Keith G. Alderman

Riddles on the Bridge

Riddles on the Bridge
Chapter 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did you come from?” Esther asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herbert nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fight him?” Marian asked.

“With what?” Esther added.

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

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

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

“Who has a name,” Balaam reminded.

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

The talking donkey smiled proudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Poppy-cock and nonsense,” Balaam complained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pascal the Fox continued:

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

“This one’s weird,” Herbert said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The company thought silently.

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

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

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

“What do we got?” Marian asked.

“An obnoxious donkey,” Aaron quipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 16

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

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

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

Then he collapsed and fell asleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter the Gates with Complaining
Chapter 8

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

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

“You ready to get going?” He asked.

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

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

She grinned.

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

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

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

“Hello, sir,” Marian said respectfully.

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

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

“That depends on why you are entering.”

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

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

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

The children nodded.

“Will you come with us?” Herbert asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are swallowpedes?” Herbert asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You alright?” Esther asked him.

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

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

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

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

“What are we looking for?” Balaam asked.

“A bridge!” Aaron hollered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox Island

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

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