Will Wilder

by Raymond Arroyo

  Will, sweaty from the heat, slowly climbed the embankment back up to the yard. “Coming, Mr. Shen,” he called out. Though Will’s legs ached with each step, he could think only of the finger bone of St. Thomas. If the relic can heal—it can fix Leo’s arm and shoulder. Once Leo is better, my fieldhand days will be over. He’ll be able to compete in the karate championships—and Florida, here we come! I’ve got to get my hands on that relic….

  “One stick and one hole. After hours and hours you dug one hole and planted one stick?” Shen said, his hands on his hips. The old man’s faint eyebrows drew close together. “You’re a very lazy boy, Mr. Wilder. Run along home. The day is done. Tomorrow, bright and early, we’ll meet here for more landscaping enjoyment. Go, go, go.”

  Will took off his pith helmet, twisting the pelican medallion on the front with his fingers. “Mr. Shen, after reading that plaque on the church, I’d like to study…you know, learn more about the church. Where would that notebook my great-grandfather wrote about it be?”

  “Strange sudden curiosity.” The groundskeeper did not move a muscle. His face betrayed no emotion as his eyes studied Will. “After you plant more trees tomorrow, we can discuss your great-grandfather’s notebook,” he said evenly.

  Will put the pith helmet back on his head and started kicking at the ground. “That would be great, Mr. Shen, but…I’d really like to learn it from my great-grandfather. I never knew him, so reading his book would be kinda cool, ya know?”

  “It’s not here. I told you, I have never seen it. Good evening, Mr. Wilder. The angels go with you.”

  “You too, Mr. Shen.”

  He’s holding back on me, Will thought as he waved goodbye to the old groundskeeper. Rather than going directly home via Falls Road, Will ran down a wooded path along the river, toward the center of town. Above the trees in the distance he could see the main tower of Peniel, faintly lit by the dying sunlight.

  If that notebook is anywhere, Aunt Lucille will know where to find it, Will thought. Everything Jacob Wilder treasured was stored at Peniel; why not his notebook? Even though his father had discouraged him from going there, Will felt a quick visit couldn’t do any harm.

  The gravel path he walked upon sloped down along the river’s edge. In his peripheral vision, Will saw something stir in the water. His heart began to race. It’s probably just a duck or a log floating downriver, he reasoned. He determinedly kept his focus on the path ahead, but out of the corner of his eye, what he saw was unmistakable. A huge reptilian tail the size of a tree trunk emerged from the water. The pointed tip of the tail then hooked back on itself, touching the water’s surface. When it made contact, bubbles welled up like lava.

  Will turned his face to the river. The tail was nowhere to be seen, though steam was wafting over the agitated waters.

  Had he imagined it? Was it another “spirit”?

  In a gush, bloated and bug-eyed fish poured up from the depths of the river. Hundreds of dead catfish, bass, and bluegills spun to the surface as if they were boiling in a huge kettle. Will crouched by the shoreline. He could feel the heat coming off the surface of the river. With the tip of his index finger he hesitantly dabbed the water.

  “Ouch!” Will screeched, snatching his hand back quickly. He looked down at his freshly scalded skin. The pad of his finger had turned a bright red. Recalling Mr. Shen’s, Captain Balor’s, and Aunt Lucille’s cautions, Will backed away from the water, then dashed toward Peniel with an urgency fueled by fear and excitement.

  At Aunt Lucille’s baby-blue mansion on the river, he took a sharp right into the backyard. Beyond the clearing flanked by great oaks, Will spotted the craggy rock face he meant to climb. He ran up the steep, winding path and was outside the gates of Peniel within minutes.

  Will sheepishly approached the main entryway, having been told repeatedly by his father that he was never to go there alone. He paused for half a second. Then, placing two hands on the lanced dragon carved into the door, he pushed with all his strength. Save for some chanting voices in the distance, the outer library was quiet and dimly lit. A wall of books was held captive by a series of ornate brass grilles that continued up to the ceiling. Every so often a gold pelican, like the one on his pith helmet, appeared to be perched on the grating.

  “Who’s there?” a deep voice called out from the darkness at the end of the hall.

  “Uh…is Lucille Wilder here?”

  “Depends who’s askin’?” the man said. Like an off-kilter spider, a twisted man strode into the candlelight, balanced on two wooden crutches. He had dark skin, a kind, puffy face, and long teeth that gleamed when he smiled, as he did then. With every step, he threw his turned-in, unresponsive right leg to the side. The slightly oversized brown tweed coat and salmon pants he wore gave him the appearance of a homeless professor. “What’s goin’ on, Will?”

  “Oh, Mr. Bartimaeus. I was doing some work at the church and just thought I’d drop by….It’s been a long time.”

  “Will, you and ya aunt Lucille have a lot in common.” Bartimaeus squinted and moved close. “Old Bart may not be able to see ya like I used to, but neither of ya can lie—least not without me hearing it. So how’s the punishment going?”

  “It’s all right. I planted a stick today.”

  “Ha, ha, ha.” Bartimaeus rumbled with laughter. “Tobias is a sly one. He never changes. So what brings ya in? It’s getting kind of late. Shouldn’t ya be home?”

  In the corners of the room Will suddenly saw twinkling lights dancing in all directions. He repeatedly blinked to clear his vision, but the glittering lights remained there, hovering. “I had a question. Up at the church, Mr. Shen said there was a notebook my great-grandfather kept when he was building St. Thomas Church. I thought it’d be fun to take a look at it—since I’m spending so much time up there now.”

  “That I can help you with—since you’re family and all. You can find Jacob’s notebooks over there in section ten.” Bartimaeus pointed a crutch to the bookcases behind Will. “Second bookshelf from the bottom. We keep all of his journals and personal writings there. I can’t see worth a nickel anymore, but you can take a peek. Let me open the gate for ya—we don’t let just anybody get in here.” Bartimaeus reached into his hip pocket, produced a dull green copper key, and unlocked the gate.

  Will pulled the thin brass gate wide. If the books had been birds, half the collection might have flown away. There were small journals and leather-bound books of all shapes and sizes.

  “So, Will, the St. Thomas Church journal with the plans and all is a little green leather number. It should have a black ribbon holding it together,” Bartimaeus said. He looked in the boy’s direction, but from the way he squinted, Will sensed that he saw very little.

  After scanning the second shelf from the bottom several times, Will finally lighted on the slim emerald-green book. He greedily snatched the volume, untied the black ribbon binding it, and started flipping through the pages.

  “Hand it here,” Bartimaeus said. The man held it very close to his eyes, then ran his hands along the sides of the book before returning it to Will. “So that’s the one; the St. Thomas book. Jacob spent almost as much time building that church as he did building Peniel. While you take a gander at the notebook, I’ll go fetch your aunt Lucille.” Bartimaeus took hold of the wooden crutches and propelled himself with some strength out of the library and into the main hall. He had long been Aunt Lucille’s right-hand man at Peniel, a constant presence on the rare occasions when Will had visited. His voice reverberated off the high pitched stone ceiling of Bethel Hall’s expanse. “Looo-ceeele. Where are ya?”

  “No need to yell, Bart,” Aunt Lucille said from behind one of the glass cases on the right side of the room.

  Spinning around, Bartimaeus excitedly hobbled in her direction. “He’s here! Will’s out there,” he said in a sharp whisper. “Tell him about the prophecy! It’s not a mistake that he’s come. When was the last time the boy set foot in here alone? Let him at least
hold the book.”

  “He’s not ready yet,” Aunt Lucille said, her white-gloved hands delicately placing an ancient crimson-and-gold garment into the glass case. “He needs more time. He’s so young.”

  “Ya father was young when he started. You were young. I was young. We were all young! You can’t control this, Sarah Lucille.”

  “Perhaps not, but we can prepare him. And that’s what I mean to do,” Lucille said, calmly arranging the cloth in the case.

  Bartimaeus slammed his crutches together in front of his body to get Lucille’s attention. “We have been waiting for more than forty years for this moment, Lucille. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about that prophecy. He must be the one.”

  He continued in a perturbed whisper. “After that bit about the donkey and the blood, what does the prophecy say?” He closed his eyes and lifted his head to the ceiling. “ ‘This shall be the sign that the battle is near and all must prepare.’ Prepare! ‘For in those days the beasts shall rise from the pit to test my people. Truth shall go farther away while falsehood and darkness draw near. The inhabitants of the land shall multiply evils and the Sinestri shall deceive many. But in those days of tribulation and darkness, I shall pour out my Spirit upon all flesh; sons and daughters shall dream vivid dreams and sing angelic songs; the young shall see visions; and their elders shall prophesy and make war on the foul beasts.’ ” Bartimaeus smiled widely and pounded out each word that followed. “ ‘Behold, my chosen, the firstborn of the house of Wilder, will lay hands upon this great book and its seven locks shall be opened to him alone….’ ”

  “ ‘This too shall be a sign,’ ” Aunt Lucille continued under her breath sadly. Her hands were still in the glass case, laying out the precious garment. She turned her full attention to the display. “I know the prophecy, Bart.”

  “So it’s his destiny, Lucille. Those beasts are gonna rise one way or another. I think they’re among us already. I can feel the Darkness all over.”

  Aunt Lucille frowned and bit her lip. Looking over Bartimaeus’s shoulder, she strained to produce a smile. “Will. Come in, dear,” she called out.

  In the soft golden haze of the seven burning candelabras, Will marveled at the displays filling the grand hall. He automatically removed his pith helmet, his eyes roving over a dusty skeleton laid out on a rectangular red cushion. Standing like a ghost under glass was a nun’s brown habit, complete with a long veil and rosary beads about the waist. Then he happened upon an exhibit that caused him to run right up to the case.

  “What is this, Aunt Lucille?” Will asked, pointing at a solid gold arm with two fingers extended toward the sky.

  “That’s on loan to us from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Only the gold sculpture is theirs. It’s a reliquary—a housing for a sacred relic. Could be a bone, a lock of hair, clothing—anything associated with a saint. Look inside.”

  Two square holes on the side of the golden arm revealed a long blackened bone. “What is that?”

  “It’s the ulna—the forearm bone—of St. Peter the Apostle. The Met may have the reliquary, but we have the relic. It’s a long story, but this is the first time those two pieces have been reunited in hundreds of years.”

  “I didn’t know Perilous Falls had so many relics. St. Peter’s arm is here; St. Thomas’s finger is over at the church. You’ve got enough bones to build a new saint.” Will let loose the honking laugh that he reserved for those special moments when he amused himself.

  “Don’t be flippant,” Aunt Lucille warned, narrowing her eyes. “They’re sacred touchstones. They’re antennae of faith—magnets that draw belief and devotion from us. My father would say, ‘A relic is a key to unlock our faith.’ These relics are the remains of holy lives. Each and every bone or scrap of clothing is a physical connection to someone now in the presence of God.”

  “They have real power!” Bartimaeus bellowed, moving between the exhibit cases. “In the Old Testament, in the Second Book of Kings, some fellas were burying a man in the grave of the prophet Elisha. Well, the minute the body touched the bones of the prophet—POW! The man rose up from the dead! Then there was a woman who was bleeding; she barely touched the cloak of Jesus and—POW! Totally healed!”

  “So this is all real? You believe this relic stuff?” Will asked.

  “Seen it with ma own eyes, son,” Bartimaeus said. “Course it’s real. You think we’d be wasting our time up in here if this wasn’t real?” He swatted a hand in front of his face as if trying to kill a fly. “These are not just old pieces of the past. In the right hands they’re spiritual weapons. So they must be respected—and kept out of the wrong hands.”

  Aunt Lucille reverently removed the faded crimson-and-gold garment from the open case and presented it to Will. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No idea.”

  “This is what remains of the prophet Elijah’s mantle, his cloak. History tells us it can control water and fire, and even allow the wearer to hear the voice of God.”

  Will went to touch the woven cloth.

  “Uh-uh,” Aunt Lucille said, pulling the garment away. “No touching.”

  “What about the St. Thomas relic?” Will asked, following her back to the open case. “What can it do?”

  Bartimaeus jumped in. “You mean what can he do? St. Thomas was mighty close to Jesus, so he’s permitted to do a lot. One of the things he can do is keep water from rising. See, he carried the faith to the East; went all the way to India. So while he was there, the apostle pulled this post out of the ground that couldn’t be moved by any man or beast. The story goes that St. Thomas planted that post in another location—and on that very spot they built a big cathedral. Do ya know, even when the monsoons and the tsunamis came and the whole town flooded, not one drop got into the cathedral? People say St. Thomas held the waters back. Your great-grandfather certainly believed that.”

  Aunt Lucille locked the case containing Elijah’s mantle and removed the cotton gloves from her hands. “Now you know why my father built a church to protect the relic. For nearly seventy years, the Perilous River has never breached its banks.”

  “The relic can heal people too, right?” Will asked.

  “Yes—assuming the faith of the individual is strong.” Aunt Lucille placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re interested in your great-grandfather’s work, Will. He spent his life assembling this collection, and it is very important, especially now.”

  Bartimaeus hobbled over. “He was even reading one of Jacob’s notebooks earlier. Maybe we should show him that other book, Lucille….”

  “I—I have to get home for dinner, Mr. Bartimaeus,” Will interjected rapidly, slapping a hand to his head. “If I don’t go now my mom’ll start worrying.” He rapidly moved toward the exit, slipping the pith helmet on. “But this was fun. Don’t worry about the bookcase—I locked it all up—and thanks for the tour. It was…it was fun. Bye.”

  “Come see us again, you hear?” Bartimaeus yelled.

  “You’re back at St. Thomas in the morning?” Aunt Lucille asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Keep away from those waters.” Aunt Lucille waved as Will ducked out of Bethel Hall. She ran the backs of her fingers along her chin in silence. Her blue eyes shot over to Bartimaeus. “He snatched the notebook. You know that?”

  Bartimaeus smirked. “So what if he did? He’ll learn about his great-granddaddy. It also gives his aunt Lucille a reason to drag him back here and acquaint him with that other book.” The old man shook his head and chuckled, ambling away. “Like my mama in New Orleans used to say, ‘Bart’s always got a plan.’…I know that’s right.”

  As Aunt Lucille watched her friend lurch away on his crutches, her eyes filled with worry.

  Dinnertime was always a clamorous event at the Wilder house, and this night was no exception. The familiar shrieks of Leo and Marin, seated at the dining bench and jabbing each other with forks, greeted Will as he opened the fron
t door.

  “Mom, he keeps stabbing me!” Marin screamed from the kitchen. “Aaaah! Look at my hand. He cut my haaaand.”

  Leo hadn’t, but it was a marvelous tactic to attract Mr. Wilder’s attention. “Guys, please,” Dan Wilder huffed. He sat rigidly in the kitchen dining nook, a slew of folders before him, the children seated across the table. Once they quieted, he turned to his wife.

  “Anytime there is an incident in town, the mayor and the rest of the city council feel they have to do something. Doesn’t matter what. Now Ava has scheduled a floor vote for Wednesday, and we don’t even know what we’re considering.”

  Deborah Wilder stood at the stainless steel stove, dishing out pasta and chicken. “How can you vote on a course of action when no one has a clear idea of what happened at the river?”

  “That’s exactly what I told Ava. All we know for sure is this: a fisherman’s boat overturned, and he’s gone missing. But the guy went out when it was still dark. He could have passed out, been drinking, got caught in the current—anything. It may not even be related to the tour boat accident—which is, admittedly, more concerning.”

  He flipped through one of the folders on the table. “This is from the tour boat accident report.” Taking off his glasses, he read, “ ‘Fifteen people injured with minor scrapes and bruises. One woman, Sonya Peterson, claims her legs were scratched by an animal’…blah, blah, blah….‘The captain of the vessel, Seymour Grayson, remains in a comalike condition. He cannot close his eyes nor communicate in any way. Captain Grayson has not moved since the boat capsized. Attending physicians have no explanation for his condition. The tour boat is believed to have been struck by an unidentified large animal or object.’ ” Dan closed the folder. “It’s just unbelievable to me. They’ve trolled the river. There is nothing there.”

  “I still don’t understand how the council can hold a vote without knowing all the facts. Or is that just politics?” Deborah said, placing steaming plates before Leo and Marin.