There was once a man named Harold Norman. Despite his wealth and lifetime supply of expired pickles, Harold was unhappy. He was finally free, and yet the ghosts of his past were always with him, hovering over his shoulder. Harold had tried everything to rid himself of his demons: therapy, travel, art, journaling, exercise, extreme haircuts… Nothing ever seemed to work, though, and Harold remained trapped in his own head, thinking about the days when he was a young, foolish boy living in his parent’s basement―or rather, dungeon―in their home on one of the South Sandwich Islands, off the eastern coast of Argentina.
You see, Harold had a troubled childhood. Forever chased by the evil Council and their obsession with his turquoise stone, Harold was never safe. His parents had to hide him inside their basement so he could keep his stone from getting into the Council’s hands, who would use its enormous power to wreak havoc on the Islands of South Sandwich and obliterate the home that Harold had grown up loving.
For fifty years, Harold hid himself and the stone in his parents’ dungeon, neither seeing the light of day, until one fateful night when everything changed and Harold’s life was blown apart.
“Mr. Norman?” a woman’s voice jolted Harold out of his thoughts and he blinked, trying to remember where he was. The therapist, Lily, smiled at him through a thick layer of red lipstick. “It’s your turn. Would you like to share something good that happened this week?”
“I’ll pass,” Harold grumbled. He’d already found out that human therapy wasn’t going to help with his problems, but because he’d signed up for the twelve-week support group (it was cheaper than signing up for single-week sessions), he had to come to this thing every week … for the next three months.
Lily rolled her eyes and moved onto the next person. Harold slouched in his chair. What he wouldn’t give to be anywhere but here. He should have known better than to sign up for Talk Therapy. Humans loved to talk about their feelings, but where he came from, they had centers for spiritual healing that would heal both the mind and the heart. He imagined the wisps of purple mist that surrounded them in the caves, the calming green light of the glowworms above them, the sweet, smoky incense smell…
He shook himself, forgetting for the second time that day who and where he was. He could not think about his old life. He needed to remain Harold Norman, or else everything he had sacrificed to protect his family would have been for nothing.
Harold watched with disdain as Lily moved on to the next person in the therapy group. What was he even doing here? He knew that he didn’t belong, and yet, here he sat, in the bright yellow plastic chair that continued to bruise his tailbone week after week, pretending to be engaged in the pointless conversation around him when he knew that his mind was elsewhere.
Out of the corner of his half-lidded eyes, Harold saw a sudden flash of purple light and felt a blast of frigid wind blow over him. He sat up in alarm, and with sweaty hands and a racing heart, stared at the woman who had materialized just a few feet away from the circle of chairs. No one else had seemed to notice the sudden appearance, but why would they? Only he would be able to see Lady Addilyn, the wicked leader of the Council who had ruined his life all those years ago.
Harold shook, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He was at a loss of what to do. Should he run? Try to speak to Addilyn? Attempt his own space jump back to the safety of his home in South Sandwich?
Lady Addilyn opened her mouth as if to speak, but Harold had already jumped out of his seat and sprinted for the exit. His feet slammed against the hard tile floor of the room as he wrenched open the door and rushed into the hallway, only looking back long enough to see Lady Addilyn begin to pursue him, her figure a foreboding cloud of dark robes and swirling black hair.
Harold heard the surprised cries of the therapy group behind him, the clatter as some of them stood up to try to catch up to him. None of them noticed the witch chasing him or the expression of undiluted terror on his face. This woman was the only person in the world who could make Harold Norman run.
He slammed open the back door of the building and raced for his car, but Lady Addilyn caught up to him before he could get in. He pressed his body against his car, trying to stay as far away from her as he could.
“I don’t have it!” he squeaked. “You took it, remember? What else do you want from me?”
Addilyn crossed her arms. She was still terrifyingly beautiful, with dangerous dark eyes that could flay him alive if he stared at them long enough. Harold suddenly remembered when they were both teenagers, hanging out with Lady Addilyn—who was just Addy back then—by the beach, watching the sun set, sharing coconuts and careless kisses. Everything was so simple back then. No turquoise stones or Councils to rip them apart.
“I never said anything about it,” she said.
Harold scoffed and crossed his arms as well. “Then why did you come? To threaten me? Blackmail me? Kill me?”
“No, Hereweald,” she said gently. Harold couldn’t hide his shock. It had been decades since anyone had called him by his non-human name. It sounded strange spoken in human tongue, but he sort of … liked it. Though that couldn’t make up for the fact that she’d betrayed him, stabbed him in the back in every possible way, made him feel pain like he’d never felt before.
“Then why are you here?” he spat.
Harold watched Addilyn take a deep breath. “I’ve left the Council. I want to help you.”
“What?” Harold stammered, incredulous. “Why would you do that?”
Addilyn stared at the broken pavement of the parking lot, tears gathering in her eyes. “Fiona is gone, so I have no reason to be with the Council anymore… You’re the only person I care about who’s still alive.”
Harold was stunned. Fiona, the beautiful red-haired girl who had stolen Addilyn’s heart from him all those years ago? She was gone? She was… dead?
Harold wanted to tell Addilyn he was sorry about Fiona, that he still cared for her as well, but his mouth couldn’t form the words. He knew he might never be able to forgive her for telling the Council about his secret dungeon lair and the turquoise stone he had hidden there, but still he longed for the familiarity they shared, the feeling of belonging to something.
Slowly, Harold looked into Lady Addilyn’s dark eyes. They were shadowed, haunted, and dull, lacking even a spark of deceit in their depths. Harold could feel himself wanting to trust her, wanting to spiral into her eyes and be held by her gaze for the rest of time.
Without realizing he was speaking out loud, Harold whispered, “If you really want to help me, then fine. But we’re going to be taking down the Council and stealing back my turquoise stone, once and for all.”
“This is how you live?” Addilyn had a smirk on her face as Harold led her into his office. Her expression of mingled pity and amusement had stayed on her face all throughout the car ride and as he showed her his home. He watched her look over his dusty furniture and half-finished oil paintings which all seemed to feature shades of turquoise. “A huge six-story mansion and you don’t even bother decorating? At least half the rooms I just saw were empty.”
“Thanks to you, I had no one to share them with.” Harold didn’t mean to be snippy with her, but it was completely her fault he had been away from his family for the past fifty years, hiding in the human world.
Addilyn bowed her head and sat down at the table. “Now what?”
A pile of notebooks, each a different color, lay on the sofa—a gift from his old therapist, who insisted that writing things down could help him work through his pain. Harold picked up a red one and put it in front of Addilyn, then selected a large sheet of poster paper and spread it out on the table as well.
“Now,” he said, “You’re going to tell me about the Council’s headquarters, I’m going to draw a map, and we’re going to make a plan.”
“All right.” Addilyn opened the notebook and selected a pen from the desk drawer. “What do you want to know?”
The Pass It Along Column is a collaborative, ongoing column featuring new writers each month. If you’re interested in contributing to the next segment of the story, email literary@ihstattler.com or come to the next Tattler Writers’ Meeting!Pass It Along Column