Keith G. Alderman

Chapter Fifteen

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 15

The world was amorphous. All was black and incomprehensible. His body floated like an astronaut lost inside a black hole, an endless void of weightlessness and breathless fear. He threw his arms and legs about wildly; no idea at knowing if he was swimming upward toward oxygen or downward to his grave. He bumped into something and fought it with his fists but found nothing in its place.

He caught sight of brilliant beams of light shimmering through the lily-pads and dissecting the surrounding water. The stocks grew dozens of feet up through the world around him, before bursting into magnificent white flowers. He swam through the leaves before hitting his head against the limestone ceiling overhanging the cenote. He swam toward the light under the sun, out into the pool among the lily-pads.

His leg wrapped in a firm grasp, and his body jerked underwater. The man was fighting with him again—his arms and legs around him, choking the life out. He wondered if this was the end—if this was how all of it finally came to a head. He stared forward into the burly stocks of lily-pads. It was a miserable way to die. It achieved nothing.

His abdomen thrust forward from the man squeezing and pushing on him. Then the grip became loose. He pulled the arms away from his neck. The water turned red. He spun round and saw the man’s face. It was ugly, full of horror and hatred—the face of a man whose purpose is to abominate, wielding power like a toy who has realized his life was the product of deception and evil disposition—a lie spun on him from childhood. He wasn’t special, and he wasn’t worthy anymore. A pair of massive white and black jaws locked onto the skull. The brilliant teeth crushed the horrified face into two and blood exploded under the black water.

He swam to the surface, fought his way through the lily-pads, and pulled himself up to the roots of the jungle. The water was red and black. At the center was a great black caiman, fifteen feet long. Its tail caressed the water with the grace of a dancer. In its jaws were the dead man.

He stared in the beast’s eyes. They were black and blood ran down the speckled jaws. He had seen an animal stare at him this way before—full of resolve and nobility. It was the king of this pool, king of this jungle, waiting in its lair for a sacrifice. The beast lowered its back and sank below the surface with its meal.

A spear landed at his side and lodged into a thorny thicket. Three hunters were on top of the precipice under the ficus. Two were staring at the bloody water in disbelief. A bow pulled, and an arrow strung, but he was back in the jungle, racing for the beach as hard as he could.

He was back at the place he called home. Time, rain, and nature beat his paths, but they could not destroy them. He raced quicker than before and the cool water refreshed his wounds.

The hunters were faster, but he knew his next step before they did. He flashed past the rucksack tree and into his runs along the beach, heading south, past the very first mango tree and north again along the dense forest line, before he burst out of the tree-line and saw it: the ceiba tree.

She stood tall and brilliant, adorned in elegance and motherly wisdom. Her shade a perfect reminder of her grace and fortitude. She had been waiting, always waiting, for her child to return and rest again.

But he wouldn’t relish her beauty and magnitude; under the tree waited two more villagers. They lunged at him with reckless hatred while the other three came bounding from the jungle and joined the scuffle.

The wind swept up and the ceiba bent over from the weight of its breath. The leaves trembled and screamed; sand threw everywhere, blinding the hunters.

They were at him again. He was on the ground now. Kicked and beaten, madly. Someone reached down and drove a sandy hand inside his hip. A foot dislocated his jaw. Another jab. Another pummel. Another kick.

Lightning splintered across the sky. Rain fell.

The storm was brutal, pounding the hunters; the wet weakened their blows. He gasped for air and held onto the last of his life, curled in the sand. This was it. The moment at last.

He was floating above his body, looking down at the pitiful bloody corpse being kicked and spat on; it didn’t even look like a man anymore.

The hunters stopped. They gave up their wrath and looked at the horizon in astonishment, mouths agape.

Air filled his lungs and he was in his body once more. He could feel his heart beating and his back bleeding. He took his hands from around his head and looked up. The five men were hovering nearby, but completely disinterested in him. And then the sound shook the beach.

The great horn blew from the mammoth creature, breathy and metallic. It came from the ocean.

“Jikarai is coming!” They cried, fleeing into the jungle.

He lay motionless, collecting his consciousness, before sitting up with the toil of an elderly dying man, arms shaking underneath him and legs bruised and broken. He crawled on his stomach to the canoe.

The vessel was ready. Patched and prepped, stored with rope, flax, sack, and an oar. He pushed with his all his might and life seeped from his bones. Years of life escaped him with every inch moved; with every foot closer to the water, his soul left the corpse on the beach. But he had to get into the ocean. In the water was freedom; a chance to live.
Gods and Goddesses Everywhere

“It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare…There are no ordinary people.” – C.S. Lewis (The Weight of Glory)

I feel helpless trying to mine through my thoughts, searching for a path to begin this discussion. It’s something so ethereal and vaporous. I keep diluting my thoughts for the finest way to say it. This thing society has lost sight of, and those closest to me seem to misunderstand. And all because of fear and pride! We believe this thing must be earned and withheld if we don’t feel it strongly given by others.

As if Honor were ever something we deserved.

Ha! What jest! And we know ourselves best to know that honor is far from what we deserve. Nonetheless, we demand it from everyone and withhold from even more. And yet only until we know the power it holds when given away will we be free to walk in its glory. Honor. Honor. A word that cannot be judged or understood by mere words or actions. It is felt in the soul, the core of a man—both when given and received. And in the core does a man know when something is anything but honor.

I cannot define honor. But I can point out what it is not, and perhaps, in doing so, we can see the shadow of what it is.

My dog is not loyal, she is honorable. She is beyond loyalty. She sees the strength in her master and comes to my side regardless of my will. She waits for me, rests by me, attunes her focus to the presence of my power, guides her actions by my locale. She honors me with her attention and obedience. Her focus may be on the wind, birds, lizards, smells, and sounds, but her presence is at my side, because to leave it, would dishonor me.

My heifer does not honor me. She merely respects me. She comes seeking food, and would push me down if she thought I wouldn’t stop her. It is my forceful hand that beats her, pushes her to submission, and she allows me to lead her. But she would not obey if I ceased to exist.

My dog would lie at my corpse, waiting for my resurrection. My heifer would trample me and move on.

When I think of Honor, my mind races to films like The Last Samurai. It’s beautiful, and yet completely fictional. Westernized fantasies of what Bushido was, keeping it safe from the suicide, depression, betrayal, and ugliness riddled throughout. None of that film happened, regardless of how magnificent Ken Watanabe’s performance is: “Beautiful.” And it is magnificent. Or perhaps I think of Samwise’s devotion to Frodo. The camaraderie between Carroll Shelby and Ken Miles. The love of David and Jonathan.

Honor begins and ends with seeing a person the way God sees them. Not based on what they do, but who they are. Not earned. Given.

And Paul tells us to take delight in doing this with genuine affection.

Honor is not about being right. It has nothing to do with that. Nor does it have to do with vindication or justification. Therefore, manipulation must be far from it. Honor is not saying a magic spell in order to get what you want from someone (Oh, how I have witnessed!). It is not pride, or envy, or strife.

I watch those who “honor” a person by keeping their mouth shut of the Truth, because fear has taken hold of them.
I see others “honor” someone by publicly shouting admiration for a person or peoples, but in private, vitriol and gossip drip from their lips.
I hear some quote “[they] Honor the position, but not the person.”

These things are not Honor. You are not the faithful and loyal dog. You are the compliant heifer.
You cannot force a man to honor. No matter how much eloquence you write on the teleprompter.
For Honor is not mere words or actions. It is the thing birthed inside of the soul that only God can see. No man knows what Honor is. But every man understands it when it finally comes upon him.

Honor is given to a person, whether they are right or wrong, not because of right or wrong, but because they are God’s Child.

Honor does not mean Trust or Truth. It is regardless of Trust. It is given whether Trust inhabits the relationship or not. And it will not determine whether I trust you or not. Therefore, Honor does not equal obedience. It is deeper than that still.

Honor looks past the surface and outcome, and sees a person the way God sees, and treats them as such. When that view inhabits your heart, then any and all decisions, actions, words, and feeling must—not “will”, but must—be made from a holy reverence. You will be slower, kinder, gentler, more honest, more forgiving, more loving. Thus, more honorable.

And seeing a person the way God sees them includes seeing yourself the way God sees you. As a child. An heir apparent. Unworthy, yet worthy. Foolish, yet wise. Marred, yet “Beautiful”. Is sin not merely the act of dishonoring yourself and others? Therefore, Honor is living the life God intended, separate from sin, and it begins with seeing us as God sees us.

Oh, to be separate from this sin—but that would mean to never fear what others think or what could unfold. To honor someone truly would be to shout from the rooftops of their glory, with no care of the fallout. How I wish we honored others so well. That when one comes or goes from our lives, we don’t hold the sin or shortcomings up close to our eyes, but we hold the beauty and grace God has given us by seeing again someone made in His image. And one day—one day!—we won’t care what each of us thinks, we will only care who each of us is.

To Honor a soul is to see it as God does, and recognize that there are no ordinary people. Each of us is walking to damnation or the Heavenly Host. And what we do with Honor will determine much of that outcome.
Picture Perfect

Picture Perfect
Chapter 7

What Aaron had refused to listen to, before speeding off with Herbert toward the construction site, was that unicorns are most attracted to fairy dust. He had ridden away before the girls could explain and think of a plan to get some. Instead, Marian and Esther agreed it was hopeless. They might spend just as much time seeking out fairy dust as they would spend seeking out a unicorn. So they searched for more information in every book they had on unicorns in their home. Which there were many because Mrs. Dolor loved to read about Greek mythology. She dedicated an entire section of their family bookshelf to myths and fables.

“This book says they ‘live on top of rainbows’,” Esther read aloud.

“Well, that doesn’t make much sense,” Marian responded. “The one we saw came from a forest.”

“Maybe they just like rainbows.”

“We could make some with the garden hose,” Marian thought aloud.

“And draw pictures!” Esther added.

“The last book I read said they are attracted to crying virgins and sweet fruits.” She looked at the kitchen.

“What’s a virgin?”

“I don’t know. But I think Mom bought some grapes and dragonfruit.”

Marian raced to the kitchen in preparation of their lure. Esther went upstairs to collect her paint supplies and start painting. Mrs. Dolor had already set up a special room on the second floor for the kids to use arts and crafts. Esther dabbed her favorite brush into a cup of water, and then into her most vivid violet. She arched the brush across a white sheet of paper and smiled. She stirred the brush into the cup of water, rinsed it clean, and dabbed it into a container of blue.

While Esther was finishing the world’s best painting of a rainbow, Marian stood outside with a bowl of fruit and sprayed a large arch of water into the sunlight. The light danced in the sprinkling water and a beautiful rainbow flashed intermittently before her.

The porch door slammed, and Esther stood beside her. She leaned her painting against the live oak’s trunk, and the two girls felt a sense of familiarity from the night before.

“I had a dream last night,” Esther said. “While we were waiting out here. I dreamt that three giant trolls were in our house, and they were going to eat us. But one of them was stupid, and the others didn’t like him as much. So you convinced them to eat the stupid troll instead of us.”

“That’s a weird dream,” Marian snickered.

“Yeah,” Esther trailed off. “You are a really good sister, Marian. You do a good job looking out for Herbert and me.”

Marian blushed.

“I really miss our old home,” Esther continued. “I don’t want a bunch of ugly old trolls to try to eat us.”

“Esther, that’s not going to happen,” Marian consoled.

“How do you know?” Esther fired back. “There’s skunk apes, and monsters, vampires, and weird men with corks in their ears. I hate this town.”

“Ess, it was just a dream.”

“But the rest isn’t. What about Mom and Dad?”

“What do you mean?”

“How could they not listen to us? And school is horrible. And I don’t have any friends.”

Marian bowed her head. “I know,” she said, because she had nothing better to say. The girls held each other in their arms and tried to remember what the old house was like. A tear dropped on Esther’s cheek, and one streamed down Marian’s nose.

Broo-haha!

The girls heard a rusty, but beautiful whinny, like the sound of a powerful ruler clearing their throat. They looked back at the spray of water. Esther wiped her eyes and gasped. She couldn’t believe it. A great stallion stood in their yard. Its hair was black as onyx and the mane white as marshmallows. On top of its head protruded a long marble horn, curled like a perfect ice-cream cone, as if the silver horn twisted while growing. Marian thought it looked like a candy-cane without the red. The animal stared at the girls like it was waiting for something.

“Marian,” Esther whispered. “The picture—the picture!”

Marian shuffled at her waist and turned the camera on. She didn’t want to take her eyes off the animal, but Esther watched it intensely.

The camera mechanisms rattled and clicked. The lens automatically extended and focused. She held the camera to her eye and her shaking finger started clicking.

Click. Click. Click.

Marian lowered the camera after the third photo. Something in her stomach made her wonder if taking too many photos was somehow wrong. Like the moment was meant for them to enjoy and not record. Somehow remembering the moment later through a photograph instead of a memory would only make it less remarkable.

The animal and the girls stared at one another. The great beast shook its head, and the mane fluttered in the breeze. It stamped its feet and ran in a circle around the live oak tree, kicking up mud and dirt.

“I take it back, Marian,” Esther whispered. “I do love this place.”

“I wish Mom and Dad were home so we could show them!”

The unicorn stopped abruptly and reared onto its hind legs. Its front feet planted against the tree-trunk.

Thud!

Then, to their surprise, the beast nailed its horn into the trunk of the tree.

Schtuck!

It ripped its head away from the tree, but a piece of the horn snapped off in the tree trunk. It shook its head back and forth, as if in pain. With terrible ferocity, the animal burst through the gate and into the Enchanted Forest. It disappeared from view almost immediately, all except the sound of its gallop that slowly faded away behind the sound of birds chirping and insects singing in the forest.

“Wow,” Marian whispered.

“Let’s see the photo!” Esther cheered.

Marian pressed a button on the back of the camera, and a catalogue of saved photos popped up on a small display. She scrolled through photos Mrs. Dolor took while painting, and some more of moving day. One of Mr. Dolor studying on the couch. Two of Esther and Herbert sleeping on the porch the night before. And three of blaring white and yellow light.

“Oh no,” Marian said.

“What’s the matter?” Esther asked.

“They are ruined.”

“What?!”

“I forgot to adjust the shutter speed from last night,” Marian explained. “There’s nothing here.”

“There’s nothing we can do?!” Esther exclaimed.

“It’s gone.” Marian lowered her head in shame.

“How could—!” She was going to shout in anger, but stopped herself short.

“I’m so stupid.” Marian turned the camera off and pounded her fist on the porch floor.

“That’ll do.” Vinnie put the developed photo on top of his dictionary and shook hands with Aaron. Its quality looked terrible, but you could just make out an image of a black hairy ape strolling across a plank over a small dirty pond in what appeared to be a construction site.

Aaron nodded confidently. Vinnie pursed his lips and slid another book from under the dictionary on his lap. It was brown, leather-bound, with a long strip of leather wrapped around it several times.

“As promised,” he said, handing the logbook to Aaron.

The leather felt worn and soft, but tough like ancient things do.

“Thanks, Rat,” Aaron replied.

He left Vinnie’s Grandmother’s porch and approached Herbert, sitting on his bike. Clay and black tar smeared across his face, under his ears, and over his little forearms. The stuff completely ruined his pants and shoes. He frowned as Aaron saddled his bicycle.

“This feels wrong,” Herbert said.

“That’s cuz you got you tar in your butt crack.” Aaron laughed.

“You know what I mean,” Herbert replied.

“Do you wanna get through the Enchanted Forest or not?” Aaron asked. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. ’Sides, Vinnie’s had it coming to him.”

The boys rode in silence back to the Dolor house. Herbert went upstairs to wash and change his clothing. Aaron found the girls laying prostrate and miserable in the backyard next to a bowl of uneaten fruit and a soaked painting of a rainbow.

“What happened to you two?” Aaron asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Marian replied grumpily.

“Well, maybe this’ll cheer you up.” Aaron smiled and pulled the book out of his backpack.

“You got the picture?!” Esther asked.

“You got the logbook!” Marian cheered.

Aaron handed it to Esther. She opened the cover, and a signature in the top corner read C. Mewbourn.

“Way to go, Esther!” Marian celebrated.

“What do you mean?” Esther asked.

“Well, you said someone else would help us get the book, and the library wasn’t the best way. Who would have thought it was Aaron?”

“I am pretty wonderful.” Aaron grinned and raised his chin in the air.

Esther remembered what the Top-Hat Man said about her and felt strange. “Yeah, who would have thought,” she replied, and handed the book to Marian.

“We should get it back to Paw-Paw,” Aaron said.

The three of them waited for Herbert to finish his shower and come down in fresh clothing. He threw the old clothes away before Mrs. Dolor saw how nasty they had gotten.

The kids rode their bicycles back to Mr. Mewbourn’s who welcomed them in with warm hello’s and an invitation to eat more vanilla bean ice-cream.

He took his time getting to the book, which bothered the Dolor children at first, but later they appreciated him for it. He showed them his bearded dragon and let Herbert and Esther feed it some crickets. Marian didn’t want to touch the insects, and Aaron had fed it plenty of times before. Esther told the elderly man about her lemon gecko, and the two laughed about the quirky reptiles.

The previous night, Mr. Mewbourn had caught a coral snake in a large trashcan and showed it to them from a safe distance. He taught them that some snakes are dangerous, but never purposefully try to hurt people. He even showed them the difference between a coral snake and a king snake, so they can always leave the venomous ones alone.

Mr. Mewbourn not only had ice-cream, but grew his own mini bananas. He gave one to each child, who enjoyed it greatly. They tasted sweet and smooth like buttermilk. He offered the Dolor children a bundle to take home for their parents to enjoy as well.

“Mr. Mewbourn, we appreciate all the lessons and snacks,” Marian said, “but we would really love to hear more about the book.”

“Book? Oh, the book!” Mr. Mewbourn closed his eyes fondly and leaned back in his armchair. “Lucille and I read so often together. She loved when I read to her. She used to sit in that chair while I sat in this one.” His eyes shot open, and he sat forward. “The logbook, of course!” He said, profoundly. “Give it here. Ah, yes. I remember it all now. Juan Ponce de León wasn’t coming here for Spain and country. He was coming here for everlasting life. Ponce de León believed Florida was the resting place of the Fountain of Youth. And many believe that he found it in what you call the Enchanted Forest.”

“Why would a fountain be so valuable someone would cross an ocean for it?” Herbert asked.

“Why?” Mr. Mewbourn repeated rhetorically. “Why imagine a spring that restored you to your health and youth whenever you wanted! People wouldn’t have anything to fight over anymore.”

“But if it were such a great thing like that, why would someone lock it up behind a big gate?” Esther asked.

“Well, if people had nothing to fight over, most wouldn’t have anything to live for.” Mr. Mewbourn winked at them. “And what’s the point of having eternal life if you have nothing to live for? See the conundrum?”

“I think so,” Esther replied.

“No,” Herbert responded flatly and confused.

“The Ghost didn’t say anything about the fountain or finding it, Period.” Esther whispered to Marian.

“The Ghost didn’t say a lot of anything,” Marian whispered back.

“Let’s see here, oh—” Mr. Mewbourn flipped through the pages. “It seems Ponce de León wrote in Spanish.” He turned the logbook to show them the pages full of handwritten notes, drawings, and symbols written entirely in another language.

“Can you read it?” Herbert asked.

“Well, see, there’s another conundrum,” Mr. Mewbourn said. “My father was bilingual, but I never understood the sense in it. Really regretting that life choice now. Maybe I can gamble someone for lessons some time.”

“Paw-Paw,” Aaron interrupted. “What do we do now?”

“Well, don’t lose all hope,” Mr. Mewbourn encouraged. “I can guess a bit of it. Ah, see here—” He showed the children a drawing of a gate and fountain.

“Oh, there, there!” Herbert shouted. “That must be it!”

“El Bosque Encantado.” Mr. Mewbourn read the inscription under the drawing.

“What does that mean?” Marian asked.

“The Enchanted Forest, I presume.”

“Keep going,” Aaron encouraged. “Maybe we can understand more.”

Mr. Mewbourn flipped the pages slowly, and the kids saw many strange drawings and letters. They recognized a large bridge over a riverbed with the words: puente acertijo.

“What do you think that means?” Herbert asked.

“Maybe it means ‘puny bridge’.” Aaron guessed.

“A puny bridge means a puny river,” Esther quipped.

“Sorry, children,” Mr. Mewbourn said. “My Spanish is not very good.”

He kept going and found a picture of a swamp. The longer they looked at it, the more upset each child became. The Dolors grew up around ponds and lakes in Florida, so they never really bothered them. But something about this picture made it come to life. The trees looked like they reached out of the page and gripped the edges of the leather. Esther later swore that she saw little green eyes blinking through the page at her. Under the picture read the words: criatura de la laguna.

“I hope that means ‘celebration at the beach’.” Marian laughed.

“I don’t think so.” Mr. Mewbourn cautioned.

He flipped the page, and it was the strangest of them all. There were only two words on it, and the rest was a drawing of someone’s big, hairy feet. Herbert thought the drawing was so good that he could actually smell them. Later, he discovered it was only the smell of the worn leather. The words underneath the feet read: el gigante.

“Well,” Mr. Mewbourn mused, “they are gigantic feet.”

“But what in the world does that have to do with anything?” Aaron asked.

“I’m not sure,” Mr. Mewbourn replied. “Unfortunately, none of this seems familiar to the stories my father told. I wonder if this book has been tampered with. Or if my father liked making up stories instead of reading them.”

“Well, the next page is what we are looking for!” Marian said, peering under the page and Mr. Mewbourn’s finger.

Mr. Mewbourn flipped the page, and a beautiful ornate fountain was drawn on it. It was made of stone and rock. Water poured from a plate at the top, and little fairies fluttered in the air above it. Sunshine cast down through the trees and reflected off the dancing water. The kids thought they could drink the water right off the page. The caption read: la Fuente de la Juventud.

“The Fountain of Youth,” Mr. Mewbourn said reverently. “I tell you what—I will get on my slippers and lets the five of us head into this forest. We can see this place for what it is and maybe find that fountain with this here book. Oh books! I used to love reading to my Lucille.” Mr. Mewbourn closed his eyes and leaned his head back. In a moment, the children heard snores emanating from his nose and open mouth.

“What do we do now?” Esther asked, while Aaron took the book from his sleeping grandfather.

Marian placed her finger against her lips and walked around in circles. “Well, we need to go to the forest,” she said matter-of-factly.

The children were silent; each frightened to say what each was thinking. The truth is, no one felt altogether excited about venturing into a forest alone after seeing drawings of scary swamps and giant feet.

“I don’t think we should do it just yet,” Esther spoke up. “It’s gonna be late soon. Who knows how long it could take before we return?”

“That’s a great point, Ess,” Marian said. “We need to be back for suppertime, after all. Why don’t we wait until Saturday morning? That way school won’t be in the way so we can—”

Marian meant to say “so we can start early”, but Aaron interrupted her.

“Hang on!” He retorted. “Who put you two in charge? I got the book. My Paw-Paw’s the one who translated it!”

“Do you have a better idea?” Marian asked.

“Not at the present moment, but l’m not sure about any of it. Maybe my Paw-Paw can come when he wakes up—or your parents.”

“Mom and Dad won’t like it.” Esther thought aloud.

“Do you really think he can come?” Marian asked, motioning to Mr. Mewbourn. “He falls asleep pretty often.”

“Forget it!” Aaron threw his arms down and nearly the logbook with them. “It doesn’t matter!”

“What is the matter?” Esther asked.

“Why are you so upset?” Marian added. “We only think Saturday is best.”

“Nothing.” Aaron crossed his arms with the logbook underneath.

“Is it because of Vinnie?” Herbert asked.

“What?” Aaron yelled. “Why would I be upset about that?”

“Sometimes, I feel bad when I—”

“Shut up, Herbie!” Aaron yelled.

“Don’t tell my brother to shut up!” Esther hollered.

“Everyone shut up!” Marian shouted. “Herbert, what are you talking about?”

“I think he’s mad—” Herbert shouted, and then whispered, “…because he lied.”

The others looked at Aaron, and he scowled at Herbert.

“Aaron and I didn’t get a photo of the skunk ape—” Herbert continued.

“—Shut up, Herbie!” Aaron exploded.

“We—Aaron staged a photo and gave it to Vinnie,” Herbert explained. “It was all fake. He lied to Vinnie.”

“Why would you do that, Aaron?” Marian asked.

“Do what?” He mocked. “Get us the book?”

“You know what you did was wrong!” She shouted. “It’s wrong to steal!”

“So what?” Aaron yelled back. “It got us the way in. Vinnie’s a rat and a jerk.”

“You’re—you’re nothing but a thief! I knew we couldn’t trust you!”

“I get us the logbook and this is how you treat me!” Aaron yelled. “You know what—Take your stupid book,” (he shoved it at Marian) “—and good luck fixing all this on your own!” He crossed his arms again and looked away, showing that the Dolor children were no longer welcome.

“Wait, Aaron—” Esther tried reasoning, but he refused to listen.

As the Dolor children opened the front door, Mr. Mewbourn’s eyes shot open, and he sat up. “Don’t forget to take some bananas with you!” He exclaimed. Then he promptly fell back to sleep.

Outside, Esther turned to Marian indignantly. “Why did you have to come so hard on him?”

“What?” Marian asked.

“He’s been helping us,” she said. “And the only one who has helped us. And now we are all alone again.” She picked up her bike and rode away angrily.

Marian looked at Herbert. “This isn’t your fault, Herb,” she said.

Herbert looked down, ashamed.
Chapter Fourteen

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 14

He rose to his knees. With face bent downward, he drank the rain sliding down it. He collapsed again and gasped for breath. He held his hip; blood seeped through the fingers, and he wept. He caught his breath again and stood. Four-hundred yards of grasslands lay between him and the manor. It was a distant dream, an old landmark from a lost adventure.

An arrow whizzed by his head and landed ten feet behind him. Before he knew what was happening, another came flying and stuck in the tall grass. He fled to the tree-line. Another arrow landed, some thirty feet behind. He was out of range, but he was being hunted.

The tree-line came, but reason did not. He had no idea where he was. The trees, branches, leaves, flowers, grasses, weeds—they thrashed into him, passing in a fiery blur, whipping him with lordly anger. He was a pest. The forest was angry. The blood was spurting from hip to thigh.

He was in a panic, adrenaline racing in his veins, pushing him beyond his limitations. The ground was moving underneath him. He looked and thought for a moment he might be flying, before slipping in the mud, catching himself and falling into a branch. He kept his feet, continued running, stumbled once more, and put his soles on the forest floor. His toes squished in the soil, and sticks scratched and chewed at them. He must not stop running. The leaves kept slashing. The rain made him heavy.

His head hurt, and he couldn’t see well. A thought crossed his mind that he could rest and lay down. The grass looked sweet, and the bushes were a bed. What was the point in running, if only to be slapped by these branches? No, he needed to keep running. He couldn’t remember what, but something was after him and the only way on was forward into the jungle.

Wasn’t he supposed to be looking for his watch?

He felt naked. He was naked. Why was he naked? What had happened to his loafers? When did he wake up on the island? When did he first meet the click beetle and rest under the ceiba? He was a native now, running in the jungle, naked, hunted, alone, doomed. The blood kept spurting.

He ran through a field and rested in a copse of verawood trees. Their yellow flowers showered down on him and he leaned against the trunks. He thought of laying down and dying, but his legs continued moving and bounded onward. The rain was filling the valley with water. Moorhens and coots were grazing in the wetland. His legs felt as if they were no longer moving. He could see the ground rushing passed him, and his heart exploded in his chest, but he wondered why he wasn’t going fast anymore. It was as if his mind was already on the other side of the valley, waiting for his body to catch it.

Through the trees he went again and wondered if anyone was after him anymore. Something horrible beat in his chest—an idea that he could never stop. He was unworthy, and now he needed to leave the island. The blood kept spurting.

Firs, pine, fruits, dandelion and cactus collided into one another in a memory underneath his feet. He was running downhill now because blood covered his shins. He arched his back and tried to steady himself before falling forward. Vines and branches helped to steady him as he crashed through the jungle.

A horrid stench swept up in the wind and he thought it was his own corpse running without stopping to die. But the smell was not rotten flesh, rather like a great cesspool of animal filth. He turned toward the smell and came from under a weeping willow into a clearing.

It was the bog. He started writhing his way through the sawgrass and banana trees. The waterline was at his waist. The mud and grass were impossible to ford. Every sinking step was a grave to bury him; every blade of grass a noose to hang him.

He had to stop. He couldn’t keep running forever. He leaned back on an upheaval of mud and caught his breath. He waited so long he believed he wasn’t being pursued any longer. It’s possible the bog was the line they feared crossing.

He woke when he heard voices. The sun was in a different part of the sky. It was no longer raining. He couldn’t tell from what direction the sounds were coming, but he was sure they were in the swamp. Whispers and mysterious calls bounced around. They were the sounds of hunters undulating through the grass blades. With every utterance, the group grew closer, tightening the circle. He wasn’t sure if he should flee or stay still. Hide, fight, or give up and die.

He moved his legs beneath his body; the water was manageable now. The mud settled to the bottom after the rain ceased. He leaned his body forward and began swimming through the marsh, pushing the grass out of his way.

He came from under the long drooping arms of a dead banana tree and startled a family of moorhens. They cackled at his presence and scurried away. The hunters cried out, and he heard thrashing water.

He let go and dove under the water, grabbing grass blades at the root and pulling feverishly through the mud. He held his breath until consciousness left him and came up for air. The group of hunters was somewhere behind him, at the spot where the moorhens ratted.

He continued, unsure of which noises were his own or the hunters. A few more yards and he felt the ground come underneath him. He stood on his legs and ran again. The noise gave his location away, but he was putting hundreds of feet between himself and the others.

The jungle was around him. Trees and branches flitted passed. His legs could move again. He remembered why he was running. He remembered Arvor and Watano and most of all he remembered his beach. He feared hope was deceiving him—the belief that he knew where he was in the jungle. Trees looked as familiar as his hallucinations.

He tripped on limestone, kept his footing, corrected his step, and continued on. He was climbing now. Using branches to steady himself over large rocks and stone. He came through a clearing and stopped. He was on a ledge. The edge of a precipice made of sharp limestone. A large ficus bent down over him and threw her streaming limbs over the edge. At the bottom were walls and caverns scaling upward and encircling an enormous cenote covered in giant lily-pads. A beach lay to the north where an old canoe used to sit.

He smiled and prayed out loud, weeping in exhaustion.

The next instant someone was on him. He fought him tooth and nail and kept from being tied down. They threw each other onto the ground, beating their heads against the limestone. He tripped the man and found a tree limb to smash into his breast. Biting at each other’s legs and ears; tearing hair from scalps, arms and legs. Sweat, blood, and saliva soaked the two in a silent fight of desperation. They locked onto one another and one slipped while the other lost footing. They were falling off the cliff.
How long can you Suffer?

As I ruminate, and in this rumination both to God and Man, I ponder the depths of long-suffering. What a joy and burden that You name it a gift of the Spirit. A gift? A gift to suffer long? A gift from the Spirit. Not our gift, but His to give.

Suffering is a part of this life. I find it comical, if not disheartening, when we (people) find suffering surprising or unexpected. When, factually, figuratively, and literally, it is one of only a few things that is promised by life. Birth. The sun’s rise and fall. The rain’s shower. God’s goodness. Suffering. Death.

His promises are always Yes, and with them, we give our Amen. But how and why that promise comes to pass is ever-changing.

Moses was called by God, and at age forty, moved into action. This action saved a slave but caused the death of an Egyptian slaver. The next day, when his heart drove him to action again, he attempted to help two fighting Jews. But they rejected him for his crime the day prior. And he fled. God’s promise was to use Moses. And Moses moved in his Amen. But that Amen, whether or not right, drove him away into the wilderness in fear. Where was God’s promise, then? In the desert for forty more years, pondering if his life of meaning would forever be over. Wondering if his last chance was gone. Deliberating alone over what would ever come of his people he left behind?

In Chapter 8 of the Acts of the Apostles, the early Church is persecuted by Saul and the Sanhedrin. And with that persecution, the apostles and disciples of Jesus scatter. And from that scattering, the movement of the Gospel of Jesus Christ arises. Without persecution, our Gospel would never have moved across the face of the earth.

The rains will come. It is a promise.

And they bring what we would describe as both good and bad. This does not mean Christ is out to kill, steal, or destroy in order that His will be done. But He will remove all pleasantries from your life to get there, and especially to draw you into faith.

Passion is not something always pleasant. It is neutral. The word derives from Pascho, meaning, “in a good sense, to be well off; in a bad sense, to suffer sadly”. History more commonly refers to it as Suffering. Jesus’ passion was the cross. And though it was good, it was no pleasant physical thing. In his second letter to the Church of Corinth, Paul describes our suffering and affliction as the cause of consolation and salvation in others. Therefore, the endurance of such suffering is effectual. It is both pain and pleasure. “Good” and “Bad”.

Passion holds the promise of great relief at the end of such suffering. If I may be so crass and carnal, we see it in the physical world with the purging of our body’s fluids. A build-up and release in the bladder and bowels. Even sexual satisfaction and vomiting are painful acts that bring pleasure in the purge.

The sexual act may be the most elementary of all “sufferings” and “reliefs”, and by it, people have become addicted. A rudimentary action that hardly moves past genuine pain and suffering, and because of such limited suffering, comes a short and fleeting pleasure and wholeness. Though this is only carnally speaking. Sex between lovers that are beyond mere physical attraction, married and in the image of God, discover far deeper emotional and spiritual pleasure through it as well. For Sex is the strongest physical act two people can perform—greater than war or famine. And the Kingdom of Darkness would have you and I believe it to be solely a physical act, and with it under that guise we find the paltry satisfaction of pain and pleasure mingled together. Nothing like the fullness that God intended. But I will discuss Sex another time. For now I only mean to show its powerful connection to Suffering.

We define passion incorrectly in today’s age. Driven by lust, pleasure, convenience, and comfort. But God is not. He is driven by faith. And faith comes when there is no hope. For hope that is seen is not hope. Therefore, faith that is real is amidst hopelessness. But hope does not disappoint in hopeless times. Neither does faith fail when it is up against the impossible.

A few months ago, I was in deep confabulation with a friend. He mused God would never bring us thus far, simply to let us fail. But his words were not directed at God’s unfailing love or commitment, rather the belief that that which we had built would never fall apart. As he claimed these words, I was reminded of story after story in the Bible (Abraham’s desert, David’s cave, Elijah’s mountain, Jonah’s plant, Stephen’s stoning, Paul’s imprisonment, Jesus’ cross) that involved great distress and breaking down of what “we built” even amidst great faith. Likewise, I pondered acts of sin that led to destruction (David’s rooftop, Lot’s wife, Abraham’s lie, Peter’s betrayal, Moses’ murder, Eve’s appetite).

Whether by our sin or by the movement of God, He will do whatsoever He pleases. And that pleasure may be the proponent of our suffering. For it is not by my will that I live, but by His.

So how much suffering can you endure? And with said suffering, how much faith will you adhere?

For dawn comes after the darkness. The light shines hardest in the nightmare. And the greatest growth comes from the greatest suffering. What of you to abandon lust, pleasure, convenience, and comfort?

Let me switch focus in fear that you claim me as a liar.

Samuel Chand (who I admit I stole all of this next thought from) taught that Growth Equals Pain. It’s obvious to prove this point in the illustration of exercise. Of course, straining muscles to their limit will cause their growth. It’s less obvious, but just as true, in an example of your small business plan. Say, perhaps, you start a new business. And at its onset, you are willing to hire anyone to get the job done as you get your feet on the ground. Even your Uncle Jerry, though he isn’t the most effective or sharpest knife in the drawer. Over time, you realize that letting Uncle Jerry go for a more prominent accountant is what’s best for the growth of the company. But that requires pain. Because Growth equates to Change. And Change will require Loss. And Loss will produce Pain. Therefore, Growth always equals Pain. Great leaders and followers of Christ know Pain is worth it, because they see the Growth on the far side.

But what if God wanted to take you to a place that you had never seen before? What if He wanted to affect as many people as He could in the process? What if he wanted to let the whole world burn so that He could save his children? How many times have you begged Him for that, and if He came through to answer your prayer for Change, how much would you be willing to Lose and how much Pain would you be willing to endure?

When my son was in the hospital, comatose and sedated, all I wanted was for the event to be over. “C’mon, Father, end this,” I begged. “I know You have healed him. By Your stripes, he was healed. Now get him out of that bed.” But no matter how much faith I had or Word I spoke, Harvey’s condition would not change. And in the process, I learned God’s timing vastly outweighed my own. His promises were Yes. And my Amen attached to it. But the Time was irrelevant. In it, God created testimony, miracles. He changed the staff, doctors, nurses, therapists, and other patients. He changed our church. He changed the faith of those after us. He changed me. Not with a miracle. Not with a promise. But with Time. With endurance. With long-suffering.

So shall He mature you. If you will let Him. You will always have a cop-out alternative. You will always have a way to give up. Abraham didn’t have to move. David didn’t have to hide in a cave. Elijah didn’t have to stand up against the Baal-worshippers. Paul didn’t have to tell the truth. And Jesus didn’t have to remain silent before Pilate.

And with those “not have to’s”, God did not have to make Abraham a father of many nations, give David the Kingdom of Israel, destroy the worshippers of Baal before Elijah, spread the Gospel through Paul’s letters, and save the world with the Cross.

I’m reminded of a time I nearly gave my truck away to a friend in need. He was in a bind and needed a car more than ever. But he was holding out for God to bless him. He kept talking about how he was praying and waiting for a miracle. Meanwhile, God told me to give him my truck. I spent nearly two weeks getting it in working condition, changing filters, spark-plugs, detailing the thing. And the day I went to meet him with a key in my hand, he came to me excited about the vehicle he had purchased that afternoon. I wondered if I had ever swept the feet out from under God the same way that young man did to me that day. How many times have I “fixed the problem” just before God miraculously provided?

What is faith? And is it alright to give in to earthly wisdom and do the “wise thing”? There is therefore no condemnation with Christ Jesus. And I know He does not lord over me angered and embittered thinking, “that’s the last time I try to help you, son.” He will give countless opportunities for us to show our faith and growth. And yet, eventually, we will die. Eventually we will lie in our bed wondering, if we had only dared to believe harder and push ourselves further, if God would have used us like He used Abraham, Moses, David, Peter, Paul, and Jesus. If only we didn’t back down from suffering, but pushed through the fear—the great damned wall of it—and got to the other side.

Oh, how I will speak about Fear soon enough! Until then, know this: Your growth will only come with great suffering. The greatness you want to hold will be on the other side of pain. And this year—2022!— is a year of Hard, as He told me last December. A year of Hard and a year of Truth.

Let us put aside these foolish things like lust, pleasure, and convenience, and ask ourselves what we are willing to burn to the ground in order to see God’s will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.

Adventure waits for me to die again
The time of death and the death of time
Adventure stands
without reason or rhyme
I must commit
to remain uncommitted
My soul must long
to never long again
My dreams too great
yet never great enough
Adventure waits
Adventure waits

Yours, Keith
Drink the Rain

What am I supposed to write
if everything in my soul feels right?
I suppose I could worry about my next
or next
or next
or next next
But what good has that worry ever done me?

I’m bathing in a fall from glory
a fragrant pause before or after the storm
Caught adrift
floating in the sea
Wondering if
and without terror

Follow peace he said,
the other me
And now I’m floating in it
in my dreams
If I’m not too careful.
But what care did care ever give me?

I suppose I could ruminate
about the joys of family,
pleasures of sex,
freedom in hope,
shackles of politics
But I wouldn’t know where to start

No, the truth is, I have much to say
but don’t want to say
I’d rather throw my head back
and drink the rain

Maybe I lose my breath or two
and disappear until tomorrow adieu
Sticky Situations

Sticky Situations
Chapter 6

The next day, the children felt awful at school. Staying up all night usually does that to a person. But not telling your parents or teachers the reason for your sluggish and sickly behavior makes everything even worse. No one understands or takes it easy on you. And every subject seemed inferior to the impending duty of finding and photographing mythical creatures around town. The Dolor children drudged through school in misery. But by the time they exited the bus with Aaron, a second wind of excitement hit them.

“I say we need a new plan,” Aaron said. “We split up and take photos of each.”

“Well, actually, I suggested that yesterday,” Esther informed.

“I don’t care,” Aaron said flatly. “Did you girls figure out what unicorns like?”

“Well, yes, but—” Marian began.

“Great,” Aaron replied. “The girls will go after the unicorn, and the men’ll go after the ape again. And I know where to get it.”

Marian and Esther didn’t like being bossed around, but they were too tired to argue. Herbert’s face turned pale. The thought of traveling alone with Aaron terrified him.

“Don’t worry, Herbie,” Aaron assured him with a smile and smack on the back. “I’ll look after ya.”

Reluctantly, Herbert followed Aaron on his bicycle around the neighborhood, the two boys veering and gliding while Aaron told Herbert about each house. “That place gives good candy on Halloween,” he said. And “there’s a mean dog in that yard”, and “that guy took a little kid once. Stay away from there.”

The boys came to the bottom of a large hill that neighborhood children used for racing. Herbert described it later as a mountainside. At the top, forgotten tractors rusted alongside gigantic mounds of dirt and rock at an abandoned construction site. The city deserted the project months ago, and the contractor left the equipment until the funding returned. Aaron scaled the hill without a problem, but it exhausted Herbert. He stopped his bike, defeated, a third of the way up to push it the rest.

“Some kids can’t make the climb!” Aaron hollered. “But you better get moving, or Barb’ll get ya!”

Herbert squinted his eyes at Aaron, about to ask who Barb was, when he heard a terrible honking and screeching noise. He turned from Aaron to see a large white mass of feathers and orange beak charging at him from the yard closest to him. It was a big angry goose, and it apparently did not appreciate Herbert near its house.

He screamed as it flung itself at him, the violent beak just missing his face. His little legs moved like lightning while the bird turned on its orange stick legs and ran at him again.

Honk! Honk!

The goose nipped at his shoes and pants.

“Run, Herbie, Run!” Aaron screamed from the top of the hill.

Sweat swept down Herbert’s face, slipping his glasses with them. He shoved them up his nose with his forearm, and the bike handle jerked sideways in his loose grip. The bicycle fell down, tangling up Herbert’s legs, dropping him to his knees and scraping the skin off.

Honk!

Herbert cowered under the bike frame. He peered through the cracks of his fingers and saw the giant white bird veering down on him. Its wings widespread. Its horrible red eyes glaring.Herbert shrieked. The bird wrenched its neck away and honked at something behind him. Herbert felt the sun disappear. The shadow of someone stood over him. The bird hissed. Herbert screamed again.

Aaron jumped over Herbert’s bicycle and slammed his foot into the bird’s abdomen. The goose flailed into the air, sideways, honking and screeching until hitting the ground several feet away. It picked itself up and ran back into its keeper’s yard, spluttering and cursing at the boys in defeat.

Herbert’s heart pounded. He looked up to see Aaron picking up his bicycle.

“Stupid bird,” Aaron said under his breath. He kicked the stand down on Herbert’s bike and set it upright.

“Thank you,” Herbert said.

“C’mon,” Aaron replied.

The two boys made the rest of the climb together. At the top, Herbert saw that the hill banked left and dropped into a large reservoir, a quarter of a mile wide. Miniature mountains of granite and coal scattered for hundreds of yards in each direction. In the distance was a green reservoir, full of flotsam and jetsam floating on oily water next to a rusty old school bus.

“What is this place?”

“Where we’re gonna prove that skunk apes exist,” Aaron replied. He dropped his bike on the ground after taking his backpack off the front of the handlebars. He strapped it to his shoulders and dropped down the side of a steep dirt hill.

Herbert laid his bike down and sat on the edge. The height frightened him, but knew he must keep up with Aaron, who was already racing off without him. His feet felt the side of the loose dirt and he scooted his butt down the soil.

By the time he landed on the bottom, Aaron was climbing another large embankment with a crane at the top. Herbert floundered across the loose dirt and rocky terrain until he reached the base of the colossal peak. He hated the idea of climbing such a steep hill of loose dirt, but knew Aaron was waiting for him at the top. He wandered the eastern edge, hoping to find a less frightening way up. The far end sloped downward, meeting the earth like a ramp. Unfortunately, an abandoned tar pit separated his way from it. He searched for a path through the pit, huffing and puffing across whatever dry boulders he could find. But the tar pit grew wider and the boulders smaller. And soon, he understood why Aaron had climbed the hill on the steep side.

“Herbie!” Aaron’s voice echoed through the construction site. He had forgotten about his friend and was now worried when he couldn’t find him.

“I’m here!” Herbert replied from below.

“What are you doing down there?” Aaron asked.

Herbert looked up the side of the embankment and saw a goofy Aaron smirking at him. Herbert put enough distance between himself and the tar pit to attempt climbing the embankment. It was loose dirt on the surface, but steadier rock lay underneath, making the climb less arduous than he expected.

After a few grueling minutes, he reached the top to see Aaron sitting in the crane operator’s seat. He shot up as Herbert came over the edge.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he said. He threw his backpack onto the ground and took out a large black hood and a gorilla mask from last Halloween.

Herbert looked at him, confused.

“I’m gonna put this on and take a stroll across that pond.” Aaron pointed at a large clear reservoir in front of the crane’s hill. A path of stones and plywood made a bridge across it. “And you are gonna stay up here and take photos with this camera.” He handed Herbert a disposable camera.

“We are gonna cheat?” Herbert asked.

“Shut up, Herbie.” He shoved the camera into Herbert’s hands and slid down the cliff with the mask and hood. Herbert sat down in the dirt while watching Aaron race across the pathway over the pond. He put the hood and mask on and waved his hands over his head, indicating to Herbert that he was ready. Herbert put the camera to his eye and watched through the tiny viewfinder. Aaron walked across the boards, draping his arms low and wide, and giving his best Bigfoot impression.

Click.

Herbert wound the film and put the camera to his eye again. Better to take two photos.

“Herbert Dolor,” a slithering voice whispered in Herbert’s ear. He dropped the camera, and it hit the ground beside a pair of crocodile-and-snakeskin shoes.

Click.

Herbert spun round to see Mr. Dauer.

“Where did you come from?” Herbert asked.

“You know, Herbert,” Mr. Dauer said. “I never thought I’d see you stoop so low as to cheating and lying.”

Herbert looked at the camera on the ground.

“Then again,” Mr. Dauer said, “it’s not the first time you withheld the truth to get out of doing something the hard way. Seems you are making some bad habits, Herbert.”

“I think you should leave,” Herbert whispered.

“That’s cute—trying to sound like your big sister.” Mr. Dauer laughed, and his neck twitched. “I bet it’s not a habit at all, is it, Herbert? I bet it’s just the kind of boy that you are. A boy that makes friends with bad kids like Aaron and lies to get away with things.”

“Who the—heck—are you!?” Aaron hollered. His head was popped up over the edge of the embankment and his hands clambering to pull his body the rest of the way. He was out of breath from running to the hill as soon as he saw Herbert was not alone.

“Aaron White,” Mr. Dauer greeted him with a smile that disappeared into a scowl as the filthy boy stood to his feet. “What a pitiful sight you are.”

“Beat it, grandpa,” Aaron fired back. “Who invited your cripply old bag o’ bones up here with us?”

“Herbert, of course,” Mr. Dauer said. “We were only discussing his recent descent into sin and loathsome behavior.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I descend onto you with my fist and foot, you ugly butt-munch. Get away from Herbie and get away from us.”

“Oh, you’re such a creative young boy, Aaron.” Mr. Dauer brushed his hands together and a white cloud of dust sprung up into the air. “Did you learn that vocabulary from your pitiful upbringing of a father? Or do you not even remember him before his imprisonment?” He took a step toward the boys. Herbert took a step back, extremely aware that the three of them were completely alone.

“Oh! I know—” Mr. Dauer continued. “It’s because of that teacher who always gives you F’s instead of listening.”

“Jokes on you, jagweed—I don’t even care about my grades!”

“Clearly.” Mr. Dauer straightened his back and looked disinterested. He took another step toward the boys. Aaron remained motionless, but Herbert stepped back.

“Herbert, if I can give any advice,” he opened his hands like a mentor. “Better be careful, walking so close to the edge. You never know when you might fall.”

Aaron looked at Herbert just as the soil came from underneath him. Herbert felt his stomach leap into his chest as he slid down the side of the hill. His head smacked into the rock face under the loose soil, and his body tumbled the rest of the way. Aaron slid after him. He watched Herbert’s body disappear behind a plume of dust and sand.

Herbert had landed in the tar pit. The black asphalt crept up his legs and chest. He screamed for help and flailed his arms and legs under the thick, viscous sludge.

“Herbert!” Aaron yelled as he came through the cloud of dust. “Don’t move, Herbert! I’ll get something to help!” Herbert was only a few feet away, but out of Aaron’s reach.

He found a two-by-four sticking out of the dirt and dust at the bottom of the hill. Yanking it free, he lunged one end at Herbert, who was bawling, face up in the pit with eyes closed.

“Herbert, grab the pole!” Aaron instructed.

Herbert opened his eyes and took hold of the splintered wood beam. Aaron pulled with all his might, and Herbert slid through the muck toward him. Before he moved a foot, the wood slipped through Herbert’s palms and slit them open. He sunk back to his initial spot in the tar.

“Oh, God!” Aaron screamed. “For Pete’s sake!”

He threw the two-by-four out again, and Herbert took hold anxiously. With two great heaves, Aaron pulled Herbert to the edge of a boulder. The boys locked arms and Aaron pulled him out. They rolled on their backs, Aaron laughing hysterically and Herbert weeping. Aaron felt bad and wrapped his arms around the small, sticky boy.

“I’m sorry, Herbert,” Aaron said. He looked up and Mr. Dauer was gone. “Figures,” he muttered. He looked beside him and saw the camera. It had fallen down after them.
Chapter Thirteen

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 13

The sky was overcast; the bahia turned green to blue. He walked a well-worn path of pebbles up a piedmont. The valley stretched for miles with nothing but grass in every direction. The wind swept along the surface, bending the tips in glorious waves while their seeds caught the edge of the swell and took to the sky. In the center of it all, at the crest of a large hill, stood the stone manor.

It took him an hour to reach it. His feet ached on the path; they were not used to hard and loose surfaces. With every step, he doubted Arvor’s survival and thought of the folly of his venture. The alluring Manor’s romance drove him forward.

When he came to the top of the hill, an arcade wall ran along the path. Hiding beneath the arches, he stole from pillar to pillar. He hadn’t yet thought of how to sneak up to the place.

He was close enough to see the manor well now. The masonry chipped and crumbled; the stones stained black and silver from years of burning in the sun. Vast and numerous gardens surrounded the mansion, choking once beautiful sculptures in their overgrown weeds and vines. A calm breeze swept through the arches and whispered in his ear.

At the top of the Manor was a belvedere, between ornate chimneys and arches. Fox watched a man ambling between the crenellations.

He pressed himself under the arcade’s shadow. He waited a moment before stepping back into the sunlight. What he was always certain of happened. He felt the blade of a knife press against his back. The calm hushed voice of a sack-cloth clad man spoke behind him. Then the world became black, and he felt like he was floating in the air.

Fox came to. Painful flashes of red and orange, yellow and white burst in front of his eyes. He was in a stupor; his head pounded and his back ached. The colors left and nothing made sense. Darkness enveloped him; he didn’t know if his eyes were even open anymore.

He sensed a cramped room. The cold echo revealed they made it of stone, and the stale air put him underground. His eyes acclimated to the darkness; a thin sheen of blue light crept from some window far away behind many corridors and walls, like a heavy fog crawling over a wetland. The room was only a few feet wide with nothing but himself in it. A dark passageway on the far side led to an unknown corridor.

The stone was under him; he realized his face was against the floor of a dungeon and his wrists secured behind him. Someone removed his shirt and loafers while he lay senseless. A familiar pitter-patter was tapping the rock beneath him. His weight shifted and his fingertips felt the chilly dampness of blood. His back was bleeding; he recalled being whipped and beaten before he lost consciousness.

A whisper came from the shadows, out there beyond the passageway.

Then a deeply set voice responded.

Then a faraway door creaking open and slamming shut.

“Hullo?” Fox called out in English.

A considerable amount of time passed, though Fox was uncertain of any sort of length. A sackcloth-clad man came into the room at one point and placed a wooden chair. He said nothing, refused to look at Fox, and exited.

The sound of the door creaked open and again slammed shut.

Fox heard footsteps in the corridor. Every step echoed with confidence. The stone walls shuddered with demonic power.

Fox was breathless. His mind reeled with anticipation and nightmarish pictures. What was he to see on the other side of the sound?

The sound itself was more terrible than the instrument. It was a thing that echoed on and on, without clarity or physical attribute. A thing that creates imaginations in the mind; ones of terror and monster. The brush of a wall can be the breath of a devil; the snap of a twig can be the footstep of a beast. It was almost worse to wait on the outside breath of defeat than to face it with clarity and suffering. It was better to see what monster is under the bed than to lay all night wondering when it will come out to eat you.

It was deafening, a torment that collapsed into his soul. He closed his eyes and gave his heart away to defeat and tragedy. Nothing was in him now but to discover the face of the demon behind the name, the one that no man dared to mention on the damned island.

The steps grew louder and louder still—until he knew they were just behind the passageway. They shuffled back and forth in the dust, and he heard the deep-set voice again. Finally, in came his accuser.

Fox was frightened, albeit disappointed, when greeted by an elderly man. His face was crooked and his eyes lazy, the look of a smug and disingenuous adolescent. A silvery robe crowned his shoulders and fell to the stone floor. He looked at Fox with disdain and pursed his lips.

Fox lay motionless and quiet.

“Do you know who I am?” The man spoke first.

“You are Watano.”

The man smiled, curtly. He sat in the seat across the room.

“Voice of the Sky-god.” Fox pushed himself up from the floor. “I am Vulpunei—”

“No. That is the name the people gave you. You aren’t worthy of that name. No—I shall call you Criança instead.”

“What is this place?”

“Uada, Criança.” Watano smiled. “Home of the gods.”

“Where did it come from?”

“It was made long ago by those who perished. They lived in deceit like the fox, and because of it, Jikanei came and took them. They are unworthy.”

Watano’s attention wandered around the room, and for a moment the two men sat in silence.

“The Liberi don’t work in stone and mortar,” Fox mused.

“Many ships came. And with them, men like you. At first they came with gestures of kindness. But the future revealed their hearts.”

The pocket-knife!

“It is now a place of worship. A place for the gods to lie down. A place for the Voice to rest his throat. It is now worthy. Only seen by those worthy and unworthy—those like me, and those like you.”

“Where is Arvor?” Fox said, unimpressed.

“Who?”

“The man that you brought here two weeks ago. My friend.”

“You have something confused. I don’t bring and brought. I only say and see.”

He could feel it in his pocket just at the tips of his fingers.

“Did Arvor become unworthy?” Fox was indignant, dripping in hatred.

“I find it exuberantly remarkable—if not flamboyantly amusing—that an Englassman could ever look at me with such disdain. The product and legacy of such a race that raped and destroyed my island. All of it chunnelled into a pitiful specimen sitting before me. And it has the gall to look at me in this manner. You—Criança—are the very definition of unworthy.” Watano stood and looked down on Fox. “Who is unworthy is he that Watanei no longer looks upon.”

“And you decide who Watanei sees?”

“I am the Voice of Watanei.”

He sat back down.

“How long have you been here?” Fox asked.

“Long enough to know what is at the end. Through me, the people know what tomorrow brings and despise it. Through me, we can laugh today.”

He was sawing the thick rope along his wrist.

“So you aren’t one of them?”

“How can a god be a man?”

“They are afraid of this place,” Fox retorted. “They live afraid to speak and think. They—”

“—They are trees without leaves,” Watano interrupted. “An ocean without waves.” He stood and walked about in circles like a stage actor. “Aquilei the Eagle was the symbol of hope and love.” The Voice stared up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, nobly. He drooped his head and shook it. “But those symbols grew to be too burdensome when things needed doing. So I broke the wings off the idea—and made it unworthy. The eagle is a predator. It is a reminder that all are lower.”

A rope was untethered.

“I know your thoughts, you know.” Watano smiled. “I can see it on your skin. You think what I do is hurting them. But it’s what they deserve. It’s what they need.” Something agitated Watano; he squirmed in his chair. “Aren’t you going to ask why you are here?”

Fox remained silent.

“You don’t even care about what you came for.”

He threw the Traveler’s watch at him.

“Don’t you care about what you desire!” He screamed.

He calmed himself and sat down elegantly. “I like to have conversation with those that are unworthy. There’s nothing satisfying about having cattle that don’t cry. You want to see that they care about their loss. The doe lays down when she is hit with an arrow, because she has nothing left to do but rest and sleep. But they—they should be better than that!

“It’s in the eyes,” he stood, with a vision in his heart, “you see that they lost a thing of hope—the deer, of course, they no longer care to survive. They sleep in their death having not a hope. But these ones—the Liberi—they have to be taught all over again it were ever possible to have hope. You have to bring them out of being the doe and into a god again.

“If not I—than who—who can ascend into the clouds and bring it to them, that they may hear it and do it? Who will go over the sea for them and bring it to them, that they may hear it and do it? But the Voice is very near you now, before your mouth and in your eyes, that you may do it.

“I bring them the truth of their unworthiness. They once were gods, but now are not. And when they see that—when they look upon me—who ascends and crosses over—that is when I see the satisfaction of their unworthiness.”

The second rope was free. His hands could move. The little pocket knife would never do in a fight, but it could pry a stone free.

“If you liken them to gods,” Fox asked, “why do you prevent them from thinking?”

“No, see—they already are gods. They just forgot when the Englassmen came to teach them otherwise. And in that, they became animals again.”

“So tell them. Let them think. Let them choose.”

“Faith is necessary. If questions are asked, the thinker becomes unworthy.”

“So you hold them afraid and ignorant all the while punishing them for not maturing?”

Watano clenched his jaw. “An animal cannot find its way to being a god. He must be brought there. And when he is there, he is free to ponder. One cannot stand on the shore and be swimming in the ocean at the same time.”

“What about the little ones you take—Why take them?”

“Economics. The wet season is inevitable. The storms will grow stronger, more frequent. And when that happens, our crops will drown. We will be in famine.” He stared at the ceiling. “The little ones serve no purpose. When the harvest runs out, we will need to feed on something. Why not on the ones that are only taking and never giving? The Voice decides who is to be sufficient.”

The room felt smaller, darker, and hopeless.

Fox felt the rain outside from the sweetness in the air.

“Surely, you aren’t implying you eat the children to survive?”

“The future is against us, Criança. And I am the one to see us defeat it—”

“Your children are your future?! How will you survive if you are destroying it?”

Watano was reverent.

The blade was digging deep around the edges of a stone, pulling the dirt and mortar.

“The crops are healthy now,” Fox said, hurriedly. “Why take the little girls?”

“Fruits and vegetables are not the only crops that matter. They feed the stomach. What will feed my carnal desire if not those who serve no other purpose? I feast on whomever I wish.”

“How in all of God’s creation did you convince your people—”

“—Convince?! I am a living god. Mine is not to convince or teach! I speak and see, they live and obey.” He relaxed his shoulders and leaned back.

“I see—” Watano smiled liked a curt teacher. “you are asking me of the politics of the matter. Are you taking lessons in your own deity? Well,” he sighed, “as long as we forbid writing—and punish the cattle for speaking of the gods—it’s simple. After all, an animal must be kept an animal until the day they become a god like us. When that happens, they will think and write—until that day—lead however you like.”

The blade broke. Fox’s heart sank; he thought Watano might hear. He scratched and dug his nails into the mortar. A stone budged to the left.

“So you took Arvor because he told me about you.” Fox mused.

“The ideas of rebellion are rooted in the unworthy. His purpose was rebellion. Don’t make me speak of him again.”

Fox was silent.

Watano leaned forward in his seat. “We must all die for the past. The future is against us. In our death, we honor our ancestors and in our fear we respect our outcome.”

“You think fearing the future—never changing, never evolving—is good?”

The stone was a loose tooth at the edge of freedom. Blood was sliding down his fingers from what was left of his mangled nails.

“The future is unworthy. It’s diseased. It is death. On the other side of the Marshlands, where only Jikanei lives. I have seen that death. I look upon it every morning.”

“Who is he?”

“Jikanei? He is the god of death. The one at the end.”

“Why doesn’t he live here then?”

Watano chuckled. “You almost made me think you were intelligent.”

“I’m starting to think you actually believe the lies you vomit on your people.”

“I am the Voice. I can only speak the truth. Whatever I say and do is god.”

“But you break your own laws.” The stone budged to the right. “You eat the animals. You speak idly of the gods. You abuse the children. You murder men and women. You—”

“My hand cannot be bent. Therefore, whatever I do is done by Watanei.”

He stood and walked forward.

Fox straightened and looked up at him.

Watano pulled a long blade from under his gown and struck Fox in the side. “And now this is done,” he whispered in his ear.

Fox’s hip poured out as Watano pulled the knife. He screamed in agony, bending over double.

Watano cleaned his blade, pulled his gown forward and sheathed it. “I thought you would be more interesting to converse. But you are just like the cattle. You aren’t anything but a child.”

He turned to leave but stopped at the entryway. “The men would have killed you for being at the feet of the monolith Cultus,” he said. “When they found you on the other side of the marshes, they feared you were Jikanei. When they found you dining at the feet of Cultus, it made them angry. But had it not been for their fear of the fox—” he trailed off. “I see now that their error almost convinced me otherwise of what I always knew to be. You’re not a god, you’re just like the rest.”

“And how do you know I’m not the Fox-god?” He replied weakly.

“Don’t amuse me now, you’re already beyond the Marshlands.”

Fox gasped for breath. “I wasn’t meant to die here—” Watano left the room. “I wasn’t even meant to live here.” He fell onto his back and cried out, holding his side.

The man with the deep-set voice came into the dungeon, clad in sackcloth. Fox turned on his stomach. In the darkness he ran his bloody hands along the ground searching for the loose brick. The man was at him and kicked him in the side. Fox screamed. His hands were shaking while they searched. They felt the loose tooth.

He gripped and pulled with every ounce left in him. It ripped from its stone gum. He leapt to his feet and came at the man with all his might.

The rock crashed against the skull and cracked in two. The man fell into the black and all was silent. Fox was gasping for breath, his head was dizzy, his eyes were red. He fell to one knee. A whisper of the steady gush of blood came from somewhere in the darkness.

He caught his breath and rose to his feet. He raced out of the passageway and ran into another jailor. He pushed him against the wall and the man fell easily at his feet. He didn’t slow down to look, but raced down the corridor for the door at the end. With every pace the darkness dissipated and more of the thin hallway came into view.

He threw his body into the door and it flung open. Another long corridor lay ahead, lit by lanterns along the ceiling. A number of doors led to unseen rooms. Banners, busts, and stone statues of long ago royalty covered in moss and vegetation lined the halls. He kept forward and could feel the air growing sweeter and lighter. The floor was damp and he felt the sense he was running upwards at an angle.

He turned another corner and continued toward the sound of rain outside. At the end of this hall, he met a flight of stairs leading to a wooden bulwark. He threw his body into it and almost fell back down the stairs from the impact. Again, he charged the bulwark until it gave. He could hear the rain pounding against the outside of the door. He backed down the steps and again he charged into the wall until it tore from its hinges.

The rain thundered and crashed through the broken wood. He grabbed hold and squeezed his body through the broken pieces. In seconds, he was on the soggy ground, gasping for air, the rain falling on him. He was free.
On Forgiveness: The Thing from the Stars

Doing the Right Thing at the Wrong Time. Or doing the Wrong Thing at the Right Time.

Oh, what a cosmic joke it is to hope and believe for all to align and stand amidst the Right Thing in the Right Time! God looked at us—an animal needing to eat, sleep, defecate, and procreate—and said, “Good, now become a god”.

He sent His Son to show us this horrible feat and left it up to us, listening to His Spirit, reading his Word, and arguing with one another, to find out what it could mean. To live, not only for Him, but like Him.

I have wrestled and wandered, and in the driven pursuit of health and freedom, I have frantically begged God to heal me, that I may move on quickly, with nothing in me, but Joy and Peace, and from those things: Purpose. Alas, it is not God holding me back from eternal health in my soul. It is myself. It is the thing that I would hold on to instead of releasing.

Forgiveness is foreign—meaning quite literally, that it is from God’s country and not our own.

Nothing in the animal kingdom forgives; betrayal is met with violence and abandonment. Only until after the wolf has been beaten into submission will it be allowed to fall in with the pack; only until the challenging bull elephant has left the parade will the rest of the family rest. And frankly, the submission of the wolf has little to do with honor, and more with waiting for the next opportunity. Forgiveness is not in us. It’s from the stars.

Haven’t we learned by now that we are trying to accomplish the impossible? Acquitting someone of all judgment for the felony they have created in our lives is damnable; every sin is worthy of death, no matter how great or small.

Our individual lives are strung together by offense after unfair wrongdoing, and yet we somehow learn to cope and coexist in this process of “that’s just how life is”.

And a misguided ideal, handed down by better men and women before us, has led us to some strange country of believing forgiveness is necessary for some, and unattainable in others. That it is required of little children—“forgive your brother”, “say sorry”, “hug it out”—and with others, it’s best to hold that bitterness and never forget, never forgive, never trust again.

Unfortunately, most of us are not treated to the revelation that this act—Forgiveness—is something no one was ever naturally supposed to do, much less able to do. Forgiveness is God’s identity, therefore it lies in the spiritual realm, outside of our day-to-day, brushing-our-teeth routine, on the other side of Time and Space, where Joy and Beauty have faces.

And so, with this deep-rooted ideal that we are “supposed” to forgive, coupled with the lack of understanding that we can’t do this without God’s presence, we try our best in life to “forgive and forget”, until the moment comes that we are truly betrayed, hurt or abused. And in that moment, we throw up our hands, committing ourselves to extreme bitterness and un-forgiveness—it’s not that we can’t forgive them, now it is that we wish we never met, or worse, that they didn’t exist, or that we ourselves had never been born.

Our childlike belief that forgiveness is something “we just do” catalyzes our bitterness and frustration when we realize we can’t do it. And we ignore our bitterness and hatred, trying not to look at it, until something or someone reminds of us it—pokes the wound with one simple word But to us, it feels like a screwdriver driven up our kidneys and twisted out the intestine.

Do they deserve forgiveness? Of course not! No one deserves forgiveness. What they deserve is death. Just like you and me.

Should we forgive? Of course! If for no other reason, then Christ forgave us.

When we understand that God’s perfect will for our lives involves us learning to forgive, even at its hardest, most unruly, damnable moments, we see that we, in fact, aren’t stuckin our lives because we can’t forgive; we are stuck because we won’t forgive.

Now, for the sake of the argument (and saying that which every good(?) teacher says, to cover every one of his or her political bases), it’s important to understand that most of us misconstrue the idea of what forgiveness is. We hear phrases like “forgive and forget”, and immediately think, “there is no way I could forgive that person, because I will never forget what they did to me.” But forgiveness is not bridging a relationship after blindly forgetting your hurt, and thus, making you susceptible to more torment or abuse—it is simply the act of letting go of someone’s throat. (That being said, many times, you and I are nothing more than bitter ants arguing over vomit in the lineup and who gets to swallow it first. Our “abuse” is small. Show me 100 men who have been abused, and I’ll show you 1 that has surrounded by 99 insecure-sycophants.)

It’s also important to note, and this I do fully believe in, that while the initial forgiveness of someone may be a simple statement and belief, the walking out of sin (and yes, refusing to forgive is sin) and into faith (just like any other) may take time, even years to accomplish fully. But if we continue to release our grip from around the neck, reminding ourselves, openly speaking, and thus hearing our forgiveness, we will see our bitterness disappear and our offense dissolve. The hurt may never go away, but we will be free of its bondage.

We cannot write people off in our lives, even due to betrayal. Jesus is our example here, in that those closest to him betrayed again him and again, and yet he embodied forgiveness, allowed them back into His life, and gave them great purpose. On the night of His death, Jesus was betrayed once by Judas and thrice by Peter. Judas was led by a demonic possession and greed that twisted his mind out of control and reason. Peter was led by a fear that caused him to doubt his faith and love in Jesus.

Oftentimes, we assume people’s wrongdoing toward us is because of some inveterate evil inside of them. Frankly, the chief proponent of someone’s selfish or sinful act is fear, rather than innate evil.

(Insecurity. What a god-forsaken thing! Fermenting in our dead souls from the fertilization of Pride and Arrogance.)

When people lie, it’s because they are afraid the truth will bring them punishment or lose them someone’s trust; when they steal, they are afraid they will never have enough; when they cheat, they are afraid they aren’t capable or talented enough to make it the honest way; when they are unfaithful to a spouse, it’s because they are afraid that spouse won’t love or satisfy them the way they need; when they intoxicate themselves, it’s from a fear they won’t find joy or satisfaction any other way; when they are proud, it’s because they fear they won’t matter without their own boasting. Sin is the product of fear. Fear comes from not knowing who God is and who we are in His sight.

Upon realizing that a person’s treachery has little in common with a sadistic and malevolent spirit, and more in common with an abandoned child, we find it easier to forgive. Stop holding someone’s offense toward you as a judge would and start viewing it as a cry for help.

Now, again, I’m not advocating we openly allow ourselves to be walked over, used and abused by any individual that so tries. What did Jesus do with Peter after his betrayal? He had breakfast with him. He restored his soul. He asked him again and again where his allegiance lied, and if he loved Him. And it wasn’t until many months after Peter’s conviction and repentance that Jesus began using him to do great and powerful things for the Church again.

So should we follow the example: Release the neck. Restore the relationship. Empower the individual. If they are unwelcoming to restore the relationship, then it waits in limbo until the day of growth and maturation. And when maturation comes, Security and Faith come with it, and with those things, Power.

Your season doesn’t determine your story! Regardless of where you find yourself today in your ability, sin, or un-forgiveness toward others, everything can change in an instant by you choosing to live free. Nothing holds you back from becoming that, except yourself.

We all are to blame; all of us have dirt on our faces and blood on our hands.

We all took part in nailing Jesus to the cross with our sins. And it’s not the accumulation of mankind’s sin that put Him on the cross; it was one sin, just as much as it was all of our sins.

Quite remarkably, God the Father looks at us differently. He looks past the imperfections and sees someone He can use to do great and mighty things with and change history. He looks at us like He looked at Peter, and sees a worthy and powerful apostle, while all the rest of his comrades only saw a fisherman with his foot in his mouth.

And so He forgives us, choosing to forget our offense, while using our past (both good and bad), to propel us toward His perfect plan for our lives.
Vinnie the Rat

Vinnie the Rat
Chapter 5

The kids rode in mob formation down a beaten-up road. Herbert, Esther and Marian felt out of their element, unaware this part of their neighborhood even existed. But enough kids knew about it. Children, younger and older, rode bicycles up and down the street, racing one another, cruising with no hands, and popping wheelies. Broken pieces of rock, dirt, and gravel scattered across the worn out road, crunching under their wheels. An older kid sailed off the back of a piece of plywood propped up on a pair of paint cans before his back wheel came from underneath and threw him into the asphalt. His body rolled along the rocky ground and slid into the drain gutter. Marian’s mouth dropped. Esther cringed. Herbert closed his eyes.

“Nice landing, jerk!” Aaron yelled as they passed by.

A couple of kids laughed as they helped the boy up. He winced in pain when he saw his bloody elbow. The Dolor children refused to dally and stayed with Aaron.

“Why do they call him Vinnie the Rat?” Marian asked.

“Is he an actual rat?” Herbert asked.

“Is his dad an exterminator?” Esther asked.

Aaron shook his head. “I don’t know what his parents do. They don’t live here. This is his grandma’s house. He’s here every day, running his store on her front porch.” The kids stopped their bicycles at the end of a cul-de-sac and approached a cute, white cottage. “A while back, Vinnie started selling his toys off, and no one knows why. Then he started buying and trading. Next thing—he’s got a ton of items everybody wants. He sells most for cheap—unless he knows you really want it.”

Aaron opened a screened porch door and held it behind him a second longer than normal for the Dolors to enter. “Vinnie!” He cheerfully hollered.

A frail boy wearing round-wired silver glasses and a bowtie sat in a rocking chair with a concise dictionary on his lap. His hair was greased and parted down the middle like mothers make their boys for picture day. He looked up from the dictionary and his eyes narrowed when he saw Aaron. Marian recognized him at once from her class. He sat near the front and didn’t talk much.

“Open for business,” he recited. Esther giggled at his nasally voice. She wondered if it was the cause behind his nickname.

“We’re looking for a book, Vinnie,” Aaron began.

“A logbook!” Esther interjected. “The logbook of Ponce de León!”

Aaron made a funny face at her like he didn’t expect her to speak.

“A logbook?” Vinnie responded, staring at the metal porch roof.

“We think—well, it should tell us about his journey through Florida,” Marian added.

Vinnie the Rat jumped from his seat. He was about the size of Esther, but walked around like he was a grown-up. “I suppose I know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Can it, Rat,” Aaron said. “We know you got it from my Paw-Paw.”

Vinnie smiled.

“I will give it back,” Vinnie said. “But—it’s going to cost you.”

“What do you want, Rat?” Aaron asked flatly.

“How much you got?”

The kids each thought of what they considered valuable. Marian’s fish Sparkles. Esther’s lizard Lemon. Herbert’s Allosaurus claw replica. But none of them could imagine parting with them, and they were sure Vinnie wouldn’t regard them as precious, anyway. Marian assumed Vinnie was quiet and sweet in class. But now thought otherwise. She feared they would never get what they needed, especially in time to help her father.

“Hi, Vinnie,” Marian said. “I’m Marian. We are in the same class.”

Vinnie looked her up and down, well aware of who she was.

“It’s very important that we find this logbook. We are trying to help my parents and our town. I know you don’t really know us—but whatever you can do to help—please, we need your help finding this book.”

Vinnie pushed the glasses up his nose and sniffed.

“C’mon, Vinnie,” Aaron said. “Help us out!”

“All the grown-ups and news keep talking about some strange creatures in our neighborhood,” he said.

The children looked at each other like someone had caught them shop-lifting.

“I bet a lot of people would pay a lot of money to prove something like that,” Vinnie continued. “Enough money someone could retire on. You get me a photo of one of those creatures they keep showing on the news—and I’ll get you your logbook.”

“How in the world do you think we are supposed to do that, Vinnie?” Aaron asked.

“The same way you expect me to hand over a five-hundred-year-old logbook.” Vinnie replied. Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his rocking chair, picked the dictionary up, and continued reading.

The four kids met under the live oak at the Dolor house. The sunset rested on their faces and turned them pink and orange. Marian held her mother’s camera while the others leaned on their bicycles in the grass.

“Mom showed me how to use her camera,” Marian said. She turned the camera over in her hands, examining the buttons and switches. “One of these is the shutter speed.” Marian clicked a button and heard a mechanism slide inside. “There—that should help with the lighting.”

“Are you sure she won’t get mad?” Esther asked.

Marian thought about it for a moment. “No, this is serious business. It’s not like we are playing with it.”

Esther conceded with that logic and nodded.

“I bet the Fountain of Youth is real,” Aaron mused, with his arms draped across his bicycle’s handlebars. “I bet that’s what Ponce meant when he said the forest hides the world’s greatest secret.”

“Marian and I saw a scroll on the gate that looked like a fountain,” Esther replied with a smile.

“Think about finding the Fountain of Youth,” Aaron continued. “We would be famous. And rich. And live forever.”

“Think about our father, who has a vampire for a boss,” Marian snapped. “Who cares about fame right now?”

“I do,” Aaron replied flatly.

“We saw the ape Thursday night when it came out of the woods,” Esther said.

“And it had no problem jumping on the roof,” Herbert added.

“That’s right!” Marian agreed. “My guess is it likes to hang out in the trees.”

“Ape’s don’t do that!” Aaron said. “Every picture out there of it is some blurry dark image walking through a field at a distance.”

“You’re thinking of Bigfoot,” Esther said.

“Same difference. I say we find a big open field and wait for him to walk through it.”

“Why would it do that?” Marian said. “It could be any field, any time, any day.”

“If we don’t know how to attract the skunk ape, should we go after the unicorn?” Esther asked. “Or we can split up and go for both.”

“That’s a good idea, Ess,” Marian said.

“We can worry about the unicorn later,” Aaron said. “We stick together and put all our efforts into the big, nasty ape. Paw-Paw took me to meet some guy who studies skunk apes in Ochopee last summer. I know what’ll attract it.”

“So we set up a trap at the house,” Marian said. “And try to capture a photo tonight.”

The kids’ imaginations raced while they pictured the ape in their yard again.

“Hogs and berries,” Aaron said.

“What?” Herbert asked.

“That’s what we need to feed it. Hogs and berries.”

“What about the unicorn?” Esther asked.

Aaron kicked his stand up. “I know what to get,” he said. “You figure out what to feed unicorns. I’ll head home and meet you back here tonight.” Before they responded, he sped off toward his house.

That night, the girls waited an hour after bedtime before sneaking upstairs to Herbert’s room. They found him snoring in bed. Herbert sleeps deeply, and the girls shoved him onto the ground before he woke up.

Thud!

It didn’t make him angry though, because he remembered why they came. The three Dolor children crept downstairs. They went out the sliding-glass doors at the back of the living-room, because the patio door attached to the kitchen would be too loud and the front door was too conspicuous. Outside, they rounded the back of the house and sat in front of the patio, under the dark cover of the live oak and Esther’s favorite blanket.

“What time did he say he would show up?” Esther asked.

Before Marian answered, the kids heard the rattle of bicycle spokes and an unfamiliar ring. Then, a spring slapping metal, and they imagined Aaron leaning his bike against the front of the house.

“Ow!” Aaron cried. “Stupid animal!” There was a scuffle and the yelp of a small mammal.

The kids’ eyes finished adjusting to the darkness, and Aaron came into the backyard.

“Did you bring a hog?” Herbert asked him excitedly.

“I ain’t catching no hog!” Aaron hollered. His harsh voice frightened the Dolors, afraid their parents might hear.

“But it’s not a big deal,” Aaron continued. “I brought my older sister’s chihuahua.”

They looked down at the leashed brown dog next to Aaron’s feet. He tied it around the base of the oak and emptied a pocketful of blueberries next to it before finding his place next to the Dolor children on the back porch.

It wasn’t long before the children felt sleepy. Hunting for animals, whether to shoot with a gun or camera, can take a very long time. The conditions must be just right, and even then, it seems always to be up to chance. The chihuahua slept under the tree, ants busily ate the blueberries, and the children became apprehensive.

Marian looked at her brother and sister, asleep on top of one another. She turned to Aaron, who seemed to be wide awake and staring at the dog.

“Do you think it will come?” She asked.

“Shh,” Aaron whispered. “I told you hunting is all about being quiet and still.”

Marian pursed her lips and half-rolled her eyes.

“If it doesn’t, we may have to take matters into our own hands,” Aaron whispered. “And if does, we need to be ready to run. Skunk Ape’s don’t like their pictures taken. It could become violent.”

Marian didn’t know what to think of that. Her imagination trailed off, and she thought about the first time she saw an alligator. Mr. Dolor and she had hiked in the Wildlife Management Area Tosohatchee when she was little. They had come upon a small lake, and Marian went too close to the water. Mr. Dolor scooped her up in his arms before a big splash erupted right next to her. She never saw the ten-foot alligator. But Dad did. He always saw those things. He put her on his knee and called the gator back with a special noise, mimicking baby alligators. It scared her, but she knew she was safe with her father watching it.

Nothing made sense at this new house. His new job and trying to “make it big” consumed Dad. Marian always thought they had lots of money. But apparently not enough to satisfy Dad. The two of them hadn’t hiked in a couple years.

She remembered taking the picture again and got excited. It hadn’t crossed her mind yet, but if they captured a good photo, their parents would have to believe them. The children wouldn’t even need Vinnie or the logbook. Their parents could call the right people, get it in the News, and tell the police. Someone older and more experienced could take care of it. Maybe Dad and she would even go for a hike in the forest before sealing it up. She wouldn’t be alone. Things would be like they used to be again. And maybe she would get on the News like that weird guy and old lady talking about snakes and toxic waste. That would be neat.

Marian snapped out of it when she heard a loud snore. Next to her, Aaron leaned against the house, fast asleep. She sighed and dropped her head between her shoulders. She leaned over and pushed him. He jolted awake and became very cranky.

Without more discussion than grunts and groans, the two understood they needed to give up. Aaron stood and stumbled toward the tree. His sister’s chihuahua sat up happily, ready for a walk. Aaron tied the leash around his bicycle handlebar and rode away, wobbling down the dark road, glistening from the dew under the moonlight.

“Esther, Herbert,” Marian whispered, and tapped their shoulders.

The two opened their eyes and stretched their arms into the air.

“Where’s Aaron?” Esther asked.

“Did we get the photo?” Herbert yawned, but he didn’t really care.

“It’s really late,” Marian said. She led her brother and sister inside to their beds before crawling into her own. A thought flashed across her mind that her parents might believe her if she had that photo. She frowned, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

Keith G. Alderman

Chapter Fifteen

Fox Island

Gods and Goddesses Everywhere

Picture Perfect

Chapter Fourteen

Fox Island

How long can you Suffer?

Drink the Rain

What am I supposed to write
if everything in my soul feels right?
I suppose I could worry about my next
or next
or next
or next next
But what good has that worry ever done me?

I’m bathing in a fall from glory
a fragrant pause before or after the storm
Caught adrift
floating in the sea
Wondering if
and without terror

Follow peace he said,
the other me
And now I’m floating in it
in my dreams
If I’m not too careful.
But what care did care ever give me?

I suppose I could ruminate
about the joys of family,
pleasures of sex,
freedom in hope,
shackles of politics
But I wouldn’t know where to start

No, the truth is, I have much to say
but don’t want to say
I’d rather throw my head back
and drink the rain

Maybe I lose my breath or two
and disappear until tomorrow adieu

Sticky Situations

Chapter Thirteen

Fox Island

On Forgiveness: The Thing from the Stars

Vinnie the Rat

Fox Island

Fox Island

What am I supposed to write if everything in my soul feels right?I suppose I could worry about my next or next or next or next nextBut what good has that worry ever done me?

I’m bathing in a fall from glory a fragrant pause before or after the storm Caught adrift floating in the seaWondering if and without terror

Follow peace he said, the other meAnd now I’m floating in it in my dreamsIf I’m not too careful. But what care did care ever give me?

I suppose I could ruminate about the joys of family, pleasures of sex, freedom in hope, shackles of politics But I wouldn’t know where to start

No, the truth is, I have much to say but don’t want to sayI’d rather throw my head back and drink the rain

Maybe I lose my breath or twoand disappear until tomorrow adieu

Fox Island

What am I supposed to write
if everything in my soul feels right?
I suppose I could worry about my next
or next
or next
or next next
But what good has that worry ever done me?

I’m bathing in a fall from glory
a fragrant pause before or after the storm
Caught adrift
floating in the sea
Wondering if
and without terror

Follow peace he said,
the other me
And now I’m floating in it
in my dreams
If I’m not too careful.
But what care did care ever give me?

I suppose I could ruminate
about the joys of family,
pleasures of sex,
freedom in hope,
shackles of politics
But I wouldn’t know where to start

No, the truth is, I have much to say
but don’t want to say
I’d rather throw my head back
and drink the rain

Maybe I lose my breath or two
and disappear until tomorrow adieu