The bus monitor finally showed. She scowled at Erik. “That's enough, young man! You need to get off this campus before I call the police and have you removed.”
By this time, Gregg had come out and joined the fun. He took one look at Parmely and the set of his face told me his intentions. I stuck my arm out to stop him. Realizing the time had come to leave, Erik gave everyone a look of utter contempt.
He scowled at me. “Watch your back, Morgenstern!” Then he turned and walked away.
My legs almost gave out with relief. I took a shuddering breath and stumbled to the bus with Jen and Gregg.
Jen touched my arm. “You okay, Finn?”
“I'm fine Jen.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I'm sure. That skin-headed gorilla doesn't scare me.”
Gregg snorted.
On the way home, Gregg heard the whole story about the after-school ambush and Jen's bravery. He turned to his sister with an uncharacteristic respect. “Damn, sis! Who’d a skeened you got tips too?”
I shook my head as I decided that tips must have meant, “insanely suicidal tendencies”.
Gregg nudged his sister with affection. “You can come and help me kick the crap out of him.”
She grinned, but I jumped in before she could reply. “Gregg, you can’t do it. Did you see the arms on that guy? He could bench press all of us.”
“Somebody’s got to put him in his place.”
“Look, Gregg, he won’t be around till the week of finals. After that, we’ll be in college, he’ll rob a liquor store, go to jail, and we will never see him again.”
Jen said, “He’s right, big bro. You don’t need to do anything to jeopardize your chances at college.”
Gregg finally bobbed his head, though he scrunched his lips in annoyance.
The happy memory of what Jen had done to Chester popped into my head and temporarily overshadowed my angst about Parmely. I grinned at Jen and winked at her. She responded with her sweet smile.
***
My relief at arriving home safely caused me to forget about my eye-bow until I walked into the kitchen, and my mom’s mouth dropped open in shock.
That afternoon at home, after relating my attempts to help some, previously unknown, hapless boy, (parents talk) I got hugs, lectures, and congratulations from them both. My mom told me that I shouldn’t get into fights, and my dad said, “Finn, I’m proud of you for wanting to protect that boy, but if you’re going to be the world’s protector, we need to teach you how to fight.”
Uneasily, I backed away from that idea and hoped he wasn’t serious. The one time I signed up for Judo, I lasted two sessions. After spending both sessions doing nothing but throwing myself down on a mat, I decided it wasn’t for me. I was more comfortable discussing strategy and tactics than being in the middle of them.
To change the subject, I said, “Uh, yeah… Hey do you want to come to the nursery with me to see what I can get to help my tree?”
“Sure, let’s go.”
We headed off, and I spent the rest of my afternoon taking care of my tree.
What Dreams May Come
The night after my fight with Erik, I sat at my desk in my room, trying to get through my calculus homework. The memory of my confrontation kept popping up like an unexpected viper in a whack-a-mole game. Every time that poisonous snake popped up, the gophers of my calculus problems went unwhacked.
I pulled back from a particularly unpleasant vision of myself in a body cast and looked around the room while fingering the bear where it rested against my shirt. Squiffy, my hamster, was asleep in his little fake log inside his cage. I thought about waking him, but decided that someone in this room should be getting some sleep, so I looked elsewhere. My gaze settled on my collection. My collection contained all the arrowheads, bottles, and other artifacts I've collected over the years. It also includes a range of different crystals. Some of them, generally the smaller and shabbier of them, I had found. Others, I had bought for myself, usually from my Uncle Mark's shop. The rest were presents from various friends and relatives who knew how much I liked crystals, fossils and rocks. In pride of place, hanging from a hook above the rest of my collection was a large, clear, purple amethyst that hung from a chain attached to the silver crown on the larger end.
I called it my dreamstone. Not only was it the largest and clearest crystal I owned, it was the only thing I had of my birth mother; I identified it with her. She had been wearing it the day she gave me life—the day she died. I had an impulse to get up and grab it, but I resisted. If I did that, I knew where it would lead.
Even after so many years, just touching that stone filled me with a need to create, a need to tell stories. I knew if I picked it up, my calculus was doomed. I would spend the rest of the night writing stories about the world of my imagination that I called Illyria. In the last three years, I’d had to fight that desire. I needed that time to study and keep my grades up.
I wrenched my gaze back to the unfinished problem-set on my desk and noticed that my right hand had clasped around my bear.
I found myself doing that more and more lately.
Long ago, I accepted the fact that I became attached to things. Once that happened, I couldn't bear to part with them. The bear was an extreme case in point. Besides my dreamstone, that bear was the coolest thing I had ever owned. I still wore it on a string around my neck, and my hands sought out the cool, smooth, weight of it. I loved to hold it and rub my fingers over it like a fiddle stone. My mom said I liked to touch and feel things because I had “sensory integration” issues. Whatever it was, it usually calmed me down.
But tonight, even the comfort of my bear whistle didn't seem to help me focus.
I looked my bear in the eye. “You could be more help here, you know.”
It didn't answer, but as I met its black gaze, I had the familiar urge to make it speak by playing on the whistle. As usual, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I knew my fear of playing the whistle was silly, but after what happened at the burial mound, I wouldn't chance it.
Between my bear musings and my confrontation with Erik, I couldn't get anything productive done. My calculus homework lay unfinished before me and the pressure from the fight and unfinished schoolwork had reduced me to talking to my bear.
My attention returned back to my dreamstone. This time, I failed my saving throw (meaning my resistance was futile) and grabbed it off its hanger.
When I was younger, I believed that the stories I wove around the amethyst came from my mother; she spoke to me through the stone, telling me the bedtime stories she never had the chance to weave in person. It gave me a connection to her and helped when life got me down.
Dad gave it to me on my tenth birthday.
I remembered him holding it out to me after everyone else had left my party.
“Son, this belonged to your birth mother. She loved it, and I know she would have wanted you to have it. Now that you’re ten, I think you’re responsible enough to keep it safe.”
Wide eyed, I said, “Wow!”
Beautiful by itself, the romantic mystique of my birth mother made it priceless. I dearly loved my adoptive mom and didn’t need another, but sometimes I wished I could have met my birth mother. My dad had some photos of her, but he told me that they didn't reveal her true beauty. I pictured her as a compassionate woman, full of life, whose boundless love for me survived after her death. Even after so long, I still imagine her that way.
Knowing the crystal had belonged to my mother made it more valuable to me than any gift. I reached to take it, but my dad pulled back just far enough that I couldn’t grab it. His set jaw and firm brow reminded me how serious he was. “This is not a toy. It will break if you drop or mishandle it, and a part of your mother will be gone forever if you lose it. Can I count on you to keep this safe?”
The value he placed on the stone caused me to value it every bit as much. I nodded solemnly. “Yes, Dad.”
His eyes shone, and he smi
led at me before placing the crystal in my eager hands.
“I promise I’ll keep it safe.”
The crystal immediately enthralled me. Its cool, mysterious, and intriguing touch fascinated me and I spent hours staring into its purple depths, wondering about its history. My imagination told me that I held a powerful artifact crafted in a time of magic and worn by the warrior high priestess I called Il Saia. Since the crystal evoked all this, it seemed only natural that it should figure prominently in the stories of my magical dream world. Funny how sometimes you get things exactly backwards.
In time, I introduced other people to my world, and they played teams of heroes who adventured there. I called my world Seru. Humans, one of the several races of Seru, lived in a city-state called Illyria. Of course, my game city looked just like my dream city. Il Saia, a title that loosely translated to “The High Holy Protector,” led the Illyrians. Charged with keeping Illyria safe from all threats, she often sent the team out on important missions to battle with their world’s many enemies.
Working on my world increasingly commanded my attention, consumed my time, and diminished my grades. Fortunately for me, my native intelligence allowed me to coast through grade school and junior high, but when I hit the second semester of my freshman year of high school, I was unable to keep up without more effort. My grades started falling, and by my junior year, they got so poor that the danger of not passing the grade forced me to change priorities. My dad played a pivotal role in this decision and his threat of taking away my gaming nights with my friends helped me see his point of view.
That night, when my thoughts were in so much discord, I fell under the dream stone's thrall and forgot all about calculus. Instead, I thought about my dream world and spent my time writing about dryads in Seru.
A type of tree nymph, dryads historically inhabited oak trees and laid traps for unwary Greeks, Romans, and Celts. Since I was certain the girl in my dream had been a subconscious embodiment of my love for that old oak, “dryad” seemed a fitting classification for her.
That night, fueled by the memory of a kiss, dryads became the femme-fatales of my magical world—hot, sexy crusaders for the trees. They guarded deep forests against humans’ depredation, and used their sexy, feminine wiles to lure men into their trees. There, the dryads would either kill them or keep them as mindless sex slaves. Only in unusual cases would they approach a person to converse. In truly exceptional cases, with powerful wizards, for example, they might take that man or woman as a lover. In my hormone-soaked brain, I couldn’t imagine that male dryads existed, but, of course, the oversexed females sometimes took women lovers. Surviving the touch of a dryad would dub you Treefriend, and once marked by a dryad in such a way, a person could travel across the world by entering any tree and then step out of another.
I went to bed far too late, still peering into the purple depths of my amethyst and dreamt of Illyria.
***
I pause on the white marble balcony to look over my beloved city. Its delicate marble and crystal spires rise from the forests, which fill the areas between the buildings and thoroughfares, providing shade and grace for its citizens. Fierce love and protectiveness flow through me, and I vow to do everything I can to save my city from the coming storm. Thoughts of victory fuel my determination. We will fight the invasion of those who would destroy us, and we will come out undefeated and stronger.
My aide, Kaawen, steps onto the balcony behind me, and the deferential clearing of her throat is no surprise. When she speaks, her gravelly voice carries the import of her words. “Il Saia, all are finally gathered and waiting for you.”
I sigh in resignation. It is time to wage the first battle of the war. I must convince the council members that the time for diplomacy has passed, that we must gear up for invasion, or the vast numbers arrayed against us will easily and quickly overwhelm us.
I turn and look into the gentle, knowing brown eyes of Kaawen, who waits patiently for me, the same way she waits for everything. Those eyes offset the naturally belligerent look of her protruding brows, prominent nose, and large teeth. She carries the wide, muscular girth of all the Gentle Race, and her coarse brown body hair completes the image of crude strength.
My heart fills with gratitude at her presence. She is my rock and a constant source of wisdom and strength. I’m glad she will be beside me through the coming frustrations of dealing with the council.
“So, Kaawen, are you ready to go in and knock some sense into those rock-hard heads?”
She smiles, displaying a startling number of teeth. “Unfortunately, Il Saia, I believe most have no room in their heads for sense. You may have to fill them with fear of your displeasure to get them properly motivated.”
I smile back, though not with happiness. “So, let us go and spread some motivation.”
Beep…beep…beep…
Back In The World
The alarm cut sharply through the tapestry of my dream, and I opened my eyes to my mundane bedroom. In my mind’s eye, the silvery light of the gray Ohio skies filtered through the leaves of my oak tree, transformed into a living, soft, but vital green. At the time, I didn’t even notice it. All I could think of for a few moments was Illyria.
Over the years, my dreams of Illyria had gone from vague images of the city, its people, and its history, to detailed and emotionally impacting scenes and stories. Often, the newer ones would correct misconceptions I had taken from previous dreams. As always, I had a strong desire to write down the newest facets presented. That beautiful and poignant moment on the balcony revealed a lot to me about the fierce protectiveness of Il Saia and her friendship with Kaawen. Unfortunately, one look at the clock was all it took to drive that urge out of my mind.
Panic lent me energy. I hopped out of bed and dressed in record time, cursing myself for not getting up when the alarm first rang. It would have given me enough time to finish my homework, but the heartless march of time didn’t allow for artistic pauses. I ran downstairs, poured myself a bowl of cereal, and devoured it while I worked on my calculus problem set. I'd studied hard to get my grades back into the A and B range, and the thought of losing those good grades and failing to get into college, threw me into a panic.
My mother, getting ready to go for the day, came into the kitchen, still tucking her long brown hair into a bun suitably conservative for a tenured professor. “Good morning, sweetheart. You’re running a bit late, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I overslept.”
She eyed me scribbling away on my calculus worksheet. “Weren’t you supposed to get that done last night?”
“I tried, but I couldn’t concentrate on it.”
At that point, my dad came in. “I thought you were supposed to get that done last night.” “Uh, yeah… I got distracted.”
The corners of his lips dipped. “I thought we were all clear on this. Schoolwork comes first. You can’t allow your fantasy world to become more important than your future.”
“I know, I know, but this is the first time in a month, and I just got this brilliant idea about dryads, and—”
He held up his hands. “Just make sure you keep in mind what’s important. I’m sure your fantasies are fun, but the real world packs a punch if you ignore it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He mussed my hair and kissed me on my head. “Goodbye, son.”
Mom kissed my cheek. “Goodbye, sweetheart.”
They headed out the door with their arms around each other. Both of them taught at the university. My dad taught geology at the university and Mom taught chemistry. They had tenure and were professors for life. For two people with such stodgy careers, they were sometimes embarrassingly demonstrative.
I rubbed my head in resigned irritation. What other eighteen year old gets kisses from both his mom and dad?
Working against the clock, I crammed on my problem set. Finally, I gave up and ran out the door—just in time to miss the bus. I spotted Gregg sitting in the back, waving out the window
at me with an evil grin on his face.
“Aw, crap!”
In a flash, I whipped out my cell phone and called Dave. He had a car and was the only guy I knew with one who lived anywhere close, although my house wasn’t exactly on his way to school.
“Mighty Finn!” he said.
I liked his nickname for me. It made me feel special. Nobody else called me that except my family doctor, though, which disappointed me sometimes. When I asked my doctor about it, he said it came from the old 60s song about an Eskimo called the Mighty Quinn. Go figure.
“Davey Boy! I missed the bus! You gotta come pick me up.”
“Finn, if I come pick you up, I’m going to be late.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m desperate here. If you don’t pick me up, I’m going to be like a half hour late, and you know how Kramer gets. How about I ride my bike out to Granville and you pick me up there? That will save you ten minutes.”
“All right, but get your butt out there. If you’re not there, I’m going to let your sorry ass bike to school.”
“Thanks, Dave! I’ll be there.”
I raced back to the house, grabbed my bike, and made record time out to Granville Road. When I arrived, out of breath and sweating, I locked my bike to a light pole, and in short order, Dave drove down the road. His old beat-up yellow Mustang rattled up to me and squealed to a stop. The Mustang barely ran on good days, and any accident would have spelled doom, as in S.P.L.A.T., for its passengers, but it ran.
I didn’t care much about cars, but Dave loved that Mustang as much as I loved my tree or my iPhone. He spent most weekends tinkering with it and industriously saved money to cherry it out, even though he never got around to it.
When I asked him what drove his passion, he just grinned and said, “Finn, everyone knows hot cars are chick magnets!”
That just about summarized our knowledge of the mysterious fairer sex.
I slammed the squeaking door shut with a resounding rattle.
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