SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) by K.B. Sprague Page B

of my night sack and lumbered to the study.
    Paplov rested in his favorite chair sipping tea, slowly digesting a book and a biscuit. The tea was a special blend, steeped from young five-finger leaves picked just outside of Proudfoot before we left. Paplov claimed the remedy soothed his throat and eased his aches. He was still in his night robe. A heavy wool blanket lay folded over his lap. I slumped into the chair opposite him.
    A few nibbles of biscuit and the occasional handful of wild berries were all he could keep down. We were due to hit the trail soon, so preparations had to start right away.
    Paplov knew it too, and he sighed when he looked at me with those tired eyes. He stared for a long minute, as though weighing something within. Then relief washed over him, and without cause for concern, he bade me to gather the arrows made, my wits, and some good company. I was to get myself together, stop at Town Hall to file the land lease records, and take my leave come morning the next day. He insisted I make the journey to my uncle’s cabin with friends this time, saying he wanted me out of the hut until his ailment ran its course.
    “Fyorn’s eyes’ll light up like fireflies when he sees some fresh young faces for a change,” he said. “I gather he’s getting plenty tired of that ole coot he sees in the mirror every day, with only one other old coot’s company to look forward too.” Paplov began to laugh, but his laugh became a cough. He had choppy words of advice for me, and a request: “Give him my best ; keep one eye on the water and the other on the tree-line; and no laggards.”
    Paplov shut his mouth tight, filled his cheeks with air, and did his best to muffle an oncoming flurry of coughs. I took the opportunity to blurt out something that should have been said years ago.
    “Last time I went… there was something not right about the forest,” I said.
    “Not right?”
    “I thought it was a tree at first, but…” I trailed off. I didn’t know how to say it.
    “But what?” he said.
    “It moved.”
    “Pardon?” he wheezed, trying to suppress the inevitable.
    “It moved,” I replied, “and not just a little. It came at me. It was gnarled and crooked, with jaws and teeth and…”
    Red-faced, Paplov raised his hand, shook his head, and then began to cough-roar at the notion. The act cleared his throat, at least. His voice was scratchy.
    “Oh really?” he said, swallowing. “Boogalies too? And did you hear the flip-flap-flopping of their floppy wet feet? Maybe they were in the trees.”
    “It wasn’t like that,” I said.
    He cough-roared again, then took a long moment to regain his composure.
    “Maybe you are having false recalls,” he said. “One thing’s for sure, Uncle Fyorn doesn’t miss a beat, especially in his own woods. And he never, ever mentioned anything to me about talking trees.”
    “They chased me. I didn’t say they could ta—”
    “I meant walking trees… whatever . You just have a vivid imagination.”
    I didn’t say anything, but the glance I made at my branded wrist tipped him off.
    “That has nothing to do with anything,” said Paplov. “Looks like a rash. Better get it checked out – the Diviner probably has an ointment or some other remedy that’ll take care of it. Did you scratch yourself against something up in that attic?”
    My eyes went wide.
    “Yes – I know you were there,” he continued. “Rashes can be stubborn. They can persist for years. Does it come and go?”
    I shook my head. He took a closer look, and muffled another cough.
    “That mark has been there just about as long as I can remember, so no worries. You know, I’d say it was smaller years back , but you’ve grown since. Your stubborn little friend probably just grew right along with you.”
    His explanations were ludicrous, but to pursue the matter further would be pointless – my grandfather had no real answers to offer, only mockery