Stormer’s Pass
Aidos Trilogy: Book One
Benjamin Laskin
Aretê Books
Contents
Part 1
1. Not Your Average Teenagers
2. Changes
3. The A, B, C’s
4. Discoveries
5. Ancient One
6. A Bantam Book Worm
7. Romeo and Julie
8. An Impenetrable Shield
9. Girl Hunting
10. The Real World
11. Cinderella
12. One Bright and Shiny Moment
13. Bad Habits
14. The Skirmish and the Squeamish
15. Fish and Visitors
16. Bullies
17. Face On, Face Off
18. Fingered
19. Invisible Boundaries
20. The Poet and the Philosopher
21. Stairway to Heaven
Part 2
22. Fan Mail
23. Oh Captain, My Captain
24. Barbarians at the Gate
25. Pen Pals
26. Stealing Home
27. Aretê
28. Dark Horses
29. Everything Else
30. Rogue Scholar
31. Feminine Measures
32. The Sound of One Lip Kissing
33. Walkabout
34. Night Walks
35. The Olympians
36. Romantics
37. Parting Words
38. Vanishing Angel
39. Psychic Surgery
40. Bad Faith
Part 3
41. Spirit in the Night
42. Rip
44. Winter Tales
45. Trouble In Paradise
46. Fugitive
47. Monsters And Miracles
48. Dawn’s Gospel
49. Capers
50. Arresting Developments
51. Leaping Lizard
52. Animal Attraction
53. Oh Youth!
Part 4
54. Tree Of Life
55. Eddy Bear
56. Promises to Keep
57. Gathering Stormers
58. The Good, the Bad, and the Lovely
59. A Lot of Swearing Going On
60. Dog-Day Afternoon
61. Ring of Fire
62. The Ayes Have It
63. Virtutis Fortuna Comes
64. Ready or Not
65. Destiny
66. Nuts
67. You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet
68. Pinebomb
69. Song of the Pioneers
70. Arrows in the Night
A Message from Benjamin Laskin
Other Novels by Benjamin Laskin
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright (c) [revised 2014] [Benjamin Laskin]
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to persons living or dead is coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Published by [Aretê Books]
Cover design by Domi at Inspired Cover Designs
ISBN: 978-1-5023-3463-3
Created with Vellum
In loving memory of my father, Nat Laskin, who without his encouragement I’d never have become a writer.
I miss you, Dad.
Part I
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Give All To Love
Produce great persons, the rest follows.
—Walt Whitman
1
Not Your Average Teenagers
When Mayor Fitch stepped out of Pinecrest’s newly built courthouse and into the sunshine of a windy, March afternoon, a platoon of reporters and cameramen charged up the steps to greet him.
“Aw, hell,” he muttered. Out of the corner of his mouth he said to the two men at his left, “Don’t say anything. Let me handle this.”
Jack Austin, the chairman of Pinecrest’s chamber of commerce, and Pinecrest High principal, Mason Kohl, exchanged dubious glances.
“Damn that Stormer,” the mayor grumbled again. He straightened his tie, smoothed back the hair on the sides of his balding head, and cleared his throat. “When I get my hands on that son-of-a—”
“Mayor Fitch!” shouted the first up the steps, a thin, wiry cub reporter that worked for a small tabloid called The Weekly Glitch. The tails of his untucked, wrinkled white oxford flapped in the wind. “What are these kids doing out here, Mayor?”
The mayor waved and smiled diplomatically. “Well,” he said, “I suppose you might call this an assembly of sorts. A civics project.”
“The school is putting this on?” another reporter called out.
“You might say that, yes,” the mayor said. He felt the sweat trickle from his armpits.
“It doesn’t look like any class outing I’ve ever seen,” the Glitch reporter said. “I understand these kids have been out here almost a week now.”
“Four days,” the mayor corrected. “They are an enthusiastic bunch, but I have every reason to believe that they’ll be dispersing shortly.”
A third reporter, an attractive, red-haired woman representing CNN, elbowed her way to the front of the pack. “That’s not what we hear,” she said. “Who is Max Stormer and what is he wanted for?”
“I assure you it’s all a big misunderstanding. Max Stormer is a student at our high school. Was a student, I mean. We had to dismiss him. Reluctantly, mind you, and only after giving him every opportunity to abide by our school’s liberal policies.”
“Well, what’s he wanted for that these kids are demanding his amnesty?” the reporter rejoined.
“Vandalism, destruction of public and private property, assault, resisting arrest, grand theft—for starters. Like I said, there’s a big misunderstanding, and I’m afraid that his classmates just don’t realize the true extent of his actions.”
“They are suspected accomplices, are they not,” the woman said, “those chained to the flagpole?”
“Well, yes, we have reason to believe—”
“So why is every kid in town rallying to their defense?” called out another reporter.
The mayor chuckled and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “You know kids,” he said. “Anything to get out of class—”
“And what about that mountain of junk along the side of the street?” another reporter said, raising his mike over the heads of the others.
“I’m not sure what—”
“We’re told that it gets bigger every day,” the Glitch reporter said. “It looks like a yard sale from hell. Seems these kids are protesting more than just the arrest of a classmate.”
The mayor smirked. “Let me explain something,” he said. “These are good kids being led astray by a very bad influence.”
“Max Stormer?”
“Exactly. He’s a kind of local hero to the young people in this town. On account of his phenomenal athletic abilities, you see. He’s a superb athlete with tremendous potential who could have really gone somewhere. But Max has
always been a bit of a hoodlum as well, and he can be quite intimidating…”
“Are you saying that he bullied the others into all of this?”
The mayor folded his arms smugly. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Well, where is he and why haven’t you caught him yet?” asked the CNN reporter.
“We expect his arrest anytime now.”
“I hear you’ve been looking for him well over a month,” the Glitch reporter said.
“There’s a few million acres of woods out there you know,” the mayor said good-naturedly. “But we think we know where he is, and we expect to have him within twenty-four hours.”
“Is he considered dangerous?” the CNN reporter asked.
“Yes. Quite dangerous.”
This set off a new barrage of questions.
The mayor waved his arms. “Please,” he shouted over the din. “I assure you that everything is under control and that there’s really no need for this kind of attention. It may only exacerbate the situation. I am going to speak with some of the kids now, and I am quite confident that we’ll be able to reach an amicable understanding. We’re all friends here. It’s a small town. I’ve known most of these kids since they were babies, and many of their parents are my neighbors and dear friends. So please, a certain amount of privacy would be most appreciated.”
From the grassy median of the town square, below a flagpole flying both the Stars and Stripes and US First Navy Jack with its motto ‘Don’t Tread on Me,’ a group of twenty high school students began chanting, “We’re not talkin’ till Stormer’s walkin’!”
“They don’t sound very eager to talk to you, Mayor,” the Glitch reporter said.
“Nonsense, they’ll talk to me. Excuse me, please…”
The mayor pressed through the throng of reporters and cameramen, who fell in behind, and followed him down the steps to the sidewalk.
The chanting grew louder, “We’re not talkin’ till Stormer’s walkin’!”
Jack Austin turned to Principal Kohl and shook his head. “This is humiliating,” he said.
“Disgraceful,” corrected the principal, turning a scornful eye on the herd of reporters hustling down the steps after the mayor.
“How did they get wind of this anyway?” Jack Austin asked.
“That’s not hard to figure out. You can bet Jason Brodie had something to do with it. He’s been sneaking in food and supplies to them all week, him and that Hanson kid.”
“How did Hanson get by us anyhow?”
“Don’t you know? Fitch, the halfwit, was dumb enough to be talked into allowing a porta-potty to be set up on the lawn. Hanson was hiding inside. I saw it all from up there.” He nodded toward the church steeple across the street. “Hanson is Stormer’s right-hand man. His arrival gave those kids all the more reason to keep up this nonsense.”
“Oh, crap,” Austin said. “Look there…”
A blast of horns shattered the air as a convoy of dump trucks, cement mixers and other heavy equipment ground to a halt in front of the mayor. A mountain of discarded rubbish, composed of everything from toys to television sets—a conspicuous number of television sets—blocked the path of the caravan that was headed toward the construction site of the Moonridge Luxury Resort and Condominiums on the other end of town.
Two youths on dirt bikes sped out from between the stalled traffic. Mike Sanchez and Sid Kelpy, each wearing a beret, black sweatshirt, and a bandanna, bounded from their bikes and ran them up onto the heap of merchandise.
Onlookers gaped in dismay. Reporters, mystified by the meaning behind the mound of discarded possessions, scratched their heads. Sid Kelpy dashed over to the dump truck at the head of the caravan, pulled out a can of spray paint from under his sweatshirt, and then scrawled in a large, hasty script: Aidos Lives!
A lawman ran out from the crowd to stop him, but he was forced to retreat under a salvo of Frisbees, flying CDs, water balloons, and balls of every sort. Sid lobbed the spray can onto the pile, and then the two youths scurried off and joined their cheering friends around the flagpole.
A new chant went up: “Moonridge is sacrilege, leave our mountain as it is!”
The mayor balked. His approach only increased the zeal of the chanting. The town square buzzed with confusion as the growing crowd of onlookers squeezed closer to get a better look. The truck drivers got out of their vehicles and glanced about in helpless wonder. Main Street was clogged, and the traffic was backing up fast.
All eyes were on the ‘Olympians,’ the Pinecrest High students who had chained themselves together around the flagpole: Steve ‘Hercules’ Hanson, Regina ‘Nemesis’ Brodie, Dawn ‘Aurora’ White, Sinclair ‘Sinbad’ Goldberg, Jake ‘Poseidon’ Dempster, Alex ‘Ares’ Humphreys, Randy ‘Apollo’ Dawson, Sid ‘Perseus’ Kelpy, Mike ‘Mercury’ Sanchez, and Brandon ‘Zeus’ Harper. The youths all wore berets, black sweatshirts and bandannas. Half the senior class of Pinecrest High stood guard in a circle around the Olympians.
Beowulf, a huge, handsome, furry beast—part wolf, part St. Bernard, part German shepherd, part golden retriever—stuck close to Steve Hanson’s side. The dog barked playfully, spun his tail, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the excitement.
The youths continued to chant and wave their signs:
Put the Pine Back in Pinecrest!
Anything You Can Do We Can Do Without!
Live Deep, Live Real!
The press, seeing better stories elsewhere, abandoned the mayor and dispersed among the nervous crowd. One dark-haired, square-faced reporter in suit and tie, spotted a blubbering woman and her irate husband in the crowd and went over to interview them. His Channel 3 News camera crew tagged closely behind to shoot the footage.
The tiny, attenuated woman wrung her hands in despair, while her husband, a large, barrel-chested man, held his hands clenched into hammers. He appeared to be looking for something, or someone, to smash. They were Mr. and Mrs. White, Dawn’s parents.
“Excuse me,” the reporter said, holding up his microphone. “Is one of your children out there?”
Mrs. White nodded and dabbed at her tears with a handkerchief. “My baby,” she sniffled. She pointed a jittery finger toward a smiling, petite girl with glossy black hair, cut straight across halfway down her slender neck. Dawn White was unaware that the camera had turned toward her. The girl was chanting gaily along with the others, and over her head she held a card that read: This babe is a thousand years old!
“You’re obviously quite upset,” the reporter said. “Can you tell us what brought this all on?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. White whined. “Dawn was always such a sweet little girl. A good student and a churchgoer—”
“I’ll tell you,” Mr. White interrupted. “Look at those kids. It’s all part of some cult.”
“Cult? What kind of cult?”
“I don’t know, but it all started last summer, up there in those hills.” He gestured towards the surrounding mountains. “Dawn would spend the whole day there, and when she got home, she’d go on and on about some marvelous girl who lived in the woods, and who never went to school or church or watched TV, or any other normal thing. We grew suspicious and tried to stop her, but she continually disobeyed us. And then when we learned that she had joined up with Stormer and his gang of miscreants, we knew…”
“Knew what?”
“That we had lost her,” he said.
Mrs. White burst into a new fit of sobbing.
“There, there, honey,” he said, putting his arm around his wife. “We’ll get her back.”
“The girl in the woods you mentioned, is she this Aidos whom people are talking about?”
“Yes,” Mrs. White answered.
“Have you seen her?”
“No, nobody has,” Mr. White said. “Just the kids.”
“Well, where is this Aidos? Why isn’t she here now?”
“Nobody can find her. It’s the same with that devil Max Stormer. The two of them, it’s all
their doing. They’re behind all this. Why, I bet they’re in the woods together right now, laughing, and-and—fornicating!”
“Jonah!” gasped Mrs. White. She turned scoldingly to her husband and whispered in a hushed roar, “We’re on TV!”
“I’m sorry honey,” he said, and then sticking his face into the camera, he said sheepishly, “Sorry everybody. I’m-I’m just so angry.”
“Have you tried going over and reasoning with your daughter?” the reporter asked.
“Of course I have,” he said. “But she won’t listen. I tried to drag her off, but they’re all chained together. That big dog almost bit me too!”
“It’s awful, absolutely awful,” Mrs. White said, and blew into her handkerchief.
“Well, what is it they want, do you think?” the reporter asked. “Stormer’s freedom? To stop the construction of the Moonridge Resort? And that mountain of junk sure is odd.”
“They’re too young and stupid to know what they want,” Mr. White growled. “But what they need is a good whupping!”
“I don’t care,” Mrs. White sobbed. “I just want my baby back.”
“Mr. Kohl,” said the CNN reporter, strands of her auburn hair flapping loose from her bun, “as principal of Pinecrest High you should know best of all what’s going on here. Would you care to comment, please?”
“What you see happening here has nothing to do with my school,” he answered.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. But tell me, why here? Why Pinecrest of all places? A small, unheard-of mountain town would hardly be considered a hot bed of revolution. These kids are in full-scale revolt.”
“You exaggerate, madam, as the press too often tends to do.”
“Excuse me, sir, but seven teens chained to a flagpole, and your entire senior class refusing to attend school is not your average high school prank. And what about the disbanding of your football team, the clash with police, and you yourself having been assaulted?”
“I grant you there’s been a few minor incidents, but they have nothing to do with my school. I run a tight ship and stand on my record. I have the test scores to prove it too.”