Authors: Don Hurst
"Ready to turn the other cheek, runt?” His entourage giggled a nervous chorus of waiting-for-the-fight sniggers. “I thought you were going to bring your sister."
"Leave Vicki out of this,” Paul shouted. Brave words, as he prayed for the inner strength to stand his ground. “She's only eleven."
"And, oh-so-smart, huh, runt? Find it hard to keep up with her, do you?” Buster smirked as he pressed his ham-like fists into his side and pushed his jaw forward in another invitation to trade punches. He loved having the upper hand and played the game as if no other outcome existed. “Feel free to take a freebie.” He laughed in a fake menacing chortle meant to mock.
A girl said, “Leave him alone, Buster. He won't fight."
Paul thought about what his dad might do in such a predicament. Couldn't anyone see the illogic of a skinny kid trading punches with the largest guy in junior high? A football player. Paul could be on the team if the coach would let him. He could outrun any of them.
Buster taunted, “You a coward?"
The group around Buster became silent. The question deserved an answer, but what did it matter? He'd never impress anyone in Buster's congregation. Paul looked into Buster's face wanting to be silent, yet unable to trap his defensive wisecrack. “Why, yes. Yes I am.” Paul turned and walked away, like a toreador turning his back on the bull. He waited for another wallop and the light show in his head which would follow. This time he would stay on his feet.
He heard laughter and turned. Buster and his group of disciples didn't follow. Paul forced a smile. Buster stood with his cannonballs still unfired, looking stupid and hateful.
A woman's voice assumed a leadership role in his mind, mean as a teacher demanding homework she knew he didn't have.
If you sky journey, death awaits. You saw my boy, next time he will kill you.
The sun dipped below the horizon to hide, leaving behind its glow. Paul thought about his day as he opened a tin of cat food outside. He had handled bully Buster, didn't he? His way, didn't he? Why then did he hear the alarming woman's voice threaten him? What did it mean? He didn't have a clue. It had to be his imagination, right?
His black cat impatiently waited for Paul to remove the lid, as always. Paul ran his hand over its long hair and gazed into its yellow eyes. Its left eyelid was partially closed, a wound from a midnight catfight. Around the damaged eye a white patch of hair gave the cat the appearance of a feline pirate. Paul had named the cat, Isno Gravity, over two years ago while watching him leap onto a fence. Isno usually purred at the mention of his name, attempting to show his appreciation, except at this moment when his purr indicated his mind centered on his meal.
"Isno, you're a fighter. What would you do if a super nasty voice told you if you sky journey, death awaits? Would it be fight or flight time for you?"
In his memory he heard the woman's voice again, gnawing, abrasive, yet having a quality of a trapped animal coloring her words.
If you sky journey, death awaits. You saw my boy, next time he will kill you.
Surely this voice must he his own invention playing a sick game inside his head, not content with his successful escape from Buster. Why wouldn't it be Principal Panion's voice congratulating him on taking care of the situation? No, this voice surely imitated a wicked witch in a movie.
Isno purred, as he always did when he accepted Paul's daily food offering. His human wouldn't have to be bothered with the feeding if the meal didn't come captured by the metal thing surrounding it.
"Well, at least you give me a purr. Very puzzling day, Isno. Think I'll go talk to Sis about it.” He stood and walked back into the house, fully aware Isno had his mind on eating the Tuna Fish Delight-Cat food of Cat Lovers.
Paul climbed the stairs to visit with his sister in her bedroom. He knocked on her door lightly. “Sis, can I come in?"
"Enter, my king,” came Vicki's voice, closely followed by a wonderful laugh which ended in a giggle. She closed her book and listened to her older brother's tale of bully survival.
Vicki would graduate from Morris Junior High and go on to Morris High at age twelve, only a grade behind Paul, despite being two years younger.
Paul knew other brothers and sisters often got on each others’ nerves and fought on occasion. He and Vicki seldom did, partly because he always thought of himself as her protector, her king.
"I feel funny about it,” Paul said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “It's like I told a joke and they all laughed... only I didn't tell a joke. I just admitted I didn't want to trade punches with a guy twice my size."
Vicki's blue eyes were alive and shiny. “You simply refused his challenge, Paulie.” She smiled. “I think most of us would have tried to argue about being called a coward. You decided not to play his game. Oh, I wish I could have been there.” She clapped her hands together and held them close to her chest.
"Dad says I have to face my fears straight on. Sometimes it's like he wants me to close my eyes and charge ahead no matter what I'm attacking."
"He tells me the same thing."
"You know, guess I should've mentioned this yesterday, but I didn't want you to think I'm crazy. Anyway, at the schoolyard I thought I caught a glimpse of a boy standing off to the side. When I looked around there was no one there. And I think I recognized him.” Paul hunched his shoulders in the universal sign of puzzlement. “Had green eyes. My imagination?"
"You remember what dad tells us. Imagination can feel real.” She laughed, which made Paul smile.
"I really thought I saw him. Then today I heard this voice inside my head, Sis. A real one. So darn mean she had to be some kind of witch.” He looked at Vicki's face, hoping she would understand. “I'm sure it has to be the kid I thought I saw yesterday. I remember his green eyes most of all. And thinking I've seen him before even though I didn't really see him. The whole thing was weird. Like—"
"What did the voice say? Exactly."
Paul had no problem reciting the exact words, but couldn't imitate the vile tone. “If you sky journey, death awaits. You saw my boy, next time he will kill you. That's word for word, Sis."
"That's terrible! Sky journey? Are you planning to fly somewhere? I guess you'll recognize the boy if you ever see him again."
"That's the point. Like I said, I didn't get a good look at him. Guess I'll worry about it if we find out we're going anywhere on an airline."
She giggled. “Paulie, I think they should give us a discount if we're going to die."
Paul didn't think this a bit funny. He understood Vicki hadn't heard the gut-wrenching voice and had no way of knowing it had permanently attached itself to the inside of his head where it could chew and digest him from the inside.
But, he left Vicki's room smiling. He understood his day better now; something neat Vicki could almost always help him to do.
As the hours drifted into evening, Paul once again tapped on Vicki's door.
"Enter, you maker of door noises."
Easing into the dimly lit room, Paul made a slight bow. “Goodnight, my Queen. May the bedbugs safely fly you through the night."
"I expect your nose to scrape the floor when you bow to your queen,” she joked. “May you rule over your dreams, my king."
She giggled as they celebrated their nightly ritual. Paul felt good as he left Vicki's bedroom. The short nightly visit gave him an inner peace which would hasten his own sleep.
His slumber was fitful, ruled by someone beyond his control; an attacker of harmony and creator of turbulence. Down it swooped, its victim eleven year-old Vicki Sue Winsome. In Paul's nightmare, the monster stepped in front of Vicki's bed.
"Who are you?” Paul demanded of the monster form.
"Claude Nab. I gather young girls, if it's any of your business."
"You jest,” Paul said with as much dream courage as he could muster.
The growled answer sent a chill through Paul. “I
in
gest."
The dark form hovered over Vicki. It shoved a thick, black, hand the size of a tabletop beneath his sister and lifted her sleeping form. It snarled in a cross between a victorious cheer and a growl to ward off any attempt to stop his kidnapping. Vicki kicked and tried to scream, her fear leaving her without voice. The huge apelike creature soared away and disappeared into the darkness of night.
Paul's eyelids flew open. He tossed back his covers, jumped out of bed and raced to Vicki's bedroom. His heart thumped as he held his breath and pushed her door open. She slept, her mouth slightly open, peaceful and safe. He quietly lowered his body into the overstuffed chair near the window, grinned at his stupid dream folly and watched his sister breathe.
He relaxed. The day's events flashed like comic book pages; each a 3D movie.
What a stupid dream
. The hairy ape became bully Buster trying to climb his plastic-covered rope snake in the gym, his mammoth arm muscles bouncing his sister up and down as if on a trampoline. He rode inside an airliner which evolved into a cloud. A dream is but a dream, isn't it? His imagination danced across the night stage and his subconscious grappled for an answer. Soon sleep allowed the nightmare to drift into that place where dreams hide upon awakening.
Unknown to Paul, the day before an old man stood in the outskirts of Morristown Forest, shielded from the early morning mist by an umbrella of tree foliage. The bony fingers of one hand gripped a glass jar held at arm's length toward the inner forest. With his other hand he pointed at the jar. Inside a brilliant sun-yellow light flashed into existence. The illumination forced the wizard to shut his eyes. “Dim, please.” The brightness faded until comfortable to his eyes. “My insect children, duty calls. Time to feed my dear web artists. Fly to me, those flies whose destiny it is to sacrifice yourselves."
The first fly winged its way toward the jar light, but found the opening covered by a boney hand. “Not you, tiny one. I've told you before; only the most fat and juicy among you may apply. Go and grow. Be happy, your turn will come soon enough.” As ordered, it flew back into the forest, soon replaced by a larger fly who dived into the glass jar. It buzzed in circles, puzzled by its new surroundings, comforted by the light. Others joined and the jar quickly became crowded by the largest of the forest flies. They collectively and individually demonstrated their lack of survival intelligence by not trying to escape captivity.
"Enough,” the aged wizard called into the woods. “The rest of you go back. Your predestination will be fulfilled at another time.” He brought the jar and its light close to his face. “Rest easy,” he whispered. The buzzing stopped as the captives fell into a fly nap. The light from the jar illuminated the clean-shaven old man's face, highlighting an abundance of laugh lines. Long brilliant white hair fell over the coat's hood.
This old man had the name of Maken Fairchild, and he rather enjoyed luring flies to feed his spiders back in his mansion, but thought it odd with all his powers he couldn't simply create them. Odd, he could change himself into a fly and didn't need a wand to do so, but knew all too well once eaten that would be that.
Lifting the hood over his head to protect it from the mist, he strode out of the forest toward a gray old mansion. He stepped directly through the iron fence surrounding the manor's perimeter, the bars allowed him to pass as if they were no more than strands of smoke. A patch of green grass caught his attention. He sighed and waved his arm. “Water starve and remain brown like your brother and sister blades.” The grass transformed into the dead color of the surrounding lawn. “Thank you. See you stay that way.” He chuckled. “How many times do I have to kill a lawn before it stays dead?"
The first light of morning peeked over the horizon. Maken disappeared and reappeared in front of the building. He gazed at the flowers lining the front walk. “Water.” The blossoms pushed themselves higher, becoming knee-high. “Peel a bit more,” he said to the building. The faded gray paint curled and flaked even more. “Stop.” The paint froze in place. A faint grin showed Maken Fairchild loved being a wizard.
He disappeared, then reappeared on the porch and glided through the bulky wooden door without opening it. Inside, the windows allowed a bare glimmer of light through the dirty panes. Spider webs filled the room, their artistic owners facing the jar Maken pulled from under his robe. “Out. Go to your destiny."
The flies took off from their jar jail, buzzing with newfound freedom. As the last fly winged from the jar, the light vanished. An invisible force, sometimes called magic, directed each winged insect into a different spider's artistic weave to await its fate. All except for one fly, who chose to land on the shoulder of the wizard.
"You an individualistic one, my nutrient friend. Most curious. Have you lost your way?” He turned to the webs. “Whom among you has not been served?"
A web on the staircase railing vibrated as its creator ran up and down its weave to produce the quivering answer. “Go there,” Maken ordered. The fly obediently flew from his shoulder and onto the web. “And my prolific little web artists, what do you say?"
From around the room webs throbbed and wavered.
"You are welcome."
The wizard smelled the air and shook his head. “This won't do. Atmosphere, poo yourself.” The air at once became a blend of musk, rotten eggs and sour milk, with a touch of sulfur. “Pooweee. Less putrid, please.” The odor changed from stink to modest stink. “Much better."
Maken appeared on the upper balcony, and looked at the large room below. “Intruders will find no welcome here.” He smiled at his handiwork. It didn't escape him that he could put a big garbage can full of smelly rotting stuff in the middle of the room and accomplish about the same effect, but where would the fun be in that?
He turned and walked into the bookcase behind him. No question; he could have as easily pushed or pulled on a certain book to have the bookcase recede and slide sideways to allow him entrance into the next room. But, if one is a wizard, why not have fun with the ability? He stood in a brightly lit room full of overstuffed chairs, books of every description, and paneled walls. His hooded coat dissolved and reappeared inside a corner closet. He sat in the red leather armchair, his favorite. With his hands behind his head, he leaned back and he mused. “I love being a wizard."