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The Return Journey

Chapter 18

There’s a thing terrible about leaving a journey unfinished; the feelings of guilt, worry, doubt, and anger pile on. But they do not pile in a structured order with rhyme or reason. Certainly, the onset of joy arrives with them; the joy of relief, the joy of rest, the joy of laziness. And this rhythm is bizarre and unorthodox; viz., one moment you are happy that it’s all over, and the next, sad that you must depart. The sadness can ebb and flow for days, weeks, and sometimes years; and no matter how much you try to explain why you yet feel sorrow after such lengthy times, you can’t really make anyone understand, because deep down, you don’t realize yourself why the pain is still present. 

You failed when you were supposed to succeed; nothing improved when you were the one to fix it. That’s the horrid thing about failure; it creeps up into the joints of a person and festers. And it’s only by the hatred of failure that little boys and girls learn to keep pushing and keep fighting, to never give up, until they succeed. This was one of those moments for the Dolor children and Aaron. They put their lives in harm’s way, their faith in the supernatural, and stepped into a forest of endless possibilities and dangers; only to be let down at every turn until finally walking away, frustrated and beaten. To suggest that the journey out of the Enchanted Forest was gloomy is an understatement. 

None of them wanted to leave, but dusk was upon them, the sky growing bleak, and they’d no other ideas of what to do. For the first hour of their walk, they kept waiting to bump into the Ghost of David Crockett and discover he was just on the other side of the hill; a little delayed and ready to help. But he never showed up, and they never found relief. 

The fleeting hope flurried up inside of them again when they thought they had smelled lavender on the wind or the light caught the blue ridge just right; but gradually the thoughts grew dim and less and less often, until they started to doubt he ever existed at all. Balaam and Starlight were real enough; but their magic had lost its luster, the wonder dimmed in their mopey silence. It took every hope inside to muster up a faith that what they did somehow mattered and would make a difference; yet with every step, they further comprehended how the birds kept chirping, the deer kept bounding, and the sun kept falling no matter what they did or did not do on the earth.

The return-journey is always less remarkable. The trees do not dazzle. The animals are common, now. Time moves slower and the path travels quicker. It was just over two hours of walking and the children saw Fool’s Pass on the horizon. Great pillared canyons cut through the mountain in what once was a river run; the river had dried up centuries ago and flowed again underground to form Uktena’s Lair. Now, poplar trees and rhododendron lined a foot path through the canyon. The children remembered that deep under their feet was the deadly sea-serpent, waiting for someone to stumble upon it.

On the far side, the children followed the path south-southwest up the slippery slope where Herbert nearly fell; it seemed a lifetime ago. Here, the journey grew so painful and exhaustive that Herbert and Esther’s feeble legs could take them no further; they resorted to riding on Balaam’s back, who was gracious enough to have them. 

Marian and Aaron kept with the Donkey while they followed a hovering eagle over the ridge-line and down the descent unto Weeper’s Run. The need for food became so strong that the children ached and wondered if they had ever eaten before; the idea of crawling into bed with a cheeseburger and chocolate cookies was always in their imagination. 

Night fell on the mountain and they crossed Pascal’s Bridge under the gleam of the moonlight bouncing off the water. Esther remembered her first conversation with the creepy Mr. Dauer and shuddered; Herbert smiled as he recalled Pascal’s antics. “He talked funny,” he muttered under his breath. 

The cold came upon them quickly, and all four huddled as close to Balaam’s furry coat as they could muster until the belabored ascent of their final mountain tested their mettle and warmed their bodies. At the top of the climb, Esther caught a frail glimpse of the strange clay markings highlighted against the white rock face over Weeper’s Run; she never would have noticed them now had she not seen them in the bright morning light. 

On the mountain’s far side, the group hobbled down the steep descent southwest in sleepy dismay, wishing every moment to be curled up in bed and far from mountains and trees, yet careful not to slip on the damp muddy slope. Every few moments, they recognized another peculiar rock or leaf and thought they neared the end; only to find yet another familiar formation and be reminded again they had a long way to travel still. 

Thus, the very end of a return-journey is ofttimes the longest and most irritable. Bugs are a nuisance; rocks are painful; the wind is cold; sweat drips off your nose, and your knees ache. Eventually, they heard the sound of Long Creek, and knew they were finally close to the end (or beginning, depending on how you looked at it); but even still the creek did not come from the shadows until several minutes down a slippery, jagged slope, winding from shoulder to shelf to shoulder.

Finally, they found Long Creek; its dribbling water meandered south to meet Little Tennessee River. Water smacked under their feet, and Balaam halted at its middle. 

“I think it’s time I left you children,” said he. 

“What?” Marian asked. 

“No,” Herbert said.

It hadn’t occurred to any, until just then, that Balaam wouldn’t be able to come home with them. He was his own Animal and belonged to the forest.

“I’ll take you down the creek to the hill.” Another mile and they came to the path before the final hill of the gate. “I appreciate the opportunity to walk with you children. Fine group you are indeed,” said Balaam. “Though I’m sure you are happy to be rid of me anyway.” He smirked.

“Oh, Balaam!” Marian cried. 

Herbert and Esther dismounted from his back and the four children wrapped their arms around the Donkey and kissed him a thousand times. “Hee-haw,” Balaam whispered, and a tear ran down his long face. 

“We will never forget you, Balaam,” Marian said.

“You saved my life,” said Esther. 

“You saved all of us,” added Marian. “You will always be our hero.” 

“I’m going to name my kid after you, Balaam.” Herbert smiled and squeezed his neck one last time. 

“Thank afor bean our friend,” Aaron said and wiped his face, trying his best not to show his tears in the moonlight. “I sory for a-callin’ ye’n stoopid.” 

“You are forgiven. And I’ll never forget you, children,” said Balaam. “Well,” he straightened his back. “Better time than never to get started going nowhere.” 

“Will we ever see you again?” Esther asked. 

“I’m not sure,” Balaam replied. “But I suppose it has to happen if I really think about it.”

The children smiled and watched the Donkey disappear up the creek and into the forest. Once the trees stopped rustling and bending, and they knew he was far out of sight, they continued on their own way, slowly over the final hill and caught by a new wave of adrenaline for their beds and clean clothes. The moonlight disappeared behind the tall trees and they gathered close together. All was quiet, the trees were still, and nothing stirred. Fear would have gotten a hold of them if not for a familiar voice they heard in the darkness far behind and up the far hill. “Ugh, I always hated crossing mud,” came Balaam’s voice, and it made the children giggle.

“A-most theres,” said Aaron. “Sees that there piece a-soapstone—that the piece I’s a-pointed at on the ways in.” 

***

When the forest-gate spread before them, and they stepped from the lush, green trees to open, fresh-cut grass, they had the odd sensation of stepping onto foreign land. For a half second, they thought houses were an absurdity and asphalt roads preposterous. But the wave of “normal” poured over them like a cup of lukewarm water; it felt nice to be home, safe to be back, but abhorrently uneventful. 

They gathered under the tulip poplar and to their surprise a tree-house floor was braced up at the first branch, eight feet in the air. “I don’t remember that being there this morning,” Marian said, pointing. 

Slam! 

The back-porch door had opened and slapped shut, though it didn’t close properly because the latch was broken. Mrs. Dolor was standing in front of it, furious. 

Starlight woke from the sound and blasted away into the night; it would have broken Herbert’s heart to not say goodbye under normal circumstances. But instead, he couldn’t look away from the stern, violent glare in his mother’s eye. 

Aaron hollered his goodbye and ran to his bicycle perched on the nearest side of the house. He took off before any of the Dolor children said a word. The Dolors couldn’t take their eyes off their mother for their own safety.

“Where have you been!” She hollered in the sort of way adults do when they don’t want an answer, but just want you to know they are mad. “You’ve been gone all day…without a word! Oh my goodness! All of you! Filthy! Where have you been…Look at all your cuts and scrapes! Ugh! I’ve been worried sick and calling every place I could think of! Get inside!” She was quite upset, but her anger had more to do with fear than fury. She calmed down a bit once all three of her children were safe inside their home. 

“Where did you go?” Mrs. Dolor asked again. All three children were bathed, dressed in pajamas, and sitting in the kitchen with her. Marian was seated on top of the table being examined by her mother, who ran iodine and cotton swabs over every cut and slice the trees, rocks, and Spearfinger had given her. (Of course, the children didn’t tell her anything about the hag or sea-serpent because that would only get them in more trouble.)

“We were playing in the woods behind our house,” Marian said.

Mrs. Dolor muttered something while applying another dab to Marian’s elbow.

Marian cringed. “I’m sorry, Mom. We lost track of time.” 

“Who was that boy?” 

“His name is Aaron,” Herbert butt-in. “He goes to school with us.” 

“Aaron,” she repeated to herself, like she wanted to memorize it. “Is he a good boy?” 

Marian, Esther and Herbert looked at each other, unsure for a moment how to answer. 

“Yeah,” Marian said. “He’s our friend.” 

“Well,” Mrs. Dolor said, “I’m glad you are making friends.” She poured a sizable amount of iodine down Marian’s leg, who clenched her teeth and winced. “You know your father was home all day,” said Mrs. Dolor, wiping it away. “He wanted to spend the day playing with you.” 

“Oh,” Marian said.

“He spent the entire day starting a tree-house for you out back.” Mrs. Dolor had that look in her eye that all mothers know how to give. It’s that glance that makes you feel their disappointment even though they don’t have to say a word.

“I’m sorry,” the children said.

“Don’t say ‘sorry’ to me,” replied Mrs. Dolor.

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