Will Wilder

by Raymond Arroyo

  “A very complicated safe. Very detailed—tricky to get into. Only the parish priest and a Wilder can—”

  Will’s head snapped to study Tobias’s face.

  The old man had clearly said more than he wished. He shut his hooded eyes and spoke carefully. “The Keep is ingenious and dangerous. There are special rules for getting into it. Not just anyone can go in there.”

  “But a Wilder can get in?” Will said, drumming his fingers on his knees.

  “I suppose. Your great-grandfather wrote elaborate plans in a notebook. But I have never seen it. What matters is the relic is safe.”

  “And this relic can do what?”

  “For centuries people have claimed miracles from just touching it: healings, protection, amazing things. Your great-grandfather Jacob used to say, ‘The relic is a key that unlocks the faith.’ The relic attracts holiness—and where holiness grows, evil is diminished. This is why we must protect the relic—all relics.”

  Will rolled his eyes. Probably a legend, he thought. Or maybe not. In the silence, his brain started working overtime. I’m sure Dad doesn’t believe any of this stuff—

  “Enough rest,” Tobias Shen announced. “These trees still need moving, Mr. Wilder.” Shen pulled a thin pipe from his front pocket and began to shove tobacco into the nozzle. He used it to point toward the tree pile. “Quick, quick, quick.”

  Will begrudgingly moved the remaining eight trees, taking short rests in between. All the while he began to think about the relic and how it might be able to deliver him from the punishment he so despised—assuming it was real and not some old lore concocted by his ancestor.

  “All right, Mr. Shen. I did my part,” Will said, fanning himself with his pith helmet. “Eleven trees piled, as ordered. Mr. Shen? Mr. Shen?”

  Tobias Shen dozed in his folding chair, his head tilted to the side.

  Will shifted his lips sideways with irritation. “Mr. Shen! You said if I moved eleven trees, you’d move the last one.”

  Mr. Shen woke with a jolt. “Oh, finished so soon?”

  “Yes, sir. Now, about the last tree. There are no more over by the church.”

  “You are right.” Tobias Shen reached down and picked up his rough walking stick. “Here is the last tree.”

  “That’s a…a…AH-CHOO! It’s a…AH-CHOO!”

  “Your allergies are very bad, Mr. Wilder. Do trees not agree with you?” Shen queried.

  “That’s not a tree, it’s…ah-ah-AH-CHOO!” A series of violent sneezes overtook Will. His eyes watering, he managed to say, “It’s a stick. Not a tree. You said you were going to move the last tree.”

  “After you water the stick, feed it, give it love, it will become the last tree. Since the last will be first, you can plant it near the river there.” Shen pointed to the very edge of the grass, where the land sloped down to the riverbank.

  “You want me to plant a walking stick?” Will asked drily.

  “I want you to be obedient.” Shen stood, holding the gnarled staff. There was writing carved into the wood near the knobby top. “He who is obedient in little things will be obedient in big things, Mr. Wilder.”

  Will sullenly took the stick and a shovel and marched to the spot Shen had indicated, sneezing the whole time. Will had never seen letters like those engraved at the top of the staff:

  Probably Chinese, Will thought, studying the writing for a minute.

  “This is very hard work.” Shen began to yawn. “It’s nap time. Go ahead and plant the tree there. When you’re finished, you may plant another opposite it, over here.” Shen pointed to a place near the pathway to the rectory. He then acted out each step. “Dig the hole first, place the tree in, then cover the roots with dirt. It’s all very simple. And don’t go near the river.”

  As Shen tottered away, Will began to dig a hole for the walking cane, muttering complaints under his breath.

  Inside the Wilder home at 490 Rapids Lane, Leo and Marin were in the family room watching cartoons when they first heard the bizarre sound.

  Any time a Wilder child was ill, the family room was transformed into their personal sickroom. They were given control of the TV while Deb Wilder lavished him or her with soup and attention. Since Leo’s catapult accident, the plaster cast covering his right arm had given him full control of the family room. And he used it.

  King of the couch, Leo was in the middle of watching his seventh consecutive episode of Breadbox Roundhead, a mindless animated series set in an abandoned school cafeteria. Leo exploded with laughter as Breadbox tumbled from the countertop, shattering to pieces for the umpteenth time—exactly as he had in the six earlier episodes. Feeling restless during a blaring commercial break, Marin hopped up and cartwheeled in front of the flat screen. She momentarily blocked Leo’s view.

  “Could you sit down and stop flipping?” Leo said.

  “I can flip anywhere I want to flip. I’m working out like Mom,” Marin responded, positioning herself for another cartwheel.

  Leo removed a half-eaten bowl of popcorn from his lap, placing it on the coffee table before him. He pointed a threatening finger at his sister. “This can go one of two ways,” he whispered. “Either you stop jumping in front of the TV, or I’m getting Dad.”

  “This is not your bedroom, Leo! We can all play here,” Marin said. She proceeded to throw her hands to the floor and repeatedly flip in front of the screen.

  “That’s it. I’ve had it!” Leo exploded. He leapt to his feet and began chasing his sister in circles around the room, his sling barely holding the cast in place.

  Marin jumped on top of a recliner. “Something is wrong with you. Mom said you were supposed to keep still, not run wild.”

  “Something is wrong with me? Something is wrong with me? I’m not the one who travels by cartwheel! When do you EVER sit still?” Leo was now yelling, furiously motioning with his healthy arm. “I try to watch a show in peace and quiet and you have to barge in and…” His mouth warped into a grimace. “Ayyyyyeeeeeeee.”

  “What’s wrong, Leo?”

  “My shoulder. I hurt my shoulder.” Leo backed into the couch, trying not to move the arm in the cast.

  Dan Wilder raced into the room. “What—what’s happening, Leo?”

  “I think I hurt my shoulder. Marin was jumping in front of the TV, and then she made me chase her around the room.”

  Marin lost it. “I did not! You chased me around the room!” Her waterworks started running. “Daddy, he chased me around the roooooooom!”

  Dan closed his eyes and folded his arms as if trying to calm himself. “Kids, I’m finishing up some very important work. Now please, Leo, sit there. Marin, you sit in the recliner by the window and just watch TV. Your brother’s arm is hurting, and we have enough problems without fights. So just—just relax. Relax…and get along.” He rubbed the back of his head and darted from the room.

  After several minutes of taking in the mind-numbing antics of Breadbox Roundhead, Marin broke the silence. “We saw this episode last week, Leo. Can I do one cartwheel?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. Just one. Pleeeeeeease.”

  “I said no.”

  THUNK.

  The kids fell silent and looked up at the ceiling. Leo muted the TV.

  THUNK. THUNK.

  Something was hitting the roof.

  “What is it, Leo?”

  “Shut up. I can’t hear if you’re—”

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  Whatever it was, was landing in threes—and hitting the house with greater frequency.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  “Is it acorns?” Marin asked.

  “You think squirrels are throwing acorns three at a time? Or are they just falling off the trees three at a—”

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  Marin yelled for her father, who exploded into the room moments later. “Can’t you all get along for ten minutes without—”

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
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br />   Marin’s brown eyes were huge. “Daddy…what is that?” she whimpered.

  Dan raised his chin to the ceiling and listened.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  “Daddy, I’m scared,” Marin said.

  “Me too,” Leo sputtered.

  Never taking his eyes off the ceiling, Dan Wilder headed toward the front door. “You two stay here.”

  The sounds were even louder outside, and they were coming from the roof.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  Dan went to the garage and fished out his long ladder, the one he used once a year to hang Christmas lights. He leaned it up against the side of the house. Through the family room window he could see Marin pressing her face against the glass and Leo watching him with rapt attention. As he climbed the aluminum ladder the sound grew more intense.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  The objects were falling faster and faster and still in threes.

  Dan raised his head over the edge of the roof to find his gutter filled with what he thought were dark rocks falling from the sky. He quickly checked Heinrich Crinshaw’s house and glanced across the street. The things were only dropping onto his own home. Each one pounded the roof and then rolled into the gutter, a few spilling onto the ground.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  When he dug his hand into the gutter, Dan realized these weren’t rocks hitting his house, but slimy green clams, stinking fish bones, sticks, and crab shells.

  “Where are they coming from?” Dan said to himself. He stared into the cloudless sky overhead. The shells and bones and barnacled bits of wood fell like hail—from out of nowhere. Panting, Dan climbed down the ladder and ran into the house. His face had turned an ashen white, and he started to sweat.

  “What is it, Daddy?” Leo asked.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  “It’s…it’s nothing….Go into the kitchen, kids,” Dan said.

  Marin touched her father’s arm. “It is acorns, isn’t it, Daddy? Is it acorns?”

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  “No, honey. It’s not.” Dan gently pushed the children out of the den.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  “Where is it coming from?” Leo asked.

  “I don’t know, son. I…I don’t know.”

  By late afternoon on that Monday along the Perilous River, clouds had consumed the sun. With the back of a shovel, Will patted the soil around the newly planted walking stick behind St. Thomas Church. Then he felt it coming. His eyes rolled back in frustration as he helplessly endured another sneezing fit. The sneezes were so loud they competed with the sound of the water crashing over the falls.

  During a brief lull between sneezes, Will jiggled the handle of the walking stick to make sure that it had been buried deep enough to withstand the elements. Before he had released the stick, another titanic sneeze shook him.

  “Why are ye wasting yer time there? That’ll never grow!” a voice, which seemed to come from the deep, thundered behind Will.

  When he turned, the boy spotted an enormous silhouette standing on the deck of a touring boat near the riverbank. The speaker’s features were shadowed by a sooty red-and-blue canopy running the length of the vessel. On the side of the craft’s glossy hull the name Tiamat was painted in tall gold letters.

  “Was it yer idea, son, to plant a withered stick in the ground?” the gravelly, spittle-laden voice asked.

  “No, sir. It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Well, we’d like to meet the fool who thinks a stick could bloom along these waters. Ha, ha, ha.” The enormous riverboat pilot wore a ratty olive-colored slicker. His long, limp gray hair could not be contained by the rain hat he wore. With its turned-up brim, it reminded Will of the fisherman’s hat on those boxes of frozen fish his mom sometimes served for dinner. But it was the sheer size of the seaman that held Will’s attention. The broad, hunched back of the boatman was like that of a charging bull.

  Will couldn’t stop staring. He had never seen anyone so mammoth. With one massive arm, the pilot easily picked up the anchor and tossed it over the side of the cruiser. Out of curiosity, Will took a few steps down the sandy riverbank for a better look.

  “No, no, stay where ye are,” the pilot called out, emerging from his boat. “We’ll come yer way.” He moved with a lumbering force and speed that Will found frightening—and a little awesome. “These waters are no place for a boy. Been riding the currents long as I can remember. Something terrible stirs out there, I tell yeh.”

  What could be more terrible than this? Will thought as he eyed the grotesque face before him.

  The seafarer had a wide head like a toad, a greenish complexion, and bloated, purpled lips that ran the length of his face. Probably the ugliest thing about the stranger was his bulging eyes. They were spaced too far apart and looked off in different directions. The right, yellowed eye fixed on Will. The larger one on the left, with a milky green iris seemingly surrounded by blood, stared off into the distance. Up close, the boatman looked so horrible Will felt sorry for him. But the boy couldn’t hide the hint of revulsion hanging on his face.

  “Yer lookin’ at our eye, aren’t yeh? It don’t hurt none. Had it for a long while. Thank ye for not screaming or making light of it.” A callused, swollen eyelid snapped shut on the wounded eye. He pointed at the messy orb and tilted his head down to hide it from Will’s view. “Can’t really see out of that one. But it hasn’t stopped us from conquering these waters. Capt’n Nep Balor we are—run the Modo Riverboat Company. Never seen ye here before.”

  “I’m Will,” the boy said, folding his arms.

  “Yeh will what?”

  “No, my name is Will.” He raised his voice in exasperation. “Will’s my name.”

  “Ah. Begging yer pardon, Will. No offense meant. And what are ye doing here?”

  “I’m helping out at the church. Planting some things for them.” Will wriggled his nose, trying to withhold a sneeze.

  “They’ve got yeh working, boy? My keepers do the same. We labor and sweat while they take their ease. But it ain’t safe along these waters. They shouldn’t leave ye out here alone. Ye are alone, aren’t yeh?”

  “Mr. Shen was here earlier.”

  “Shen? That miserable—” The Captain spit, his lips turning to a snarl. “He’s a selfish one. Thinks only of himself….Beware of him, lad.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “ ’Cause we known him for years.” Nep Balor lifted a grime-streaked hand and held the left side of his face. He gritted his teeth for a moment, as if struck by some sudden pain. “Shen withholds that relic from the people who need it most. What good’s it doing locked up in there?…Ahh, I shouldn’t be burdening a child with all that.”

  “What do you know about the relic, Captain?”

  Nep Balor rotated with hesitation back to Will. His malformed face softened, and he leaned close, a touch of lightness in his voice. “It has the power to heal. Seen it ourselves. So many of us could use it.” He lowered his face to Will’s level. “Look at our poor eye. Look at it. Sight wasn’t always gone.” The closed, oozing eye with the beet-red rims appeared to be infected. “Shen could have helped us, could have given us a touch of that relic. But he wants to keep all the power to himself. He’s been hoarding it for years and years.” The yellowed eye darted over the landscape. “Where is Shen now?”

  “He’s in his house, napping.”

  Balor turned his big head to the side and loosed a guttural snicker. “Course he is. Lazing the day away while ye waste yer time on a fool’s errand. Burying a stick!” The nostrils of Nep Balor’s flat nose flared in anger. “Shen’s making a fool of yeh, Will! We’ve had cruel ones make sport of us every day of our existence. They use us like playthings. He orders ye to do something stupid, like planting a cane, and later he’ll come with others to ridicule yeh. That’s how they play it, son.”

  Will became suddenly concerned. Was Tob
ias Shen attempting to make a fool of him? Was he performing an idiotic task, only to be mocked for it later? Lost in his thoughts, Will’s expression went blank. Then a look of hurt filled his eyes, which the Captain caught.

  “Cruel is what he is, lad. Yer the one should be resting—not out here slaving for that scheming Shen.”

  “Why does Mr. Shen keep the relic from people who need it?”

  “Never mind all that. It don’t matter none.” A sadness washed over Balor and he half turned, as if he were about to walk away.

  “Wait! Maybe I could get the relic for you,” Will said. The thought he’d been tossing around all day had suddenly slipped from his lips.

  “How would ye get the relic?” The Captain rubbed his hands excitedly up and down the side of his slicker.

  “I’m—I’m not sure,” Will said, a tremble in his voice. “You think it could really heal somebody of something?” Will sneezed.

  “Think it could heal anything.”

  “Like a broken arm or a shoulder?”

  “An eye, an arm, a shoulder—anything. Might even cure sneezes.” Captain Balor smiled, revealing a mouthful of uneven teeth like gray barnacles. “But Shen’ll never let ye near it. What are ye thinking, lad?”

  “Mr. Shen told me that a Wilder—that’s my family name: Wilder—can get to the relic. My great-grandfather built the church.”

  The boatman’s yellow eye widened, and the corners of his mouth turned up.

  The worried voice of Tobias Shen intruded from the churchyard above. “Mr. Wilder? Mr. Wilder?”

  In an unwieldy fashion, Captain Nep Balor sidestepped toward his boat. He displayed all the finesse of two grizzly bears trying to share a dinner jacket.

  “Tell Shen nothing, Will. There is much ye don’t know. Tomorrow when he goes in, we’ll meet ye here—tell ye more. There’s a secret way into that church, a way to reach the relic.”

  He bounded onto the deck of the boat and began to pull up anchor. “Stay on dry land, well away from these waters. Do ye hear us? Till tomorrow, then.” The Captain tugged at the front of his rain hat in a type of salute and sped off in the boat.