The Dyerville Tales

by M. P. Kozlowsky

  The outfit was all he packed. That and his grandfather’s book.

  It took hours for Vince to finally fall asleep, and it wasn’t because he was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt or because the rain battered the roof like an army of wraiths. It was because his mind wouldn’t rest. His thoughts went from the curse to his father to fairy tales to escape to the funeral and back again. When he finally did drift off, it was a restless sleep filled with troubled dreams and wild images and repressed fears.

  He was asleep just short of two hours when Anthony woke him up. It was still early, still way before anyone else was awake, the sun just about to rise and cut through the darkness like a stained guillotine.

  “Are you ready?” Anthony asked.

  He was.

  “Good. Take this.” Anthony handed him a piece of paper he had folded up. “I had to sneak into Mrs. West’s office to print it up. It’s directions. Dyerville is pretty far. Once you’re out of here, you’re going to have to get to the train station. Then it’s a straight shot all the way up. When you reach your stop, it’s just a mile or two. Vince, you can totally do this.”

  Vince took the paper and shoved it in his back pocket. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Now, let’s go,” Anthony said.

  They walked through the silent house, Vince wearing his backpack, Anthony carrying a lock and chain over his shoulder. Vince wanted to ask his friend about it, as well as a dozen other things, but he decided it would be best not to speak until they got outside.

  They opened the front door as quietly as possible and stepped out onto the damp lawn, the temperatures near freezing and the skies overhead threatening a storm.

  “There’s the guard,” Vince said, looking down the driveway, past the gate and inside the phone booth type of box. “He’s not going to open it for us. No way.”

  “I know. You’re going to have to scale it while I distract him. Hop over and start running.”

  “Me? What about you? Aren’t you coming?”

  Anthony looked away, kicking at the dirt. “Nah. I’ll get out another day. Besides, where am I gonna go?”

  A voice came from high above them. “You shouldn’t discuss your plans so loudly. Don’t you know anything about secrecy?”

  Startled, the two boys turned around. On their way out of the house they had failed to see M up on the ladder, and now it seemed their plan had been blown. The old man stepped down and stood before the two boys. He had gray hair parted neatly to one side and a trim matching mustache along with day-old stubble that looked so sharp it could grate cheese. His blue eyes ran deep, as did the lines on his weathered face. Although he had never left the orphanage all his life, his shoes looked as if they had walked a million miles. The old man, short and lean, held a cap in his slightly quivering hands, dangling it gently before him.

  “I heard you last night, and I heard you just now. These walls are thin. Like sheets of ghosts. The wind blows straight through them.”

  “What are you talking about, old man? What plans? You’re losing it,” Anthony said, failing to convince anyone.

  “I hear everything. I know everything. Haven’t you learned that by now? Escape. Humph. Let’s say you make it out of here,” M said, turning to Vince. “How are you going to make it to the train? You’re going to walk? That’s pretty far. People will be looking for you soon enough. You’ll be scooped up in no time. And what about money? Even if you do make it to the train, they won’t let you ride for free. Have you not considered this? Either of you?”

  Vince looked to Anthony. “He’s right. We don’t know what the heck we’re doing.”

  Anthony slapped his hand against his head. “I—I didn’t think that far. . . . I—I thought . . . Ah, what am I doing? I have a stupid brain.”

  M placed a hand on each boy’s shoulder. “You are dreamers, and dreams are just wishes without a plan. Anyone can dream, but the ones who achieve theirs don’t just wish it. They don’t just rely on luck.”

  “We’re trying,” Vince said. “It’s not easy.” He was angry with himself again. Angry for believing that he might escape, that he might actually find his father. He was angry for dreaming. He turned to his friend. “Anthony, thank you for trying, but I don’t think we have this figured out.”

  M waved a finger at him. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t quit now; you’re just gaining momentum. You can get out of here. Passion will carry you that far. As for the next part . . .” M pulled something from his back pocket and placed it in Vince’s hand. It was one hundred dollars. “For the train. And whatever else might pop up.”

  Vince looked up at him, disbelief shadowing his face.

  “Don’t ask. Don’t say thank you. You have five minutes before Mrs. West is awake and patrolling the grounds. Get moving.”

  Anthony grabbed Vince’s arm and pulled him down the driveway. “Vince, he’s right. Let’s go.”

  Vince had to be dragged. He couldn’t take his eyes off M. “Thank you,” he said.

  “If you want to thank me, Vincent, get to where you need to go. Find your father.”

  Vince nodded, and M called out again: “And don’t think this means I’m done with you, Anthony!”

  Anthony, grinning like mad, didn’t turn around. “You’re my archnemesis, M. I would expect no less!”

  They reached the bottom of the driveway. On the other side of the gate the guard sat within his glass partition, reading a magazine.

  Vince stared up at the gate. It was massive. It looked like a giant mouth, all teeth, black and rotten. A mouth that wished to do nothing more than swallow him whole. He had no idea how he would climb such a thing, and, if he did, what would be awaiting him on the other side.

  Anthony turned to Vince. “Are you ready?”

  “Anthony, thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

  “I know . . . I . . . Look, I know that you don’t like telling your tales anymore, but you know, I’ve memorized all of them. If you don’t mind, I can—I can tell your stories while you’re gone.”

  “They’re not my stories,” Vince said, smiling. “They’re everyone’s.”

  Anthony nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. Okay then. Here we go.” He handed Vince the lock and chain. “Use this when I get the guard away from the gate. It’ll buy you some time.” Then he gripped the bars of the gate and took a deep breath. A moment later he began to scream as if his life or someone else’s were depending on it. “Help! You have to help! Mrs. West, she—she won’t wake up! Oh, God, help!”

  The guard jumped out of the box, nearly toppling over. The magazine flew from his hands, falling into a large puddle. “What? What’s going on?”

  “You have to hurry!” Anthony continued screaming. “I don’t know what to do!”

  The guard looked confused, unsure whether he should abandon his post or not.

  “You have to come quick!”

  Vince felt terrible for all involved. This man was being horribly duped, and Anthony was going to pay severely when all was said and done.

  “Back away,” the guard said to the two boys. “Back away!” He opened the gate and closed it again right behind him, the exit automatically locking. Then he ran inside the house with Anthony in the lead.

  Alone, Vince tried to open the gate, but it was no use; he would have to climb. Before doing so, he looked at the lock and chain in his hands. He was beginning to understand Anthony’s plan. The kid was much smarter than he let on. He would miss him.

  Vince wrapped the chain around the bars of the gate and closed the lock. With the guard on a wild-goose chase that could end at any moment, he quickly began to climb.

  The bars were slippery from the overnight rain, and there wasn’t much to grip. Every time he climbed three feet, he fell two, his palms dragging the rust from the metal. His muscles immediately began to ache. And worst of all, he wasn’t halfway up when he heard yelling in the house. The jig was up.

  Frantic, Vince picked up his pace. If he were caught, he would never get an
other chance.

  Moments later Anthony came running out of the house, waving his arms. “Hurry!” he screamed. “Hurry, Vince! They’re coming! They’re coming for you!”

  The guard ran right past Anthony, shoving him hard to the ground. But as he passed M, the old man’s foot somehow invaded his path. The guard went flying head over heels.

  Vince heard the commotion but told himself not to look back. He had to concentrate on climbing. He thought of what would be waiting for him at the end of this journey. In Dyerville he would find his father. A new life would be waiting; all he had to do was make it to the other side of the gate. Suddenly it didn’t seem so impossible.

  Behind him, the guard was back on his feet. Vince, however, had picked up speed. He was nearly at the top now.

  After failing to break Anthony’s lock, the guard started shaking the gate, rattling it with a harrowing frenzy. Vince nearly fell. He slid down some, and the guard shook it again. Still Vince slid. Now the guard saw his opportunity. He began to climb. He was quick, much quicker than Vince. But Vince climbed with far greater purpose, and he reached the top in no time. As he threw one leg over the side, the guard desperately reached up and grabbed hold of Vince’s back pocket. With three fingers, the guard yanked down hard, trying to bring Vince back to earth. Vince couldn’t move. His grip was loosening. The guard pulled even harder. Something had to give.

  And something did. The pocket ripped, the directions to Dyerville falling to the ground along with the guard. Vince, however, made it cleanly over to the other side. Halfway down, he jumped and landed on his butt in the same puddle as the guard’s magazine. Spinning around, he pulled the hair out of his eyes and glanced back at the orphanage. Every window was filled with a face.

  Suddenly Vince found himself crossing his fingers once again. Somewhere deep within his mind there was now a spark glowing. It was small, but it wanted to grow.

  As Vince stood, he saw Anthony standing beside M several feet from the gate. They both seemed to have tears in their eyes, and Vince did too. He waved good-bye. Then he turned away from the orphanage and ran into the gaping mouth of the world.

  CHAPTER 4

  Vince picked a direction and went with it. He knew he didn’t have very long before the chain would be off the gate. Soon enough everyone, led by the unrelenting Mrs. West, would be out looking for him. It was best to be as far as possible by then.

  He ran for over three miles, but as agonizing as it was, he didn’t want to stop. He sprinted straight through the residential area he had called home these past few years and into the busier part of town, filled with fast-food restaurants, supermarkets, department stores, banks, and coffee shops, among other places he would never set foot in. Right now he just hoped he had memorized the map correctly in the few moments he’d been in possession of it before the guard ripped it from his pocket. The train had to be in this direction, he told himself. But he couldn’t recall its being this far. Nothing looked familiar. What if he made a wrong turn somewhere?

  Finally, after nearly two hours, he couldn’t run anymore. Wheezing and cramping, he found a back alley behind a small shopping center and settled down beside a Dumpster. His pants were ripped and soaking wet, and the weather was getting cooler by the minute. He would have to change before he got sick. He had only the one outfit in his pack—his so-called nice clothes for the funeral—but they were all he had.

  Once changed, he knew he would have to make a decision: either head back out there and wander the streets in search of the train, risking capture, or wait it out here for some time, letting his pursuers believe he had already made it clear out of town. Settling on the latter, he remembered there was one other thing in his backpack: his grandfather’s book. Exhausted, he settled back down against the Dumpster, took it out, and began to read.

  The Cave

  It was the day before Vincent’s twelfth birthday. He was outside, up on a ladder, painting the small shed he had just built with his own two hands over the previous weeks to store his mother’s gardening tools. His mother, Anna, was in the back doorway of her home, leaning against the frame, watching her son, a terrible sadness in her eyes. After some time she called out to him: “Vincent! Vincent, enough of that. You’ve been at it nonstop for hours. Come inside. Let me make you something to eat.”

  Vincent turned and smiled, the sun illuminating his silhouette. He had grown into a fine-looking boy. Dark tousled hair, fair skin reddened from his constant work and play outdoors. His hands were large and calloused; his chin was square and strong. He was a mature boy, older and wiser than his years, as suggested by his deep-set blue eyes. “Thanks. I sure could use something in my stomach,” he told his mother.

  “I have all fresh foods from the market. I’ll make you whatever you’d like.”

  Unable to take his eyes off the work he had just completed, he descended the ladder at a casual pace; he had to see if anything wasn’t to his satisfaction. So far so good. At the bottom he placed his brush across the rim of the paint can and walked serenely back to the house, wiping the sweat from his brow. “It’s coming along nicely, don’t you think?” he asked, pointing over his shoulder.

  Anna took in the shed once again. It sat to the east of the house, right beside the abundant garden Vincent cared for so passionately, and each time she glanced at it, it reminded her of her son: sturdy, charming, and . . . “Beautiful,” Anna said. “I’ll treasure it always. Now, what would you like to eat? If I could make you anything, what would it be?”

  “Just a sandwich. That’s all,” he said, removing his gloves.

  “A sandwich? Nothing more elaborate?” Anna asked as she walked inside.

  “You can put as much as you would like on it. How about that? Stack it high.”

  Anna turned around. “That’s a deal.” She hadn’t meant to say these words. She shouldn’t have. They’d just slipped out. But it was as if someone had struck her in the chest. She couldn’t move. Her face drained of color.

  “Are you okay?” Vincent asked.

  Anna spun around and hurried over to the kitchen counter. “No. No, I’m not,” she muttered. She began preparing the sandwich in a frenzied fashion. She picked up a package of meat and dropped it; instead of unwrapping the cheese, she tore through the wrapping; she forgot to add the pickle—her sandwich staple. Cutting the bread, she fumbled with the knife, nearly slicing her hand open. With her head down in an attempt to hide her face, her chin trembled. Tears began to fall, the bread absorbing each one.

  “What is it?” Vincent said. “What’s wrong?”

  Anna looked to the ceiling and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, she didn’t dare look at him. “You have to leave tonight,” she said.

  “Go into town? What for?”

  “No, not into town.” She lowered her head and turned around, looking directly into his eyes. She needed all her strength to say what came next. “You have to leave home. You have to go far away and never come back.”

  “Leave home? What do you mean?”

  “This isn’t easy for me, Vincent. I have long dreaded this day.”

  “Mother, what’s going on?”

  “I never told you the truth about your birth. Not exactly.”

  Vincent stared at her, his throat tightening, his jaw clenching.

  Anna couldn’t bear such a look and covered her face with her hands, crying into them. “I was all alone. It was my only chance. I had to agree.”

  “What are you talking about? Agree to what?”

  Anna pulled her hands away. Her tears, for the moment, ceased, and she returned Vincent’s gaze. “You remember that I said you were born on the side of the road into town? Before you were born, an old woman emerged from the woods. It was she, not Dr. Nicholl, who delivered you. I was in so much pain, and it was clear to me that you were going to die if I didn’t do something. I couldn’t take the chance. . . . I didn’t know she was a witch. I should have, but I was so scared.”

  “A witch?”

>   Solemnly, Anna nodded. “As of tomorrow, you belong to her.”

  Vincent took a step backward. “You made a pact with her?”

  “I had to! Please understand. Please forgive me.”

  “What does she want with me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I won’t leave. I’m not going with her. We don’t have to honor the deal.”

  “And I agree. But you don’t know what she’s capable of. If we disobey her, she might hurt us or use her magic to force you to go with her. And that’s why you must run. It is time to start your own life far from here.”

  Shaking his head, Vincent felt his own tears beginning to fall. “Mother, no. What will she do to you?”

  “I don’t care, my darling. You must leave. I know it will be difficult, but you have to be strong.”

  “And where do I run to?”

  “I don’t know. Head to the mountains. Reach the other side. The witch cannot cross them.”

  “I can’t, Mother, I can’t,” he cried.

  “I’m sorry, Vincent. I’m so sorry I have done this to you.”

  They embraced and wept in each other’s arms. They didn’t let go for some time.

  That night, however, he did leave, but only after he had completed the shed—his final gift. Then, when it came time, he carried a small bag of provisions, kissed his mother, and walked toward the mountains. Anna knew to not watch him walk away, just as Vincent knew to not look back. Sometimes this is the only way.

  The next morning Anna heard a knock at the door. It was an odd knock, as if it weren’t a hand that was rapping. Immediately she knew who it was—there wasn’t a doubt in her mind—and for having the courage to even open the door she must be commended.

  Sure enough, standing there in her crumpled stance was the witch.

  “It has been twelve years,” she croaked. “I have come for the boy.”

  Anna stood straighter, head held high, refusing to show a shred of fear. “He isn’t here. Nor will he be again.”