[Health -6] [Current health points: 4]

'It appears that I've suffered a significant amount of harm.' I examined the floating messages in front of me as I continued to stare at them. I can barely think straight at the moment.

[Rewards have been blessed.] [You have received one item]

'View the item details.'

Item name: Wati-Kutjara's Boomerang. Description : Kidili (or Kidilli) was an ancient moon-man who attempted to rape some of the first women on Earth. The Wati-kutjara wounded him in battle, castrating him with a boomerang, and he died of his wounds in a waterhole. The women he was trying to rape became the Pleiades. Item level: [Mythical.] [You have received one skill] Skill name: Foresight.

Description: Since antiquity, precognition has been related to dreams, trance states, and waking premonitions, leading to acts of prophecy and fortune telling. Oracles, which were formerly regarded to be reservoirs of wisdom, began to be associated with future predictions.

***The skill 'foresight' is the weakest form of precognition. This skill has additional capacity for advancement and may evolve further with adequate usage and time. It is conceivable that this skill has the potential to evolve to omniscience with enough evolution.

Skill level: [Divine.]

I was expecting a rare or unique item or skill, but the levels of these rewards are mythical and divine, which are beyond the legendary level. Nevertheless, none of these rewards can resolve my present problem. It’s mainly because none of these have the ability to heal. But, for the time being, I need to do something about the awful agony and the damage I've sustained.

A half dozen police spill through the street door with guns drawn. They see the dead body of the horror from the void, lying in a spreading pool of green blood, train

their weapons on me, and yell, “Freeze!"

******

There are any number of places I'd enjoy spending my morning: the park, the beach, a breakfast diner with a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and the morning edition.

The county jail is nowhere on the list.

Still, I've had worse mornings. It's not as bad as the time I woke up handcuffed to a drainpipe on the roof of the Windsor Hotel surrounded by deranged howler monkeys intent on making me their leader, but it's close.

When the dust settled, the hunchback was nowhere to be found. He'd left me holding the bag. And because I didn't have a good reason for being in the school basement, the police booked me for breaking and entering.

The Lieutenant on the scene did not know what to make of the dead creature with green blood. He didn't believe my version of events.

Instead he wrote the body up as 'deformed psychopath' and the killing as 'self-defense'. At least I ain't facing murder charges. Which is good.

Breakfast would be better.

I gently press against one of the bandages they patched me up with..

They did a a good job, but I could still use a drink to help with the pain.

I am in a crowded holding pen along with a colorful--not to mention fragrant--collection of criminals, lowlifes, drunks and vagrants.

Hardwood benches line the walls.

I was lucky enough to get a spot without having to fist-fight for it.

Probably had something to do with the fact that I am covered in green, foul-smelling ichor.

My back is against the cold stone of the prison wall. Fatigue isn't the word for this kind of tired. Killing monsters takes it out of a guy.

I wonder who I could call to put up bail money. It's a short list.

Many people find it difficult to sit still, but it is duck-soup for me. I can relax and leave the body and sit for hours with just a little space to lean on. In this case, I summon my river. Then there remains no problem or discomfort.

The issue of summoning the river out is probably not clear to you. A little explanation will make it clear. It is about my childhood. I was then in class six in the orphanage school.

Geography was taught by Mr. Peabody Sir. When he enters the classroom, the chairs and tables get scared up. Sir, the man is small, but the palm of his hand is huge. Our idea was that the great God has specially made this hand of Sir to slap the cheeks of the students.

Sir's slap also had different names - God slap, Bum slap, Weenie slap, Honey slap. The hardest slap is God slap, the softest slap is Honey slap.

Sir was teaching about the rivers that day. As soon as he entered the class, he turned towards me. He raised his finger and said, "Tell me the name of a river. Speak quickly."

Whenever Peabody Sir asked me anything, my head used to go blank for a while. The ears begin to buzz "vo vo" like a huge noisy bumblebee. It feels like some of the air trapped inside the skull is bursting through the eardrums.

"Why are you silent? Say the name."

I said in a low voice, "Yarlung Tsangpo."

Sir came forward and slapped me hard. Most likely it's a God slap. With a roar, he said, "Out of all the beautiful names, you think of Yarlung Tsangpo's name? Always nonsense? Stand by your ear."

I held my ears and stood for the whole class. Five minutes before the hour was up, he finished the lesson and sat down in the chair. He looked at me and said, "Come closer."

Frightened, I went to Sir for another slap. He said in a sad voice, "Why are you still holding your ears? Hand down. "

I lowered my hand.

Sir spoke in an apologetic tone and said, "It was wrong for me to punish you, very wrong. I told you to name a river. You named one. Come on, let me adore you. " As he caressed my head, he said.

Sir began to stroke my head and back with such tenderness that tears welled up in my eyes. Sir, with embarrassment in his voice, stated, "I was hoping you'd tell me the a magnificent river name, and you answered Yarlung Tsangpo. It immediately put me in a foul attitude. Now think about a lovely river name."

I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt and said, "Peacock's Eye."

"Peacock's Eye? I have not heard this name. Where is such river?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Is there really a river with this name?"

" I don't know, sir."

Sir said in a light voice, "Well, let it stay. If you do not know, then no. End of discussion. This is your river. Now go and sit at your place. By punishing you, I am already feeling bad. You see, you are increasing my guilt by crying. Don't cry."

About three years after the incident, Mr. Peabody died of cancer after a long illness. I went to see Sir a few days before his death.

Sir is lying on the dirty bed of a dirty house as if he were not a human being-like an Egyptian mummy taken out of a coffin.

Sir was overjoyed to see me. He called to his wife, "Honey, look at this youngster. This boy has a river; the name of the river is Peacock's Eye. "

Sir's wife did not show any interest in me, turned away and left. Sir compensated for that disrespect. He drew me to him with his frail hand and put me next to him. He said, "How is your river doing, tell me?"

I responded in a low voice, "I do not know anything, sir, never seen it."

"Still, say it. Make it up."

I said in a shy voice, "The river is very beautiful."

"Hey donkey, since it's a river, it must be beautiful. There is no such thing as an ugly river. Tell me something more."

I couldn’t find anything to say. I sat quietly.

The night he died was the first time I dreamed of the Peacock's Eye river.

It's a small river, just a little stream. Its water is crystal clear. The sands below are clearly visible. The grass is very lush on both sides of the river! What a delicate touch! There is a large shady tree on that riverbank. With a mournful voice, a dove calls from that tree. In that call, there's a hint of grieving filled with melancholy. A young woman, who is a lady in a long, lovely dark green dress, runs down the river, sprinkling water.

I only got a glimpse of her face. In my dreams, I am very familiar with her. I feel very close to her. Like, how many centuries have I spent with this girl?

Once I dreamt of the Peacock's Eye river, and the river is completely tied up in my mind. Then I was surprised and noticed that I could view the river just by sitting somewhere and trying a little. I don't have to struggle for it, I don't have to close my eyes, nothing. Once the river is summoned in my mind, there is no problem with spending time. It's an effortless process.

Hour after hour, I wander along the riverbank. Sometimes, I let my feet plunged in the icy water as I sit there. My body feels revitalized, and the melancholic call of the dove makes my eyes watery.

I squinted and my eyelids rolled open. No way! A long time has passed.

My thoughts return to my one phone call and the question of bail money when an officer strolls up to the bars and yells out, “Reardon, Jasper!"

I lift a hand.

He unlocks the cell door and rolls it back. “You made bail."

Following the bored officer along the drab hall to the booking station, I ask, “Sure you got the right guy?"

He stops, hooks his thumbs in his Sam Browne belt, and asks, “You Jasper Debolt Reardon?"

“Yes," I say.

“Then you made bail," he tells me and opens the heavy metal door to the station house office. He guides me to a high desk where I have

to sign a half dozen forms.

While I am at it, I say, “So who paid my bail?"

The desk Sergeant squints at me, like maybe I am some kind of lunatic. A charge which, at the moment, I am neither prepared to nor interested in refuting.

He puts on a pair of reading glasses and scans the yellow copy of a triplicate. “Let's see... a Mister Goober Lannister."

Working on an assumption I say, “Short fella? Hunchback?"

“That's the one," the desk sergeant says. “Friend of yours?"

“Hard to say." I sign the last of the release forms, promising not to skip town before my trial, and then ask, “What about my firearm?"

“That stays in custody until you go before the judge." He stamps the forms a dozen times, puts down his initials, and then hands me a copy.

“Have a nice day."

“Doubt it could get any worse." I fold up my release papers, stuff them in my back pocket, and step outside into blazing daylight. It's after noon and I am starving.

[ End of prologue ]