“Special delivery!”
Jak’s head shot up. “Daxter!”
Daxter’s boot kicked open the door a little more so he could shuffle in.
“Anyone seen my good buddy the-whatinthef*ckdidyoudotoyourface!?”
Jak cringed. “Is it the paint? It’s supposed to wash off, it just hasn’t yet!”
“Yeah, no kidding!” Daxter laughed. “What in the world is that getup for?”
“We just got back from a Federation meeting. Super formal, invite only.”
“Ah, I see!” Daxter nodded, seemingly unbothered. “Explains why Sig wouldn’t tell me where you were when I called. He told me to leave a message and I said ‘this ain’t a telegram, I’ll just wait till you get back.’”
With a heave, Daxter cleared the last few steps toward Jak’s workbench, which had to be hastily cleared for the parcels. They landed with a loud clunk and Jak raised a brow at them. Were they really that heavy?
“So what’s with the boxes?” He asked.
“They found these in the root cellar.” Daxter explained as he caught his breath. “They had your name on ‘em, so Madam Governor In her infinite wisdom thought they were yours. You know, because I told her that rifling through a living person's property for her stupid little museum was a bad idea. I mean, who knows what could be in there! What if they pull out some of my old underwear and one of those wackjobs thinks it’s some kind of ‘historical relic?’ My butt touched that! My bare butt!”
Jak felt his face flush at just the thought. “I heard about that! Torn mentioned that was why Ashelin wasn’t at the meeting. So the restoration efforts are actually going somewhere, huh?”
“Oh yeah. We already mapped out where the windmill was.” Daxter’s smile was manic. “And, you’re not gonna believe this, the pipes from the Mayor’s little water fountain are still there. I don’t know how! But they are! And I am just waiting till they get to Sculptor’s hut and find all his works in progress.” He shuddered. “I’ve seen enough of his finished works being paraded around like they were items of worship.”
“Yeah,” Jak chuckled, “Yeah, I remember.”
The first and last time the duo visited one of Haven’s few museums ended up with them fighting with curators and historians alike, badmouthing the original owners of many of the items on display, and nearly coming to blows with the security guard asking them to leave because both Keira’s scout flies, and one of Jak’s surviving bug collection jars were being attributed to the early signs of the Metalhead invasion; and every attempt to correct the resident historian on the matter had been met with enough smug remarks about ‘wannabe historians’ that Jak got mad.
Both Jak and Daxter were banned from any and all Haven museums for life.
The ban held up even after Spargus had negotiated taking Haven as a territory.
“I still can’t believe they think that stupid Muse was some early deity.” Jak remarked dryly.
Daxter snorted a laugh of his own. “You have a planet full of statues and robots left by actual ancient civilizations, and one dude’s unhealthy obsession with his squirrel warrants us suddenly being a muse cult? Now the Sentinels! THAT was the actual cult worship!”
He had Jak on that one. Sandover had all manner of celebrations and prayers dedicated to those stone monuments. Even they had made a ‘sacrifice’ or two to the Sentinels when they felt that a drought had been going far too long. Mrs. Perch stopped making dolls for all of them the moment she found out. Definitely not one of their proudest moments.
Jak ran a hand along the top of one of the boxes. The wood was a dusty brown from its time underground and seemingly worn, but very smooth. It probably used to have some kind of laquer finish. The letters of his name were scorched deeply into the top. There were little ridges that just barely showed any wear.
“Any idea what’s in them?” Jak asked.
“Knowing your uncle? Probably moth-eaten socks and blankets. Maybe a bug or two if we’re lucky.”
“Ah…”
“Best case scenario, it's all our old crap crammed into as small a box as possible, finally rid of the two little nuisances he obviously hated so much! Bah! Probably not even that! Where’s my box? I lived there too!”
“You lived with Ollie.”
“Which we both know I couldn’t stand because that man never bathed, reeked of fish, and kept trying to take me out with him at o’dark-thirty to cast nets when he knew I would never get my sea legs!”
Jak tried to smile. Ollie, the old fisherman of their village, did always try to take the both of them out on his short trips in the early morning, when the waters were calm, and the fish were just starting to bite. They'd both gotten enough food from him when they were younger that Daxter developed a hatred for the smell or taste of fish, despite craving it constantly after he’d been transformed. Even after their exile in Spargus, and well over a year of being hu’men again, Daxter stuck to his mantra of ‘No fish. Ever.’
“You wanna open it together?” His friend offered. “Take away all the ceremony and just get it over with?”
“I don’t know…” Jak answered honestly. Still eyeing the oddly clean corners that showed only the barest hint of being nibbled on by termites or ants.
“I’m just sayin,’” Dax replied solemnly. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
Jak smiled a little stronger. “Thanks, Dax.”
Daxter clamped a hand on his shoulder, and the two pulled close for a hug.
“I’ll…I’ll probably open them later.” Jak promised.
“Got a full schedule of being ‘Prince of Spargus,’ my liege?” Daxter teased.
Jak smacked his friend in the chest, but couldn’t hide his laugh “Wouldn’t you like to know!”
“As a matter of fact, I would.”
“The monks want to take another trip into the volcano. We’re spending this week gearing up.”
Daxter gasped dramatically. “A volcano trip?! Without me?!”
“You want to come?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m clearing my schedule! This diamond duo explores the great subterranean landscape once more!”
Jak laughed. “We’re leaving in about ten days.”
“Plenty of time to pack!” Daxter replied. “And kiss my snooku*ms goodbye, but only for now!”
“Gross. Get your sappy relationship stuff out of my house.”
Daxter leaned over even more, wrapping his arms around Jak’s shoulders and talking in a high pitched baby voice. “My sweet, wonderful, most adorable and deadly viper in the entire world! How could I choose between my best friend and my best girl, Jak? Can’t you understand?”
“Dude!”
“My sweetums! My little Tessie-pooh! So soft and sweet and supple and-”
“Alright! Alright!” Jak cried. “Tess can come too!”
“What about Keira?”
“She doesn’t want to, I already asked.”
“Awwwwww! Keiraaaaaaaa!!!!” Daxter whined.
“She’s building a new scout fly for us to take with, but she doesn’t want to get that close to open magma.”
“Ah. Understandable.”
“Father doesn’t want me getting that close either , but since I’ve already been there before, I’m the best for the job.”
Daxter looked at him flatly. “You are gonna give that man an aneurysm one of these days.”
Jak cringed. “Not before he embaresses me to death with these stuffy formal clothes for his meetings.”
Daxter laughed and Jak couldn’t help but join him. The two of them left the room, an arm over one another's shoulder, poking fun and making plans, asking about food or weapons or knick-knacks they’d found. Daxter had been the one to locate Ollie’s root cellar, it seemed, and he’d quickly rifled through most of the old and long-tangled nets before finding a few more personal stuff to keep. Keira’s old workshop had been ransacked ages ago but her lockbox was still inside the cobbled wall of her closet. No locksmith in the city had ever been able to open the simple little eco-powered lock she used on it. Needless to say, she got to keep everything inside.
The boxes were left, momentarily forgotten.
When Jak returned late that evening, he saw them still sitting there. Sitting and waiting. Curiosity nagged at him to find out what was inside, but something stopped him. He wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared. What would he find if he opened it? Clothes for the few cold spells they experienced in Sandover? Old toys and trinkets from before he left? Maybe Uncle had just used it as extra storage after they disappeared, filled with old maps and blankets rather than any of Jak or Daxter’s personal belongings. He wouldn’t put it past the man to make use of any empty box for his own trinkets from those world-spanning trips he always went on.
Maybe later, he thought, crawling into bed instead. Maybe tomorrow.
Jak avoided the boxes for another day and night. They mocked his indecision by sitting there on his workbench. Unassuming, simple, but all the same… inexplicably intimidating.
What if there really wasn’t anything inside besides socks or blankets or tunics? What if Uncle had only put in Jak’s belongings and burned his name into the lid as some kind of message or burial? What if it was just a leftover stash of precursor orbs? Sure, that would be great for the city, being as rare a find as they were these days, but it would mean nothing to Jak, so why leave them in a box? Why put his name on it? The possibilities were endless, and the more Jak thought about it, the less he wanted to know.
The box went untouched again the next morning. Jak spared it a glance as he refilled his clips and equipped his armour for the day. Tonight, he promised himself, tonight he’d finally decide what to do with it.
_-*-_-*-_-*-_
Limbs sore, head aching, Jak could barely stand upright when he returned home that evening. A typical artifact run had gone haywire. One car got too close to a nest, and they had no idea that a new group of maraurders had taken over the area. Jak ended up going Dark just to give his team enough time to get the stragglers back into another car. He’d missed a jump, ate sand, and took a couple of hits before he finally made it to his own car and got back. It was a miracle nobody died this time.
It wasn’t his fault, they were taken off-guard, he knew that, but that nagging thought in the back of his mind, the one that insisted that he had to always be ready for anything itched at him. He was a hero, he’s supposed to protect people. He’s a warrior , he’s supposed to fight not flee! He’s supposed to know what he’s doing! Even after spending the last three hours talking with the warrior’s guild about where it happened and how large the group was, all while Jak was desperately trying to ignore the stitches he was getting for the worst of the grazes, he felt as if he’d failed.
And there, on his workbench, were those two boxes with his name on them.
Sitting there.
Taunting him.
Jak rubbed his face with a sigh. He was supposed to stay off-duty for the next few days, but he was too keyed up to sleep. And because he was injured, it would be a game of ‘how long’ before someone noticed he was using the Arena to work out his energy. Honestly, he would rather be doing anything else…but…
The prybar was right where he left it.
Whatever was inside wouldn’t have any impact. Today already had enough things go wrong, one more wasn’t going to kill him. Jak took another breath and tried to convince himself not to get his hopes up and not to be too disappointed. Think realistically, this was his uncle, ‘the Explorer,’ after all.
The first creak of the old wood broke with the old tacky pine tar seal. Once exposed to the air, the stuff practically crumbled away from the overspill along the edges. Inside the first box was a few envelopes, some sealed scrolls, and a stack of journals. That much wasn’t a surprise. Uncle was an avid note-taker and often returned home with journals dedicated to his travels. Books were a lot harder to come by back then; and the fact that Uncle had what felt like a small library of empty books he could fill with what he pleased was a luxury not many other villages had. Jak was pretty sure most of the orbs he collected for his uncle to use on his trips went toward those leatherbound stacks of parchment or papyrus or vellum, or whatever else they used as paper, depending on where he got them from.
The second box contained much of the same. A few journals, some scrolls, a pair of gloves with thick leather vambraces attached, and a stack of letters tied together with a ribbon and a wax seal.
Uncle’s seal.
Which was also in the box.
He turned the stack over in his hands, there had to have been…at least fifty letters there…if they were all together, then they must be for the same person, right? But who?
Breaking the seal would be the only way to know for sure. Jak looked behind him to make sure he was alone. Even though he knew, realistically, there was no one to catch him, it still felt like he was doing something wrong. Even so, he carefully peeled off the old wax seal and pulled the ribbon away. And right there, front and center, was Jak’s name. Written in the same heavy-handed script that his uncle always used.
Same with the next letter, and the next one, and the next. The entire stack of letters were all addressed to him, but…Jak didn’t remember any of these being written. He’d seen his uncle writing, sure, but never letters, never to him. What would they say? Should he read them? They’re technically Jak’s letters, right? They were all in envelopes with his name on them, in a box with his name on it, found in the root cellar of his house.
Jak gulped as he ran a chipped nail under the flap of the first letter. The centuries old sealant released without a single fuss, and the folded and yellowed papyrus slid out with ease.
‘Dear Nephew,’ it began…
I am writing to you now on the Evergreen coast of the Isle of Kray. I ran into a spot of trouble docking my ship, as the difference between Low and High tide are much greater here than in our little village. I’ve met the most remarkable young man that was willing to set me back on course, but I simply couldn’t leave just yet.
I’ve discovered another oracle on this island, you see. Nearly complete in its form, and so much larger than we have ever known the ancient automatons to be. Once every full moon, they gather together and adorn the Oracle in paints and fabrics, set bonfires ablaze, and dance from dusk until dawn. They said it was to honour the Precursors in the tireless effort they must have endured in creating our planet. It was quite the celebration, and I am grateful to have experienced it. Perhaps when you are old enough to travel so far from home, I will take you here.
Yours, Uncle
Jak blinked, furrowing his brow in confusion. Uncle had sailed to the Isle of Kray when he was…he must have been about seven? That wasn’t too long after he came to Sandover…maybe only two or three years? That was the first time Jak had been left alone that long, too. He remembered clinging to his uncle’s trousers, begging him not to leave, only for the man to ruffle his hair, promising to return as soon as he could.
Jak opened the next letter, this one was on another sheet of papyrus, ripped and smudged like it’d gotten wet. ‘From the Jade Sea’ it said.
The next was from ‘Acrid Forrest,’ another from ‘Goat’s Mountain,’ ‘Deep Canyon,’ ‘Great Steep,’ ‘Singing Cove,’ ‘Veil’s Rest.’ These were all letters from Uncle’s travels. And they each got longer and longer, detailing more of the voyage and the journey, the sights and the people, even the languages they spoke, and how Uncle had spent well over a season in one region just to learn how to communicate with his guide and to write down their stories as best he could.
Why had Uncle written all of these letters? Why had he never showed them to Jak? They were addressed to him, after all, shouldn’t he have made sure they were delivered? Did he forget?
He probably did forget, if Jak thought about it. Like he forgot a lot of things. Uncle always forgot to restock the root cellar for winter, forgot to get food on grocery days he was home, forgot birthdays, forgot where he kept some of his maps, he even forgot to pack half the time.
Jak went to open the next letter in the pile…Maybe, he thought, maybe the answers would lie in there.
Dear Nephew,
I pray you are well, wherever you are. I must confess, I find my spirits low upon my return home. The fields are razed, the livestock slaughtered, even the grand sentinels that line our coast have suffered. Something quite dreadful must have happened to have destroyed our village.
The few survivors atop the plateau tell me that little beasts with shining gems for heads came from nowhere! That you, your friends, and that old Samos, had vanished without a trace. I do hope you’ve managed to escape from the worst of this plague, for it can only be a plague.
I hear that there is a stronghold in Rock Village, and that any who are able are to venture there for shelter and protection.
People are scared, my nephew, and I cannot help but fear alongside them.
All the Best to You,
Your Uncle
This would have been sometime after Jak had gone through the Rift Gate with Daxter, Keira, and Samos. He still recalled that great big ugly head breaching the rift with hoards of metalheads spilling out from behind. It was so sudden, he hadn’t known what to do! That wasn’t an enemy Jak knew how to fight!
So he…hit the button that sent them three hundred years into the future.
Uncle had already left on another trip, he wasn’t due back for quite some time. Jak had just assumed he’d died out at sea during the first wave.
But he hadn’t…he couldn’t have.
Otherwise…he couldn’t have written to him…
Dear Nephew,
You remember Mar, don’t you? Jupiter’s eldest? He was the one to greet me as I entered Rock Village. When I asked if he’d seen you, his eyes sparkled as he told me of your victory over Klaww, some terrible monster that had the whole of the village evacuated just last spring - save for the few that could not be brought to leave. He was so inspired by your battles, he was. He and his father both.
Mar has taken up the head of the fight against these new creatures. Metalheads, they’re called. Nasty things. They’ve taken to nearly every Eco vent in the valley and eaten it! Eating Eco! What wretched beasts! They’re drawn to it, it seems. The sages have already come together with plans to seal every Eco Vent they can find, and stop the flow at their source, if possible. As these little beasts do not appear to eat anything else, we think perhaps starving them out will be the quickest way to combat them.
We pray it will be. Perhaps by next winter, this will be just a terrible nightmare, and we can move on with our lives.
They tell stories about you, did you know? About how you and your friend travelled to the far north and defeated the Dark Sages. It’s quite a tale! They tell it far differently than Daxter did, that is certain. They call you ‘The Young Hero.’ Such a strange title if you ask me. Far too prestigous, but I’m certain that Daxter had something to do with the grandness of it.
I hope you are well, Jak. And that you are safe, wherever you are.
Yours,
Uncle
…Uncle had survived, returned home to see the village destroyed and sought help from the neighboring areas. Had met with Mar and the sages and worked to combat the Metalheads from the word ‘go.’ He hadn’t been asked or forced, he simply did , and…something about that was so much like him.
The fact that the Metalheads were still so much an issue now indicated that their plans had failed. Jak had seen enough corpses with bite marks on them to connect the dots on his own. With an easy and plentiful source of food gone, Metalheads would seek out other things to eat. And sometimes that meant people.
Something Uncle surely learned later on, himself.
Jak set the rest of the stack to the side, making sure to keep them roughly together, he kept ahold of what must have been the last letter, still addressed to him. This one was oddly thick in its envelope, and the paper was cold to the touch. Cold paper was very unusual…what could it have been made of?
The corners and creases crumbled at his touch, either this letter was very old, or just that fragile. Jak rubbed the white powdery chips between his fingers, and a chalky pigment was left behind. Limestone? He didn’t think Paper could be made from stone…What region of the world could come up with that?
My Dear Nephew,
I ask that you forgive me, if I am not the one to find you.
Not a day goes by I do not think of you. Even as my legs fail me, I still long to hear from my friends all over the world to see if they know of you. I regret that I am unable to continue the search, myself. Perhaps you have already found Haven. Perhaps you are still in hiding. Perhaps I will never know where you rest. I cannot help but hope, though. Hope had been our survival, and Hope still, is a tool for our hearts to march onward.
I feel I have spent my life searching for some greater purpose, to see what has never been seen and to know what can never be known. How humourous I find myself knitting straw beds and nursing seedlings as I once did in my youth! It seems the Fates still have plans for me yet, Nephew. My travels away from home have led me to yet another, and I fear it has been some time since my last letter. There is so much to tell you, and I am at a loss for words at where to begin.
I found a most peculiar clan of people. Nomads of the desert. There are no great walled cities in this land to protect them from Metalheads, but then, the ones I have found here have been far less astute than the Hive. They’re more wild, natural. ‘Perhaps this is where they come from,’ I wondered, ‘perhaps this is where we will find the key to our ultimate victory.’
And so I stayed, dear one. I stayed and I learned, as I always do. They called themselves The Sparga, named for the great wind serpent that guided their travels. They were most gracious hosts when I found myself dreadfully unprepared for this landscape, and allowed me to join their pilgrimage to the Great Temple of the Southern Desert. Such a marvelous temple, it was, and built by hu’men hands! The monks there dedicate their lives to the study and worship of ancient Precursor scripts and technology. I admit, I have never been to the inner sanctum myself, but I’m told the oldest known Precursor in the world lives there.
I met with a young monk by the name Pryderi, who was just days shy of his confirmation. I could not convince myself to miss the chance to observe this ritual, nor could my hosts, as they too, ventured there to seek wisdom from the ancient oracle.
The Sparga and I arrived at just the right time, it seemed, for we all heard the voice of the ancients descend upon us the day of the ceremony. “Your paths have intertwined as Fate dictates” it said “Seek the land where the Wind Serpent rests, and there you’ll sow the seeds for great warriors to grow.” We were astounded! A mission from the precursors themselves! For all of us present! I felt duty-bound to see it through alongside them.
It was a hard journey, nephew, to the small northern caldera where the Sparga god is known to rest. The days are swelteringly hot, and the nights are bitterly cold, and the sands eat away at everything they touch. I still recall our first year here, clearing away what few metalheads had taken residence, and talking with Pryderi and the elders of a wall to protect ourselves from the biting sandstorms. They thought it sacrilege at first, deny a nomad the freedom of travel? I know that feeling well, nephew. I’m certain you’ve felt it as well. The urge to go, to explore, to see what lies beyond the farthest horizon. Of course I could never deny them that. Even now, as the wall grows taller, the great city gate remains. Each time it opens, I find a part of myself hoping your feet would be among those walking through.
I have returned to Haven more than once to retrieve my journals, the ones I’d left for you, and brought them here to use as a guide. Our stonemasons are relying on my old notes to build a reservoir for the coming water purification system. Young Keira’s design was the perfect model to base it on, please do thank her for me, if you would. The high plateau near the caldera carries the most wonderful breeze from the sea, and even our smallest sails will serve the wind-pump well.
Pryderi insisted I stay until they felt there was no longer need of me. I must confess, I could not deny such a request. Much as I longed for the greater wilds of the unknown, my bones are old, and my body is worn. I feel ashamed to admit I am not quite so young as I once was.
He’s a lot like you, nephew. Headstrong and courageous. He does himself well, despite our struggles, though he tends to think mournfully of himself. Between you and I, Jak, I think he’ll do just fine.
They are a hardy bunch, these Sparga, but they are a good people. I like to think that you would come to love them as I have.
Ever Yours,
Your Dear Old Uncle
A wave of cold passed over Jak, despite the remaining heat of the day. Some awful pit in his stomach had hollowed him out and made him a shell. And even then, even then, he tried not to hope. Tried not to plead.
Because if Uncle had written all of these letters…and set them together just for him…then…
He looked over to the journals, old and brown with pages yellowed and faded. Any carvings along the surface depicting the contents had long worn away, but the pressed letters on the topmost book were just barely visible.
‘Isle of Kray’ it said.
Jak swallowed his nerves and heaved the book out, it was much lighter than he thought it was, and set it down on a clearer area of his workbench. The cover lifted with an audible CRACK from the leather and bindings, and the first page was blank save for some smudged writing toward the middle. The next was a map of the Isle of Kray and its children that made up the archipelago. The ink was faded slightly, the lines of topography smeared from however many times the pages had rubbed against one another. There were markings for villages, oracles, fishing spots, and other areas of interest, but there was also an odd little symbol on the legend that Uncle had added. A little blobby thing with six little sticks coming out of it.
It looked like a bug.
Jak’s brow furrowed again in confusion, because his uncle had never been fond of bugs, he thought. The man always bemoaned Jak’s collection and the space it took up. Always hesitated whenever Jak would show him a new ‘buggy friend,’ as Jak called them, and kept trying to find ways to keep them out of sight. Uncle had even told Jak to stop showing him his finds after the wumpbee incident!
Maybe it was just an indicator of danger, where Lurkers or predators or other beasts were, and a bug was just the first thing that came to mind. Surely. There’s no way Jak would flip to the page listed next to the port village and find a-
“Silver…Bladed…Rhinoceros Beetle?”
The name was written just above a depiction of an enormous beetle that covered most of one page. A vibrant deep blue shell, split open on one side to reveal the iridescent wing beneath, sat atop the abdomen and nestled under the elytra covering. A large, sharp looking protrusion erupted from its face like a great horn, It was unlike anything Jak had ever seen before…
A few closer drawings of the mandibles and labrum of its face, along with notes detailing the size and complexity of its life cycle accompanied it. There was even a drawing comparing it to the size of a hu’men hand! It would be just large enough to fit in Jak’s palm.
‘There is a vendor here that breeds them,’ the notes added. ‘I’m told they make excellent pets, though they do not live long under duress. Perhaps it will not be the best gift for my young nephew.’
He ran his fingers down the page, the texture soft and limp after hundreds of years in storage. Where the beetle’s brilliantly coloured legs sat, there was a waxy, crumbly pigment that came away with his hand. The drawing looked no different, but the blue-green dust left on his fingertips made him hesitate to touch it again.
Even in the bottom corner, where his uncle’s heavy-handed scribbles dug into the parchment, there was a delicacy to the carved marks. There were more bugs on the other pages, as well. Moths, butterflies, larval beetles, centipedes. Every fold, every note, every drawing. All painstakingly detailed and nearly life-like in their depictions.
Jak remembered when he was young, like really young, whenever he’d find some new or interesting bug, he’d bring it to show his uncle. The man would hem and haw about it for a while, commenting on the shell or the legs, or the shape of the mouth; and Jak had watched as his uncle quickly drew out the chosen bug so much larger than the actual thing.
But…he also remembered bringing a giant glowmoth to be drawn in Uncle’s journal, and Jak had turned back just after going to look for another, he’d meant to ask the man for a container to catch the next target…Uncle was tearing the page from his journal. He’d done it with other bugs, too. The Pill Bug, Ladybeetle, Cicada…every time Jak was out of sight, Uncle would tear the page out.
But…here they were…?
Toward the bottom of the pile. Parchment sat that was so old and worn and fragile, he was afraid to touch it; and on it were those first scratchy drawings with the barest hint of more detail that had to have been added on some time after Jak had already raced away.
More and more and more. Bugs Jak had never even seen before. Maps of places he’d never been. Whole journals filled with yet more drawings and notes on plants, bugs, nests, and even some fish. Opening another, Jak was greeted with a map of some small archipelago noted somewhere in the south sea, toward the edge of the planet. The very next page had silhouettes of tens of bugs. Each one with a name and a number underneath it.
Jak flipped to the first bug on the page, a ‘Walking Stick.’ Some brown or green long-bodied bug that had been drawn in several different ways. Some with leaves attached to them, and some with small globs of mud. The page was littered with his uncle’s scratchy handwriting, noting the different types of camouflage they used to blend in to their environment, and where and how each one was found.
Jak stopped again on another page, this one was a weevil, he knew just by the shape of the head and the high round abdomen. It was bright yellow and orange, or at least it must have been. The yellow had faded almost entirely, and the orange hadn’t fared much better, but throughout the shell, Jak could see little flecks of red and green his uncle must have used as shading. The same detailed diagrams of wings and face, and legs, and nesting sites accompanied it just like with every other bug in the log.
Uncle’s notes said that he’d found it ‘rolling about in a daylily by the coastline’ and that he’d thought it was a rare new species of hairy bug until he realized it was only coated in a thick layer of pollen.
‘It reminded me of my nephew’s friend,’ the note said. ‘when they go to play in the ocean and return covered head to toe in sand.’
Jak grabbed another journal. Surely, he thought, surely they couldn’t all be this detailed, this dedicated. Surely one of them was nothing but a log of the wind and weather. Just one! PLEASE!
Each one the same. A large map of the area, and smaller maps of towns or villages. Filled with drawings of animals and people and fields and buildings. Every page was littered with notes and stories and diagrams. Every single one of them had Jak’s name pressed or carved in the inside cover.
All but one.
Jak could tell by the page condition alone that this journal was unfinished. Mostly done, yes, but not complete, not like the others. There was no region name pressed or burned or carved into the thick leather cover. No name pressed into the inside. No decorative carvings or painted lines. He took some small comfort in that as he once again opened it with the same crackling resistance from the material’s age. The first page, normally smudged or blank, was actually legible.
‘Wind Serpent’s Rest’
The first actual page, much like the rest, was a large map of the country. Weither Uncle had charted the area himself or copied it from local cartographers, Jak wasn’t sure. What he noticed though, were the landmarks that had been smudged and drawn over, as if the map had changed during Uncle’s time there, and he had to alter his own records to match.
The following pages had yet more of the same detailed drawings of people and clothing and stories. Some huge temple with carvings of the Precursors along its front that looked an awful lot like the Monk Temple. There was even someone standing by a door, probably the entrance, for scale. Drawn instructions for weaving reed mats for seedlings, strange and incredibly precise mathematical diagrams for an aqueduct system, water purification powered first by wind and then by natural thermal vents. Detailed plans for grain storage, foraging, even how to safely dismantle a metalhead with only a bone knife. Patterns, pots, weapons designs, beasts, and yes, even bugs.
He was still finding bugs…
Jak flipped through the rest, trying to find where his uncle had stopped, been cut off, or just gave up. As he did, the book seemed to divide itself all on its own, opening on a page with a sketchy blueprint for a lighthouse. ‘Sparga Beacon,’ was the name Uncle gave it. ‘To ensure that all our loved ones are able to find their way back to us.’ The opposite page had tens of different designs for the basin, along with a list of different materials Uncle must have thought could be used to keep it alight.
Trapped between them, stuck nearly to the binding, was what had flipped the page open. Just a sheet of pressed linen paper, folded neatly and tucked away like a bookmark. Uncle must have left it there for some reason. Perhaps he intended to come back to it at some point but…never did. Jak carefully plucked it from between the pages and unfolded it.
It was another letter…
Dearest Nephew,
This may be the last letter I write to you. Perhaps you think me foolish to keep writing to someone who cannot be found. Perhaps I am! Still, a part of me would feel wrong not to. So please forgive an old man his pleasures. Indulge me once more, Jak, if you would.
Long ago, when I was but a lad myself, I sought the Oracle to divine my future. I felt trapped, you see, in the small life our tiny village had for me then, and I prayed that there was more to see than a sedentary life could offer. “Seek the ends of the world” it told me. “Let not tide nor time cease you, for a warrior will come and you must provide.”
And so, I began my travels. Ancient cities and faded temples. Grassy knolls and boggy swamps. The Precursors had given me a purpose to search and I stopped at nothing to find it. Be it flood or famine, I continued onward, for what else was I to do?
Perhaps in some spark of maligned wisdom, I started keeping journals of my travels. Something to look back on for when that warrior came to me, to tell them all of the world they hadn’t yet seen. Thinking back, I see it was foolish to pose such a challenge with myself. To see the entire world in one lifetime seemed much more probable when I was young and spry. I am glad, though, that I had gone where I could, and seen all I was able.
It was how I met you, after all, my dear nephew.
During the Great Comet Rain that occurs once every one hundred years, every astrologer I knew, and every sage from every village, gathered to the Northern Citadel for the unobstructed view it offered, standing so close to the heavens. I write to you now, as the Great Comet Rain, the second of my lifetime, lights the night sky from my window. And I think of you. I think of you and how you had arrived in a great burst of light, holding tightly to that old Samos. How strange you both looked and were dressed. How Samos had a most distasteful idea of purpose. How he had later claimed you were of some great importance.
All I saw that night, nephew, was a child who was ill and in need. A child that had seemingly arrived from the stars. Something in me said not to tarry or delay, but to seek help and keep you well. I still remember how you shivered in the cold of the north, and how tightly you squeezed my hand as I held yours to warm them. In all my years, and all my life experience before or since, I had only felt helpless in that moment. As I feel helpless now.
I know not what possessed you to leave us all those years ago, nor do I know what will come after I am gone. Nevertheless, I want you to know how proud I am of you, and the man I’m sure you’ve become. Perhaps I was too much a fool and a coward to tell you while I could. Know that I would gladly confess it now. I am proud of you! I am proud to have been your uncle, no matter how short a time we had together.
These letters are all I have of you, now. All I have outside of my memory. I fear my time on this mortal plane is coming to its natural conclusion, and I feel remorse to say that I will never know if you will receive all I have written for you.
I pray you are the one reading this letter now.
I have left instructions for this, along with all the other letters and journals I’ve written for you, to be sealed and buried in the root cellar of our old home, where I know you’ll find it. You’re a smart lad, Jak, you always have been. I only wish I would have done more for you.
Wherever you are, be it on the planet with us, or in the stars with the heroes of old, I hope that you can see all we’ve done, and all we’ve yet to be. And I hope you are at peace.
All my love,
Your Uncle
A voice called from behind him. “Jak?” Damas. It was Damas.
His father.
“Ah, there you are.”
A father he’d grown up believing he’d never meet.
“Have you eaten? You weren’t at dinner.”
A Father his Uncle never talked about because even he never knew…
And all that time, Jak just thought his uncle had lied to him. That he’d known who Jak’s parents were and only looked after him out of some…obligation. That he didn’t actually care. That Jak was just free child labor around the house and a little errand-fetcher to help fund his Uncle’s grand adventures to parts unknown.
But this? These journals, these notes, these drawings. All carefully cataloged with maps and charts and names. All while he was already visiting the region for his own adventures, for his own travel. Even when bogged down with the burden of a brand new city full of people to look after. He’d still taken the time to stop what he was doing long enough to share the bugs he’d found, no matter how common.
All for Jak.
Because Jak liked bugs.
Loved bugs.
Jak could still remember one trip his uncle had returned from with a small balsam wood box with a removable glass pane on the top; and he remembered his uncle saying it was a better place for the, then, growing bug collection than the map shelf.
Daxter had remarked how rude the suggestion was at the time.
But it was a better spot. They, Jak and Daxter, spent almost an entire day carefully pinning all of the bugs they could in place with the thin metal stakes that came with the box.
Uncle had no idea that Jak’s favourite garden beetle had been taken by a gull the week before. That Jak had cried for hours because that was his first and most precious bug that he’d found shortly after coming to Sandover. That even Daxter couldn’t get him to smile for days afterward.
Samos had dismissed him as being a dramatic child.
But Uncle…
Jak sniffed.
Uncle had brought home that box just for his bugs so that there was somewhere safe to display them.
Uncle had gone searching the world for any trace of any story of him after he’d gone missing.
Uncle had helped build a city, built Haven, as a safe refuge for those unable to defend themselves.
Uncle travelled all the way to another land, to another city, and designed a lighthouse so that anyone could use it to find their way home.
Damas stepped closer, concern plain on his face. He placed a hand on Jak’s shoulder and gently forced him to turn his way.
“Jak…? Are you alright?”
Jak swallowed the lump in his throat.
“He cared …” Jak whispered. “He- I thought-” Words had never been so hard. “All this- All this time…”
Damas gently squeezed his shoulder.
“All this time I thought- …but he-...” His eyes burned and welled with tears. “He did, he always did. And I-...I…”
“Breathe, child, then speak.” Damas ecouraged him.
Jak felt a wetness blaze a trail down his face. “I never got to say goodbye…”
His father’s expression became pained, pulling him close and holding him tightly. Jak was shaking now, his limbs were buzzing like crazy, his chest felt heavy and empty all at once. He couldn’t stand, could barely breathe. The steady arms of his father seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright.
“I never-” He gasped. “I-”
Damas shushed him softly. “I know, son…I know…”
Damas guided him to sit on his bed and continued to hold him like a babe. And Jak squeezed back. And for once, he didn’t care about how he might have looked. Not here, not now.
He wasn’t a hero right now, he wasn’t an adult, or a warrior, or a soldier. He wasn’t a prince, or an heir, or even a man.
He was just a boy.
A boy who felt very very lost, and very very sad. A boy who needed the comfort of someone he loved and trusted until he was strong enough to face the world on his own again.
Until then, Jak would feel. Would mourn. Would cry. Would allow everything he’d denied himself.
“You’re alright, son. I have you.”
And there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
In the arms of his father, in the home his uncle built for them.
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