Lestrade's Riders (Introduction & Chapter 1) *UPDATED*

Introduction

There is an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that is not Hawaii nor Tahiti nor Oahu. Very few people know about it today. Why? Simply because our world does not connect to it, though it does connect to ours.

Now you say to me, “Well then, how do you know about this strange land that I don’t?”

Because I came from there.

You look at me strangely, but I tell you that I am speaking the truth. How else would my countenance look so otherworldly? And how would I know these things? You can ask my best friend Sapphyere Ramseyjik, my brother James, or anyone else who lived on the island during those days.

No one remembers exactly how the first residents arrived. Some say they came from secret tunnels in the Bermuda Triangle, but I do not agree since the Triangle and this island are on opposite sides of the world.

Others say they came from an ancient tribe. Did they? Perhaps these people do not know that there are French, English, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Russian, and Palestinian people—people from all over the world—on this island.

Still others propose the residents came from Atlantis, but Atlantis is in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, not the Pacific…

But whatever happened back then is not very important at the moment. Let me now introduce you to my homeland.

This island is about the size of your Greenland. The time there follows your time—but in year and season only, for in some ways the place is very ancient and in others beyond our modern time. There are no cars on the island, for example.

The northern part of the island is a country called Bulkswhack. The people there are Bulkswhackens—mean, cruel, tough.

The rest of the island is the country of Volksenburg, aside from a small piece of land carved out in the southeastern part of the island. That land became Cyper, and that land was the place I lived my boyhood days.

I was raised a Cyperian and a true one, though by nationality I was French. Cyperians considered their country the 52nd state of the U.S.A., and I believe so. This is the view I will take as I speak.

There are eighteen regions in this state (actually, they were not much bigger than cities but Cyperians preferred to call them “regions”, and so they were). The capital, Copperfield, sits right in the middle of the state. To the north of Copperfield is the giant region of Northville and to the north of that Davidsville, of a similar size. Both regions are the largest in the state and are like your average city.

To the west of Copperfield is Broadway, known for its gigantic mansions housing rich billionaires and its large estates. West of Broadway is the dreaded region of Shymer, filled with pickpockets, gangs, and criminal hideouts. Between Davidsville and Shymer lies the twin regions, similar in size and topography, and Lordsville, a rural mountain/countryside dotted with small villages on the border of the twin regions, Davidsville, and Bulkswhack.

South of Copperfield lies Jaydan, which is actually just a large swamp, and south of that Homer, where some Indians still live and the mustangs run wild on the grassy plains. Between Homer and Shymer rests Normanland, an isolated place where no man is known to live.

Southeast of Cyper, New Hampton, is open farm country. However, New Orleans, further down than New Hampton and separated from it by a long river, boasts a large seaport and the best whaling ships on the island (yes, they still hunt whale the old-fashioned way these days). New Orleans stretches to Homer’s borders, making no need for another region between them.

East of Copperfield lies Charling, an upper-class city of proud residents not as rich as the Broadwayers but better off than most in the state. Further east is Mylestike, a dangerous region almost exactly the same as Shymer but without the guns and firearms—just knives and axes. Between the “Tike” and Davidsville is the region of Larding, twin to Charling, and between Mylestike and New Orleans is Newport Bay.

Copperfield has a city area close to its southwest border, carving out the section bordering Broadway and Jaydan. The rest of the region is open country, housing several small farms and their residents—that was where I lived.

And now, this story takes place in the heart of Copperfield.

—Jasper Daniel Emile Leveque

Larson Lestrade

He stood looking out the window. “Mom, why does the mail take so long to arrive?” he asked.

“Honey, I’ve told you before; everything travels by foot.”

“Why don’t they just use cars like everyone else does? Like in the regular States?”

“I don’t know, dear.  I think they want to preserve the quietness here.”

“Well, I want to change that--the slow mail, I mean.” He shifted his gaze from the window to his mother. “Maybe we could have a modern-day Pony Express. Just not that fast.”

“The people who owned the Pony Express went broke. Don’t you remember that?”

“Well, yeah, but I won’t go broke.”

“And then you have to find people who are going to work for you.”

“Daring and adventurous ones who’ll ride anywhere.”

“You have to pay them. No one will work for less than eight dollars an hour.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But wait—just wait—and in a few years you’ll see.”

More than a few years passed—ten years flew by. Larson earned a B.A. at Copperfield University and settled into a house at the edge of town with his wife Eliza and their baby daughter. Lestrade’s Mediterranean fast food restaurant (falafels and shwarmas) was soon opened, run by his wife, and the Copperfield Weekly came into print. But the post office had not yet opened.

Larson was ready, though. He had divided the state of Cyper into five mail routes which could be ridden three times each week—ten people were all he needed to keep the mail delivered regularly. Rules and requirements had been written out and a special test devised to choose riders with honesty, integrity, wisdom, and discernment.

“You should place a ‘Help Wanted’ ad in the paper,” Eliza suggested.

Larson nodded thoughtfully. “Yes; I’ll do that first thing in the morning.”

The next issue of the Copperfield Weekly contained a front-page ad that looked something like this:

TEN BOYS WANTED AGES 14-18; PREFERABLY ORPHANS

WILLING TO WORK 12+ HOURS SIX TO SEVEN DAYS A WEEK

DELIVERING MAIL ALL OVER CYPER AND WORKING AT THE RESTAURANT

PLEASE REPORT TO LESTRADE’S MEDITERRANEAN AT 10:00AM AUGUST 13, 2009

“I plan to have two groups taking turns riding,” he explained, “so while one group is riding the other can help you out.”

“Saves money, too,” Eliza murmured, “but I guess I’ll have to do all the cooking myself.”

August 13th came and went. No one showed up.

“I guess I’ll just have to wait till the time comes,” Larson sighed.

“Yes, I think so,” Eliza answered. “We’ll just wait and see.” She paused. “But how about those five who’re helping you out on the newspaper—like Tom or Isaac?”

He sighed again. “They’re good, honest, and hard workers, but they don’t have the physical endurance the mail delivering requires. We’ll just wait and see.”

Chapter 1—Danny Myers

A young boy trudged through the snow, panting and heaving as he tried to break a path. Every now and then he sat on a log to rest; but got up and kept moving whenever he remembered how people who fell asleep during a blizzard were frozen alive. He couldn’t let that happen to him—especially after he had gone so far.

After Danny’s parents had both died the last year he had been sent to live in foster homes. Averaging two moves a month, he couldn’t stand the change any longer and ran away from his current foster home on a certain cold September night.

Being used to hardship, he exchanged grueling work for food whenever he came upon farmhouses. Occasionally when he passed through a forest he sometimes brought down a deer or rabbit with an old hunting rifle that once belonged to his father. But as the world plunged deeper and deeper into winter, food and work became scarce.

He returned his thoughts to his current position and tried not to listen to the sounds of his growling stomach. I’ve got to find some stable work soon, he thought, or who knows if I’ll live to see the New Year. He pondered this so deeply that he didn’t notice the drowsiness overcoming him…

More than a year had gone by. Mr. Lestrade (as he was now known) was still waiting to keep his childhood promise. Mrs. Lestrade, in the meantime, had realized her husband was right about the current boys not having the ability to do that hard work; most of them came from families in the city and were better at record-keeping than rough riding.

The country boys from northern Copperfield were willing and able to meet the demands of all-night riding, but they all lived on farms and were already trying to keep up with the work. So Mr. Lestrade continued to wait—and it was not long before the first promise arrived.

One cold December morning sixteen-year-old Tom Finley and thirteen-year-old Isaac Preston arrived at the press shop carrying a large bundle. “Just somethin’ we found in the forest,” Tom explained, setting down the burden as the other three boys crowded around.

Whatever had been set on the ground jumped. “Where—what?” it cried before sinking down to the earth.

Tom looked over the new boy. “Think we should keep him here for a while?”

“Don’t mind,” one of the others said. “Could replace you once you leave for college.”

“Looks about twelve or thirteen,” Isaac remarked, “but I guess we’ll let Lestrade decide about him. Sure don’t wanna leave him out in the cold, though.”

Mr. Lestrade heard the noise and stepped out of his warm office into the chilly air. “What’s that you’ve got?” he asked.

“A boy,” Tom answered. “Flew out of the sky and landed right here.”

“Did not,” Isaac snapped, elbowing Tom in the ribs.

“Hey!”

Mr. Lestrade shot them both a look. “I’ll take care of it—him, I mean,” he said. The two of them slipped into the restaurant as Mr. Lestrade bent down to inspect the new arrival.

The boy stirred. “Where am I?” he asked.

Mr. Lestrade straightened up. “Tom!” he called.

Tom flew outside. “What?”

“Take him upstairs and keep him by the fire. In a few days I’ll decide what to do.”

Tom and Isaac sat crouched by the furnace. The boy lay on a mat beside them.

“He’s slept for more than a day now,” Tom murmured. “Wonder when he’ll wake.”

Isaac shrugged. “I dunno.”

Suddenly, the boy stirred and sat up. He opened his eyes and frowned. “Who are you?” he asked.

“You feelin’ okay?” Tom questioned.

“Think so. Hit my head or somethin’.”

“Where’d you come from?” Isaac asked.

“Volksenburg. Where’s my pack?”

“Right here.” He handed it over and thought for a moment. “Wait—how old are you? Twelve or thirteen?”

The boy sighed. “Ten, but I can beat up any boy that age.”

“You’re—you’re just ten?”

“Eleven in March. Not so long till then.” He looked into the fire and added, “I’m big for my age. How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” Isaac replied as Tom said, “Sixteen.”

He extended his hand. “I’m Tom Finley.”

“I’m Isaac Preston.”

“And I’m Danny Myers.”