Keith G. Alderman

Smoke and Shadows

Smoke and Shadows
Chapter 11

Herbert stared like a deer caught in an automobile’s headlights. He couldn’t move or speak, because he didn’t really know even how to think. Beyond the group of children, among the dark, overhanging trees, a shadow lurked like a hunched over man resting his hands on his knees. Its two glowing green eyes pierced the darkness. When the rest of the group turned and looked at what Herbert stared at, the shadowy figure closed its eyes, becoming invisible, and skirted into the nearby bushes. The children heard leaves crashing and footsteps crunching through the dark.

“What was that thing?” Aaron asked, immediately on edge.

“I didn’t get a good look,” Marian responded. “It’s so dark in here.”

“Was it the Top-Hat Man?” Aaron asked.

“He could never move that quickly,” Esther replied.

“So where did he go, anyway?” Herbert asked.

“He left us,” Esther replied. “Like we all could have guessed he would.”

Marian felt that sting, because in her gut, she knew Esther was right. The Top-Hat Man was gone, and he took with him her feelings of anger and bitterness, leaving behind only the residue of shame and embarrassment. She had lost her temper, and threw it at Balaam, of all people. She didn’t know what was going on with Esther and the Top-Hat Man, but she knew better than to act that way toward Balaam, who was only trying to help.

Esther huddled next to Herbert in the marsh and wondered what she might do if she saw Mr. Dauer again. She wanted to go back to Balaam, but knew he could be miles from her, and there was no way of knowing what direction he went after crossing the bridge. After all, he didn’t have any reason to return to the Gate. And then, it dawned on her, and the others with her, they wouldn’t be able to return to the bridge or Balaam even if they wanted to. The trees, shadows, and murky swamp all looked foreign, and the path disappeared only a few feet behind their quickly fading footprints.

“Now, what do we do?” Esther asked. “We’ve got no guide, and we’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“Well,” Marian said, fully aware of the desperate situation.

“Please, don’t say it,” Herbert groaned.

“We’ve got to get through the swamp,” she declared.

The scariest thing about the dark is not knowing if something is lurking in the shadows. But it’s especially terrifying to know something is indeed lurking, and yet, know you have to traipse through it, anyway. Having friends with you can help if they are brave with you. However, if they are just as frightened as you are, the fear only gets worse. One simple sigh can make someone else think they are afraid, which only exacerbates their own fear, and that person moans, which makes someone else flinch, and the next thing you know, everyone is running in different directions.

But that didn’t happen to the Dolors and Aaron. Because Marian learned a lesson from her father a long time ago. He taught her the best way to do something scary or difficult is to set your mind only on what you know. Instead of thinking about how long and how many steps it will take to get through it, think only about the next step in front of you and the final step at the end. As long as you keep taking one step at a time, you will reach the final one. But if you worry yourself with the ones you don’t know about, it’ll make you miserable and terrified, and sometimes make you give up.

Having someone with you that is brave can muster up your own courage, too. Here, Marian’s confident steps forward helped propel the others onward, even though they didn’t like the idea one bit.

The sinister trees stretched out for them, and the wind bristled in their leaves high in the canopy. Squeaking branches squeezed against one another, echoing in the unseen sky. Under their feet, the murky forest floor was calm and quiet, save for the sounds of flying insects, chirping frogs, and their footsteps slopping through the mud. The stench of the stagnant water and rotting vegetation batted against their noses, and a hot, white fog lifted after every footstep, which made the whole area look like it was full of smoke.

“I can’t see anything,” Herbert whined.

“None of us can, Herbie,” Aaron retorted.

“Oh! Oh! God! No!” Esther screamed.

The others plodded to her side. She swat at her face and picked at her hair like a madwoman. Without seeing where she was going, Esther had walked directly into a large orb weaver’s spider-web. The thing was strewn across her face and clung to her lips and eyelashes. She spat and cried while hopelessly attempting to pull the stuff free. It felt like a thousand little legs were crawling through her hair, scaring her witless as she imagined the horror of never getting them out.

The others felt helpless to aid her. They tried calming her down before she hurt herself, but she only jumped up and down, wailed, and ran in circles while pulling at the web. The stuff started disappearing, but it took her sitting down on a cypress knee and bawling her eyes out before she even considered feeling okay.

“It’s horrible! I hate it!” She cried.

“It’s okay, Ess,” Marian consoled. “I don’t see any spiders on you.”

“It’s everywhere!” She screamed. “And we know who’s fault it is,” she said, glaring at Marian.

Aaron sighed. “Okay, well, there’s nothing to be done,” he said. “Let’s just keep going and be more careful.”

Aaron despised the idea of standing still in the claustrophobic swamp. Although the longer they stood, the more the smoky fog evaporated. The children could look further out through the trees. Nothing appeared familiar in the shadows, and every noise was a potential danger.

Esther wiped her face and stood. A long smear of dirt and mud crossed her cheek and nose. “It’s okay, let’s keep going,” she said. The group continued, and Esther didn’t cry anymore. However, she kept spitting every few feet for at least another half-hour.

“What was God thinking when He invented spiders?” Esther wailed and spat another piece of web out of her mouth.

“At least they eat mosquitoes,” Herbert offered.

Aaron smacked the back of his neck. “Speaking of which,” he said, and wiped a bloody mess from the palm of his hand. In the darkness, he tripped into the back of Marian, pushed backward, slipped on a cypress knee, and fell back onto Esther.

“Hey what’s the big idea!” he hollered, pushing himself up and helping Esther to her feet again. He stopped short of yelling when he saw Marian was whimpering. “Marian?” He asked.

Marian’s knees were shaking. “I have no idea if there is even a path anymore,” she whispered, and her voice shook.

Wind swept through the forest and cleared the fog. The frogs stopped croaking, and the flies disappeared. Trees stood on thin stocks, towering up and linking at the canopy. The forest floor was water and mud for miles. Nothing grew at the bottom, leaving an endless void of murk.

“We could be anywhere,” Marian said softly, trying her best to not fall to her knees and bawl on the ground that instant. With all her might, she must stay strong for her siblings.

“I thought you knew where you were going,” Esther said.

“I just believed if I kept walking we would get through it,” she replied.

Fear ran down Aaron’s spine as he looked left and right at the shadows. “Well, a heck-of-a-lotta good that’s done us!” He hollered and bit his lips.

“Marian,” Herbert whispered, touching her arm. “Are we lost?”

Herbert’s tender touch made her take a deep breath. “No, Herb.” She smiled weakly and wiped a tear from her face.

“What do you mean ‘No’?” Aaron exclaimed and threw his hands into the air. “We don’t know where any direction is and have no idea how long we’ve been going.”

“Maybe the logbook?” Herbert tried not let his voice shake.

“Ever think it might be the middle of the night?” Aaron’s rant continued. “Oh God, we are gonna die in this pitiful place.”

“Stop.” Esther’s voice whispered a stout warning, and everyone silenced. “Stop. I hear something.”

The kids were as still as rabbits.

“Shh!” Aaron whispered to Herbert.

“I’m not moving,” he whispered back.

“Well, it’s not me.”

“Then who is it?”

“Quiet!”

The kids squinted and hunched forward to make sense out of the darkness. The fog lifted.

Squish. The sound of a footstep sliding through mud.

Growl. A low hum reverberated through the tree trunks.

“Alligator!” Aaron yelled, and all four kids took off sprinting through the mud in the direction they best thought opposite the noise.

Pepper trees nicked their faces, and cypress knees broke their shins as they raced through the swamp. One after the other. First Aaron crashed through, winding branches up as he ran, before they swung back into Esther, and then Herbert, and Marian in the rear. Blood traced their faces, forearms, and shins. Then the floor dipped, and their feet slipped. All four fell, tangling up into one another and skidding along a mud hill before the hot smack of water took the wind out of them, and they couldn’t breathe.

They had fallen into a pond in the middle of the marsh. Darkness, confusion, and fear devoured them. Brushing and bumping into one another underwater, they lost all sense of up and down, grabbing for anything that felt firm—roots, rocks, and each other’s limbs. Their feet touched the bottom, and one by one, they propelled themselves to the surface and gasped for air.

“Oh my God!” Aaron screamed. “Swim! Swim! Swim!”

“Herbert doesn’t swim good!” Marian hollered back.

“Where do we go?” Esther begged.

Aaron swam to Herbert’s side, who was flailing and thrashing in the water.

“Herbie!” Aaron gasped, and Herbert clung to his neck before spitting a mouthful of water out. “Hang on, Herbert!” Aaron ordered and swam for shore, which he did not know where was.

“Where are we going?” Marian cried, scanning each direction for rushing waves and the reflective eyes of alligators.

“Are we going to die?” Esther whimpered.

In the distance, Aaron caught sight of a small green light. “There!” He ordered, and the girls followed him as quickly as they could.

The kids kicked their feet as though their lives depended on it, which they did, and their arms gulped water behind them with every stroke. They thrashed forward, and after only a few yards, they heard a loud splash erupt from behind, and they knew an animal had dove into the water. Tears were falling down Esther’s and Marian’s faces while they kept up with Aaron. Herbert closed his eyes and hung on for dear life. Another loud splash beside them. And another from the other side.

Alligators closed in on the group from every direction. Growls bellowed out of the darkness like teeth were right next to them. Aaron kept his eyes on the light ahead of him.

“Keep going!” He hollered. “Keep going!”

The light shimmered. It was an emerald fairy, hovering behind a row of cypress trees. She glanced around at the commotion and saw the four children swimming toward her. In shock, she saw six alligators closing in on them. Her wings buzzed at the speed of her light as she flew through the marsh, banking round tree limbs and trunks, dodging moths and dragonflies, and hugging the water’s edge.

A nine-foot alligator closed in on Marian. Its tail serpentined through the water at lightning speed, and its mouth opened. Its head jerked forward.

The fairy flew into Aaron’s face, barely missing him, halted, and exploded into a vibrant white flash. Light gushed through every nook and cranny of the dark swamp for a half mile in every direction. The water around them looked as bright as a beach on a summer day, blinding the children and alligators. A pair of ivory jaws snapped inches from Marian’s face before retreating underwater. The reptiles swam away from the bright light, as it slowly burned from white to gold to a dim emerald green.

The children’s breath came back, and they cried and cheered together. On the top of Herbert’s head lay a little green fairy. She gasped for air and clearly used an immense amount of energy to save the children with her light.

Esther stopped cheering and swam to Herbert’s side. “Are you alright, little pixie?” She asked.

Fairies don’t speak in our language, but the little lady smiled and patted Herbert’s head while she closed her eyes to rest. Her little chest beat up and down as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

“Thank you so much for saving us,” Marian whispered. “We would be dead without you.”

“We need to get to shore,” Aaron said.

The children swam to the edge of the pond, from where the fairy flew. Aaron tried to stand on the shore, but his feet slipped from under him. He grasped the branch of a cedar and steadied himself. One by one, the children pulled themselves onto the slushy bank. They traveled far enough away from the pond to feel safe and collapsed.

They were indebted to the little green fairy and let her sleep in Herbert’s shirt pocket until her strength returned. Meanwhile, Marian removed her backpack to examine its condition. Luckily, the children lost nothing in the pond. She pulled the rest of the snacks out and each kid partook. Later, the children described it as the best food they had ever eaten.
Chapter Eighteen

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 18

A cool breeze ran along the cobbled village road, lifting a tribe of red and orange leaves into the air. A brick sidewalk framed it on the side of a hill, wrapped by markets, restaurants, and salons. At the top, a decrepit mansion sat idly—a monument of yesteryear. People strolled, bartered, and peddled on every corner in listless languor; each more irreverent and apathetic than the last.

He walked up the hill and attempted to greet the people. But he was unnoticed by them—nothing but a nuisance. They chatted with one another about shopping, trades and weather, never looking him in the eye. He wondered why he was unseen by them, but refused to ask because he worried he may truly be invisible. It were as if his presence shrunk to minuscule the nearer he approached them until he disappeared from their existence altogether. The more he tried to meet someone, the more they turned away.

He found himself on a bench, staring at an ornate metal sculpture. It was of two men holding grand and delicate instruments, laughing wildly, eyes closed and jazz music coming from their strings and fingertips. He studied the metal-men, investigating how they could make music without moving their hands.

Oh, there it was. A speaker hidden in the hedge, playing Billie Holiday and deceiving the passerby.

He smiled and recollected how his wife would love to hear the music and see the metal-men play. Yes, his wife. He now remembered that he was looking for his bride. He stood from his place of rest and walked back onto the street.

“Excuse me,” he called out to a man in the window of a shop. “Have you seen my—”

The man shook his head and promptly closed the door of his shop and shut the blind.

He continued up the street, frantic in his search. The longer he searched, the more he knew she was not in the village at all. She said she would be at the mansion. But he didn’t want to believe it.

He looked at the top of the hill and saw it. An ancient Victorian in faded cream, stained by weather, wear and tear. It towered over the village, looking down on her like an angry old man that would never be pleased till she were gone. A cupola stood in the center of its roofline between overhanging archways. Earth and vines spread off of it and through a cornice protruding underneath. They ran down its sides and draped out onto the ground below its feet. A decorated frieze wrapped the building, telling the stories of those it wished were still alive; though it was broken and ruined in many places now. He shuddered when he looked at it, but he knew that his wife ventured to the house and he must go to find her. Its doors were wide open.

Each step felt heavier and more strained than the last. He reached halfway and thought of turning back. The path was painful, so much so that he didn’t think it was really worth the effort. It embarrassed him to know that if it weren’t for his promise to meet her, he would have given up and left. But the promise pushed him, and on the path he walked with tense muscles and sweat on his brow.

Soon, he felt as though he were making progress and believed he could actually finish the climb. He encouraged himself audibly. He wasn’t a quitter, and in the climb he lived. He came to the top of the hill and looked upon the house. It was far less ominous than it seemed from the village. It wasn’t until now, at the end of the road, did he realize the strain came from the incline and not the destination.

The entry read: A Cat in the Attic Antiques. He walked up the steps and entered.

Inside, the room smelt of lacquer and pine. Golden rafters exposed themselves overhead. The windows were the only source of light. The place was old and worn, but pleasant and warm.

An older woman, hidden by shelves and pillars, was rummaging through a bundle of dresses. She looked up and smiled. “I believe she is upstairs,” she said to him.

He turned to a balustrade of iron and oak. He scaled the steps, one at a time, and with every stair, he relented to a growing excitement.

At the third floor, he saw her. Her hands were holding a piece of antique pottery. She looked up and grinned. She ran to him, as if her feet were gliding under the white dress she wore. She leapt into his arms and put her head on his chest. She sighed and squeezed him tightly.

“I’m so glad you finally are here,” she said.

“Why did you leave me?” he replied.

“Its only going to be a little longer now.” Her smile faded, and she looked deep into his eyes. “But you still have to get hit a few more times.”

“I don’t understand.”

She stomped her foot on the wooden slats. A thud shook through the antique store. She was smiling. He looked down at the floor. The foot stayed still, but the pounding against the wood floor recurred.

“Its only going to be a little longer now,” she kept smiling.

The thud kept coming.

He opened his eyes. He was on his back in the hull. It was dark still. Though the moon and stars hid behind a blanket of clouds. Slight shadows crept through them, illuminated on the far side near the heavens. He listened to the water smack against the canoe like a typewriter.

He was lost at sea. His mouth was parched and his head continued to hurt. He gasped for breath, but the air was stale and briny.

Thud!

The pounding against the wood-slats was real, after all. He couldn’t move but only a little; he turned his body over to its side and pressed his hand against the hull. His heart raced inside his chest, but his body remained still.

Thud!

The canoe bent under his palm. Something in the dark was ramming the boat. His eyes were wide open, though he saw but two-feet into the darkness. They flicked around in scattered glances, focusing on nothing and peering into naught. Little waves splashed in the darkness.

His hand refused to leave the side of the hull. It was a small boat, but the darkness made it feel large. He curled into the fetal position and closed his eyes. He prayed for it to rain and for the sound to go away.

Thud!

The sound persisted. His head hurt. His ears rang. And soon he was dreaming again.

Sunlight sparkled through the canopy; glitter danced on the forest floor. The underbrush rolled down a rocky chasm and up again, forming a large trench lined by moss-laden rocks and loose soil. It was black and formless, ghastly and long. In the center, he lay in the fetal position, cowering in terror.

In the distance, thunder clapped the forest, and the canopy shook. He knew the sound was after him, but he didn’t know from what direction it came; he didn’t know from what it came. He must escape for he would surely die. He must get out of the trench and into the jungle.

He rose and took a step forward, only to hear a familiar but sinister rattle in the leaves. He looked round and with horror saw that in the trench were dozens of serpents—golden and scarlet eye-lash vipers, rock and dusky rattlesnakes, fer-de-lance, taipan, and kraits waiting in the leaves. They were watching him, vitriol in their black eyes.

He stepped in hesitation, making for the nearest bank. As he climbed, he reached for a branch and a yellow viper lashed at him, just missing his hand. He pulled back, nearly fell, corrected himself, and froze in fear. The two stared at each other—one in stark terror, the other in a devilish grin. Its eye pierced him like a knife; the long slit of black through the middle of the speckled yellow orb. Its horny jagged edges crowned its evil eyes, like a horrific dragon trapped inside of a frail body.

He backed up and stepped on a rattlesnake. The rattler lunged back without striking but its rattle primed to a terrible roar and disturbed all of its relatives in the trench. Soon a symphony of deadly rattles were drowning out the jungle.

Fear was alive, creeping down his spine and up the back of his legs. And then the sound came from the jungle again.A terrible thud—but no, it differed from that—longer, melodic, rusty and booming. The same noise that haunted him from his beginning. From the first moment, he lay against the ceiba and thought himself a victor; the same moment the storm beat him.

He remembered it was a monster called Koh hunting him and wanting him dead no matter what. It was a great lizard of grotesque proportion, with red eyes, a long, black, forked-tongue, and a tail like a dragon’s. It was just on the other side of the trench, waiting for him to leave the frying-pan and crawl into the furnace of its jaws.

Rain fell in the forest, and he heard the monster scream. It sounded like a cry of pain and retreat rather than ferocity and pursuit. He noticed the serpents began slipping away while the rain fell on their faces. He looked at his side, and sure enough, the viper and rattlesnake retreated.

He was at the top of the trench when he slipped in the mud and fell forward, doubling over himself and sliding down a long, wet path. Mud and leaves whipped him in the face until he landed painfully against a tree trunk.

He stood on a felled tree at the center of a swamp. The rain was falling harsh and the water level was quickly rising around him. Brilliant droplets of water burst into the swamp, forming bubbles and whitecaps in the wind. The drops were dense, powerful, and viscous, like they were growing into something. The bubbles and waves collected together and formed into bumps and ridges. The thing became white and black, striped and spotted. Two eyes slid open into the shape of brilliant glass orbs, opening and closing under the viscous membrane; green cat eyes peered out and caught him in their gaze. Next the nostrils formed and a blast of water erupted from them. Large white jaws came from under the water, opening and closing in mesmerizing rhythm.

It was a crocodile. Long and powerful. Majestic and horrifying in every sense of the words. It draped itself on top of the water and swayed its tail, merely calling to him. He stood erect on the tree trunk. From the fallen tree, he noticed a dozen more in the water now, slowly drifting toward him.

He looked to the sky, exasperated, and saw a cloud racing by. The sun peaked from behind and shone down on him. Then it disappeared. The rain filled his mouth, and he had a hard time swallowing it. He was coughing and trying to get the stuff out of his lungs, but for whatever reason he couldn’t turn himself over to let the water out of his mouth. He was drowning and couldn’t lower his head to breathe.

He shook himself awake and gasped for air. It was raining on him and his face was in a puddle of water.
Prophecy of Fireworks

A dream last night:

(Of course, there were things happening before and things that happened after. And those bits seem to be the same recurring message: Escape from the tired and miserable place, where men and women walk like zombies and cannot rejoice. Escape the place that cares of money, fame, and things that are small. But at the center was a dream that connected to my heart, and my mind could not evade it. It kept rattling through there all night and day and night again. Until finally, I saw what it meant.)

I was standing in a field. The yard that belonged to my grandmother when I was very young. I stood beside my wife, who was acting reckless, self-assured, and silly with joy. She had a firework in her hand. A decent sized rocket and looked to ignite it. Around her were the remains of many other rockets she had let fly already. She put the rocket down on the ground and lit the wick. But as she backed up, she purposefully let it topple over and land on its side. In a panic, I dropped to the ground and turned my back to it, shielding my ears and face. The thing exploded. Dust, smoke, debris, scratches, scrapes, bruises everywhere. I turned back to her, and she was standing and smiling. “It’s okay,” she said, “I have more!” And she threw back a blanket near her to reveal two more boxes of nine rockets.

I believe God is saying that some have felt like they are stuck in a place that feels as if they went all the way back to the beginning. A place that makes them miserable and worrisome that they have wasted their time. But God, meanwhile, has been firing off many rockets and joyful moments in your life. Moments of revival. Moments of breakthrough. You just lost sight of them. And now it was time for one to seemingly blow up in your face. You covered yourself up, afraid. You got bruised, beat up, and can’t see clearly through the smoke and debris. But the Holy Spirit has many more rockets to go. There are more testimonies and more moments of revival on the way! And two by nine they shall come. Whether by the union of others or division with them, his completion will take place. Trust Him and let go. It’s okay to let the reckless and “silly” Spirit have its way.

Beloved, do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you; but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ’s sufferings, that when His glory is revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy. If you are reproached for the name of Christ, blessed are you, for the Spirit of glory and of God rests upon you. On their part He is blasphemed, but on your part He is glorified. But let none of you suffer as a murderer, a thief, an evildoer, or as a busybody in other people’s matters. (1 Peter 4:12-15)

I believe something has been happening slowly to the Church that we must take account of. We have adopted a “victim-mentality”. Afraid of the future, sad about the present, and passive-aggressively manipulating and gossiping like busy-bodies.

Let us remember God instructed us to rejoice in our sufferings. They are not the sign of defeat, but the sign of glory, and the Lord is not slack (2 Peter 3:9)

The Enemy roams like a lion (1 Peter 5:8). He is like the distorted reflection of a man in a window at night. Come to convince you and me he is out there—a bogeyman waiting for us to rest so that he may strike. An aberration and ghost returning to his own vomit and repeating his folly. But a ghost has only the power we give it. Therefore, Satan is the “king of passive aggression” coming to tell us how terrifying he is, but unable to do anything with it. He is the “king of victims”, sitting at the bottom, with his backside frozen in ice like Dante told us, bored and lonely over all the victims of the world. And his desire is nothing more than to convince you that you must sit frozen with him.

But what are you afraid of if not only the potential of danger and worry of tomorrow?

What could happen to you today that could take you out of Christ’s arms?

For even death would only take you to them sooner.

You have a guard dog in the room, an angel on the watchtower, and a father up all night. Rest in the night.

Rejoice and let go of what “you don’t have”. Because you never had anything but blood and air when you entered this world, regardless—a slobbery wet mess coming from your mother’s womb. And so shall be yours forever. The Blood and the Breath.

He has more Rockets. More Revival. More to fire off. Clean yourself up and rejoice with your true love! Prepare for the next explosion. It may look bad today. Beaten, bruised, battered, and blurry. REJOICE! He is with you. And nothing can take that away. Do not become an evildoer, busybody, manipulator, or gossip. The father of lies defines those things, and your father is the Father of Peace and Joy. You are not a victim. Stop acting like it. Stop preaching it. Stop expecting it. How would someone walk that has the King of the Universe with them? How high should your head be? How broad your shoulders? How established your step? How reckless the firework display?

Go get ‘em, you wild creature.
Crossroads

Crossroads
Chapter 10

On the far side of Weeper’s Run, the group found two distinct paths, each looking arduous in unique ways. The left, heading east, returned to swampy mud and mosquitoes under the shadow of water oaks and magnolias covered in droopy Spanish moss. The right, running southwest, met a thorny bramble as high as Mr. Dolor stood.

“Well, it seems obvious,” Aaron said. “We must go to the left.”

“Balaam, is he right?”Esther asked. “Do you know the way?”

“What are we looking for?” He asked.

“The logbook showed the swamp next,” Herbert responded. “It looks like that’s the way.”

“It’s true, swamp-lands head east. And to the west—well, only deer go that way. They like close quarters. Hope you don’t mind deer ticks and thorns, children.”

“Well, we’ve already made it this far through mud and muck,” Marian said. “Who cares about a little more?”

“To the left,” Aaron announced.

The children walked in single file. Aaron at the front, Marian behind, next Herbert, Balaam, and Esther at the end. But Balaam stood still.

“What’s the matter, Balaam?” Esther asked.

“I don’t like it,” he replied.

“Don’t like what?” Aaron called from the front.

“The way doesn’t seem like this is what we should be about.”

“What better option do we have?” Marian asked. “There’s only one true path.”

“I understand,” he replied. “But it doesn’t seem like it should be this one. Maybe the brambles—”

“I’m not climbing through that mess!” Aaron interrupted. “We’ll be covered in blood and ticks on the other end, for sure.”

“It does look like it’ll hurt an awful lot,” Herbert muttered.

“I don’t want a tick!” Marian shuddered.

“What’s a tick?” Esther asked.

“It’s a nasty blood-sucking bug that burrows under your skin and kills ya if you try to get it out,” Aaron warned, raising his hands up like a monster.

Esther and Herbert looked at one another and shivered.

“And don’t forget about the Lyme disease, Aaron,” the voice of Mr. Dauer startled the kids.

“Ugh, where’d you come from!” Aaron shouted.

“I’ve been here all along,” he replied, coming from behind a palm tree along the path. He stood next to Esther and Herbert. “Right, Esther?”

“I suppose you had to be,” she said, scowling.

“Excuse me!” Marian stomped forward between Mr. Dauer and her siblings. “And who are you?”

“We haven’t been properly introduced yet, Marian.” Mr. Dauer took his top-hat off to bow. Underneath, his scalp was bald and yellow. He put the hat back on and smirked at Marian. “I am Mr. Dauer.”

“He’s the Top-Hat Man I was telling you about,” Esther whispered in her ear.

Mr. Dauer’s neck twitched, and he made eye-contact with her. “Still catching everyone up, Esther? That’s why you are the best at leading.”

Esther blushed, and Marian noticed.

“The best at leading?” Marian thought. “Well, Mr. Tower,” she said, “maybe you know how to get to the Fountain of Youth.”

“Oh, the Fountain of Youth.” Mr. Dauer straightened his back, and it sounded like wound-up rubber bands. “I suppose there is only one way, and that’s through the swamp. I thought Esther told you all about this. She’s always keeping things to herself.”

“What?” Esther exclaimed, and Marian stared at her.

“Alright, geezer,” Aaron said. “I told you already once before, and I’ll say it again—get your bony butt away from us or you’ll regret it.”

Mr. Dauer smiled. “Oh yes,” he said. “Aaron, the delinquent wants to fight just like his father, but doesn’t know enough to keep up with the likes of the intelligent Dolors. How many nature books did you read last night to appear clever today?”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. He looked angry and ready to fight, but inside he knew the Top-Hat Man was right and felt embarrassed.

“Maybe we should just get going,” Herbert added.

“Ah, Herbert has joined the conversation!” Mr. Dauer turned his attention to him. “Still holding on to that panther ornament you ruined everything with, are you?”

Herbert’s eyes widened. He looked at his sisters and Aaron. They were staring, which made his heart rate quicken. He put his head down.

“I don’t know who you are, but we are going through the swamp,” Marian ordered. She looked at Esther and Balaam. “And that’s final.”

She turned toward the swampy path, but Balaam stood in her way.

“Move, you dumb donkey!” she yelled.

Balaam remained still and didn’t say a word.

“I said move, idiot!” She hollered again. She didn’t think Balaam was an idiot or was even mad at him. But something about how the Top-Hat Man talked about her sister leading the group made her blood boil. It wasn’t only this, you see, because the Top-Hat Man’s presence had a strange magical effect on all the children that made all of them want to run away, or fight, or argue, or throw something. It was the sort of feeling you get when you think someone is hiding in the closet and your hair stands up on end—or, more precisely, when you feel grumpy and tired and end up stubbing your toe on the leg of a dining-chair because of it, and you get real angry but have no one to blame but yourself, but you end up taking it out on the closest person next to you, anyway. Marian felt like that. And with every passing second, she grew more agitated that she couldn’t make a decision—or that no one was listening to the decision she had already made. She raised her hand and smacked Balaam’s rear as hard as she could.

Balaam stood still. “I don’t think it’s the right way,” he whispered. “Why must you beat me for it?”

“I don’t care what you think,” Marian retorted. “This is the only way I’m going, and it’s the way we are going.”

“Maybe we should try the brambles,” Balaam offered.

“No! We aren’t going willingly into cuts, bruises, and ticks.”

“But—”

The back-and-forth fed Aaron up. Ever since the Top-Hat Man made him feel insecure about how little he knew compared to the Dolors, he had remained silent, but now, after seeing Marian struggle to lead them out of the crossroads, he grew angry and violent. He stomped his feet on the ground, like he used to do when he was a little boy, and bent down to pick up the largest stick he could muster. It was old, rotten, and covered in mud, but would work. It swung through the air as hard as he could fling it and struck Balaam on the back. The stick broke into many pieces against the talking beast, and didn’t hurt Balaam’s back near as much as it hurt his feelings.

“Move!” He screamed.

“Heehaw!” Balaam screamed in pain.

Aaron dropped his fists to his sides, red in the face. Esther whimpered at the sight. Herbert looked at Marian for help, but she was just as mad as Aaron. Mr. Dauer’s lips curled up.

“Marian says we are going!” Aaron hollered at Balaam. “So get moving, you stupid animal!”

“Why must you strike me for standing my ground?” He whimpered.

“Because you are in our way!” Marian hollered and pushed Balaam, though he didn’t budge at her shoving. “We are going through the swamp, with or without you.”

Balaam lowered his head and sighed. His shoulders trembled, and his back legs shifted in the mud. He turned slowly and met Esther’s eyes. She watched two great, big donkey tears roll down his long face and splatter in the mud. She looked down, feeling awful.

His head swung round and faced Aaron. The boy sighed heavily. Seeing the animal’s tears made him at war with himself. He wanted to be angry, because all the words that the Top-Hat Man said convinced him he had a reason to be angry. But looking at the sweet donkey’s sad face made him realize he was wrong. He was ashamed of his pride, proud of the thing that made him ashamed, and too ashamed to admit any of it. In the end, he couldn’t make left or right of his feelings and looked away, clenching his jaw over and over.

Balaam took a step forward, and the forest was silent except for the mud squishing under his hooves. He ascended the bridge.

“Hey!” Aaron yelled after him. “Where are you going, you stupid donkey? Ponce de León gave you to us! Get back here!”

Balaam didn’t reply. The children watched him fade behind a balustrade, down the other side, and out of view without a word.

“This is all your fault,” Esther shouted, and pointed her finger at Mr. Dauer.

“My fault?” Mr. Dauer responded, his spindly hand on his chest. “I’ve done nothing but help you?”

“Help us?” Herbert mocked. “What on earth have you done to help us?”

“Well, I directed you at the library, didn’t I, Esther?” he asked rhetorically. “And you found the way, just as I knew you would. And Aaron, who do you think threw the camera down for you when you foolishly left it behind on top of that mountain of rock and sand? Girls, do you really think a unicorn just magically showed up at your home? Why, I led it there for you to see. It’s not my fault Marian bungled the camera. And in fact, Ponce de León had me get that stupid donkey for you. I tried to tell him Balaam wasn’t the correct choice, but he was adamant that the griping buffoon was perfect for your journey. Seems about right he would abandon you at the moment you need him most.”

Marian’s eyes shifted back and forth in confusion. She was trying to make sense of what the Top-Hat Man said and thought, Why was he meeting with my brother and sister and not me? Why did they seem to know so much, but I didn’t? What else were they keeping from me? How did he know about the camera? Did Esther tell him about me? Is she making fun of me? Yes, I’m afraid that everyone’s been making fun of me from the beginning. “I—don’t understand,” she said weakly. “Herbert, is it all true? Did you see this man at the library with Esther, and later with Aaron?”

“Well, yes,” Herbert replied. “But—”

“But nothing,” Aaron interrupted. He shook his head at the ground and dug the sole of his sneaker into it. Why couldn’t I do anything right? He thought. First, the photo isn’t good enough. Then it’s bad what I do to Vinnie. Now the donkey is gone…

Mr. Dauer smiled menacingly. “Well, it seems I’ve only ever told the truth and helped. And now you are without a guide. Would you care for me to lead the way?”

“No!” Esther jumped in. “I don’t like him. He’s scary. He has dust in his pockets and a cork in his ear. He looks at us weird.”

“Ess, those aren’t really the best reasons to not believe him,” Marian said. Deep down, she didn’t like the way the Top-Hat Man made her feel either, but she didn’t like the way Esther made her feel right then even more. “Aaron, can he help us?”

“I don’t like any grown-ups,” Aaron growled. “But I guess what he said was true. Herbert would know more about him than me. He was up on the hill longer.”

“Herbert?” Marian asked.

Herbert shook his lowered head, too ashamed to talk about it, and thinking only about the broken panther ornament in his bedroom.

“No—” Esther interrupted. “I don’t care. It’s something in the pit of my stomach. I don’t like him.”

“Esther,” Mr. Dauer encouraged. “When have I ever not been proud of you? You’re such a great leader.”

“Enough!” Marian shouted, and Mr. Dauer grinned.

“We shouldn’t follow him!” Esther yelled at Marian. “We’ve lost Balaam! Just like we lost Aaron! And it’s all your fault—just like usual—you get so mad at people and then they leave us. Now you want to follow the Top-Hat Man?! I won’t do it. I won’t allow it!”

“Oh! So now you are leader, then?” Marian struck back. “Been talking behind my back and wanting to run ahead this whole time!”

“I never said I was the leader,” Esther retorted. “But maybe I should be if you can’t make an obvious choice like not trusting someone as creepy as the Top-Hat Man.”

“Maybe we should go home,” Herbert suggested quietly. He hated seeing his sisters fight, but more than that wanted to get away from any chance of the Top-Hat Man mentioning his secret again.

“Shut up, Herbie,” Aaron said. “We all know you are keeping secrets.”

Herbert looked down. Oh, God, no…

“The old geezer may be right,” Aaron continued. “And what other choice do we have? Go home or follow the bag of bones into the swamp?”

Marian and Esther stared at one another ferociously. Marian thought, If following this Top-Hat Man is the only way to be in charge, then it’s the only way. “I just don’t see another way,” Marian said.

Esther felt the wind knock out of her at the words. “No,” she pleaded.

“Mr. Tower,” Marian relented, “lead the way.”

“With pleasure, children,” he replied.

“There—” Marian turned to Esther. “I made a decision.”

Mr. Dauer dug his cane into the muddy earth and turned on his heels. He led the children along the eastern path toward the marsh. Marian heard his bones creak and groan as he walked ahead of her. It sounded like wood being ground into a pile of dried rice. Aaron grimaced at the sound.

“I don’t like it either, Ess,” Herbert whispered to his sister in the back. “But what other choice do we have?”

Esther stared at her boots in the sloppy mud. They lifted one slow step at a time and crashed down into the slurpy, black goo. On and on they trudged, and soon she couldn’t tell what was a path and what was merely swamp and mud. Any sense of direction seemed to disappear as the trees crowded closer and closer overhead, and wider and wider around them.

I can’t believe she wouldn’t listen to me, she thought. This is why I should have been leading all along. And this isn’t going to end well for any of us. If I was bigger, I’d show all of them—and they would listen more. Just like those stupid girls at school. I don’t need to be “cool”. Because I’m the only one who knows what she’s doing. Oh, God—where are we going now? And following this nasty old man instead of Balaam. Why did he leave us? He could have stayed with me at least. He could have told me what to do. I’d be better than Marian. “Why did Balaam leave us?” She muttered aloud.

“Maybe he knew he wasn’t the best helper on our journey,” Herbert offered. “He did complain a lot about the mud and everything so far.”

Esther, not realizing she had spoken out loud, was shocked by Herbert’s reply. “That’s not the point,” she replied.

Herbert sighed. “Well, maybe the Top-Hat Man is helping us.” Herbert didn’t believe this for a second, but he trusted Marian.

“What did he mean about the panther ornament, Herb? This isn’t the first time he mentioned something like that. Are you keeping secrets?”

Herbert clenched his jaw and shook his head. “It’s nothing, Esther. I don’t know. He’s crazy and old.”

“Herbert.”

The two stopped walking. They were deep under the cover of the oaks, magnolias, and cypress that pepper trees and thorny vines climbed throughout, hiding the sunshine and obvious way forward. Their path seemed as murky as the mud they trudged through, an aimless wandering hike through deep sticky filth. Mosquitoes and gnats created a cloud around their heads.

Herbert sighed. Tears lined the edges of his eyes. “Ess,” he began. “I—”

“Where did he go?” Marian shouted from the front. Esther and Herbert looked up. The others were quite a distance from them. They ran through the slop, ducking under twisted branches and spiderwebs to catch up to Marian and Aaron. Esther was ahead of Herbert because her boots didn’t slow her down.

“The old man’s gone!” Aaron confirmed.

“What happened?” Esther asked as she reached them.

“He was right here one second and then—poof! Nothing but a cloud of dust.”

“Look!” Aaron pointed at the muddy ground. A puddle of hot, yellow wax steamed on the surface.

“Guys,” Herbert said. The others looked at him. His face was pale, eyes wide, and he was staring with one arm up, pointing beyond them down the path. His hand shook as he whispered, “What is that?”
Chapter Seventeen

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 17

He woke facedown in a puddle of dirty water. It rained while he slept, but it delighted him to have fresh water again. He drank with disregard, before placing the lids of rubber on top of his bowls to protect them from the sun. He sat and chewed a piece of seaweed like bubblegum and wondered how long he would be at sea before he either died or found land.

The sun was excruciating. It beat him like a mallet, pounding him into the hull of the boat. He tried resting, but it was no use, so he waited for the day to pass, cowering under his supplies until night fell.

In midday, the acrobats of a kite mesmerized him. She was miles from land, fluttering and banking on heavy winds, searching for fish, and captivating him. He had a headache that forced his eyes shut, but he kept peeking them open to watch the beauty of the bird. At one point, she landed on the bow of his canoe. He didn’t move to scare her, but watched in silence. She rested for half an hour and took to the skies again. He didn’t remember exactly when she was in sight or gone, but after opening his eyes from his migraine, he saw that she had disappeared.

As the sun went down, he reacquired his heading and paddled onward. His second night was far less eventful than his first and it made for a drudging miserable time. He hadn’t the same confidence and desire to continue and would often rest and think about the island.

He remembered the first time the jungle attacked him, prior to discovering the Liberi village. Venturing far south of his beach, he found a cave at the base of a Spanish lime covered in grapevine. Partaking in the vine, he pondered the idea of the cave becoming a suitable place for him to live. It surely made a decent shelter. It wasn’t until he crept on his hands and knees into the darkness, that he smelled the stench of rotten flesh and heard a shrill whisper.

He wasn’t sure if the smell belonged to the prey or the resident itself. When he backed out, he heard a growl from the canopy. Frozen in fear, he jumped into the cave for cover. The animal was on him, scratching and biting. He fought back, and it threw itself away just as suddenly as it had at him.

Next moment, he saw it; an ocelot, stricken in colors of gold, bronze and emerald eyes. He picked up a stick to protect himself, but just as soon as he did, the thing retreated into its den. It was happy to leave him and satisfied that he was out of its home. It wasn’t until much later that he suspected the animal to be a mother and attacked him whilst protecting her children in the cave.

He left the southern beach to the family of cats, not to worry the mother in the future. The grapevine and cave weren’t worth the effort of torturing an animal that didn’t understand his presence as anything but hostile. Besides, there were far more fruit trees and places to rest.

He paddled into the darkness under the stars watching overhead. A meteor darted across the sky and chased the horizon into the abyss. He recalled a game the Liberi children played. One child was anonymously selected as “the rabbit” and another played as “the ocelot”; the rest were “the mandrills”. As the ocelot tried to discover who and where the rabbit was, the others defended the rabbit by mimicking it—throwing the ocelot off in his or her discovery.

The children ofttimes played in the fields outside the village and their joy always made him feel untroubled. It was an innocent gladness, born from the soul and not emotional. The laughter was the sort that intoxicates and makes one feel at home. One feels the difference in laughter that does not care of the opinion or worry of others; it is unreserved and abandoned. While most, if not all, hold mature laughter close to the chest and do not give in to its full potential; they restrain in fear and knowledge. He pondered if only children ever experienced true reckless laughter and its healing power.

Now alone, lost at sea, he gave himself over to it. He mustered up a hysterical laugh and surprised himself when he fell back into the boat with his joyful nonsense. His laughter became a fragmented stutter, and the stutter gave way to weeping. He sat on his knees, and tears fell into his palms. His shoulders convulsed, and his heart shook inside his chest. He fell forward and his head rested on the back of his hands. His breathing slowed; each exhale was like a long trumpet played through baleen.

Eventually he sat up, rested his head on the back of his neck and gazed at the moon. He was calm, and he felt like the entire episode refreshed him more than any sleep he had yet.

Night was at its darkest. The stars were deep and shimmering. He thought of Arvor. The stoic, strange man that guarded and watched him. He knew he was one of Watano’s police; their relationship began only as a duty and resentment. Arvor fed him the knowledge that they allowed him and gave back the report of his habits and inquiries. But it evolved, as these things do—a relationship built on mistrust and ignorance can only go about being malicious until one is shown the heart of a person. It’s much easier to hate a person one does not know and understand.

Their friendship was the blossom of a bitter root, and that root was in ugly soil; nevertheless, it bloomed, and through it, was made stronger than any relationship he had ever known. He looked behind him. He missed his friend.

He reached for a piece of seaweed to chew, but to his dismay, discovered that he ate the last of his food. In the icy darkness, he didn’t understand his blunder and improperly rationed it. Worry rushed over his face.

How long had it been since he saw any hint of a mantle of seaweed? Was it even worth the hope that a leaping fish or resting bird found its way into his boat? Would another kite come near him—but that thought disgusted him. How long could he go without food once the sun was out and upon him?

He subdued the worry, while he questioned if it were worth changing direction and following the waves. Perhaps chance could bring him to a weed cropping rather than his blind devotion to the east. But in his heart he knew it didn’t matter what direction he headed. He was just as likely going toward something as he was going away from it, and only madness lay on the other side of doubting his direction thus far. He had but one option—to only rest and trust that provision came along.

He opened his eyes at noontime. Nothing was in him but to lie in pain and drudgery. The pain came from beneath the blistering sun as he was an insect under a magnifying glass, burning no matter where he lay and altogether helpless to its power. The monotony brought with it a persistent suffering and insatiable hunger.

In the daytime, he often retched. His stomach would convulse and throw itself over the side, but nothing would come out. He was too dehydrated and starved to vomit anything but small bits of saliva and energy. He reached for his water-bowls and his heart sank when he discovered all of them dried up.

The sky was a blanket of sordid blue while he prayed for a rain flurry. Part of his soul previously believed he had a chance at sea. None of him conceived it would be a slow, gradual, crawling death; rather he imagined his end to be quick, painless, sudden and his spirit dancing to whatever place it decided to venture for eternity. Now, at the face of it, he abhorred what the process of death really felt like.

The morning and afternoon slipped by at the pace a flower blooms. He wondered—not for the last time—if it were possible to drink saltwater without going mad. Insanity was often on his mind. What did it feel like, anyway? Madness.

He often conversed with people in his canoe and fell dismayed when they vanished moments later. The dread didn’t come from the awareness of his mind being lost, but, in fact, came from the painful and recurring revelation that he was still alone.

In the evening, he hated his devotion to the east. It infuriated him. He discerned that east was leading him to the end of the earth, but north, south, and west led to land and civilization. And that, he knew, was the very instrument of insanity itself. His devotion to something indifferent when there was zero reason to believe it could still save him.

He was trusting a former version of himself that decided this was the correct path to salvation; now nothing in him believed it except the belief in his former self. He couldn’t trust anyone anymore. Therefore, no matter how angry and forlorn he became, he kept his heading in the night and never strayed from the path. His faith was no longer in his heading or rescue; he only believed that he used to believe.

The sky was on fire when he woke at the end of morning. His stomach growled, and salt sealed his swollen lips. A crusty tongue scraped across them.

Hours turned into hot knives and minutes scorched his body, head-to-toe. In what felt like an eternity, the sun cocked west of its peak. His head throbbed, and chest burned. He slouched against the seat in the stern and dug his thumbs into his eye-sockets to relieve the pressure. He pulled at the hair alongside his ears, ripped a tuft of the stuff from his beard, and scratched at his face and chest wildly. Sweat beaded on his burnt and bloody back.

The next thing he looked up and in front of the boat was the island. It was a vivid painting of exuberance and life, yet horror and fear, on the other side of the east.

“My God—” he thought, “I have been sailing in circles.”

He looked away in panic and reached for his oar. It was in the water. Spray and salt splashed into the sky as he frantically turned north, then it was gone—

“Where has the bloody thing gone?” he thought.

He turned round in his seat, searching in tousled confusion. It was just there, on the horizon—exactly how he remembered it. And now it was—wait!—now it was at his breast—no, starboard—now port—right, left, front, rear—Oh God, it surrounded him! The thing was everywhere and was growing larger every moment. He turned the boat round and struck the water with the oar wildly.

He shut his eyes for he hated seeing it looming over him. If only he could keep paddling and keep stroking and keep paddling and keep stroking—he could escape it. The idea of rest and sleep—under his ceiba one last time—strung through his mind like flickering lights. But he knew the rest would never last. They would be there waiting for him, and this time his death was certain.

But what was death, if anything, but certain? Of course, he would die at sea if not by the hands of the Liberi. What was one death compared to another, if not at least one death could involve a little bit of rest?

No, it wouldn’t be rest though. It would be torture. It would be brain-washing. And cannibalism. And all the things he knew to be true of the island when he first fell asleep. He knew the only actual death he wanted lay in the ocean.

He stopped paddling, exhausted, and opened his eyes. His heart caved in. Fear and fever clung to his breast. He collapsed forward. In the west, horrified, he saw the island was following him now. He wondered if it would always be with him. Just on the other side of the horizon, burning like a star—and now, yes!—it was on fire, burning before his eyes like the sun itself came down to the edge of the earth and lit it ablaze.

He threw the oar into the hull, grabbed his head and fell to the side, nearly into the water. He reached his hands out in desperation, splashing his face and drinking the ocean. The salt stung his brain, and he fell backward again, clenching his eyes shut, tears dripping down. And then he passed out.

“Reynard,” the old woman called. “What do you want to get for Grandpa?”

A little boy scampered his way through the feet of grown-ups and round the table-tops of knickknacks. It was his first time at a flea market and Grandma and he were shopping for Christmastime in a place called Hackney. His fingers draped across a typewriter, pots of copper, gems and stones, fine jewelry and East India Company trappings. The bustle of the bazaar was numbing his senses, but his purpose remained before him. His attention fell upon a little clear package of purple plastic worms crammed between lures, hooks, and fishing-lines.

“Grandma, this!” the young boy said. “I want to get Grandpa these to fish with. He will like that.” The boy looked fondly on the long glittery worms. “He will like these.”

The boy carried the precious worms to the register with a few coins in his hand.

“Two-sixty-four,” the man behind the table told the boy.

The boy turned to Grandma disquieted. She smiled and dug a large coin out of her purse. She handed it to the boy, and he turned back to the cashier with pride. The exchange was made, and he proudly walked out of the market with a brown paper bag in one hand and Grandma’s hand in the other. The purple worms were safe in his possession.

Family met at the dinner table; laughter and joy abounded. There was such a commotion of voice and volume that the boy didn’t even remember when dinner ended and he was now playing with his cousin a game of Battleship in the corner of the living room. At one point, a dessert was brought out, and the adults made a great deal out of its presentation. Later, another of his older cousins—one that was crooked in his face and always looked to be planning on torturing someone—was chasing his sister with a spider he caught in a corner of the house. A distant grown-up relative, whom he never met before, said something that he didn’t understand, but knew to be inappropriate on account of everyone’s hushed and awkward silence. A large group of the children gathered and watched a movie in the living room. The adults escaped into the dining area to be boring and have grown-up conversations while sipping tea.

Finally, Grandma called everyone’s attention and announced it was the time to unwrap presents. The kids cheered, and the adults wandered in and found a place to sit. Pandemonium sprung forward as Grandma tried to keep order, selecting people to open their gifts and trying her best to enjoy each moment and reaction.

The little boy heard a phrase cut through the bedlam. “This next gift is for Grandpa,” Grandma informed, with a sweetness on her face. “Reynard picked it out himself.”

Grandpa was in his recliner and didn’t move to receive the small gift. The little boy sat on his knees, pregnant with joy. He’d forgotten about his present he selected at the flea market, but now all of his attention was on the thing he knew Grandpa would love.

Grandpa opened it. He pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly. The boy’s father gave a slight noise of approval from somewhere behind him.

“Thank you,” Grandpa said, glancing at the boy. He half-smiled and put the gift down on the floor next to his recliner and leaned back again.

The boy knew that he was grateful. That was Grandpa’s way about him. His mind was always on something else distant in the future, or forgotten in the past. But the little boy knew he would love and use his gift.

His eyes opened. He was still in the boat. The waves rocked him like he were a toddler in a crib. The stars were out, and the sun left for the evening. The island left for now.

“Maybe I’ve already died,” he mused. “Maybe I’ll sail forever in an eternal ocean.”

A wave pushed him up and rolled him back down.

“Or maybe this has all before been the dream and now I’m awake.”

The stars twinkled.

“Maybe I was never really awake on the beach and now I see.”

He closed his eyes and slipped into another dream.
The Forest Gate Opens

The Forest Gate Opens
Chapter 2

The sky turned black as the Dolor children exited the school bus. Rain dumped on them while they scurried for the house. Just as they stepped onto the wrap-around porch, the rain died to a drizzle.

“Well, how do you like that?” Marian said, flinging water off her arms.

The door creaked open, and each child wiped his or her shoes on the rug before stepping onto the wooden floors. Miserably, they walked to their rooms to change their clothes.

Later, Herbert found Esther reading in the living-room next to their mother. Work was keeping Mr. Dolor away for a few more hours.

Herbert looked out the window. “Where’s Marian?”

Esther didn’t seem to hear him.

“I believe she’s upstairs, dear,” Mrs. Dolor said.

“She’s writing a play,” Esther added, without looking up from her book.

Herbert pursed his lips and scrunched them up to the top of his left cheek. He paced around the room like a meandering puppy.

“Esther—,” began Herbert, but was interrupted by Esther, who already knew what he was going to ask.

“It’s too muddy outside, Herb,” she replied. Only Esther and Mr. Dolor called him Herb, which he didn’t mind.

The sliding glass door slid open and then slammed shut. Esther looked up from her book. Herbert was gone. She looked back at her book. Then back to the door. Her mother was watching her.

“How was your first day of school, sweetie?” Mrs. Dolor asked.

Esther sighed.

“The great swordsman, Herbert the Heroic, battles Aaron the Addroshus to the death!” Herbert meant to say Atrocious, but didn’t quite know the word yet. “A battle of wits and skill!” He swung a stick in the air over his head and thrust it down onto a make-believe enemy. “En garde!” The stick hit the side of the live oak in the backyard.

“It looks like Aaron the Atrocious has no chance,” a friendly voice called out from above him.

Herbert startled, tripped on his own feet and looked up the tree. Marian was sitting on a low branch with a notebook and pen in her hand, smiling at him.

“Mom said you were upstairs,” Herbert said.

She shrugged. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Herbert said, frowning. “I’m Herbert the Heroic. I don’t get scared.” He swung the stick at the trunk and Marian went back to her writing.

Next thing he knew, a frisbee hit Herbert in the back of the head. He turned around to see Esther giggling with her hands over her mouth.

“Oops,” she said. “I didn’t mean to, I promise.”

“It’s not muddy anymore?” Herbert asked.

The two played under the tree, while Marian wrote her play on the lowest branch. The yard under the live oak became an office where they pushed imaginary paper and faxed faux documents. Esther was the boss, and Herbert was behind schedule. Then, the muddy pile of palm branches became a tar pit surrounding a volcano where a Tyrannosaurus Rex lived. Herbert was the dinosaur, and Esther was the wizard who would zap it to smithereens. Finally, the tree-line became a racetrack, and the frisbee a flying saucer. Even Marian got in on the fun as each of them took turns outrunning the alien attack.

The frisbee took a wild turn toward the forest and stuck into the draping pandora vine. Herbert retrieved it from the pink and white flowered lattice. The cold chill of iron stung his fingertips from under the vine. His lips curled, and he cocked his head. Pulling back the vine, he revealed a large gate. It was solid oak, laced in wrought iron. Black iron spires extended beyond the top, forming ornate finials that reached eleven and a half feet up. Iron curls and scrolls twisted over its wooden face, forming a peculiar shape that confused the three of them.

“Come on!” Herbert cheered. “Let’s get it open.”

“It’s not ours.”

“Whose is it?” Herbert shook with excitement. In his guts, he knew it was not right to try entering a gate that’s not yours. But ever since seeing the finials peaking through the vine (which he now realized were what he saw the night before), he wanted to get inside the forest and explore. Now that his sisters were with him, he thought it wouldn’t be as bad if he got caught or in trouble.

“Well,” Marian interjected. “I don’t think it’s right for us to go into someone else’s yard…or property…or whatever this is.”

“Maybe Mom or Dad knows who it belongs to.”

“Do you remember Kyle’s grandma’s house at the end of the street? Those old orange groves. Maybe it’s something like that, and if we meet them (whoever they are), they will let us make forts inside.”

“No way! That place gave me poison ivy.”

“I’m not saying that it is that place. I’m saying it’s like it.”

“That gate had a latch on the front. This just look like a solid piece of wood. Maybe there’s a handle somewhere.”

Esther stepped closer, close enough to smell the old earth between the boards. Her fingers brushed against the peculiar scrolls and shapes. Dirt fell between her hands and the gate. She and Marian examined the strange shape, trying to guess at what they formed.

“Looks like a gravestone,” Marian guessed.

“No, it’s a fountain,” Esther corrected.

Meanwhile, ever since Herbert first asked, “Whose is it?”,he was busy around the side of the gate, trying to find another way inside. All he found was that the gate sat in front of a ten-foot-high stone wall. He followed it about twenty paces down the yard, before concluding that the thing must have run the entire length of the forest, hidden behind the vine and overhanging branches. It could be miles before it ever disappeared. He banged his fist on the wall and wondered if maybe he could climb the vines or any misshapen blocks. Near the base, he found an oblong stone protruding from the wall. It was covered in dirt and filthy, but he could easily see that at one time, it shimmered. He knelt down and blew off whatever loose dirt had caked itself on it. It was a delicate little thing, made of granite, about the size of his hand, shaped like the growling face and torso of a panther. Surrounding the ornament was an ornate circle of spiraling iron, similar to the gate a few feet away. It was a pretty thing, and the sort of trinket that would impress his mother or sisters. But for Herbert, it did nothing more than give him a way to reach for the top of the wall. He placed his foot on the ornament and lunged upward, grasping and flailing at the vines for support.

Chink!

Herbert’s foot slipped, and he fell on his back. Thud! He cried and grabbed at his ankle, before noticing the little ornament had broken off under his weight. He frowned and his eyes got big as he looked around to see if his sisters saw, but they were still too busy brushing the dirt off the face of the gate.

While the panther ornament rolled over in his hands and his eyes studied it, the ground underneath him shook like an earthquake. He heard a thunderous clap from behind the stone wall, deep in the forest. Whatever remaining vines still on the gate fell off it and a cloud of dust billowed out from the earth beneath it.

“Oh, my Goodness! Oh, my Goodness!” Esther and Marian cried together. “What did we do?”

Herbert ran to his sisters.

“What is going on?” He shouted, stuffing the ornament under the back of his shirt.

“Oh, my goodness!” Esther shouted. “Did we—did I—I didn’t touch anything. Just barely brushed it.”

The ground shook again, and they looked at the gate in wonder.

“What is happening?” Marian gawked.

The door split down the middle, and for a brief moment hung still before flinging wide and its two doors, four inches thick, swung open, and a flash of blinding white light dropped the children to their knees. Colors of green, violet, marigold, and orange melted through the white like a rainbow coming up from a waterfall. It was so thick and misty, you could touch if you tried. It traveled up into the sky and broke the dark rain clouds in half, letting the sunset break through in orange and pink behind the children. The Dolors covered their eyes as a plume of dust and a bevy of lightning bugs smacked them in the face.

After all this, the earth was shaking again, yet less powerful than before. A repetitive boom, like the rumble of a locomotive across an open plain, was thubbudy-thubbudy-thubbudying toward the gate. But it wasn’t a train or machine. It was the galloping feet of a gallant unicorn that tore through the gate and reared on its hind legs. A cotton white mane and tail draped across its fine jet black hair. The horn on its head glowed silver, like mercury, in the sunshine. Its whinny thundered, and the kids cowered underneath it. The beast took off south, galloping across their yard, veering slightly out into the street, and cutting hard west along twenty-first street toward downtown.

“Oh my gosh,” said Marian.

“Did we just see a unicorn?” Esther asked.

“Ugh, what’s that smell?” Herbert asked.

The kids’ noses wrinkled on their faces. It smelled like a nasty swamp, the kind you pass by on the road just before your Mom wishes she had switched the A/C to recycle.—like rotten eggs and milk left under the dishes in the sink for a week. The children heard a low growl and looked to see the shadows of the forest moving and the underbrush coming to life.

A metallic whiney howl, like a bull or chimpanzee, erupted from the forest as a large ape-like creature came out of the gate and grabbed the low branch of the live oak—the same branch Marian was sitting on just a few minutes before. With powerful grace, it flung itself upwards onto another branch and sailed high into the air. It landed on the roof and threw a slew of shingles to the ground. It howled again before jumping for the roof on an adjacent house.

“What did we open?” Marian asked.

“Ew! What is this stuff?” Herbert gasped.

What he meant by “this stuff” was a thick fog that had flowed out of the gate, only a few inches off the ground, and was covering the children’s ankles. It felt heavy against their skin and smooth like oily wax. The fog made a noise—a mechanical tick-tock-tick-tock—as it slowly crept over their shoes, across the lawn, around the front of the house, and out of view.

“It’s an enchanted forest,” Esther thought aloud.

“I saw it! I saw it all! I saw what you did!” A voice shouted at them from the yard, beneath the oak tree.

The Dolor children looked up to see, at their dismay, Aaron on his bicycle. He rode his bike in the grass, its fat tires sinking in the wet mud. He was whistling to himself, wearing his crooked smile.

“What are you doing here?” Marian asked.

“Is this what you all do in Cacao?” He asked, grinning. “Break open enchanted forest gates that don’t belong to you and let loose monsters?”

“Who said it was enchanted?” Marian fired back.

“She just did,” Aaron gawked, pointing at Esther.

“Right, well, who says we broke it open?”

“It was probably good ol’ Herbie who did it!”

“I didn’t do it!” Herbert hollered, clenching hold of the ornament in his hand and wondering if it was in fact he that did it.

“Marian,” Esther whispered. “Something else is happening.”

While Aaron walked his bike closer to the group at the open gate, a blue mist had filled the air around the children. At its center stood a man. But he wasn’t a man at all. At least, he wasn’t whole like a man. He was transparent. In fact, he was a ghost. But not the spooky kind of you ghost you hear about at Halloween-time. Kindness was in his eyes, and goodness came from his smile. He wore a wide-brimmed hat with a feather sticking out the back of it, and armor—which alarmed the children a bit, and strange fluffy pants—which made the kids giggle.

“Hello children,” the Ghost greeted them. “You are younger than the last time I saw you.”

The kids looked at each other. Even Aaron was speechless now.

“Begging your pardon, sir-ghost,” Marian replied. “But we’ve never met you before.”

The Ghost smiled at them.

“Who are you?” Esther asked.

“I am Juan Ponce de León. And you are the children who have opened the gates to my Enchanted Forest.”

The Dolor children and Aaron looked at one another.

“I’m sorry if we—” Marian began, before the Ghost interjected.

“The gate protects the world’s greatest secret. And now it has been opened. The gate keeps at bay the world’s most evil monsters. And now it has been opened. Without the gate shut, these monsters roam freely.”

“That’s right!” Aaron blurted out, letting his bike fall to the ground. “My great-grandfather told stories of Ponce de León and his Enchanted Forest. There’s history books on it.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert now?” Marian mocked.

“I didn’t say I was an expert. I said my great-grandfather knew about it. I bet I could find a book—”

“Stop!” Esther shouted.

While Marian and Aaron were arguing, she had noticed the Ghost had disappeared. This made the group even more afraid than anything else. It’s funny how seeing something somewhat scary can seem less dangerous than thinking about something you can’t see whilewondering if it may be hiding in the shadows around you. The kids looked around the gate and the forest entrance. Marian tried to move the gate door, but it would not budge even an inch.

Oak and maple trees were hanging their branches through the opening over the group, and the sunlight fell behind them. The smell of lavender and honey was on the air. “Time to go inside,” Marian ordered. “Goodbye, Aaron.”

Herbert and Esther obeyed and started for the patio.

Aaron was indignant. “You heard what the Ghost said!” He yelled. “You’ve got to close the gate. Get them creatures back in and get the gate closed.”

“He didn’t say that,” Esther replied over her shoulder.

“Why do you care, anyway?” Marian asked.

“Maybe I don’t want to see my home run over with monsters,” Aaron responded. “Maybe it’s none of your business.”

“You’re right. It is none of our business,” Marian fired back. “The gate isn’t our property, and it’s not like we can do much about it. We are talking about creatures, monsters and ghosts. And we are just kids.”

“It’s my fault,” Esther groaned.

“What do you mean?” Marian whispered to her.

“Something I did,” she whispered and shook her head. “Maybe when I was brushing the dirt off of the gate, I triggered something. I don’t know…”

Herbert squeezed the panther ornament under his shirt and pursed his lips.

“Ess,” Marian said. “It could have been any number of reasons why it opened.”

“You need to fix this!” Aaron yelled at the group again.

“We need to go in for supper!” Marian yelled back as she slammed the door shut behind them.

That night, the Dolor children had a hard time sleeping again, but for entirely different reasons. And all of them thought they may have heard a smelly ape traipsing on the roof.
Riddles on the Bridge

Riddles on the Bridge
Chapter 9

As soon as sweet Esther turned back to see Mr. Dauer, he had already vanished. She stood alone on the white bridge and heard only the rustling water underneath. She walked down the bridge and met Marian, Herbert, Aaron, and Balaam at its base. They were busy brushing their pants off, attempting to get clean again. Herbert took his shoes off and squeezed the soggy brown water out of his socks.

“About time you showed up.” Esther smiled, crossed her arms, and leaned against one of the balustrades.

“Wasn’t our fault,” Aaron whined. “This stupid donkey won’t do nothing but drag its feet and complain.”

“I beg your pardon, sir Aaron,” Balaam quipped. “My name is Balaam, I have hooves, and your sinking sneakers are the cause of our delay.”

Esther giggled when she looked down at Aaron’s white sneakers covered in filth. Huffing and puffing, Aaron balanced on one while attempting to wipe the other shoe in the air. Which made him look like a flamingo that forgot how to balance. The whole group laughed, but not in a mean way, when he finally fell over on his backside.

After a good laugh, and Aaron cleaned up his shoes, Balaam interrupted, “Now then, where are we going?”

“Where indeed!” An unfamiliar, spry voice cried out from above.

The children looked up the bridge to see a bright red fox wearing a pair of trousers, button-down shirt, and a red pocket-handkerchief, sitting with his legs crossed on a balustrade. His eyes peered from underneath a wool bycocket and playfully danced from child to child.

“A talking fox!” Herbert couldn’t contain his delight and grinned while he beat his socks into the side of the bridge.

“Where did you come from?” Esther asked.

“The forest,” the fox replied wryly. “The name’s Pascal, and this is ma’ home.” He leapt off the balustrade and stood on his rear legs like a man. He reached in to his pocket and pulled out a pipe.

“Hello, Pascal,” Marian replied. She introduced the group while Pascal stuffed tobacco in his pipe and lit a match.

He fascinated the children, but Balaam remained unamused. “Never liked foxes much,” he muttered.

“If you were nearby,” Esther said, “you must’ve seen the Top-Hat Man.”

“Top-Hat Man?” Aaron asked, and Herbert looked up from his socks like he heard a curse word.

“Yes,” Esther confirmed. “He was just here speaking to me, and then he vanished. Herb knows who I’m talking about. He was there at the library. Remember, Herb?”

Herbert nodded.

“Yeah, I don’t know if I know anything about all that yet, dearie,” Pascal replied, and puffed his pipe. “What I do know is the bridge belongs to me, and no bunch of kids and their half-witted donkey is getting through the Forest without passing the Queen’s riddles.”

Esther’s eyes widened. “There’s a Queen of the Enchanted Forest?”

“Oh, the greatest Queen anyone has ever known,” Pascal replied. “Alas, she is gone. And I don’t know if anyone will ever see her again. But I stand by her rule and governing.”

“You seem like a very noble fox, Pascal,” Marian said.

“Eh—noble? No, not me—well, at least not very recent, like. I used to walk on the walls and try to break ‘em down. I’d tell false stories and tricks…” Pascal spat on the ground and turned his pipe upside down. The used tobacco dumped into the river. “But I don’t do those sorts anymore.”

“I don’t buy it,” Aaron said. “Foxes are always up to tricks. And I bet this whole riddle thing is a trick, too.”

“Only one way to find out, Freckles, cos you ain’t getting by the bridge without three answers.”

The children huddled together, while Pascal leaped onto another balustrade and resumed his leisure. The girls didn’t see a problem with answering a few questions, but Aaron warned them.

“That’s just how all these sorts of things begin with types like him,” he said. “He gets you thinking and unaware, and suddenly you’ve been robbed and left for dead. Happens all the time. We need to keep our guard and challenge him. Might need to fight him.”

“Fight him?” Marian asked.

“With what?” Esther added.

“Why wouldn’t he attack us before we noticed him?” Herbert asked. He looked over Esther’s shoulder and saw Pascal the Fox laying on his back, tossing a small stone into the air. “I like him. He’s got a funny hat like Robin Hood and talks nice.”

“Robin Hood was a thief, you—” (Aaron was going to say “dummy”, but stopped himself short.) “Who do you think Robin Hood robbed from? People walking through forests.”

“We can’t fight him,” Marian said matter-of-factly. “There’s just no option for it. We have nothing but a talking donkey on our side.”

“Who has a name,” Balaam reminded.

“Sorry,” Marian corrected herself. “We have nothing but Balaam with us.”

The talking donkey smiled proudly.

“Can we find another way across the river?” Esther asked Balaam.

“Let’s look at the logbook again,” Herbert said.

Marian concurred and removed her backpack. She pulled the book out and flipped through the pages. In the middle, they found the charcoal drawing of the large stone bridge over the water, but the words underneath were no longer in Spanish.

“I don’t understand.” Marian pointed at the words. “It says: Riddle Bridge.”

“Look at that!” Esther pointed at a portion of the drawing above the bridge. “It looks like a fox laying on top.”

“That wasn’t there before,” Marian said.

The children looked at one another and then at Pascal. He was eating a piece of cheese, but stuffed it in his pocket when he noticed all of them staring at him. “Ready for some riddles, kids?” He shouted down at them.

“I think working together and answering them is our only good option,” Balaam said.

The children closed the book, and Marian stuffed it in the backpack. The group approached the middle of the structure, and Pascal dropped down to meet them.

“Alright, Pascal,” Marian said. “We don’t quite understand what’s going on, but we need to get through to find the Fountain of Youth. What are the riddles?”

Pascal took his bycocket in his right hand and bowed before them. He recited:

“I’m always ready, while not, though,
I’m too fast, but I’m too slow
You think you need me, but it’s not so
Once you found me, now I go.”

“‘Once you found me, now I go’.” Aaron recited quietly in thought.

“Poppy-cock and nonsense,” Balaam complained.

“Write it down and let me see,” Marian said. “I’m not very good at things read aloud.”

“I’ve got one!” Herbert raised his hand. “It’s a race. Hares and tortoises. Going fast and slow. No—that’s nothing.”

“Keep an eye on your pockets, guys,” Aaron warned.

“Let me write it down for you, Marian,” Balaam said, and dragged his hoof in the dirt.

“Esther, you’re the good one at this,” Marian said. “Any ideas?”

“Clocks…” Esther whispered to herself. “Clocks that leave when you find them—It’s time!” She shouted. “Is it time?”

“Very good, dearie,” Pascal said, and smiled grandly at her. “Only two more to go and Freckles will be rid of me.” He winked at Aaron.

“Give it to us!” Marian cheered. “We’re ready.”

Pascal the Fox continued:

“What strengthens and tears down,
Always produces and destroys,
What’s a cause and an effect,
And births young girls and boys?”

“This one’s weird,” Herbert said.

“It cancels itself out,” Aaron added. “Produces and destroys. What can do both?”

Esther thought quietly. She wanted to get it first again.

“It’s time again,” Marian said. “Right?”

“No, it’s worse than that,” Aaron responded. “Violence and Anger.”

“Moms and Dads?” Esther whispered. “What else produces young girls and boys?”

“If I may,” Balaam interrupted. “Begging your pardon, Pascal.” Here, he addressed the Fox on the bridge. “Are talking animals allowed to partake in this gesture?”

“What kind of person would I be if I didn’t allow such a thing?” Pascal answered.

Balaam looked at the children. “Then the answer is simple,” he said. “Though I suppose it doesn’t make it any less difficult. But I’ve felt my fair share of this in the many more years that I’ve had than you. And one thing I know is that it is something that both greatly hurts and strengthens, develops, and ends. And all mothers know the joy and hurt of it in childbirth. The answer is pain.”

“Very good, my enchanted friend,” Pascal congratulated.

The children cheered. Aaron and Herbert patted Balaam on the back. Marian and Esther kissed his neck. Balaam appeared taller and prouder than ever before.

“I suppose that only leaves one last riddle for you, kids,” Pascal said. “If birds have nests and foxes have holes, what do four little children in an enchanted forest have?”

The company thought silently.

“That’s not a riddle,” Aaron critiqued. “It’s just a question with no real answer!”

“That may be,” Pascal replied. “But I didn’t write the riddle, and neither did you answer it.”

No one said a word. They each in their own way grew flustered and gave up, sitting down at the edge of the bridge.

“What do we got?” Marian asked.

“An obnoxious donkey,” Aaron quipped.

“Back to nothing but a donkey,” Balaam moaned.

“Just kidding, Balaam.” Aaron smiled at him.

Marian tapped her lips. Esther wiggled her nose back and forth. Aaron drew his fingers in the sand. Herbert drummed his knee. And Balaam stamped in the dust.

Marian thought about giving up and pleading with the Fox when Herbert slapped his knee and jumped up.

“Each other!” Herbert shouted at the Fox. “We’ve got each other!”

Pascal smiled at him. “I’ve always appreciated your spunk, kid.”

“Wait,” Esther said, with her hands outstretched. “That’s actually the answer?”

“And one I hope you won’t soon forget, dearie,” Pascal replied. “I also hope the rest of your journey is as easy and pleasant. Though, to be honest, I have it under good authority that it won’t be. However, if you recall the things I taught you, that good authority also believes you will do much better than you could without it.” Pascal removed his hat again and bowed low to the ground. “Children, it’s always a pleasure. I hope to see you again sometime. Though I don’t think I’ll remember when I do.”

The children watched Pascal leap to the top of a balustrade and scale a nearby oak tree in seconds. Before long, he was a pouncing shadow of red and brown in the tree canopy, and moments later, he was out of sight.

“I like him,” Herbert said, and smiled. “He talks funny.”
Chapter Sixteen

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 16

The canoe touched the water, and the weight lifted from his legs. He fell into the center and let the waves beat him about. Back and forth, back and forth, the current pushed and pulled, taking him ever further and closer to the island, but always a little further than closer, until he lifted his head over the stern and saw the island a few hundred meters from him. Rain was falling on her; she looked beautiful in the absence of his accusers.

The ceiba was as strong as ever. A flawless monument of power and protection. Seeing the beach from a distance, he saw there was no place he could ever have ended up but under the shadow of her limbs. It was the perfect place to rest and grow, and he pined for leaving her. Just to the north was the rocky enclave he struggled terribly to pass, and the bay where he arrived and found his loafers.

And there, as he knew it would be—like a monument itself sitting in perfect harmony and revelation, like a thing meant to be and never otherwise—there on the beach sat the island fox. Nobly staring and pondering his exodus. He raised his hand in farewell, and then drooped it, feeling silly. The flash of red and orange, brown and gray vanished. Gone back to its secluded home somewhere in the jungle.

Then he collapsed and fell asleep.

He didn’t wake until the next morning. He was lost now, far enough into the sea that the only sights he saw were the grand blue oceans, beneath and above him. Mist shrouded the sun. His canoe had a considerable amount of rainwater in her, which he gladly fell forward into and drank. After, he laid backward and fell asleep again.

On he went like this—waking, drinking, and sleeping—while his energy recovered. At some point, though he couldn’t remember when, he fashioned strips of the giant lily-pads into bowls that could catch and store the freshwater in their rubber hands.

The next morning, his strength returned enough to clean himself. His wounds weren’t bleeding on his back, but his side was in a bad sort. He had to wrap the gash, but thought to suture the wound first.

The Liberi used an ant with large mandibles as sutures. The ants weren’t at sea with him, but a colony of small relatives were living with him at the front of the canoe. He collected a few and began the awful endeavor of letting them bite him on his open wound. The ants could never reach around the end of the cut, and the mandibles were far too pitiful to do anything but send stings into his side. He gave up, cursing himself and the little insects for his miserable undertaking.

He made do with a thin strand of dogbane and a splinter of wood to run it through the skin. It hurt like hell and he passed out several times while tying it up. He was never positive it helped or made matters worse for him. He dressed the wound with grass and pieces of rubber tree latex and lay back to rest again.

He was sure he was sailing to his death. But part of him knew he was doing that for some time. And the notion of being unencumbered—choosing his life and choosing his death—was far more exciting than any silly dance the Liberi had each night. Perhaps Watano was right for his acceptance of death’s eventuality. If, at least, nothing else.

When he had enough strength to do so, he sat forward and threw his joy into the east, watching the waves and smiling grandly. Every moment was terrifying, but he no longer feared the terror. It became a friend that greeted him with every wave. And in it was joy, the feeling he had survived and escaped the terrible fate the island had for him. He didn’t worry or wonder if his death would be that day or the next. At least it wasn’t at the hand of Watano. Through that alone, he felt victorious.

It was best to sleep during the day when the sun was at its highest, hiding under his lily-pads and letting the waves take him wherever they desired. But in the cool evenings, he paddled onward, using the stars for guidance.

His first night awake, and second at sea, he looked skyward and matched his heading to what he believed to be east. It was a garden of colorful stars, planets, and our galaxy’s edge arching its way across our globe and disappearing into infinity. There was no trouble seeing in the moon’s and stars’ light. A meteor shower danced on the stratospheric terrain; each one zipped from the cosmos into his world overhead.

He paddled for a few hours until starving. His only sort of ration was a collection of dried persimmons. They were bitter and absolutely terrible to eat. But they filled him. The rest of the rations spoiled, and he feared they might make him sick.

Luck fell when he saw a black mass floating in the ocean. It was a large patch of seaweed sifting its way through the water. He grabbed heaping piles of it and threw it in the center of the boat. If the grass were to dry out, he could eat it. What’s more, krill and minnows were trapped in the web and came into the boat with it.

It wasn’t the best meal, but it was food. He munched on the fish and shrimp, distracting himself from the slimy and crawling texture as he went back to his paddling. Near sunrise, he settled back into the center of the boat under his lily-pad, and fell asleep.

He woke up in the late afternoon, famished, but happy to find the seaweed dried out. He ate liberally and stored more for later. It was stringy and tough, but he found the stuff better than the raw minnows and shrimp. He drank from his bowls of rainwater and prepared for his second night of paddling.

Late in the evening, he had a terrible fright. While watching the skyline and transfixed on his heading, he heard a loud animal call from the darkness. He leapt down into the boat, and for a moment feared that it was the same beast that cried out during the storms on the island.

He peeked over the bow; there was a monstrous shadow cutting through the night, covering the stars as it moved. It was an enormous three-pronged claw coming out of the ocean, some appendages rising higher and another dipping underneath. It ambled toward him, but was so gigantic that it was at the boat’s side in moments.

He struggled to fathom what sort of monster this hand belonged to—perhaps it wasn’t a claw at all—but the body of some sea monster, swimming through the water, like Scylla, whose only purpose was to beset sailors. He thought of her angry damnation in the depths, always looking to attack and take some lost soul down with her. Pictures of sea-dragons and serpents flooded his imagination, and he cowered lower in the boat.

The shadows crept closer; water glided down the rough edges of the monster. And then one claw arched itself high into the air and sprayed a fountain of watery mist thirty feet up.

The sound rang, and he realized it was not the booming horn he had heard many times before; rather musical and sing-song in nature. One claw turned itself over to show a white and stranded belly, while another slowed down behind the others and he saw them detach.

His heart leapt when he realized he happened upon a pod of humpback whales, three in total. He blushed for getting frightened. He paddled their direction; surprising them in the dark.

They became inquisitive of the little man floating in the middle of the ocean. They sang to each other, aspiring to understand what he was and why he was at sea. Their voices were a symphony; sliding strings met plucking harps, and booming trumpets shook violent vibrato, squealing and thunderous echoes for miles in the midnight sky.

He entirely lost himself in the untamed song. It wrapped around him and he felt happiness. He laughed hysterically. It was the first time since sitting by the fire with Arvor. He sat back with paddle across his lap, smiling and staring at the stars. It tempted him to jump into the sea and swim in the starlit ocean with the beautiful beasts, but worried he may never get back in his boat.

They were majestic and articulate, as if they came to find him at this moment and minister to his soul. Every breath and whisper from their deep voices lifted his spirit higher, and he thought he may have sailed into another world—one that did not know things like hatred, deception and exhaustion.

As quickly as they were inquisitive, the whales became disinterested and moved on from the boat. He thought of following them, but something about the idea seemed wrong; like staying with the majesty too long would only make it grow routine and ruin the surprise of the encounter. Instead, he enjoyed the glory for what it was—a moment, and a moment alone, when he became enraptured by the delicate song of three of earth’s mightiest and honest creatures.

As they swam away, their song continued, and for this he was very grateful. He fancied that they appreciated their privacy, and with it gave their melody in gratitude. The song lasted for hours, dimly disappearing into the silent ocean—a memory of grace and power—until all he could listen to was the quiet smacking of the water against the boat, wondering if he could hear it still or if it were only his imagination.
Waiting Room

I wonder what Noah felt as he waited on God’s boat for the waters to recede. Or was it just as bad to wait for the rains to come? How many decades did it take the man to build that thing? And then an entire year of waiting for dry ground so he could get off and make a covenant? All this hellacious waiting involved. It’s preposterous. But so bleedingly necessary.

I cherish the day coming when I can step off the boat into my new home, new sanctuary, new purpose. The day when I look across the mountains where my soul already lives. I want so badly to run in the coolness of the day, drink from the river, and play in the fields on the side of the mountain. Whether I speak of Heaven or not, I know I’m going to a dream that my soul has been longing for, for years upon years. And it is coming. It’s right out there beyond my grasp. If I could just get off this island. If the waters would just go down already!

I feel like Shasta Among the Tombs, my back at the Lion’s, and my face toward the grave.

“Who stood with me in the fire?
Who pulled me out of the water?
Who carried me on their shoulder?” (Wickham)

I remember sitting on the bank of a retention pond at the crossing of Twentieth Street and Needle Palm. I was hitting my fists on the side of my face repeatedly. Angry. Cursing. Grabbing fistfuls of grass and throwing them into the water. Writhing in agony. I was so helpless and hopeless. But I knew You were there with me. My parents had just told me they were getting a divorce. And everything in my life that seemed at all sane became clinical.

But You were there with me. Somehow You lifted me up on Your shoulders and carried me from that place. And I don’t know anymore what happened. But I know You saved me.

I remember drowning. Once when I was only a few years old at a water-park. That feeling of spinning and twirling just out of arm’s reach from anyone that may have cared. But it didn’t compare at all to the feeling of holding my son’s hand as they induced him into a coma. He stared into my eyes while I recited Scripture. And then the eyes closed, and he disappeared. I could barely stand, much less walk. Somehow my feet carried me to the Waiting Room, where my legs collapsed under the weight of my dying soul. That was drowning. The feeling of your chest caving in from doubt and disbelief. The worry that your whole existence has been merely a string of fraudulent recitals and dances, and now—NOW—Here and Now—real, authentic, butchering, abhorrent life has caught up to you, grabbed you by the throat, and showed you who you really are.

But You were there, too. You took my hand and pulled me out of the water.

I remember this year. A year of politics and charades. Listening to those I love most tell me their worries, doubts, and fears, and watching myself stop myself at the edge of tears, as I hold back what I truly think and believe and wait, wait, wait! It feels like fire, burning me slowly. The melting of my skin as it clings to my bones and turns into scarred tissue. I watched so many cry and cry to be understood, and all I could do was recite another lie I heard some others tell me before.

But You were there, too. You whispered in my ear, “Son, all I’ve ever needed you to be was that.”

I am so tired of waiting. But there’s purpose in the waiting, all around that damned pain. There’s power in there, too. And I long to see the waters recede, for they won’t just disappear. No, they will mount up like a great waterfall and come rushing down on us with the strength of the gods. They will tear through us, my wife, children, and I, and we will see the glory of the One whose promises are always Yes and Amen.

“But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah)

And nothing I have matters anymore. And nothing holds me back anymore. I will look upon those mountains. All I must do is wait beside the One who is always with me, for the waters to recede.
Enter the Gates with Complaining

Enter the Gates with Complaining
Chapter 8

The rest of the week was miserable. The Dolor children feared what lie ahead in the forest, but hated waiting even more. Each morning, school dragged by. Each evening at home felt terrible. The kids tried to tell their parents what they planned to do, but Mrs. Dolor only cared about unpacking and cleaning, and Mr. Dolor only cared about his new job and exciting new boss. The kids saw little of Aaron those days, too. He ignored them on the bus and seemed angry still. But Saturday finally rolled over. And when it came, as important things tend to do after days and days of anxious waiting and sleepless nights—it brought just as much excitement as it did apprehension.

The Dolor children walked out their back-porch and faced the forest. Marian carried the logbook and a backpack full of snacks and water-bottles for each of them. Esther wore her favorite rain boots because the drawing of the bridge made her wonder if it would get wet. Herbert brought his Gerber pocket-knife that his father gave him last Christmas. They felt prepared, but it wasn’t until they saw Aaron waiting under the live oak that they felt complete.

“You ready to get going?” He asked.

Marian approached him. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” she said.

He shrugged and smiled. “Ah, forget it,” he said. “Friends fight.”

She grinned.

The four children gathered under the shade of the live oak and took one last moment before entering the gate. It all felt so serious that Esther asked if they should pray. At night, Mrs. Dolor prayed with each child since before they remembered. And Mr. Dolor prayed whenever they took long trips or were about to do something scary. It always made the children feel safer, like no matter what happened, everything would be okay. Aaron didn’t understand and sneered. That’s because Aaron, who only recently had started going to church with his other set of grandparents, hadn’t yet learned about anything like prayer. He shut his eyes and remained silent while Marian prayed. The yard grew calm. A woodpecker buzzed by, chirping excitedly, and the smell of lavender and honey filled the air.

“Alright, now that that’s over,” Aaron said. “Let’s get going and fix this mess you made.” He smirked and turned to the gate. His eyes widened, and he jumped back when he saw they were not alone.

On the edge of the forest stood the Ghost of Ponce de León. He was glowing blue and white, and next to him stood a donkey. Esther forgot about his funny pants and started giggling behind Marian when she saw them again.

“Hello, sir,” Marian said respectfully.

“Buenos días,” the Ghost replied. “I’m happy you are still together.”

“Are you going to let us in?” Marian asked.

“That depends on why you are entering.”

“We don’t want any more monsters to come out,” Marian answered.

“And we want to get the others monsters back in,” Esther added.

The Ghost smiled and nodded. “In order for all to be made right, you must shut the gate. And to shut the gate, you must reach the Fountain. Do you understand that nothing else will do?”

The children nodded.

“Will you come with us?” Herbert asked.

“Not in the sense you had hoped, Herbert. I’ll be nearby though and waiting at the end.” The Ghost looked at the donkey next to him. “Balaam will help you on your journey—Won’t you, Balaam?”

“I suppose if I have to,” the donkey muttered.

I’ve never heard a donkey speak before, and I’m fairly confident you have not either. Just as you would imagine, hearing a rusty, bored voice come out of the lips of a donkey left the Dolor children and Aaron speechless.

“It’s not too often I get to help human kids,” Balaam said flatly.

“You’re a—you’re a talking donkey.” Marian’s mouth fell open.

“And you’re a talking delinquent,” the donkey replied.

“Balaam is good for burdens and knows the forest well,” Ponce de León explained. “He can help you on your journey.”

“That’s what we get?” Aaron asked spitefully. “You’re a supernatural being and you give us a donkey!? That’s all we get?”

“I’m afraid so,” the Ghost said, smiling.

The blue shimmer around the ghost faded, and in a moment nothing remained in the air but fluttering fairies and golden dust. The kids marveled at the sight of the little winged creatures dancing over them.

Esther giggled as a pixie fluttered toward her and landed on her shoulder. The little fairy curtsied and smiled. She stood no taller than Esther’s index finger and wore a dress made from moss and bark. A little hat, made from Sandhill Crane feathers and wrapped in fox hair, rested between her delicate, pointy ears. On her back, the transparent yellow wings fluttered in the air, like she needed to keep flapping them even while standing still.

Just as Esther felt like she had gained a new friend, the little fairy flitted away. The rest of the pixies joined her, scattering over a footpath at the entry of the gate and disappearing on the other side of a pine copse.

“Well, that’s our cue,” Balaam the Donkey said. “Better time than never to get started going nowhere.”

The path led the children and donkey through a thicket. Great pines lined the path like skyscrapers. Their needles made the forest bed soft and pleasant to walk on, and the smell lifted their spirits. Powerful oaks reached their hands between the pines, and their fingers shaded the path, making the hike easy. The children, convincing themselves that the forest would remain this way, wondered if they would return before lunch.

But soon the path led uphill, the oaks disappeared, and with them the shade. All that remained was the occasional palm and thicket. The hot sun beat on their backs and loose sand sloshed underfoot. Hiking in sand is unpleasant. It gets in your shoes, and you never know if your next step will be as unbalanced as the last.

Rabbits thumped their warnings on the ground before racing away from the approaching gang. Gopher tortoises hissed from their dens as the children passed. Cicadas screeched at one another in syncopated monotony. An osprey chirped a half mile away. The wind swept through the canopy and brushed the leaves against one another. With each step, the children disappeared into a world without people.

Balaam seemed to complain about most everything and never remembered where they were going. The children presumed he lived in this forest, and thought it strange that he despised it so vehemently. He would say things like: “I always hated crossing sand,” and “why haven’t they made a road here, yet,” but he never explained who he meant by “they”, and the children suspected he didn’t know either.

Every few hundred yards, he asked the children to remind him of what they were doing. Repeating themselves again and again was a chore, but his raspy, quiet voice reminded them of Mr. Dolor’s father, so that made up for it. Granddaddy had always taken them fishing in the spring and gave them fond memories to think back on while hiking.

Balaam’s whining made Aaron’s arrogance more tolerable. He acted as if he knew everything, saying things like, “That’s coquina rock—Do you know the difference between a hawk and an eagle?—Those are deer tracks, not hog tracks—If you walk along that felled tree, you’re likely to see a rattlesnake”. The Dolors spent most of their time enjoying the look of forests instead of studying them, so they never took the time to learn if what he said was true or not. Regardless, it felt obnoxious.

The uphill climb leveled out, and coquina and limestone strengthened the soil. Balaam turned to the right, and the group approached a ravine that towered over a small river, thirty feet below.

“Weeper’s Run,” Balaam said. “This is as far south as I’ve ever been before today. Legend says the river was formed by the tears of our ancestors. But I can’t imagine they would need to give them up more than us.”

Esther stepped to the edge of the cliff and gazed down. She loved the feeling of her heart racing and the look of the world from far above. On the far side, the sheer wall of rough coquina rose as high as they were, and at the bottom, the black river ran. Red clay markings and drawings were on the face of the far cliff, and she imagined prehistoric people leaving them before the river wore down the rock and created the chasm.

“Don’t get left behind, Ess!” Marian hollered. Esther turned around and realized the group had gained thirty paces without her. She raced ahead to meet them.

“Hey donkey,” Aaron said. “What did you mean when you said you haven’t gone this far south? You mean you don’t know where you are going?”

“My name is Balaam,” the donkey replied. “And it all depends on what we are looking for—what are we looking for again?”

“A bridge, a swamp, and a fountain,” Marian responded.

“I thought you were supposed to be leading us,” Aaron complained.

“Ah yes, see, that is the funny thing about leading,” Balaam replied. “—More often than not you are actually following.”

“Balaam,” Marian said sweetly. “If you gave us an idea, we could decide whether we should rest and eat or not.”

Balaam stopped walking and grunted (the donkey way of sighing in frustration). “I suppose resting is never a bad idea,” he said. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if the food gets raided by ants and swallowpedes.”

“What are swallowpedes?” Herbert asked.

“You’ve never heard of them?” Balaam asked. “Great big worms that crawl out of the wet soil at night and eat your leftovers.”

“I’ve never heard of ‘em,” Aaron crossed his arms. “Sounds made up.”

“I’m sure ‘never hearing about something’ is the prerequisite for all things not known,” Balaam replied. “Though I wonder if that proves it to be ‘made up’.”

“Well, it’s not night,” Esther said. “And there’s no wet soil around here.”

“It’s a good time to stop,” Marian decided. “C’mon. I made sandwiches and snack baggies for everyone. Aaron, I didn’t know for certain you would be here. So you can share mine.”

Marian rationed the food out and split her peanut-butter and jelly sandwich with Aaron. He acted like he didn’t care, but secretly was famished. Herbert gave a bit of his food to him as well. The kids ate a good meal and there were no ants or swallowpedes, nearby.

“I’m sure they will be at our next stop,” Balaam said.

The journey led them to a rocky decline, heading southeast. Boulders and sand formed a path downward. Marian and Aaron used tree roots jutting out the side of the rock to stabilize their descent. But Herbert and Esther felt uneasy about it, so Balaam let them climb on his back to feel safer. “I never liked much comfort anyway,” he complained. It was a friendly gesture, but Herbert sat incorrectly on him and experienced the terrible feeling of creeping off the back of the donkey while facing down a cliff side. Each movement up and over boulders brought with it the fear of falling off Balaam’s back and tumbling down the ravine.

“You alright?” Esther asked him.

“Yeah,” Herbert lied. “Just wish this donkey were a little bit bigger for the two of us.”

“Are you saying you wished I was fat?” Balaam gawked.

Esther giggled, and Herbert slunk his head between his shoulders.

The party reached the bottom of the ravine. The air felt dense and moist and they didn’t hear anything but the buzz of mosquitoes flying close to their ears.

“What are we looking for?” Balaam asked.

“A bridge!” Aaron hollered.

“Oh, right, just up ahead and around the bend.”

The children followed Balaam as he took them through a grove of thin water oaks. The ground became muddy, covered in oak and maple leaves, and they heard moving water. Their shoes sunk deep into the soil and they felt water slush between their toes. All but Esther, who had her rain boots.

She raced ahead of the group, only glancing back once before venturing around a pass in the brush. She wanted to find the bridge first.

The mud flung up behind her, slapping the back of her legs as she sprinted through the swampy terrain. Twice, she nearly tripped, but corrected her footing on the ground, held loosely together by cypress roots. The trees bristled in the wind, a starling chirped overhead, and all the while the sound of water grew louder and louder. She shoved a philodendron out of her way and saw an enormous stone white bridge in the distance.

“It’s here! It’s here!” She shouted back, but the group was too far away to hear her. The ground rose, growing thick and tough. Stonework came from underneath the black, oily soil and arched upward, some twenty-five feet, over Weeper’s Run she saw from the top of the ravine. The river looked much wider and faster up close, and its black cold water made her wonder about its depth and unknown creatures inside.

The bridge was made of the same stone Aaron kept describing at the top of the hill. “Coquina,” Esther said to herself. The white, porous rock gave the design a once elegant appearance, but its dilapidation left only a few stone balustrades as reminders of its past glory. They scattered along the sides for her to lean against. The rough stone against her palms, and black river rushing below.

“That’d be a nasty dip for a little girl to take alone in the woods,” a voice said.

She jumped round and recognized the man from the library with his ugly crooked fingers grasping an old cane. His top-hat shaded his eyes, but she felt him staring through her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Esther never liked to greet people angrily, and she rarely spoke as such to her elders. But Mr. Dauer brought out the most spiteful voice she could muster. Though to be honest, it still sounded rather sweet.

“Oh hello, Esther,” Mr. Dauer replied. He lifted his hand to shake hers. She didn’t want to take it for two reasons. One: she didn’t trust Mr. Dauer and being so close to the edge of the bridge frightened her, and two: his hand was covered in dust and dirt and looked icky.

“How did you get in to the forest?” She asked.

“I can go wherever I need to. In fact, I came from this forest a long, long time ago.” He lowered his hand and looked up at the canopy. “It’s nice to be home.” Something strange happened to Mr. Dauer. A chill or spasm went down his spine and his head jerked to the side wildly. It looked painful, and Esther felt bad for a moment.

“You didn’t come out of the forest when I opened it?” Esther asked.

“No, quite the opposite.” He reached his hand up to the cork in his ear. “In fact, I should thank you for opening the gate and letting me in.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to do that,” Esther said.

“And you did it again, didn’t you?” Mr. Dauer tilted his head to let the wax and oil drip out the side of it. “Opening the gate. Finding the book. And finding the bridge! Why do you even need your brother and sister?” He tapped his cane on the bridge.

Goosebumps lifted the hairs on Esther’s neck and arms. “They do good things, too,” Esther replied.

“Marian couldn’t even take a proper photo,” Mr. Dauer mused.

Esther furrowed her brow. She almost said something, but Mr. Dauer kept going.

“Oh, I suppose she brought a sandwich.” Mr. Dauer put the cork back in. “So she’s as good as a lunch lady. And Herbert—well, Herbert doesn’t do a thing, does he?”

“I love my brother. He’s sweet and brave.”

Mr. Dauer drummed his cane with his crooked fingers before tapping it on the bridge again. “You know, Esther, soon enough you will learn you are very fast all on your own, and you have to sit around and wait when you involve others.”

Esther looked at the ground. She heard voices from behind her and turned away from Mr. Dauer.

“I tell you, I always hated crossing mud.” Balaam’s rusty voice came through the forest. “It gets in your horseshoes and takes weeks to get out.”

Esther smiled and waved her hands in the air. “Over here! Come quick!”

Fox Island

Fox Island

Fox Island