The King

*

Jacob awoke to the sound of his name being called by his mother, “Jacob, Jacob, you up there….Jacob?” she shouted, walking across the backyard lawn. He rubbed his eyes and noticed that he had changed sleeping arrangements, moving from the wooden chair to the more roomy and comfortable beige colored love seat that a co-worker at the library had given to his mother. He sometimes napped in the castle and frequently found himself in a different spot than he had original planned, this time balled up in the fetal position. He looked at the toys scattered along the floor, he vaguely remembered playing with them for a bit, but more than anything he remembered dreams and thoughts all mixed together, the twins, how his tree house had come to be, all these sub-conscious flash backs; it was a bit numbing to him. “Why, why, why?” was ringing in his head.

His mom walked through the blanket that served as a door in the tree house. She was dressed in her usual weekend attire, worn blue jeans and a black Jim Morrison t-shirt, with tennis shoes adorning her feet. His mother was a runner, a trim athlete who looked younger than her 40 years and he was proud of that, as was she. She took care of herself and it showed, keeping a routine of jogging 4 times a week and watching what she ate. It was a discipline that Jacob admired, even if the Dragon never complemented her and frequently belittled his mother for “being an old women trying to look young.” Beth took it with quiet defiance, not saying a word as she normally handled his stings this way, and continued her routine that she knew kept her strong and provided a bit of sanity and control in an otherwise fragile existence. As his mother in her easy stride walked toward him, that always on under the surface anger bristled a bit as he thought about how a piece of crap like the Dragon could insult his hero, such a beautiful woman.

“So you were running errands ma, where did you go?” Jacob said noticing a plastic sack in her left hand and nothing else.

“Oh you know, did a bit of shopping for groceries, checked out the used book store, and made another stop; but I’m sure you already knew that.”

His long legs stretched out in front of him and he rose up to his full height, he was growing like a weed and his mother noticed this as he took the few steps to his mother, a smile on his face knowing something special was in the plastic bag.

She remembered when he was a toddler, so fragile, so needy of her love and care, those baby brown eyes used to look up at his mother from the carpet after scampering around their old apartment at rocket speed. Those same brown eyes looked at her now, older and possessing of a bit more knowledge of the world but still holding that sense of wonderment and excitement illuminating from their pupils. A boy growing fast, but still holding on to that adolescent excitement who still found magic in a new toy.

A healthy sweat covered his brow and the ends of his hair line, he had been sleeping hard and his mom gently brushed aside the wet hair from his eyes than handed him the plastic bag.

He tried scanning with his X-Ray vision, but of course that never worked and he put his hands in the bag and found out what was inside the conventional way.

In the bag was a small box, plain exterior, no writing or anything to indicate what could be inside. He figured he knew what it was, but it was a bit bigger than the usual gifts he received from her.

It was obviously an action figure for the collection, maybe a superhero, maybe a wise old king with his golden crown covering a battle ridden head, scarred from one too many skirmishes with evil. He opened up the box and pulled out his newest treasure and stared at it for a few seconds while holding it in his hands.

This was a common ritual for the two; she would buy the gift, he would greedily grab the bag and just stare at what lay inside for a few seconds. Nothing was said, it was just quiet appreciation for a mother, a boy, and his favorite possessions. These toys meant a lot to him, these were more than just temporary playthings to be thrown under the bed after a few months. His collection made him who he was. The good guys, the crime fighters, the knights who put their lives at peril to save the innocents, this is what collecting these and cherishing them was all about.

This figurine unlike so many of his others was not made of plastic, but wood. He felt the heft of the toy in his hands, heavier than the others and of more sturdy construction, its power was evident in his hands and he squeezed it hard to test its mettle. It was covered in dark silver, not as shiny as one would think for a knight, but Jacob like it even more for that reason; it gave it a gravity that it needed. It was also taller, when comparing it to the others it looked like a Goliath among so many Davids. A blue shield was held in his left hand, with a grey dragon insignia on the front, dangerously regal with red eyes

A long steel sword was gripped in its right hand, golden hilt, sharp blade, simple and precise, a King’s weapon, a leader’s weapon. This was the leader he had been looking for. He had accumulated many hopeful contenders to the throne over the last couple years, but not one had yet lived up to the lofty title. After opening the package, he posed it, shield in the left hand, sword on the right, movable limbs positioned in a way to may it look ready for battle, a warriors stance, ready to slay whatever lay in its path.

He had almost forgotten that his mother had been standing there the whole time, watching him as he held the King in his hand, her young warrior admiring a new confidant.

“So you like it son?” she stated, hesitant in interrupting his ritual.

Jacob turned around and placed the King on his chair and hugged her. “Thanks ma, I love it, where did you find him, he is so different from any of the others? The wood moves and flexes, how does it do that?”

“Xavier’s Castle, I hadn’t been there for awhile and figured I would stop in and see what he had. As soon as I walked in the door I saw this guy sitting on the shelf, waiting for you,” she said with a sly smile.

Xavier’s Castle was a local store in town that had been in Silver Hawk for something like 25 years according to his mother. It was run by a man named Benton Xavier, a longtime Silver Hawk resident who was famous in town for his carving ability. If you could imagine it, he could carve it. Many of his creations stood in the store windows: bears, deer, hawks, and other wilderness animals were his normal requests, but he had been known to carve anything from an alien with tentacles for eyes to a lovers kiss on a park bench. His ability was genius, pure genius and the people in the surrounding areas would sometimes come just to look at his work.

A quiet, respectful man with a full head of grey hair that he kept cleanly cut, tall, something like six three, and always dressed in carpenter’s pants with a t-shirt. The t-shirts were almost as famous as the carvings, sometimes they would have a picture of a movie star posing in their favorite tough guy pose, and sometimes it would be some mystical figure like a unicorn or medusa in all her ugly splendor. Xavier, as he was often called instead of his given name of Benton, was a true treasure and his presence and gift added a bit of magic to Silver Hawk.

Jacob loved that store, everything about it was him and he was usually able to spark an interesting conversation with Xavier about their favorite topics, heroes and make believe.

In the past Xavier had made animal figurines, little knick knacks made to be admired. A few of these sat on a shelf in the tree house; a giant grey wolf ready to pounce; a unicorn in a regal stance, the single horn painted gold. But this was so different, the wood hard but supple, and the hands and joints movable, the arms able to swing a sword and hold a shield. The magical carver had outdone himself.

“I asked him about this one son and all he said was ‘it’s all in the hands.’”

Beth just shook her head and grinned and walked away with the toy, amazed as always

“He is a mystery isn’t he?” Jacob said after hearing mom’s encounter with Xavier.

“Yes he is, it’s funny, for him being a long time local, nobody really knows much about him.”

“I like it that way though ma. It’s like he’s a wizard in a workshop, his hands the tools, spinning way making elven trinkets.”

Beth laughed at her boy’s use of fantastical literary prose, “Sounds like those writing classes are doing you some good son, I’m sure Xavier would love to hear what you have to say about him. Maybe next time we are in the store. ”

He nodded and put down the King next to the other figurines.

“I’m going to go for a run son, I won’t be too long,” Beth said. As she turned to leave Jacob thought about his dreams and thoughts; how the past and the present was intermixing and perplexing his young mind over the significance. Why was this so important? All this was causing a storm inside his head, and in that calm he needed to hear a voice of reason, someone to help navigate the stormy waters.

He called out to his mother as she was walking away, “Ma, can I talk to you before you go? Something has been bothering me.”

She stopped and turned to her son, “What is it Jacob?”

“They never found the twins ma; what do you think happened to them?’

*

Beth calmly looked at her son, processing the question, a longtime hurt that still stung her heart in numerous places, time not healing the wounds. The question of the twins and Owl Town was a topic that would come up randomly in conversations with her son, never completely answered or understood. She told him a few things here and there about her relationship with the kids and how she went to school with them but that was it.

She kept that story close to her sleeve and hadn’t felt the need to fill in the gaps in talking to Jacob. He was such an inquisitive child, full of so many questions. Of course he would want to know about her past as a child, growing up in the same hometown as her boy; that was normal for a child.

But she was hesitant to go into any detail, didn’t want him to know too much; always felt he was too young to understand, too young to wrap his brain around her life as a child.

He looked up at his mom, waiting for a response.

“Why do you ask son?”

“I have been having dreams, some of them are conversations we had, some of them are grey images. I see little kids in them, but I can’t make out faces. I always see them walking away from me, I shout at them not to leave, but they can’t hear me. They just keep on walking and then their gone. I don’t know them, but they seem familiar to me. Who do you think they are?”

A jolt of pain bruised her insides as she was taken back to that long ago time, when parts of her innocence and youth were lost, when two special people were taken away from her.

“Dreams are funny things, most of the time you can’t explain them or why they popped into your head. Have you been thinking about Arthur Street son? You know that was a bad time when I was a kid, a bad place where things happened there that would scare anyone. How long have you been having these dreams?”

Jacob sensed the worry in her tone of voice and expression on her face and spoke calmly, with little emotion as to not stir any passion in his mother.

“A month or so? I think I probably had the first dream after the last time I played at Faraway land, and that was maybe 4 weeks ago. Remember, I asked you if I could ride my bike there and you said yes and jogged along side me?”

Jacob had sat down by now on the love seat; the King still in his hand, his posture straight as an arrow, alert to anything his mom could tell him about the dreams.

“I remember, we stayed there for an hour than went to get ice cream. There weren’t many people there that day, only a couple kids with their moms; and didn’t we see Levi Russell on a park bench?”

“I ran over to him to say hi, and he answered me but he looked sad, his eyes looked tired and he didn’t really “see” me that day. You know what I mean?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it then?
“ I guess I didn’t think it was important at the time. I felt bad for him. His beard was scruffy, he hadn’t shaved for awhile, and his eyes were red, bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept for a long time. You know that look that dad gets after he has been at the bars and comes home smelling, well, like the bar? And he had something in his hands when I talked to him. He held it hard, really close to him, like he was afraid someone would take it away.”

“What was it my boy,” Beth responded, sitting in the old wooden chair, her eyes locked on her son, wondering about that day with Levi Russell.

“It was a carving of two kids holding hands,.”

*

She sat down on the wooden chair, put down the other package she had been holding, and put both hands on her lap. She looked at her son, took a deep breath and began to speak.

“Did Levi say anything to you that day, other than hello?”

“No, that was it. I asked him if he was okay, and he just smiled at me, but it wasn’t happy at all, I just felt sorry for him. I waved and walked back to the slide, and that was it.”

She sighed, not wanting to talk about it, but knowing she needed to tell her son the truth about her friends.

“I know I never told you what happened to the twins, not everything anyways. I guess it was just too hard to face; they were my best friends.”

Beth looked down at the floor, her fingers interlaced and clasped over her knees. Her shoulder slumped and for a moment the lithe, energetic women of 40 looked like a frightened, overwhelmed 10 year old, crying for reasons she wasn’t old enough to understand. Jacob walked over to her and rubbed her back with his hand, not wanting to bring up old hurts, but needing to know the story. A few tears fell down her cheek into the floor, the aged wood absorbing the moisture, selfishly drinking in the misery. “What happened to your friends?”

She wiped her cheek, clicked the switch in her inner core that turned grief into strength and wet cheeks to slabs of concrete. She sat up, a Roman stone pillar, chipped at the edges but not beaten, looked at her son and began to finish what she started so many times before.

*

“I remember that day clearly, dad came in from work and we told him about the phone call from Mrs. Small Bear. He held both of us so tightly, we didn’t want to let go. Something inside me knew I would never see them again. We got in the car and drove over to the Small Bear’s house.

“It had only been four hours since I had last seen them, but it was longer to me, so much longer. They invited it is in and we all sat at the table, mom helped Mrs. Small Bear in the kitchen to get coffee and dad and Mr. Small Bear talked around the table. Dad reassured him, said to him what he told us, that they were just two kids, lost track of time, they would show up soon. I remember Winston smiling and nodding politely, he was working hard to be strong; it was empty though, I think we all kind of knew.

“Finally around 7 it started getting darker, and Winston decided to call the police. We had all waited as long as seemed reasonable. He called and soon after the police came, two cars crowded in front of their house. Winston walked outside with the cops, answered questions on the lawn and dad stood by, just a few feet away, waiting and listening. Mom and I were inside with Mrs. Small Bear, we made her coffee, tried to take her mind off this…I remember looking into her eyes and holding her hands…….”

His mother’s flurry of words stopped abruptly, Beth catching her breath, stopping to recharge, the story released from its prison after so many silent years.

“Mr. Small Bear and dad stayed out there long after the cops left; a man’s thing I guess, as tough as they always appeared to me that day they seemed small and broken, frightened like the rest of us. That scared me even more. They both were like granite to me, nothing could touch them, and yet there they were, feeble and having no answers.

“Mrs. Small bear was like a zombie just staring ahead of her, totally blank. I doubt she even heard half of what we said to her that not. When we got her coffee, she sipped it, but she wasn’t there anymore. Those eyes of hers were so blank. It rattled me son. She mumbled a few words when we talked to her but other than that, nothing, she was one.

“I remember looking up at the oak grandfather clock that was against the wall in their living room. It was always so huge to me, it was probably five feet tall and so heavy, Mr. Small Bear had daddy help him move it in the house a few months before. It had an owl engraved at the top, right above the clock head, I used to think it was looking at me, and that day I swear it………”

She had stopped again, catching her breath, readying herself for the next barrage of words. Jacob did the same, sitting on the other side of the tree house, both hands gripping the arms of the love seat. He felt bad for her and the tension being released was so tangible he could feel the stings on his skin. The heat inside the tree house had taken a dip for the better thankfully. A breeze had picked up and the humid air that had been blanketing them both before had lightened. The leaves of the big oak blew a bit harder and the rustling leaves and branches bathed both mother and son in a peaceful current. Jacob reached over and grabbed the King in his hands, gripping hard.

His mother stood up straight, smoothed back her long black hair and fixed the weekend pony tail that had a been a staple on her head for as long as he could remember. Her long, thin fingers worked their magic quickly and soon the hair was swept back behind her head, her facing appearing young again. She sat back down, ready to finish the story.

“The next day word had gotten around that the Small Bear twins never made it hope that night. Pictures of the kids were put up all over town and a picture was sent to a local TV station and appeared on the nightly news. The cops and local public searched every day solid for the next three weeks. Even some of the known racist families in town were seen out in the forest, searching with the rest of the locals, its funny how tragedy can bring people together.

“The FBI was even brought in and they gathered their resources to aid in anyway they could. There was so much energy, the urgency brought hope to most my boy, but not to me. We all helped; daddy went on the search parties with the others, mama and I manned the fort at the Small Bear’s keeping vigil; making coffee, welcoming well wishers, cleaning the house, standing by the phone, anything to help, anything to ease the family’s load. But after the three weeks, nothing was found, nothing. Not a strip of clothing, a shoelace, nothing. The search parties started to dwindle in size. I mean, yeah, some still had hope and Mr. Small Bear kept on looking for months after, he just couldn’t let go. We tried our best son, we really did, daddy even went on some of the hunts months after everyone had given. But Winston and Linda were gone.”

The word gone, so simple yet powerful, it lingered for a bit between them; then Jacob spoke up, “So what happened to the parents?”

Beth rubbed her hands on the front of her pants, smoothed out the bottom of her T-Shirt, a habit she had formed as a young girl. “Mrs. Small Bear committed suicide a few years after son. She hung herself in the basement of their house, a picture of the twins stuck in her house coat. Mr. Small Bear was the one who found her. Before he called the police he called dad; I remember the look on daddy’s face, he said little, hung up the phone, and said to your grandma, ‘Mrs. Small Bear hung herself, I have to go.’ We had been eaten dinner and everything just stopped, went quiet; mom put her hands on the table flat, both shaking. I started crying, but not loud, I didn’t want anyone to hear me for some reason, didn’t want Mr. Small Bear to hear I guess. Maybe I thought my voice would carry over to their home, just being a stupid kid I guess. Daddy went over, called the police while Winston sat at his kitchen table and drank vodka all night. He didn’t say a word. He just sat at that table, and drank vodka, glass after glass until not a drop was left. We have seen him before son, you know him; we bought that painting of the lone Indian that hangs in the tree house; an empty shell of himself, a drunk who works odd jobs. People see him on the street talking out loud to no one, babbling about The Dark One taking his children, I saw him a few months ago and he didn’t even recognize me.”

At the sounds of the words “Dark One” a cold spear went down the back of Jacob’s neck, why he had no idea?

“The Dark One,” Jacob said, “what is that?”

“I don’t know son, he is a drunken man, his mind is polluted, he just never accepted the death of his twins, than his wife. It was just to much for him…and who could blame him?”

Jacob looked at his mother, the strain of telling the story apparent in her eyes and lips, she aged a year in one hour, sitting in his tree house, letting loose her demons. He wanted to stop, his mama was tired and he knew the telling brought back old pains, but he had to continue, had to know.

“Why was Mr. Russell holding the twins in his hand at the park?”

*

The end was soon, every story has its finish line and Jacob knew the tale of the twins was reaching that lonely street. But it had one more entry, and that day at the park looking at Mr. Russell holding the wooden twins, made him wonder what part, if any, the kind bookstore played in the tragedy.

“Mr. Russell is a good man son; don’t let anyone tell you different. You understand, I will tell you what people said, but that doesn’t matter, got it?” Beth’s stern tone meant business and Jacob obediently replied, “I know ma.”

“As you know Mr. Russell has owned that book shop of his for years. Like Xavier, he has been a fixture in Silver Hawk since I was a little girl. I have taken you there before, you have seen how magical a place it is, the books he has, countless stories from all over the world, and him so willing to share that with so many of us in town. He was and is such a good person, and he loves children, always has, that’s why he opened up that book store. Faraway Books, a special place for children to go, if you loved stories and wanted to feel accepted he made you feel welcome. I have always loved it there. All through my fifth grade year Linda, Winston, and I would head there on the weekends, Saturday and Sunday, like clockwork, we rarely missed a day. Not only to just read, but discuss; Mr. Russell was a fountain of knowledge and knew every story there was and I swear he has read every book on his shelves. We all would pick a book, read it in a week and on Saturday, right at 10 o’clock when it opened we would be waiting outside his door to discuss and try to stump the master. And we never could, he could answer every question about every character or plot we asked, no matter what book, and he would he would talk with such passion; he truly loved what he did for his living.”

“Just like Xavier,” Jacob said to her that quiet smile lighting up his face.

“And he was the driving force behind the creation of the park. Faraway Land was his idea; a way to bring those wonderful characters in all the books to life.”

Faraway Land was a book themed play land in Silver Hawk. It was a well-known in the region for the amazing characters and scenes that had been sculpted and carved to the enjoyment of the children; it housed so many of literature’s favorites of childhood.

One play set was a Three Little Pig house set, big enough for any child to play in, complete with the three pigs and the big bad wolf. Another was a Pooh Bear Tree House, with a ladder that any child or parent could ascend to find Winnie the Pooh and his good friend Christopher Robin making honey sandwiches for Tigger and Piglet down below. If you wanted a jungle gym to play on, you could make your way across a set of purple bars with Mowgli and Baloo swinging along as you made your way across a puddle filled with The Cat in Hat Playing water tag with Thing 1 and Thing 2.

Levi Russell, the brain child behind this place of wonder, had moved from down south to Silver Hawk in 1960 if stories were correct. A true southern gentlemen, he was well-liked by everyone, and had a passion for children’s books and make believe. He held story book hour every Sunday at his book store and his idea to construct Faraway Land was met with town wide approval and the donations started pouring in immediately, some individual and some from local businesses wanting to promote good will in the community.

The construction was by locals, all of it being paid for my donations. Levi oversaw all construction of the park and was there every hour of every day it was being put together. He had hundreds of ideas for what character set to put up, how big to make it, what play sets to use that would be the most fun for the kids. He also asked for ideas from the local elementary schools and welcomed the excited faces of little kids running up to him in the street screaming, “Put Snow White and the dwarfs in the park Mr. Russell,” or, “I want to see Puff the Magic Dragon, please Mr. Russell!”

Beth continued, “When the twins disappeared, the local media helped to try and find them, but also hurt in a way. The newspaper stories gave ample time to Faraway Park and Levi. Someone was rumored to have seen the twins walking away, holding hands at the park, to a tall man in a coat, leading them into the forest behind the park.. The paper leapt at that story even though it was just hearsay, just to sell their papers. Soon after that a few gossips started whispering that maybe it was Levi who had taken the children, who were frequent guests at both bookstore and park. “That’s right son. That’s why when the rumors started up about him after the children disappeared; it hurt him so much, so unfair. Cruel, vicious lies. I don’t want to go too deeply into it because it still angers me, but some of the people in this town, not a lot, but enough, believe Mr. Russell had something to do with the loss of the twins. No proof of course, but words can stay with people and even today, some of those same voices can be heard.”

“Why did they say those things?”

“Well, because he was a little different than the “normal” folks around here. He never married, never had kids of his own, he lived by himself. He wasn’t originally from here. If I remember correctly he moved here from the south, just a single man who opened a book store and loved kids. He talked with a bit of a southern accent, still does; subtle, but there. And he has always carried himself so regally, a true southern gentlemen; not your typical Silver Hawk blue collar man. Some people were jealous maybe; saw him as an outsider who thought himself better than everyone.”

“I know what you mean ma, he always seemed not of this place, not saying he is better, but he added something more to our town.”

“That’s right, he has always added something more to the town, and bitter people tried to take that away. And all because the kids used to hang out at his place and read books and enjoy life, such a simple thing that was turned it into something dirty. They tried to make him out to be some degenerate who only had a children’s books store to get the little kids into his hands, like some modern day witch in the woods story. They wanted to blame someone, needed to and the man who loved children was their scapegoat.”

She said this last sentence with a that twinge of malice, the absurdity of the people at that horrible time in Silver Hawk, to blame the man who brought so much joy to the lives of so many families; it was insulting and made worse of an already tragic time.

“So he was questioned by the cops, they investigated his home, and book store, just covering all their bases I guess. He wasn’t even in town on the day Winston and Linda disappeared; he was in the south visiting family I recall. And it checked out, they called his family and they confirmed. But nope, it wasn’t enough that they heard the truth, the people had to keep on digging. The dirt slingers at the local paper ran one too many stories about Faraway Land and Levi, made him out to be some sinister figure and it hurt him deeply, I know it did. Even after things calmed down and the town accepted the fate of the children, some still whispered wicked words as they passed him in the streets, gave him the “evil” eye as we like to call it. Not everyone, just a small segment that felt the need to bash someone and be heard. A cold hearted bunch they were and still are.”

“What about the carving of the twins, does it mean anything? Why did Levi have it that day at the park?”

“I don’t know my boy, maybe he had Xavier carve it for him to remember, he loved all of us kids, his “Bookstore Bounty Hunters” as he used to call us, always looking for the latest literary treasure. He needed us kids as much as we needed him. I know that when the twins died a part of him did to.”

A long silence pervaded the tree house after the story was told. It was a lot to take in for Jacob, the truth he had wanted to know had finally been told. He looked at his mother and tried to smile, but it was fleeting, her reality as a child had invaded him for an afternoon and it struck a cord. He thought about talking about the dreams, maybe the clarity would appear if he opened up her mind just a bit more. But he didn’t, it was too much right now, and the story training needed to make its stop.

“Are you okay ma?” knowing she wasn’t, but asking just the same.

Mama nodded at her boy, a beaten smile on her face, and walked down the stairs of the tree house, a forty year old woman with a ten year’s old pain, tucking it back in her vault of sadness.

*

Beth left to take a walk, Jacob guessing to clear her head the young squire thought. The gravity of the conversation had taken the wind out of his sails; he needed to occupy his mind with something else. He took the King and sat him on the floor of the tree house, the new found leader of his regiment. He flanked him on the left and right with two soldiers; on the left an elven archer, the long blonde straight hair in place, his bow and arrow pulled back in anticipation of the ensuing battle. His right shoulder was covered by a Spartan warrior, the huge round shield held in a stout left hand, the right hand gripping a spear of power and anger, the tip glistening with a razor tip. This v-formation was his favorite, the outline forming a straight arrow ready for war.

As Jacob began to play with his newly formed army, an ominous presence invaded his sanctuary, he heard the back door slam and the familiar voice of the serpent roared his greeting, “What the hell are you doing up there, playing with your dolls again?”

*

He froze for a second, the hairs on all his body parts stood up from their natural soft pose. His soldiers in their v-formation were pointed directly at the entrance and this lent courage to lithe, long frame, fists clenched at his side as he stood.

The hope was that the earlier morning insults would be the extent of today’s onslaught, but alas not in today’s chapter as The Dragon made his way up the ladder of the tree house. He had made it high when he built it, probably because he didn’t want its little boy filth and weakness touching his perfectly manicured lawn. You wouldn’t think it, but the Dragon was meticulous in his care of home and yard. Everything had a place in the house; every blade of glass had to match the other as to not upset the sanctity of the green. He had been a Marine when younger, and it was obvious to Jacob that the daily routine of the military had left a mark on him. This led to many a night’s slap in the face if the remote control wasn’t put back on the coffee table just so, to the grip of the arm that left a bruise if the shoes weren’t put away in the closet like he had showed Jacob time and time again. A practice of intimidation and abuse that had been a part of Jacob’s life since the age of 6; once he started walking and talking and forming his personality, becoming his own little individual person, that’s when the serpent decided to strike.

The weight of his body weighed on the ladder and the fortress felt its weight. The sounds of wood taking in the new body rustled the currents, but it of course held easily having dealt with this invader before and it would not waver.

He came through the blanket, dressed in old blue jeans, a wife beater tank top, and bare feet. “How cliché,” thought Jacob, “my father, the family abuser is dressed in the uniform of a trailer trash wife beater.” He smirked, only so subtle as to not aggravate the situation, but he couldn’t help himself, this was his life and it was a twisted, funny, horror show.

The serpent planted himself on the wooden chair, beer in hand, the smell of booze prevalent on his breath, along with just washed hair and after shave, the sting of a just shaved face glaring at the young squire.

“So up here again I see, and there they are, those stupid little dolls, why you play with them I have no idea, might as well dress you in pink…your not a fairy are you boy?”

Jacob eyed the opponent coolly, fists were still clenched but the keen mind of his spun a few wheels and responded with the safe answer of “No, I’m not a fairy,” rather than the answer he wanted to flow from his lips of “Go screw yourself deadbeat.” The voices in his head were having a real party tonight, deciding on which route to take with the elder Christianson.

“Is that right, not a fairy, could have fooled me. How old are you, ten now, and still playing with this shit. When you going to grow up boy and do something that other boys do, maybe play football, or wrestle, that would toughen up your weak ass.”

Again, the voices played their game of what to say. Play it safe or play it loose Vegas style baby. Jacob had always chosen the safe route, call it self-preservation or cowardice, and to Jacob it was a little bit of both. Sure he knew he was small and could not defend himself from the strong hand of an adult man; especially not a serpent such as this with its military might and alcoholic fumes combining to form the slap of fury as strong as Thor’s Hammer to a ten year old boy. A fury that showed its handiwork not as much one would think considering a man such as this, but still too often for any child or mother. Just that threat would cause Jacob to stay awake for hours when he knew The Dragon was out and about, filling his polluted body with broken energy. In his mind he would pray to God, or sometimes to his medieval dragon killers; hoping that he would come home and sleep off the anger on the living room couch.

The day would come when the road less traveled, the path of courage would show the way and stake a sword’s final strike through The Dragon. But not yet; he was still too small and not strong enough to fight the good fight. For now blending in with the thin branches would suffice, this little lizard would live again to see another day.

“I’m think I might try out for football next year.” Jacob was actually a good athlete with quick reflexes and speed, and football was one of many sports that he thought about giving a try, testing his powers against the best of the best in his school.

“So your thinking that I could help you, is that right? That the only man in this house could train that fairy out of ya, and get you to quit playing with those dolls? Is that what your saying, speak up!”

A quick response was the next move in this game of reptilian chess and Young Master Jacob, still a squire but learning quickly played his hand aptly. “Yes sir, mom told me you played in high school and you were a real good so I figured you could show me a few things. Best way to throw, how to catch, how to run patterns, stuff like that.”

“I was pretty good. I could hit a lot harder than a lot of pussies they have on the team now. These little assholes have it easy, it’s not like it was when I played. Our coach would make us eat dirt and spit out water, especially on the hottest days. Toughened us up, made us mean, and that’s how you need to be boy, mean. Don’t let anyone fuck with you, hit ‘em first and hit ‘em hard.”

“I win, I win!” the young squire yelled in Jacob’s head. His strategy of lying and manipulation was working!

“I bet you hit harder than anyone on the field, I hope I can be half as good as you where.”

This sudden bit of familial admiration threw dad off his game and it showed. His tongue was tied and the usual viper that would be spit at his little boy suddenly dried up faster than his mouth after a night of drinking dragon juice at Rico’s Lounge. He slowly stretched up his hard and lean frame of six feet to its full height and took another swig of beer.

“Will see; maybe if I have some time off of work; but probably not, I work damn hard to keep clothes on your fairy hide boy and I can’t worry about what you are doing every second. Quit playing with those dolls and start doing it yourself, you hear me kid?”

A small explosion, totally unprovoked as usual, but still small, and for the squire a small victory was better than none.

“Okay dad.”

With that The Dragon left the tree house but not before he kicked over the courageous three on the floor, a playful and evil gesture, a smirk on his face as he left, the squire left standing, stoic defiance, fists clenched.

*

The young squire listened as his father walked away, the slow drunken steps making the quiet crunch of summer on a perfectly manicured lawn. He heard the door slam and listened intently for anything, something, yelling, a rude remark to mom, anything that would signify that he was here and this castle was his, like they ever needed reminding.

Jacob walked over to the small window in the tree house and looked out, she was at the kitchen window, doing dishes, and keeping a low profile like she always did, especially when the malevolence of his father lurked under the home wood. He said nothing, just belched, and sat down on the couch to watch whatever sport was on the tub, not sure what team, and he didn’t care. She smiled that tired smile at him, their eyes catching for a moment to tell each other, “It’s okay, just another drunken rant from a drunken rat,” the rodent metaphor opening up the jesters in their hearts and causing both to share a telepathic laugh. Jacob looked away from the house and looked back at the fallen soldiers. He picked them up and put them in his grey backpack, a mother’s gift before starting 5th grade, he took meticulous care of it, it was his team’s transport when this family circus had to make its way faraway from the home front. He wanted to leave for awhile, ride his second hand bike somewhere, maybe the park. Yeah, that’s where he needed to go. He quickly packed the courageous three along with a candy bar, a coke, and a new book his mother had brought him, a book about a lonesome knight wanting to go on a quest to prove himself to the kind of the land. He put the backup over his shoulder, crawled down the ladder, and jogged to the old huffy leaning against the side of the garage. He mounted his battered steed and pedaled down the street towards Faraway Land.

Next Chapter: The Park