The Storyteller

by Aaron Starmer

  For a time, Hamish read her bedtime stories, but as the glow expanded, the distance between the two increased. It became too much of a strain to shout such long tales, so Hamish would simply stand on the edge of the glow and holler the same good-night message.

  “Miss you, little girl. Be good now.”

  Luna missed Hamish as well, but being the polite wombat that she was, she stayed away from the house. She knew her presence was far too distracting. Even when she tried to blot out the light—by rolling in mud or covering herself in a ratty old horse blanket—it always found its way through.

  * * *

  It was high noon the day a blindfolded Hamish came for Luna. It had been years since Hamish had even picked her up, since he’d scratched her ear, since he’d given her a shower. It had been nearly as long since Luna had seen Hamish up close. Hamish was old. His skin was painted with brown and purple splotches. His posture was bad.

  “Come into my arms, old pal,” he said.

  Luna did as asked. It felt different from before. Hamish was weaker, but it was more than that. Hamish held on to her as if he never wanted to let her go.

  “Lead me to the car,” Hamish said, because he knew that Luna understood at least a few things. “Nibble once if I should move left and nibble twice for right. Nuzzle once for forward and nuzzle twice for backward. Can you do that?”

  Luna nuzzled once and Hamish was off. She nibbled and nuzzled as the two made their way out of the barn. “Faster, buddy,” Hamish said. “The blindfold is hardly working. My eyes won’t be able to take it much longer.”

  So Luna sped up her nibbles and nuzzles as best she could and led Hamish to that tiny old red sports car that sat in the dirt driveway. Its skin was like Hamish’s skin, but the blotches were rust.

  As Hamish lowered Luna into the trunk, he told her, “We’ve managed to keep the government at bay, and perhaps they’ve forgotten about you, but I can only imagine what they’d think of you now that you’re so bright. I’ve done my best to hide you, but you’re bound to be detected here. We’ll get you somewhere safer, old friend.”

  The car rumbled down the country road, and Luna tried to imagine what the landscape outside of the trunk looked like. She tried to conjure memories of sitting in the bike basket. And as she was lost in thought, she felt the ground drop out beneath them and the car take a plunge.

  For years, she would think about what caused it. Had her glow penetrated the trunk and filled the car with a blinding light? Had Hamish’s eyes given out? Had Hamish himself given out and decided to let go of the wheel?

  When all was said and done, though, it didn’t really matter. What mattered is the car fell hundreds of feet, tumbled like a toy into a deep ravine, tore apart, caught flame, and killed Hamish in an instant, crushed him, burned him, and made him unrecognizable.

  But it didn’t do a thing, not a single thing, to hurt Luna.

  TO BE CONTINUED …

  WEDNESDAY, 12/13/1989 … CONTINUED

  NIGHT

  I know, Stella. Not a word about a waterfall in there. Not a word about Banar. Calm down. They’re coming. And that’s what’s freaking me out. A lucky guess? Can’t be. The waterfall was strange enough. But Banar?

  “What does Banar mean to you?” is what Alistair asked me earlier.

  Well, the Spanish student in me knows it means to bathe. But the writer in me knows it as a name. The name of a character that will appear later in Luna’s story. A bush baby named Banar who has secrets to tell. Powerful secrets.

  You don’t just guess a name like that out of thin air. Or maybe you do. Because that’s where I got it. Well, out of wet air, I guess.

  It was on Sunday, when I was with Glen and Mandy, walking to Hanlon Park in the misting rain. I was thinking about Luna’s story and wondering if I should change it, edit it so that she wasn’t a wombat anymore. If I ever wanted people to read the story, would it make more sense if the main character were an animal that everyone could relate to more? Like a chimp or a dog? Or should I go even wilder than a wombat? Something totally original. A tapir? A coatimundi? A capybara?

  I couldn’t decide, but the name Banar plopped into my head like a lump of clay tossed down on a table by an art teacher. Make something out of this was the message, but it wasn’t until later that I decided what to make. It was when Mandy mentioned that one of the names Dorian Loomis used on the CB radio was Bush Baby.

  Banar the bush baby, I thought. He should be a character in Luna’s story. He wouldn’t replace her, but he would represent the turning point, the moment when Luna’s life would truly change.

  I haven’t written a word about Banar, so for Alistair to know that name is … disturbing. So disturbing that it makes me seem crazy too. I’m not crazy, though. You’d tell me if I were crazy, right, Stella?

  Mom and Dad came home about ten minutes after Alistair mentioned Banar. Ten minutes earlier and I would have told them everything. So much more than I said to Dad during yesterday’s walk to school. I would have told them what I knew about Aquavania, the creepy things Alistair was saying about Fiona’s and Charlie’s souls. I would have told them about Jenny Colvin, the Littlest Knight, and the Mandrake. I would have urged them to stop trying to find “the right fit” and just get the boy some help already. Not tomorrow, but right that very second.

  Banar changed things. I was stunned into silence.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” is all I told them.

  And Mom said, “We all need to have a little chat.”

  We all sat in the kitchen, and Mom poured glasses of milk and laid out some cookies, while Dad leaned against the refrigerator, looked at Alistair, and said, “First thing we’re going to tell you is that they haven’t identified any bodies.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “They’ve made an arrest,” Mom said. “They think the person might be involved in both Charlie’s and Fiona’s disappearances.”

  If Alistair’s eyes could have gotten wider, then they would have wrapped around his face. “Seriously,” he said. “Who?”

  “His name is Milo Drake.”

  THE CONFESSION OF MILO DRAKE

  Many will question why I am doing this. Even I am having second thoughts. I know how the system works, however. The state will assign a lawyer to defend me and that lawyer will tell me to keep my fool mouth shut. After all these years, I cannot do that.

  My brother, Luke, fell into the Oriskanny ten years ago, and we never saw him again. Most people around here remember when that happened, but they do not think about it every day. I do. My parents do. I have tried to push the details into the back of my brain, like locking a dog in the basement, and while I still hear the barking, I had begun to forget what the dog looked like.

  A few days ago, that all changed. That is when I saw things clearly again. Police officers arrived at my door with new information about Luke. I will avoid details about what they told me, because it concerns innocent people dealing with their own pain, but I will tell you that it brought back disturbing thoughts. There are things I cannot lock away anymore.

  People remember me as a boy, so they think of me as a boy. I am no longer a boy, but I am not sure what kind of man I am. As soon as I deliver this confession to the various news outlets, I will turn myself in to the police. Because I am the one they are looking for.

  I am the reason Fiona Loomis is missing. I am the reason Charlie Dwyer is missing. I am not going to use this as a forum to explain myself, because I do not think I can ever do that. I am going to use this as a way to provide closure to families that need closure.

  Look no further. Because I did this.

  I do not want to cause any additional pain.

  I am sorry.

  THURSDAY, 12/14/1989

  AFTERNOON

  They found bones. Lots and lots of bones. The police and FBI have been digging in Milo Drake’s yard all night and all morning, and the local news is keeping us up-to-date.

  “Another set of
bones,” the TV reporters keep saying as they stand on the street next to the police tape. “That’s all we can confirm at this point.”

  Milo Drake lives in some broken-down house in some tiny town I’ve never heard of, though apparently it’s only twenty miles or so from Thessaly. A place called Oran. From the pictures they’ve been showing on the news, his backyard isn’t that big, the size of a couple of driveways maybe.

  The bones keep coming up, though.

  I don’t know tons about biology, but I know that Charlie wouldn’t be a skeleton already, especially if you buried him. Neither would Fiona. Too cold and not enough time for decomposition. So everyone is holding out hope. But things are not looking good.

  I agreed to talk to Glen on the walkie-talkies in study hall again because I needed to talk to someone.

  “Whatta sicko that guy is,” was the first thing Glen said as soon as we were connected.

  “How are you today?” I responded, hoping he’d get the hint that this is how you start a proper conversation.

  His hint-taking could use a bit of work, because all he said was, “I wish they’d show TV in class.”

  “It’s too morbid,” I said. “I don’t know why we have to hear every detail. Find out the facts first, then report it. The Sutton Bulletin should never have published that confession. Not without corroboration. That’s what my dad says, anyhow.”

  “Well, my dad says it’s essentially an op-ed, and op-eds have different rules,” Glen responded.

  Awesome, I thought. Is this going to turn into one of those my-dad-can-beat-up-your-dad situations? Since Glen’s dad manages the company that sells many of the local newspapers their rolls of newsprint, Glen figures his views on the media are beyond question. Arguing with him wasn’t worth the effort.

  “I’m sad for all the families,” I said. “Including Mr. Drake’s. Haven’t they already had enough pain?”

  “Maybe,” Glen said. “But come on, if this man Drake has done half the things they think he’s done, then he isn’t getting my sympathy.”

  “What?” I said, cupping my hands over the headphones. There was some noise in study hall, kids chatting, probably about the same thing we were chatting about, so I wasn’t sure if I’d heard Glen right.

  “He should burn in hell,” Glen said.

  “Did you call him the Mandrake?” I asked.

  “Well, his name is Drake. And he’s a man. Though have you seen his hair? He might be part porcupine. That stuff is a mess. I bet he hardly bathes.”

  “I’ve gotta go,” I said. “Mr. Gregson is motioning for me to talk to him.”

  “Crap,” Glen said. “Okay. No detention for you, because I want to walk you home and maybe we can watch the news together. Over and out.”

  Another lie. Mr. Gregson didn’t motion to me. I actually don’t think he even cared that I was wearing a walkie-talkie. He was too wrapped up in the Sutton Bulletin. Probably analyzing Milo Drake’s confession like everyone else.

  I wanted to snatch the newspaper out of his hands and look at it again. I had pasted the clipping on one of your pages, Stella, but you were all the way in my locker, and I needed to see immediately if there was anything to indicate that the Littlest Knight was connected to this.

  Weird. So freaking weird.

  A dead kid in armor halfway across the world. A man with a backyard full of bones a few towns away. My brother has made a connection between the two. I let a monster called the Mandrake get to him, Alistair had said yesterday, before Mom and Dad had even come home and mentioned Milo. The man, Drake.

  How could that possibly be another coincidence?

  EVENING

  Alistair is focused. He didn’t even come to dinner tonight. Mom fixed him a plate and he ate in his room. His excuse is homework. Since he’s missed so much school, the teachers have sent catch-up assignments and reading for him to do. It’s a lot of stuff, but it’s not like he can’t join us for a meal or two.

  At the table, all I wanted to talk about was Milo Drake, because really, how could we talk about anything else? Mom and Dad weren’t thrilled about it. That confession seemed like a revelation last night, but as more and more bones are being unearthed, more and more hopes are being buried. Still, there were—there are!—so many unanswered questions.

  “A couple of weeks ago, you asked something about Luke Drake,” I said to Mom as soon as she sat down. “You said Alistair had seen something, right?”

  “I did,” Mom replied, and she spooned another scoop of scalloped potatoes onto my plate, the international gesture for Fill that mouth with taters and not questions, my dear.

  “Well,” I said, pushing the plate to the side for a moment, “if I’m going to understand what’s happening in our family, then I deserve to know the details.”

  Dad sighed. “You certainly do. And I’m sorry we haven’t been more forthcoming.”

  “Hallelujah!” I threw up my arms, and Mom dropped the spoon into the serving dish, the clang of metal on ceramic saying what she wasn’t willing to say herself: that she hated being overruled, that she hated that Dad always decided when it was the right time for me and Alistair to know anything.

  Dad either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Because he turned to me and asked, “Do you remember the Luke Drake disappearance?”

  Milo’s confession had brought some recollections back, but only hazy ones. Feelings more than anything. “Sort of,” I said. “I was really young, right?”

  If Mom was going to be overruled, at least she was going to get a few words in. “You were four, almost five,” she said. “Luke fell into the Oriskanny when he was out playing with Milo. Luke was twelve, I think. A good-looking kid. Milo was probably fourteen. Always seemed a bit weird to me.”

  “And what did Alistair see? If I was four, then he was, like, two … or three?”

  Dad nodded at my guess and said, “Alistair claims—”

  “Claims,” Mom echoed. “Important word.”

  “Yes,” Dad replied. “Memories, especially from when you’re young, aren’t always reliable. And what Alistair remembers is seeing Luke Drake’s body. In the river, near Uncle Dale’s cabin. Do you remember that cabin?”

  “Of course,” I said. “It was … rustic.”

  “Well,” Dad said, “Alistair claims he didn’t realize what he was seeing until recently. He rode a bike out there to find out if he could confirm his memory. And while he was searching the riverbanks, he says he found the gun, buried and hidden in a metal box. An ammo can.”

  I turned from the table to check the hallway that led to Alistair’s room. It was empty. “But he lied about the gun. Kyle confessed. It was Kyle’s gun all along.”

  “Most stories, especially difficult ones, are a mix of truth and lies,” Dad said.

  “But why would Alistair lie about the gun?” I asked.

  Mom raised her eyebrows. Like mother, like daughter. Same thoughts, same concerns.

  Dad might not be a psychiatrist. He might not know all the science. But he is a guy people with problems talk to. He’s supposed to have answers and he tries to have answers, but sometimes, it’s obvious that he’s grasping at straws. Like this time, when he said, “He’s scared. He’s confused. He’s seen things he can’t unsee and he doesn’t know what to say.”

  Scared and confused were the opposite of how I’d describe Alistair these days. He was confident in the things he was telling me. The only time he seemed flustered was when he was talking about the Littlest Knight. And that wasn’t really doubt. That seemed to be guilt. When he was silent, it was for a reason.

  “You think he was covering up for Kyle because he was scared? Because he’s confused?” I asked.

  Mom sighed. Dad shrugged and nodded at the same time.

  “And Milo Drake?” I asked. “Why him? Why now?”

  “The police weren’t sure whether to believe Alistair’s story about seeing Luke’s body all those years ago,” Dad said.

  “We all want to believe your br
other,” Mom added. “But, as you know, he’s been saying strange things. And if he’s telling one lie, then he’s probably telling more.”

  Dad jumped back in and said, “To confirm Alistair’s story, the police visited Milo Drake. Alistair told them what clothes Luke was wearing when he saw his body, so they asked Milo if he remembered what clothes Luke was wearing the day he fell in the river.”

  I took a bite of potatoes and peered over Dad’s shoulder into the living room at the TV, which was off. We were in the dark. We had no idea what other discoveries the police had made since we’d sat down for dinner.

  “So did they?” I asked.

  “Did they what?” Mom replied.

  “Confirm?” I asked. “About Luke’s clothes.”

  Dad shrugged again, but didn’t nod this time. “Never told us whether they did or didn’t. Once Kyle gave his more believable side of the story, I suppose it didn’t matter what Alistair said. The gun was Kyle’s. Luke is long gone. And now with Milo … Well, this is how police work goes. You poke around, ask questions, and sometimes you dredge up something you don’t expect.”

  “Sometimes someone leads you to a suspect that you didn’t even realize was a suspect in the first place,” Mom added.

  I imagined for a second a monster rampaging down the hallway, salivating, snarling, knocking family photos from the wall. Not a mud monster like the Dorgon in my story about Princess Sigrid. A ferocious demon of a thing, barreling toward Alistair’s door. The Mandrake.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “Are you saying that Alistair led them to Milo Drake for a reason? That he knew something about Milo but was too scared to tell anyone? And this was, like, his way of pointing a finger without actually pointing a finger?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We’re as confused as you are, honey,” Dad said.

  If only. I wanted to bring up Banar and the wombat stuff. I wanted to tell them that not only was I worried about my brother, I was worried about myself. But that would only confuse things more, wouldn’t it? I had to slip it in somehow, though. Test the waters.