The Blade of Shattered Hope

A few seconds passed, then Paul said, “I think I broke my spleen.”

“What?” Tick forgot his aches and pains and sat up.

“I’m kidding, dude. I’m fine. I don’t even know what a spleen is. Does anybody know what a spleen is?”

Tick spoke before he knew what he was saying. “It’s a highly vascular lymphoid organ between your stomach and diaphragm.” He paused. “Sorry. Been reading a lot of science books lately.”

“I already knew that,” Sofia said.

“Yeah,” Paul replied. “I’m sure you did, Miss Italy. What do you think happened to Master George?”

Tick got to his feet, the jarring pain of the fall starting to fade for the most part. “He’s probably being held somewhere else. This can’t be the place they want to keep us. Why would they have a prison cell right below the gate?” He held his hands out, trying to feel for anything in the darkness.

“I bet it’s a trap,” Sofia said. “Ya know, for people who come here who aren’t supposed to. Like us. Makes sense to have it below the spot they’d most likely come to if they wanted in.”

Paul must’ve been exploring, too, because he bumped into Tick. “Oops, sorry.” He patted Tick on the shoulder then walked a different direction. “I don’t know, Sofia. Maybe it’s just a marker or something, and the way you actually get into the Factory is to come down here.”

Before Tick could say anything, a loud clang filled the air, and a source of faint light made him look to his left. A huge door had swung open, and a dark figure stood in the widening crack, mostly in shadow because the glowing, orange light source was behind him. Or her. Or it. Tick couldn’t quite tell yet.

The door opened all the way until it came to rest flush against the wall, their visitor standing alone in the doorframe. Something was odd about the thing, and when the light behind it flared brighter, as if someone had stoked a fire, Tick got a good look for the first time.

It was man-sized and man-shaped, but any other comparison to a human being ended there. The creature had no eyes, no nose, no mouth, no ears. Its arms were stumps without hands. Winding strips of what looked like thick cotton covered every inch of the thing’s body, protruding from the skin, moving and swaying back and forth like flags in the wind. Each strip was about a foot long, and they shot out from the body as if charged with static electricity.

“What . . . who . . .” Sofia began but didn’t finish.

Tick and Paul remained silent.

The creature turned its head, looking without eyes at each of them in turn, its odd strips whipping the air like they were trying to escape and fly away.

A rush of chills ran along Tick’s arms and shoulders.

A female voice came from somewhere down the tunnel, echoing and bouncing its way to them like scurrying bats. The voice was strong, but whispery. Scratchy. Creepy. It said only two words.

“Firekelt, burn.”

In that instant, Tick remembered the water monsters that had tried to kill his mom and dad. Jane had called them waterkelts. Kelts must be some term she used for her new creations. And if this one was a firekelt—

Bright, flaring light cut off Tick’s thought.

Each strip of cloth on the creature’s body from head to toe ignited into searing hot fire, like a thousand old-fashioned wicks soaked in oil. Flames licked out in every direction, the blazing ribbons whooshing and spitting and hissing so that the monster looked like Medusa with fiery snakes.

Intense heat radiated from the firekelt and washed over Tick in waves as he backed away, Sofia and Paul right by his side. Sweat beaded on Tick’s forehead, dripping into his eyes.

The creature took one step toward them, sudden and quick. Then another. The strips continued licking at the air like tiny solar flares, raging with fire but not burning up in the least.

“What do we do?” Tick shouted.

“Got a bucket of water on ya?” Paul responded.

“It won’t hurt you,” said a voice from behind the flaming monster, that same scratchy voice that had instructed it to burn in the first place. Tick guessed it was Mistress Jane, and when she spoke again, he had no doubt. “Firekelt, extinguish.”

A great swooshing rush of air swept through the door and swirled inside the big room. It intensified, seeming to come from all directions at once and gusting back and forth like a hurricane. Tick instinctively reached out and grabbed Paul for support, feeling as if he were about to be swept off his feet. Sofia joined them, and they huddled together in a strange group hug.

The wind tore at the firekelt, whipping its flames toward Tick and the others. The odd wicks flapped tightly, parallel to each other as they tried to tear loose from the body of the creature. The fires flared brighter at first, but then flickered and sputtered under the enormous pressure of the windstorm. Each flame traveled down the course of the strips until they reached the ends, holding on for dear life. The creature waved its arms in frustration, helpless. Then the final small blazes winked out, throwing the room back into relative darkness.

The wind stopped without warning. The sudden silence that descended almost popped Tick’s ears. Hesitant, he let go of his friends. He looked at the firekelt, mostly in shadow again because of the faint orange light still coming from behind it.

The creature stood tall, defiant. Each flameless wick began to move about again as if a slight breeze still remained.

Mistress Jane spoke again, her raspy voice making Tick want to cough and clear his own throat. “The firekelts are mostly used for lighting purposes only. You’ll have to pardon my desire to show them off—I’m quite proud of my creations. Now, feel no alarm when it lights up again. Firekelt, burn.”

Sparse flames ignited on the tips of the wicks then worked themselves brighter and brighter, consuming the cloth-like tentacles for several seconds until they were fully on fire again. The light seemed even brighter this time; Tick finally had to look away, splotches of afterglow in his vision.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the firekelt turn away and walk out of the room, taking most of the light with it. Then the robed and hooded figure of Mistress Jane replaced the creature, standing in the doorway, the front of her completely in shadow. She clasped a tall staff made of wood in her heavily scarred right hand.

“Welcome to the Factory,” she said, as sincerely as a tour guide. “I’m sorry our last meeting didn’t go so well. I promise things are going to be different this time. Yes, things are going to be very, very different.”