The Father's Tree: ... it's out there. by Crystal Jencks

Author:Crystal Jencks [Jencks, Crystal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-20T05:00:00+00:00

XXXIX

The next day, the door opened again. This time, three figures entered and grabbed Adira. They shoved a gag in his mouth and dragged him out by his arms, while blinding the others with flashlights in their eyes. As fast as it had been opened, the door banged shut.

“No!” Mahir called from the other side of the door. The thumping of fists pounding against the clay walls resonated into the hall. “Give me back my brother!”

Adira hesitated at the ruckus his brother made, imagining the desperation he must be feeling. But then he opened his eyes and the blazing light outside the cell refocused him. He slammed them shut again and squinted, peeking at a now-hazy world, waiting for his vision to readjust. The captors shoved him forward, down a blurry hall, and then upwards, over something rock-hard, but apparently jagged… stairs?

“Blaindi!” one of them shouted, tugging Adira’s shoulders back before opening the door. The second one cussed under his breath, then wrapped a cloth around Adira’s eyes, tying it tight against his skull. The familiar darkness soothed him as they bustled him forward again, through a creaky door that announced itself as they opened it. After more hurried steps, they slowed and pushed him backward onto a smooth, metal seat that rocked beneath him as he landed. A folding chair. The soldiers bound him tightly to it, crushing the stale fabric of his pants into his ankles. Finally, they removed his blindfold. He chuckled silently at their sloppiness; had he not needed first to get acclimated, he could have easily overtaken them.

Sucking in a deep breath, he strained against the tight ropes and evaluated his new surroundings. The air was thicker up here, fall was descending from summer’s peak of humidity. It was fresh, too, cool and smelled of water mixed with metal or clay… were they still underground? The room he sat in was lined with either plaster or cement, he couldn’t tell which. Rippled and gouged, the walls held no semblance of the makings of a sophisticated structure.

Three men accompanied him—the two feebles who’d secured him and another who watched, reclined behind a metal desk in the corner. This one’s skin was rough and deeply tanned. All three wore black caps, but the man in the chair’s was more weathered and pinched down low over his forehead. His expression was intense, deep lines jutted between grim eyes and around a pursed mouth. Adira tried to discern if the lines were temporary—from anger or impatience or both—or permanent residents of his face from years of squinting in the sun. He heard voices in the background and banging, even the crack of gunfire from somewhere beyond the dingy walls.

“Are you two done quite yet?” the man behind the desk said, his accent clearly American.

The others stopped and snapped to attention, facing him. “Yes, sir!” they bellowed, their accents definitely not American.

“Well, let’s see.” The grit-faced man stood, puffing air from his barrel chest. He swayed stiffly when he walked, side to side with each step, as if his hips ached, then stopped in front of Adira.

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