by Mark Wesley
As was his custom, he cut through the park just on the other side of the school. Small trails had been carved in the grounds and a few little bumps let Timothy leap into the air atop his bike.
Timothy enjoyed gazing upwards at the canopy, as each side of the trail was lined with tall, old pecan trees. Planted some hundred years back, they had grown in thick along with the park and now towered over everything else. Their branches grew out, mingling with one another and creating massive archways like open doors in a castle.
The small town did not have many celebrations, but was known for a pecan festival once every year at the peak of the trees’ fruit-bearing production. The small oval nuts would rain down, littering the entire parking lot as citizens clamored about for days, filling endless paper bags, sacks, and baskets with the treat. Pies, brittle, cookies, soaps, ointments and more were all made in abundance for the event that lasted the week.
Timothy had fond memories of gathering pecans with his grandfather. Moving about the fallen leaves and cold air, he’d swiftly gather up each nut one by one with a wire picker-upper, then dump the lot into a cloth sack.
One day, when Timothy was much younger, his grandfather indulged him in a bit of fantasy while they were out collecting the nut. “See this one?” he said, cracking a pecan open with his thumb and index finger. “Rotten.”
Inside, the pecan had an ash-like texture with a unique and bitter odor. Timothy’s grandfather sniffed at it and then slightly touched the nut to his tongue. “Tree fairies have been at this one. Yes, sir,” he explained. “I bet you didn’t know they do that. They’re just like bees, you see. They suck out the nut’s life force and turn it into hard candy suckers. You know they can make many different flavors and colors to suit their individual desires: green apple pecan, orange butter rose, purple grape bark, and blue honeysuckle. They make all kinds.”
His grandfather even remarked how he had brought some one time for Timothy to taste. “But, it’s dangerous stuff, that fairy candy. For them, it powers their little hummingbird wings. But for humans, too much can make a person’s heart up and explode,” Timothy’s grandfather remarked with a wink and smile.
A long day at school had ended. The last bell signaled the start of a race. Like a flash from a bolt of lightning, all the students except for Timothy sprang into action, darting between one another as they vied to get out of the classroom. Mr. Doodle, the teacher, naively tried to remind his students about the homework assignment for the weekend. “And don’t forget to read the first half of chapter eight in your textbook,” Mr. Doodle shouted as his students rushed out.
Once most of the classroom had emptied, Timothy, in no rush, collected his things, got out of his chair, and said goodbye to Mr. Doodle. Unlike the boy, Timothy’s friends Kyle, Roland, and Brian, like all the other students, were running through the halls as if evacuating a burning building. Each friend raced to his bike that was chained up outside.
“Beat you,” Roland said.
“Just barely.” Kyle tried to explain. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Summers’ rambling, I’d have been here an hour ago.”
Mr. Summers was Kyle’s history teacher, known for his excessive stories and explanations that would wander off on tangents.
Not concerned about the time, Timothy showed up last.
“What were you doing?” Brian asked him.
“Taking my time. What’s the hurry? We’ve got the whole weekend.”
“What’cha got there?” Roland prompted Kyle, who was unchaining a shiny new toy with a smile on his face.
“My bike.”
“A new bike?”
“Yeah, a new bike.”
“Your mom went and got you that?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“You guys celebrating some holiday I don’t know about?”
“Very funny. No. She just thought I needed a new one.”
“Enough about the new bike. Let’s get out of here. It’s Timothy’s birthday and I don’t want to spend another minute at school,” Brian interjected.
The friends rode through the park, under the old pecan trees and along the trails to Timothy’s house. When they arrived, Jake greeted them at the front door, purring and dancing about. Timothy bent down and gave the cat a little pat on the head.
“What do you want, Jake, some food?”
“Meow,” Jake exclaimed as he curled around the boy’s leg.
Timothy grabbed the mail out of the mailbox as he walked in. Sorting through each item, he put each in its correct place—his mom had hers, his father his, and the family’s in its own special spot.
“Hello,” Timothy said, tapping on the glass as he greeted the two goldfish by the front door. Brian, Kyle, and Roland all followed Timothy into the house, each giving Jake a rugged rub on his head and scratch on the back.
Walking into the kitchen, Timothy gathered snacks together for the group to chow down on. His friends followed in unison. Like starved hyenas, they picked and pulled at the assortment, tossing the delicious treats into their mouths.
“What’s it going to be? Which game we playing?” Brian asked.
“It’s Timothy’s birthday; he should decide,” Kyle answered as he retrieved the video game console from his backpack.
“I get the red controller,” Roland stated.
“What’s with the red?” Kyle responded. “You always want the red one.”
“It’s the only one that’s not cursed. All the others have bad mojo.”
“So what will it be?” Brian added look at Timothy as he sorted through some of the video games. “Sports, Action, or First person this. . . .”
“I don’t care,” Timothy answered.
“Just choose one,” Kyle shrugged at Timothy.
“How about this . . . ?” Brian asked, holding up his favorite game for all to see.
“Sure. Let’s play that one,” Timothy answered, pointing to the game Brian was holding.
The cartridge was pushed into the console as each friend grabbed a controller, Roland sure to select his red one. With everything ready, console hooked up and the power on, each friend took a seat around the TV. The light from the screen came on as the game’s opening started. The music kicked in and each player selected their character.
“I am totally going to beat you guys,” Roland stated.
“We’ll see about that,” Brian answered.
Within a few minutes, a serious and intense competition took form between the friends.
“This controller is broken,” Roland called out as he tossed down the item.
“Hey,” Kyle shouted. “Be careful. You’re going to break that.”
“It’s already broken.”
“So, now you’re blaming the controller?” Brian questioned.
“He always blames the controller. He’s got to have the red one, but then says it’s not working. We’ve all heard him blame anything and everything at one time—even the universe,” Kyle added.
“What? You’re telling me you don’t see how unfair the game is behaving?”
“I don’t think behaving is the right way to describe what the game or the controller are doing,” Brian responded.
“Yeah, Roland. I don’t think the lifeless controller has it out to get you,” Kyle added.
As his friends continued to tease Roland, Timothy noted that supplies—food and beverages—were getting low.
“I’m going to refill my drink. You guys need anything?”
Each one erupted with a request.
“Chips.”
“Soda.”
“Those little things. . . .”
“I need another napkin.”
“And make some of that popcorn.”
Timothy held out his hands, palms open, as he looked at each one of his friends as if to say, settle down. “I’ll make us some pop
corn,” he stated, knowing this simple snack would fulfil most of the requests.
“OK . . . ,” Brian, Roland, and Kyle replied in unison.
Timothy proceeded to the kitchen where he refilled his drink. He then placed a small brown bag in the microwave and pushed the plastic button labeled Popcorn. Staring through the small glass window, he watched the bag begin to jump about as the kernels of corn were transformed into white fluffy treats.
While the boy’s attention was being entertained, he did not notice the lanky individual who lurked at the back door. Cloaked in a black peacoat and cap, the man blended in with his dark surroundings.
Slowly and without any noise, the intruder took hold of the doorknob and flung open the entrance as he leaped through, shouting, “Surprise!”
Startled, Timothy’s bones and muscles jolted like a cat leaping for its life.
“Did I get you?” the man asked.
Timothy, now looking the man dead on, answered, “Granddad!”
Granddad was a bit taller, but as long-limbed as Timothy. He wore a big smile along with the coat and cap. Deep green eyes shined through the wrinkles about his face, which became more prominent as he squinted. He reached out, grabbing his startled grandson on both shoulders and pulling him in to a huge hug. “Did I scare you?”
“Yes,” the boy exclaimed with a smile.
“I have to say . . . I was good that time. Quieter than a Snipe Mouse, wasn’t I?”
“A Snipe Mouse?”
“Yes. A Snipe.”
“What’s that?”
“I never told you about the Snipe Mouse? Marvelous creature with brilliant colors.”
“No.”
Timothy’s grandfather often told wondrous stories about make-believe places and make-believe creatures. The Snipe Mouse, Timothy thought, was surely one of them.
“You know I’m getting a little too old to fall for your stories, Granddad.”
“What? You don’t believe me?”
“I’m just saying, I’m getting older,” Timothy replied with a smirk.
“So, you don’t believe me?”
“Where do these creatures live? We never learned about them in class.”
“Well, they don’t live here. They’re magical, of course. Remain completely quiet when hunting.”
“Another story.”
“You don’t like my stories?”
“I love your stories, Granddad.”
“But you don’t believe them, do you?”
“Some of them.”
“Not all?”
“I guess not all.”
“Well,” he answered with a smile, even though he was a little aghast. “Then one of these days, when you’re a little older, I’ll take you to see a Snipe Mouse in person.”
“Sure, Grandfather. You’ll take me to see one someday,” Timothy answered with a silly sarcastic tone. “So, tell me, where’ve you been?”
Having not seen his grandfather in a year—not since his last birthday—Timothy was anxious to learn what adventures he’d gotten into.
“Have I got a story for you,” his grandfather said, squeezing him tightly.
Timothy, now gasping for air, replied, “Let’s hear it.”
“Sure. But first . . . ,” Timothy’s granddad agreed as he released him. Now standing back and gazing forward with one eye, he looked his grandson over. “Let’s have look at you.”
“Whatta’ya think?”
“Yes, yes, you’re looking much bigger. And are those muscles?” Granddad commented, reaching out and squeezing the boy’s biceps.
“You think so?” Timothy said. Slightly flattered, he flexed his arm muscles.
“Hey, where is that popcorn?” Roland shouted from the living room.
“We’re starving in here,” Kyle added.
Turning an ear to the chatter, Timothy’s grandfather asked, “The whole gang’s here?”
“Yeah. We’re all in the living room playing a game.”
“So, let’s go say hello. I’ll bet they’ll want to hear my story also.”
Grabbing the popcorn out of the microwave, Timothy pinched each corner of the bag and opened the container, pouring out the steaming treats into an empty glass bowl. Handing his grandfather several sodas from the fridge, the two proceeded into the living room, carrying the snacks.
“Hey guys,” Timothy’s granddad shouted out, surprising the three friends.
“Wes!” Roland, Brian, and Kyle replied, greeting Timothy’s granddad.
“You guys ready to go get into some mischief?”
“Most definitely,” Roland replied.
“Yes, sir,” Brian added along with Kyle’s, “Sure am.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your video game,” Wes said with a smirk.
“Not at all. I was about to win anyway,” Roland exclaimed.
“What?” Brian countered. “You weren’t even close.”
“It doesn’t matter. Now we can get out of here and have some real fun.”
“Oh. So, you boys are interested in having some real fun, are you?” Timothy’s grandfather asked.
“Yes,” they answered in unison.
“Well, let’s see. What is there to do?” Timothy’s granddad pondered.
“There’s a carnival going on in the square,” Brian added.
“Well, then let’s get there. I haven’t been to a carnival in a long time.”
3
A New Place
Holding the simple bronze key in his hand, Timothy looked about, analyzing the new surroundings. Confused, he stuffed the key into his pants pocket and stood dumbfounded as people shuffled by; pushing past him in what appeared to be an altogether different world. Trying to make sense of his circumstances, Timothy looked back, gazing at what he believed to be the door he’d just fallen through.
That? he questioned, noting the door looked nothing like the entry to the supply room. Timothy placed his hand on the solid entrance, pausing for a moment, wondering what to expect.
“Excuse me, boy,” a man said, pushing by Timothy and pulling open the door the boy had been blocking.
As the structure swung open and then closed, Timothy gazed inside, making note of any anomalies that might be visible.
Nothing.
No special light or fairy dust flitted about. No secret tunnel appeared. He did not see anything special, nor did he see his home on the other side. All that existed behind this door was what appeared to be a bathroom.
“Excuse me, son,” another man said, brushing against the boy as he walked past to enter the room.
Timothy remained in a semi-frozen state in front of the door—a bit confused. I don’t understand? This is the door I came through. How can this be? The boy was not sure what to expect or what would happen if he walked back through. But he couldn’t conceive of any other way to get home.
This is the door, he naïvely tried to assure himself as he took a breath and swung the barrier open.
Standing in the entrance, Timothy could see stalls and sinks. One of the men who had pushed past him was now washing his hands. The gentlemen inside shuffled around, each keeping to themselves and going about their own business.
“You OK, son?” one of the men inside said, taking note of the boy who stood holding the door wide open.
“Umm . . . I don’t know,” Timothy stuttered trying to think how to answer. “I thought this door went somewhere else.”
“Then do you mind?”
“What?”
“Do you mind, son? The door . . . shut it.”
“What?”
“You’re holding the door wide open. Either come in or don’t.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry,” Timothy said, letting the door swing back closed.
He stood there staring at the front o
f the entrance as different men came and went, each pulling the door open and letting it swing back closed behind them.
Is this the door I came through?
The disbelief and wonder that had taken over was now quickly replaced with a stark and unshakable sense of panic. Where am I? he questioned again.
As impossible as it might have seemed, Timothy knew something amazing and magical must have just happened. Did I find a wormhole? he pondered. When I get back, no one is going to believe what happened.
As the boy’s thoughts strayed, focusing more on the unbelievable state he found himself in and how cool it would be when he told his friends, Timothy realized that first he had to get back home.
Keep it together, Timothy, he told himself, trying to maintain control of his emotions. I just need to get some answers.
“Ma’am,” Timothy said, tapping a handsomely dressed lady on the shoulder. “Can you tell me where we are?”
The lady looked down at Timothy, confused by his question and attire. With a proper British accent, she replied in a scolding manner, “What are you wearing, my dear child?”
Timothy had not noticed the discrepancy between his own clothing and that of everyone else. He stood there in his blue jeans, a grey t-shirt, barefoot and his hair was still wet and disheveled.
“Cat got your tongue? Where are your shoes, boy?”
“My shoes . . . I didn’t put them on. I was getting the janitor.”
“Janitor? Why?” she asked, looking about.
“The bird . . . ,” Timothy tried to answer.
“Bird? What bird, dear boy?”
Thinking back to the earlier moments that had led him here, Timothy now wondered about the supply closet and how extraordinary it was that he’d ever been locked inside.
“There was one trapped in a closet, and I was getting him out.”
“Then why are you about with no shoes?” she questioned.”
Timothy looked down at his bare feet as he answered, “I was in the locker room chasing a bird when I got stuck.”