Chapter 59. The River-King.

  A mental flash splashed a quick image of a visionary thought.

  Sid was looking down a fuzzy snout. A wispy fuzzy snout—Fenrir? He even witnessed those furry black paws. And water. Was Fenrir at the river? Skeeter was there too. Wrinkly goof was throwing water. Sid couldn’t see those green bars from this sight and could only hope Skeeter was no longer poisoned—who the hell is that. A stranger in a lovely cloak woven of lush lavender and fox glove. They moved with such grace. So gentle. Practically gliding along. Whoever it was, they approached with caution. Hands were carefully out in front leading their presence.

  It was a quick thought. A memory or message. So rapid. Instantaneous. So sudden it was no longer then that last sentence.

  He was sure he had just mentally connected with Fenrir. It had to be one of these new primal senses—right? What else could that have been? He needed to practice how to control and adapt to these old senses. Maybe it was true. Maybe he needed to reestablish his true potential—he still wasn’t going to play, but he should at the least be in practice of his skills, right?

  Well, he supposed he should probably go find Fenrir and the kook. Coming too a stand he looked at the length of the Venocoil. Thing was huge. Tail was deep in the wood over there. Yanking the sword free, he listened. Not to the blade. Not to the serpent. He thought he heard his name—was it Abram? Was that Abram yelling for him out there? He doesn’t have time for him right now, Sid needed to find Fenrir. He needed to practice with this sword. He needed to know how to open that swirl. That would have been so very useful fighting that Venocoil.

  Sid turned in a new direction and followed that sniffer through the woods. Listening to the birds whistling above. Even the -snap-snap- of the Cardinal’s Bean had a soothingness too. He still couldn’t get over the fact that his eyepatch detected the monsters for him. Watching the Widowmakers work between the treetops, none of which bothered him or even cared he walk through. Abram says the spiders like to feed in the morning, perhaps they’re setting new snares and traps.

  Sid could hear the currents now. They were just over this way. As the trees thinned he could see the flat of dark waters. Deep green reflecting the branches colors. He stood at the edge where the grass tickled the sand of the river beach. Now where the hell were those two, and the stranger in purple flowers.

  Sid took soft sandy steps as he walked along the river beach. Following the wild guidance of instinct. Only a short with the river before a playful bark pulled his attention across the water. Fenrir was hopping around playing with—what the hell are those? They looked like Fenrir. However these small Fenrir like animals were not shadowy black and wispy. They were a soft bright fiery blue, with a silver chest. The two and the shadow all yip and leap and chase one another—it was a merry time over there—he better go stop it.

  How in the world did Fenrir cross the river? Where was Skeeter? What were those animals? Where was that stranger in purple? As all these thoughts ran through Sid’s head, he watched a rather plump beaver swim by with a long branch. Then there were three more guiding an even bigger branch.

  He followed the beavers downstream until he found the low blocking dam. This dam may have been shallow in height—I’m sure there was more to the dam under the water—but it stretched clear across the river. That answers one of his questions. Beady eye and dull stone looked across the wooden structure built from the wilds—it was a troubling wonder.

  Sid wasn’t sure if this was going to support him or not, but he needed to get to Fenrir, and find Skeeter. Placing a wide foot onto the sticks he tested some of his weight. Braches snapped but felt sturdy after the cracks. He stepped on. There were many crunching’s under each step. The dam even sank and bobbed a bit. But it held. It was sturdy enough. He was careful with each step though. Well, that is until the beavers noticed him atop their structure. Their kingdom. Their home.

  One swatted the surface. Alerting the family. Same did another. Then another. Before long all the beavers were slapping the water. The river sloshed fiercely, and bubbles rippled across the entirety of the long log dam. Sid held his arms out. Bending his knees for balance while the structure shook. Then he became very worried, and absolutely angry.

  Fifty or more beaver heads popped up breaking the water surface. All of them bobbing on either side of the wood wall. All just watching the large man. He only circled trying to count them all. Only being able to count so high as more and more continued to pop up.

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  A great big beaver, possibly the king of beavers climbed halfway across Sid’s path.

  Now this beaver was not just a big fat beaver your imagining. It wasn’t a beaver only slightly bigger then what you think. No this was a land of abnormal possibilities and wild beasts that are true freaks of nature.

  No this beaver was far bigger then any ever recorded and was rather threatening. Large bulking chompers. Those two big ones in front easily the size of halved log rounds. The river king had four black wet eyes. Two on each side of its short fat rat face. A lovely chocolate brown fur, reflecting a greasy wet sheen. It’s round back rowed with three spiny web-like fins, reaching its tail. A massive black leathery tail. Even the tail was weaponized and terrifying. Long narrow needle-like bone stand erect. Some even piercing the bellies of delicious trout. Some of the fish still wriggle.

  Logs cracked, snapped and gave out from under the horse sized beaver while it climbed up and approached. The thing took slow crumbling steps. The smaller following beavers quickly patched the dam. Supporting the sides where their king would walk.

  Sid became quite worried because he was not a swimmer. He wasn’t even a floater—I know, I know I hear ya, a big guy like him can’t float. Nope Sid was a sinker. He may be hefty and flabby looking but the dude was solid, he had bold stars in Potent-Muscle. So no, he wasn’t a floater. He wasn’t good at swimming either so he never went in the waters.

  The dam shifted slightly under his feet. The beaver slapped that mighty tail again. All while taking slow and heavy wood snapping steps closer. Sid took a step back reaching in his coat, finding the handle of Redemption—oh how he really didn’t not want to fight anymore.

  A branch broke under his wide foot. Just as he was pulling the blade free too. The breaking underneath caused him to twist—twist wrong.

  -pop--SPLASH-

  A large wave of water was sent. That heavy man fell with a hard twisting ankle.

  The huge beaver huffed like a gorilla. Hurrying in. Chasing after. Same did the smaller ones. Now all dipping under to give chase with their king.

  Sid tumbled with the currents for what felt like an eternity. Flashing rays of sunlight pierced the dark green river. Millions of tiny bubbles blocked his sight from the massive dark spot and hundreds of smaller ones behind.

  The eyepatch grabbed an outline. Then another. Silver silhouettes. So, so many of them. And one massive outline. All just behind him. So many mental flashings. All informing him of his followers. More and more with each watery shove. Each wet pulling. He could only hold his breath while he roll in the rivers grasp—oh how the waters were so pushy during that time of season.

  He panicked for the surface. Fighting as hard as he can—he wasn’t a good swimmer but he was trying. Even as the currents set him free, he struggled to break for air—he made it though.

  He choked. Hands reaching for nothing. Failing to push above the surface—that idiot thrashed in the river wasting so much energy—look at him, thinking he can push up—try again dummy—oh how Sid tries though that’s what counts right, the man tries--whatever. Sid was in such a panic for air, he bobbed in and out. Never ever noticing the three spines that gracefully swim by. Spines that circled and taunted just like that to the predatory shark, before going under.

  In his thrashing panic a clamping found his leg. Back under he went. Hardly even a chance for a breath. The river was dark, but the eyepatch allowed something.

  That big beaver had him by the leg. Oh what a bite it was too. Those teeth really had a grip around his thigh. Pulling him deeper and deeper. It was so hard not to scream. Not to release that faint breath of air. Even more so now. Now that the trousers had ripped and bubbles began to blush.

  His fat leg throbbed. The grinding around his femur was too much. A watery crunch and rocks exploded from underneath—the bottom. They had hit the bottom of the river. That river monster dragged him down deep into its area. The beaver now has the upper hand—what’s that? ‘The beaver always had the advantage' yeah maybe… just wait until Sid is really pissed then tell me who has the advantage.

  Sid endured yet another wild animal thrashing. The only difference between this thrashing and the Venocoil’s—Sid couldn’t take a breath to scream. Every time the beaver slammed him down Sid lost that many more bubbles. Each bubble represents a metaphorical beat of life. It wasn’t long until seeing the last of his life lift from his nostril. Sid’s short breath rolled over his face. It wasn’t even a full heartbeat after the last bubble left his forehead. The hundreds of silver silhouettes reached the bottom with their river king. Sid could feel a pull at his arm. Then another at his other arm. Some at his free leg too. They were all latching on. Pulling in different directions.

  Beavers started clamping to his limbs. His sides and shoulders. Doing his absolute best to rip them free. Only to have another take its place. He couldn’t do it. He can’t fight anymore. His lungs felt as if they were going to collapse. Just give out. Implode. He tried to fight the urge. He pinched his lips. He would rather have a lung pop than drown like this.

  Even with his willpower the body just has natural response to reflex. That’s exactly what happened too. He just couldn’t push it to the back of his mind anymore. His mustache even gripped imaginary hands over that bottom lip attempting to anchor shut—don’t you dare open that mouth. Don’t you dare try for a breath. Not now. Just wait. You can make it. Futile. His mouth slumped open.