

John smiled, the corners of his mouth moving sideways instead of up, and nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. I think I have to go. He grabbed his cane, a still needed accessory of his time in the hospital. His headaches were less frequent, but dizzy spells continued to pop up irregularly, the remnants of a life threatening concussion. He leaned on the cane, a slight wobble, before settling. How do I look?

You look good, Matt answered, memories of the hospital room, and the doctors suggesting the worst, came unbidden, and then, the image of the baseball bat, the sound of the sickening crack, John, blood pouring down his face. He shivered and threw his arms around John, hugging him with such force that they both had to sit on the bed.

What…?

I… Matt stammered. His voice a mockery of bravery. It was….just so…

I know, John pulled his arms free, and moved his hands to cradle Matt’s face. I know. Matt’s head went to John’s shoulder. The intimacy was fluid, natural, so very different from before the attack when a simple handshake had been awkward. The threat of death made the fear of honesty seem insignificant in comparison. Matt told his parents the same day he told John how he felt. They were angry, shocked, but also strangely unaffected, as if they had already known and were relieved and reticent and fearful, but mostly relieved.

John had waited a few days, and his parents had yet to come around to the reality of this situation. John’s father stopped talking to him, stopped looking at him. That had been nearly three weeks ago, and John’s mother frowned whenever she looked at her son. It was tense, uncomfortable, but getting just a bit less so with every passing day. The beginning of the trial threatened to undo any perceived progress though. It’ll be okay. I’m okay.

Matt lingered, his head nestled into John, the warmth of their bodies intermingling, their strength compounding. Matt stepped back, sighed, took in a deep breath. I’m ready. You?

Yes. The word was strong, forceful, tinged with red and blue and yellow. Matt marveled at the complexity of the word. He marveled at the beauty of the voice that produced it. He wondered how he was going to get through the day.

What is going to happen anyway? At the trial? They walked, John leaning on his cane, Matt slowing his gait to match.

They are questioning character witnesses, teachers, his parents, John’s voice was no longer forceful.

I can’t believe he says he’s not guilty.

The others back him up. There’s four of them, two of us.

It’s not fair.

I know.

The day greeted them with sunshine, but there were dark clouds close by.

4

The courtroom was full as the defendant, a young woman of indefinable beauty and monumental grace, entered from a side door. She floated, chains around her wrists and ankles rattling as she went, and her frame swayed gently like an ocean against a passive breeze. Her hair, luminous under the fluorescents, undulated as if buoyed by some unseen, loving hand.

She sat at the table, facing the judge, her head cocked slightly toward the jury, her lips parted in an embarrassed pout, and sighed. Every person in the room leaned forward as her breath flowed out. Several licked their lips, many closed their eyes and imagined, and one gasped outright.

The rain outside the window trickled down the panes, pooling, just for a moment, on the sill before falling, once more, to the awaiting earth.

Who is Sad Rain? a voice echoed in the chamber and the woman’s eyes darted left then right then left then up.

All rise! The bailiff called out and the people responded. Shuffling, thudding, stumbling their way to their feet, the people turned, in unison, to face the front of the courtroom.

What is Sad rain? The voice whispered, strong, forcefully, too much to be called a whisper, but it was a whisper nonetheless.

Who’s there? the woman asked and her lawyer, an elderly man of indeterminate wisdom, shushed her.

Sad Rain is…something more, the voice was inside the courtroom now. The side door, the very one she had entered, swung open and a woman, blithe, young, sopping wet, tears streaming down her face, stood in the area between out and in. She stepped inside.

The room became humid in a way that made the moisture in the air weighty, oppressive. The woman found herself slumped, her shoulders crunched, her head lolling, and forced herself upright. She was tired suddenly, so very tired, and weak. Her head fell forward. She shook herself violently.

Who are you? the woman demanded.

Why is Sad Rain? The words were somber, heavy, dripping with poignancy.

The woman thought about what a sad rain meant, or was, or might be, and the rain outside continued to trickle. She held her hand to her mouth, blocking an unbidden intake of air, and her eyes closed. She sat in her chair, suddenly unable to stand, her head fell into her hands, her elbows on the table, her eyes welling, and she spoke, I don’t know. I don’t care.

Sad Rain left. The door creaked closed behind her. The room languished in the weight of fatigue, of sadness, until Frau Iver, the legendary woman in white, the jilted lover, the vengeful dame, the cold death that awaits in the storm, rose and stood defiantly. Jabs of cold strengthened the air, bitter whirls fought back the ennui. Alive once more in her anger and resentment, Frau Iver tilted her head back and screamed. The world broke around her.

When the ice receded, Frau Iver stood in Creativity, surrounded by the Gloaming Woods. She stepped from the tall grass under the trees onto the path, icy fractals jutting out from her every footfall, and she sneered as she made her way toward the Inn.

5

She interrupted one of my stories, Frau Iver spoke softly; her voice a bitter wind through winter woods, and her words produced fresh shivers in every patron of the Inn at the Edge of the Woods. She sat in her usual chair and lifted the glass of wine awaiting her.

Still can’t get used to ye talking whenever ye want, Baba Vedma said and raised her glass to Frau Iver.

Was it Sad Rain? The Sister of Monsters gazed at Frau Iver, her black, orb-eyes glistening, flickering, flashing in the firelight. Frau Iver nodded as she continued to drink until the glass was empty. Then, we have an uprising.

Don’t get ahead of yer self, Baba Vedma warned. All we be knowing is that one Element be interrupting things. That be not an uprising. That be a disgruntled worker.

Since when do Elements speak in stories? The Angler burst through the door, shaking water from his pea coat as he made his way to the back table. He was the fisherman at the close of day, he was the sunset on the ocean, he was the perpetual ending, the beginning of a new beginning, and he was angry. What is the Council doing about this?

We know, the Sister of Monsters began and offered the Angler a seat with a slight flourish of her hand. We were just discussing what actions to take.

I want in, as a member of the expanded Council, I want to give my input. The Angler sat and removed his bucket cap, wringing the water onto the floor beside him. He slapped the wet wood of the table. What is the plan?

I will summon Sad Rain and talk with her privately, try to find out what’s going on, the Sister of Monsters offered.

Sad Rain? the Angler said with some surprise. Why you talking to her?

She be the one causing all the interruptions, Baba Vedma said but with an inflection that sounded like a question.

Naw. The Angler shook his head vigorously, sending droplets toward Frau Iver that froze and tinkled to the floor before touching her. I’m talking about Angry Storm. He was screaming at me so loud that I had to stop my own story mid-plot.

Angry Storm? The Sister of Monster’s large orb-eyes darkened.

Yep, worked with that Element for centuries, now all of a sudden he’s asking me what he means, the Angler spoke between gulps of beer from the mug that Mel had just dropped off at the table.

He asked what? the Sister of Monsters prodded.

Damned if I know. He just kept yelling, ‘What does Angry Storm mean?’ over and over, like claps of thunder, but longer and more annoying.

The three women at the table shared glances and subtle nods before the Sister of Monsters announced, Then it is settled. We are having an uprising.

Two Elements still don’t mean… Baba Vedma began her argument but found she couldn’t complete it as the Toy Peddler burst through the door screaming.

Something has to be done about Dreary Night! He let the door slam loudly, making his way to the back table.

Mel opened the door and propped it open in expectation of more angry Council members storming in. She looked outside. The Eternal Gloaming was uneasy. It sat restlessly on the ground bereft of any tone. The Gloaming Woods felt too quiet, too still, like a far off storm was brewing and coming closer.

6

Out of the mists of night, the Toy Peddler came to sell his wares, but he found the process hampered by a decided lack of drear. He paused on the path to the village where his customers awaited, the little children full of dreams and longing for toys, and where he would complete this story, where he would barter with his patrons, taking dreams, hopes, aspirations and redistributing them in exchange for a doll, or a truck, or a ball. But to do the story justice, he needed a tone, and the accepted tone was drear.

The night is… he began a pronouncement, a tonal declaration, but the word did not come. He stamped his foot, which looked too big for his skinny legs. Dreary. He simply stated, and the word came easily out of context. The night is… Again, the pronouncement eluded him. He looked up and the sky overhead was fine. There were a few stars, a few clouds, a hint of sunset, but nothing wrong, nothing particular, nothing dreary. In fact, if pressed to describe the night, the Toy Peddler would have said plaintive, which was a far cry from dreary.

He could see the lights of the village ahead through the trees, he could feel the wetness of the mists on his skin, he felt the heft of his bag of toys on his shoulder, and he could sense the import in the air. The night is… Nothing.

He turned on his heels and headed away from the village. Stomping his paddle-feet in frustration, he called to the shadows, Where are you?

The night was quiet, dispassionate, unobtrusive, and the Toy Peddler grew angrier, Dreary Night! he screamed. Where are you?

A whisper, a sad somber snippet of sound, came from a deep shadow under an ancient elm tree. Why is Dreary Night?

What? the Toy Peddler asked the air but saw a shadow slouched against the tree, head nearly bent to the ground. He walked to the figure and knelt down.

Why is Dreary Night? The shape under the tree was vaguely human, slightly feminine, and the Toy Peddler suddenly felt a shift in the mood of the night.

You’re Dreary Night? the Toy Peddler asked, trying to conjure an image of the Element that had worked with him for centuries. He found that he did not remember any specific detail.

Why is Dreary Night? Dark eyes, wet with tears, shone from the shadowy face, obscured by dark strands and mystery.

What do you mean? The Toy Peddler was intrigued, despite his anger, by the intense sadness emanating from Dreary Night. Do you mean why are you here? You’re here to add atmosphere, like always.

The eyes sharpened, the wetness dried, and Dreary Night stood briefly—a vision of vibrant apathy, stark against the night shroud—before disappearing completely.

Where…? The Toy Peddler stood and whirled in place, searching the mists of night for a sign of dreariness. There was truly none. What about the story? He screamed into the tone-less air.

7

Dreary Night just left the story? Baba Vedma asked, her eyes mere slits of intensity in her otherwise emotionless face.

She abandoned me, the Toy Peddler said. I had to finish the story without a dreary night. It was just…a night.

Is anyone else going to deny that we have an uprising? the Sister of Monsters spoke calmly but with a distinct sting in her voice.

Once be an accident, twice a coincidence, Baba Vedma began, took a large gulp of beer, and continued, Three times be a pattern of behavior.

An uprising, Frau Iver whispered coldly, menacingly.

The Toy Peddler stared at the cloud that was Frau Iver’s breath until it dissipated, then he asked, There has been another incident? Three?

Aye, three. Baba Vedma held up one craggy finger after another as she spoke, Sad Rain, Angry Storm, and Dreary Night.

Elements, all of them. The Toy Peddler sat back in his chair and dropped his arms wearily to his side. He let them hang there, too tired to lift them. This is bad.

We be needin’ the full Council, Baba Vedma offered, a mustache of beer foam dripping from her lip.

Not yet. The Sister of Monsters leaned in close, her head jutting up over the table, her orb-eyes scanning each one present. We only need four. When we expanded the Council, we made the provision for a representative Council that would be the traditional four. We have five right here. More than enough for a provisional Council. There is no need to…

Beckoning Dawn just buggered me, the Puppeteer shouted as he came into the Inn. His little wooden feet made pleasant clicking sounds against the floorboards, and his arms, which he tried to wave in righteous frustration, whizzed about his head like drooping pinwheels. He was surprised, the unexpected, the unpredictable, the often frightening turns, but at this moment, he was also a ridiculous living puppet. The Toy Peddler worked to suppress a smile as the Puppeteer skip-walked his way to the table.

And now, the weird little wooden boy comes to play, the Angler spoke in a low, gruff voice that was reminiscent of a storm far off at sea. Now there’s six of us, four Elements acting up, what’s to be done?

We be needin’ the entire Council, Baba Vedma said, adding emphasis to each word. She stared hard at the Sister of Monsters.

Seems we have a Council for just this reason. The Angler’s words, his body, his very being, showed tension. The secret work of the Council before the Upheaval was one big reason for the Upheaval, seems to me.

We offered them seats, equality, for a reason. Baba Vedma nodded at the Angler.

Fine, the Sister of Monsters acquiesced. There’s just so many of them now. It’s going to be chaos.

Chaos? What chaos? The Puppeteer was bobbing excitedly up and down, his wooden jaw flapped open and closed, making another pleasant clicking sound. The Toy Peddler flashed a sideways smile. The little wooden boy spoke with a slight echo, I love chaos. I’m in.

Yes, the Sister of Monsters said as she waved a dismissive hand in the Puppeteer’s direction. We’re all going to be in on this one. It’s going to be a mess.

There’s no way of knowing it won’t work, this bigger Council, Baba Vedma soothed.

It won’t work, Frau Iver hissed and a cloud of breath floated to the center of the table.

8

The courtroom was made entirely of wood, or so it seemed to Matt as they walked in. The benches, the wall paneling, the banisters, the judge’s bench, everywhere he looked was wood. And the same tone, the same color, the same wood—oak, he thought, but he wasn’t sure of the type. It was stained a bit darker than oak was usually stained. There were uneven splotches of color, nearly black, on the yellowish wood. Maybe it was pine, but no, it was definitely, probably, oak—dirty, dreary, dingy oak, but still oak. The whole room was like a fallen forest of oak trees with no leaves, no grass, no sign of life.

"We can sit