Oh Godson Where Art Thou?

Maelstrom, 8/02/95: The Inkblot Record

A dream...

A odd, not dream scary sort of dream.

Where icy fog ran down his spine like spiders.

A dream that broke allowing Harry finally for two months...

Repost.

Re-post.

Repost?

The word tasting odd.

Tasting odd, sounding unnatural to his ears.

Because he'd never said it.

"Yes, a fine repost. Yes, I think you'll be pleased of our Britain selection Rounda--"

Repost. Maelstrom. Duh.

Maelstrom and his fancy words.

Harry would even swear he'd blearily seen the man's face blink in and out like a snowy peak. 

Syrupy something coaxed by soft words and gentle, calculating promises.

                                                                          *****************************

Wait a minute!

Gasping Harry broke over water and into the glaring sunlight and glass burning to the touch.

Needless to say, over the air in a private plane of some sort, clearly high class, and over the tropics Harry woke up acutely violated.

Glaring at his escort he found Maelstrom whiling away the time with some old leather book, wearing reading glasses. Were they prescription? A possible advantage?

Then again, the sun was having a sedating effect all its own on his still dazed body. Whatever or however he'd been duped into sleeping still lingered.

Harry could perceive some faint metallic tingle at his throat. Not that it told him much.

Hand on his forehead, right over his scar, he did his best to coax out something, anything.

An-- an air strip. There'd definitely been an airstrip.

He had been allowed that.

Packed nothing in advance.

And a private one too. No other cars, and only a singular, small plane. Certainly not the kind for a sweepstakes trip to Maui. 

That meant no money, no food, not even the pouch he kept all his most precious, if not cumbersome items.

But after, on the plane...

Right as the engine roared and the wheels ascended--

The lurch came back.

Of being kept still, in his seat even as he squirmed and kicked. Until the gas took effect. Mr. Maelstrom having used a kerchief to cover his own nose and mouth.

Harry wet his lips, glare levelled to Maelstrom but otherwise said nothing.

Letting the flight pass by, wringing his hands for some feeling back into his insides an island then jutted from his window. 

A slow descent into a resplendent isle of crystal water, lush green foliage, and with pale cliffs overhead lay a sleek modern building.

Standing Harry nearly toppled over when the chopper landed on a helipad upon the roof.

"Well, here's our stop," Maelstrom said and made no presumption this time of leading Harry by a vice.

Sun nicked through the lenses of his glasses, vague features of a man in Japanese clothing and a slim Black woman with high cheekbones and sharp manicure turning clear as they passed.