Keith G. Alderman

Now is the Time

Thursday, on the way to Rogersville, I was especially perturbed in my spirit. And refusing to believe it was anything unremarkable, I decided in the moment to fast for three days. My daughters, upon hearing my decision, committed to fasting with me. Over the following three mornings I wrote the following message, which I believe it poignant and necessary.

The world will appear darker and darker;
and in that darkness, the light will shine.
Brighter and brighter will the Church stand.
Authentic and true;
Real and caring.

The Church will leave the “Mega” to find the small and true.
They will sacrifice a flashy concise message,
for the sake of knowing their pastor cares about them.
And the “Mega” will become a place for unbelievers to hear the name of Jesus.
In it, “pastors” of these churches will need to be wary not to become celebrities and idols,
which the unbeliever seeks.
By doing so, these “pastors” will become susceptible to the Devil’s snare.
Sin will follow.
Strike the “shepherd”, the “sheep” will scatter.
But these are neither shepherd nor sheep; it is celebrity and pagan.
Jesus’ name is a means to an end to them.
Nonetheless, Christ’s name is spoken and He will not let it return void.
Many will hear the Name and turn from sin.
They will turn from fame and idolatry,
and seek the humble Carpenter whom sits on the throne.
In His place, at the right hand of God.

These so-called “small” churches are fiery and resilient;
they do not scoff at small beginnings, nor loathe the mundane tasks.
They prove true and faithful, and Christ will not abandon them.
As the world becomes dark, they shine bright,
and Christ will set them upon the head of the wicked.
There is always a remnant, and it is strong.

Do not be afraid, Church;
Your King is coming.
Like the rain soaks the soil, and the sun feeds the seed,
the plant will sprout.
Its root will drive deep and its branches will reach far.
The Shallow will be uprooted,
but the deep shall send forth.
Hope does not disappoint.

Soon and very soon, will we see what we have sought.
Soon will we laugh in mercy.
The righteous shall reap what the wicked have stored up.
And the wicked shall proclaim that Christ is Lord.

Land made for evil will be given to the righteous.
Where the Liar has made his bed; he will lose it.
Those demons of fear that seek to confuse and titillate will flee.
And the sons of men, whom seek titillation, will not find it here;
The demons have all fled.
Businesses and land that thrive on fear and lust,
will no longer profit;
for their demons have all fled, and the King has come.
Doors will close, and beggars made—
but the righteous will inherit what the wicked have sown.

Great is His faithfulness;
Magnificent is His name.
The Tower of Babel will topple under confusion and deception;
A kingdom divided against itself.
But the Disciple of Christ will stand forever.
Hope does not disappoint.

This is the season of fruit and harvest.
Look at the field, they are ripe!
Move Church!
Believe again!
Proclaim the good works of Christ!
Stand on His authority!
Take back what the Enemy stole!
For God is with you, and who can ever be against you?

I dreamt last night that I was at a Sahara Experience amusement park. I paid to get in, but there weren’t any proper signage to find my way. I drove my vehicle the wrong way and nearly drove into the enclosure where animals roam free and only large vehicles are permitted. A lion attacked an antelope and tore its legs off as a gatekeeper hollered at me to turn back. There was no gate to keep the animals inside; only a turn and a tower.

Turning back, I asked an officiant where to go. He pointed in a vague direction and told me to “look for the white line” on my way to the Lounge. I found no white line; but I found the Lounge.

Inside were many people, and one was an elderly History teacher who sprang up a conversation with me. Every Monday evening, she listened to a reporter give her insight on the electoral primaries; and each week the History teacher grew more and more worried.

Well, by speaking to me, she learned that I, and several others that I knew, were unconcerned with such matters and especially had no idea what she was even talking about; this led her to belittle me. But this did not concern me either.

I asked her questions about what the possible outcome of our future could be, and if the worse things occurred, what change would that put upon her life? If civil war were to break out, or nuclear bombs fall on Florida and destroy it completely, what would that change in her specific life? Wouldn’t all of those things only expedite the coming of our Lord and our day in Heaven?

I explained that my attitude was not one of apathy or indifference, but instead, was rooted in the understanding that I have little impact on any outcome, and my worry surely does nothing at all. If all becomes a wasteland, and those of us who survive must live off of the land—well, then I am already doing that. Or if it’s civil war that comes next, then so be it. But Christ will still reign and I will always be free. Worry cannot add a cubit—a millimeter—to my stature.

Furthermore, I explained, information should only be a means for what to assert our authority upon. But if I am gaining information to merely become more worried—then it is controlling me, instead of the other way around. And any and all News outlets, regardless of how nice the person seems, is feeding off the listener’s fear and making money off their worry. Remove yourself from them and pray.

The elderly historian did not like what I had to say. She faded into mulch when the bombs fell.

The reason for such great fear, unease, and tension in our country,
is that we have trained ourselves to be in control of everything;
In the palm of our hand lies our phone—“the power of a god”.
With it we can know all things, be all things, see all things,
and speak to anyone anywhere at all times.
We have consumed ourselves with power and pleasure, like the Greeks.
And like the Greeks, philosophy has become a pastime;
rather than a discovery of truth.
By it, we have allowed truth to evolve into something else whenever we want;
after all, we are god and we hold all power.
The rise of the “non” is evidence of this;
a generation which doesn’t necessarily disbelieve in God or Heaven
—they just don’t care.
And why should they, when we have prescribed an idea that truth and identity are fluid?
Why attach oneself to an ideal or belief or morale (indeed “fluid morality” is the future),
when tomorrow it may change altogether?
What is the standard of psychology or philosophy now?
Without truth to brace against, we are clouds, coming and going on the wind.
Morale will be sacrificed more;
and with its departure, death will come.
Pride will be the destruction of us.

But those who lower themselves;
who cry for the Name of God;
who repent humbly;
who give up their deity (as Christ gave up His and took up the cross)
—these shall be saved.
The meadows will turn green for them, and there will be a great harvest.
Dark will grow darker;
Light will shine brighter.
But this is not the end.

Fear is attempting to destroy the Believer’s faith and cripple a nation.
Shut your ears to fear, O People.
Open your hearts to Christ;
Take up your authority, O Church.
You have whined, wallowed, and sorrowed in your filth for long enough.
Heaven beckons you to stand up for truth,
and fall to your knees in prayer.
Proclaim the good works of Christ again.
Shout from your porch the glory of God!
Seek out the blind and beggar and pray for them.
Curse the works of the Devil,
and take back the land that belongs to the Lord.

And when taking it,
wrap your arms around the violent and afraid—
those whom the Devil has bewitched.=
Pray for them, love them, help them find truth;
give them food, jobs, and rest!
This world needs you to stop talking about your beliefs and use them.
God’s Children need you to stop whining about your entitlement, pain, and lost control.
Take up your cross and save someone!

Church, your Father loves you;
your Saviour holds you;
your Husband longs for you.
Be happy and rejoice;
you have been set free for freedom’s sake.

Holy is the Lord, God Almighty;
Who was and is and is to come.
The sun shines on a cool morning,
and its warmth is alien to this barren land.
But it shine in glorious splendor,
and nothing can hide in its shadow.
Only the Shadow of the Almighty is true.
All other shadows whither and die;
they are not comforts.

Appeasement;
Ideas;
Creativity;
Comfortability;
Complacency;
Contentedness;
They are false gods.
Only the true King Jesus is life and prosperity;
Only through Him do these others exist.

He is not merely the Beginning—
long ago forgotten;
in which all days hence are for us to discover our “right” path.
He is not merely the End—
in which we hope, one day all we do “won’t even matter”;
and until then we lazily wait for the coming of the Lord.
But He is the Beginning and the End—
in which our lives hinge;
understanding that everything matters and nothing matters—
We must make every prayer count,
every syllable holy and powerful.
What we mean to die, we must kill with our words;
What we mean to restore, we must bring back to life with our words.
And contrarily, none of our being matters—
He is King, and we are subject to His will.
Whatever He wants will be done.

Seek the King of kings, and not merely His works.
Many want to follow the message of Jesus,
but few want to follow the Saviour Himself.
Sell everything you have and follow Him,
and you will see the Hand of God move.

Unbelief has become an idol to the Church;
a desire to “make sense” out of faith.
Balancing faith and unbelief to make Christ’s message easier to swallow for the world
—it is “relatable”;
This is sin.

Christ’s message is not relatable;
it is foolishness to the world,
until the Holy Spirit opens the eyes of one’s understanding.
By carefully expressing the message of Jesus,
we have inadvertently made our faith safe.
And safe faith is not faith at all!
What is a man of faith if he does not have faith?
We cannot balance faith and unbelief, and call ourselves Christ’s.
Christ; the One whose loving arms outstretched and died for us.

The darkness will grow darker;
The light will shine brighter.

Rejoice for His promises are always fulfilled;
and His works are always evident around us.
Get your eyes off of your idolatry and look at what He has created for you.
Gratitude produces worship and liberty;
Complaining uplifts Hell in your life.

In due season, the King shall come.
Look! He is already here.
Now is the time for harvest.
Consider the songbird;
She waits all winter for food and purpose.
But when the spring comes,
she sings and prepares her nest.
She is relentless in worship and preparation.

Now is the time!
This Place Called Earth is Not Our Home!

I am pleased to announce the release of my third full-length album. In many ways, this space opera worship album has been developing in my mind for the last year. But all of it was suddenly made alive when our dear friend Sarah Hollis visited from Florida in January of this year. During the week’s visit, the two of us found ourselves in my studio discovering chord progressions and recording her piano’d movements. Sarah has a quality in her songwriting that is immensely pure and authentic. From the first time I saw her play, over a decade ago, I could see the beginnings of raw, perfect talent. Like her personality, her music is different, daring, and violent—though hidden under a soft exterior; when one hears her create, they feel those things come out. I am grateful that her compositions find a way to align with my own, yet differ enough, with ideas I never would have discovered myself. In the brief moment of composition, my music-soul came alive, and I was hard pressed to stop myself for several weeks from vomiting menagerie ideas I had compounded in the months prior.

My first album was a cathartic experience, full of anger, betrayal and hurt; the second, a fearful attempt to trust Jesus in the wilderness. At its heart, this third piece is a worship album; It is what I’ve had in my soul all along, yet couldn’t express until now. I knew that space would be the major theme throughout it; a place that consumes the majority of our universe, yet we know little of, misunderstand most of what we know, and have nearly naught capability of discovering its vastness. But the heavens declare God’s glory, and we have uncovered that the planets and stars are rejoicing in melody, and theirs together make a strange and foreign song. My attempt was to portray, through human weakness, an image of that beautiful madness.

I knew that this time around I would resort to covering worship songs, unlike previous albums. This, to me, was a necessity. For one, to honor the beautiful songwriting of generations before me, and secondly, because these songs specifically have taken me to the heavens several times before. Martin Smith’s “Come Holy Spirit” is a perfect example of raw, emotional words and melody that emulate what the angels must be singing in the third heaven. “Our Father”, made widely known by Bethel Church, continues this theme, though for me personally, has taken my imagination into other worlds, drawn by the Holy Spirit, and ripped from comfort and accessibility. Bien is a rich and talented band out of Nashville that has blessed me for the past few years; their song “Happy to be Alive” is exactly what the world needs right now—a jovial reminder that we are alive in Christ and that is a happy thing. Their song in my album is very specific to follow Perelandra, which to this day remains my favorite book ever written, full of hope, joy, beauty, terror, love, and redemption. Finally, I wanted to incorporate “To Him Who Sits on the Throne” because of its history in the church and, specifically, my life. A song that I sang as a boy playing in the garage or backyard; to this day I keep safe a small piece of shriveled, worn and yellowed parchment of the chord chart scribbled down by my father’s hand before he played it on cornet in the church band with Ray Goolsby leading.

My fascination with space has always been at the underbelly of my upbringing with a father that worked on rockets at Cape Canaveral for three decades. But my baptism into its fascination was, and forever will be, stirred on by C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy. I could not tolerate the thought of composing themes of space without incorporating Lewis’ story of Ransom and the Field of Arbol. Therefore, every ounce of this album is riddled by it; Malacandra, Perelandra, our Silent Planet; even Oyarsa and Glundandra (Jupiter’s Song)—a piece that I attempted to incorporate the violent reverberation of Jupiter’s bombastic melody under a song of glory to God.

It is one thing to express oneself’s worship and admiration to God—something that is holy and reverent regardless of the outcome, as long as it is honest and passionate. It is entirely different, and terrifying in its own right, to attempt the expression of another man’s great work; one of which I hold so esteemed. But the future is not for the fainthearted; it is for the brave.

To tell the tales I wanted to share, I knew my wife Carlia must take front and center on the microphone. Her voice’s ability to express power and vulnerability is unmatched. There wasn’t room for error in my mind, and though I love singing with all my heart, I knew that it would fail to capture what was paramount to me. For that, I am grateful to the Lord for giving me a bride with as much talent and humility as my wife; a woman that has decades of experience, training and talent behind her, yet can take the simplest suggestion with gracious aplomb and bloom it into a glorious treasure.

Therefore, after all of this, these wild and bizarre compositions, I am pleased and dedicated to releasing, in hopes that any and but one could find hope, joy, laughter, sorrow, and praise to the God of our universe and His heavenly realm.

This Place Called Earth is Not our Home. We are but renters and stewards of a land that has been pushing us from its womb since the day of our conception. Far into the heavens we must go; and nothing else matters but that journey onward across stars and galaxies into the Creator’s arms.

Releasing March 26th, 2024. Preorder available at https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/keithgalderman/this-place-called-earth-is-not-our-home-2

The End

This is not the End;
  It's just the end of ourselves.
God will preserve,
  and rescue the needy.
"My children cry My name, and I hear them,"
  says the Lord.
Those who have put up in their hearts like little gods;
  they have defiled the sacred places,
  and ruined the sacred things.
But this isn't the End;
  It's just the end of ourselves.

Ascent and Descent

Ascent and Descent
Chapter 10

“Be always sure that you are right, then go ahead.”

Marian jerked from her sleep and sat upright in bed. The voice was as clear as if her own father had whispered in her ear; a rich, resonating voice full of color and warmth, like oak leaves and smooth coffee. It had disrupted her breathing to an irregular stutter.

She inhaled deep and exhaled sternly, scanning the dark room, but there weren’t any sign of its speaker. It did not frighten her, though, for the voice soothed rather than startled. Looking out the window, she saw the sun had not dawned. The ticking clock over her doorframe was indiscernible; she aimed her flash-light (the one she kept for late-night reading) at its face. 5:23 A.M.

She wanted to sleep, but her heart was beating too feverishly. She threw her legs over the edge of the bunkbed and jumped to the ground. Fumbling through the dark, she found the desk and chair and flicked her lamp on.

Esther looked like a clown, fast asleep, sprawled out with face at the foot of the bed, and one arm draped off the side. Marian pulled a Bible picture-book from her drawer and opened to the story of Abraham. Minutes passed until Esther’s watch alarmed them it was 6:00 A.M.

Thirty minutes later, the Dolor children stepped off the front porch carrying with them what they thought they needed most on their unknown adventure. Marian carried a backpack full of snacks and water-bottles. Herbert had stuffed his Gerber pocket-knife (a Christmas gift from his father) into his pocket. Each of them wore the new hiking shoes their mother got them as soon as they had moved. They felt prepared, but it wasn’t until they saw Aaron waiting under the poplar that they felt complete; he shone his headlamp through the dim morning light at their faces and waved.

The four children climbed the natural grade of the yard to the tree line and stood before the open gate; it was draped in honeysuckle and rhododendron, smelling of lavender.

It all felt so solemn that Esther asked if they should pray. At night, Mrs. Dolor would pray 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, because he hadn’t yet learned about anything like prayer from his mother. He shut his eyes and remained silent while Marian prayed. The yard grew calm, a woodpecker buzzed by, chirping excitedly, and the smell of honey filled the air.

“A-right, nows that that’s done-did,” said Aaron. “Less get goin and fixin’ this mess ya’ll did.” He smirked and turned to the gate. His eyes widened, and he jumped back when he saw they were not alone.

Under the wide arch of maple trees stood the Ghost of David Crockett, as he had promised. He was glowing blue and white, and next to him stood a Donkey with black and blue-grey stripes running from his tall, black ears to the dorsal cross and down the spine over his white and brown hair.

“Hello, sir,” Marian said respectfully.

“Good morn, ch’ldren,” replied Crockett. “I’m happy you are still together.” He 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, brash 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 ’s good for burdens and knows the forest well,” Crockett explained. “He can ‘elp you on your journey. Remember, you must find Atagahi, and you will discover how to close this gate.”

“This whut we get?” Aaron asked spitefully. “Yer a soup-natural bein and ye’n gives us a Donkey!? Tha’s alls we get?”

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

The blue haze faded, and Crockett disappeared. His evanescence left behind a golden glint and parade of mesmerizing creatures. Little faeries, shimmering and shining like the fireflies that fill the evening twilight, dancing in the air about them.

The children marveled at the sight of each winged creature spinning in grace and majesty. Esther giggled as one fluttered toward her and landed on her shoulder. The little blonde faerie curtsied and smiled; she stood no taller than Esther’s index finger and wore a dress made from moss and bark; a little hat of cardinal feathers wrapped in fox hair rested between her delicate, pointy ears; on her back, two transparent pink wings fluttered furiously, like a hummingbird’s need to keep flapping even when at rest.

Just as Esther felt as though she’d gained a new friend, the little faerie 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 sugar-berry.

“Yunwi Tsunsdi,” said Balaam the Donkey. “Well, there’s better time than never to get started going nowhere. C’mon, children.”

Ofttimes, the beginning of a much anticipated journey can be as unexceptional as the mere waking and the passing of a day; it comes and goes and before you realize it, your feet have begun walking and the commencement is far behind you. This trip was no different; weeks of bated breath and worry, culminating into a night of shivering hands, wild imaginations, loathsome anxiety, and early risings, all to be met matter-of-factly by a talking Donkey, a quick hello from a Ghostly friend, and then, thrust upon a path through a forest into the unknown.

The path led the children and Donkey through a thicket of maple, hackberry, walnut, daisies and dandelions; great pines and cedars pierced the canopy like skyscrapers; their needles draped across the dewy rhododendron; powerful oaks reached their strong arms through the thicket, and their fingers snapped as the children brushed against them. After passing up and over a row of hills, the party splashed through a creek’s overflow along the path and veered north-northeast until they had jumped the rough terrain of a small inlet.

The morning sky was still dark behind the tall mountains, as Balaam turned east and scaled the uneven slope of the growing mountainside. Each child fought to stay with him, grabbing saplings and mossy rocks to help themselves up, while muddy stones protruded from the ground cover and gave the impression of an ancient walkway.

Aaron followed close behind Balaam, shining his bright headlamp every which way to guide the group through the dark green shadows. They didn’t say much, as the beginning of any dark hike is met with fear and apprehension—a slick stone could roll an ankle and an unfamiliar leaf may hide a copperhead. But soon the sun burst over the crown of the mountain, and their hard push was met with zipping cardinals, chirping robins, and bounding rabbits; a box turtle hid in its colorful shell on the path, and a red salamander squirmed underneath the wet leaves beside Herbert’s foot; syncopated cicadas screeched as the sun lifted higher; an eagle chirped half a mile over the western horizon; and the wind swept through the canopy like shallow waves rush into a luscious coral reef. 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 or why it was so important. 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 creeks,” 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; it gave them fond memories of Granddaddy taking them fishing in the spring at Great Uncle Earl’s pond.

Balaam’s whining made Aaron’s arrogance more tolerable. He acted as if he knew everything, saying things like, “That there’s soapstone; You-all knows the deffrence ‘tween a hawk and a eagle? Them-there’s are deer tracks, not hawg tracks; iffen you walk afoot that there tree-gum, yer gonna get stungs by yeller jackets”. The Dolors had spent most of their time enjoying the look of forests instead of studying them, so they didn’t know if what he said was true or not. Regardless, it felt obnoxious.

After an hour, the peak came into view, and the children pushed themselves hard to reach it; it was a rocky summit of scattered slate, sandstone boulders, and loose gravel. The trees pealed back and the children counted seventeen peaks on the horizon, rolling like green and blue, luscious waves, masked by thin, smoky puffs in the north, and dark, ominous thunderclouds in the south; titanic ancient trees pierced the green canopy in scattered points, dead and lonely, robbed of all their glory, and waiting for a storm to knock them into the vast forest below.

The path ran north around the slotted slate and bouldered sandstone, before bending west into the trees again and descending harshly down a muddy slope for thirty yards and evening out onto a thin shelf overlooking a river, that they could not see, but heard, some three-hundred feet below.

“Weeper’s Run,” said Balaam. “This was as far south as I had 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 stopped on the shelf and gazed through an opening of silver maples and poplars; the height made her heart race and she loved it. On the far side of the river, she glimpsed the unruly climb of another mountain wall, rising equal to their height, and twice as steep, covered in poplars, elms, maples, and oaks; in their trough, she saw a hint of the rushing, black river. The opposite cliff was marked in red, clay drawings, indiscernible to the eye, but whimsical and fantastic; she imagined prehistoric people leaving them before the river wore down the rock and created the chasm. Who were they and where had they gone? For that matter, how did a Donkey learn to speak English?

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

“Hey Donkey,” said Aaron. “What’d ye’n means whenever ya said that you-all a-hadn’t gone this afar south afore? Ye’ns means you doesn’t knows where-all we’s goin?”

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

Marian smirked. “A special lake,” she answered. “A fountain…”

“The Fountun of Youth!” Aaron exclaimed. “Ah! I’mma gonna live foraver and get richer’n Dolly. Hey, Donkey, I thoughts you were a-suppos’ta be leadin’ us.”

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

“Balaam,” Marian replied sweetly. “If you gave us an idea of how far away it is, 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 sandworms.”

“What are sandworms?” Herbert asked.

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

“Ah, that’s horse-scat! I ain’t never aheard 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 sand around here.”

“It’s a good time to stop,” Marian decided. “C’mon, I made sandwiches and snack baggies for everyone.”

Marian rationed the food out, and the kids ate a good meal, and there were no ants or sandworms, nearby.

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

The journey led them to a steep, rocky decline, heading northwest toward a wide enclave; dog-sized boulders and mid-sized tree roots formed a path downward that felt more like climbing-down than walking. Marian and Aaron sat on their butts and scooted from trunk to trunk on their descent, pushing the wet, soft underbrush out of the way as they went. But Herbert and Esther couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling about it, so Balaam let them push against his chest and barrel as they went—the two scooting the invisible shelf and the Donkey steadying himself with shaking, stiff pasterns. “I never much liked safety, anyway,” he complained. It was a kindly gesture, but Herbert still felt overwrought by the thought of the Donkey’s trembling hooves coming from underneath him and the three tumbling into the abyss.

“You alright?” Esther asked him.

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

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

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

The shoulder began to slope, and soon the party reached the bottom of the ravine. The air was dense and moist and they didn’t hear anything but the buzz of mosquitoes, horseflies, and sweat bees flying close to their ears.

“What are we looking for?” Balaam asked.

“A lake!” Aaron hollered.

“Oh, right,” said Balaam. “Cross the Run, and on ’til the mountain splits.”

The children followed Balaam as he took them through a grove of thin water oaks and thick morning-glories. The ground became muddy, and each of them slipped once or twice down the slope, until they turned round an embankment and heard rushing water.

In her excitement, that she probably regretted later, Esther fled from the group and skipped over the rising and falling path to find the black river she had glimpsed from the peak. Mud flung from the wet underbrush and slapped the back of her sprinting calves. Twice, she nearly rolled her ankle, but corrected her footing on the roots, and kept running and giggling; 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 vibrant green rhododendron out of her way and bounded upon an expansive, rushing river.

“It’s here! It’s here!”
A Prophecy of a Kidnapping

I was in an offsite building with many former pastors that I knew. They were sharing the difficulties of their lives, whining and complaining. It all had to do with loving their children and others; specifically, they were tired of it and irritated.

I left the room and was aware of a property I owned. A large apartment complex. I was not a “landlord”, but a “landowner”.

One property had police and media around it. I discovered the tenant was a crazed woman-an ex-wife of a friend I knew in the city government; the man was now currently married to a principal of a school. They had two daughters whom they let visit this crazed woman. Unbeknownst to them, though they recognized something was amiss, the crazed woman had let a serial killer kidnap the oldest of the girls. The youngest, the woman forced to exhume a dead body of a brother whom the serial killer had killed, and sleep with it and her. Necrophilia.

The woman was arrested; but the serial killer/kidnapper was still at large.

I began taking precautions to better secure and present my apartments in a more respectable manner. The rooms were repainted; the walls insulated; and a police officer added to walk the property at night.

I recognized the apartments as the same Carlia and I once lived in at the beginning of our marriage. I surveyed the property and noted how the previous landowners had put automated gates to the hallways that they believed would better secure the facility. It however had the opposite effect. Instead of securing and protecting, the convenience of the landowner brought a slow, unresponsive detection and opened and closed its doors slowly; anyone running in a hurry would either be blocked out or trapped in.

At that moment, a man with grizzled hair, gnarled knuckles, and barely any teeth blocked my way at the door.

Knowing the man to be the killer and desiring to hurt me, I fired my pistol at him ten times. But the gun did little to nothing.

He put me in his truck and I was overcome with peace—I knew he was not capturing me, but that I was capturing him and he was leading me to the kidnapped girl.

On the way, we spoke and sang. He told me much of his life and tried to keep me deceived that he was not going to harm me. I assumed this he did with most of his victims. It was little matter to me, because I wanted to know this man, and more so wanted to find how I could pray for him.

He drove off the side of the road and crashed through a rock and two or three fire barrels. We stopped at an old shack in the woods, and upon exiting the vehicle he revealed that he grew up Amish. I gripped his hands tightly and told him I would pray for him. Believing to still be in control, the demon inside of him acted the part and smiled, threw his head back, and acted as a charlatan would. I dropped to my knees, held his gnarled knuckles firm in my grasp and prayed. He tried to pull from me, and even at one point attempted to interrupt with his own prayer: “I declare—”; but I cut him short and prayed over him.

I declared my authority, cursed the demonic hold over him, cast out the demon, and prayed for his soul and the life of the girl nearby. I demanded he take me to her in the name of Jesus.

I woke.

Many things can be interpreted in this; and I will not dive as deeply as some may hope. But I will note three things specifically and you can dive into anything more yourself.

One: the parents of these girls I know personally and their occupations are aide to the city manager and school principal. I believe our school and government have married a demonic ideal and handed their children over to it; but most of them are unaware of it, though they know something is wrong. Pray for our city government and school administration’s eyes to be opened, wisdom to come, and for them to take back their children from the demonic tendrils of the Enemy; they know not what they are doing. They are not the enemy; they are just deceived.

Two: churches have, and are, trying to automate out of convenience instead of standing at the gates and rescuing God’s children. Pray for convenience to die in churches and for our pastors to never say, “it’s easier this way.” While pastors have focused on building conglomerates, they have lost sight of the child of God and find him/her a nuisance and burden. Convenience must die in the church.

Three: authority is ours! We aren’t “captured”. The devil didn’t drag us down to hell, drive off the road, and lock us away. He locked himself in with us! Use the name of Jesus, get freakin’ angry at the devil, recognize the true enemy, and fight for the world on your knees! The demon possessed, government, schools, and world are not your enemy. They are deceived and given to something broken. Fight for them! Pray heartily. Be ready to open the doors to salvation for your tenants. You aren’t landlord, you are landowner. Now quit yourself like a man or woman of God and take your authority as owner of this land, and disciple of Jesus Christ.
Mirth and Merriment

Few things do the soul better than a hearty bout of laughter and ridiculous behaviour. Remember to laugh at yourself and those around you often. It’s really not all that bad as you suppose, and nothing of your constant severity can change it. Although, heaping joy can bring your family hope and tranquility.

I suppose the summation of life is that Everything Matters and Nothing Matters. On the one hand, we must instruct ourselves with utmost integrity, passion and servitude; for every ounce of our lives is given in serving God and His children. Whilst, also on the other hand, every moment is thrown away like milkweed on the wind, forgotten and fluttering away; having no real effect on the destiny of who we are to become. We are, as you know, already in Heaven or Hell—in an eternal perspective, that is; for if we bear Christ’s cross, then we partake in His promise, and nothing can intersect that.

Everything Matters; quit yourself like a man or woman of God destined for greatness.

Nothing Matters; laugh heartily about everything; especially the things you cannot change.

In this strange dichotomy, I think you will find enjoyment and dignity. Or insanity. But be not dismayed, I’ll be laughing beside you.
A Second Lament

We are tempted to create in our image a pleasant God the Father who forgives all we ever did with the flick of an “I’m sorry”.

But God is not a pleasant, lovable, petty fool who can be so easily manipulated. It was not our “I’m sorry” that forgave us—it was the horrid, despicable violent death that Jesus underwent. The temptation is to paint a picture of happy rainbows and unicorns of which God does not care about sin because He “knows we’re only human”.

Blasphemy! He tells you to get up and act like a man—what’s more—to act like a god! And to stop meddling in such despicable affairs. To Him, sin is so severe He sent His son to live out thirty-three years here and be hung on a cross, naked and destitute. To say God is all-loving and all-forgiving, while forgetting the cross, is a quiet, sweet abomination.

When one has a full revelation of the cost of the cross, that one flees from sin; recognizing both its horror and God’s severity toward it. We run toward a loving, forgiving Father who butchered, betrayed, and humiliated His Son so that we could. Let us not be tempted to think God is “okay” with our pride parade, prejudice parade, lust parade, deceit parade, or greedy wherewithal; believing that “I’m only human and was born this way.” You were born an animal destined to be a god. Act like it! And recognize the sheer horror and glory of God’s magnanimity and His hatred toward sin.

There is none righteous, but by the blood of Jesus; and until one bathes in its beauty and disgust, one cannot know they are righteous before God.

As God hardened and strengthened the heart of King Saul and others before him, so God hardens and strengthens the hearts of Presidents and others before and after. Until a man comes in submission and humility before God, our country will taste and see the Lord is just to hold a country—who killed 50 million babies—accountable. What else did we expect?

Grace and mercy will come. The blood of Jesus will forgive and save. There is no question. But most of America—Christians and pagans alike—act as though we deserve forgiveness. We shout nonsensical hatred, prejudice, and greed, and expect God to cover it up. We act as though our country is better than some invisible standard held up by an ethereal morality rooted in what men and women—who we disrespect and ridicule—did generations before us. But true morality would wipe us out for what we’ve done and allowed.

Grace and forgiveness will rescue us. But we do not deserve it, nor should we expect it. Only in genuine humility and submission will we see the move of God. Only the pure of hearts shall see Him. Oh, what pride we have! And destruction follows it, always.

Cry for your children! Cry for those who are ignorant and blind! Act like the man or woman God made you to be. Submit before Him. And for the love of God!—become desperate for His presence and forget about what you think you deserve.
David Crockett’s Story

David Crockett’s Story
Chapter 9

“Before you, and behind ‘y figment, lie’ the crux of a mountain range that ‘our governors henceforth have reckon’d Nantahala, Cherokee, and Smoky Mountain; in ‘y time, they ‘er’ called home. I scaled these mountains ‘nd many more, for the long of ‘y childhood ‘nd adult life. In the north, under her shadow of Clinch Mountain and as far east as the Nolichucky, ‘y family thrived. But school ‘as a terrible place w’th terrible children; therefore, at the ripe ol’ age of thirteen, I knew I could make ‘y mark as a man ‘lone in the wild. I ran ‘way from home, and whilst I know ‘tit be the true beginning of my life, I wouldst not wish such a decision upon your group.

“I was part-Cherokee and ‘y kin welcom’d me; they called me Kalanuh—“Raven”. I liv’d ‘mong the wild and the Cherokee for two years thence; each taught me the peril and destruction of the frontier, whilst also her beauty and tender care. I learnt the basics of fishing to provide for my crops and my stomach; tending our Father’s garden and constructing ‘y first wattle and daub. Through the Great Valley and up in-to the Smoky’s and Roan, I left ‘y legacy on the bear, bison, and elk; these my food that the Cherokee taught were my distant cousins; respect and honor, grace and death were upon them as ‘ti twas upon me.

“I ventured far north in-to Kan-tucky, and Virgin-ia, but nev’r felt ’s home as here in the’e blue mountains. Tanasi—the Cherokee called them; bright and blue, smoky and strong; the’e mountain’ hold the mysteries of the universe in her bosom and she is gracious enough to hold me, also. They are untamable and they yield t’ no man, beast, or ghost; they liveby wild, unnatural rule, and will set for’ their dominance on ‘ny whom try to stand them bay.

“Such a man ‘as Juan Pardo. 1567; he led ‘is Spanish expedition through Car’lina ‘nd in-to the Chilhowee valley four-hundred years our past; this place you call Happy Valley. He was searching for what many ‘ave called the Fountain of Youth, as his countrymen—viz. De Soto and Ponce de Leon—believed were in this land. But t’ Pardo ’twas merely a means t’ etern’ty albeit exempt o’ the grace of our Father in Heaven.

“He believ’d it belong’d to the heart of the Colonies’ only rainforest, this Smoky Mountain. Pardo was never looking for ‘silver mines’ as the record-books tell. ‘e knew that De Soto had found the fountain before ‘im and kep’ ‘tit a secret for, by his Spanish words, some “God-forsaken reason”.

“Pardo crossed through the Valley, and ‘stablished six forts for ‘is men to hold up through winter whilst searching for the Fountain; all the while, the Cherokee and Nunnehi were left unaware of their goal. He returned to Car’lina, and like a mooncalf, one of ‘is men let the details out the bag to the indigenous peoples. Once the Chilhowee knew what ’twas they were aft’r, they opened war ‘pon the six Spanish forts; all but one caballero were slaughtered; every fort burnt; every soul erased. The Nunnehi released the one survivor to return to Car’lina with a fabricated tale, in hope the Spaniards nev’r return. And such a hope came true.

“Though Pardo had a petroglyph; his own creation that ‘ave the best imagined path through the forest t’ where he believed the fountain lie; and now ‘e knew ‘twas close. A place near Chief Abraham’s Falls; an ‘idden lake that restored life to ‘ny whom enter’d it. A place the Cherokee call Atagahi.

“When I was no longer a boy, and I return’d to the Crockett homestead in the Great Valley, my life had changed. Fame and notoriety thrust upon me like a fever. I’d adventure to show for my life and people either loved or despised me; the Finley’s ‘ere apt to refuse their daughter take my hand in marriage for the latter; but she so desired by the former. I spat at the man and his rude wife, and took her hand regardless. ‘nly aft’r did they respond to my fortitude in gracious behaviour. But now I see that my tale of love has bored thee as it tired the other.

“I shall skip ‘head to the day I met Andrew Jackson. He was a general whom I served under during the Creek War. Loyalty lie deep in ‘y heart, and many regrets have weigh’d ‘tit down in-to the depths of integrity. I see now what the man was after, and I have nothing to show but my sins for believing in his regalia in early days.

“The Cherokee were used by us and ousted from the land they swore to love and steward; my kin were disavowed to follow the life God had given them. Once I saw what sort of man Jackson was, I absconded myself to hunting and foraging for the regiment and avoided the killing altogether.

“Whence upon returning home, I aimed to stop him and his cohorts in the way I believed fit: legislation. I grew my wealth, and with it, my stature, as a man dependent on honor and integrity. (These words are hard to say, ‘nd I will not loosely praise ‘y own life.) After years of words that would only tire thee further, I found myself in the congressional legislation and finally, from what I believed at the time, in the power to stop men like Andrew Jackson from their war against the Natives.

“I was sorely disappointed; congress was merely a merry-go-round of prigs, spinning on pomp and their own stature. What little integrity they had was superseded by whatever legislation they represented or any lobbyist that bought them off; otherwise, integrity was non-existent.

“It was the public school all over again. I could not last long in a land of sycophants; my heart was in the mountains. And while I went to the depths of Hell to save her, I knew now that only God could rescue her. I threw my mission aside and regrettably aimed my heart at my hubris; I’ll never know whether I could have stopped Jackson and his political cohorts.

“My desire for significance and my hand on a rifle again drove me to abandon my home and country, the same as I did as a child. I went to Texas with the only friend I still had, Jim Bowie. There, the Tejanos fought the Mejicans for a chance at liberty; the same liberty I wished the Cherokee would fight for in my homeland; alas, my adopted kin are not so violent.

“I was only there for a fortnight, before Santa Anna’s siege upon the Alamo.

“February twenty-third, 1836. Santa Anna’s army pressed down ‘pon us. The ‘ot blaze of musket fire and powder chok’d our lungs for nearly two weeks. Colonel Travis commanded Jim and I keep our Kan-tucky long rifles pointed at the siege; my bedside was the garrison wall. The sun beat ‘ard on the encampment and cooked our souls and provisions; Travis ‘ad sent ‘is Captain Martin for reinforcements but the ‘ope of the men waned e’ery ‘our. We want’d nothing but to stand and fight to the death; the tejanos would have their freedom from Mejico, Jim Bowie and I wi’ them.

“‘lone in the depths of the fort on the third day of March, Jim and I found a treasure in her bowels. A stone of immense value, pageantry and lauding wrapp’d in gold’n luxury; it was the Pardo Stone.

“Theretofore, Jim and I believ’d it be the cause for Santa Anna’s unrestrained hatred ‘nd incumbent onslaught upon the Fort. We read the stone and recogniz’d ’t once as th’ mountains we knew well in Tennessee. The battle raged, but the two of us were hell-bent as a moccasin at refusing the Stone fall to the Mejicans.

“March sixth. Santa Anna broke through our barricades and apprehend’d the fort. Our hands stayed in surrender, we anticipat’d the furlough of our souls to the great beyond where our Saviour resides. Much t’ our astonishment, Santa Anna releas’d Jim and I, quoting ‘e didn’t care for dos gabachos taking up his cuartos as prisoner.

“I could see ‘tin his eyes; ‘e hadn’t intend’d to leave any prisoners, tejanos or colonials. Jim and I ‘bliged, with a mind to reach Tennessee and bring back reinforcements on the Alamo; ’twas only after we reached north Alabama tha’ we learnt of Santa Anna’s defeat.” (Here, Crockett became solemn and introspective. It took him several painful seconds to continue his story.)

“The Pardo Stone came w’th us; smuggled through my coons-kin hat, of all things. When we returned to Tennessee, ‘e spent a few weeks study’ng it, Jim and I. We trac’d ’t back t’ the mountains of Chilhowee, where the Cherokee spoke of a lake deep in the forest called Atagahi. The people knew where ‘twas, but would not take us; no man belongs in Atagahi, and Atagahi belongs to no man.

“The Cherokee were my kin; even with our ‘ntent to find Atagahi, a fight would not grow between us, like that of Juan Pardo’s Spaniards. Nonetheless, they would not help us. We were left to wander the mountain ‘lone; however, only two nights in-to our journey, Jim became ill. We returned to Chilhowee, where he died. And me—” (Here, the Ghost trailed off and looked introspective again.) “Well, that’s a different tale for the nonce.

“Chilhowee is underwater now. God rest their souls. I heard the Stone washed ‘way, and some farmhand found it in Inman of all places. They don’t know what ‘tit is they have in their hands. And now I tell you the tale ’ve told your friend.” (Here, David Crockett motioned to behind the children.) “Yes, your friend whose sat behind you all ‘long against the walnut.”

The children, enraptured by the lullaby of Crockett’s past, suddenly realized what he was saying and turned to see Aaron nestled under the low branches of a walnut tree.

“‘e’s been here since this morn,” Crockett explained. “‘e came early when ‘e concluded you would not ‘llow him to help any longer.”

Aaron stood to his feet and brushed the wet mud from his pants. “Yes, I bean richere to listen the story twice,” said he. “But ye’ns dins’t say nothing bout Atagahi bein’ the Fountain of Youth ta me.”

“Hush boy,” Crockett admonished. “I needn’t tell you, in fear tha’ you do something foolish with such knowledge.”

“I woulda runs right inta that-there woods and finds it myself.”

“Hence, something foolish,” said the Ghost.

Without waiting a moment longer, Marian burst out, “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Aaron shrugged. “Ah, fergat it,” said he. “Friends fight.”

She smiled.

“So why is the gate here?” Esther asked.

Crockett smile. “The Nunnehi and I built ‘t long ago to separate those outside from tho’e things inside. Yes, this is the path t’ Atagahi. And with such a thing, the world would mee’ ’tits demise.”

“Wouldn’t it be good for everyone to live forever?” Herbert asked.

“Death is what makes life sweet,” replied Crockett. “Without an end, we would only ‘ave a beginning. And without something to fight for, we would ‘ave nothing to live for. No, you ‘ave too much faith ’n mankind if you believe ’t’d be happier living forever.”

“Why are there monsters in there?” Marian asked.

“There ‘re just as many monsters out here, my dear lady,” replied the Ghost. “The question you have t’ answer now is whether you believe they should ‘ave their ‘ands on eternity?”

“I just want my Dad to be safe.”

“And I promise you, ’e won’t be until you take the first step in shutting th’s gate.”

Marian hesitated and looked at the soggy grass between her sneakers. In all her imagination, she hadn’t thought this is where the adventure would take her. She looked at her sister and brother. “Okay,” said Marian. “I’ll go in.”

“And we will, too,” Esther added.

“And that there’s why I a’ready chere,” said Aaron. “Who aneeds school anyhow?”

“Tomorrow is the weekend, Aaron,” Esther reminded him, giggling.

The Ghost of David Crockett shook his hands together and looked anxious, “I would ‘ave that you wait an evening, ch’ldren,” said Crockett. “The path is long and perilous. You will need a guide and proper footwear—those smooth shoes would not do on slick rocks. Carry morsels and water. ‘nd a deep sleep afore a weary journey. Meet me ‘ere at sunrise, ready, and I will have someone to lead you the way.”

“You won’t be coming with us?” Herbert asked.

“That is not how this story unfolds, Herbert Dolor,” said the Ghost. “I would desire nothing more than t’ ‘company you through this. But one day, you may understand why ‘tis you faced your next steps ‘lone, and u’til that day, understand that hard journeys are the journeys worth taking; and most often, those journeys are not crowded. Come morning, I will see you off, children.”
Picture Imperfect

Picture Imperfect
Chapter 8

When Aaron had sped off with Herbert to the quarry, he had refused to listen to the girls explain that their research told them unicorns are most attracted to faerie dust. This of course was an impossibility; they might spend as much time seeking out faerie dust as they would seeking out a unicorn. So they wasted away most of the afternoon searching for more information in their home. Thankfully, Mrs. Dolor loved Greek mythology and had a few books dedicated to myths and fables on the family bookshelf next to the old grandfather clock in the living-room.

“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 always make a rainbow with the garden hose.”

“That’s a silly idea,” Marian playfully replied. “But then again, none of this seems to make much sense, and the boys ran off without us. So we may as well try.”

“I could paint one!” Esther added, cocking her head in a silly fashion.

Marian giggled at her little sister.

“This book mentions they are attracted to crying virgins and sweet fruits.” She glanced at the kitchen.

“What’s a virgin again?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Marian smiled sheepishly. “But I think Mom bought some grapes, and we have the apples from Mr. Mewbourn’s. Let’s use those outside the gate and maybe it will come back.”

Marian scuttled about the kitchen in preparation of the lure; Esther collected her paint supplies upstairs. Mrs. Dolor had already set up a room at the west end of 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 grinned; the brush dove into a cup of water, rinsed itself clean, and drowned itself into a container of indigo.

While Esther was finishing the world’s best painting of a rainbow, Marian placed a bowl of grapes, apples, and dried fruit at the foot of the poplar; she aimed the garden hose into the sunlight over her head; the light danced through the shower and a beautiful rainbow flashed intermittently before her. The porch door slammed, and Esther was with her; her painting found its perfect spot against the poplar’s trunk and fruit bowl. The two girls felt a sense of familiarity from the night before. It all felt silly, and both were far from confident in its success, but the break from anxiety and tedious work brought them relief.

“I had a dream last night,” Esther said, suddenly introspective. “While we were waiting out here with Herbert and Aaron; 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 big 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, and Marian hadn’t realized until now that tears had filled her sister’s eyes. “There’s Cherokee Devils, and monsters, vampires, and weird men watching us…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 replied, because there weren’t anything better to say. The girls held each other and remembered their old home; if they tried hard enough, they could still smell the pine flooring and hear the iron swing-set in the backyard; the walk down the loose gravel road to the corner-store; May and Holly from church; the embrace of Grammy and Papa.

Before long, tears were streaming down their cheeks as they held each other in silent solitude.

Broo-hoha!

The girls heard a rusty, yet beautiful whinny; like the sound of a powerful ruler clearing its throat. They raised their bowed heads, wiped their eyes, and gasped.

Under the arching spray of water, a great stallion stood in the yard, majestic and impossible to believe if it weren’t for their own eyes; its hair was as black as onyx; its mane as white as a summer cloud; at the crest of its head protruded a long marble horn, curled like a perfect ice-cream cone, as if the silver horn had twisted while growing. With all its beauty, nothing compared to the fierce stature and evident power of the animal. It stared at the girls like it were waiting.

“Virgins crying in the woods…” Marian muttered.

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

Marian’s hands and head shook in dilemma; she shuffled the camera around her waist and switched the thing on. She didn’t want to take her eyes off the thing. Esther kept watch intensely. The camera mechanisms rattled and clicked; the lens automatically extended and focused. Marian held it to her eye and her shivering finger started pressing.

Click. Click. Click.

After three snaps, Marian dropped the camera below her face. Something in her stomach made her feel sick taking so many photos. In a way, it felt wrong; like the moment was meant for her enjoyment and not her record. Somehow remembering the moment later through a photograph, instead of a memory, would only make it less real.

She put the camera down, closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. The unicorn was still there! Brilliant and alive. The three of them stared at one another, letting each holy moment pass over them in wonderful waves of joy and amazement.

The great beast shook its head, and the silver mane fluttered in the breeze; it looked as though it were sad and the children wondered what could make something so beautiful look so distraught.

Suddenly, the unicorn kicked its hind legs wildly and stirred into a gallop around the poplar, kicking mud and dirt into the air.

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

“I didn’t even think this would work,” Marian gasped. “I wish Mom and Dad were here.”

The unicorn stopped running abruptly, and shook its head back and forth. From its soft, sad eyes, it gazed longingly at the girls before rearing up and standing on its hind legs. Its front hooves planted against the poplar—Thud! Then, to the girls’ shock, the beast nailed its horn into the trunk of the tree—Schtuck! It tore its head away from the tree and roared in pain; a piece of the horn had snapped off and stayed behind in the bark.

The unicorn shook its head back and forth, writhing and neighing. With a terrible ferocity and tears streaming from its eyes, the mythical animal burst through the entryway of the gate and disappeared deep into the enchanted forest. The gallop ascended and descended over the mountainside until fading behind the sound of birds and insects singing in the forest.

“Wow,” Marian whispered.

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

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. A few of a trip to Abram’s Creek and ice cream downtown. One of Mr. Dolor studying on the couch. Two of Esther and Herbert sleeping on the porch from 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 lower the shutter speed after last night,” Marian explained. “There’s nothing here.”

Caught in disbelief, Esther yelled. “There’s nothing we can do?!”

Marian lowered her head. “It’s gone.”

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

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

***

Vinnie the Rat put a recently developed photo on top of his dictionary. Its quality was terrible, and the image looked small and blurry, but you could just make out the image of a black hairy ape strolling across a plank over a small dirty pond in what appeared to be a construction site. Aaron bobbed his head confidently and tried not to make too much eye contact with him.

Vinnie pursed his lips and tapped them with his index finger. He slid a book from under the dictionary on his lap. It was a journal, wrapped in brown worn leather, with a long, thin strip of leather wrapped around it several times.

“As promised,” he said, handing the journal to Aaron. The leather felt soft and pliable, but tough, like ancient things do.

“Thankie, Rat,” Aaron replied.

He left Vinnie’s Grandmother’s porch and approached Herbert, sitting on his bike. Red and black clay was still smeared across his face, under his ears, and over his forearms; the stuff had completely ruined his pants and shoes. He frowned as Aaron saddled his bicycle.

“This feels wrong,” Herbert said.

Aaron laughed. “That’s a-cuz ye’n gots clay in yer butt crack.”

“You know what I mean,” Herbert replied.

“Ye’n wanna get that gap-door a-closed dontcha?” Aaron asked. “What-all he don’t knows ‘on’t hurd ‘em. ’Sides, Vinnie’s had it a-coming to hem.”

Herbert shook his head and kicked his stand up. The boys rode together up the hill in silence.

On the south side of Montvale, Aaron struck up conversation again asking about the creepy man on the hill with Herbert. “What-all’s that-there acorn-cracker a-tawkin’ bout to ye’n on the hill, Herbie?” Aaron asked, balancing the journal in his hand. “—yer ‘secret’?”

“I don’t know,” answered Herbert, shamefaced.

The boys continued mostly in silence to the Dolor house. When they arrived, 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-all ‘appen to you twos?” Aaron asked, holding back laughter at the sight.

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

“Well, I reckon this’ll chair you-all up.” Aaron smiled and pulled the journal from around his back, shaking it in joyful pleasure.

“You got the picture?!” Esther asked.

“You got the journal!” Marian cheered.

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

“Yeah, well, ’s best ta get back ta ma Paw-Paw, anyhow.”

Marian huddled over Esther’s shoulder. Full of excitement, she didn’t even realize she was removing the book from her little sister’s hands. She flipped the pages and turned it this way and that, reading the old worn letters as best she could. “This is going to take a long time to read through,” she mused. Subconsciously, her legs carried her to the house while her eyes kept scanning through the brown pages.

“‘ey!” Aaron shouted. “I works harder than a peckerwood to git that-there pitcher!” As he was hollering, Herbert, coming fresh from his shower, met Marian at the front door. “Git backs here wit that thang! I wanna seen whats it sez, twos.”

Marian stopped and examined her surprisingly clean brother. She gave Aaron her attention. “What is the matter?”

“The matter’s that I’m a-only body that’s bean ‘roductive! And nows you-all gonna go off with my booty and not e’en a ‘thankie’ fer me.”

Marian smirked at him. “Fine, Aaron,” said she. “Thank you.”

He gave her a dirty look and thought of giving more. “Fergat it!” He threw his arms down. “It don’t e’en matter!”

“What is the matter?” Esther asked.

“Why are you so upset?” Marian added. “I appreciate you helping us. But I need to study this thing if we are going to find any help. If there is any.”

“Yeah, well, good ridden.” Aaron shouted and started to mount his bicycle.

“Is this because of Vinnie?” Herbert asked, a little dumbstruck and lost in the conversation.

“Whut?” Aaron yelled. “Why-all would I keer abouten that?”

“Sometimes, I feel bad when I—”

“Shets up, Herbie!” Aaron yelled. “I smack the ever-livin’ daylights outta—”

“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; Aaron scowled at Herbert and clenched his jaw.

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

“—Shet 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 whut?” He mocked, throwing his arms like a clown. “You knowed—you kids are dummern heck. You-all wants this journal so bad, but you ain’t gonna tear the stars outta ‘eaven to gets it. ‘Get the journal’, ‘get the journal’, but whenever I gets it, you start sezzin I no good.”

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

“So whut?” Aaron yelled back. “I gots what-all we need. Vinnie’s a rat and a idjet.”

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

“You knowed whut—Take your stoopid book!” He jerked his handlebars backward).“—I ain’t a hurtin’ for you-all. Good luck fixin’ all thishere on yer own!” He kicked the pedal hard and spun down the slope of their yard into the road and out of sight.

Esther turned to Marian indignantly. “Why did you have to be so mean to him?”

“What?” Marian asked, nonplussed.

“He’s been helping us,” she said. “And the only one who has helped us. And now we are all alone again.” She shoved her way past her sister and brother and went inside.

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

Herbert looked down, ashamed, considering the broken piece of the wall he still had hidden away in his bedroom, and unsure if it was all his fault. The Top Hat Man surely made him feel that way, and now he knew someone else knew what he had done.

***

The next morning, clouds rolled heavy from the mountains; the valley was gray and lonely. Frigid and piercing, the air cut behind its wet bluster; it made men wear wool hats and wives shake their heads as they scampered from home to automobile on the way to market. The insects nestled in for another month underground. The corn would have to wait longer to be planted. Farmers kicked themselves for moving their tomatoes prematurely.

Down Bell Branch, the intermittent harsh croak of bull frogs broke the collective murmur of next-door chickens who gossiped like busybody old-maids at a cocktail party; their muddy whispers were frequently interrupted by the distant shriek of a heifer in heat and a responding bull on a separate pasture. A cold drizzle, like the damp summers of Vancouver, dropped from leaf to wet branch until a large puddle formed beneath the Dolor’s poplar.

Marian leaned against it and stared at the tree-line; she was only a few thoughts from letting tears fall down her cheeks, but her anger wouldn’t let her. Her brother and sister sat next to her, listening.

“What a waste,” said she, finishing a thought. They had spent much time, effort, and hope in finding this journal of David Crockett, only to be let down by its nonsensical contents. Barely a word in it about the Pardo Stone or whatever Crockett was doing in this forest; much less about why a gate protected an evidently magical piece of land at their property line.

It contained no more than a few words about Juan Pardo’s Stone. In fact, the majority of the book delved into the strange historical accounts of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula; Cherokee and Mayan drawings and loads about something called the Nunnehi and Chaneques. Marian had stayed up the night before, reading the thing from end to end, and only grew more anxious, tired, and angry with each turning page.

She threw the book across the yard and it landed in the mud several feet from her and her siblings.

“Dad didn’t come home last night,” Esther whispered. “I heard Mom tell Grammy on the phone. She sounded worried.”

Herbert kicked the ground. “You know,” said he, looking at each sister intently. “The Ghost said we were supposed to ‘mend’ this.”

“I don’t know what else we can do,” Marian said, shaking her head and staring at the journal across the lawn.

“Maybe we weren’t supposed to try and figure this out on our own,” said Herbert.

“What do you mean?”

Herbert was at a loss for words. “I don’t know.”

“No, I think your right, Herb,” Esther said, leaning up and straightening her shoulders. “We’ve been trying to solve this with other people and learning what we can. But maybe all we needed to do was walk through that gate and find out what happens.”

“The gate with all the monsters?” Marian asked, mockingly. She clenched her jaw and scanned their resolute faces. “Alright,” she conceded half-heartedly. “Let’s see what happens when we go back to the gate. But if I get eaten, I’m blaming both of you.”

The children picked themselves up and brushed the wet dirt from their pants and sneakers. As they crossed the upward grade to the tree line, it occurred to each individually how simple this may have been all along. But if they were honest with themselves, fear kept them from ever approaching the gate again—the fear of monsters, the fear of failure, the fear of guilt and shame, even the fear of being wrong and imagining all of it weighed on their subconscious each night. It felt better to not look again; to try to prove or disprove a way around all of it. But with no other option, the children agreed that the most obvious choice was the one they should have tried first.

As the maple, walnut, and poplar trees came over them, a blue and sweet-smelling haze fell on their shoulders; the air smelled like lavender and honey, and they recalled what this blue smoke brought with it last time.

Before they could utter a word, the Ghost of David Crockett stood before them, looking as if he were leaning against the stone wall, with his knee pulled up, and his hands playing with the coonskin hat on his head.

The children stuttered aghast, but this time were much less afraid of his existence; the month of twists and turns had all but normalized such a thing as a ghost in their backyard.

“Welcome back, children,” said Crockett. “You still look younger than I remember.”

“Have you been here all along?” Marian asked.

“I may ‘ave been, and I may ‘ave not,” said he. “You’ll never know which t’ be true though.” He smirked at the thirteen-year-old. “Now, you ‘re prepared to enter this forest ’t long last. But first, I must ‘ell you why you enter, and ‘ow I came to be in this place. Please, take a seat over their children. Yes, against the sugar maple, and I’ll recount my tale once again.”
Sticky Situations

Sticky Situations
Chapter 7

Morning brought with it an awful exhaustion, and school, an unbearable anxiety; of course, forcing oneself to stay up all night does little good to a young person’s disposition, but a teacher ignorant of its cause compounds everything. The children were sluggish, sickly and impatient with every subject, considering them inferior to the duty of finding and photographing the creatures around town. Miserably, they drudged through school until the bus hiccuped to their stop and all four tumbled off the steps and onto Bell Branch. The afternoon breeze lifted their spirits with the adrenaline of the mission.

“We-all gots to figger out anew plan,” declared Aaron. “We breck up and try and teck pitchers of each.”

“I suggested that yesterday,” informed Esther.

“You misremembered,” Aaron said flatly. “And dawg me if I keer. Didje gals figger out whut unicorn likes?”

“Well, yes, but—” Marian began.

“Great,” Aaron replied. “You girls’ll gopher the unicorn, and the men’ll get a pitcher of a Cherokee Booger.” He slapped Herbert on the shoulder and winked. “And I knows whar to gets it.”

Marian and Esther didn’t appreciate being bossed around, but they were too tired to argue. Herbert’s face had turned pale; the thought of traveling alone with Aaron ran up his spine like a serpent until he found himself shivering from it.

“Don’t wharry, Herbie,” Aaron assured him with a grin. “Iffen you gets inta trouble, isle look afta ya.”

Reluctantly, Herbert followed Aaron on his bicycle around their neighborhood; the two boys veered and coasted while Aaron informed Herbert about each house’s history. “That-there place’ll give good candy at Halloween,” he said. And, “they’s a dawg madder’n a rattlesnake in a forest-far in that yard”, and “that-there booger-man snatch’d a kid oncet. Stay way from hem.”

The boys entered the trough of two large hills that neighborhood children used for racing; for Herbert it might as well have been Mount Everest. Far up above, he saw the remains of an abandoned quarry filled with forgotten tractors rusting alongside enormous mounds of clay and rock; the county had deserted the project months ago, and the contractor had left the equipment until the funding returned. Aaron scaled the hill at a steady pace, but it exhausted Herbert. He had to stop his bike, defeated, only a third of the way up to push it with his little, shaking arms the rest of the way.

“Sum kids jist ‘an’t make the climb!” Aaron hollered. “Butcha best get movin’ or Barb’ll getcha!”

Herbert squinted his eyes at Aaron blocking the afternoon sun, inquiring who “Barb” was, when he heard a fierce honking and screeching noise at his left hand. He glanced in time to see a white and gray mass of feathers and crescent black beak charging at him from the yard closest; it was a blustering, belligerent Canadian goose, and it certainly did not appreciate Herbert near its house. He screamed as it flung itself at him, the violent bill just missing his face. His short legs scrambled like lightning across the pavement while the bird turned on its orange pins and flashed at him again.

Honk! Honk! The goose nipped his shoes and pants.

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

Sweat swept Herbert’s face; his glasses slipped; he shoved them up his nose with his forearm, and the bike jerked sideways in his tense grip. The bicycle fell; his legs tangled into the spokes; he dropped to his knees, and the skin pealed back.

Honk!

Herbert cowered under the bike frame, holding it above him, peering through the cracks of his fingers, watching the angry black and white bird glaring down at him; its wings widespread; its horrible black eyes glaring.Herbert shrieked. The bird wrenched its neck up and honked at something coming down on the two of them; Herbert felt the sunshine disappear; the bird hissed. Herbert screamed again.

Aaron had jumped over Herbert’s bicycle and slammed his foot into the bird’s abdomen; the goose flailed into the air, honking and screeching until it fluttered to the ground several feet down the hill. It picked itself up and ran back into its keeper’s yard, spluttering and cursing at the boys in defeat. Herbert’s heart pounded in exhaustion and relief; he looked to see Aaron picking up his bicycle.

“Stoopid gander,” Aaron said under his breath. He kicked the stand down on Herbert’s bike and set it upright. “By juckies! Herbie, you ain’t got the backbone of a fishworm.”

“Thank you,” replied Herbert.

“C’mon,” said Aaron.

The two boys made the rest of the climb, slowly, side by side. At its top, the hill banked left off the mountainside down a steep gravel path into the quarry; the contractors had cut the face of the mountain into a moon-shaped crater, a quarter of a mile wide and two hundred feet deep. At its base, miniature mountains of granite, sandstone, and clay 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?”

“This-here’s whar both us gonna prove that Cherokee Booger eggzits,” Aaron replied. He dropped his bike to the ground after removing his backpack from the handlebars; he strapped it to his shoulders and dropped down the side of the hill.

Herbert laid his bike down and sat at the edge, dangling his legs against the loose gravel; the height was vicious, but he knew he must keep up with Aaron, who was already racing along the bottom without him. His feet tapped the loose dirt away and he scooted his butt down the soil. By the time he landed, Aaron was climbing again, up a large embankment of slate and dirt; a crane rested at its peak. Herbert’s anxiety grew as his feet floundered across the clay and dirt; he was trespassing! What’s worse, he was trespassing in a dangerous place with rocks, boulders, rusty metal and sharp edges ready to hurt him at any moment! What would his mother think! And yet, where his fear grew, excitement converged. He was doing something no one had done before—well, not anyone he knew. He found an unknown giddiness in his chest that he participated in something so dangerous and illegal.

He reached the base of the dirt hill, and all his joy left him; the idea of climbing such a steep hill of loose soil and rock shook him, but he knew Aaron was waiting for him at its peak. He wandered the eastern edge of the hill, hoping to find a less frightening way up, albeit slower and less courageous. The far north end sloped downward, meeting the earth like a ramp, which the crane must have climbed. Unfortunately, a wide pit of watery clay separated his way to it. He searched for a dry path through the pit, huffing and puffing across whatever boulders he could find, but the pit grew wider and the boulders smaller; soon, he understood why Aaron had climbed the hill on the steep side.

“Herbieeee!” Aaron’s voice echoed through the construction site and bounced off the mountainside, carrying on a long whine across the valley; he had forgotten about Herbert and worry caught up to him.

“I’m here!” Herbert replied from the pit.

“Kid, you aboutten to dive into shaller water goin’ thataway,” Aaron hollered from above; his goofy expression leaning over the embankment. “Whar ‘re you doing down there?” he asked.

Herbert stared at the embankment and shook his head in frustration. He retraced his steps along the boulders and returned to the southern end for his attempted climb up the mound. It was loose dirt on the surface, but steadier slate lay underneath, making the climb less arduous than he had first believed. After a few grueling minutes, he reached the top, dirty and exhausted, and found Aaron sitting in the crane operator’s seat; he jumped from it as Herbert came over the edge.

“Okay, here’s the ideer,” 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 ‘onna get diked up in this-here mask and go afoot that pond over-yander.” Aaron pointed at a large oily reservoir a hundred yards from the western end of the crane’s hill; a path of stones and plywood made a bridge to its midway. “And yer’n gonna keep put up here and git pitchers wit that-here camera.” He handed Herbert a disposable camera.

“We are gonna cheat?” Herbert asked.

“Good Gaw, yer a poke! I’m fixin’ to slap ya, Herbie.” He shoved the camera into Herbert’s hands. “I needs hep gittin’ the pitcher. I knowed yer sesters ‘ould be a coupla biddy-pecks, but yer worser steel.” Without waiting for Herbert’s consent, he slid down the dirt-hill.

As he watched the figure of the boy race across the quarry with mask and hood in hand, Herbert felt deflated. He was merely a pawn in Aaron’s devilish plan; but for a few fleeting moments, he had begun to believe Aaron had liked him. He sat down in the dirt while Aaron balanced 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—or Cherokee Devil—impression.

Click.

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

“Hello, sir,” a slithering voice whispered in Herbert’s ear. He dropped the camera, and it hit the ground beside a pair of strange-looking pointed shoes.

Click.

Herbert spun round and looked to a see a man, whom he instantly recognized as the stranger he had seen watching his family from afar on more than one occasion. He was tall and skinny, with long, crooked, brittle fingers holding a strong, ornate cane; his shoes were made from crocodile-and-snake-skin, and a black top-hat rested on his thin, pale head. From underneath his hat, a piece of cork stuck out of his right ear. “My name is Mr. Dauer,” the man introduced himself.

“Hello,” Herbert whispered. The man was standing between himself and the crane, and he had a hard time believing the man was there all along; instead that he must have appeared suddenly.

“I gather you are here to fake the photo of the Cherokee Devil,” said Dauer, smiling surreptitiously.

Herbert clenched his jaw, and wanted to scream for Aaron’s help, but suddenly , he doubted Aaron’s desire to come to his aid. Apprehension, fear, doubt, worry, and laziness smothered him like a tight, wool blanket. “How did you know?”, was all that he could muster to say.

“My Herbert, I never thought I’d see you stoop so low as to cheating and lying.”

“How do you know my name?” Herbert asked, his fear growing rapidly.

“Then again,” Mr. Dauer said, “it’s not the first time you withheld the truth. Wasn’t it you that broke open that gate?”

Herbert’s eyes widened. “Aaron!” He shouted.

“Why do you need that boy?” Mr. Dauer asked. “Oh, it must be true, then. You did break open the gate, didn’t you, Herbert? Where’d you hide that little trinket, anyway?”

“I think you should leave,” Herbert whispered with his head drawn.

“That’s cute—trying to sound like your big sister.” Mr. Dauer laughed, and his neck twitched. “I bet that streak of not telling the truth isn’t a fluke 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, goes to places he shouldn’t, and lies to get away with things.”

“Who in the heck-far are you!?” Aaron hollered. His head was popping up over the edge of the embankment, and his hands clambered 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.”

Aaron squinted at the man with one eye open for a moment and then shook his head violently. “Nah, beat it, acorn-cracker,” he said. “Who done ‘vited yer cankered old crack up ear with us?”

“Herbert, of course,” Mr. Dauer said. “We were only discussing his recent descent into loathsome behavior. Don’t worry, Herbert, it’ll be our little secret.”

“Ha! You knowed you gotta face like a mule eatin’ briars? Good Gawd, ye’ns ugly. Mayb’ I oughtta glomb you’n the eye wit my fist ‘nd foot, you ugly acklander. Get away frum Herbie or I’mma ‘onna ‘ave to keel you for no reason a’tall.”

“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.”

“Shoot! Ye’ns all vines and no tater’s. I doesn’t even keer ‘bouten my grades, grampah!”

“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.”

At that moment, the unthinkable happened; the embankment edge below Herbert collapsed. Aaron glanced at him just as the soil came from underneath. 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 but Herbert’s body had disappeared behind a plume of dust and sand.

He had landed in the clay pit. Crimson and black earth ran up his legs like tar; it covered his knees, waist, and sucked his chest into the abyss. He screamed for help and flailed his arms and legs under the thick, viscous sludge, but they would not budge. The fear had come over him now so great that it formed a cloud on his chest; his breath stuttered like a broken locomotive and tears burst from his eyes.

“Herbert!” Aaron yelled as he came through the cloud of dust. “Don’t move, Herbert! I get sumpen to hep!” Herbert was only a few feet away, but out of Aaron’s reach. A two-by-four lay nearby and supplied the necessary length; he put the board in Herbert’s blubbering incoherent face.

“For Pete’s sake, keep your tail in the water, kid!” Aaron hollered in panic.

“What?!” Herbert screamed, confused.

“Grab the pole, Herbie!” Aaron roared.

Herbert opened his eyes and grabbed the splintered wood beam; Aaron yanked with all his might, and Herbert budged toward him, before the wood slit through his palms. He sunk to his initial spot in the succulent clay.

“Gawd bless!” Aaron muttered under his breath. “I’ll be dogged!” 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 free; they rolled on their backs; Aaron laughed hysterically; Herbert wept furiously. Aaron felt bad for his friend and wrapped his arms around the small, filthy boy.

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