Keith G. Alderman

What Comes before Understanding

What Comes before Understanding
Chapter 12

“I saw him!” Aaron wrung his hands and shuffled his feet in front of the billiard table, intermittently pointing his angry finger at the Monster. The amber flickering light hurt his bobbing head. “He’s the one knocked me out in Herbert’s room. Then he took him.”

Marian stepped back from the ominous Monster, held her arms akimbo, and studied him.

“What are you talking about, Aaron?” Esther demanded. “He’s my friend.”

Aaron picked up another billiard ball and tossed it between hands. “Get out of the way, Esther,” he warned. “He’s dangerous.”

“Stop!” Esther held her palms up. “Whatever you are talking about—you are wrong.” She turned to the Monster. “Right?”

The Monster backed into the corner again. The light didn’t catch him, but if it did, it would have shown his sunken face. “My sins are scars all over me,” the Monster muttered to Esther. “And I doubt there’s little hope for me. But maybe.”

Esther searched for understanding on the linoleum floor.

“See!” Aaron snapped. “Get out of the way, Esther. He’s just as dangerous as the trolls. He’s one of them.”

“Ess,” Marian said and took her sister’s hand. “We need to find Herbert.”

Esther clenched her jaw and jerked her hand away. “I don’t care what you say, Aaron!” She put her hands on her hips and stood in front of the Monster. “I would be some witch’s dinner right now if it weren’t for him. He may have done something wrong. But he’s trying to fix it.”

“How do you know that?” Marian pleaded. “Where have you been all night? Has he helped you look for Herbert at all?”

“Well, no,” Esther conceded. “He said it was no use. That we needed to find the right door before we could find Herbert.”

“You see?” Aaron argued. “He’s lying to you! Keeping you from helping us!”

“But he brought me here to you!” Esther shouted. “He saved you from the trolls.”

“Maybe just to get us on his side!”

“That doesn’t make sense and you know it.”

“Everyone, stop!” Marian put her hands out between Aaron and Esther. She looked at the Monster. “What do you have to say?”

Before the Monster responded, something strange happened. Like a slow wave crashing on the shore, a piece of heaven washed over each of them from head to toe. The house felt different, and the air tasted moist and sweet again. A crisp aroma hit their nostrils. The flickering light shone bright and strong. The lull and repetitive song from Professor Ludwig Wolfgang echoed into a distant drone and then disappeared completely. At first, the children thought it was awful and cowered from the change, but slowly realized how wonderful it was and lifted their heads to look at the well-lit ceiling. Their ears shifted backward, and they smiled. Aaron closed his eyes and sniffed. Esther’s fingers paraded in the air above her head like little dancers. Marian’s eyes glanced to every corner of the bright room in wonder.

“What happened?” Marian whispered.

“The song has ended,” the Monster informed.

“How?” Marian asked and couldn’t help but giggle.

“Not all things need an answer now,” the Monster replied. “Sometimes, if we had it now, we wouldn’t be able to comprehend or handle it. It takes our faith before our understanding.”

Aaron shook himself from the trance and frowned. “This doesn’t change the fact that he kidnapped Herbert.” He pointed his finger at the Monster, again. “We can’t trust a word this guy says.”

The Monster ignored Aaron. “By now, Fritz has caught up to us,” he informed dryly. “And with the song finished, the Professor will send everything after you.”

“Where do we go?” Esther clutched the Monster’s hand.

“It’s that time to pick the right door for me, Esther.” The Monster’s stiff bony finger brushed her cheek. “I’ll take care of Fritz. Before he can get to you.”

The Monster’s heavy feet trudged to the door behind him. His stiff, powerful fist banged on the door three times. He sighed, and the room felt smaller as he did. He opened the door. Beyond his shoulders, the children saw a rocky hillside. A storm covered the dark swirling sky and lightning cracked through it like spider-webs, just like outside the Dolor’s home. At the top of the rocky hill was a decrepit windmill set ablaze by a wild fire. Its wooden blades spun in the windy storm and threw ash and sparks over the hill, cliff, and down into the sea. The mill towered above a mob of blood-thirsty peasants armed with pitchforks, shovels, garden hoes, and billy clubs. In front of them was their battalion leader, Fritz, holding a torch in one hand and leaning on his cane with the other. The sight was so awful and terrifying, Esther turned away.

Aaron noticed the bandage over Fritz’s damaged ear and imagined he knew what that ear tasted like. The Monster let go of Esther’s hand and stepped over the threshold onto the rocky hillside.

Esther, noticing he left her side, raced after him. “Wait!” She cried. “What are you doing?”

“This is the only way I know how to make sure you are safe.” The Monster put his hands on her shoulders. “I can’t do it with you. But I can stop him from stopping you. The song is done. And I’ve made sure this door will lead you to where you need to go next.”

“What about the fire?” Esther pleaded.

The Monster stared at the horizon and sighed. He let go of Esther’s shoulders and turned to Fritz.

“Wait,” Aaron cried out. “I know what you did.” He looked at the Monster’s feet. “But I know what you did for Esther, too.”

The Monster looked at Esther. “Thank you for trying to bring beauty into my haunted house, Esther.” He opened his hand before her. Inside was the golden bur marigold, still in perfect condition. “I’ll keep looking for a lake to throw it on one day,” he said.

The Monster put it into his coat pocket and straightened his stiff back. He looked at Fritz and smiled. “You know,” he addressed the children. “My creator said he knew what it felt like to be God when he made me from nothing. But anyone can create something. I think it takes more than that to feel like God. I think it takes dying for the one you love the most. Now I know what it feels like to be God.”

Suddenly, the Monster hunched over like a linebacker and bounded onto the hillside. The children saw Fritz and his army charging the Monster head on, their tools lower in rage, the spinning windmill on fire, and lightning flashing across a torrential storm in the distance. It was magnificent and horrific. The stormy winds blasted the door shut behind him, and the children were alone in the billiard room again. Esther ran to the door and beat her fists against it, screaming in agony, until smears of blood splattered on the door frame where her little hands scraped against it. Tears traced down her cheeks, her body stuttered to the ground, and she fell to whimpering a breathy stammer; the same uncontrollable feeling you get when everything inside hurts so badly, but you can’t control it enough to speak anything more than blurbs and gasps.

Marian knelt at her side and wrapped her arms around her face. “I’m sorry, Ess,” she lamented.

“It’s not fair.” Esther barely got the words out. “He was—my friend.”

Marian shook her head in compassion. “I know, Ess,” she whispered. “But we aren’t out of this yet.” She looked at Aaron, kneeling beside the girls. “We need to take one step at a time until we are.”

Aaron pursed his lips and sighed. He shook his head without words for Esther. He rose to his feet and stepped over the girls to turn the door handle.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Marian cautioned.

“He said it would take us to where we needed to go,” Aaron reasoned.

The door creaked open and, to their amazement, it led into the center of the downstairs hallway. The hall lights illuminated every crack of the passage, passed the kitchen entry and to Mr. and Mrs. Dolor’s bedroom door at the end. It was undeniable now; the piano’s song had stopped.

“The lights are on in the house,” Marian rejoiced.

The light behind Mrs. Dolor’s bedroom door was still on and peeking through the crack in the jam.

“Just like we left her,” Aaron murmured in dismay.

At that moment, the door at the end of the hall creaked open, and the door brushed the hardwood floors. The three children looked down the hallway in amazement to see Mrs. Dolor standing in her nightgown, but seemingly fully awake. “Marian, Esther, Aaron!” She shouted and rushed to meet them.

Esther and Marian raced into her arms and buried their faces in her bosom. They squealed with joy, burst into tears, and exclaimed their love. They hadn’t fully comprehended how much they had missed their mother’s arms until they were wrapping around them once again.

“How did you—” Marian faltered over her words. She looked into her mother’s hand and saw a piece of crumbled yellow parchment.

“I don’t understand any of it,” Mrs. Dolor said. “And I don’t even believe any of it. But I believe you. I have faith in you.”

Mrs. Dolor looked up from kissing her daughter’s faces and met eyes with Aaron. “Come here, sweetie,” she smiled.

Aaron burst into tears and pushed between the girls. He buried himself in Mrs. Dolor’s arms and wept.
Self-help Epidemic

We have an epidemic, and it is far worse than the pandemic from a couple years ago.

I remember when I was a kid, my Little Grandma (our nickname for her) would instruct me to “do unto others as you would have them do unto you”. This rhetoric usually followed me saying something snarky or mischievous with intent to harm some other brat that irritated me at school. Of course, after she soliloquized, I would turn the scripture on its head and vindicate myself with, “Yeah, I’m doing unto him what he done unto me.” She never seemed to understand my brilliant revelation of the Word.

There’s something that started happening in recent years in the westernized Church. Now, I’m speaking broadly, fully aware that I may not be referencing any particular church, and much less your church, or even your own behavior. Nonetheless, I’m bringing up something that I see popping up in more than one place, said by more than one pastor, and foolishly believed by more than one Christian. And what’s even more interesting is that this behavior is riddled throughout American culture. And I wonder who infected whom first?

It all started out okay. There was this pandemic that hit. And everyone went into their cave and got all depressed and forlorn. Some did better than others. But none of that is the point. The point is that somewhere in all this mess, we started hearing more and more dialogue about self-care. And then it started coming from the pulpit like there wasn’t anything else to be spoken about. People were hurting, beaten-up, abused, and forgotten. And everyone needed to know it was okay to cry, hurt, and get help. All that intent is good. And in no way would I suggest that someone asking for help or receiving it is a negative thing. But slowly, over time, we stopped talking about anyone else but ourselves. We started believing that loving ourselves was the most important piece to living a happy life. I’m okay with people looking out for their own well-being. That’s, in a way, being a good steward. But at some point, if all our focus is on ourselves, we are nothing more than textbook narcissists.

And then Mark 12:31 started coming off of our lips. “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.” But the emphasis turned away from loving the neighbor and turned to, “See, you are supposed to love yourself! Why aren’t you loving yourself more?”

Hoo-wee! We’re no better than my seven-year-old self twisting scripture at my grandmother that it’s okay to do unto them what they did unto me.

Pretty soon, we will be following up this verse with “God helps those who help themselves.” (Which, by the way, He doesn’t. God helps those who are humble enough to know they can’t do anything without Him.)

This might sound spiteful. Well then, that’s probably because you need to hear this. Just as I need to hear it. There is nowhere in the Bible that God commends self-love. Self-help always ends poorly. But all throughout scripture, Jesus is challenging us to stop caring about our own personal affairs and look out for someone else. Don’t bury your father; follow me. Leave your family; follow me. Give everything you have to the poor and needy. Give Me something to drink. Do nothing out of selfish intent. Love your enemies and pray for them. And so on and on and on.

My favorite verse on the subject: “The generous will prosper; those who refresh others will themselves be refreshed.” Proverbs 11:25

About ten or eleven years ago, I was the worship leader at TNT Youth Church and Bryan Moore was the youth pastor. We had our Wednesday evening service every week and had about twenty or so adult leaders helping us out weekly. But on the first of the month, our church held a special worship service in the opposite building. All music. All worship. No message. And on that first of the month, about half of the adult leaders would dip out and attend the other service instead of sticking with our kids. I remember Bryan asking leaders if they would be at the youth service to help us with the 100-odd students. And a few of them would concur. Some would acquiesce. Some would say, “Sorry, I just need to go get refreshed.” Meaning, they wanted to go to the worship service instead of helping us with the students.

Now, of course, we were happy that our leaders were going to service. Going to worship God. Heck, isn’t it great that you are a part of this in any way possible? But I remember Bryan saying something that always stuck with me. He turned to me and kinda giggled, “You know, I have found the best way to be refreshed is to actually serve someone else.”

I hope this sentiment pisses off and ruffles some religious feathers who think it’s wrong to think you should serve and act like Martha instead of be at the feet of Jesus like Mary. To which I would reply, “Learn how to worship without a band, lights, and a video screen. You don’t need a service to find time at the feet of Jesus.”

Bryan was right. And I’ve held on to it, too. If you want to be refreshed, go refresh someone else. Now, I’m not saying to be manipulated by someone, or taken advantage of, or suckered into something. Don’t exhaust yourself. Jesus never did that. He pushed himself to his limits and then removed Himself to the mountain to be refreshed. But He also never walked around talking to others about how hard life was and how much He needed some time alone and to be refreshed and that people should stop bothering Him.

Get the focus off yourself and all your necessary space, whatever that means. Start praying for more people, looking them in the eye, and loving the way Jesus did. And you will be refreshed. It’s that simple. Super hard and challenging. But who said this life was supposed to be easy?

Easy = mundane and pointless.

Hard = meaningful.

Go have a meaningful life and stop talking about yourself. I’ll try to do my best, too.

There’s grace where hurts and shame abound. This isn’t meant to butcher your soul. It’s meant to challenge you. And when I open the Word, I see nothing but challenges.

More to come in 2023. Let’s make this year count.

Artemis

Vultures prowl,
    Wherever eagles fly.
Wolves howl,
    Wherever deer lie.
There’s night and day on the wilderness.
    Some may stay; 
    Some may say, 
    “It’s dangerous.”

Cold and shivered;
Hot and blistered.
    This is the scary part of the wild.
Majesty and mastery;
Terror and tyranny.
    For every allure in the wild,
    There’s a snare in the grass.

Bats, snakes, venom, and teeth.
Deer, rabbits, sunshine, and peace.
The wild doesn’t care about your fear.
It wants your blood; it wants you here.

But when the winds finish moving,
    And finally catch your breath,
You see nothing before was living,
    "Inside there’s" only death.
Because out here in the wild,
    Is where things finally get scary.
But out here in the wild,
    Is where life and meaning carry.

Come out into the wild and see,
    The One who haunts your dreams.
She’ll promise to make you laugh,
    Just as much as She’ll make you crash.

The stars parade in brilliance.
The waters erode such diffidence.
The winds will swing in elegance.
The night will crush your pestilence,
    —or is it indifference?—
    —what’s the difference?

Catch the wings of a cardinal’s grasp,
Let go of all you thought you had.
The wild has got you now,
And there’s no turning back.

Almost Supper

Almost Supper
Chapter 11

“Stopp!” Wimbledon thundered. But Thimbledon was storming across the room to Stopp who was on his back and cackling. Thimbledon put his foot on his chest and grabbed his flailing leg. Marian and Aaron’s eyes shot wide open as Thimbledon twisted the leg and ripped it from the joint at the knee.

“And I guess we’ll call you Stoop from now on,” Thimbledon growled at his shrieking brother.

Marian wriggled in her restraints. “Come on!” She yelled in frustration.

“There’s no hope for you, Dolor,” Wimbledon snarled. “There never was.” His hand wrapped around Marian and squeezed like an orange. Thimbledon stomped over to Aaron and opened his mouth around his head. She stopped struggling in Wimbledon’s arms and closed her eyes.

“Jesus, help us,” she whispered.

The door behind the trolls creaked and scratched the linoleum. A heavy footstep hit the ground. A hand wrapped around Stopp’s remaining leg and flung him through the open doorway. Thimbledon roared and charged the assailant. They scuffled on the floor and Thimbledon’s good eye was punched. He tripped and smashed through the doorway. Wimbledon let go of Marian. She opened her eyes. Aaron was stunned, mouth agape and eyes staring. Marian looked forward. A large man, dressed all in black, with a flat head and bolts sticking out of each side of his neck, fought Wimbledon handsomely. His fists pounded into the troll’s face and abdomen. Behind him, in the hall, Thimbledon struggled to his feet and pressed his hands against his bloody face. The raven was there, perched on Stopp’s abdomen and examining him. It cocked its head and stared at Marian before flying out of sight. The Monster grabbed Wimbledon’s long beard and ripped it from his chin. He lifted the troll up from his armpits and tossed him through the doorway. Wimbledon crashed into Thimbledon on the other side of the threshold. Before the trolls could gather themselves, the Monster slammed the door shut and pounded on it with his open hand, three times. He reached down and locked the deadbolt. Behind him, Esther was jumping up and down, cheering. Aaron howled in excitement. Tears streamed down Marian’s face in joy and sudden relief.

The Monster’s rough hands untied the brittle rope from Marian and Aaron. Esther clapped her hands, watching. When her bonds loosened, Marian wiped her tears away and laughed uncontrollably. The rope fell to the ground, and Aaron’s furrowed brow looked the Monster up and down, suspicious of the big man with Esther.

“Esther!” Marian hopped off the pool table and embraced her little sister. “I thought we lost you forever. What happened?”

Esther kissed her sister and spun around in circles. “I know,” she replied. “He saved me! —I’m sorry for going through the door. But yes, he saved me on the other side.”

Marian gazed at the Monster who had turned his back and removed himself from the bright room to a shadowy corner behind one of the bookshelves.

“I know he looks scary,” Esther explained, “but he’s good.”

“Are you sure?” Aaron clenched his fists. “I think I’ve seen him before.”

“He saved me from a witch,” Esther replied, “and got me back to the house.”

Marian shook her head at Aaron and hugged Esther. “Well, if you say he is, then I’m okay with that. How did you find us?” She begged.

“We heard you scream. And those big hairy things yelling,” Esther imitated the troll’s deep voices. “So we came running. Frankenstein—I mean—the Monster helped me.”

Marian looked at the Monster in the corner. She walked over to him and extended her hand. “Then we ought to thank you,” she smiled.

The Monster looked at her hand until the folds on his forehead grew as deep as corn crops. He took her hand gently, and the two stared at one another for a considerable time.

“I’m Marian,” she introduced herself in the awkward pause.

The Monster looked at Aaron leering at him and let go of her hand. Aaron’s jaw flexed.

Marian spun around, remembering what she saw in her parent’s bedroom. “Wait, Esther!” She exclaimed. “I saw you jump out of Mom’s closet. You were with Herbert—and I think Pascal. Where is Herbert?”

“Pascal?” Esther gawked. “Marian, what are you talking about? I haven’t seen Mom all night. And I haven’t seen Herb either. Actually, I have seen no onesince I left both of you at the door. Wait, you went to Mom—”

“No!—I mean, yes—but I saw you jump out of Mom’s closet the second Aaron pulled the bedroom door shut. Just before the trolls captured us. I know I did!”

Esther didn’t know what to say. “Maybe it was another trick from the song. How is Mom?”

“Not good,” Marian frowned.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aaron lamented. “All that matters is we find Herbert. He’s out there and they want him for some reason. This all started with him, and we need to find him.” Aaron shoved his finger at the Monster. “And he’s the one who took him.”

On the other side of his bedroom door, Herbert stepped into a dark pantry. Bushels of rice lay stacked on wine boxes, and flour and pancake mix filled the shelves, towering on each side of him. Sausage links dangled in front of his face like ominous chains from a horror film. Light cracked inside from under an accordion door. Herbert peered through the slats of the pantry entry.

“It’s a kitchen,” He whispered to himself.

It wasn’t his kitchen, though. Instead, it was a gigantic kitchen, like you find behind the walls of a restaurant. White and cream-colored tiles covered the walls and floor. Stainless steel instruments, pots, pans, and countertops hung, lay, rested, and cooked in every direction. On a large island at the center of the kitchen, two stove-top flames heated a pair of enormous cast-iron pots. Steam rose from their boiling water and Herbert smelled an unpleasant stew in the air.

At the helm, a fat cook wobbled around the island and stirred the pots. He scooted through the kitchen with a cigar dangling on his lower lip and puffed black rings into the dank air. The thin, gray hair draped across his forehead looked like old string beans. The fat skin peeking from underneath his undersized clothing both fascinated and disgusted Herbert. It wasn’t skin at all, but a moving amoebic substance billowing around the man’s bones and fat. It made Herbert think of white-water rolling itself down a creek. A ladle bobbled in his back-pocket, which he used often to stir and lick the concoction in the pots.

Herbert waited in the pantry, weighing his options of whether or not to sneak through the kitchen, presuming it to be the way Fritz had exited. The door behind him, leading to his bedroom, was open, and he heard the chamber door, still standing in the middle of his bedroom, creak open wider. Light dodged around the floating door’s edge, and the sounds of a thud and familiar scratching made the hairs on Herbert’s neck stand on end. He kicked himself for leaving the floating door open in his bedroom, allowing anyone or anything to follow.

Herbert glanced back through the accordion door slats, saw that the fat chef was turned away, and slid the pantry door to the side, scampering low alongside the wall. He now saw that the only exit lay on the far side of the kitchen in full view of the chef. Herbert held his breath and scurried to the near edge of the island, just missing the eye-line of the chef. He waited a moment and listened to the chef’s shuffling slippers and grinding teeth chewing at the cigar between his lips. He held his breath and wondered how long he would have to wait before the chef came around this side of the island and found him. Of course, he needed the chef to move somewhat, or else he would see Herbert leaving through the door. But he hoped he would turn away or perhaps go for the pantry behind him.

He shuffled around the edge of the island a bit more. He glanced up and saw a dumbwaiter system in the wall, with its door extended up. The waiter wasn’t in the hole, though. He put his cheek on the tile floor and looked under the island. The chef’s wide feet turned away from his direction and aimed toward the exit. Herbert sat on his haunches and discreetly ran his fingers up the wall to the dumbwaiter. He stood on tip-toe, praying the chef wouldn’t glance back at him, and gazed down the hole.

Surprisingly, he saw his father’s sedan below and guessed the tunnel magically led to the garage in his house. Since being woken and kidnapped, it was only the second room that he recognized, but it confirmed in his heart again that somehow this was all happening in his house. His heart raced, and he imagined himself getting down the shaft, through the garage door and out of the house. Mr. Wayne, next door, could help!

He removed the rope he had retrieved from his closet from around his neck and shoulder, glancing back at the chef while he did it. The chef was at the pantry door, wondering how it was open, shook his head, shut it, and rummaged over to his spice rack with his hands on his hips. Herbert wrapped the rope’s end around the dumbwaiter’s handle. He tried to tie a bowline like Mr. Dolor taught him, but fumbled it twice.

He gave up and tied two overhand knots on each other. The chef was still turned away. Herbert picked the rest of the rope up and flung it down the shaft. He stood on tip-toe and watched it slip down the corridor and land on the sedan’s hood.

A growl erupted from behind the pantry door and startled the chef and Herbert. Herbert slapped the tile and slid against the island. He listened to the chef squeak like a pig and rush to the pantry door. Herbert’s cheek was on the tile again, peeking through the crack. On the far side, he saw the chef’s wide feet and four other paws, one of which protruded a long, single claw. It was the monster from the attic, still pursuing Herbert. His heart slid to his throat, and he held his breath.

“Beat it, you stupid mutt!” The chef shouted and kicked the beast. It growled and snapped at his flying foot. The chef reached into the boiling pot with his wooden ladle and splashed the concoction over the animal. “Scat!”

Herbert was on his haunches, peeking around the edge of the island. The animal’s quills laid down on its silky black back like a submissive dog. Oil drooled between its crooked fangs. The beast rose its nose into the air and snapped its head toward the island, right after Herbert jerked his head out of sight. The animal took a step in Herbert’s direction.

“I said, ‘beat it’!” The chef squealed and kicked the beast’s rear-end. It scurried to the corner of the kitchen, away from the chef’s ladle. “The trolls are having some of the Dolors for dinner,” he said. The chef spoke in the manner people do to dogs and cats that they know cannot understand.

“Dolors,” Herbert whispered to himself and covered his mouth in shock of the unwitting noise. His chest hurt thinking about his sisters caught up in all of this mess.

“I need to make the stew for their sides,” the chef continued to himself. “And you know we’ve got the banquet tonight.”

Herbert crawled to the far edge of the island, facing the exit. He glanced back at his rope hanging down the dumbwaiter. He couldn’t leave yet. Not while knowing that his sisters were captured and going to be dinner for some trolls.

“Professor’s back-up plan is on the stove, too,” the chef muttered to himself and chewed on his cigar. “La Ars Nova tonic, they say—humph.” He looked at the animal sniffing the floor around the island. “I think if it has to get to the tonic, the Professor will lose his job—or his head.” He stopped stirring and looked at the animal. “What you smell, dog?” The chef bent low next to the animal and followed its gaze around the island’s edge.

Here was his chance!

Herbert scampered to the door. His palms pattered on the tile floor like suction cups. But the chef didn’t hear. He pushed the swinging kitchen door open and slid through the crack.

The chef looked around the island at the empty room and smirked. He kicked the beast. “Stupid animal—Get out of my kitchen!”
Making the Most

Resolutions and goals. That’s what people talk about at the start of every year. It’s a kick in the pants for people to lose weight, cut the bad habits, and finally accomplish that dream. But by March, we are back in the routine of yesteryear.

For years, I’ve given the interns in our youth ministry a plan on how to set goals and truly achieve something special each year, and more so to see it accomplished before your eyes. But it dispels of the trivial habits and “goals” we commonly set for ourselves—believing that if we instead change our character, we will achieve far more.

Heretofore are the three goals I set for myself, or rather, base my goals upon so that I see them come to pass, and ones that I have seen form considerable fruit.

The first is to set a physical goal that can be attained or manifested before your eyes. This perhaps is the most selfish of the three goals because it solely exists to make one “feel” accomplished at the end of the year. Regardless, it is wholesome and noble to do so; as working diligent is part of our design. It should be something grand, but not impossible. And only one goal. And make it something related to a dream or occupation. An example would be: “This year, I will publish a book”, or “finish my manuscript”, or “make that website, album, gain such-and-such amount of clients, finally build that chair, barn, or house.” These should be physical goals that, if you put all your effort into, you should achieve. Whether it’s by March of this year, the middle of August, or at the last stroke of New Year’s Eve, 2023. It doesn’t matter when. Just accomplish it so that you can look back upon this year in the next, and smile knowing you gained that dream of yours.

The second is about our relationship with the Lord. All our lives should be centered on the simple cycle of Reading the Word, Worshipping His glory, and Praying to our Father. Yet each of these areas may wane or wax depending on our circumstance, and these things we can attest need to be greater. Instead of chasing after all three, set a goal to foster and bolster one of these areas. And ask the Lord which He believes you should go after. It could be the Word. (i.e. “I will read a chapter of the Gospels a day”, “read the New Testament four times this year”, or “read the entire Bible”). It could be Worship. (i.e. “I will take fifteen minutes out of each day to worship”, “I will learn to play an instrument and sing to my Father”, or “I will set aside three hours, one night a week, to do nothing but sing to the Lord”.) It could be Prayer. (i.e. “I will start and end my day with prayer”, “I will intercessory pray for three hours each week”, or both.) All of these should be dedicated time that is above and beyond your normal routine. The point is that you are giving more of your soul to being alone with the Lord. Thus, you will strengthen your relationship with Him, and in so doing, the other areas will grow as well.

The third is about achieving the character of Christ. We all agree that we suck and cannot live up to His standards daily (some of us hourly). And there are endless characteristics we need to grow in. (i.e. generosity, serving, prayer, laughter, hope, faith, faithfulness, healing, loving others, thinking the best, prophecy, being an intentional parent, and on and on and on.) But instead of feeling helpless to grow in all of them, set your sights on one. Become more generous than you ever have this year. Or serve others more than ever before. Or love others more than ever before.

Instead of trying to rework your entire life, chase after one physical goal, chase after strengthening your relationship with God, and become more like Christ in one area. Odds are you can nail it. And if you don’t—well, what does that even mean? How can you fail at trying to strengthen your relationship with God or becoming more like Christ? I suppose you may fail at “publishing your book”, but that pales in comparison to the former two.

This year, for my family, is a year of “Recharge”. But I’ll give you the Word from the Lord as well, that it might strengthen and inspire you.

It began as a sort of joke from the Lord. I may tell the story of how that came to be another time, but for now, just know that God showed us again and again that batteries around us were dying and it was time for a recharge.

The etymology of the word is very fuzzy because of how the prefix “re” has been watered down for the last six hundred years. But the word “re” was initially a French word (c. 1200) meaning “again; back; anew (different and better), against.”

In a sense, to “return to its original design”, “to birth something new”, and “to prepare for the opposition”. A word that hid in redact, redeem, redolent, redundant, and render. But later was changed in meaning by words like receive, recommend, recover, refer, and require.

Whereas the word charge was initially (13th century) a word meaning “to load, put a burden on or in; fill with something to be retained”, and later in the 16th century “to load a weapon”.

Bringing these words together, I believe God was telling us that He intends to “do again”, “bring us back to our original design” and “load us up” for something “different and better”. We are walking into the future, and in it we will find what was our original purpose.

If that word speaks to you, fantastic. If not, I don’t care otherwise, though I suppose I hope you chase after what He is telling you. Because I know that God intends for you to move forward. Take these steps of writing down and aiming at a tangible goal and becoming more like Him and spending time with Him. Those are noble goals, worth achieving, and able to accomplish. All the other stuff of breaking habits and losing weight will take care of themselves if you aim at those deeper things instead.

Glory to God and enjoy your Twenty-Twenty-Three.

The Lord’s,
Keith

Forgotten

I’m so angry inside 
Too angered to die 
Cos in the flash of an eye 
    Was gone my whole life

I gave my soul to a place 
And my heart to a fake  
But these things were meant to fade
I should never entrusted my heart to this charade
    Instead to Your Name 

I am a cropped image 
I am a cut clip 
I am a hushed tone 
Only a forgotten blip 
They don’t speak of me anymore 
Like the memory of a wicked whore 

All I did was give everything I have 
And tell the truth when no one else had

I want to scream out now 
To yell and fight 
My fists feel tight—or are they light? 
I want ‘o give in to my might 
You wolf, you liar, you thief 
What more am I but a forgotten fief?

Crop me out more 
Lie about my name 
Since the day I was born 
    I’ve only given everything 

And now I’m not even a memory 
    Because a memory would have the honor of being whispered 
Instead I’m the curse 
    That you wish was forgotten 

Into the trash heap with me 
Nowhere else, please
I wish others knew 
This is what happens when they’re through 

Oh, but Heaven knows my name 
My Lord has seen my tears 
God, avenge my soul 
Wipe away all my fears 

Hold me high and not let me die 
Hear me, please, and let me sleep 
I don’t want to give in
I don’t want to give up 
Help me be nothing
    more than your son 
And wherever iniquity lies within me
    Root me out and bleed me 

Hear me, Lord 
See me, Father 
Take my ashes 
    And make something beautiful 
Take my ashes 
    I don’t want them anymore

Castle in the Copse

Castle in the Copse
Chapter 10

“Oh, wait!” Marian’s voice shouted just as Mrs. Dolor’s bedroom door had slammed shut.

Esther sat up on the couch. “Did you hear that?” She asked the Monster.

“I saw them!” Marian’s voice shouted again from deep within the confines and corners of the house.

“That’s Marian’s voice!” Esther jumped from the couch. “We have to go! It sounds like she’s at my parent’s—”

The gong blasted; the Pendulum rattled; the house shook and Esther covered her ears. On the other side of the house, Mrs. Dolor’s door-handle was shaking in Aaron’s hand, and he and Marian were covering their ears like Esther, but about to turn to see three hairy trolls filling the hallway and capturing them.

Esther only now realized that her sister was that close to her, but she, too, was in a predicament. Her eyes drifted up to the Monster who was staring over her shoulder and seemed very agitated. Esther spun round to see Fritz standing under the archway separating the living-room and dining-room; he leaned against his cane and scowled. He had just come back from being yelled at by the Professor and was visibly much nastier.

“It’s time, you oaf,” he growled. “The Professor doesn’t care any longer about you. And I know for certain now that you have defected.”

The ugly hunchback picked his cane up and reached into his pocket for his matchbox. Recognizing his intent, the Monster jerked Esther’s hand up and sped to the little closet under the stairs where the family stored the board-games and blankets. Esther’s head spun round so quick she almost cracked her neck. She didn’t know what was happening, but she saw Fritz chasing, and the Monster pounding his fist into the door under the stairs. Then the door flung wide, and the Monster threw himself and Esther into it. The door slammed, and they were alone.

A crow cawed, scraggly and angry, from the top of a frozen, dead tree and Esther looked up at it, amazed and bewildered. The two were at the bottom portion of a steep hillside in a dead, wintry forest at the end of dusk. Snow kissed its top edge and the forest floor was covered in damp, dreary leaves and soft, melting snow. Thorny thickets and dull rhododendron hugged the steeper edges of the cliff like bizarre jungles, and lazy icicles suspended from their leaves and spikes. The forest was still and quiet, except for the distant chattering of wrens, robins, and crows, and mysterious crunch of a creature’s footstep behind snow and trees.

The Monster and Esther stood on a shelf jutting out from the hill, stamped down by years of deer and elk traffic. Wind blew up the path, and Esther shivered in her nightgown and slippers. The Monster wrapped his arms around her, though they weren’t warm like you’d expect. Nonetheless, they blocked the sharp breeze from getting to her.

“We need to move on from here,” he said, nudging her up the deer path. “Fritz will find us.”

“Why are we running from him?” Esther asked.

“Because he’s a fool,” the Monster explained. “And nothing is more dangerous than a fool trying to impress his master.”

“I’m cold,” Esther trembled.

“I know,” the Monster said.

The Monster and little Esther traveled up the mountainside in single file, the Monster leading and scanning the leafy ground for vipers and the mountainside for wolves. His stiff gait crookedly meandered up and down the rocks and fallen branches. He didn’t care that thorns grabbed, ripped, or tore at his clothing while Esther gracefully dipped and bobbed between the vines’ brittle fingers. The hard incline warmed her, but her nose and ears were numb.

A soft patter, thud, and crunch of snowy earth crossed the mountainside. The Monster froze and Esther stopped behind him. She craned her neck around his hip and watched the quiet mountain. After a few moments, something moved from under a thicket. It crouched low and bobbed in the snow like a spotted cat with strange pointy ears.

“What is it?” Esther whispered.

“A lynx,” the Monster answered. “He won’t bother us if we leave him alone.”

It dropped behind a rhododendron, and the Monster continued upward, back and forth, zigging and zagging, to keep the slope always at their side instead of their backs. Esther searched for the rest of the climb, but never saw the cat again.

As they neared the top, thick powdery snow buried the earth. It crunched under her slippers, and normally the sound would remind her of her favorite cereal. But right now, she couldn’t think of anything but a blanket and fire. She wrapped her arms around her chest and shoulders and counted the steps in her head. At the top, the trees had disappeared and the far side was a long gentle slope of snow and thin, brown grass. In the valley, Esther spotted a black copse, and behind it, an old castle.

“Where are we?”

“Romania,” the Monster answered, flatly.

Esther didn’t know where Romania was, otherwise she would have been more impressed or more frightened. “Why did you bring us here?”

“I didn’t really think of it,” the Monster replied. “It was the first place that came to mind.”

“Frankenstein!” A howl echoed from the valley behind them and bounced for miles off the distant mountains.

“Fritz found us,” the Monster muttered. Before Esther replied, the Monster picked her up in his stiff arms and raced down the opposite slope. Snow splashed up across his legs, and Esther buried her face under his coat. She noticed his chest was cold, nothing like when Mr. Dolor carried her.

The Monster bounded toward the castle in the copse. At the center, the trees dispersed, and the Monster walked again, but kept Esther in his arms. She studied it as the trees opened up. Burns, decay, and earth dismantled much of its glory decades ago. It stood as a remnant instead of sanctuary, and the dim firelight in each window gave Esther a creepy feeling.

“It looks like a haunted house,” Esther looked at the towers and crumbling rooftop.

“The whole world is a haunted house,” the Monster said.

Esther looked up at him, confused.

The Monster stared at the blue moon hanging over them. “Just because everyone acts like it isn’t, doesn’t make it any less true.”

The two stepped under the brick archway and crossed a bridge. The river had dried up early in the season and the watermill no longer worked. Esther peered through the Monster’s arms. The entrance towered overhead.

“Are we going to get back home?” She asked.

“I need to make sure we lose Fritz first,” the Monster answered. “He won’t stop trying to kill you.”

The Monster put her down on the front steps of the castle. She shook, but not from the cold as much as from the ugly understanding running down her spine that she was between Fritz trying to kill her and a scary fortress entrance. Cobwebs and abandoned nests hung from the nooks in its walls and corbels. A colony of bats peeped and screeched above the doorway. The Monster opened the front door and stepped into the darkness.

Esther hesitated. The Monster turned and bent low in the shadows.

“It’s alright,” he said. “The master’s not here. Only the hired hands, and they aren’t near as bad as Fritz.”

“Who lives here?” Esther’s voice trembled. She wanted to be brave, but wondered how long it took until bravery became foolishness.

“This is the Professor’s home.”

Esther’s eyes widened, and she wanted to object, but the Monster grabbed her wrist again. The hair on her arms stood on end and she tried to pull away. But the Monster dropped to his knees, covered her mouth, jerked her into his arms. His mighty arms turned her around and pointed beyond to the slope they had just descended. Along its dim, snowy bank, she watched the precarious bouncing movements of a little man with a cane shimmying down the slope.

“My hope is he thinks I’ll avoid this place,” the Monster whispered. “But my fear is that he will look here first. Rarely do my hopes outweigh my fears. Come.” The Monster led Esther into the dark entrance and shut the door behind them.

Esther felt the air in the unlit foyer and knew it wasn’t a small space. Her breath and slippers echoed along the stone floor.

“Can we turn a light on?” Esther asked.

The Monster stayed silent in the darkness.

She held his hand as he made his way through the dark, around corridors and tunnels, under chandeliers and archways, down steps, and up stairwells. She heard meek whispers in the shadows, and every once in a while caught a glimpse of a light flickering out behind a passageway. But she never saw or met anyone, always following and trusting the Monster knew what he was doing and where he was going.

They entered another room, and she guessed it was as grand as the first one must have been. In the far corner, a single candle flicked and gently fluttered, illuminating the surrounding room. Esther let go of the Monster’s hand and ran to it, but stopped short when noticing the floorboards had rotted through at the center of the room. She tiptoed across the creaky, wobbly boards. Termite dust and wings flitted into the air and dropped through the cracks to the story below them. She balanced her way onto sturdier boards and approached the light. The Monster waited against the far wall, his silhouette nothing more than a black amorphous shape in the shadows.

“Please,” she smiled. “We can carry it and use it to see where we go.”

The Monster didn’t reply.

“What’s the matter?” She asked.

“It will hurt us,” he replied.

“What?” Esther was incredulous. “It’s just a little candle. It won’t hurt anyone. Well, I burnt my wrist with the wax from a birthday candle once, but you get over it quick.”

The Monster took a step forward, drawn into the light, but stuttered, second-guessed it, and quickly backed up like a dog that is hesitant to meet a new person. “No!” He hollered and slammed his fists against the stone wall. “We can’t go near the fire.”

“Okay!” Esther held her palms up. “It’s okay, we don’t need to use it!” She leaned over and blew the candle out. But as she did, a part of her chest ached. The light was so beautiful, but now she had to follow the Monster’s lead through the darkness again. Her hands flopped to her sides in submission. “Now what?”

“I don’t think Fritz came into the castle,” the Monster replied. “And we’ve made it deep enough in that he won’t find our door out.” The floorboards creaked, and she realized his heavy feet must have stepped forward into the darkness and onto the rotten boards.

“Oh, wait!” She hollered. “The floor is no good!”

The Monster didn’t react in time. He stomped forward her and his foot broke through the frail floor. He roared in terror and lurched backward to the stronger footing. Esther leaped across the rotten wood and shoved her little body against the Monster’s. The floor gave way under her, a beam snapped, the Monster reached the stone wall, Esther fell at his feet, a crash, a shriek, a chandelier falling, glass shattering many stories below. The castle echoed.

Esther gasped for air and held the ground under her for several seconds until she felt the courage to reach out her hands and touch the hole in the ground behind her. She felt its edge and gazed below. Cold air swept over her face. Dust fluttered in the moonlight. She silently whistled and giggled uncontrollably.

“Wow!” She flopped onto her back and looked up at the Monster’s dark silhouette.

He stared with a furrowed brow and said nothing.

Something was scurrying in the depths of the hole, knocking around and cursing under its breath. She turned and peered down again, this time with the Monster leaning over her. Below was the short, little gray and white silhouette of Fritz rummaging in the dusty dark. He looked up at them from several stories below and pointed his cane into the air.

“Frankenstein!” He shouted.

“THAT’S NOT MY NAME!” The Monster growled and Esther jumped back in fear. It was the first time since seeing the Monster shove the witch into the oven that he had genuinely terrorized her.

“Give me that, Dolor!” Fritz wobbled on his cane to the stairwell and ascended the steps.

“Get back,” the Monster whispered.

Esther backed against the stony wall. The Monster thundered to the entrance of the room. He slammed its wooden door shut and began pounding on its center.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

He flung the door wide, and Esther heard the piano’s song humming from her house again. In front of them was the downstairs hallway between her mother’s room, restroom, and study. The amber glow of flickering lights and dusty air filled it. She smelled the nasty, stale stench of urine and mildew again. At first she smiled to see her house, but it faded to repose when she remembered the ugly state it was still in.

“Stop!” A large gravelly scream echoed from the downstairs hall and frightened her.

“What was that?” Esther held the Monster’s hand and looked up to him.

“Sounds like one of the troll brothers,” he replied.

“Come on!” Another voice shouted back at the troll.

“That’s Marian’s voice!” Esther yelped. “We’ve got to help her—Quick!”
A Short Message

Sin is defined as dishonor.

The one who dishonors will himself not be honored.
And the one who is dishonored will himself be honored by his Father in Heaven.

I’m reminded of Jesus and, specifically, the pain He must have felt remaining silent among so much hatred and dishonor while on trial before Pilate. He laid His life down and was quickly turned on and ridiculed. And that honor, or dishonor really, just rings in my heart like a powerful gong. It reminds me again of how we need to push ourselves to honor others more whether they “have earned” it or not.

Honor is not earned. It is given. Regardless of the person or accomplishment. It is about looking beyond the person in the present circumstance and seeing them as Christ sees them. And in that honor, we will see people become what God has called them to be.
In the Billiard Room with the Cue Ball

In the Billiard Room with the Cue Ball
Chapter 9

The hallway slid beneath Marian’s feet. The troll’s enormous hand wrapped under her arms and bound her mouth shut. Its brother held Aaron in a similar fashion. There was no use struggling; each ogre towered six feet over them. Marian fought to see through the hair draped in her face.

A door opened, and each troll took turns squeezing through. Stopp, the one wearing monstrous glasses, went first, followed by Thimbledon holding his club and Aaron in each arm, and Wimbledon, the bald one, dragging Marian. The room was dressed like a lounge—long, indulgent red curtains draped across three wide French-cut windows and separated by four masculine, wooden book-shelves covered in books and board games. Esther would have loved to see all those books—old and new binds with cracking pages, colorful designs, and smelly burnt parchment. On the outside of the windows, opposite one another in the room, were two cushy green chairs with end tables for someone to rest and read. At the center of the room was a gold and green billiard table fixed under a glamorous, bright ceiling light. The billiard balls were scattered across the top like someone was recently playing and solids was winning.

Thimbledon threw Aaron across the room. He flailed over the floor and smashed into the side of the billiard table. His rib cracked against the table leg, and he coughed a fit on his hands and knees. Wimbledon let go of Marian, and she rushed to Aaron’s side.

“Not much on them,” Thimbledon growled.

“Must not have eaten their meat,” Stopp replied. His voice was high and shrill compared to the deep growl of his brothers. He slunk next to Thimbledon with a wry smile, looking over the children.

“Shut up, Stopp.” Thimbledon shoved his younger brother against the wall. He looked at the oldest Wimbledon and said, “You promised they were worth it.”

“I promised nothing,” Wimbledon sneered and lifted his long nose at him. “The raven’s message told us to get the Dolor children.”

“Actually, she’s the Dolor,” Aaron said, wincing in pain and sitting up on his haunches. “I’m just Aaron.”

“Justaren?” Stopp cackled. “I wonder how those taste!”

“Great,” Wimbledon complained. “We were supposed to grab Dolors.”

“What does it matter?” Thimbledon argued. “The raven said the ones outside of the mother’s bedroom. That’s what we did.”

The troll brothers argued back and forth while Marian lifted Aaron off the ground. “What do we do?” She whispered.

Aaron grabbed the edge of the billiard table and steadied himself. “What can we do?” He asked, and she noticed he palmed a ball from the pool table. He locked eyes with her and raised an eyebrow.

Marian shook her head “no” at him and jerked it toward the trolls. “Why in the world would you want to eat a couple of kids like us?” She hollered and threw her hands up like a stage actor, stepping in front of Aaron. “After all, there’s barely anything on us. Might just as well—eat some string beans!”

“Ugh! I hate beans!” Thimbledon growled and rubbed the club in his hands.

“You know soaking beans brings them back to life.” Stopp tapped his nose at his brother. “So we can drown the kids after we eat them and get seconds.”

“That’s not what that means,” Wimbledon hollered.

“Stop it, Stopp,” Thimbledon threatened. “You’re just trying to irritate us.”

“I never dreamt of exasperating—”

“Shut up, Stopp!” Both trolls yelled.

“If we didn’t get the right Dolors,” Wimbledon thought aloud, “—maybe we shouldn’t eat them.”

“Poppy-cock!” Thimbledon interrupted. He stormed to Wimbledon’s side and brandished his club in the air. “Who cares about these two maggots? It’s not the Dolor boy, and he’s the only one that’s off-limits.” The club smacked his open hand. “If he’s not the Dolor boy, and she clearly isn’t—I say it’s high-time we eat.”

“There’s no higher time for eating than lunch on a mountain,” Stopp quipped.

“Stopp,” Thimbledon thundered. “Mother ain’t alive anymore to keep you likewise. It’s about time now you grow up instead of down, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Stopp clenched his jaw, but a smirk escaped his pursed lips with a dumb expression like a clown.

“Alright,” Wimbledon said. “Tie ‘em up.” Thimbledon reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of rope. It looked like floss in his gigantic palm, but was enough to tie up each child. He stepped toward them.

“Wait!” Marian screamed, and for a moment Thimbledon paused, dumbfounded. “How about you let us go, and we never come back?”

Thimbledon looked at his brothers, perplexed and second-guessing himself because of Marian’s forthright demeanor. But in a moment, he snapped out of it, shook his head, and his raggedy hair flowed every which way. “I haven’t eaten in weeks,” he grumbled. “And you’re on the menu.”

“Psst! Wimbledon,” Stopp whispered. “Were we given a menu?”

Wimbledon rolled his eyes.

Thimbledon approached the children and reached out his hand for Marian. Aaron took a deep breath and put his hand around Marian’s wrist. He jerked her out of the way and swung himself forward. His right arm came around him like a pitcher, and the billiard ball flung from his hand.

It shot like a bullet into Thimbledon’s right eye. It was small enough to dig itself around the socket and lodge between his frontal lobe and eyeball. He screamed in horror and the roar shook the room like a rocket launch. Blood and yellow puss spurt into the air and splattered across the floor like wet paint.

Marian covered her mouth as the hairy giant crashed back and forth in the room. He smashed into a bookshelf and scattered books and board game pieces everywhere. Then a table smashed under his weight and went splintering into the air and across the floor.

Aaron took a breath, braced himself for the pain in his ribs and chest, clenched Marian’s hand, and pulled her behind him. He was charging for the door. He squeezed past Stopp, who was doubled over laughing at his brother writhing on the floor. Aaron reached for the door and turned the handle. But Marian’s wrist fell limp in his grip. He whipped around and froze. Her petrified eyes shook from under the heavy grip of Wimbledon’s hand. His fist engulfed her small head. Aaron looked up at the troll. His menace and quiet growl were threatening Marian’s life. Aaron let go of the door handle and stared up at him, flexing his jaw and listening to Thimbledon thrash around the room behind Wimbledon.

Wimbledon’s fist came down, gripped the boy’s shirt in his mighty hand and flung him across the room like a rag-doll. Aaron slipped in Thimbledon’s blood and slid to a stop under the pool table. Wimbledon picked Marian up by her shoulders and glared in her face.

“Got any more tricks, Dolor!” He yelled. “Or should I rip your limbs off one-by-one right now?”

Stopp cackled in the background as Thimbledon held his eye shut and composed himself. Long streams of blood dripped down his face and hand. Wimbledon carried Marian to the pool table and sat her on top of it. He picked the rope up off the ground and tied it around her waist and arms. She kept quiet while his heavy eyes peaked through the long hair and studied her.

After he tied her, he reached under the table and grabbed Aaron’s leg. Aaron squirmed and fought like a fish caught on a line. Wimbledon slammed him onto the tabletop and he gasped for air. He tied him up with the rest of the rope next to Marian.

Thimbledon sprung up from the ground. His one eye stared at Aaron and his chest rose and fell with ferocity. “Do it, Wimbledon!” His teeth ground together and blood bubbled out of his lips.

“We need to thinks about this a bit more.” Wimbledon held his hand up at his brother. “No use jumping to action when the Professor could get angry.” Thimbledon looked at him, shocked.

“Well, just think of it like this, Thimbledon,” Stopp butt-in. “We can get you some sheep, and you can live happily on an island as a cyclops.”

“Stop it, Stopp,” Wimbledon warned.

Marian looked back and forth between Stopp and Thimbledon, getting an idea. “You know you may be right, Stopp,” she added. “After all, it’s not like he’ll ever be able to ride a bicycle now. Much less drive a car.”

Stopp looked at Marian, before thinking about it for a moment and then bursting out in laughter. “Just imagine!” He howled. “The stupid brute is gonna bump into everything now that he can’t see his right side!”

Marian smirked. “And—and he’ll wear one of those silly eye-patches like a pirate!”

“Captain Thimbledon!” Stopp spat. “Have to get him a funny hat and peg-leg. Hey, Thimbledon, you can walk around with the Professor’s raven on your shoulder!”

“Stop it, Stopp,” Wimbledon warned. “Mother’s not around anymore. And this isn’t funny.”

“I bet you make it only a week before everyone is calling you Blackbeard.” Stopp fell onto his back, kicking his feet into the air. “Or Red-beard! We can dye your hair, Thimbledon!”

“Stopp!” Wimbledon thundered. But his final warning was too late. Thimbledon stormed across the room to Stopp. He put his foot high into the air and brought it down hard onto Stopp’s chest. Stopp didn’t realize what was happening before Thimbledon grabbed his kicking leg and gripped the calf in his arms. The children gaped as Thimbledon twisted Stopp’s leg, snapped it at the knee, and ripped it from the joint. The bones cracked and blood burst from the open wound. Stopp screamed and grabbed at the squiggling nerves inside of his knee with his fist. His shrill voice sounded like scratching chalkboards.

“And I guess we’ll call you Stoop from now on,” Thimbledon growled and took a bite out of his brother’s severed leg. “Haven’t eaten in weeks,” he whispered and dropped the appendage onto the ground next to Stopp. His eye looked up at the children.

Aaron’s mouth fell open while Marian wriggled in her restraints. “Come on!” She fought in frustration.

“There’s no hope for you, Dolor,” Wimbledon hollered. “There never was.” His hand wrapped around Marian and squeezed her like an orange. Thimbledon stomped over to Aaron and opened his mouth around his head. She stopped struggling in Wimbledon’s arms and closed her eyes.

“Jesus, help us,” she whispered.
The Man behind the Curtain

The Man behind the Curtain
Chapter 8

The door on the attic floor flung open, and Herbert fell forward. The creature prowling in the attic had scratched his back, and the door slammed shut behind him. He thought he would be falling on his sister and Aaron when he heard their voices through the floor, but they were nowhere to be found. And just like the attic, nothing seemed familiar, so he assumed he was in a very different building.

He picked himself off a cold, creamy, cobbled floor and rubbed his wrists where the ropes had grooved into his skin. Dried blood and vomit were stained on the front of his clothes. He touched his back where the creature had scraped him and it stung. He looked up, but the attic door had disappeared. Remembering the monster nearly got him, he shivered and sighed. In all the bustle, he had left his glasses on the floor of the attic. He squinted his eyes and looked down the long hallway. White mortar outlined the creamy stones up the walls and ceiling. Lanterns lit the hall to a blurry wooden door fifty feet ahead. He couldn’t see well, but he guessed he was in something like a castle.

“Where am I?” He murmured to himself.

He stumbled toward the door, hoping to find water because he was parched, but stopped short after hearing voices on the other side. His ear pressed against the door. Three men spoke inside.

While he tried to make out the voices, he noticed a thin passage to his right, wandering down to a dimly lit iron door. He staggered down to it and put his ear against it like the other wooden door.

Silence.

He nudged it open, and the door creaked. It was a smoke-smeared dungeon. Chains hung from the ceiling with iron locks at the end for securing a prisoner’s wrists and ankles. In the corner was a large washbasin filled with water. Herbert fumbled to it and dunked his face in. He drank all he could handle and came up gasping.

The water soaked his shirt and cleaned his face and clothing off. He fell to his knees, exhausted, and started weeping. But no matter how many tears you have inside of you, you must stop at some point and realize crying doesn’t really change anything—though it surely does feel good sometimes. He wiped his tears and looked around the dungeon again. Across the room, nearest the door he entered, a large red velvet curtain hung from the ceiling to the floor. It was several inches thick, and he could tell it separated the dungeon from a larger area on the far side.

He scooted along the stone floor. Now that he had his drink, he remembered he should try to stay silent. He pressed up against the curtain. The voices of the three men came through it, dim and muffled. Herbert’s hand crawled along the fabric and searched for a seam. He pulled the curtain, keeping the light off his face, but letting his eye peek through.

He was right in his guess. The other side was a much larger room with the same cobbled floor and creamy stone walls. Iron swords, flags, and oil painting decorated the walls. Candle chandeliers hung from the ceiling and dripped wax onto the floor. He craned his neck backward and pitched the curtain outward to see farther to his left. Two men were standing with their backs turned to Herbert. Under their feet, a long burgundy carpet led up a set of stone steps to a throne. On the throne sat a thin pale man, wearing a black suit and resting his hands on top of a cane. He wore crocodile-and-snake-skinned shoes. A top-hat rested on a pedestal next to him. In his ear, a piece of cork clogged his ear because oil and wax would drain out of it otherwise.

“Mr. Dauer,” Herbert whispered to himself.

“No, I don’t care about the mother,” one of the men yelled at Mr. Dauer, and Herbert recognized his voice as the Professor’s. “She knows nothing, and her demure temperament makes her useless to me. Maybe he could help with it. But not even my song can get through that.”

“I don’t expect the mother to be a part of the story for very long, regardless,” Mr. Dauer responded and tapped his cane.

“What I want to know is why hasn’t my song affected the children!” The Professor hollered. “Something is protecting them, and you didn’t brief me well enough for this!”

“Please, don’t talk to me like you are in charge,” Mr. Dauer responded coolly. He took a breath and leaned forward. “The ghost had them drink from the spring. Their hearts are impervious to your song.”

“Well, if you told me that before I got here,” the Professor remarked, “I would have just taken the boy from the home altogether. No use locking us down to this location if I’m on a time-limit now. This isn’t my fault—”

“It is your fault, Wolfgang!” Mr. Dauer raised his voice, and the hairs on Herbert’s neck stood on end. “I want that artifact, and I want it yesterday!” Mr. Dauer brought his attention to the other man. “How much time longer does the Pendulum have?”

The other man raised his head and looked at Mr. Dauer. He spoke, and to Herbert’s shock and horror, he realized it was his father. A pit formed inside Herbert’s stomach and made him want to throw up again. Tears rushed to his eyes, and he looked all over the room, confused, gasping for understanding.

“Every minute and moment it grows quicker,” Mr. Dolor spoke. “You do not have, but a handful of chimes before the Pendulum resets.” From the sound of his voice, Herbert knew something was still intoxicating his father like at dinner.

“You have five chimes left,” Mr. Dauer scowled at the Professor. “Get the artifact from the boy, or so I swear it—I will forsake you to this place forever. All the doors will shut to you.”

A knock banged on the door, the same wooden one just outside Herbert’s iron door.

“What?!” The Professor screamed, and Herbert stuck his face through the curtain a little further to see. A short man with wild hair, a hump on his shoulder, and a bandage around his ear bumbled into the chamber, with his head down and looking altogether meek.

“Fritz!” The Professor hollered at him. “What do you want?”

“Begging forgiveness, masters,” Fritz whined. “But I don’t think we can trust all our allies.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I threw out that Monster after he bungled the boy’s kidnapping and didn’t kill the other one.” Fritz explained.

Aaron, Herbert thought. He’s okay.

“Now he’s back with one of the other Dolor children. I think he’s telling her things.”

“I don’t have time for your presumptions or petty differences with the Monster—”

“But sir, the clock keeps chiming!” Fritz argued. “I imagine we don’t have time—”

“How dare you talk to me about my plans!” The Professor screamed. “Get your sniveling little dirt face out of Mr. Dauer’s chambers or I’ll throw you in the dungeon myself!” (Herbert slunk back as the Professor pointed his direction.) “If the chime keeps ringing,” the Professor continued, “we will increase our tenacity. Even if it means those other Dolors perish.”

“What of the Monster and the girl?” Fritz asked.

The Professor looked at Mr. Dauer on his throne. He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. The Professor looked back to Fritz. “I’m sure you can figure it out,” he said.

Herbert didn’t know what that meant, but didn’t like it. A familiar knock rapped on the wooden door—Tap, Tap, Tap—And Herbert craned his neck to see.

The Professor stepped passed Fritz and opened the door. The black raven fluttered inside and rested on his shoulder. It leaned its beak into his ear, as if whispering.

“Thank you,” the Professor said. He turned to the other men. “It seems two of the children have found the mother’s quarters.” The Professor responded to the Raven on his shoulder, “Have Wimbledon, Thimbledon, and Stopp take care of them.”

The Raven’s wings thrust open, and it zoomed out of sight. The Professor thought he saw the velvet curtain flutter and looked toward the dungeon. But he assumed he was imagining things and returned to Mr. Dolor and Dauer at the throne.

“In between a minute and a moment,” Mr. Dauer mused, deep in thought. “Get the artifact before time corrects itself, Ludwig. You won’t have your friends after that. Not even your song will help you then.”

“And you—” Mr. Dauer looked at Herbert’s father. “Get back up there to the Pendulum and the boy. Make sure the chupacabra hasn’t killed him yet.” Mr. Dauer looked at the ceiling chandelier. “I want my Pendulum safe.”

Fritz opened his mouth to say something, but noticed the men had already forgotten about him. He turned away as Mr. Dolor exited with him on his way to the attic.

“Dolor children,” Mr. Dauer whispered to himself and rolled his eyes.

Herbert jumped to his feet. This was his opportunity. If that little man without the ear knew where one of his sisters was, he could lead him to her. He crawled along the stone floor and creaked the dungeon door open. Both men passed in a flurry as he hugged the edge of the shadows in the small corridor.

He turned back into the corridor of lanterns, keeping as much as thirty feet of shadows and flickering candlelights between him and Fritz and his father. At the end of the hall, two pathways led in each direction. Fritz scampered to the right. His father turned toward the left, but stopped short for some reason. Something in the air had caught his attention. He turned around and looked Herbert’s direction. Herbert dropped to the ground and pressed his body against the stone wall, hoping the candlelight was dim enough. Mr. Dolor scanned the hall like a hunter. They locked on Herbert, but he couldn’t be sure without his glasses if Mr. Dolor had seen him. Herbert held his breath and closed his eyes, praying for the power of invisibility. The zombified man sniffed the stale air and shook his head. He turned away and vanished down the left hall.

Herbert’s legs felt like jello and his hands shook as he slithered to his feet. He took a deep breath and scurried down the rest of the hall before taking the right. Fritz was much further ahead, a hundred paces down, scuttling along quickly. Herbert slowed down and took a breath when the hunchbacked man stopped at a wooden door.

Fritz slapped his hand on the center of the door three times and opened it. Amazed, Herbert saw his bedroom on the other side of the threshold. Fritz stepped into the dark bedroom without a thought, and Herbert raced after, tip-toeing and pitter-pattering.

He caught the door just before it swung shut, but held it nearly closed. He peeked inside. The bedroom was empty. Fritz had already left. Herbert jumped inside, looking around his dark bedroom and letting himself take a breath. It was amusing to see a door standing upright in the middle of his bedroom, leading to a medieval hallway. He decided to leave the door open in case he needed to go back there for some reason.

He hurried around his room at breakneck speed, ripping his clothes off his body and pulling fresh ones from his drawer. An old pair of glasses were in his top drawer, next to his collector-cards and coin collection. His mother made him keep them for emergencies. They were tight on the nose and not the right prescription any longer, but they were better than nothing. He put on socks and boots and shoved his Gerber knife in his pocket.

Next, he opened the closet door and picked up a length of rope from the floor. Dad had bought it for him. They were going to make a swing set in the tree-house next week. He shook his head, wiped a tear away, and threw the rope over his shoulder. The flashlight was waiting on top of his desk for him. He snatched it up and made way for the door.

“Oh, wait!” Marian shouted.

Mrs. Dolor’s door shut. Marian and Aaron stood in the dark hallway.

“What?” Aaron exclaimed.

“I saw them!” Marian grabbed Aaron’s hand. “I saw them, Aaron! Herbert and Esther!”

Aaron and Marian stood outside of Mrs. Dolor’s bedroom door. He reached for the handle and it vibrated in his hand. A chime rung throughout the house and the children covered their ears.

“Ugh!” Marian winced. “What is that?”

The noise dissipated. Aaron put his hands down and reached for the handle again.

“Hello, Dolor children,” a voice that sounded full of peanut-butter greeted them.

They turned around to see three enormous creatures filling the breadth of the hallway. Long, wispy hair covered their bodies from top to bottom. But the center one was bald at the top of his head. They had long, bumpy noses that protruded through their hair and deep furrowed brows underneath. The fat one on the left wore big round glasses that held his hair close to his face, and the one of the right carried a long club over his shoulder like a tennis player. They were trolls and the one at the center had greeted them.

“I’m Wimbledon,” he said. “And these are my brothers, Thimbledon and Stopp.”