Page 4 of Alokar
My mother’s voice erupted like a thunderclap, raw and trembling with such force that it seemed to shatter the very air around us. Every head in the chamber snapped toward her, conversations dying mid-syllable. What I first mistook for fury revealed itself as something far more devastating. The shimmer of unshed tears transformed her eyes into pools of liquid starlight.
“Mom....”
“I don’t want you to go.” The words tore from her throat. She whirled on Duke Ako with the ferocity of a cornered animal, her free hand—the one not cradling my baby sister—slicing through the air in desperate, wild gestures. “There are dozens... hundreds of warriors aboard with decades more experience than Ewok. And we all know what a treacherous, murderous bastard Yaard is. I don’t want him to go.”
The anguish radiating from her small frame hit me like a physical blow, waves of maternal terror and love crashing over me until I could barely breathe. I sank to one knee, bringing my towering form down to her eye level—a gesture that somehow made the vast dining hall feel intimate, sacred.
My massive hands enveloped her wildly gesturing one, stilling its frantic dance. “Mom, I know you worry about me... and I love you beyond measure for that.” My voice gentled tobarely above a whisper, each word carefully chosen. “But before the gods and goddess blessed me by bringing you and Dad into my life, I had another family.” The words caught in my throat like thorns. “Another family that was stolen from me because of Yaard. It is my sacred right—my burden—to avenge that loss.”
Daicon moved with the silent grace of a shadow, positioning himself behind my mother. His hand settled on her shoulder, and when their eyes met, he offered her a slow, deliberate nod. A nod weighted with the absolute confidence and pride he had for me. It meant everything—more than any formal blessing or royal decree.
Jordan chose that moment to wave a chubby fist through the air. Whether she was rallying to support my mission or protesting it with infant indignation, I couldn’t tell—but the sight was so achingly adorable it nearly undid me. I extended my hands, and the precious little female practically launched herself into my embrace, her delighted coos filling the silence.
“I need you to understand something,” I murmured, gently bouncing Jordan until her laughter bubbled, bright and effervescent. “I’m not doing this solely for vengeance. I’m doing this so my family—all of you—can exist in a universe finally cleansed of a monster like Yaard.”
My mother watched me cradling my baby sister, tears carving rivers down her cheeks. “Promise me you’ll be safe,” she demanded, her voice breaking on each word. She wrapped her tiny arms around both Jordan and me in an embrace that somehow felt strong enough to encompass the universe. “Promise me you’ll come back to us whole.”
“Of course,” I vowed, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of home and safety. She was such a tiny human, yet she possessed the bravest, largest, most luminous soul I’d ever encountered. “I will be here to witness Jordan’s first word... which will undoubtedly beEwok.”
“Absolutely not,” Daicon snorted, though his eyes danced with mirth. “Her first word will beDada—as is proper and natural.”
George cleared his throat. “Actually, based on my extensive study of human vocal development and the relative ease of pronunciation, her first utterance will most likely beGeorge.”
My mother’s laughter burst forth like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, tears still streaming down her face as she pulled me into another embrace that somehow felt like both goodbye and welcome home.
Chapter 2
Hannah
The screen door was hanging by one hinge—a hinge that screamed with rusty fury at being used when I pushed the weathered door open and sauntered inside.
The Mountain Man’s Drinking Hole wasn’t much to look at. Just the main building of an abandoned homestead, logs darkened with age and neglect. The front rooms of the two-story log cabin had been converted to hold a small bar with mismatched stools and a few scarred wooden tables, while the rear of the building was devoted to processing wild game, imparting a scent of beer, stale oil, and blood into the air.
Dim light filtered through grimy windows, casting shadows across the worn floorboards. This was the kind of place that only locals knew and frequented—a refuge hidden away from the world. Except perhaps for a group of archeology students now and then, bored with being at a dig site too long and desperate for cold beer and Rocky Mountain oysters. Sawdust on the floor and the smell of stale cigarettes could look good to anybody after a while, I supposed. Other than me, I counted five other people occupying the tables and booths—crowded for a Tuesday night.
I’d been coming here since I was ten years old, my legs barely reaching the floor from the barstool where I’d perch with a lukewarm root beer. I remembered sitting at my father’s side as he engaged in passionate debates over the existence of Bigfoot with anyone who’d take part.
Daddy.
My heart felt funny, a strange combination of hollowness and grief, with a healthy dose of fury clinging to the somehow still-beating organ. I hadn’t cried at the funeral—not a single tear. Other than the first day when I’d been sobbing so hard I could barely choke out the words to tell the sheriff what happened, I hadn’t cried much at all.
It had been a nice funeral—if one can say that about a funeral. My father was well-liked. Dozens of flannel-clad mourners, fellow researchers, students, and old drinking buddies, filled the polished wooden pews of Every Nation Church in Seattle, save for one conspicuously empty seat. I don’t know why I thought my mother might return to say goodbye. Other than a generic card at birthdays and Christmas—always signed with just her first name in careful script—I’d barely heard from her in the last ten years. When my dad became obsessed with Bigfoot, it embarrassed my mother. It embarrassed her even more when I shared my dad’s beliefs. She left one rainy Tuesday morning and now lived somewhere on the East Coast—Maine, I think—with her new husband and stepsiblings I’d probably never meet.
It didn’t matter. Dad had been enough of a parent that I hadn’t missed her presence. I said that, and many other things about my father during the service, my voice steady as I stareddown at the small metal jar that held his ashes. The jar wasn't very full. When Sheriff Pettrie and a few others returned to the site, they’d only found a few scattered bones and his watch. A watch I hadn’t taken off my wrist since the sheriff gave it to me, his usually steady voice cracking as he pressed it into my palm. An old Timex, the face scratched but still readable. The watch still kept perfect time, even though the brown leather band was worn soft and frayed at the edges from decades of wear. The sheriff had cleaned it before giving it to me, but there were still small spots of dried blood embedded deep in the band’s stitching—dark reminders that no amount of scrubbing could erase.
“What are you doing here, girlie?” Hank’s gravelly voice cut through the musty air as he emerged from the shadows behind the bar, his weathered face creased into a perpetual scowl. The owner, bartender, and cook—when anyone was brave enough to eat his questionable offerings—fixed me with a glare that could have curdled milk. I didn’t take it personally. Hank scowled at everybody with the same intensity he reserved for burnt steaks and unpaid tabs. He’d been one of my father’s best friends, and I’d heard his soft, broken sobbing echoing through Every Nation Church during the funeral service.
“Hello to you too,” I muttered, my boots clicking against the worn floorboards as I walked over to climb up onto a familiar barstool—my feet still dangling like a child’s, not quite reaching the ground even after all these years.
“I’m serious,” Hank grumbled, his thick fingers swiping the scarred surface of the bar in front of me with a towel that had seen better days. The fabric left more streaks than it cleaned. “Shouldn’t you be in college or something?”
“I should be,” I agreed, watching him work. The semester started three days ago. The same day I’d loaded the last of our belongings from the Seattle apartment into cardboard boxes bound for Goodwill and handed the keys to our landlord. Anything that mattered, anything that held memories worth keeping, I’d carefully packed into the rusted bed of my 1985 Ford F150 and hauled up the winding mountain road to the cabin.
“Then why ain’t you?” Hank groused, his calloused hands already reaching for a familiar bottle, and he set a cold beer in front of me without being asked. There was no need to order here. He carried only a few kinds of beer, and after all these years, knew everyone’s preferences.
“Because I’m going to track and kill the grizzly that killed my dad.” Saying the wordgrizzlyfelt bitter on my tongue, each syllable a betrayal of what I’d actually witnessed. I knew damn well it wasn’t a griz. The intelligent, almost human smile the Bigfoot had given me before clamping its teeth into my father’s neck haunted my dreams. But the sheriff had officially designated my dad’s death as a grizzly attack, and that’s what everyone claimed to believe—whether or not they truly believed it.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hank snorted, his weathered palm slapping against the counter with enough force to make my beer bottle jump. The sound echoed through the empty bar like a gunshot. “You’ll go out there and get yourself killed, just like....” He stopped himself, but we both knew how that sentence ended.
