The Boy Who Would Rule the World

by Brian Toal

  "Will Dad have to leave again?" Bob McCarter was a long-distance truck driver and was usually gone for at least week-long periods of time. Chris had learned over the years that his father was hardly ever home for longer than two days at a time, except for his annual two-week vacation.

  "No, his company has given your father a week off. It’s called compassionate leave, so he’ll be with us all next week."

  "Do you think he’ll play PlayStation with me?" Chris asked hopefully. When Chris had asked for a Sony PlayStation last Christmas, initially his father had not agreed with the idea, muttering that video games rot kids' minds and the last thing Chris needed in his life was more TV. But Chris had continued to insist, that he didn't care if he got anything else for Christmas, but a Sony PlayStation game. And as the days before Christmas dwindled, he had continued to assert that a PlayStation was the only thing he wanted. The only thing he wanted in the whole world! His father had eventually given in, and a Sony PlayStation and two games lay under the tree on Christmas morning. Now when his father was home, he played it as often as Chris, and Chris liked nothing better than to cuddle up beside his father, listening to his hearty laugh as they took turns fighting alien beings or dodging through twisted mazes. Most of the time he beat his Dad and that was pretty cool too.

  "I'm sure he would love to play with you." Sharon said, smoothing his thick hair down over his head. "You need a hair cut."

  "Awe, Mom! No, I don't."

  "You'll have to get one before school starts."

  "School!" The sudden thought of returning to school, the summer vacation over, rushed through his mind. "When does school start?

  "One more week until the long weekend." Sharon smiled down at her son.

  "Oh, why couldn't this have happened after school started?"

  "Because you wouldn't have been up in Canada in the first place, if school was in." Sharon took off her coat and hung it on the hook by his bed, saying hello as she did so to the small boy on the other side of the curtain, laying prone on his back, his plaster-clad, right leg pulled up above him.

  "Uncle Charlie is coming home next week and is going to drop over and see you."

  "Uncle Charlie?"

  "Yes. He’s closing the camp early and Todd is going to be transferred to Saint John's Hospital in Detroit. The hospital Aunt Beth works at."

  "Is Todd...alright?" Chris asked, the first time he had directly asked after Todd's well-being.

  Sharon sat down in the chair beside Chris and placed her hand on his shoulder. "He's awake. But his speech isn’t very good. Aunt Beth thinks he will get better, but it's going to take some time. Right now, he gets confused easily and doesn't always know where he is."

  "He will be alright, though, won't he?"

  "Aunt Beth thinks so. These things just take time."

  Chris nodded miserably as he relaxed into the pillow. "I don't think I want to go up to that camp, ever again. Bad things happen up there."

  Sharon nodded sympathetically and stroked his brow as he drifted off to sleep.

  Throughout the day Chris awoke several more times, talking animatedly with his mother about their return home and, as visiting hours ended, his mother kissed his cheek and promised she would come for him first thing in the morning. Chris nodded groggily, his nighttime medicine tiring him out, as his mother picked up her coat and quietly left the room.

  Chris remained awake for a while longer, the blue of his eyes shining through the slits of his eyelashes as sleep overtook him. Finally, both of his eyes closed and his breathing slowed as he lapsed into a deep sleep.

  An hour later the call light went on above the door where Chris and the three other boys lay and one of the duty nurses entered the dimly lit room to determine which of them needed assistance. The small boy to Chris' left, his right leg strung up above his body, had need of a bedpan and the nurse retrieved one from the closet, flicking on the overhead light as she did so.

  The curtains were open between the two beds and, rather than close them, she moved over beside Chris' bed to allow the other boy a measure of privacy while he used the bedpan.

  She looked down at Chris' sleeping form as the other boy struggled with his pajamas and the metal pan. This boy was going home tomorrow, she remembered from the patient reports at the nurses' station, and the doctors never did determine what caused his injuries, she recalled, as she pushed the pillow back under his head.

  "Oops, sorry..." She apologized as his left eye opened and she realized that she had disturbed his sleep.

  He said nothing. His one eye focused on her face. He must be dreaming, she thought as she watched his eye center on her face and then move on, staring at the overhead light at the center of the room. Odd, she had never seen a patient sleep with only one eye open. She had seen plenty of patients sleep with their eyes partially open, but to only open one eye... She watched as his eye rotated in its socket, following the contours of the ceiling and then down and across the wall to the doorway behind her.

  The overhead light went out with an audible click from the switch by the door.

  "Hey..." she called in a loud whisper, turning her head towards the doorway, "I'm in here..." Her voice trailed off as she realized whoever had turned the light off was no longer there. The doorway was empty.

  "How annoying!" She spoke to herself as she walked around the boy's bed and over to the light switch.

  Click. She turned the switch on again. "How are you doing?" She asked the little boy with the bed pan, moving over towards his bed.

  Click...the overhead light went off again. She spun on her heel, facing the empty doorway. Someone is playing a trick on me! With three quick strides she ran to the door, poking her head out into the hallway. It was vacant. Not a nurse or a patient in sight. Strange...maybe there is something wrong with the light switch.

  Deliberately she turned it back on, watching carefully for an electrical spark or other indication of a problem.

  "I'm finished." The little boy spoke from behind her.

  She turned again. "Okay..." She whispered, noticing as she did so, the other boy lying in the far bed. His check was pressed into the pillow, his left eye staring at and through her.

  Click...the lights went out again. For a moment she stood transfixed, stunned by the improbable thought that had rushed through her mind. No, it isn't possible.

  Standing, facing into the room, her eyes on the dreaming boy, she reached behind her and turned the lights back on, holding the switch up with her fingers. The boy's one eye was still staring directly at her, his face slack and expressionless.

  "I'm finished." The little boy said again, "I don't want to spill it."

  "Okay..." She was about to move away from the wall, when she felt the switch move, slipping through her fingers and returning to the off position.

  "What's going on?" The little boy asked from his bed. "How come you keep turning the lights on and off?"

  She said nothing. It couldn't be. It’s impossible. She shook her head. There is no way he can de doing this, she stated firmly in her mind. She flicked the switch up one more time.

  "Hey! Will you please stop doing that?" The little boy spoke from his bed. "And I need this bed-pan emptied."

  "Just a moment." She spoke firmly, staring across the room at the other boy, his one blue eye aimed directly into her face. For a moment something happened, almost a communication between the two of them, a sharp blast of energy warm on her face and throat and in surprise she sucked in a little breath of air. Then it was over, and...

  Click. The overhead lights turned off once again.

  It’s impossible...it’s impossible...it’s impossible... She repeated over and over as she retrieved the bed-pan and then left the room, never again looking at the boy lying on the far bed.

  But, she didn't turn the lights back on.

  TWO - THREE

  Charlie Rutherford sat in the dark behind the wheel of his pickup. Beside him the goliath silhouettes of parked machinery gleamed in th
e moonlight as he carefully unwrapped the narrow cigar he had taken from a package in the glovebox. With great deliberation he raised the cigar to just under his nose and inhaled the aroma.

  He had nothing to celebrate.

  Yesterday morning he had phoned NorthCan’s head office in Detroit and told them of the unfortunate find they had uncovered on Friday. He had also told them about his son and nephew. Had accepted the gasped words of condolences. Assured them his son was getting the best care possible, but had told them he was going to stay on in order to complete the work that needed to be done.

  His superiors in Detroit had other ideas. This afternoon he had received instructions to shut the operation down. Native issues being what they were, they didn’t want any further work done until an archaeological team had inspected the find. Also, they felt he should return to Detroit to be with his family. Charlie had debated with them as best as he could, with four of his superiors, including a vice-president gathered around a speakerphone in Detroit, he had done his best to argue for a continuance.

  He had lost the debate. The camp was to be mothballed and everyone was to return home the day after tomorrow.

  Charlie lit the cigar with the lighter in the dashboard and then pulled himself from the pickup. To his left the rock wall rose above him, a black square marking the opening they had created when they pulled the block its midst. It sat in the dirt just in front of his pickup. A square block of granite exactly five feet high and five wide. He walked towards the rear of the pickup and, with one hand opened the tailgate, allowing it to crash down against the hinges. Then sitting on the tailgate, he took a puff of the cigar. He had tried his best and in fact most of the project was complete. The living accommodations were installed, the big generator provided electricity, water and sewer lines were hooked up, two workshops had been built, both with wide sliding doors to accommodate even the biggest machinery. Everything was almost ready to go. But that was the problem - almost.

  He slowly exhaled the smoke, watching it curl into the night air. The rail-line down to the mine was the last of the major projects. Unfortunately, it was one of the most important. Due to the environmental concerns raised by numerous organizations, government departments and other 'interested' parties, NorthCan had conceded to transport the raw ore to its other operational mine near Cochrane Ontario. There, the ore could be crushed and the potentially hazardous process of extracting the gold from the ore could be conducted in someone else's jurisdiction that already had a gold mine in their town - not much more the 'interested' parties could say really. It really wasn't much of a concession. Ontario Northland's railway connecting Moosonee to Cochrane (The Polar Bear Express) was just thirty-two miles away. NorthCan had already build a spur line to connect to it and had used that new line to bring in the equipment necessary to construct the camp. Then they only had four miles to go from the camp to the mining itself. The engineers had indicated this was the best route and their decision had effected the placement of the camp, the positioning of the rail yard, the structure of the road system they had built - everything. Who would have thought that it would be impossible to build this last piece of the rail-line? Who, in their wildest dreams, would have thought they would have come across this thing? This ancient structure that now reared above him, hundreds of miles from nowhere.

  Charlie pushed himself to his feet, took a few steps and then returned to the cab for a flashlight. What was this place? He had never had the opportunity to explore it. Sure, he knew what it looked like. He knew the thickness of the walls, the strengths of the structure, and knew of the strange relic inside. But he had never really looked - a close look. Always there had been others around and in his position, he wasn’t allowed to marvel or wonder. He had to give direction. Provide leadership and make decisions. All of which he had done - but had been over-ruled by head office.

  He flicked the flashlight on, to make sure it worked, and then strode towards the black opening. The archaeologist types would have a fit when they saw what he had done to their ancient building, there was no doubt about that.

  He stopped, inspecting the opening they had created, especially the two stone blocks that met above his head. As far as he could see, they continued to hold steady. The weight of the stone massed around them keeping them firmly in place. At least it made for an easy way in, and he supposed he could shove the block back with a bulldozer if the archeologists so desired. He took a few steps inside, the beam from his flashlight leading the way.

  It was an unremarkable place, except it was God-knows how old. But it was pretty drab. No markings on the walls to provide relief against the grey stone. No hieroglyphics or Indian rock paintings, or mysterious carved characters the University types could ponder for decades at the tax-payers’ expense. Nothing at all but the golden chunk of metal sitting at the center, which is probably what this building is all about, Charlie figured, as he stepped closer.

  It wasn’t much to look at either, Charlie decided, as he squatted down beside it. An engineer might be able to make some guesses about the function of the multitude of tubes that crisscrossed every which way across one end. But other than that, it was basically a box. For a moment he shone the light along the raised edge, looking for a hasp or a set of hinges. But it wasn’t his right to open it, even if he could find a way - and he certainly wasn’t going to tell Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. Archaeology, appointed by the government, never-worked-a-day-in-their-life type person - that he had not only pulled a big chunk out of their building, but had also opened up their treasure box and discovered all the secrets inside.

  With a sigh, Charlie sat down on the top and took another puff from his cigar. Beside him, the grimy surface had been scratched and scuffed, in some places down to the gold metal itself. The scratch marks high-lighted in golden relief the struggle that had occurred on this lid a few days previously. Charlie had been the first to enter the chamber, Beth only steps behind him, but it had he who had first seen the two boys. Chris had been laying on his back, just about where he was sitting and, as Charlie brought the flashlight around, he could see the dark blood stains where Chris’ head had rested. There were more up by the rounded hood, and Charlie slowly slid along the top, trying to make sense out of the blood stains and the series of scratch marks that ran down either side. Under the raised hood, there was another brown stain, the pipes above streaked with long scratch marks and burnished clean in other places. Center among them was a round metal plate. Gold like the rest, but splattered with blood, and hooked on the edge were long dark strands that looked like hairs.

  Charlie rolled over on his back to get a better look.

  TWO -FOUR

  Chris said goodbye to his two, favorite day-nurses and followed his mother out of the hospital. The bulky white bandage around his throat had been removed, replaced with four small stick-on bandages to protect the remaining deeper wounds. His right hand remained strapped to a small plastic board, the four fingers securely fastened to the plate to prevent movement. The flesh was still pulpy and some infection had set in. The Toronto doctors were not sure if he would need skin grafts, or not. If the infection could be controlled, possibly he could escape that additional pain. He was to visit his own doctor within the next couple of days to determine the success of the antibiotics he was taking.

  As both of them left the closed environment of the hospital for the short walk across the crowded parking lot. Chris lifted his head and sucked the morning air deep into his lungs, his first day outside in four days. He ran a couple of steps to catch up with his mother, her longer legs outdistancing his. "Mom, can we stop at a McDonald's or a Burger King on the way home?"

  "McDonald's? It's only 9:30 in the morning."

  "Well, later, I mean. When we’re closer to Detroit."

  "Sure, I guess. It's about four and a half hours from here to Detroit." Sharon replied turning between two cars towards her conspicuous Mustang parked two rows over. "It’ll be lunch time, by then...Chris, over this way." She called as Chris contin
ued walking, his head constantly moving as he surveyed the cars, the buildings, and the trees surrounding the parking lot.

  "Oh, right." He dodged in between two parked cars and ran over towards his mother.

  "What were you doing?" She ruffled his long hair with her hand. "You look like you’ve been in the hospital for years, gawking at the scenery like that."

  "I don't know." Chris said, ducking his head away from his mother's hand and taking a quick step away. Overt motherly fondness was fine indoors, but you never knew who may be watching outside, not that any of his school buddies were likely to be here - but best not to take chances. "It just looks so different," he continued, "so green, so big, so...it just looks even better than I remembered."

  "Well...,"Sharon hesitated, searching in her purse for her keys, "you’ve never been to Toronto before."

  "No, not Toronto," Chris said, disgusted at his mother's misunderstanding of what he meant, "just the trees and everything looks better. Awe, Mom, did you have to drive that?" Noticing the pink Mustang for the first time.

  "Of course I did, it's your mother's car," Sharon responded opening her door and popping the power locks.

  "Then I'm real glad we are in Toronto then where only the Canadians can see my mother's pink mobile." Chris said, opening his door and flashing a big smile at his mother over the roof as they both climbed in.

  Todd lay propped up on two pillows as Beth sat beside his bed, reading a book. Several books, which she had got specially for him, lay on top of the bedside table, unopened. He hadn't read a word since he had awakened. Instead, he spent most of his time aimlessly staring at the far wall. Even TV did not seem to interest him much. He would stare at the screen, but his slack-jawed, fixed expression remained unchanged, whether a movie was showing or the incessant commercials. Now he sat, rubbing his left hand continually along the plastic edge of the bed liner. He had wet the bed several times over the last few days and the nurses had outfitted his bed with a plastic cover, under the sheets. Beth closed the book and looked up at Todd, his repetitive movement interfering with her concentration.