The Odyssey - 2024

The ODYSSEY

The ODYSSEY

2024 Volume One

First Revitilzaed Edition

Moderator: Ms. Veresink

Editor: Matthias Pridgeon

Layout Supervision: Mr. Doyle

Table of Contents

Pages 4-5 -- Introductory Letter

Expressing appreciation for the arts at Calvert Hall

By the Editors of The Odyssey

Pages 6-15 -- “Hong Kong Gnome Hunter”

An action spoof inspired by Stephen Chow’s FromBeijingwithLove

By Vasilios Van de Verg ‘25

Pages 16-19 -- “Catching Old Widemouth”

A flash fiction piece about a bass, a father, and the reasons we act

By Matthias Pridgeon ‘25

Pages 20-21 -- “Love of the Hall”

A poem appreciating Calvert Hall’s power in shaping the lives of students

By Henry Lynch ‘26

Pages 22-23 -- “The Young Rat”

A short prose piece told in poetic language, depicting greed and loss

Sebastian Guerrero ‘25

Pages 24-28 -- “Marabou Swamp”

A short horror/mystery story with a focus on the natural world

By Alex Swigert ‘25

Page 29 – Artist Credits

Introductory Letter

From the Editors

To the Calvert Hall Community,

We are so thrilled to be presenting another edition of TheOdysseyafter an absence of over half a decade. In the time since the last edition was published, Calvert Hall has changed a lot; the values, curricula, and skills of the Art and English department have changed immensely. But, in many ways, Calvert Hall has stayed the same, rooted in the same traditional values. Calvert Hall has always-- and likely always will-- value the power of student expression in all its forms.

It is our honor to play some small role in continuing this tradition by presenting the enclosed writings and works of art. The effort that these artists and writers have put into their craft is truly admirable, and capturing the moments of progress is a true privledge. TheOdysseywas brought back to serve these artists and help them share their work with the wider community.

We hope you enjoy!

Hong Kong Gnome Hunter

An Action Spoof

by Vasilios Van de Verg

I was working as an accountant in Wan Chai when I met him. He was wearing a tan coat with unidentifiable stains that went down to his Oxfords. He sported a hat twenty-four years out of style and a tailored grey suit. He wore a white shirt with gold pinstripes and a solid red necktie. His stubble wasn’t unattractive. His eyes smoldered like the cigarette between his lips.

I peered over the wall of the cubicle. He was pressing the woman at the front desk for something. She shook her head no. The older lady who handed out the mail was now at my desk.

“Who is that man? He looks like a gangster,” she mused.

The office was now in a hushed whisper. I tried to get back to my work. I looked up, the man was hovering over me like a spirit.

“Where can I find Thompson?”

Mr. Thompson was the Englishman who owned the whole building. I had hardly ever seen the man. When he had to be in town, he stayed in Morrison Hills and sent secretaries to the building from his flat.

Ding! The elevator doors opened, and a shorter, middle-aged white man hurried our way. The man in the coat went to meet him. The two now stood in the center of the floor, receiving confused glances from every angle, with everyone so eager for a distraction from their work.

The small man was explaining something frantically to the man in the coat who stood expressionless, cold as a cobble wall. The bewilderment building in the office did not subside as the two headed toward the men’s restroom.

That men’s restroom rarely had a single occupant; there were pests because of the kitchen right below it on the floor down. I used to go two floors up to use the bathroom.

During the absence of the two unexpected guests, a conversation developed between me and my three adjacent coworkers. One of them remarked that this assistant looked uncannily similar to Mr. Thompson. In response, another claimed that the man was in fact Mr. Thompson. The third suggested that regardless of whether or not the man was Mr. Thompson, Mr. Thompson and his assistants were likely visually indistinguishable.

Just as the debate heated up, the man who may or may not have been Mr. Thompson hurried out from the men’s restroom and toward the elevator. He frantically pushed the down button until the doors opened and then immediately exited. Just after the doors closed, I heard crashing and stamping from the restroom.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang. I heard shrill voices screaming. They sounded like tiny demons. The man in the coat ran out of the restroom, one hand securing his hat to his head, the other at his side holding a revolver. Panic in the office was followed closely in tail with horror just as he was followed closely by a dozen or so tiny little creatures in pointed hats.

Everyone rushed to the elevator but found that the man who may have been Mr. Thompson inevitably took it to the ground floor. The man in the coat fired four consecutive shots, three of which hit their targets squarely in the torso. The last grazed the arm of one of the beings who was larger than the others. At this point, those who

had waited for the elevator were now safely inside of it, and there was a train of people heading through the door to the fire exit. The mail lady and I held the rear. I looked back and saw the man produce a sawed-off shotgun from his coat. He fired it twice into the oncoming horde, taking three more of the creatures to the ground and further injuring the larger one. It rolled to the back of the mob and seemed to retreat. Another lunged forward into the air, arms outstretched to attack the man. Instinctively, he turned the gun around and swung, hitting it like a baseball and sending it flying through the window.

“This is hell on earth,” wept the mail lady. “Do you think we’ll be paid for a full shift today?”

“Let’s not worry about that right now, ma’am.”

We were at the precipice of the fire exit door when I spotted the largest of the creatures barreling towards us. It threw itself on to me and pinned me to the ground. When I reached for anything to use as a weapon, I obtained a stapler from a nearby desk. I used all the force I had to beat it into the face of the beast, leaving a staple lodged in its eye. It shrieked in pain, and with its mouth agape, I hit it twice more and left two staples in its tongue. When I regained my bearings, I saw that the thing was now blocking the exit, and that the only person left in the floor was the man in the coat. The battle had devolved into a melee; the man was swinging a hatchet at the five creatures that remained.

“You! Get over here!” he barked at me.

“What the hell is happening? What are these things?” I demanded.

“Do you want to know that?” he commented, surprisingly suave. “Or do you want to live?”

I ran to meet him in the center of the room. We were swiftly encircled by the remaining beasts. He handed me a hatchet. Three attempted to take him down, launching themselves into the air in sync. He quickly countered, swinging his hatchet, and severing each one at the waist in one fell swoop. One jumped towards me, and I held the hatchet to cover my face in defense, with the blade pointing straight out. The creature’s momentum pushed it into the blade, splitting it in two. Before I could raise the hatchet in defense once again, another immediately came at me. The man whipped around and shot it in the skull with the last remaining bullet in his revolver. Only one was left. The man produced a second revolver and aimed it at the creature. It clambered onto a desk and then launched itself towards the ceiling. With one hand burrowed in the ceiling tile, it used the other to remove the covering of an air duct and then crawled away into the vents. The man kept his revolver aimed at the ceiling, and then relaxed his arm.

“Follow me,” he said.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded again. “Who are you?”

He took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared into my eyes.

“We’re not safe yet. The police will be here soon.”

“I think I’d like to see the police now.”

“And they’ll want to see you. You know too much now.”

Perhaps it was the unsettling nature of that prospect that led me to follow the man down the fire exit stairs. Whatever the reason, I now found myself in the alley behind the office building entering a black sedan. I opened the passenger door and found the seat littered with Chunghwa boxes and empty Tsingtao bottles.

“Just brush those aside.”

We got in the car and headed and started going down Hennessey Road, towards the Cross Harbour Tunnel. When we got on the Canal Road Flyover I continued my questioning.

“Now tell me who you are and what those things were and where you're taking me.” He looked over at me, dead in the eyes. “My family name is Lim. By my agreement with my employer, I can’t tell you my given name.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Myself.”

“Oh.” I said. “And what were those things?” I was hoping maybe I would wake up from this bizarre dream soon.

“Mm...” He paused to light another cigarette. “They’re gnomes.”

“Gnomes?” I was somewhat insulted.

“Yes.”

“Like the little things some people put in gardens?”

“Um, yes.”

Mr. Lim was very rapidly losing the suave composer and mysterious demeanor that had attracted me to his side.

“You know what I think?”

“Hm?”

“I think you’re crazy and you’re going to kill me.”

“You may be right,” he laughed, “I may be crazy.”

We were now entering the Harbour Tunnel. I could see the light at the other end when I heard something pounding on the roof of the car.

“Hold on to this for me.” he said as he let go of the steering wheel and opened the sunroof. I reached for the wheel with one hand and kept it steady.

“What are you doing?” I yelled.

As soon as Mr. Lim had opened the sunroof, one of the creatures fell through, which he reflexively grabbed by the neck. He held it to my face.

“Is this enough for you?”

I began panicing, begging him to get it away from me. He obliged, rolling down his window and then regaining control of the wheel from me. He then held the gnome outside of the car, grating its face into the wall of the tunnel. When we had exited the tunnel, Mr. Lim threw it backwards and it landed in the harbor

We arrived at one of Mr. Lim’s hideouts, a Dim Sum restaurant in Mong Kok that had been temporarily closed over health violation concerns. Mr. Lim claimed to know the owner, but I was unconvinced when he picked the lock on the back entrance because he couldn’t remember where the spare key was kept.

The kitchen was fully stocked. The owner was evidently hoping things would pass before he ran out of money to pay the electric bill and keep the freezer running.

“It’s a shame.” Mr. Lim stated. “I ate here all the time until two weeks ago. There was some ‘health concern.’ If someone had a health concern, they should have kept it to themselves. I liked it here. I know what’s good for me.”

He lit himself another cigarette.

“You’re not from here, are you?” I wondered aloud.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your accent,” I said. “And the Chunghwa.”

He smiled and pulled himself on a counter to sit. I did as well.

“I was born in Zhongshan, and I lived in Shenzhen until six years ago.”

“Why did you move?” I asked.

“Same reason I’ll probably have to move again.” he said.

“But didn’t you have a family you had to leave behind?”

“Oh, me? No, I didn’t have anyone to leave behind.” He chuckled for a moment. “I could never have a family or a job. I could never be a guy like you, coming into work every day, pushing papers around until I could go home. I’ve always been a disruption. That’s why I’ll always be moving.”

He exhaled.

“Back in Shenzhen, I went to the authorities about these gnomes. I told them that they were a threat to our safety. They told me they knew, and they would take me to prison if I ever said a word in public. It seems some people value stability over all else. Not me. I had to do something.”

“That’s brave of you.” I said. “To take a stand.”

“I’m not a hero.” he responded. “I don’t fight for anything. I only prefer action where others prefer to sit still. It’s no better, just different.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” I inched closer. “I don’t think you’re going to kill me anymore.”

He turned to me and grinned, his smoldering eyes beginning to glow. “For what it’s worth, I-”

Thud. Thud! THUD! Something came crashing down in the front of the restaurant. The two of us hurried out of the kitchen. The covering from the air duct in the ceiling was missing. Below, a horde of around twenty of these gnomes stood, some on tables and others on the floor, and one was perched on the center table with the vent covering beneath its feet. A few were armed with tiny knives and mallets.

One of them threw their knife straight at Mr. Lim’s face. It narrowly avoided him, instead pinning his hat to the wall separating the kitchen and the front house. He drew a revolver and shot it, as the others began their advance. He told me to take the second gun.

“I don’t know how to use this.”

“You point and then you shoot,” he said. “Cover me.”

Four gnomes were headed towards us. I managed to shoot each one in succession, wincing with each pull of the trigger. Lim had taken a nearby table to the ground for cover. As I ran to him, the gnomes began throwing projectiles: knives, rocks, tiny hammers. We were now behind the table. They continued the barrage, and I could see blades darting quickly over my head. Lim peeked around the table and fired several rounds.

“We’re cornered!” he exclaimed.

Abruptly, the fusillade came to a halt. Tiny footsteps were rushing at us. Mr. Lim jolted himself to his feet and fired into the crowd. I stood up as well to do the same, but quickly realized I was out of bullets. I turned to Lim to tell him I needed something to defend myself, but I suddenly felt something writhing, tightening around my face.

I began to scream in panic. I fell to the ground and wrestled with the gnome. I managed to push it away so that I could see its face, but it still held on. I saw Lim out of the corner of my eye fending off the others with a hatchet. He used a break in their attack to roll something on the floor my way.

“Use this!” he yelled.

I picked it up instinctively. It was some sort of small bottle. I broke it into the gnome’s face, and it repelled itself from my body and squealed and squirmed on the ground. I looked at my hands and saw them covered in chili oil and a little bit of blood.

Lim ran towards me, hatchet at the ready. He stood over the agonizing gnome and kicked it unconscious, or worse. More of them were trickling in through the air duct.

“Come on.” he ordered.

I followed him back into the kitchen. From the inside I could hear the gnomes clawing at the door. Lim was searching for something in the pantry. Finally, he pulled a bottle of rice wine from a cabinet. He grabbed one of the kitchen towels and popped open the bottle.

“No, you’re not serious.” I begged.

“Just open the door when I say.”

He placed the rice wine down on the counter. He tore a strip of fabric off the towel and stuffed it into the bottle. He took out his cigarette lighter and ignited the fabric strip. “Now!”

I yanked open the door as fast as I could and slammed it shut just as quickly. A few tiny hands and one foot with a simple wooden shoe got caught in the doorway.

“That should hold them off.” remarked Mr. Lim. I could hear sirens in the distance.

“Come on,” he said, “Let’s get out of here.”

We snuck out through the same way we came in. Soon we were driving down Route 3, headed north. I had started to panic again.

“Do you think we may have started a fire?” I inquired Lim.

“I wouldn’t worry,” he said, “The place got shut down for an asbestos hazard.”

It was late in the evening now. The sun was nearly gone, and the lights of Kowloon were turning on. We crossed Stonecutters Bridge into Tsing Yi Island.

“Where are we going now?” I asked.

“We’re skipping town. I can get us over to Macao.”

I looked down at the floor for a moment.

“Say, Lim, do you like American movies?”

“A few are alright, why?”

“I was just wondering.” I yawned. It was now night. We were passing Tsing Yi village as I started to nod off and when I woke up the bright lights of Tuen Mun surrounded us. We pulled into the garage of the Tuen Mun ferry terminal around midnight. The schedules around the terminal showed that the last car ferry boat to Macao was leaving soon. The whole building was empty, except for one man working the ticket window, whom Lim seemed to know. They were in a deep exchange with one another, and I started to pace about. A million questions still raced around my head. How was any of this happening? What really are gnomes? The answers to these questions, I would later discover, were neither relevant to the story nor particularly funny.

Lim walked back over to me and handed me a card. “Take this.”

I looked down at the card. It was an I.D.

“This guy doesn’t even look like me!” I protested.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured me, “the customs in Macao are staffed by Portuguese.”

We got back into the car and loaded it into the awaiting ferry. We got out and climbed the stairs to the seating area. No one else was on the boat, but there was a ferryman, and as the ship started to move as we sat down.

The evening breeze blew gently on my face. I could smell the Pearl River meeting the sea and feel the warm glow of the city lights coming from all directions. Mid-way across the estuary the ferry made a sudden turn upriver.

“What’s happening now?” I pleaded.

“I have a hunch.”

Lim and I ascended another set of stairs to the ship’s bridge. He kicked down the bolted door and we entered. I primed myself for a melee. Lim drew his revolver.

“Oh my god! Don’t shoot!” the terrified ferryman yelled. “Don’t shoot, please!”

Lim turned his head to me, puzzled.

“What’s going on here? Why are we turning?” he demanded.

“It’s just the route of the ferry,” the man explained through desperate gasps. “We have to turn north to get to the pier at Macao.”

“And there are no gnomes on this ferry? You aren’t three gnomes standing on top of one another?”

“What?”

Lim looked to me and then back at the man.

“Well,” he paused. “Carry on then.”

It was one in the morning when we drove off the ferry into the pier in Macao. The fake passports worked on custom agents stationed at the boom barrier blocking the exit to the port. Lim parked in a nearby lot, and we got out and walked to the bus station on the corner.

“Well,” Lim sighed, taking his cigarette out of his mouth. “This is where I must say goodbye. You have to get out of the area, far away from Hong Kong. The ID we used to get into Macao should work at the airport.”

“But where are you going? Will we meet again?”

“Wherever there are gnomes, I’ll go.”

He grinned; I laughed. He put his cigarette back between his lips and offered his hand. I pulled him in for an embrace.

He smiled again and tipped his hat toward me. I responded with a salute. I watched him walk away until he was at the door of his car. His fingers were around the door handle when I spotted a tiny silhouette emerging from under the car. The light of the moon illuminated the tip of a pointed red hat.

“Mr. Lim-” I shouted with all the breath in my lungs. He turned his head towards me, but it was too late.

BOOM! The car erupted into flames, and huge chunks of metal went flying into the air. Lim was launched a few meters away and landed harshly on the ground.

He lay on the concrete, his back facing me. I could see him struggling to turn over. I ran to him and laid him on his back. I took off my jacket and used it to prop up his head. On his right arm, his coat and shirt were burned up and his skin blistered. There were bruises on his head and his hands. Under his ribcage, there was a huge gash, where he must have been pierced by shrapnel.

His eyes slowly opened, and he let out a quiet groan.

“You,” he mumbled, “You’re still here.”

I started to tear off the sleeve of my shirt to use as a bandage. He began to laugh.

“I guess I’ll die as I lived.” he uttered.

“Lim!” I pleaded, “You’ll be all right, just-”

I struggled to apply the makeshift torniquet. He laughed again.

“It’s funny, gnomes are creatures of the forest, and I, I...”

“Lim, please!” I wept.

His eyes became focused and met mine. Their typical soft glow was now a burning light. He lifted his left hand to where I was tending his wound and squeezed my palm.

“My name” he whispered, “is Jihng.”

His grip around my hand weakened. He exhaled one final breath and his bright eyes went dark. A yellow light rose into the clouds. I kissed his forehead.

“Goodbye, Jihng, my friend.”

THE END

Catching Old

Flash Fiction by Matthias

Old Widemouth

Matthias Pridgeon

The nocturnal chorus is just beginning to sing as Jonah makes his third cast. Bullfrog’s baritone voices bubble up from the reeds, crickets tune their fiddles, and loons sing hauntingly in the distance. The lake to his back is a perfect and vast mirror to the sky above, reflecting the grey twilight sky streaked by pink and orange clouds.

He is sitting in the back of his father’s wooden canoe, the seat his father had always reserved for himself. The canoe’s sides are painted a deep asparagus green, and his father’s name is printed on its side in garish golden letters. The inside is varnished cedar, marred by a thousand scuffs and scratches, each marking a memory. The canoe smells of cigarettes and sweat, still smells like Jonah’s father in a way that only he or maybe his mother could notice.

The air is thick with mosquitoes and no-see-ums, and he swats endlessly and pointlessly as he waits. Irritation is germinating in him; his gut grumbles hungrily. Each prior cast in this brook, today and yesterday and all the days before, has yielded nothing but a sharp tug and an empty hook. At least Old Widemouth never went hungry.

Jonah’s father never managed to catch Old Widemouth. He had tried for years, with him and without him, in the summer and spring, at dusk and at dawn. Jonah’s efforts to continue his father’s work have been similarly fruitless. He remembers his father telling him stories about the largest bass in the brook in a voice smoothed by brandy and roughened by a daily pack of Camels. The two of them fished for the giant bass together for days on end in the summers, chatting and laughing about the small things. One of those days Jonah had dubbed the fish Old Widemouth, and the childish nickname had stuck. Jonah was desperate to catch Old Widemouth, to do what his father could not. He had always been desperate to obtain his father’s approval. What is rarely given is often sought.

With a start, Jonah feels a sharp tug on the line. Old Widemouth. Despite his failures, his heart jumps and his stomach flutters as he begins to reel. The line whines in protest, and he smiles, pulling back with all the strength he can muster. The line jerks away and he’s sure that it has broken, that he’s lost Old Widemouth, perhaps forever. But Jonah keeps reeling and the line stays taut. The fish fights -- but not as hard as he expected. It gives him a challenge – but not for as long as he had hoped. He keeps expecting disaster to strike, but before he knows it, Old Widemouth is yanked from the water and dangles on the line in front of Jonah.

Jonah feels a great sinking within him, a sullen chill, as if his veins have filled with the lake’s water. The moment is not sweet, just bitter. The fight was anticlimactic, the fish smaller than he expected. The myth does not amount to his legends. All of a sudden it seems that a fish is just a fish. As he sullenly tosses Old Widemouth into the lapping water, he cannot help but feel as if he has ruined something. That he spoiled something almost sacred, soured some special reminiscence.

He’s destroyed what had been perfect in its incomplete completeness.

The sun sinks below the horizon and the cabins behind him bleed trails of amber light across the lake. He paddles home beneath the stars, feeling a great and hollow sadness.

Love of theHall

A Poem by

Henry Lynch ‘26

Youopen the doors and are welcomed so, You walk through the halls to see students grow.

English, Math, History, and Science class, Are taken by students to not just pass.

We make other school’s faces a bright red, When they know we are already ahead.

Free periods, treasured like they are gold, The price of these breaks cannot be foretold.

The meals in the café may be expensive, But with taste so rich, it makes one pensive.

The educators here teach with much pride, To be there for their students as a guide.

When our school’s name is held up very tall, Then we should love our own dear Calvert Hall.

Young Rat the

An Alegorical Tale by

Sebastian Guerrero '25

the Rats

crawled slowly through the green sewage giving themselves a sense of safety. Being able to avoid the heavy feet of the pigs above. Only receiving their scraps of meat, bread, and sweets. Stomachs growling as the scraps aren’t enough for some causing a sense of familiar dread in the pack.

Most want to act for they know what’s about to happen, as this wouldn’t be the first and absolutely won’t be the last. Finally, no longer being able to resist its own instincts, the largest went for a smaller one. Biting into its flesh ripping its skin savoring everything it can manage to tear off.

Eyes, stomach, heart, and brain all laid out for consumption. Such a sight could only act to enrage those who found themselves weaker. Lashing out, at the one they see as a threat in order to survive. The added violence led to more violence, the young running to their parents in only a frail hope to remain alive. Time passes, blood spilled, bodies sprawled out covered in wounds, painted red. All that remains is a single rat without a mother, his guide dead at his feet. Such a sight, a poor rat staring at the mauled body of his now-dead mother.

With only one thing to do, he feasts, the very one who was determined to feed him will do her job honorably. As he stands there eating, a light shines, as he is no rat but a human in poverty, and the pigs, the wealthy watching the boy with laughter on their faces.

Marabou Swamp

A Short Story

by Alex Swigert

‘25

The cricket’s roar of chirps echoed through the night in the covered bayou, only broken by the croaks of thunderous bullfrogs or the buzz of the millions of mosquitos. The bald cypress trees’ leaves blocked most of the sunlight from reaching the ground, and in the places the light slipped past, the ground exploded into a mound of reeds and ferns. On the untouched water, vast patches of duckweed suffocated and blinded the life beneath, so much so that it looked like solid ground, or anything close to solid in the bayou’s sticky mud. Below the duckweed, in the murky water, was the diverse ecosystem it disguised: turtles hid under the fallen logs from the cypresses, along with eels and small fish, as invasive snakehead fish patrolled their territory looking for a meal. Snapping turtles could have been mistaken for strangely shaped overgrown rocks, not moving a muscle until anything it deems food wanders in front of it. Large bands of bullhead catfish vacuumed the depths for debris and detritus at the bottom or searched the grasses for anything they could find.

One of these bullheads was swimming alone, being so monstrously large it separated from its school and started pushing upwards. The fish, the size of a young man, had sensed and spotted a ripe meal for the taking; tadpoles. Freshly hatched and completely unaware of the large catfish ready to make them its snack. It almost made it to the school of baby amphibians, it was so close it could nearly swallow a dozen, but it was struck out of the water. The animal that gaffed it raised its enlarged claw above the water as a mix of blood and water dripped from the deceased catfish. Normally the large creature would simply swallow its prey whole, but the fish was far too large to even attempt it. The animal rose from the water onto the shore, its muscular legs masked in duckweed. Its kill slid off the claw and plopped into the mud, and the animal began plucking off chunks and guzzling them down.

The hunter was interrupted by noises from beyond the bayou. It cocked its head and stared in the distraction's general direction, some of the fish’s meat hanging limply from its jaws . The sounds continued, and it only innards its head once more when new scents were thrown in. It wasn’t familiar to it, so the animal sounded a warning call. It rumbled a series of deep-toned bellows and snarls similar to that of a crocodilian, and after a moment, it set off towards the strange noises and smells to investigate what was intruding into its territory.

* * *

Enzo led his small party of mercenaries through the messy bayou, struggling to navigate around the water. Trudging through the mud was the only option, otherwise, they would all be swimming through a shoulder-deep gamble of venomous snakes, leeches, snapping turtles, or any other array of parasites that may be lurking underneath.

This damn bayou is a hellscape, why’d I agree to this? he contemplated. The bugs that were buzzing and biting every other second, the mud that grabbed at your feet once you took a single step, the constant ringing of crickets, all of it was starting to drive him crazy. The constant looming thought of his boss’ words overpowered the annoyances, however.

“If you obey, then that is good for you. Don’t, and you come back without a family.” His words were always on repeat in his mind, anytime he got that thought. The team that his boss had employed was back at their landing sight, setting up a temporary camp. Enzo and his group of five were assigned to scout a route through the bayou, to lead to

the island’s center, one that could be navigable for any of the various ATVs brought to transport supplies. So far, they only found mud and water, not a patch of solid ground.

The men behind him were not too dissimilar to his situation, all of them had also received their fair bit of threats from their boss, and all were equally annoyed with being on the scout team. Most had yet to learn what was on the island, or at least not the full extent of it. Enzo was given a private rundown on what they might find and how to deal with them, and by extension, he passed on the information to the party. It was only the basics: snakes, leeches, and two very large animals that would prove to be deadly if encountered. There was only one mercenary who wasn’t extremely shaken by those two species like he already knew about them, but Enzo shrugged it off as him underestimating the animals.

Enzo heard splashing water in the distance and raised his fist, the rest of the mercenaries stopped. It sounded like something wading through the water, certainly nothing like a duck. By the expressions of the party, he could tell they also heard it and had their weapons drawn, faces each like cold water had been drenched over them. He turned to his men. “Continue with caution.”

They all silently nodded, almost in unison, and slowly continued their stifled walking slower. The splashes continued, getting closer until they stopped just a few yards away. Enzo stopped the party once more and moved closer to the water to see what was causing the noise. In the way, however, was a large mound of reeds. It towered over him and had to be at least eight feet tall. Slowly, he turned around and returned to his team.

“Adam, you go check it out,” Enzo whispered. One of the men in the group sighed, the one who was more indifferent to the warnings, and went ahead of the others into the reeds. It took only a moment for him to disappear before the reeds blocked the light of his flashlight with ease. Before they knew it , he was backing up out of the reeds, carefully, and quietly when he turned to everyone else and said, “We should go.”

Before the team could ask him what he saw, they all heard the splashes, now sounding like the thing was running. When they all turned to face the sound, the animal was halfway out of the reeds, looking curiously at the strange sight. The whole party became equally spooked by the animal, holding its head nearly as tall as the reeds. The panic from the group also frightened the animal, which retreated into the reeds. They all took a moment to calm themselves, and only a moment before everyone passed through the mound of shoots. On the other side is only an inch of mud before it reaches a large pool, infested with duckweed. Standing in the middle of the body of water was the animal, looking behind itself as its body was facing the other way. Its eyes glowed in the shine of the flashlights, a color of bright green. The large predator stood in the water watching them intently, making a low bellow like an alligator, almost inaudible. Enzo pushed through the reeds last, shoving the small huddle gathered at the edge.

“Fire, and don’t shoot it!” he demanded, aiming his pistol toward the night sky. Everyone else had almost forgotten they were also in possession of weapons, and in a moment, they mimicked the stance taken by the party’s head. The mixed thunder of firing guns, splashing water, and the cries of the fleeing animal muted out the sounds

of the night. Under it was the creature running away, gradually disappearing from the light of the shadows into the maze of cypress trees and reeds.

Enzo raised his fist to the air, and the rest ceased fire. The path of the animal was marked by the duckweed, pushed aside and occasionally stained with splotches of deep red blood. He gestured for the rest to head back behind the reeds, and when they did, he addressed them.

“Damn it, who shot it?!” The party exchanged looks before a weak voice spoke up. “It was me, sir. It was only in the thigh.”

Enzo sighed, putting his head in his hand. “As long as it's non-vital, I’m sure we can say it was self-defense. That was a close call, but we need to keep going.”

At this, they continued around the water, before he swiftly spun back, and quickly said “And remember, if you smell anything close to rotting urine, report it to me and me only. Understood?”

Again, they all nodded, and they all continued, going around the large pool.

The giant animal, trumping an elephant in size and weight, snapped awake in the night. The boom of lightning, or something sounding like it, startled it. It stood up, craning the swamp for any noise. Its sense of smell wasn’t very good, and it didn’t hear where the lightning-like sound came from, so it sat in the silence of crickets and toads for a good few minutes. The eyesight of the animal also wasn’t the best, the night being mostly pitch black. That is, save for a distant light, flickering and orange and entrancing. Shaking some of the mud dripping off its shaggy feathers, it started towards the unfamiliar light with a renewed curiosity.

Artist Credits

Cover: Image credits: Matthias Pridgeon, Ben Rozanski, Moksh Patel, Sean Fitzpatrick, Anthony Malfa, Brennan Kwiatowwski, Teagan Baralo (center image)

First Spread: Matthias Pridgeon (background)

*CHC coat of arms from the Calvert Hall website*

Second Spread: Anthony Malfa (left page), Gabby Crespo (right page)

Third Spread: Dylan Hospelhorn

Fourth Spread: Brennan Kwiatowwski

Fifth Spread: Luke Fistler

Sixth Spread: Colby Whitlock

Seventh Spread: Gabby Crespo (background), Vasilios Van de Verg (featured art)

Eighth Spread: Sean Fitzpatrick

Nineth Spread: Teagan Baralo

Tenth Spread: Rocco Mazzulli (left page), Braedan Conly (right page)

Eleventh Spread: John Stroble (left page), Leo Manni (right page)

Twelfth Spread: Leo Manni

Thirteenth spread: Sean Fitzpatrick

Fourteenth spread: Dominic Atwood (background), Alex Swigert (featured art on left page)