The Fog of Forgetting Read online

  THE FOG OF

  FORGETTING

  THE FIVE STONES TRILOGY – BOOK 1

  THE FOG OF

  FORGETTING

  G.A. MORGAN

  Islandport Press

  PO Box 10

  247 Portland Street

  Yarmouth, ME 04096

  Islandportpress.com

  [email protected]

  Copyright © 2014 by G. A. Morgan

  All Rights Reserved. Published in the United States by Islandport

  Press. International copyright reserved in all countries. No part

  of this book may be reproduced in any form without written

  permission from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-939017-29-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901201

  Printed in the USA by Versa Press

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dean L. Lunt, publisher

  Cover and book design by Tom Morgan, Blue Design, www.bluedes.com

  Endpaper map illustration by Alex Ryan

  Cover and backcover artwork by Ernie D’Elia

  For the children on Kinfolk Lane—then and now—

  but especially Graham and Wyeth.

  Other young adult titles from Islandport Press:

  Uncertain Glory

  by Lea Wait

  Billy Boy: The Sunday Soldier of the 17th Maine

  by Jean Flahive

  Cooper and Packrat: Mystery on Pine Lake

  by Tamra Wight

  Mercy: The Last New England Vampire

  by Sarah L. Thomson

  THE FOG OF FORGETTING

  THE ISLE OF AYDA

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  The Atlantic Ocean, 1806

  CHAPTER 1

  The Atlantic Coast, Present Day

  CHAPTER 2

  Unexpected Visitors

  CHAPTER 3

  Fog

  CHAPTER 4

  Boat Ride

  CHAPTER 5

  Adrift

  CHAPTER 6

  The Hounds of Melor

  CHAPTER 7

  Melorians

  CHAPTER 8

  The First Lesson

  CHAPTER 9

  Daylights

  CHAPTER 10

  Capture

  CHAPTER 11

  A Legend Revealed

  CHAPTER 12

  Sky Crossing

  CHAPTER 13

  Prisoner

  CHAPTER 14

  Rothermel

  CHAPTER 15

  Farther In

  CHAPTER 16

  Flight

  CHAPTER 17

  The Leaving

  CHAPTER 18

  The Broomwash

  CHAPTER 19

  Calla’s Farewell

  CHAPTER 20

  Metria

  CHAPTER 21

  Into Exor

  CHAPTER 22

  Rysta’s Tale

  CHAPTER 23

  The Dwellings

  CHAPTER 24

  The Fog of Forgetting

  CHAPTER 25

  Thieves

  CHAPTER 26

  Initiation

  CHAPTER 27

  Upset

  CHAPTER 28

  Into the Mountains

  CHAPTER 29

  False Footing

  CHAPTER 30

  Heights

  CHAPTER 31

  Ratha’s Aerie

  CHAPTER 32

  Time Flies

  CHAPTER 33

  The Enemy

  CHAPTER 34

  The Flood

  CHAPTER 35

  Cast Off

  We shall not cease from exploration

  And the end of all our exploring

  Will be to arrive where we started

  And know the place for the first time.

  T. S. ELIOT

  Prologue

  THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, 1806

  Cannon shot—at least a 24-pounder—jarred the boy awake at the same moment a blistering starburst of tar and timber ripped through the hull above the officer’s cot. The ship lurched sharply to port; the boy hurtled out of the shallow box that served as his bed onto the sawdust-covered floor. He pulled down his nightshirt and tried to grab whatever clothes he could reach from the pile at the bottom of the box. Another searing explosion sent him ducking for cover. The box flew up and smashed into the cabin wall, breaking into pieces.

  His trousers wafted down to him in a haze of sawdust and splinters, backlit by a stream of afternoon sunlight. He jammed his legs into his pants, sat up, and was astonished to see a hole in the hull twice as large as his head—the source of light illuminating the formerly dim interior of the cabin. Outside, the din of war escalated. Thundering blasts from the big guns reverberated through the air, punctuated by the tinnier-sounding report of a pistol volley. His ship, the HMS Cavalier, was under attack—broadsided by the look of it. The enemy was getting bolder, taking advantage of the holes in the British blockade. The French emperor, Napoleon, was forcing open engagement for control of the trade routes to his colonies in North America.

  The boy was curious. He had never seen a French battleship up close. He jumped on the cot and craned his neck to look out the blast hole. An imposing sight met his gaze: a multistoried hull with a line of cannon mouths pointing directly—or so it seemed—at him. It must be the new class, the boy thought, a Teresaire, equipped with seventy-four cannons. The Cavalier had only thirty-two. He dropped back, his heart pounding. Another raking explosion somewhere midship, followed by a boat-wide recoil, shook him to the floor again. He crawled back to his officer’s trunk and dug around, trying to figure out what to salvage. He’d been assigned to keep the cot and cabin tidy for his officer but never thought about what the man might like to save if they were boarded or burned.

  Three more cannon rounds went off, followed almost immediately by a whining groan and an ominous crack. Rigging clanked and whistled as something big—one of the masts, perhaps—slammed into the sea. The ship rolled hard to starboard and the boy was hurled into the wall, chased by the cot, trunk, and anything else not moored by floor anchors. He hit and slid to the ground. The rest of the contents of the cabin followed, pinning him painfully against the wall. The sound of the ocean grew louder in his ear. The boy closed his eyes and thought of his mother, the day the captain had come for him to set sail. She argued against it. Her son was too young to be pressed into service, but Father made his mark on the paper and it was official. He was to be a cot boy in the Royal Navy. The family would receive fair trade: a monthly wage and a lifetime annuity should the boy die at sea. The boy snuffled, wiping his nose on what he thought might be the corner of a bedsheet, but he couldn’t stop the tears from leaking out his eyes. At least his eight years on Earth would not be for nothing; his family would never starve. A whimper escaped him.

  “Is that you, boy? I’ve been looking for you! Keep blubbering so I can find you in this mess.”

  The cot was roughly yanked aside and a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders. He saw blue coat sleeves, and the knuckles on the hands were bruised and cut. The officer was bareheaded; he looked much younger without his hat. He patted the boy.

  “Well, lad, we’re done in, but I’m thinking Old Boney shouldn’t have our necks to stretch. What do you think?”

  The boy gave him a quick nod. The officer lifted him off his feet and wedged him under an arm; the brass-and-leather pommel of the officer’s cutlass dug into his hip. He noticed that the sword was still in its steel scabbard.

  “Both masts gone … ship scuttled … They’ll set her alight for sure. Those hellions would rather roast then play fair. I’ll be damned before I swab decks for a bunch of—”
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  The officer’s tirade was replaced by grunts as he carried the boy up the ladder, through the shattered belly of the ship, to the deck. Warm liquid seeped from the officer’s side as he moved. The boy touched it and saw blood.

  On deck, the sun shimmered, oblong and orange, as it flattened against the horizon. A yellow haze of smoke hid them from view. The white flag of parlé flapped overhead: The surrender of the ship was being negotiated. Shouts of protest rose up above the murk, then the sound of scuffling. A pistol shot fired, then another, followed by a loud splash.

  “That’s the kind of amnesty you’ll receive from that lot,” the officer grumbled. “A quick merci, thank you very much, and then a gunshot to the head—here, boy, keep your head down—that smoke may save our biscuit.”

  He was fumbling with one of the stays that fastened a lifeboat to the side of the ship. Mercifully, it had remained untouched through the attack—not one of the ship’s mates had tried to escape. A sudden sense of shame fell over the boy. Should they not face the same outcome as the others? Or at least try to save a few? He cast his eyes around wildly, hoping to catch sight of one of the other cot boys. He was not the only one aboard. The line suddenly gave way and the lifeboat’s bow swung sharply from the ship hull.

  “Blast it!” the officer swore, flinging an arm over the side to intercept the small craft before it crashed back into the ship. “Hang on!”

  He leapt over the side and tossed the boy into the boat; the force of their joint landing snapped the remaining stays. The lifeboat torpedoed, stern first, past the smoking, shredded hull of the Cavalier, landing with a smack on the surface of the water. The boy bit his tongue and tasted blood. The officer winced in pain. A raspberry-colored bloom spread along the front of his tunic, staining his coat and sleeves. He was shivering. The boy looked away from the wounded man and out across the empty carpet of water. A thick, gray mist muddied the horizon, creeping toward them in long, wispy fingers, as if it sensed they were there and was reaching for them across the seas.

  Fog.

  Fear swept over the boy like a bucket of cold water being thrown in his face. Soon it would overtake them and they would be lost. He would never see his home again.

  The officer groaned loudly, raised himself up on his good elbow, and bellowed.

  “For all that you hold holy, lad, quit your gaping and ROW!”

  Chapter 1

  THE ATLANTIC COAST,

  PRESENT DAY

  Chase Thompson was dreaming he was on the porch at Summerledge, looking out over the rocks toward the ocean. He saw something floating out there, bigger than a buoy but too small to be a boat. An overwhelming urge to see what it was took hold of him. He took a few steps and, as happens in dreams, launched himself off the porch and into the air. Below him, the pitched roof of Summerledge and humps of granite dropped away. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the arc of Secret Beach, the Dellemere cottage, and a ways beyond, the cluster of houses that indicated the village of Fells Harbor. He caught an air current and swooped out over the sea, soaring happily across the green-blue carpet of water until a flash of orange caught his eye. He dove down to get a closer look. It was a life jacket, bubbling around someone floating facedown in the water. He hovered over it. Swells rose and fell, rhythmically; the body floated up to meet him, and then slowly … slowly … began to roll over.

  He bolted awake, heart thumping, and got his bearings. No ocean. No body. He was safe in the backseat of his family’s car in the driveway at 320 Elm Ridge Road. School had finally been let out and it was time for his family’s annual drive up the coast to Summerledge. His mother, Grace, was fastening the last duffel bag to the collection of luggage and sports equipment already strapped to the roof. A jumble of bikes protruded from the rear, and the inside of the car was packed with bags of groceries.

  He ran a hand through his brown, rangey bangs and pulled up his hoodie in an effort to ignore the disgusted look of two ladies who were standing at the bay window of the house across the street. Teddy, Chase’s six-year-old brother, came rocketing out the front door looking like a cross between a crazed hobo and the son of Aquaman. He wore a swimsuit, a scruffy baseball shirt stained down the front with what might be hot chocolate, swim goggles, and orange-and-blue flippers on his feet. A sticky, red goo was smeared across his face, which he rubbed into his mother’s pant leg. She swooped down and strapped him—blond, kicking, and wildly smacking his flippers—into his booster seat. Chase sighed. He knew what the neighbors were saying—everyone in his family knew. Their car, their yard, his brothers, heck, their whole life, was an eyesore on the tidy cul-de-sac.

  “Chathe!” Teddy sang out, whacking his flippers against the back of the driver’s seat. Despite a year of speech therapy, Teddy’s S’s were still coming out of his mouth sounding like “th’s.”

  “Chasssse—with an Ssssss,” Chase said back at him, hissing. “Like Sssssnake.”

  “Thhhnake,” Teddy repeated, unfazed, lifting one smudged eye piece of his swim goggles. “TTTTTTTTHNAKE!” He yelled louder, flippers whacking. “CHATHE! THHNAKE!”

  “Okay, Tedders, whatever—it’s a free country.” Chase took a peek at the snotty neighbors in the window and smirked. They were wearing matching tracksuits and ponytails. “At least for some people.”

  “We’re going to Thummerledge today,” said Teddy happily.

  Chase reached over and bumped his knuckles to his brother’s sticky little fist, then reached in the front pocket of his sweatshirt for his cell phone—one of the crummy free ones you get when you sign a contract, but it stored music and he could text. Problem was, Chase didn’t have anyone to text except for Knox, his other little brother.

  His mother bent down and eyed him through the half-open window. She was thin and tired-looking, with brownish hair scrunched into a knot at her neck.

  “Do you have your inhaler?” she asked.

  Chase yanked the green nylon cord out from under his sweatshirt and wiggled his asthma inhaler at her, then pulled his hood farther up over his eyes and shoved the seat. It rewarded him by groaning pathetically. The neighbors were right: This car was a bucket of bolts. He’d been driving around in it since he was a baby thirteen years ago, and it was scrap metal then.

  “Can we go already, Mom?”

  “As soon as Dad and Knox are ready,” she said with a tight little smile, settling herself in the driver’s seat.

  Chase worked his thumbs on the phone’s keyboard, typing: GET OUT HERE, then he popped his earbuds in his ears and scrolled through the list of songs he’d downloaded earlier. He’d discovered just how useful earbuds could be at his new school. Nobody tried to talk to you, but everybody felt free to talk about you when they thought you couldn’t hear them. Every rotten word, like freak, loser, and in for it.

  His mom had told him things would get better—were getting better—because of their dad’s new job, but Chase knew that if school hadn’t finally ended and if they weren’t driving up to Summerledge today, things would definitely, positively, be getting worse. But Chase couldn’t tell his mom that. His parents had their own problems. They fought all the time. About the new job. About money. About Knox’s grades. For all he knew, they fought about him when he wasn’t around. The only thing they didn’t fight about was Teddy, and that was because Teddy was still pretty much a baby.

  Chase glanced out the car window at the scrubby shrubs leashed down by collars and wires that were staked into the center of the paved cul-de-sac. He figured he could probably uproot all of them with one well-aimed kick.

  “Hey, Mom, you ever wonder why they call this place Sherwood Forest? There’s nothing that even comes close to a tree around here.”

  Grace made an unintelligible sound.

  “Did you e-mail the Neighborhood Association and explain that humans are actually mammals?”

  “Chase, stop,” she sighed. It was an old argument. Roger, their dog, had to be left behind in Indiana when they moved to Massachusetts because
Sherwood Forest had a “No Mammals” pet policy.

  “Idiots,” Chase coughed into his hand and turned his music up. In his opinion, the only good thing about the move was Sherwood Forest’s freshly paved, skateboard-ready road, and that was only because skateboarding was the closest he had gotten all year to flying the heck out of this place—that is, until today.

  Knox barreled out the front door carrying a plastic box holding their turtle, Bob, in one hand, and a lacrosse stick and a beat-up guitar case in the other. Knox was twelve, and shorter and stockier than Chase. He had sandy hair cut into a spiky fringe and was the only Thompson brother to inherit their dad’s dimples and freckles. He had his mother’s wide, blue eyes, like both Chase and Teddy, only one of his was underscored by a knuckle-sized bruise on the left cheekbone.

  Chase saw the bruise—sore and glaring at him—as Knox crossed over to the car. He looked away, embarassed, remembering how Knox had come across two guys from the JV soccer team cornering him in the stairwell on the day before school ended. He had been wheezing so loudly that Knox heard him from the landing, and launched himself at one of the guys. Everyone (except him) had ended up bloody and in the principal’s office. The incident would have meant suspension, for sure, if the principal hadn’t been as sick of the whole school business as everyone else. Instead, Knox was told to write an essay on the impact of nonviolent protests on history—and he was still mad about it. According to him, if anyone was writing an essay over the summer, that person was Chase. It wasn’t his fault his older brother was a tool.

  Knox shoved his guitar and lacrosse stick in the last sliver of air in the back and dumped Bob on Chase’s lap, half on purpose, sloshing turtle water everywhere. He chucked himself into the middle seat, splashing more water onto Chase’s jeans.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Chase, annoyed.

  “What are you complaining about? You need a bath anyway.” Knox grabbed the aquarium and made a face, then turned to Teddy, who was busy finger-painting the window with peanut butter from his snack.