Dakota Zane and the Amazing Quest!

The junior high school bus doors swung open and Dakota Zane leapt out and rushed to get home with the hope of not being noticed by some of his classmates who made his life unbearable; bullying was his daily reminder that he was no one special at all. He scurried off and tripped over his feet, more from nervous excitement than sheer clumsiness, and down he went on the snow-covered sidewalk. It was the eve of his thirteenth birthday. He held his breath and scanned the street for hostile witnesses.

Eagan Miller, a fourteen-year-old boy whose fat mouth gaped open, snorted with malicious laughter as he bent down and stared at Dakota.

“Hey, why don’t you spit shine my shoes while you’re down there?”

Deflated, Dakota sighed as he stood, then slid and spun on the ice. Arms raised high, his legs wobbled in a panicked, frantic dance. Eagan howled. Brushing his hand down his face, Dakota squeaked—like a mouse with a megaphone. It was a nervous disorder the doctor had told him and his mother. It was a flawed burden that Dakota hoped he would outgrow sooner than later.

“The i-ice is s-slippery.”

“Sorry, little rat, didn’t hear you over your squeak.”

Eagan pressed his grubby finger to his thick, snout-like nose and blew a sticky stream of snot, missing Dakota by an inch. Eagan grunted and walked away with a grin wider than his fat neck.

Running his hand down his face again, Dakota groaned as a group of thuggish-boys slid across the iced sidewalk. Dakota heard their echoing laughter and closed his eyes. They vomited insults at him.

“Hey, what are you doing on the ground, kid?” A spiky-haired creep towered over him.

“Looking for your self-esteem in the gutter, are you, loser?” A boy wearing a tattered leather jacket sneered at him.

Dakota trembled from the cold as his breath puffed white like smoke. “Not you guys again.” He said, his voice high pitched and squeaky.

“It’s Dakota Bone head.” The gang of boys burst out with laughter.

“It’s Zane not Bone head.” Dakota huffed. His voice trailed into silence.

Why were they so cruel? In the deepest part of his wounded heart, Dakota felt sorry for them. Maybe, no one loved them. They laughed and stepped over him like a dead rat and slithered away.

That was until one of the meaner young boys turned back around with a snarl on his pierced face. Ray looked down and balled up a handful of ice and snow and hurled it, smacking Dakota in the face.

He winced and doubled over. “Stop it. I didn’t do anything to any of you.”

Ray grabbed Dakota, stood him up, and shoved him against a gnarled tree. “Did you just tell me what to do, huh, you little punk.”

“No,” Dakota whispered. Fear beat like tiny drums in his mind.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Ray! He’s just a dumb kid. Let him be.” Kwan begged more than he asked.

Ray turned his head and faced his crew. “What, now you’re a punk too?”

Dead silence from everyone. Ray tilted his head, cracking his neck joints and returned his attention to Dakota, “If. You. Move.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a deep base. “We’ll find that mother of yours, and we won’t be so nice. Understand me, you little—moron.” Ray punched his fist against the palm of his other hand then grabbed Dakota by the collar.

Dakota tried to shake free of his grasp but failed as his face burned. “Leave my mother alone. I won’t move, I promise. Just leave her alone.”

The winter squall raged and pelted everyone with icy hail. Dakota lowered his head as anxiety tightened his throat like a boa constrictor and squeaked a cry for help. The rest of the gang came back. Ray reached down again into the snow and packed a tight ball of ice then licked his chapped lips, a stream of drool oozed down the side of his small, hard mouth.

Dakota closed his eyes and groaned. Ray walked away from him and stood ten feet back and wiped his mouth, lunged and hurled the ice ball. It whistled in the wind as it headed for its target. Falling snow blinded Dakota. The ball of ice struck him in the head like an angry fist. His body snapped backward; pain spread fast as fire, singeing his self-esteem to ash. Stunned, he fell against the tree and then to his knees. The wind howled and cried in outrage. Hail shot down from the darkened sky like frozen bullets. The rest of the brood of vipers followed their leader’s foul action. They packed hard balls of ice and snow and fired them; their missiles exploded against Dakota’s legs, back, and head.

Visions of his absent father cursed his mind. Dakota cried out, wrapping his arms around the tree, “Dad, help me.” It was to no avail; Dad was long gone.

The gang shouted; their hate shrunk the size of their stony hearts to pebbles encased in mud and filth.

A flash of light illuminated the gray horizon. The wind died down. Shrills and caws echoed. An army of ravens blackened the sky. Each wing flap crackled like lightning—angry and quick. The flock descended with all the terror of a funnel cloud.

The gang of boys ran, stumbling in circles. Ravens dug into their flesh with sharp beaks and talons; blood ran down their faces. Relenting to pain, they scurried into the blizzard with the cowardice of frightened rodents.

“What’s happening?” Dakota shouted.

Hundreds of ravens surrounded him and cawed.

Dakota cried, “Someone help me!”

The ravens bobbed their heads toward Dakota, “Is this real? Are you bowing to me?” Dakota whispered, rubbing the back of his head. “Oh, wow, I’m talking to birds. How hard did they hit me?”

A raven, larger than the others, landed and pushed the other birds out of its way as it made a direct path toward Dakota. In one swift movement the bird lowered its head, cawed—folding its right wing across its left breast—and bowed! The flock joined in unison, bowing and cawing. The leader took to the air, followed by the whole army of feathered soldiers. The funnel cloud lifted higher and disappeared into a flash of light.

Dakota shook his head. “This can’t be real.” No one witnessed his assault but what could they have been done. He was a young boy, dismayed yet still had hope in the love for his mother. He lived life withdrawn, his consciousness hidden from his peers. Vicious classmates assailed him each day without remorse, as did his callous teachers who had named him Squeaks. Today was not out of the ordinary—except for the warrior birds.

Dakota mind was a torrent of questions. Why did the birds show up and from where? Why did they protect him? Since when did birds bow and to him? He couldn’t be special? Could he? He dusted the snow from his coat, shuffled his way home, and tried to keep his mind focused on his birthday, something positive and sane. Nothing would take away his happiness. Not those bullies; not the freezing weather; and especially not his missing-in-action father—whoever he was. Dakota pushed against the wind, the falling snow blinding his vision as he crossed the road. The scent of baked cookies, sweet breads, and pies embraced his nostrils and welcomed him home before he even reached the door. His mother, Angelica, was the unofficial neighborhood baker of sweet delights. Everyone came from around the way to sample her delicious breads. To Dakota she was more than just his mother or the town baker. She was his treasure.

Tonight was a special occasion. After midnight he would become a teenager, no longer a boy but a young man with more freedom. This marked the beginning of the winter holiday season, a whole two weeks off of school and his annual retreat to his godmother’s estate.

Dakota reached the porch and wiped the tears from his eyes. Doing so reminded him that his eyes held a sparkle of uniqueness. His left eye was bright blue and his right eye was dark brown—a mystical quality of individuality but plain weird to a young boy’s mind. He stood at the door. “There is no way I’m telling Mother.”

He paused, took a deep breath, and burst through the door. Dakota was greeted by his mother. She stood in a purple dress that flared outward, accented by a ruffled white apron and a double strand of antique pearls. She held a chocolate cake lit with thirteen candles and one for good luck.

“Mom, it’s not my birthday yet.”

“I thought we’d get a head start.” She lowered the cake and grinned.

After blowing out his candles, he hugged his mother and gently touched her black curly hair that cascaded down her back. Something real.

She nodded towards the cake. “Go ahead.”

He stuck his fingers into the frosting and licked them clean. “Wow, it’s so good.”

Walking into the living room of their townhouse, she placed the cake on an end table then sat on the sofa. “How was your day, honey?”

Dakota shrugged. “The usual.” He threw his coat to the ground and sat in a rocking chair, exhausted by his ordeal earlier.

“Excuse me, little man. No, you didn’t just through your jacket on the floor.”

“Sorry, Mom. I’m just tired.” He picked up his jacket and hung it in the closet.

“Thank you, baby.”

Dakota shrugged and kissed his Mother on the cheek.

For many years, school had been a place of torture both verbal and physical. Dakota’s pale skin burned with bruises from all the sucker punches he received from his classmates. Time blurred as he spent anxiety-ridden days muddling through the maze of school hallways with its twists and turns, never knowing what or who lurked around the bend, and with what punishment loomed over his head.

His mother twirled the tips of her hair. “Did you learn anything interesting?”

“Not really.” Dakota rubbed the back of his head then locked his gaze on his mother. “Do you think my life will ever change? I mean, do you think there is something more than just this life?”

She leaned toward him and caressed his face. “Yes, there is something more, something greater.”

He shook his head. “I look at the stars and I want to leap into them, to go somewhere different.” He studied his reflection in the mirror above the sofa. “I want to be someone different.”

His mother sighed and ran her fingers through his thick curly black hair. “There is much I need to tell you, and about your father.”

He jumped from the rocking chair and crossed his arms. “My father, the big question mark?”

Angelica reached for him. “Dakota.”

He backed away from her. “I don’t have a father. Never did!”

“Don’t speak so harsh. There are things you don’t understand.”

“I don’t need to hear about him.”

“Dakota, the time has come for me to tell you the truth about—”

The doorbell rang once, followed by two pounding thuds on the door. She walked to the front entrance, peered through the peephole, and sighed. “I want more time with my son.”

“Mother, who is it?” Dakota placed his hand on his mother’s back.

“It’s no one; let’s go eat dinner. They’ll go away.” Her face flushed. The door shook as the pounding thumped with greater force.

She pushed Dakota away from the door. “Let’s go for a long walk. We can go out the back door.” Her hands trembled as she directed him toward the kitchen door.

“Who’s knocking?” Dakota turned and ran to the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll be your protector.”

His chest swelled, and his heart beat with pride as he was the man of the house. A job his father should have held but failed to stay long enough to fulfill.

The door jutted forward, bent and bursting with pressure. Dust and mist seeped through the cracks and sides of the entire door. Mom ran and pulled Dakota back into the living room just as the door burst open and mist spread over the foyer like a blanket of fog.

“What’s happening?” He stood with his arms spread, protecting his mother.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s your destiny.” She sighed and turned on the ceiling fans.

The mist dispersed and revealed a chest made of stone, sandy in color, resting in the middle of the entryway.

“Mom, am I dreaming? This can’t be real.” Dakota kicked the hardwood floor.

“It’s real, baby; it’s the beginning of the end.” She wiped her eyes.

The wind blew snow and ice into the house. Dakota attempted to close the door, but a ray of golden light shimmered while an orb of silver and white twinkled and spun around the room, hovering near Dakota. The orb chirped and ebbed with changing colors.

“Mother, what is that?” Dakota looked to the orb as it continued to chirp. “Are you talking to me?” Dakota shook his head, not understanding a single chirp.

“Sweetie, open your hands. She has something for you.” Mother sat on the sofa and continued to cry.

“She? Do you really understand that chirping?” Dakota looked to his mother for guidance, but her tears answered that question without one word uttered. He reached forward, and the white orb dropped a scroll into his open hands. The ball of light caressed his face, and he giggled as tiny sparks sprinkled the ground.

The orb flew off to the cold outside and vanished in a flash of light as the doors slammed shut unaided. His hands anxiously opened the scroll; a golden key dropped to the ground. As he bent down to pick up the key, the scroll flew out of his hand then hovered and unwound itself. The empty scroll glowed as script filled the blank paper.

Dakota’s mouth gaped open. “This is way cool even if it’s a dream.” He turned toward his mother who now stood by his side.

Mother placed her hands on his shoulders and sighed again. “This is not a dream. Your time has come, my little prince.”

“Oh, I’m a prince. This is crazy.”

Dakota’s hand trembled as he took the scroll and read with a voice bold and strong.

“This night you shall fight.

A prince full of might.

Less fear strikes you still.

And you are marked as the kill.

Here are three gifts to help you take flight

You cease to be a child this very night.

May you be exalted on the night of your ascension.

Unlock the chest and set yourself free.

A great prince you shall be.

With warmest regards,

The elders of Naanac.”

The scroll flew from his sweating hands and burst into flames. Ash dusted the ground like dirty flakes of blackened snow.

Dakota looked at his mother and then lifted the key into the air. “I knew there was more. This is real. Is she from outer space, like an alien?”

“She is not an alien and doesn’t come from outer space.”

“Oh,” Dakota said.

“It’s actually more like inner space.”

“Inner space, like parallel worlds?” Dakota hoped more than he questioned.

“Yes, baby, something like that would be true.” Angelica rubbed her temples. “Now it’s time for your gifts.” She patted him on his back.

Approaching the stone chest, he inserted the key. He turned it once, and it clicked. With a cautious smile on his face, he turned it once more, and it clunked. The square chest trembled and spun in circles like a miniature tornado. It whistled and shook the ground. As it slowed down, a three-foot stone statue of a centaur appeared in its place.

“Wow, what just happened?” He touched its sandy roughness with shaky fingers. “Look!” He pointed to a necklace around the centaur’s neck. Dakota lifted it from the statue. It was a flute made of bone or possibly ivory and attached to a silver chain. He blew into it, and nothing happened. Placing it around his neck, he sighed. “What’s the point of a flute if it doesn’t make music?” He shuffled his feet. “I can’t play music anyway.”

“You’ll learn soon enough how to use the flute. The power to communicate with living creatures will be a musical note away.” She hugged him tight. “You have two other gifts.” Dakota’s mother pulled back as the statue began to spin around. When it ceased spinning, it took the shape of a five-foot woman, aged but very beautiful.

It was the image of his godmother, Madame Serene. In one hand she held several artist brushes, and in the other, a small framed painting no more than four inches on each side.

“Mother, are you seeing this?” He took the artwork and stared at its image.

“It’s too small. I can’t make it out.” He looked at his mother who was now giggling.

The frame moved between his chubby fingers, drawing his attention back to the art piece. Dakota pulled and tugged at the frame as it elongated and stretched in size. The painting grew until it was taller than Dakota.

“Mother, this is so cool.” He paused. “Is this really happening?”

Mom walked over to him and smiled before she took the masterpiece and pulled the frame until it was full size, standing six feet tall and four feet wide.

“It’s beautiful.” Dakota stepped back to feast his eyes on the spectacular work of colorful art. It was a vibrant painting filled with flowers whose petals swirled and danced in an artistic illusion, while great mountains stood like ambassadors of goodwill. Magical creatures pranced, and a large waterfall flowed, almost splashing water to the floor. There was even a miniature version of Madame Serene’s home. All life glistened under the light of an orange sun and two large moons. On the bottom of the frame was an engraved plate with the words, if you only believe.

“Believe what?” he asked his mother with a gentle spirit. His stomach ceased summersaulting as the calming effect of the painting washed over him.

“I think she wants you to believe in the impossible.” She tussled his hair.

“I wish Dad was here to see this—whoever he is.” He looked down at his feet as a tear dropped from his eye. “Is there something you haven’t told me about myself?”

“Yes, my son. I have shrouded you in silence and kept your identity and the truth about your father private, protected in my heart, broken as it is.” She kissed his forehead. “There is much I must tell you, and the truth you know will set you free to fly.”

Anticipation pinched his body with excitement. No more secrets left unspoken, hidden like a haunted house on a hill and covered by a thick forest of shadows. Years without a dad painted a picture of a deserted landscape. No color. Just shades of gray. The pain from an absent father, the rejection and abuse from his male peers, left more than low self-esteem. It left an internal scar running deep like a twisted, winding river in a dark cavern. He hid his pain and kept a secret of his own. Some things were better left in the dark, clouded by cobwebs and dust—even from his mother.

“Well, I’m ready when you are. And why did you call me a prince?”

“Yes, I have much to say, but you have one more gift.” She pointed to the statue of Madame Serene.

It shook and spun. Lights flickered and danced, exploding in a rainbow of colors. As the dust ceased, an oblong object rested inside the large stone nest. The object—rock like in appearance with black and white spots—stood upright.

“Mother, any insight?” He tapped his foot.

“It’s an egg. Quick let’s get it near the fire.” She wrapped it in a blanket and kept it snug and warm.

The egg began to rock. It turned several shades of red then milky pink.

“We have to keep your nimby warm. It will hatch soon.”

“What’s a nimby?”

“I know there is a lot of mystery, but very soon you’ll know the truth. Let’s put the painting in your room and then the time of truth will be at hand.”

“This is the best birthday ever!” Dakota’s stomach growled. “Mother, I’m not dreaming this am I?” He lowered his head.

“My little prince, your reality is about to be rocked. Look, after dinner, I promise, no more secrets. Destiny can wait for one more hour.”