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| Elkwater's King Two brothers follow a wary white German Shepherd to search for the King of a secret realm. | | by: | |
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Created: 7:08am on 08-07-2005
Modified: 7:41pm on 04-14-2009 | |
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Entry #364442, added on 01-26-07 @ 10:55 am EST.
[Entry Access Restriction] None.
Title:
Chapter One - Blackberry Hunting
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Elkwater's King
Chapter One - Blackberry Hunting
"You can't stay in your corner of the forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes."
~A. A. Milne
When I woke up, I was thirty-three thousand feet in the air. There was a window in front of me, but it was solid white, showing nothing. All around the window there was blue sky, flecked with moving clouds. That's backwards, I thought, the window should be in the middle of the wall opening up to the sky, and not in the middle of the sky opening up to a wall. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes. The "sky" was the blue fabric of the airplaine seat in front of me, and the "white window" was only the tray table in the back of that seat. Still, the illusion gave me the desire to look out a real window, and I turned to my right.
Unfortunately, the real window was blocked by the fuzzy head of my brother, Michael. He was sound asleep. His cheek was mashed against the glass, contorting his face and lips. It was a poor substitute for the sight of beautiful billowing clouds below. If I didn't have a brother, I would have been able to see outside perfectly well. Fantasizing about a brother-free life was a regular habit of mine. I wasn't even two years old when he was born, and he managed to spoil all the fun of my being an only child. As soon as he was old enough to crawl, he crawled all over me. As soon as he was old enough to walk, he seemed to follow me everywhere. And as soon as he was able to talk, we argued about everything. As we got older, it only got worse. If I told you about all the awful things we said and did to each other over the years, you would probably think we were bad children. But we weren't bad children; we were just bad at being brothers.
"Don't like him much, do you?" said a highbrow English-sounding, grown-up voice to my left. I jumped a little and turned around quickly to see a man sitting in the aisle seat. He looked to be a little older than my mom, which meant he must have been in his mid-thirties. He had a heavily receded hairline, wore an old-fashioned tweed jacket, and had puffy, sparkling eyes that were fixed directly on me. He must have taken the seat next to me while I was sleeping, because when the plane took off from Tampa the aisle seat was definitely empty.
"He's my brother," I said. "He's eight," I added, as if that explained everything.
"I see," said the man. And the way he looked at me, it made me feel ashamed for wishing I didn't have a brother. And then it made me a little angry that this man decided to sit where he had no business sitting just so he could stick his nose where he had no business sticking it. I wanted him to go away.
"I'm sorry," I said, "But I'm very tired. I didn't sleep last night." And I folded my arms and closed my eyes.
"No," said the man to my left, "I suppose I'd have been too excited to sleep myself, if I were going to the farm the next day."
The Farm. No words are magical enough to describe it. This was no ordinary farm from picture books or the kind you might visit on school trips. It was more like farms used to be in the old days - a forest with corn growing in it here and there. There were - and still are to this day - leafy paths and hidden lakes and a creek winding back and forth through the woods and barns and bridges and more than one old haunted house. There were fields for corn and beans, pastures for cows, orchards for peaches and green apples, a truck graveyard, and so many places to explore that a lifetime of summers wouldn't be enough. But best of all, that's where Aunt Eva and Uncle Martin lived. I loved them. Aunt Eva was our mother's aunt but she and Uncle Martin treated us as if we were their own grandchildren. I will even call them the "soul" of the Farm. What I mean by this is that Aunt Eva and Uncle Martin were so kind and wonderful that even the darkest corner of the old Farmhouse or the scariest thicket in the Forest seemed kind and wonderful too.
But suddenly my eyes popped open. How did this stranger know about the farm? Did he know me?
"Sir, may I ask you a question?" I asked.
"You just did," he answered, and just then, the little bell rang announcing that the no-smoking sign was off. Back in those days, you were allowed to smoke on airplanes.
Suddenly, the mysterious man lost all interest in me. He said, "My cue," and then began patting all over his jacket. He made a delighted noise when he found a pipe in his inner jacket pocket, and made an ahhh sound when he found a small packet of tobacco in his front pocket. But then he searched himself all over for a full minute before saying under his breath, "Foiled, perhaps. But not yet."
He turned to me with a smile. I had been watching him, fascinated, and a little puzzled at his answer to my question. I didn't know whether I could ask him anything or not.
"Young man," he said, "would you mind calling for the stewardess and asking her for a book of matches?"
I was confused. "You want...me to do it?"
"Please."
"Wouldn't it be better if you did?" I asked
"I doubt I would be effective," he said, and then wagged his finger at the "call" button.
I blinked, then raised my hand and pressed the button.
Almost immediately, the striking blonde flight attendant came over and leaned right over the man in the aisle seat to get closer to me. The man with the pipe leaned back and modestly closed his eyes.
"And what can I do for the young men flying by themselves?" asked the stewardess before glancing at Michael. "Do you need a pillow for your brother? He has the cutest hair! It just makes me want to rub my hands through it right now."
My brother had the most curly blonde hair anyone had ever seen. He didn't even have to comb it - he just had to run a pick through it from time to time. But I used to pretend his hair was silly, and by the time we finished the school year he had begun to dislike his nice curly hair, his pick, and how all the old ladies in the supermarket kept running their fingers through it. On the other hand, I had wavy blonde hair that was usually a terrible mess in spite of my mother's valiant efforts to keep it in place. No old ladies ever tried to run their fingers through my hair. I think they were afraid their hands would get stuck in the tangles.
I made a face. "No, I don't want a pillow for my brother," I said, "but I'd like a book of matches."
She giggled, then said, "Be nice now. So what can I do for you?"
"Um, I really would like a book of matches, please. They're for him," I said, pointing to the man in the tweed jacket. He winced.
The stewardess looked serious. "We aren't going to be playing with them, will we?"
I wondered why she didn't talk to the man, and I wondered if he was offended by her question. "No, I sure hope not," I answered, very seriously.
She seemed to think about it for a moment, then reached into her shirt pocket and handed me a matchbook with a blue and white Eastern Airlines logo. "They are fun to collect, aren't they?" she asked, but didn't wait for an answer, swiftly striding down the aisle.
I gave the matchbook to the man and watched as he expertly stuffed some tobacco into his pipe, struck a match, and lit it. His face was expressionless, but his eyes seemed eager. He took a puff, narrowing his eyes, but then removed the pipe quickly and looked at it as if it were broken, blowing the smoke out as an afterthought. He took the pouch of tobacco, opened it, and sniffed inside. Then he took a studied draw on his pipe and looked a little disappointed.
"I should have known," he said, "that the new pleasures would take all the fun out of the old ones. A swing doesn't thrill you as much once you've been skydiving. I'm now too spoiled for vices." He shrugged. And then, to my alarm, he stuffed the lit pipe and smouldering match into his side jacket pocket.
"Isn't that dangerous?" I asked.
He turned to me with those sparkling eyes. "That's your fourth question to my one. I say, I think it is my turn as far as questions go."
I didn't know what to say. I'd never heard a grownup talk like this.
He cleared his throat. "What do you plan on doing with that plaster gargoyle your great-grandmother gave you two years ago?"
I was amazed, and a little frightened. "How do you know about that?" I asked.
"Not your turn," he replied. "Now how about it?"
I hated that plaster gargoyle. Mom-mom (that was my great grandmother) had given it to me when she returned from her trip to France. It was supposed to be a replica of a gargoyle on a famous church building. But I couldn't stand to have it look at me, and at night I used to imagine that it could come to life and do terrible things. I wished It had never been given to me.
"Throw it away, or hide it, or give it away," I said. "It annoys me."
The man raised his eyebrows, and though he didn't actually smile his eyes seemed to be laughing. "Sometimes you don't realize how precious a thing is until years and years have gone by," he softly said. "Whether that thing is a pet that keeps you up all night, or a book that is just too hard to read, or even an evil-looking gargoyle replica, I suggest you don't throw it away just yet. At least wait until your summer vacation is over. Sometimes you see things differently after an adventure."
"I doubt it," I said. "And anyway I'm not planning on having any adventures unless you count exploring and creeking and fishing."
"The best adventures are the unplanned ones," he said.
"Look," I began, "--um, what is your name, sir?"
"I'm quite sure my name is unpronounceable here. But you may call me "sir." And now it is my turn, Tim."
I hadn't intended for that to be a question that counted for turns, and he didn't really answer it anyway, and then I wondered how in the world he knew my name, but he was already asking his next question.
"When do you suppose a boy becomes a man?"
"When he grows a beard?" I guessed. But I had a feeling this was not the sort of answer he was looking for.
"You can do better than that," he said, and shook his head at me. "I certainly could when I was nine. Try again."
I thought for a moment. I thought about my mom, who took a job teaching summer school instead of going to the farm with us. I thought about how hard she worked all the time.
"A boy becomes a man when he takes care of his family," I said.
The man in tweed looked at me for a moment, then rubbed his chin. "That's good," he said quietly. "As good as my own answer. But I was going to say that a boy becomes a man when he does what he knows he ought to do instead of what he really wants to do."
"Is it my turn?" I asked.
"You just took it," he said. "Listen, I wish you the best on your vacation. It will turn out all right, I hope. But please be careful around snakes, will you? Especially pretty ones. I think your brother is waking up, by the way."
I turned to look at Michael, and sure enough he was just wiping his arm across the corner of his mouth where a little sleep-drool must have formed. I thought he was disgusting from top to bottom. Michael was stocky (meaning since he wasn't as skinny as me I often told him he was fat) and already a little taller than me (which I didn't think was fair at all). I wondered how he could be my brother sometimes, since I looked nothing like him. I looked like half of a frayed shoelace, meaning I was too short for my age and much too skinny, my arms and legs sticking out like stray strands of thread. It honestly never occurred to me that I was the stranger-looking of the two.
"Yeah, he's awake. It was nice while it lasted," I said.
Michael looked at me. "Who are you talking to?"
"To him!" I said, wondering how my brother could be so stupid, and turned to the man in the aisle seat. But he was gone. I took off my seatbelt and looked up and down the aisle, but he was nowhere to be seen.
"You were dreaming!" Michael laughed. "You were talking in your sleep! That's gross!"
"No I wasn't," I said.
"Yes you were."
"No I wasn't."
"Yes you were."
"Wasn't."
"Were were were."
"Wasn't times infinity," I said, hoping that would settle things.
"Were times double infinity!" Michael said.
"There is no such thing."
"Yes there is."
"No there isn't."
I actually called the stewardess over to back up my story, but to my dismay she went on to describe the man sitting next to me as tall and muscular and with long hair down to his waist (winking at me all the time). When I said he didn't look like that at all, she apologized and explained that it was hard to describe "imaginary" people. She left and Michael laughed at me until I thought I would grind my teeth right out of my mouth. We argued for the better part of the flight until I finally moved to the aisle seat so I wouldn't have to be so close to him. When I did, I felt something under me. I reached down and picked up the matchbook. I opened it. One match had been torn off. I closed it and put it in the ashtray in the armrest, wondering what kind of dream I could have had.
After that, we spent the rest of the flight in silence, but when the plane landed and the pilot said the doors were open, I said to my brother, "I'll beat you to the gate."
Our race to the gate was more of a fast walk, dodging flight crew and other passengers while trying not to look like we were a couple of bratty kids racing to the gate. I was winning, but had to slow down to avoid an elderly lady in my path. We were only feet from the gate, and I could see Aunt Eva and Uncle Martin smiling as they caught sight of us.
I was right behind my brother. I stepped on the back of his shoe, and he lost his balance and fell. The airline employee standing at the gate--a dark-haired lady in blue-- rushed to help him up, and so did Aunt Eva and Uncle Martin. He kept accusing me and I kept explaining the "accident" until the airline employee gave us both a lecture about safety in the terminal.
Michael and I were in a bad mood after that, and both Aunt Eva and Uncle Martin could see there was no use talking to us for a while. We sullenly got our suitcases at the baggage claim, morosely walked to the parking area, and I remember muttering dark things under my breath as I waited for Uncle Martin to unlock the door to their big blue Buick. But as soon as the car door opened, a magical change came over both me and Michael. The inside of the car smelled just like the farm, crsip and woodsy. It breathed new life into us.
Looking back at all the days of our childhood, I can't remember a single time the two of us were on a long car ride without getting into an argument - except this time. On this ride from the airport, through the city, into the countryside, and down the twisting roads to the farm, Michael and I were so busy listening to Aunt Eva talk about the garden (and Uncle Martin talking about the cows and tractors) that we forgot to fight. The drive seemed to take forever, and the anticipation grew with every mile.
Finally, we turned on Geimler Road (the long, thin road that ran straight through the middle of the farm) and we actually let out a cheer. "There's the New Bridge!" I yelled. "And there's the white silo!" my brother replied. And so we shouted out every landmark we remembered from two summers before, our hearts pounding in our chests. When we had passed over the New Bridge and turned down the dirt road to the farmhouse, I rolled the window down just a little to hear the sound of the tires crunching over the sparse gravel. And...I heard another sound. Barking.
"That's just Loner," Aunt Eva said, seeing the concerned look on our faces. "We got him just over a year ago. Don't worry. He's very friendly."
Michael and I relaxed a little.
"But please move slowly. It's not good to startle him."
We were concerned again.
From the corner of my eye I saw a long, white ghostlike shape speed past the car. Then I saw him take a position in front of the car and make his stand, barking exultantly. Loner was a German Shepherd, bigger than any I had ever seen but white as snow. The only parts of Loner that were not white were his black eyes, his red tongue, and his yellow teeth. At that moment, his teeth had most of my attention. I dreaded getting out of the car.
"Just let him get to know you," Uncle Martin said in his southern drawl, putting on his work-cap.
I opened the door and tried to casually stand. Loner barked twice at me - as if to paralyze me, then swiftly moved over to inspect me. He sniffed my hands and legs, then moved around the car to my brother, who had just opened his own door. He sat still, one leg outside the car, while Loner inspected him as well.
"Hey Mike," I said, "you're whiter than he is. You shouldn't be so scared."
"Shut up!" he yelled back at me. "I'm not!" Our temporary cease-fire had ended.
Loner was displeased at the change in our mood. He stepped back and began to bark aggressively. Michael shut his car door and I hopped back into my side as well, and there we sat very sheepishly until Uncle Martin took Loner to his "pen".
Some time later it was explained to me that Loner was not a mean dog. Loner was a complicated dog. You see, Loner was already five years old when my aunt and uncle adopted him, and his previous owners were not as kind as my family. In fact, they treated the animal roughly, and what is worse they trained him to be very aggressive. But such was the power of my aunt and uncle's love that Loner's aggressiveness quickly turned into protectiveness. He was happy on the farm, and could wander freely on all seven hundred acres. Even his "pen" was bigger than most backyards nowadays...and he had an old henhouse for a doghouse! But he did seem to carry some of that old cunning distrust, and I think he suspected that two young newcomers who couldn't get along might mean trouble for his beloved Masters.
Of course, I didn't know any of this at the time. To me, Loner was a fearsome beast I had no desire to meet again. He could stay in his pen all summer long for all I cared, and while sitting in the back seat of the Buick I earnestly hoped that he would.
Michael and I sat in the car like statues until Uncle Martin let us out.
"He's in his pen now. Come on out. He won't hurt you none. You just startled him, is all."
We finally did leave the car, and with the barking of Loner more distant, we stepped into the Farmhouse, its comforting smells all around us.
When we went to bed that night in the first bedroom upstairs, we thought that the dangerous part of our summer adventure was over. Loner was safely in his pen, and the hundreds of acres of farm awaited our fresh exploration. But as I drifted into that half-slumber before sleep, I thought I heard a low moan just outside the window. It startled me awake, and I listened for it with my heart pounding. But the moan wasn't repeated, and although I couldn't be sure if it was the beginnings of a dream or a calf that had wandered near the farmhouse, I eventually fell into a deep sleep.
The morning showed one of the many ways I was different from my brother. Michael was an early riser, and I was a very late sleeper. By the time I wandered out of the bedroom, the midmorning sun was bright and Michael had already eaten two big bowls of Frosted Crunch cereal and who knows how many slices of cinnamon-sugar toast. He was following Aunt Eva around the kitchen, asking one question after another. He was so excited about the day and had so much sugar coursing through his veins that some part of his body was moving even when he stood in one place.
"Good morning, Timmy," said Aunt Eva in-between Michael's sentences. I winced a little at the nickname, but sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter.
"Yeah," Michael chimed in happily, "Good almost-afternoon, Timmy."
Michael knew I felt that I was too old for the nickname, and it annoyed me he managed to get in two jibes at once. I began to say that I was on vacation partly to sleep late, after all, but Aunt Eva interrupted me.
"I have a job for you two today. You can start right after breakfast. Timmy, how would you like your eggs?"
"Just cereal, please."
"That's hardly a real breakfast," complained Aunt Eva with a smile. But Michael sat on the stool next to me at the counter, spinning around as the stream of questions continued.
"Job?" he asked. "What job? Are we going to work in the garden? Can we ride on Uncle Martin's tractor? Are we going to town? Can I throw some rocks in the creek before we go? Can we feed the cows? Can I have another piece of cinnamon toast?"
I was annoyed. "You don't need cinnamon toast," I said as I munched on my cereal, "you're too fat already."
"Hey!" Michael shouted, and looked to Aunt Eva with an expression of hurt.
"I'll tell you your job after Timmy finishes breakfast. It doesn't involve the garden. We might go to town tomorrow. You'll have to talk to Martin about when you can ride the tractor. You can feed the cows or throw rocks in the creek after you finish this job. And I think you've had enough toast."
Then she turned to me. "He's not fat. He's husky."
Then I whispered so low that only Michael could hear, "Fat."
"He said it again!" Michael yelled, outraged.
But before Aunt Eva could respond, the screen door snapped shut and Uncle Martin walked in. He was dressed in his work clothes, which were very different from the work clothes of any other farmer I have ever known. If you saw him in town wearing his work clothes, you would think Uncle Martin was a mechanic of some kind. He wore a grey mechanic's outfit, complete with oil stains and even a patch on the chest that read, in embroidered cursive, Martin. He strode in, took off his grey cap, and sat down.
"What's for lunch?" he asked.
"The boys are finishing breakfast," Aunt Eva laughed.
"Breakfast!" exclaimed Uncle Martin. "You kids are sleepin' the whole day away. It'll be supper time before you know it." Then he turned to Aunt Eva. "I thought you were going to send them blackberry huntin' today."
"Blackberry Hunting!" Michael and I exclaimed in perfect unison. My brother ran to find his shoes, and I finished what remained of my cereal by lifting the bowl to my mouth.
"I was planning to tell them after they had finished eating, Martin," chided Aunt Eva.
Uncle Martin laughed and mumbled something in reply, but I was halfway to the front door and barely heard him. In the foyer, Michael was going through the elaborate ritual he called "fixing my socks." First, he elongated the socks at the toes. Next, he folded the excess under the ball of his foot. Then, he had to inspect the inside of his shoe (this part of the process was inspired by an unfortunate incident with a palmetto bug earlier in the year). Finally, he carefully inserted his foot into the "sneaker" (as we called athletic shoes back then), making sure that the precious flap of folded sock did not scrunch up into an uncomfortable wad in the process.
You can probably imagine how irritating this footwear procedure could be to an older brother. Every time we went outside, every time we were late for school, every time we went anywhere at all, I had to wait for what seemed like an eternity for my brother to put on his shoes. It was the source of more than one argument. So I stood there in the foyer, sighing and rolling my eyes, waiting with what was surely superhuman patience, when Aunt Eva walked in from the kitchen.
"You'll need these, probably," she said with gentle sarcasm, holding two large colanders. "Now I just want blackberries today. The raspberries and the black raspberries and the wineberries can wait for another time. Do you remember how to tell the difference between black raspberries and blackberries?"
Michael paused from his third attempt at putting his left foot in his shoe to answer. "The black raspberry's stem is round, and the blackberry's stem is grooved - plus it has more thorns. And the berry - "
"Geez Mike!" I interrupted, impatiently. "Focus on your shoes!"
"Shut up!"
"You shut up!"
"I'll see you after you fill these colanders," said Aunt Eva as she set them on the foyer floor. "Remember to stay out of the pastures and to watch out for poisoned ivy."
In all the summers we spent with Aunt Eva, I can't remember a single time when she directly confronted me and Michael for arguing. Back home, our mother scolded us frequently for the constant bickering. But Aunt Eva had a different approach. I think she wanted to show us what life was like when it was free of the cycle of arguing and scolding. As a tactic to get us to stop our fighting, it was a miserable failure. But as a glimpse into a world where people got along, it was a very wise gift.
"I will! Bye!" I said, picking up a colander and heading for the screen door, not waiting for Michael to finish tying his shoes.
But I stopped at the door as if I'd run into a wall.
Standing at the bottom of the steps, staring at me, was Loner. He made no sound or movement, but the look in his eye made me feel like prey.
I took a few steps back, the screen suddenly looking very thin and flimsy.
"Uncle Martin!" I yelled, my eyes still locked to the white dog's, "Loner got out of his pen!"
Uncle Martin made a whistling sound with his nose. He made that sound any time he thought you said something wrong or silly.
"Can't leave him in the pen all day. That'd be just plain cruel. He's a farm dog. Go on out and make friends with him."
I wish I could tell you that I fought a very great battle in my mind until I overcame my fear and stepped outside. Then, I could say that in spite of all the terrible dangers I would face during the magical adventures that followed this moment, that coming to terms with the family dog was the bravest act of the whole story.
But I can't tell you this for a very good reason...it isn't true. I was not brave at all. I simply stood there with my mouth open, staring at Loner. My brother sat on the floor a few feet behind me, his hands frozen in the act of tightening the laces on his left shoe. And I suppose we'd still be there to this day, staring out the screen door, if Uncle Martin hadn't shot another whistle through his nose and walked right into the foyer, his work shoes thumping on the linoleum with every great stride. Without slowing, he swung open the door and walked down the three front steps to his beloved dog.
Someone once said that perfect love casts out all fear. This is almost what happened to me as I watched my uncle bend down and rub Loner's neck and behind his ears. I watched Uncle Martin's hands and face get wet with enthusiastic licking, and as I noticed Loner's tail for the first time. It was dancing. I was nearly convinced.
To my complete amazement, Michael actually got up and stepped outside, joining in the petting and play. Envy welled up inside me. What love began, raw competition finished up. I walked through the doorway and put my hand on Loner's back. I stroked his snowy coat. Then he looked at me, and his eyes seemed to say, I am letting you touch me because Master is letting you touch me. But I do not trust you. I slowly let my hand trail back to my side.
"-just like any other dog," Uncle Martin was saying while I had been listening to Loner's eyes. "He'll run some and follow you some. He'll come and go, up to his own business and checkin' on yours. He knows you now."
Then Uncle Martin went inside to finish his lunch, and as the door snapped shut Loner lay down on the steps, looking at nothing in particular.
Everything was still for a moment, except for a breeze that rustled through the leaves of the nearest trees. A fly buzzed by each of us, until the wet snapping of Loner's jaws told me it had buzzed its last.
"Tim," my brother whispered, "blackberries."
Wild berries grew all over the farm. To me, "wild" meant they just grew there magically, maybe since the beginning of the world. They didn't need any gardening at all. Picking them almost felt like cheating. If the owner of a big cookie factory invited you inside, and then told you that - just this once - you could pick as many cookies as you wanted off the conveyer belt, you would feel what we felt that summer morning as we walked down the dirt path to pick blackberries. They were free, and the owner said we could have as many as we wanted.
I looked behind me, and Loner was still lying on the steps.
We made our way to the first batch of berries, right between the feed station and the entrance to the "truck graveyard", an old apple orchard turned pasture. There were a dozen or so broken down pickup trucks and a few cars in the pasture. Grass and weeds had so overgrown them, sticking up through the windows and rusted-out tops, that it looked like they were slowly sinking into the ground. Beyond the trucks, shade trees grew over the gurgling Little Fox Creek - a wonderful place to play. But we were not allowed to go to the cow-side of the fence without a grownup. We picked a few dozen blackberries here at the fence (and ate more than a few wild raspberries) before moving on.
I glanced back to the now-distant farmhouse. Loner was no longer there. My heart beat a little faster. Michael had noticed too.
"Where'd he go?" he asked, looking around.
"Who cares?" I answered, still bothered by the fact that my little brother had approached Loner first. He was supposed to be the brother with the encyclopedic brain, and I was supposed to be the bold and courageous one. At that moment I was feeling just a little cowardly, and I resented it. Nonchalantly I said, "Uncle Martin said he'd come and go."
"I don't care," said Michael, seeing the opening he'd left me, "I was just wondering."
"Then why did you sound so scared?"
"I didn't sound scared!"
"Yes you did."
"No I didn't!"
"Yes you did."
"Didn't!"
"Did."
"Shut up!"
"You shut up."
And so on. We continued to argue as we walked down the path to the place we knew the berries grew thickest, right under the old walnut tree that grew near the edge of the property. So we made our way slowly, a field of corn to our left and pasture and berries - to our right. We stopped occasionally to pick blackberries and to eat raspberries, but the bickering did not stop until we were about to round the last bend before the walnut tree came in sight.
Suddenly we heard rustling in the cornfield just to the left of the path. We looked and listened, then saw the young stalks being nudged out of the way. I saw a streak of white rush by. Loner. Michael and I exchanged glances, trying to decide whether or not to be relieved, when we heard the sound.
It was an eerie, animal sound. But it was not the first time I had heard it. In fact, it was the very same sound I'd heard just before falling asleep the night before. I thought it may have been a calf, because it sounded a little like a calf. I shuddered as Loner passed us by. He was heading in the direction of the noise, which seemed to be coming from around the bend - right where we were going!
If Loner hadn't gone on ahead, we would have turned right around and headed swiftly back to the farmhouse. But "our dog" had already scouted the situation, and that gave us courage. We both began to call out loudly for Loner and to stamp our feet as we turned the bend, hoping to scare away whatever waited there. But what waited, we never would have imagined.
We turned the bend and saw a boy, standing just under the big walnut tree. But this was not any kind of boy I have seen before or since. It was not only that he was nearly naked, with only a strip of corn leaf covering him: it was his hair. His hair was long, falling down his left side all the way to his pale-skinned knee, and his hair was silver, like dull tinsel or an elderly lady's hair. He was a small boy, looking a year or two younger than Michael, but this did not make me feel any better. Worse, it seemed we could not stop moving toward him. We were drawn as if under a spell. And as we moved closer, I realized why I could not tell if he was looking at us. His eyes had no whites in them. They were dark, blacker than Loner's, but without any whites. I gasped and stopped short, spell or no spell. And then he opened his mouth.
It is one thing to see and hear a boy make an animal noise. Boys do that all the time, for fun. But this was not like that. When this silver-haired boy made the calf-like moan, I knew in my bones that this was the way he spoke. I was terrified.
In one day I had felt the worst fear I had ever known in two completely different ways. Fear of Loner was not the same as fear of this boy. If I told you there was a hungry bear in your closet (and you believed me), you would be afraid in the same way I was afraid of Loner. But if I told you that there was a ghost in your closet (and you believed me), you might be just as afraid - but in a different way. A ghost has no claws and can't eat you for supper, so it is not as if it would kill you. I suppose a ghost might scare you to death, but that doesn't explain why you would be scared in the first place. A ghost would scare you because there is something unnatural about it - it is a spirit without a body, and that simply isn't right. Well, that is the kind of fear I felt toward this strange boy. He was unnatural. He was not right. He was other. But you are very lucky, because there is no ghost in your closet at all (I promise). On the other hand, this unnatural boy was not just my imagination. I knew it because Michael was staring at him too, staring with trembling lips.
When he had finished his moan, Loner came strutting out of the cornfield. Michael and I almost let out a cheer. But to our dismay, Loner casually walked up to the boy, licked his hand, and stood at his side facing us. He then gave us the same look he gave me earlier at the door - the look of a hunter.
(Chapter End) |
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