Van Bender and the Spirit Tether
A novelette introducing the strange and magical world of Richie Van Bender
By S. James Nelson
Praise for S. James Nelson
"Stephen Nelson is a brilliant storyteller: ingenious in his creativity, with an eye toward elegant prose, with stories that hit you like a heavyweight boxer's blow to the gut."
--David Farland, NYT Best-selling author of Nightingale
"THE DEMIGOD PROVING is a clever and unique fantasy with equal measures of wit and bloodthirsty mayhem.
--Kevin J. Anderson, #1 international bestselling author of the Saga of Seven Suns
Van Bender and the Spirit Tether
Copyright 2012 S. James Nelson
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or our used fictitiously.
Cover art by Arthur Nelson. Contact him at
[email protected].
First edition: November 30, 2012
Other works by this author
The Demigod Proving
Keep Mama Dead
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Best.Gift. Ever.
Chapter 2: The life-changing iPad
Chapter 3: A duo of problems
Chapter 4: I give reason a shot
Chapter 5: Saved by the squeaky floorboard
Chapter 6: Skirting the alarms
Chapter 7: Holy freaking impossible
Chapter 8: Escape
Chapter 9: Welcome to the big bad world of magic
Chapter 10: Among the stone titans
Chapter 11: Stones come tumbling down
Chapter 12: My dad, the teleporting maniac
Chapter 13: Hostage negotiations
Chapter 14: Promises, promises
Chapter 15: Paralyzed
Chapter 16: Life Changes
Chapter 1: Best. Gift. Ever.
I know Richie thinks I’m crazy. I’m not. I’m just over-protective. The world is full of magical crap he has no idea about.
-Elizabeth Van Bender
I’m Richie Van Bender, and my mother is a lunatic.
I suppose that could be normal for moms of teenage rock stars. I mean, when your son’s first single sells almost ten million copies, it’s sure to jack you up. When his third album has industry experts saying he might someday be the greatest rock star ever, that’s got to mess with your head. It sure messes with mine. It’s all I can do to keep things in perspective—that it all happened because of my friends.
I’m trying to keep it real.
Mom makes it harder, though. She has these rules I have to follow, and all they do is demonstrate her paranoia. For example, she won’t let me meet another rock star. Not one. And why is that? I have no idea.
No. Freaking. Idea.
But I sure would like to break that rule.
It’s my fifteenth birthday. We’re on vacation in Hawaii with my friends, Sandra and Kurt. I invited them because I knew they would love learning how to surf as much as I would.
We have an entire beach-front restaurant to ourselves. Mom’s rented out the entire joint. She does that anytime we go somewhere public.
We sit at the edge of a patio, under a bamboo and grass tiki roof. The sun sets over the water, just beyond the high tide crashing against the beach. A breeze rustles nearby palm branches.
Three gifts sit on the next table. One looks just the right size for an iPad. It came in the mail that afternoon, while I was out taking my surfing lesson. Dad sent it.
He lives in the D.C. area. Right before we left L.A., he joked that if Mom would let him zip on over, he would come. She got all uptight at that. I didn’t get why.
“Time for presents, right?” Kurt asks.
He takes an enormous swig of root beer, then suppresses a belch. Since arriving in Hawaii, he’s worn a thick layer of sunscreen on his nose because he thinks it’s funny. He buzzed his hair for the trip, so a brown fuzz covers his head.
“Nah,” Sandra says. “Richie hates presents.”
She pops the last bit of barbequed pineapple into her mouth, and smiles at me. She’s wearing a lei of red blossoms. Her brown hair falls straight down her back, with a red and yellow hibiscus tucked under one ear. Like me, she’s tanner than usual, maybe even a little sunburned. That’s okay. She’s still hot.
“Presents are boring,” I say.
Mom laughs and stands. She turns to the gifts on the table behind her.
It’s a critical error.
Sandra passes me a note. I tuck it into the pocket of my Hawaiian shirt. My heart pounds as Mom turns back to us and places the gifts on the table.
Kurt pretends no note got passed.
“Open mine first,” he says. “It’s gonna blow your mind.”
I open it. It’s a strategy guide and cheat book for Shred Master IV: Heroic Legends of the Fatal Six String. Most kids just get cheats off the Internet, but as part of my rule that I can’t talk with fans or the media, I also can’t use the Internet. I’m on complete lockdown, without any devices that connect to the rest of the world. Combined with the “no meeting rock stars,” “no media interviews,” and “no concerts” rules, I’m pretty much isolated from the rest of the world.
Mom’s doing. Bless her heart. She means well. I’m sure.
That’s why notes from Sandra are so welcome. That’s why I’m so interested in that gift from Dad. Maybe it’s an iPad. Maybe Mom and Dad have decided to loosen that rule.
Unlikely? Yes. But I can hope.
I open Sandra’s gift. It’s a vintage rock t-shirt. Black, with the outline of a man with wings and the words Led Zeppelin on the front.
“It’s never been worn,” she says. “The seller promised.”
“Wow,” I say. “Led Zeppelin. It must be almost as ancient as—” I cut myself off, and widen my eyes at Mom.
She gives me an exaggerated, “I’m-not-amused” look.
“You are almost forty, Mrs. VB,” Kurt says. “You might as well be dead.”
She arches her eyebrows.
“Thanks, Sandra,” I say. “I love it.”
She gives me her usual coy smile—the kind that will most likely earn me the lecture from Mom that I’m too young for a girlfriend. I mean, seriously. I’m fifteen. I know what I’m doing.
Next, Mom hands me Dad’s gift. I run my hands over the smooth paper, relishing the thought of an iPad.
Mom sighs. “I wish it was what you really want.”
“The Best Young Entertainer of the Year Award?”
She shrugs and nods. “Sorry I can’t get you that, dear.”
We’re still several months out from the awards show. Kurt and Sandra say that my unofficial fan sites buzz with rumors that I’ll be nominated, but most pundits say I won’t be because I haven’t ever held a concert.
I got my first record deal after Kurt and his dad posted a video of me playing the guitar. In the three years since, my band and I have played many live concerts—all broadcast over the Internet. Mom won’t let me do a real concert despite the begging, pleading, and supplicating of fans, the media, my record label, and just about every other person on the freaking planet. Including me.
I try not to let it bother me. I mean, in a lot of ways I’m just lucky that Mom even lets me record and sell music. But man, I would sure love to hold a concert and win that award.
“What are you waiting for?” Kurt asks.
I tear the paper off. My hope fails.
It’s a hard-bound book titled “Majestic Moab.” I try to hide my disappointment by flipping through it. It’s filled with pictures of deep canyons, delicate arches, sheer cliffs, and pristine reservoi
rs. I stop half-way through. There’s something inserted in the pages.
I hold up the paper and unfold it. My disappointment almost vanishes.
“Holy mother of everything awesome,” Kurt says. “Are those what I think they are?”
I nod. A grin spreads across my face. Plane tickets.
“Your Dad and I thought it would be fun,” Mom says. “We know you want to test your climbing skills. He can’t come on the trip, but it was his idea and he paid for it.”
Since my cancer, I’ve been rock climbing in gyms, always wanting to do it for real. All my instructors say Moab is the best place.
“We’re going in a month,” Mom says.
“Why not tomorrow?” I ask.
She laughs. “Kurt and Sandra couldn’t go so soon.”
“What? They’re coming, too?”
Mom nods, grinning. Kurt, Sandra, and I play air guitars in celebration.
From the corner of my vision, out near the beach, I see a flash of purple light. It kind of blends with the orange of the setting sun, but it’s undeniable. I pause my celebrations and look out over the sand.
“What?” Sandra says. She looks at the sunset with me.
“I thought I saw something,” I say. “A purple light. It was strange. Unnatural.”
Mom speaks up in a hurry. “We’ll stay in Moab for three days, and we’ll do whatever you want.”
Shrugging off the purple light, I return to the conversation. After chocolate cake for dessert, we go back to the hotel. I’m in the bathroom changing. Mom is out in the room, talking more about how she wishes I could be nominated for the award without holding a concert. I can only agree with her.
As I take off my shirt, I find Sandra’s note, and unfold it.
Kurt and I have another gift for you, but we couldn’t bring it to Hawaii. So we hid it at your house. When you get home, look under the couch in your room.
A typical note from Sandra. To-the-point. Signed with hearts around her name. I always wonder about those hearts.
What’s the gift? How in the name of rock-climbing trips did she and Kurt get it under the couch in my room?
I wonder until the next day when we get to our Malibu, California home on Point Dume. I go straight to my room, look under the couch, and find the present.
The latest iPad. With a built-in data connection.
Watch out, world. Richie Van Bender can finally get on Facebook.
* * * *
Chapter 2: The life-changing iPad
Finally. I could hang out with Richie online. Been waiting years for that.
-Sandra Montoya
Before the iPad, most of my days looked like this:
1.Get up early to exercise (if there’s one thing my bout with cancer taught me, it’s to take my health seriously).
2.Practice the guitar for two blissful hours.
3.Study with my tutor for three agonizing hours.
4.Do homework for an unbearable, indeterminate amount of time.
5.Meet the band for practice.
6.Perform miscellaneous rock-star-related duties.
7.Chillax.
My free time usually arrives by about four in the afternoon. I spend a lot of it with Kurt and Sandra. I go to a rock-climbing gym twice a week. Mom rents the entire place out. Ridiculous.
Everything takes place under her watchful eyes. Of course.
Except for when I’m in my room.
And with the iPad, I suddenly find myself in my room way more, pouring over apps and finding friends on Facebook. Of course, I can’t use my real name—Mom would discover me in a heartbeat. So, I use the name Skinny McFarter.
Heh.
In real life I only have two friends. All of the others dropped off during my cancer four years ago. So, it only takes me about twenty seconds to friend Kurt and Sandra, and then it’s on to famous people. Actors. Lots of actresses. Other rock stars. People I’ve always wanted to meet, who probably accept friend requests from random fans all the time. Like Roger Aires, Cecelia Wanless, Bobby Fretboard. And Nick Savage.
Especially Nick Savage.
In fact, I set a picture of him as my default wallpaper on the iPad. I’ve always looked to him as a rock star hero. I would really love to meet him. Heck, I’d like to meet any rock star.
I even go so far as to friend Marti Walker, a teenage country singer who gets compared to me all the time because of our ages. I friend her for professional reasons, to get a look at the competition. Not so I can look at all the pictures she posts online.
And man, does she post a lot of pictures of herself. And status updates. Like, multiple updates every hour. It makes me feel like a slacker because I just don’t have much to say online. I mostly just watch people.
I come to really love the feel of the iPad’s glass, it’s cool smoothness against my fingers whenever I tap it.
Mom, of course, gets suspicious. She’s always poking her head into my room, asking what I’m doing and trying to catch me at something illicit. I keep the book about Moab handy and tell her I’m just looking through it. And sometimes I do, because I am looking forward to the trip. But I find the Internet has way better information on it.
I also tell Mom I’m waxing my surf board, which I brought back from Hawaii and keep in my room. And I beg her about going surfing in the ocean right outside our house, but she says she’s disinclined to acquiesce to my request, quoting one of my favorite movies at me, as if that makes the “no” more fun.
Really, she thinks the crowds are too thick—which means there are more than zero people out there. She doesn’t want me with actual, live people. It’s too dangerous.
But really, I’m mostly on the Internet. On Facebook. YouTube. Twitter. The iPad repeatedly warns that I’m using too much of my data quota. I don’t care. I’ve been blocked from the Internet ever since I became famous, and now that the floodgates are open, I find myself consuming content. Videos. Articles. Games. The amount of sleep I get drops dramatically.
Mom tells me I look more tired than usual. Fatigued. She’s quite concerned, but she’s that way anyway. I mean, you would think it was she who had the cancer, and not me. I can’t sneeze without her calling an oncologist.
It goes on for about a week, when Bobby Fretboard, a thirty-nine-year-old guitarist for the Double Joints, figures out that Skinny McFarter is actually me. I have no idea how he knows, but he sends me a message on Facebook.
* * * *
Chapter 3: A duo of problems
Richie may never know the measures I took to find out he was on Facebook. I had a purpose, you see. One given to me by my master.
-Bobby Fretboard
I’m sitting on my couch, facing the 65” TV in my room, back to my door. It’s evening. To my left, out my window, the sun hangs low over the Malibu beach. The message comes across on my iPad. It’s from Bobby Fretboard. And it’s not written on my wall or messaged to me. It’s live chat.
I know who you really are.
I pause, looking at the Facebook app and pursing my lips. How can he possibly know who I am? I’ve probably commented on something he’s posted, but I don’t think he’s responded to anything I’ve written.
Here, I realize, is a moment of choice. I can ignore him or pretend he’s insane. Or, I can acknowledge that he’s right, and talk with him rock star to rock star.
I’ve always wanted to meet a rock star. They always seem so much bigger than life, so above the rules. So invincible and confident.
Here, maybe, is an opportunity for that dream to come true.
And Mom would be none the wiser.
My fingers thump against the iPad glass as I respond with, I’m Skinny McFarter.
Well, that’s what I mean to respond. I actually type: Un Dommu NcGqtwee. My mouth has gone dry and my heart has started to pound. I can hardly think straight. Here is a real rock star. Talking to me. My hands shake as I delete the nonsense, and type, I’m Skinny McFarter.
He answers back with a link. When I ta
p it, the YouTube app opens. It takes me to the first video Kurt and his dad posted of me on the Internet. It’s titled, “Eleven-year-old on an electric guitar.” I’m standing in the back of a music shop, under the wall of electric guitars and the shop’s sunburst music logo, just wailing away on the instrument. I watch about thirty seconds, amazed I could play so well after so few lessons, and also astounded at how amateurish it sounds. I’ve come a long way since then.
I return to the Facebook app, and have to type my message twice before it actually makes sense.
Funny. How could I be him? His mom doesn’t even let him online.
He answers: A smart kid like you could find a way around your mom.
While researching myself online, I’d quickly found that Mom is a celebrity of sorts—the crazy, over-protective mother who won’t let her kid so much as meet a fan. She’s actually more famous now than when she was in a band. It kind of amuses me. Mom has never said a word about it. If it bothers her, she doesn’t let it show.
With minimal mistakes this time—I’m calming down a little—I tap on my keyboard: What if I was Richie Van Bender?
I’d want to meet you.
My heart pounds even harder. I’m sure Mom will come in any second. The Moab book is on the couch next to me, open to a page about Arches National Park. If she knocks, I’ll have to slide the iPad between the cushions really fast.
I say to Bobby, Every kid knows not to meet with strangers they meet online.
That’s right. But this is different. You’re a famous rock star. I’m a famous rock star. We should hang.
Mom would never let it happen.
You know her nickname? I gave it to her, you know.
Mom and Dad both have histories in the music industry. Now they’re both has-beens, but they had mild success in the mid-nineties. Mom was known as Elizabeth “the Storm” Malmstrom before marrying Dad and becoming Elizabeth Van Bender.
Why did you call her “the Storm?”
LOL. Because everywhere she went, she left things in a mess. Quite the diva in her day, your Mom was.
I have no trouble believing that.
He types before I have a chance to respond.
She seems to have gone off the deep end. Won’t let you do anything. Way over-protective.