by Troy Hooker
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper tightly folded.
Chivler’s 5:30 Friday it read.
Chivler’s was the old bookstore where the old kook owner stared at Sam every time he walked past. It must be the first meeting Emma was hinting to. That is, if he was interested.
The truth was that he still wasn’t too sure he wanted to be a part of it, whatever “it” was. He had never really committed to anything for life before, and that’s the way he liked it. And to date, life hadn’t really committed anything to him either.
He sat in the padded seat, and for a moment he watched everyone around him. Emma and the chunky boy were nowhere to be seen, but there were also quite a few people standing in the room still talking, shaking hands, and laughing at each other’s jokes.
As the service began in what used to be the mansion’s old sitting room, the minister stood at the podium, a huge stone fireplace behind him. Sam could tell today was going to be different than the other services he had attended here, not that he had attended many. There was no bearded guy with a guitar leading worship, no special music, and no long-winded prayers as normal.
Instead, the thin, aging pastor slowly raised his hands outward, which all members interpreted as the instruction to quiet down and take their seats. When the building was silent, he bowed his head slightly, closing his eyes, and reached out again toward the congregation.
Sam, who had seen this before, bowed his head with the others in unison, expecting the long-winded weekly prayer for “hope” and “new life” for the citizens of White Pine and the surrounding communities, and for the “safety and empowering” of those missionaries around the world. He had never truly prayed before, but rather listened to others as they prayed, using strange phrases like “hedge of protection” and “spirit poured upon us” in their conversations with God. And sometimes, when the prayers were extra long, his mind would drift away to another quest in Middle Earth, where he would fight dragons and fierce creatures of evil with the other warriors. It was a good distraction—one that could keep him entertained for hours.
But this time, Pastor Jefferies’ prayer was short. No one made a sound while he prayed. The only noise was the deep breathing in and out of the congregants in the room, and the occasional mutter of agreement with the minister’s words.
“As we gather today, a special day of thanks and honor to God …” the Pastor began, his voice cutting through the congregation, who seemed too deep into their own prayers to hear him, “… we must remember that we are a community that is dedicated to the service of the Lord, and in Him, we can find strength. If we remain faithful, we may be called his servants, a blessed position in His kingdom.
“This day—is a day of remembrance,” he continued, “for who you are and what you have done for us, Lord. We commune together today, knowing that our responsibility is to serve you and our neighbors in need, to live as a community and not for ourselves. We know our time here on Earth in short, Father, but we ask for the ability to fight the good fight of faith, taking on those spiritual enemies that are against us, that deceive us, and that cheat us out of our joy here in your Creation. Give us strength, Lord, we ask in your name, and let us enjoy this celebration. In your name, Amen.”
Somehow, Pastor Jefferies’ prayer stirred Sam down deep. It wasn’t enough to make him come forward and get on his knees like so many had before during the altar calls at the end of the service, but for the first time, he felt some spiritual connection inside him, and he didn’t know how to respond.
The whole congregation stood and began talking again, and some immediately began filing out into the mansion’s old dining room, where Sam could hear the distinctive sound of plates and glasses clinking together.
Sam was tempted momentarily to go and track down Emma, but then his grandfather grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him over to where a few people he didn’t know, and one he did know, were talking quietly. Among them were Miss Karpatch and the mayor of White Pine.
“Sam, I would like you to meet Mr. Phillis, the mayor of White Pine,” Amos said, holding his hand out toward the man Sam had seen on a few occasions sitting on the front porch with his grandfather, much like the Colonel did, drinking coffee and talking in hushed tones.
Coffee was the beverage of choice around White Pine, much to Sam’s delight. He loved coffee, like most of the town, although they didn’t seem to care much for the high-charged espresso drinks like he did. Either way, there was a steaming pot on every porch in the morning, in every church service he had been to, and at every football game every Friday night.
“Yes, sir, I have seen you before at my house. You like your coffee with plenty of cream and sugar.” Sam held out his hand to meet the meaty hands of the large man in the black suit and dark red collared shirt. His long black hair was as dark as the suit he wore, and his tapered beard showed signs of just being trimmed that morning.
When Mr. Phillis came to visit Amos, he was almost always dressed the same, which made the meeting so much more peculiar, since Amos was almost always in a flannel and jeans. They had never included Sam in their conversations, and Sam had never formally met the mayor face to face. But today, he seemed genuinely interested in meeting Sam.
“Observant, aren’t you?” the mayor said gruffly, but a smile crept to the corner of his mouth. “I suppose you will join us one of these evenings?”
Sam didn’t really care to have coffee with the mayor, but he nodded anyway. Perhaps he would be able to find out what was so secretive about their conversations.
Miss Karpatch seemed content enough to leave him alone today, which suited Sam just fine. She only shook his hand and then made her way to the numerous small tables in the dining room.
Sam followed his grandfather to one of the tables near the large oak cabinets filled with ornate china. One of the women immediately brought them a huge basket of bread and butter and filled their glasses with iced tea. Sam had never actually been in the dining room before, and he was surprised that it fit everyone from the service comfortably. Overhead, delicate glass chandeliers twinkled softly as more congregants filed in and sat down, each one talking and laughing happily.
“Today is a day of communion,” his grandfather leaned over and said quietly to him.
Soon the women brought out huge dishes of food—meatloaf, baked and mashed potatoes, corn, salads, and more bread than Sam had ever seen. The smell hit his nose before the food even touched the table, and immediately his mouth began to water.
It wasn’t that Amos wasn’t a good cook; it was just that he hadn’t had a meal quite like this in forever. It was a feast fit for a king, and the woman who set the huge bowl of potatoes in front of him with a genuine smile made him feel like he was one.
As they ate, Sam began to feel more at ease while people laughed and talked about the crazy Northern weather and the Festival of Northern Lights the following weekend. He listened to the legends that floated around the table.
“…remnants of the great spiritual battle before the great flood …” an older balding man Sam knew as Abraham gestured animatedly. Sam tried not to stare at his oversized thin-wire glasses that looked ready to pitch forward off his nose. “The borealis are a reminder of the spiritual battle that rages on even today. Angels wielding their great swords against the forces of Darkness … demons, and all those that seek to oppose the Creator who made them.”
“Is that why we have the Festival?” a young boy with tousled blond hair asked as he looked up from his mountainous portion of mashed potatoes.
The bald man smiled.
“It is, yes. We celebrate the fact that we have spiritual forces that continue to fight for Creation—for humanity.”
Sam listened as other old men chimed in and defended their stories of great warriors of “Light” fighting the Lords of Darkness right there in White Pine, leaving behind ancient
relics that have yet to be found.
Warriors of Light…Demons of the Dark…he thought as he thumbed the slip of paper that had been slipped into his pocket. Crazy old men and their stories.
That was the other thing he had come to realize about White Pine. It was a deeply spiritual place, unlike anywhere he had ever been. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was strange that this little backward mining town was the only place he knew of that celebrated the Festival of Light.
The town already showed signs of preparation for the big event. It was strange, such a small town going to so much trouble, but it would be some excitement to break up the otherwise dull day-to-day of White Pine.
The town offered virtually nothing for the visitor, except perhaps for the festival once a year. For Sam, after schoolwork and chores, his typical routine involved holing up in his room to avoid the strange townspeople. A cup of coffee and a good fantasy book were much more normal company.
If he decided to go, he would be meeting Emma right around the time the festival started. Perhaps that was the plan … a merciful attempt to get him to come out of his shell and join the rest of the community. They were on a mission of intervention, and he was their humanitarian project.
When his grandfather wasn’t looking, he pulled the slip of paper out and read it once again. Chivler’s. There would be plenty of people there, he assumed, in the middle of Main Street, partaking in the festival activities. If they were going to kidnap him and force him into a cult, it would be difficult to do so in the middle of a throng of people.
He chuckled to himself. The thought of Emma and Gus trying to stuff him into a van was amusing. They would force-feed him until he was plump like the large boy, then they would roast him over a fire while they sprinkled him with paprika.
A cult? There was no way Emma and Gus were capable of doing such a thing … at least not alone.
After the communion dinner and another silent ride home in the old pickup, Sam got to work on his paper. He wondered why his history teacher, Mr. Wilson, was requiring an essay so early in the year, but he wasn’t going to protest. He was always good with essays, and it happened to be his favorite subject anyway.
Amos was nowhere to be found; he seemed to know that Sam needed to be alone to finish homework. As he worked on his essay, he rubbed his overfilled stomach, thinking of the hospitality of the ladies at church. He had eaten entirely too many potatoes and buttered rolls, and it was unlikely he would be hungry at all for dinner. But just in case, the ladies from church sent him and Amos home with plenty of leftovers.
It was strange that a church would eat so lavishly for their communion, like a family sitting down to dinner. Communion at Wanita’s church was cold and rigid, much like the feeling the congregants gave you the minute you walked through the doors. Wanita wouldn’t let him take communion that day anyway, as she sternly explained it was for those that were “right with God”—not for foolish boys with foolish notions.
It was that same judgmental feeling he received every day living with Sylvia, so he was not at all intimidated. She was the master at manipulation and guilt, and it drove him to despise her more as the years dragged on.
But Amos’s church was different. They were never pushy or judgmental that he could tell. They always smiled and welcomed him, even if he never cared to sing the songs or listen to the sermons.
He still didn’t understand their church lingo, and the prayer before communion was no exception. It was like they had their own ancient language—like reading from an Elvish scroll or something. Some words were just downright ridiculous … what in the world did “consecrated” mean?
But the words meant something to the preacher and to the congregants … including his grandfather Amos. It was something they believed in passionately, a faith in someone or something they had never seen before … and that was foreign to him.
***********************
As Sam sleepily waded through the crowded halls of the tiny high school the following afternoon, he found Bush waiting for him at Sam’s locker. His locker door was standing open and the bully’s size eleven shoe was digging at the binding of a now-destroyed geography book on the floor. It didn’t take a genius to know that the book came from Sam’s locker, the bent door obviously having been pried open.
This time there were no escape routes to avert the clueless bully, so Sam did something he had never done before. He casually set his books down on the floor and prepared to fight. There was no more running now. He would have to face Bush head on, right here in the hallway, in the middle of the school.
Bloodthirsty students were already gathering as if they had been waiting for this fight since Sam had first stepped foot in the school. A semi-circle quickly formed, closing up the chance for a quick escape. It was just him and Bush, the dimwitted jock-wannabe, and he was out for blood.
“Missed ya on Friday, pretty boy,” he sneered at Sam as he leaned heavily against the lockers.
“I bet you did, Bush,” Sam said dangerously. “I went looking for you to say I was sorry for knocking you over in your own drool, but there was no smell of butt anywhere to be found.”
Bush’s face flushed beet red as a few laughs and giggles went through the crowd of students. Sam knew he had done it now.
“That’s it, punk. I have had it with you being here,” he snorted angrily. “You city trash all think you are better than us, and I’m here to tell you that it’s me who runs this place.”
“Funny, I figured you were the ‘cleanup’ type, since your dad runs the trash route.”
More laughs ran through the crowd.
“You’re going to pay for that, pretty boy.”
Sam had run out of things to say, and he could see that Bush was done talking anyway as the bully’s fist started to clench up. This was the moment he had been waiting for since school started. It was inevitable, so he balled up his own fist as he had practiced in his room so many times before that moment.
He knew there was only a short window between the element of surprise and getting a hook to the face, so at that moment, Sam decided to take his chance, swinging as hard as he could right at Bush’s pig-like nose.
He put everything he had into that punch. From the moment he sent it flying, the room and all inhabitants disappeared from sight. Only he and the bushy boy remained in an epic slow-motion battle of reflexes. He could see where his punch was going to hit, a flabby spot on the side of Bush’s peach fuzz cheek, and he could anticipate his target reeling backward from the force of the blow, then lying on the floor in complete shock. Sam would have won his respect, and that of the rest of the school.
But as most hopeful visions go, it would not turn out that way.
The punch did go where it was supposed to, but the surprised bully was too quick and managed to fall backward enough to miss the brunt of the throw. Sam nearly fell into him from the force of his own punch, but Bush merely shoved him backward into the lockers. As Sam fell, the oversized boy was instantly on top of him, throwing punch after punch until he was satisfied with the blood that covered his entire face. Those who were laughing now cheered and hooted at every blow.
Finally, as the bell rang for class, the bushy-haired brute stopped his pummeling, scooped up his torn books for class and waved at the savage crowd on his way to the Language Arts room.
Sam looked up at the ceiling, afraid to move for fear of seeing the damage. He felt the dull pain on the back of his head from the force of the blows against the tile floor and the trickle of blood making its way down his earlobe.
He just wanted to close his eyes and beam himself back to Grand Rapids and Kava House for a latte—maybe sneak into a matinee with his best friends Joel and Dalton, or maybe even church with Bruce’s mother—anything to get away from this backwards school and their barbaric ways.
***********************
As Sam lay motion
less on the floor, he began to wonder if anyone was going to stop and check to see if he was alive or if he would be left alone to bleed to death. It would be a likely end—alone, having just made the decision to meet Emma and find out what her club was all about.
His question of help was answered by a muffled scuffle of feet near his head, and then someone stroking his head softly.
“Looks like you got it pretty bad there pretty boy,” a voice said quietly in his ear. Sam didn’t respond, nor could he see who was talking to him, partially from the smeared blood dripping in his eyes. He only knew it was a girl.
She and two other people helped him to his feet, and while he wasn’t sure exactly what happened next, he heard loud murmuring from some of the teachers in the hallway rushing to his side. The girl let go of him, but another hand helped lead him down the hallway to the nurse’s station.
“It doesn’t appear to be too deep of a cut … and his nose doesn’t seem to be broken,” the portly nurse proclaimed from inside the tiny clinic.
Miss Karpatch, who had helped Sam into the room, now stood beside him, looking him over as if she were peering through a microscope. “I think you are right,” she said strangely.
“But you must look into who started this mess,” the nurse said, suddenly angry. “This is going to end up with one of these students getting a concussion—or worse.”
“What happened, Sam?” Miss Karpatch turned her attention to him, at which point Principal Curtis suddenly walked into the room stiffly, peering over the scene from his thin black-rimmed glasses.
“I don’t think it matters what happened, Sarah,” the balding administrator proclaimed as if answering her question for him. Then he pretended to dig for something important in his pocket. “He started a fight, and now he’s reaping the consequences.”