Will Wilder

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Will Wilder Page 3

by Raymond Arroyo


  Will felt a stabbing sensation in his heart. He didn’t care about his hand. He had hurt his brother, ruined the party, and possibly spoiled the trip to Florida. All at once, something else arrested his attention.

  In his peripheral vision, Will saw a dark form rise on his left.

  There is nothing there. I’m just stressed and tired, he told himself. Refusing to look to the side, Will squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the shadow would disappear. With a deep breath, he opened just one eye and turned to the left. There stood a hulking black form—a thing at once fearsome and old. It took the shape of an enormous man and was darker than anything he had ever seen before. A chill ran through Will’s body. He stumbled backward against the tree. Then the form melted into a deep black shadow stretching the length of the yard. It covered every inch of ground, even though the sun shone above.

  “Will!” Deborah Wilder ran toward her son. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s so dark—so dark!” Will repeated, his eyes fixed on the pitch-black lawn before him.

  “What’s so dark?” Cami asked, racing to his side.

  Confused partygoers and Will’s friends stared at the frightened boy.

  The old man struggled to pull the crazed donkey away from Will. But the beast bared its teeth in a perverse smile inches from Will’s face—all the while emitting high-pitched squeals that could have passed for cruel laughter.

  Aunt Lucille held two long knives in the air, her eyes squinting in concentration. With one swift motion she hurled the blades at a moss-draped oak tree behind her home. The two knives landed in the dead center of a tarnished brass octagon mounted on the tree’s trunk.

  Then, with the bounce of a teenager, she somersaulted toward the tree—a blur of flipping silk and strawberry-blond hair. She landed on both feet, inches from the tree, the knives still trembling in the bark. Instantly, her hands produced two vials from her belt. She popped them open and sprayed clear liquid all over the brass octagon.

  Falling suddenly to her knees, she snatched a crossbow from the ground, leaned all the way back, and fired an arrow toward a tree behind her. The arrow sailed across the clearing and pierced the wood, just inside the brass octagon hanging from the other massive trunk.

  Aunt Lucille rolled to her side, grabbing a pair of short spears as she tumbled. Springing up like a kangaroo on a trampoline, she ran into the middle of the clearing, came to an abrupt stop, leapt high into the air with crossed arms, and hurled the spears in opposite directions. Their points impaled the trees to her right and left, sticking firmly inside their respective brass octagons. When she returned to the ground, Aunt Lucille inhaled deeply and extended both arms in front of her, forming a triangle with her thumbs and index fingers.

  The electronic chirp of a cell phone startled her. Annoyed, she dropped her arms and sprinted to the edge of the clearing where her cell phone and a towel were arranged atop a charred tree stump.

  “Yes?” Aunt Lucille said into the phone, only slightly winded.

  “Lucille, oh, I’m glad you’re there,” Deborah Wilder cried through the receiver. “I thought you’d still be at your physical therapy session.”

  “Just finished, dear,” she said, mopping her brow with a towel.

  “We’re here at Chorazin General. There was an accident. Leo was hurt.”

  “They have a terrible emergency unit—why would you go to Chorazin?”

  “Because it was closest,” Deborah said, an edge in her voice.

  “You should have gone to St. Joseph’s. How bad is Leo?”

  “His arm is broken and his shoulder is dislocated. I could kill his brother!”

  “Why?”

  “His father and I told Will not to ride that donkey. So what do you think he did? Conned his brother into letting him ride the donkey! Right after you left, he tore through the yard and—”

  Aunt Lucille cut her off. “Donkey? Wh-what happened?”

  “Complete mayhem. He injured Leo, knocked my aunt Freda out—her false teeth are still somewhere in the yard. Then Will hurt his hand….”

  “Was there blood? I mean, is he injured?” Lucille asked, her stomach tightening.

  “He cut his hand. There was a little blood. He’ll be fine….”

  Lucille suddenly felt the heat drain from her face. She lowered herself onto the tree stump to catch her breath. Deborah continued on about the accident, but Lucille could only focus on the words “donkey” and “blood.”

  “Lucille? Lucille?” Deborah asked after a few moments of silence. “Are you still there?”

  “Of course, dear,” Lucille said, snapping back to attention.

  “Good. Could you do me a favor? Would you mind coming down here and watching Marin and Will for us—just until the doctors are finished putting the cast on Leo?”

  “Happy to help. I’ll be right there, dear.”

  Aunt Lucille put the cell phone aside and placed one hand across her stomach; the other she brought to her face. With her knuckles she gently stroked her chin. It was a pose she often assumed when lost in thought. On this day, the gold ring on her finger, the one her father once wore, touched the soft skin beneath her jawbone. Lucille smiled at the memory of running up to him as a little girl in that very clearing. He would always greet her by brushing the back of his fingers along her chin, his chunky ring lightly grazing her. She could feel his presence—especially now.

  Frozen in place, Lucille stared past the baby-blue wood siding of her grand home, a finely built wedding cake of wood and plaster, down the rocky slope that led to the Perilous River. The current had grown violent that day, and the water appeared darker than usual to her.

  “The time is near,” Lucille whispered to herself. “The time is very near.”

  Then, like a starter pistol had fired in her head, she took off, swiftly yanking the spears and knives from the trees. She raced up the winding path to Peniel, the museum she had directed for more than forty years.

  Hanging off the edge of a soaring cliff behind Aunt Lucille’s home, Peniel was the high point of Perilous Falls. The gray-and-white stone structure looked like a medieval fortress. In fact, it had been constructed from bits of monastery and cathedral ruins Jacob Wilder had collected during his many travels. A domed roof, clusters of spired cathedral-like buildings, and a rectangular bell tower rose high above the wall that completely encircled the museum.

  It was officially called Peniel: The Jacob Wilder Reliquarium and Antiquities Collection, but the locals simply called it “the museum” since it was the only one in all of Perilous Falls.

  Aunt Lucille emerged from the steep, tree-covered path in minutes. She rounded Peniel’s forbidding outer wall and entered the complex through the centuries-old black wrought-iron gate. Lifelike gargoyles with hideous faces stared down at her from the roofline of the main building. High above the Gothic main entrance, at the center, perched a statue of a regal young man seated on a throne. He wore a crown atop his head and extended a sharp golden sickle, like a scepter, over the edge of the roof.

  Aunt Lucille climbed the central stairs, hiding her weapons behind one of the fat planters outside. She then pushed open the heavy oak doors bearing an image of St. George lancing a fearsome dragon. Lucille had seen the carving so often, she gave it no attention. She determinedly walked past a handful of visitors inspecting the outer library and passed into Bethel Hall.

  The light from the stained-glass windows and the amber radiance from the seven gold candelabras spaced throughout the room cast an otherworldly glow from the high Gothic ceilings down to the red jasper and marble floor.

  Lucille dodged the exhibit cases populating the room. She pulled an antique key from her pocket and shoved it into the lock of a small door marked “Private” at the rear of the main hall.

  “Loo-ceele? Is that you, Lucille?” a voice boomed from a corner of the great room.

  “Yes, Bart, it’s me. I have to run upstairs to check on something,” she said without stopping.

  “If you
’re clickety-clackin’ that fast, it must be a big sumpthin’,” the low voice in a shadowed corner of the hall rumbled.

  Lucille pounded up a tight spiral staircase that wound in circles for several floors. At the top of the stairs stood a mahogany door, weathered by age and held together by thick bands of black metal that ran across its front.

  At the center of the door was a sculpture of a muscular angel pouring water from a chalice into a black pit. Surrounding the pit were claws and tails and people in anguish. The pit was indicated by a dark hole in the middle of the door—a door that had no knob or ring of any kind.

  Aunt Lucille drew a chain from around her neck. A five-inch gold cross with jagged teeth near the bottom hung from the chain. She inserted the cross and both her hands into the dark hole at the center of the door. She expertly turned the cross to the right, then to the left, pushed, then waited. Two pieces of metal with half-circle cutouts slid in from either side of the hole. The metal panels held her wrists firmly in place. Suddenly the sound of aged gears spinning filled the corridor.

  CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK.

  The locks yielded. The metal panels of the “pit” coasted back into place, and the door swung open on its own.

  Beyond a small entry hall, past a half-drawn curtain embroidered with winged animals, a spacious stone room was filled with curiosities. Fading purple sunlight bled through the Gothic arched windows. The plum-colored light touched a fractured skull on one bookshelf, a twisted wooden staff on another. Cracked leather-bound books were stacked everywhere. On the right was a narrow black metal door embedded like a safe into the stone wall. Aunt Lucille purposefully walked past it, stepping behind a mahogany desk emblazoned with an oversized W. She turned to the imposing fireplace on the rear wall.

  Placing her hands on the chiseled angel heads on either side of the fireplace, she spun their chins toward each other. A stone panel just above the mantel snapped back. Out popped an olive-colored book with seven ancient locks along its edge. The molded locks, each in the shape of a distinctive claw, held the covers together.

  Lucille reverently laid the volume on the mahogany desk. She brushed the dust off the copper curlicues adorning the outer edges of the cover. Then, pressing her trembling hands to the desktop, she read the gold calligraphy inscribed on a leather panel on the book’s cover:

  The Prophecy of Abbot Anthony the Wise

  The Lord came to me upon the waters and said:

  Take thee a great book and write upon it as I instruct thee.

  My spirit trembled, for the visions He placed in my head frightened me.

  Still, I write in obedience:

  In those days, when the people have grown hard of heart

  and belief has dwindled;

  when wickedness has become commonplace; and the Brethren have broken their unity;

  then shall I raise up a young one to lead them.

  He shall be the firstborn of the root of Wilder.

  He shall have the sight of the angels

  and perceive darkness from light.

  Behold, when his time is ripe, he shall come riding on a colt, the foal of a donkey, and his blood shall spill.

  This shall be the sign that the battle is near

  and all must prepare.

  For in those days the beasts shall rise from the pit

  to test my people….

  Lucille stopped reading. Her eyes ran back over the inscription, seeking the words she had come to confirm.

  …he shall come riding on a colt, the foal of a donkey, and his blood shall spill. This shall be the sign that the battle is near and all must prepare.

  She inhaled slowly, trying to steady herself—caught between tears and laughter, panic and elation. Her hopes had been dashed so many times before—for so many decades. Had the time of the prophecy’s fulfillment finally come? Lucille scooped up the heavy olive volume, returned it to its hiding place, and twisted the angel heads into alignment with their stone wings. Once the panel had closed, she fled the office.

  In the waiting room of Chorazin General Hospital, Wilder voices were raised.

  “I agree that he needs to be punished, but not for the entire summer,” Deborah pleaded with her husband.

  “If we don’t show him that we mean business, this will continue, Deb. He needs to be punished—for weeks,” Dan said in his steeliest tone. “He can’t do whatever he wants.”

  Will sat in a row of chairs behind his parents, allowing him to hear everything they were saying. Marin entertained herself doing cartwheels on the industrial carpet while Will, his pith helmet on his lap, pretended to watch the TV hanging in the corner of the room.

  “I guess we could ask your aunt Lucille if Will could help her at the museum,” Deb suggested.

  “No. Not the museum—how many times have I said I don’t want him there?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake! C’mon, Dan. It’s a part of your family history.”

  “No.”

  “It’s a fascinating place for a child. If you’re going to punish him for weeks, he may as well learn something.”

  Dan Wilder’s right eye started to twitch. “Not at Peniel. No. He can’t go there.”

  “Well, then you come up with a place for him to spend weeks and weeks. What do you suggest, a junior chain gang?” Deborah’s voice was growing more piercing by the moment. “You spent your entire childhood at that museum. Your aunt Lucille raised you, and I don’t understand why your son…”

  Deborah continued, but Will was no longer listening. He was distracted by pictures on the television of terrified people being dragged from an overturned boat. Will walked over to the mounted TV and turned up the volume.

  “Earlier today, thirty-six passengers boarded this Modo riverboat for a sightseeing cruise along the Perilous River,” the young reporter wearing a baseball cap said, standing at the water’s edge. “Within hours the boat struck an unidentified object and capsized, taking on water. Authorities tell us that nearly all the passengers have been accounted for, and there are no known fatalities. Area hospitals are treating the injured. The boat’s crewman spoke to us exclusively only moments after emergency workers pulled him from the river. Here is his eyewitness account….”

  Two officers held a burly, water-soaked man of about thirty by the arms. He was loud, spoke rapidly, and seemed to be on the verge of tears.

  “I can’t say for sure what happened. I done this job for ten years and I never seen this kind of thing. We was going along fine, just like always, and I feel this bump, like somethin’ big hit the boat. Don’t know what the heck it was. Felt like a whale or somethin’. Whole thing started leanin’, and I knew we was going over. People were fallin’ off the decks. I grabbed hold of one lady and dragged her to shore. She was breathin’ and all, but couldn’t talk or even close her eyes. She was frozen. Couple others like that too.”

  The station cut back to the reporter who was once again standing on the bank of the Perilous River before the capsized boat. “As you can see behind me, there is a huge dent in the hull,” the reporter said, pointing. “What caused this accident or just how many of the thirty-six passengers were affected is still unclear. In a possibly related story, a fifty-six-year-old fisherman, Billy Reynard, went out on the river early this morning. His family discovered his boat late this afternoon, but no sign of Billy. If you have any information, please contact the authorities. Police are investigating, and they remain on the scene here at the Perilous River. We will update you as we know more. Back to you, Natalie.”

  Will wanted to tell his mom and dad about the report, but they were still deep in their own conversation.

  “It’s a bad idea, Deb. She’ll fill his head with her crazy notions,” Dan argued, holding his head in his hands.

  “Then take him down to city hall with you. Maybe he can be a gofer or answer your phones,” Deborah offered.

  “Can I say something here?” Will asked, turning in his chair.

  “Briefly,
” his father replied, looking at him over the top of his glasses.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Will said, summoning his most angelic tone. “And I know you both think I should be punished. But it was an accident. If I had known that the donkey was going to go nuts, I would have just done the circle routine with him.”

  Deborah Wilder was on her feet, pacing. “You’re missing the point, Will. Your little brother’s arm is broken in two places, and he dislocated a shoulder. He can’t compete in the karate championships, and now our trip is canceled. Aunt Freda is staying here overnight because her blood pressure is spiking, and she has a fractured jaw. So don’t for a moment think, young man, that you are going to sweet-talk your way out of a punishment.” Her long brown bangs were now angrily bouncing in front of her face. “There will be a punishment. You will be punished!”

  “It was an accident, Mom,” Will begged. “I was supposed to go bike riding with Simon, Cami, and Andrew this week. They’re all counting on me.”

  “You should have thought about that before you jumped on the donkey. Your family is in the hospital because of your choices, son. Your friends are suffering because of you,” Deborah scolded.

  Will opened his mouth to respond.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wilder?” a nurse called out as she entered through the double glass doors. “The doctor is ready to see you now.”

  Deborah was suddenly sunshine again. “Great. Sure. Yes, we’re coming,” she said as if the cameras were about to roll at the start of her weekly show.

  Aunt Lucille suddenly appeared behind the nurse. “I’m sorry I’m late. Dan and Deb, you two go look after Leo. I’ll watch the kids in here.”

  Once Dan and Deborah exited the waiting room, Aunt Lucille set Marin up with a coloring book and called Will over to the vinyl couch near the TV.

  “Let me see your hand,” Aunt Lucille said urgently. Will extended his bandaged paw. She peeled back the tape and unfolded the gauze. “It’s not too bad now, though that’s a nasty gash.”

 

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