The Summoned Ones: Book 1 Flight to Bericea

By Darryl A Woods

The Bericean army was in Malabrim for the ninth straight fighting season. Over the past 9 years, Zybaro, the leader of a small band of unknowns, had evolved from his days as a minor usurper of a tiny kingdom. Now, almost the entire country of Malabrim was under Zybaro’s control, and his army was large enough to easily challenge Bericea&rsq

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bresford Ridge Publishing
• Release date: Feb 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780997905915

Darryl A Woods

Darryl Woods has a passion for telling stories, an appetite for reading fantasy, and a love of old movies. He remembers things in scenes, picturing the background, the clothing of the characters, small details like, wrist bands, jewelry, dogs crossing the street, but most of all the emotions and actions of each participant in the scene. He would spend time, usually as he waited for sleep, thinking through those scenes, fleshing out details the book didn't add, or recreating the scenes with differing outcomes. So, as the story of The Flight to Bericea developed the scenes that make up the story easily flowed from his vivid imagination. Darryl's favorite authors include Raymond Feist, Terry Brooks, Robert Jordan, Brian Jacques, David Eddings, Christopher Paolini, Terry Goodkind, and Piers Anthony. With this collection of epic fantasy authors, Darryl's chosen genre had to include epic adventures, swordplay and magic. Darryl's childhood in rural Ohio, three miles from a small town, gave him plenty material for stories. Tales of his father's many contraptions, fabricated from old parts, angle iron, and square tubing. These were lawnmowers powered by car engines, minibikes, and various types of cobbled together go-carts, including one with a bicycle front end, a car's steering wheel and seat, and the backend of a cousin's wrecked go-cart. His stories also included rural life; gardening, playing in the creek, helping neighbors with livestock, numerous family pets, and farm animals, or playing high school football. As an adult Darryl graduated college with a degree in Systems Analysis, while at school he met his wife who he married shortly after graduation. Inspired by his father who never once used a repairman, and who built his own house, Darryl developed a passion for remodeling houses. He and his wife have remodeled four houses to date, after each one swearing to never start another. While working as a computer consultant designing database, Darryl spent his evenings, weekends, and days off helping his father-in-law with his family business cutting timber, sawing lumber in his mill, and making pallets. All these activities gave Darryl an endless supply of stories. Telling and re-telling these stories over the years honed Darryl's skills as a storyteller.

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THE

SUMMONED

ONES

BOOK 1 FLIGHT TO BERICEA

DARRYL A. WOODS

www.darrylawoods.com.

Brelsford Ridge Publishing

3481 Dixie Highway #218

Franklin, OH 45005

Copyright © 2019 by Darryl A. Woods

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN:978-0-9979059-1-5

www.darrylawoods.com.

DEDICATION

I’d like to thank Jim Effler for bringing my vision to life in the cover art.  Thanks to my wife and daughter who put up with me reading the same paragraph to them over and over again during multiple rewrites. I want to thank all of my early readers, especially the ones who stuck with me during the very early and raw material. Of those readers, one stands out: my good friend, Mike. He faithfully read first-draft chapters the same evening I gave them to him and offered comments the next morning, always ending with much-needed encouragement.

The person who deserves the most thanks is my editor, Kelly. She endured some pretty bad copy without complaint, was always encouraging, and offered suggestions beyond those of a typical editor. The changes she made, from the ever-so-subtle to the not-so-subtle (more times than I care to admit) were nothing short of magic.

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PROLOGUE

Rally to the general! Rally to the general! shouted the tall, lanky soldier as he fought his way toward Darnon.

Kail thought to himself that if they survived this battle, General Darnon would likely discipline him for issuing commands. What he did not know is that Darnon greatly admired his skill with a sword, and regarded Kail as the best he had seen in his long military career.

Over the last nine years of war, the two had engaged in an odd sort of dance. Darnon was keenly aware of the respect his troops had for Kail. A respect not only for his individual prowess in battle, but for his uncanny understanding of the battlefield. As he was now demonstrating, Kail instinctively knew where he and the others were most needed at critical junctures in a battle.

In the beginning, when Kail first joined his army’s ranks and began to positively affect the outcomes of battles, General Darnon decided to reward his new soldier with a promotion. But each time he prepared to issue Kail a field commission, the rogue would do something that forced the general’s hand and demanded reprimand. Darnon came to realize that these altercations were no accident. Over time, he learned what Kail already knew: that he could serve best as a rank-and-file soldier in the thick of battle. So, the two played out their game. Darnon would dole out light punishment and Kail would act indignant, then reluctantly accept his penalty.

Fight your way to the general! Kail bellowed again and again over the din of battle.

His general was indeed in trouble, as was the army’s position in the overall battle. Only minutes earlier, Darnon’s command post had been overrun. The enemy was countering in near-perfect fashion the battleplan drawn up that very morning. The general now found himself surrounded on three sides. His skillful use of his massive two-handed sword was the only thing keeping him from being overwhelmed. Three of his officers fought frantically to protect his back, but two were so slowed by wounds, they could barely defend themselves, let alone their commanding officer.

The general, the general, Kail continued to scream, as enemy after enemy fell to the savagery of his blades.

Kail fought as he often did, with a medium-length sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. His blades were literally a blur, the speed and uncanny accuracy of their wielding unmatched. A wedge of soldiers followed in the wake of Kail’s lethal blades. Many of the men owed their lives to the fighter as he mercilessly dispatched the enemies that came toward them. Those not killed outright by Kail were quickly dealt with by the throng of soldiers growing behind him.

To the general, to the general! Kail heard his entreaty taken up by soldiers across the battlefield.

The shouts took on a cadence that seemed to cause Kail to intensify his frantic fight to reach the general he respected and admired. Darnon had been so intent on his own fight for survival, it was only now that Kail’s shouts began to register. Allowing himself a quick glance, Darnon made eye contact with his tall soldier. That brief exchange gave both the exhausted warriors the boost they needed to close the gap.

Kail finally reached the ring of enemy soldiers surrounding Darnon. As the skillful swordsman attacked them from behind, each foe quickly fell in turn. The last two made the mistake of wheeling to face their new threat, only to be cleaved nearly in two by the wide arc of the general’s long sword.

The shouts imploring the men to rally to their general continued unabated even though Darnon was temporarily out of harm’s way, surrounded now by dozens of his men. The shouts persisted in no small part because of Kail. Darnon couldn’t comprehend why his usually astute tactician continued to encourage the troops to rally to their general. The only affect apparent to Darnon was that his troops were collapsing into the center of the battlefield, now completely surrounded by the enemy with little hope of escape.

To the general, to the general! continued the shouts from Kail and the mass of troops surrounding Darnon. Such conduct exasperated their leader, and he began to second-guess the man he had once trusted implicitly. In this moment of despair, when Darnon thought the lives of the troops he commanded and his own forfeit, he heard the sudden thunder of hooves and the clash of steel. The Jerimassian cavalry exploded into the enemy with such force, the sounds of new battle drowned out the localized fighting. Darnon’s army began cheering as they realized help had arrived, seemingly from nowhere.

The enemy, so sure of complete victory only moments before, now found themselves caught in a vice. Darnon’s surging troops pressed them from the inside out, and they were completely surrounded by the formidable Jerimassian cavalry. The skillful horsemen darted in and out of the enemy’s ranks, inflicting heavy casualties then disappearing before any defense could be marshaled.

As they had done in several prior battles, the enemy troops now turned their aggression on their leaders. Darnon’s troops aided these common soldiers as they attacked their superiors. Darnon and his men knew that the bulk of the enemy fighting force was made up of men coerced into fighting to keep their families alive.

For the last nine years, their foes had served under an evil entity named Zybaro. He overran villages and captured their inhabitants, forcing anyone capable of serving into his army and enslaving the rest. The new soldiers were forced to fight or witness the murders of their loved ones. Enforcing his brutal siege with the aid of powerful, mutated magicians called nollax, Zybaro swept across Malabrim, amassing an immense army. Malabrim was the country General Darnon and Commander Namir now fought, hoping to free as many souls as they could and disrupt Zybaro’s methodical march to total domination.

When the conflict was at last over, the remaining enemy troops dropped their weapons and placed their hands, fingers interlocked, on their heads. Over the years, Darnon and his men had seen this scene play out many times. Without waiting for orders, the soldiers began corralling their now-placid enemy towards an empty area of the field. They would next begin the long process of removing their enemy’s armor and searching for hidden weapons.

Kail set out to help the troops with their task, but made it a point to pass close by the general en route. He spoke softly so that only Darnon could hear.

I’m sorry for the confusion back there. I saw Commander Namir’s scouts on the ridge. I thought it best to get everyone away from the perimeter.

Darnon couldn’t help but return the soldier’s unrepentant grin.

The general heard a commotion and turned to see Namir reining in his horse a short distance away. The commander dismounted in the fluid motion of one who has spent a lifetime in the saddle. Leading his well-disciplined steed forward, the reins slack between them, Namir approached

Without offering a formal greeting, the commander got right to the point. My scouts reported they saw you having a hard time. Not waiting for a reply, Namir pressed on, genuinely concerned.

Darnon, you know I was ordered north. We stumbled across a mine being worked by the most wretched souls. We couldn’t allow their agony to continue. If we hadn’t taken the time to liberate them, we would have been well over a league from here.

Darnon face reflected his regret but not shame. He inclined his head, indicating acceptance of just how dire the situation would have been without his friend’s aid.

The state of those miners was the worst I’ve seen yet. Children as young as four or five years, piled like cordwood, dead of malnutrition and exhaustion. The condition of the ones left alive was so deplorable it made the dead seem like the lucky ones. Namir paused as he struggled to deliver his dark narrative.

When he continued, contempt edged his voice. When the guards saw the overwhelming odds and realized they had no hope, they turned on their captives. If not for some of the stronger miners defending themselves, the slaughter would have been far worse.

Darnon’s pained look and glistening eyes were reflected in Namir’s countenance.

Between the captured soldiers and those you rescued, at least we saved a few, Darnon all but whispered.

Namir gestured to the surrounding battlefield. I agree my friend, but at an ever-increasing price. How long can we keep this up?

What alternative do we have? We can’t just leave these people to their own fate. Besides, how long will it be before those miners are replaced by our own families? Darnon demanded.

I know how you feel about the prophecies, Darnon, but if the clerics of Hinloose really have found the means to bring the Summoned Ones to our aid, don’t you think we should at least try? Namir asked, expecting the same skeptical response he had heard so many times before.

Darnon replied in a matter-of-fact tone, The air has grown cold. This will be the last of this year’s campaigns. Let’s get these people healthy enough for travel and back to Bericea. Once there, we can make plans for the summoning as we await the spring.

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map_b_wChapter

Chapter 1

Invitation

The night air was brisk as Pattie and Mike stood by the sidelines of their old high school’s football field. The weather had turned cold a few weeks ago. The days had been clear, filled with blue skies, sunshine, and trees showing off their brightest autumn hues.

Tonight, the stars and crescent moon in the clear sky hung unseen above the glare of the bright lights. Pattie, a pretty young woman of 20, was dressed in her typical garb—old blue jeans, a loosely tucked and rumpled button-down shirt, and a denim jacket. Her straight, black hair fell below her shoulders, her large brown eyes taking in the action on the field. She had a natural attractiveness that required no makeup.

Pattie O’Keenan and Mike Wilson had been friends since they were kids. They’d grown up a few miles from one another, in the countryside surrounding the small town of Irvine. From the age of 12, they’d biked to one another’s houses for visits over the long summer breaks. Pattie’s family owned a small horse farm, and she spent a lot of her spare time alone, working with the horses or doing chores. Pattie had grown up a bit of a tomboy. She insisted on doing the same chores around the farm as her two older brothers and didn’t take advantage of being the youngest or the little sister. Because of this, her brothers respected her and they all got along well together. Unfortunately, they rarely included Pattie in their inner circle, leaving her too often to her own devices. Luckily, whatever loneliness she felt was eased by her friendship with the boy down the road.

In stark contrast to Pattie’s casual attire, Mike Wilson was well-dressed in a sports jacket and khakis. Although of average build and height, he carried himself with the air of someone who knew what he wanted and how to get it. His dad, a former Marine Corps boxer, had taught him to fight at an early age, and Mike knew how to take care of himself. His air of confidence could also be attributed to his days spent leading teams on the paintball field. He had been playing since the age of 13, when his uncle took him to a local paintball venue. Already an avid reader of military history (tactics, logistics, maneuvering, and overall strategy, in particular), the boy had a keen desire to see whether the techniques he studied in books could be applied first-hand on the playing field.

Since the age of seven, Mike had been interested in all things military. One late night, awakened by a loud noise coming from the living room, he crawled out of bed to investigate. Mike found his dad asleep in front of the TV. George C. Scott was leading the troops through battle in Patton, and the little boy became riveted. He was still in front of the set the next morning where his parents found him sound asleep.

A shrill whistle broke through the crisp night air, immediately followed by the deafening roar of the Mighty Engineers fans. The football team was good this season and had already won five of its first six games. Tonight, however, the game itself was being overshadowed by the return of a former football hero.

Brandon doesn’t have to enjoy all this so much, Pattie told Mike wryly.

He knows he’s the biggest thing that ever happened to this wide spot in the road. No doubt, the biggest that ever will happen, Mike replied. As much as he hates the attention, he’d never deprive the folks of this moment.

Just the week before, Brandon Rollins had made the cover of Sports Illustrated, even though he’d shared it with three other Heisman Trophy hopefuls. Most of the article was devoted to Rollins, however, and his decision to announce early he would play out his senior year at The Ohio State University instead of entering the NFL draft.

Do you think he had us meet him here for sympathy, moral support, or some far-flung hope we might be able to get him out of this, Pattie asked.

Mike grinned. All of the above.

Now in his junior year, Brandon was already on track to break Ohio State’s all-time rushing record before the season came to an end. The 6-foot, 1-inch 230-pound running back had already surpassed OSU's total yard record with his catches out of the back field. In his high school days, he had shattered every Mighty Engineers record on the books, not to mention most of the high school records in the state.

Ruggedly handsome, with a defined physique, Brandon often caught the attention of admiring females, though his shyness around women was obvious. His graceful way of moving despite his size was also attractive to the girls that always seemed to surround him. Brandon had more going for him than sheer athleticism, however. He was maintaining a 3.8 GPA in business at Ohio State, his devotion to his studies almost as rigorous as his workouts. He knew if he made it to the professional leagues, with his background in business, he’d be able to manage his own career and finances.

Brandon had learned about responsibility and the importance of making good decisions at a young age. His parents divorced when he was only eight, and Brandon helped raise his younger sister after his dad moved out of their house in the northern section of Irvine. He still called her two or three times a week from college. Despite their divorce, Brandon remained close to both his parents and often sought out his dad’s advice. Brandon’s mom remarried when he was 14. His dad remained unmarried and lived close by his children. Brandon and his sister stayed with him every other weekend, and Brandon spent his summers with him.

Does he still practice his martial arts? Pattie asked.

What? Oh, yeah, some, Mike replied, distracted by the game and the large crowd surrounding Brandon. Well, he did cut out the sparring, but you know him, disciplined as ever. No matter how much school work or how long practices run, he gets up at 5:00 a.m. every morning and does that ritual workout of his, walking through all those forms. Not during the season, but off-season, he still works with all those weird martial arts weapons.

Brandon had been working aggressively in the martial arts since the age of 12, having advanced to a black belt by the age of 14. He had a room full of trophies from martial arts tournaments but had decided to stop competing at 16. Major colleges had started noticing him when he was only a sophomore. Taking his dad’s advice, Brandon decided that risking injury and a full athletic scholarship was not worth it. Even so, despite dropping out of competition, he had not abandoned his martial arts training.

I drag myself up at 5:00 or 5:30 a.m. every once in a while and hightail it across campus to watch his famous workouts. Besides, letting all the girls that hang around the gym know I’m his friend doesn’t hurt, Mike laughed.

I still can’t believe you ran off to that huge campus with Brandon and left me here to go to community college.

Pattie was kidding, of course, knowing full well that Brandon’s chance to play on scholarship at a major university and Mike’s academic scholarship were once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. Who’d have thought all that reading about war and fighting would have landed you such a sweet deal?

As Pattie chatted with Mike, she looked around expectantly, waiting for the arrival of another old friend. Earlier in the day, Pattie and Mike had met Steve Oliver at Rise and Shine, the local coffee shop. Steve brought his new girlfriend, Gloria, whom he’d been seeing for the last two months. He’d met her at a party he’d organized for his fraternity at Brown University and their sister sorority. Pattie had taken an instant dislike to the girl and was not pleased to see her hanging on Steve's arm as he pushed through the coffee-shop door that morning. No doubt, he’d have her in tow again this evening, she thought with disgust.

Of all the members of the group meeting tonight, Stephen William Oliver III was the most out of place. While the others had gone to public schools, Steve attended Lexington Prep. His parents sent their only child off to the top-tier boarding school when he was eight years old. Before that, he’d spent much of his childhood alone in the family’s Colonial Revival mansion on a 300-acre estate. His father’s political career was beginning to take off, and his parents traveled extensively, leaving their young son at home in the care of their head housekeeper, Carmela. The Mexican woman practically raised the slender blond-haired, blue-eyed boy as her own and soon had her charge speaking Spanish like a native. Because of Carmela, Steve developed an early appreciation for language and a love of linguistics.

When Steve came home from boarding school during holidays and summers, he began to take advantage of the estate’s riding facilities to fill his time. The estate had been in the Oliver family for over 120 years. Backing up to the Daniel Boone National Forest, it was now a working farm producing grain and thoroughbreds. Steve learned he had an aptitude for horsemanship and soon became an accomplished rider. He began competing in stadium jumping and other English equestrian events, honing his skills on the family’s private course.

When he was old enough, he began to travel. Other than Mike, who had taken two fishing trips to Canada with his uncle, Steve was the only one of the group who had been outside the United States. He’d made several trips to Europe and visited nearly every country, even spending some time in Russia. He’d also been to Japan, Australia, New Zealand, South America, and most recently spent a month touring China and Tibet. For last few years now during his travels, Steve had shied away from the more touristy locales, preferring to hang out with the locals and hone his language skills. He even went so far as to take odd jobs, hanging out in the pubs in the evenings and sleeping on the floors of farmhouses or barns where he had worked that day. Such exposure to the local color, the languages, the sounds, phrases, cultural influences, and mental processes associated with the spoken word and its regional variations, all fueled Steve's obsession with language. Because of Carmela’s early influence and his subsequent travels, he chose linguistics as his major at Brown.

Although Pattie had figured that Steve would arrive on time, the Reinard brothers would be another story. With Jeremy just in from the University of Kentucky, his brother Will would be monopolizing him, describing all the new projects and inventions he had dreamt up during Jeremy’s absence. Will had decided long ago that college was not for him. Though of above-average intelligence, Will was content to work in their father’s metal fabrication shop, and his after-hours use of the shop equipment allowed him to pursue his real passion: inventing. Jeremy had the same inventive drive, but he loved mechanical engineering and (though he would never admit it) the routine and discipline of acquiring a formal education. If Pattie didn’t miss her guess, the brothers wouldn't make the game. However, she knew they wouldn't ignore Mrs. Stayton’s request to stop by her house this evening.

Mrs. Stayton was Joshua’s mom. Josh was one of the old gang, the one who made sure everyone kept in touch after graduation. He had died this past Tuesday after a six-month battle with cancer, and his passing was the reason they were back in town after 2½ years. The last time they'd all been together was the summer after graduation, when they gathered for their annual week at camp. It seemed like only yesterday that Josh had called each of them, begging them not to visit but rather to remember him in better times.

Mrs. Stayton’s request came as a bit of a surprise to the group. Only Will had remained particularly close to her. He had spent a lot of time with Josh after high school. The two had discovered caving, a common hobby in the local area, where caves were abundant. Will also helped the Staytons by taking on household and automotive repairs. Josh’s father had passed away several years earlier, and to say that Josh was not mechanically inclined was an understatement.

Pattie scowled, There's Steve now, with that woman trailing him like a hound.

Hey Pattie, keep it civil for Steve’s sake, Mike said in a placating voice.

Pattie could hide her jealousy well enough around Steve, but with Mike, her lifelong friend, she knew better than to try. She (and everyone else) was convinced, and with good cause, that Gloria Stenner was out for two things: money and power. Pattie had never treated Steve as the son of a wealthy state senator, but she always knew he would follow in his father's footsteps despite his disdain for politics. Forced to attend more and more of the senator’s functions over the years, Steve began to resent his father and the perfect image he cultivated for the press and his contributors. Senator Oliver still harbored hopes that his son would enter politics, but despite his natural talent for leadership and organization, Steve had so far resisted his father’s attempts to steer him toward a political career. Pattie wondered briefly if Steve’s aversion to the limelight would dampen Gloria’s affections.

Before Steve spotted her and Mike by the sidelines, Pattie allowed herself a few moments to look over her old friend. She saw he was parting his fair hair on the side now, and his 6-foot, 2-inch frame, though still on the thin side, was more athletic now that he was on the college fencing team. Catching sight of her, Steve raised a hand in greeting, flashing a quick smile. He wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, but Pattie thought that smile could light the entire football field.

Over the years, she had taken great care to hide her true feelings for the senator’s son, believing that a tomboy from a very average family could only hold him back. One thing was certain, though—a person like Gloria was definitely not what Steve needed.

Mike spoke up just as Pattie was about to address the couple, aware that any remark she might make to Gloria could get the evening off on the wrong foot.

Hey, glad to see you two. I know you just arrived, but we need to get Brandon out of here before the end of the game, or he’ll never get away.

Mike continued as everyone glanced toward Brandon, Halftime was an absolute madhouse. Kids wanted autographs, long-lost friends wanted their pictures taken with him, you know how it goes.

The foursome was finally able to get Brandon’s attention by waving and shouting his name, giving him the excuse he needed to break away from the large group surrounding him. The four turned and started toward the exit gate where Brandon was finally able to catch up. They were a somber group as they headed for their cars to make their way to Mrs. Stayton's house. Pattie was already on her cell phone to remind the Reinard brothers of the unusual invitation.

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The brothers were just pulling up in the driveway as the others rounded the corner and eased in to park behind them. The house was a bi-level, part of a 30-year-old subdivision just off the main drag. Mrs. Stayton was proud of how she had kept the place up after her husband died. Even among all the other well-maintained properties, the Stayton home stood out. Mrs. Stayton had always worked extra jobs and, with Josh’s help, had kept the yard manicured and the flowerbeds perfect; the exterior of the house always looked freshly painted. Will was a great help on the overall maintenance of the place, but it was Mrs. Stayton’s perfectionism that made the property a showplace. Josh had lived his entire life in this home.

Silently the group gathered on the porch, the chill of the night more penetrating now. Pattie knocked on the door.

Mrs. Stayton answered almost immediately, smiling at their familiar faces.

I'm so glad to see you all. Please come in.

She was trying to project a strong, upbeat mood but they could tell she had been crying. The loss of her husband, then her only child, had devastated her. She directed them to the always-spotless living room and invited them to sit. After meeting Gloria and exchanging pleasantries with Josh’s old friends, an awkward silence settled on the group.

Then Mrs. Stayton began to speak.

I don't know how to ask this without being blunt. And I don’t want to offend any of you. I hope you understand that is not my intent.

She paused, choosing her words carefully.

It's just that I feel I need to know what drew all of you together. Why my son felt so close to you right up until the end.

The group, with the exception of Gloria, looked at one another with a mixture of surprise, concern, and relief. Gloria’s interest was piqued, as she had been wondering the same thing. This particular group of friends seemed to have nothing in common.

Go ahead, Mike. I think you should be the one to tell her, said Brandon. The others nodded in agreement.

Well, began Mike, as you know, we all met for the first time when we were 12, at the South Fork Summer Camp.

Mike fidgeted in his chair as he glanced at the others, then continued.

That first year at camp was awful. The counselors were young and more than eager to abuse their authority. Mike paused and looked at the others for encouragement before continuing.

We were spread out across several cabins and met one day quite by accident, when we went to investigate a big ruckus.

Mike focused his attention back on Mrs. Stayton and started anew.

That ruckus was Brandon saving Pattie from the camp bully.

Mike turned to Jeremy.

You remember, you and I came down the same path just as Steve and Josh were coming down another, and we saw Brandon facing a bully twice his size. Pattie was on the ground nearby with a bloody nose.

Brandon and Pattie nodded in agreement and Mike proceeded.

All of us newcomers to camp, even though we were barely acquainted, looked at each other without a word and decided to a person that we were going to help. Just as we started forward, Brandon flipped the bully onto the ground and had his arm twisted in what would best be described as a pretzel. With a few not-so-idle threats from Brandon, the bully left in short order.

I didn’t miss the fact that you all were coming to help me, Brandon chimed in.

Mike was becoming more comfortable telling the story now, as the others hadn’t interrupted with any criticism. He continued his narrative, relating that only two days of camp were left at this point. After helping Pattie up and making sure she was OK, the newly-formed group decided to meet after lights-out.

That night, they began sharing their negative experiences at the camp and quickly fell into an easy camaraderie. They began relating their life stories and soon realized their backgrounds were very dissimilar—in another setting unlike the close confines of the camp, they would never have started hanging around each other. And before the night was over, the eclectic group had formed an almost-instant bond.

They met the following night as well. Because this was their last night together, the group was under pressure to form an alliance against next year’s enforced campout. They knew two things: one, their parents would almost certainly send them to this terrible place again, and two, they wanted to hold on to their newly formed friendships.

Josh and Steve came up with a plan.

We all love the outdoors, we all love camping. So, why don’t we just make up our own camp?

After the others stopped laughing, they realized the two boys were completely serious. Josh came up with the idea of form letters written on fictional camp stationery. Steve added that he was sure he could get a post-office box set up using his dad’s campaign as a cover. With the P.O. box, they could get their parents to send checks to the imaginary camp, and Steve was sure he could get them cashed.

And that's when Camp Wyanet was born, Mike finished proudly.

The group was concerned over Mrs. Stayton’s reaction, but she smiled in genuine amusement. For those who had been around her for the last few months, it was the first time they’d seen her happy.

So, you never went to camp all those years, she said, almost chuckling.

Well, not exactly, replied Mike. We did go to camp, just not where you thought.

Mrs. Stayon’s smile was contagious. Mike couldn’t help grinning as he offered more details of their deception.

We picked Camp Wyanet because it was near the state park. There was a side trail near the entrance that cut straight over to the campgrounds in the state park.

I remember several times calling and getting a camp recording. I left a message, and later that day, Josh returned my call from the same number. How did you manage that?

That was easy, Mrs. Stayton, answered Steve. We bought one of those cell phones with prepaid minutes and used the number on the flyers we sent out. I had my older cousin record the message so it sounded like an adult.

So, you kids used up all that money we parents sent along with you to go to camp. You must have had a grand old time, Mrs. Stayton commented, as amused as ever.

I sure wish I could have thought of something like that when I was that age. I see now why Josh was so close to all of you, even though later he didn’t see all of you that often.

Mrs. Stayton seemed to grow more reflective. You must have grown very close spending entire weeks together over six summers.

She stood up. Please wait here a moment. I have something for you, and she walked slowly out of the room.

Mrs. Stayton returned a short time later with an envelope in her right hand. Her eyes were glistening as the sadness fell over her again. The all-too brief-respite Mike’s camp story had offered her was over.

I have a letter that Josh wrote a few months ago, Mrs. Stayton offered as she fought to control her emotions.

He made me promise to bring you all together and give this to you the night before his funeral, she added so softly, the friends had to strain to hear her words.

With a little more strength in her voice, she continued, I don’t think I can stay to hear its contents, even if Josh would have wanted me to. I’ll just go on to bed now. Please make yourselves at home.

Without replying to their good nights and thank yous, she handed the letter to Will and hurried off up the stairs.

Without any ado, Will opened the envelope and began reading the letter, printed in Josh’s distinctive handwriting.

If the Camp Wyanet Gang is reading this, I've already been cremated. I have a final request of you. I've been thinking of all the places people scatter ashes, or how