The Mystic Underground

White Tree scrambled as fast as he could down Stone Street. The fog clung soberly over the late night in Manhattan, disturbed mainly by his thumping footsteps.

He kept up the speed at the expense of his balance. He had to keep going. They had seen him!

They had almost captured him back there at The Cauldron, the name of which was no doubt an intentional extra dose of irony in the precisely crafted plan. He waved his arms, trying to steady himself as he propelled forward over the uneven pavement.

There was no time to think. He could hear at least two pursuing him not far behind. He had to act fast if he had a prayer.

He veered to the right and cut the corner onto Hannover Square, then the next right on Water Street. There was no thought in his head, except to try and lose them at Old Slip Park. He could hear his pursuers rounding the same corner he had just a moment ago. They were getting closer!

The divination had warned it would be dangerous going to Wall Street, but he knew he had to to complete his part of the mission. This was always the risk.

The ground here was still slick with the recent rains. He almost slid into a fall at, but wouldn’t dare stop. He continued on through the wide intersection that turned Hannover into Old Slip.

After two cars passed in opposite directions, he ran diagonally to the trees. When he slid among them and weaved serpentine as erratically as he could.

He stopped and listened, and only detected the sounds of vehicles speeding by behind him. His breath escaped slowly into the still air. He looked around and waited a moment, as long as he could possibly stand it.

When he was sure he could hear no one around him, he went forward and crouched down as he emerged from the canopy. He looked around again. He couldn’t see anything but stray headlights.

Had it worked? He strained his ears and eyes in all directions. He drew himself up and walked on, cautiously optimistic.

His mind was free for a moment to contemplate where to go next. The warning had indicated he wasn’t out of the woods until he got off the island. How could he, though?

Suddenly, a rope swished through the surrounding broth of fog. Its sound was sharp, unmistakable. Then the circular swinging. A lasso. They had never left!

The lasso soared overhead, encircling him in shadow. It dived with fierce momentum, and he rolled sideways to avoid the rope. He sprung back up, not a moment to waste. He broke into a sprint again.

He could hear their footfalls on either side now. They had split up to flank him, and one of them was taking advantage of a longer stride. He had lost precious time to get away, and they were gaining.

He could hear the lasso swinging again. Why did they always have an affinity for the old-fashioned? It probably seemed daring, and particularly offensive (for his people) to boot. But really he was grateful, because this nostalgic flair should still buy him some time.

He turned his head for a split second to gage the rope’s location. The giant loop swung down towards him, and he veered to the right. The lasso hit the ground right next to him, and the unseen figure wasted no time pulling it back.

He could hear the swooshing of preparation again. The other figure would have a net. He knew it was inadvisable, but he turned on his heel and ran far to the left. If he was just out of range in front of the net, then he’d definitely be out of range of the lasso.

The figures yelled in surprise at the course correction, but the lasso was already making its descent. It landed even further from him than before. He turned to look and the net revealed itself, hoisted by a seemingly disembodied hand. As suspected, it was attached to a large handle.

How foolish! This would require the assailant to get within arm’s reach. The figure sped up and was closer now, almost visible through the fog. White Tree slowed down for the briefest moment, and the net came hurtling down for him.

He jumped back and the rim hit the ground with a clang. He turned on his heel and was running forward again. Now he was at the circular stone fountain - was it a fountain? - in the center of the street. He swerved around it as fast as he could and didn’t look back.

The assailant with the net slammed into it and yelled out curses. The other, however, got around undeterred. That lasso came swinging, this time in a wide sideways arc, and he simply fell forward to avoid it, landing firm on his hands.

As soon as he was up, the rope swung again, this time left to right. A stray cyclist with one dim light came gliding into view, only to be slammed across the face with its whip-like force.

The man screamed and fell over, but wasted no time leaping up from his bike to confront the assailant. Once he got close, however, berating the person with the lasso, two other hands sprang forward and choked him.

The man struggled for air, slapping and clawing at the black gloves around his neck. White Tree could hear the poor bystander’s panicked gurgling, but knew he couldn’t save him. He closed his eyes as he ran and said a prayer for the man’s spirit.

He could see the end of the way. The closest headlights were now ahead, gliding over the almost-invisible silhouette of the blue overpass. Just about twenty feet, and he’d be at the East River. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but suspected it would be the only way out.

His legs struggled to slow his feet down as he approached the guardrail. His racing thoughts turned to the task ahead. He tried to suppress his apprehension.

He stopped at the metal bars and took a deep breath. Don’t look down, he said to himself. He caught a glimpse of the rapids, now visible in front of him. All water is sacred, no matter how polluted.

With that, he stepped up onto the first bar of the guardrail. He took another breath. Don’t look down. On the second exhale he pulled his right foot up and stepped onto the upper bar, steadying himself with his left hand. It all came down to this. He could do it.

Suddenly, a rope dropped down around him. With a swift tug, the circle constricted and squeezed tight around his torso. He was caught!

He grabbed the bar with both hands as the guiding line of the lasso sprung taught to pull him back. Another tug. He struggled against the force, leaning forward as best he could to push himself over. It was no use, though.

He tried to step up to the bar with his other foot, but his leg flailed and his torso was pushed against the top bar before jerking back with the next pull. His left foot caught the lower bar again, but not entirely, and it slid outward again. He turned and saw glove-clad hands pulling at the end of the line.

He turned back and tried to lean over again. This time he had even less momentum. There was no choice. He jumped back and the rope brought him swiftly to the ground. He heard the person on the other end also fall backward with the motion.

It was only a split second before the tugging began again, though, starting to drag his body along the ground. He pulled out his flint knife and sawed against the rope. He slowly but surely cut through the fibers as he was dragged further backward.

He was within fifteen feet of his attacker now. He had to act quickly. With a last furious bout of cutting, the blade finally snapped him free.

Jumping up, he ran for the guardrail. A loud yell erupted from behind as the figure dropped the rope and bolted after him. The sound of clopping feet surrounded them. The sight of the guardrail lurched up and down as he closed in. Nothing else mattered.

Just two feet away, the pursuer’s hand brushed the back of his shirt. He leapt forward onto the lower bar. With the highest jump achieved in his life, he swung over the upper bar and dove into the depths below.