THE UNLIMITED FREEDOM CASTLE

This is Volume Seven of the story “Crooked Creek Cut the Valley So Deep”. If you haven’t read the previous six issues, we suggest you click the “Crooked Creek: A Continuing Story” tab above. We hope you like it! – Kyle and Kent

It was still early morning, but the sun had already crested over the Crooked Valley walls. A constant buzz and whistle was in the air. Wild inhabitants and their foreign conversations were bouncing off the steep rock, and flying low over the creek.

Conrad kept himself in the shade. He walked along a line of trees, crunching their fallen leaves under his boots. Hands in his pockets, eyes watching every step, he ignored the spectacle of colors providing his canopy and cover, whistling to himself, adding his own instrument to the orchestra of the valley; a spit-inhibited, breathy clarinet, never quite played properly, but to a beginner, a first-timer, it was passable, even satisfying. From time to time the whistle would shrill high and short, ringing proudly, causing enough excitement to continue puckering his purpled lips for a few more feet until, ultimately, he became tired of the effort, looking for apples or mushrooms to stomp instead. Trudging forth the only sound he made was a low rustle-woosh rustle-woosh as his jeans brushed the golden grass, waist-high to a cold boy.

To his left, past the trees that blocked him from view, was the only road in and out of Even, and it ran parallel to Crooked Creek. As long as the two ran together Conrad would be able to make his way out of the valley, and into…into…what? He didn’t know exactly. Was there an end to the rocks and canyons of this valley? He’d only lived just beyond his front porch. Kaleb was certain that Even was just the beginning, the smallest drop of water in whatever an ocean might look like. It was best to not think of anything. Just keep moving.

Walking and walking and walking…the monotony of it all was weighing on him; the view ahead was the same bobbing horizon with each step. Alongside him the trees were becoming steel bars lining a narrow, hollowed out prison hallway. He shook his head of the image, but it quickly returned, readjusted for his failure. Now it was intense, more focused, more real. Looking down at his boots, he saw ankle-cuffs and chains; he could hear them rattling, changing his gangly stride into short shuffles. Shamefully he carried onward, hearing the crows and crickets as catcalls and insults from the hell bound and the unforgiven, fellow souls who shared his prison walls.

Impulsively he shook his head. Back and forth, side to side, up and down. He was violence, frenetically quaking like an exorcism. When he slowed to a stop his path had shifted to the bank of Crooked Creek; a thin layer of fog hovering as it drifted slowly beneath. The sounds of the prison and the valley joined, filling Conrad’s head space, rocketing around inside his eardrums, deafening any sort of peace that he’d found in the solitude of his early morning dreams. Shivering now, Conrad caught some movement on the windowpane creek surface from the corner of his eye.

Buddy, laying, dead. His ghost eyes opened, and the sick symphony, now blaring and bursting Conrad’s ear cells, rocked him off balance, and sent him tumbling into the creek; no push necessary.

He came to as he hit the freezing water. Up he shot, swinging his head backwards, flinging the hair and water out of his eyes. Grabbing a hold of himself, he found his insides and tried to block out the cacophony he’d created.

Sudden silence.

Sharp and concentrated, Conrad stared at the glassy, tablecloth-delicate image of Buddy Anderson with his blinking eyes – open and shut, open and shut – a gash on his right temple that trickeld blood down his cheek and matted hair to his forehead. He stopped blinking. Bright blue eyes made muddy by dirty water. Taking in a deep bubble-breath of creek, Buddy held it in for effect, and then let out a cackling laugh, pointing at Conrad’s chest and hurling insults that Conrad had heard a million times.

Retard. Laugh. Inbred. Howl. Mistake. Vicious smile.

A second went by. Knees shook. Another second. Hands became fists. Another sec-
THRASH! An eruption SPLASH! of water sent into the air as SMASH! Conrad swung his arms at the fleeing figure of Buddy Anderson, and sucked in sobbing breaths, crying loudly to block out any other goddamned noise – be it crickets, or murderers, or laughing ghosts – that might try to break him. His head throbbed, dizzy with confusion. Concepts he didn’t understand bent themselves into ideas he could not comprehend, warping and breaking, shoving themselves into any part of him where they might become lodged. Nothing made sense. He shut them out. And that’s when he heard the brakes squeal.

Snapping out of his fit, he jumped for dry land, hoping the tall grass would shield him from any eyes on the road. Out of sight he scanned the gravel lanes and found where the screeching had stopped. It was the Delivery Truck, the one he’d seen so many times outside of Mr. Planter’s store, about 15 yards back up the road towards Even. Had the driver seen him? Is that why he braked?

The driver’s side door slammed shut, and a straw-hat wearing older gentleman walked to the backside of the truck. He paused for a moment and sighed. With a few more steps behind the vehicle he bent over, picked up a large rock from the middle of the road and threw it down into the grass below. “Another flat out here and Planter would be drivin’ to me,” he mumbled. Taking one last look at the truck, satisfied that it would not fall apart, the driver made his way to the front, and climbed into the cab.

At the sound of ignition, Conrad peeked his head up and began crawling towards the road. The truck idled in place. Instinct pulled him nearer as the driver found his gears. He ducked below the road’s ledge and the truck lurched forward, taking a second to gather its momentum and move towards him. As the truck picked up speed the moment of opportunity came and Conrad did not hesitate. His running legs were back underneath him, pumping and churning; adrenaline kicked his twitching calves into a jump that sent him hurdling to the bumper and vice-gripping the tailgate. His presence was announced by a slight bump to the truck’s shocks, which the driver took for another pothole on a forsaken stretch of road.

Success! Wind cascaded through his dark brown locks, and Conrad whistled again, aware only of the fact that this was a shortcut of sorts; no more walking for a while at least. Oh, and he was impressed with his spectacular jumping abilities. Man, could he jump! Maybe these new found talents would be of use when he lived at the Coast, bringing him money by way of performing his jumps for people. Or maybe he’d be a jumping teacher, a teacher who instructed people on the right techniques for quick jumps, or how to prepare for high jumps, when to use two feet versus one foot, etc. Jumping had to be worth something to someone, right?

And so he rode for what seemed like forever on a truck that barreled down the road that swayed with the bends that gave Crooked Creek its name. There was a pain in his hands after the first few miles, and it was growing worse with each bump. The truck was moving along at around 30 miles an hour, so Conrad decided to try his hand at moving from the bumper to the bed. He pictured himself lying down, falling fast asleep, and waking up somewhere beyond the expansive walls that seemed to hem the valley in on both sides of him.

There wasn’t much to it, no jump necessary, but as Conrad rolled over the top of the tailgate he left his foot in the air for just a second too long…and he caught the wandering eye of the driver. A familiar squeal of the brakes sent Conrad springing back over the tailgate and once again running for the open valley floor.

Only this time, someone was running after him.

Stumble It!