Draconis' Bane

by David Temrick

  Day dreaming had become something of a habit of his lately. Between his punishments at home, the constant fear that he would anger his father into another belting session or get another ruler broken over some newly healed body part from his mother, his slow torture on the school bus ride to and from school and finally the pain of having no friends at school….day dreaming had become an escape; an escape from the never-ending loneliness, solitude and pain.

  Living in a suburb renowned for its large houses and yards had conspired to set him apart from his classmates. Even though their houses were the same size as his, and their parents made the same living as his, he still lived in a “rich” suburb. He certainly didn’t dress like it, hand-me-down clothing from Greg, shoes a size too small, and jeans tattered from their previous owners use and worn further by Tristans use.

  He was small, even for eight he was small. He was the smallest student in his class, and often was bullied by the larger boys. The girls always seemed to like him though, no matter how many black eyes he sported or how many times three of the larger boys would gang up on him the girls would stick up for him. Their defense only served to give the bullies more ammunition. This year Tristan had taken to playing football with the boys in his class over recess. Being the smallest the first few weeks were made memorable and painful as no matter how many people were covering him the quarter-back would always toss him the ball on the first down so that all the boys could tackle him, often the tackle ended in a pile-on where fifteen boys would pile on top of him, including members of his own team.

  No matter how hard he got hit, he would get right back up and get ready for the next play. After a month of this repeated beating one of the boys started being almost nice to him, after one particularly large pile-on a hand reached down and pulled Tristan out from under the rubble. Tristan was helped to his feet and he looked to see who had rescued him, assuming it would be a teacher or a girl. Much to his surprise Paul smiled back at him;

  “You alright, Tristan?” he asked.

  “Er….ya Paul. I’m fine.”

  “Great. Ready?”

  For weeks the two of them would run plays together at recess, sit next to each other in class and conspire to have each other over for sleepover’s and camping in each other’s back yards. Paul become one of Tristans few friends. Until of course his father met Paul. After almost a month of planning and two sleepovers at Paul’s house, Tristan’s mother finally relented and agreed to let Paul sleep over.

  At the end of school that day Paul caught the bus home with Tristan. They joked around on the ride home and then dropped their bags off and Tristan introduced Paul to his three friends. The five of them started a game of football in the back yard and played until the sun went down. Tristan and Paul were called into the house for supper and they all agreed to play football again tomorrow.

  Tristan was happier than he had ever been before. He sat down for supper, his sister making a rude comment that completely escaped Tristan. Paul spoke up and she was silenced, he then turned to Tristan and said in a hushed voice;

  “Just call her meatball when she attacks you, it’s what I do to my sister and it works every time.”

  Laughing, Tristan and Paul began to eat. Tristan looked up as he heard the garage door open, his mood slightly darkened. What kind of mood will Dad be in tonight? I hope he doesn’t yell. None of my friends know he yells at me. Oh God. Please let him be in a good mood.

  “WHY HASN’T THE LAWN BEEN MOWED!?” he father bellowed.

  Oh no. Oh please no…not now…not today.

  “Tristan! Didn’t I ask you to mow the lawn?” he father demanded.

  “Y…yes Dad. I thought I would do it tomorrow afternoon, you know, after Paul goes home?”

  “PAUL! Who in the hell is Paul!?” his father demanded.

  “H..he’s my friend from school. Don’t you remember? I asked if he could come out and sleep over tonight.”

  “Well I’m not driving him home!”

  “You don’t have to. His parents are coming out to get him…I told you that.”

  “Fine! But I want that lawn mowed first thing in the morning!”

  “But Dad….Paul’s only here until noon. Even if I get up at eight I won’t be done until eleven…” Tristan stammered.

  “I don’t care…you have responsibilities. You should have mowed it yesterday.”

  “…but, I had Karate last night. I…”

  “SHUT UP! I don’t want excuses. Mow the lawn!”

  Tristan hung his head, his larger than average ears completely red. Anne smiled across the table as Paul tried to make Tristan laugh with a couple jokes as Tristan’s parents started discussing today’s news. When Anne had friends over Dad never yelled, she always got to leave the table early and go play. But after supper was over Paul offered to help Tristan clear the table.

  Depressed and feeling very self-conscious Tristan led Paul up to his room where they played board games and listened to the radio for the rest of the night. Paul never mentioned what happened earlier, probably sensing that Tristan was too embarrassed to talk about it. Before they went to sleep, Paul in a sleeping bag on the floor and Tristan in his bed, Paul offered to help Tristan mow the lawn tomorrow. He was greeted by silence as Tristan nodded off to sleep.

  The next morning Tristan was up at seven and finishing mowing the lawn around ten as a car pulled into the driveway. Sweating and exhausted he looked up to see Paul getting into his parents car, he smiled and waved and Tristan returned the wave, his heart sinking as Paul’s parents backed their car up and left, two hours early.

  For weeks afterward there was no mention at school about Tristans’ father. Then, on their way in from recess another friend of Paul’s asked about a bruise on Tristan’s shoulder.

  “Did you Dad give you that?” he asked.

  Tristan made eye contact with Paul and knew as his gaze dropped that Paul had told his whole class about Tristan’s treatment at home. He had thought everyone was taking it easy on him because they were starting to like him; instead it was pity.

  “Nah, that’s from playing street hockey.”

  “Oh! Cool.” Someone replied.

  “…ya. It’s almost as rough as our football games.” Tristan chuckled.

  Everyone laughed, but inside Tristan was dying a little. He was never very proud of his home life, but one of the benefits of living so far away from his classmates was that he could keep it a secret. Now everyone knew, some decided that his home life was punishment enough; others decided to use the knowledge as a weapon. Either way, no one else ever slept over at Tristan’s house again.

  Thus, at the age of eight, the ‘wall of silence’ was born. The more people knew about Tristan, the easier they could hurt him. In one of his classroom day-dreams Tristan decided that ‘The Wall’ as it would later be simplified, was the only way to keep his heart from breaking.

  Finally his mother came out of the house, his little sister in tow, protesting every inch of the way. She was put into the car and the two hour drive to the place where his Grandpa was to be buried began. I’ll save you the time and point out the obvious, the entire drive was punctuated by his sister hitting and biting him, Tristan retaliating, his father yelling at him, Anne’s self satisfied grin as Tristan looked back out the window, ranting inside at the injustice of it all.

  Arriving an hour before the funeral was to start Tristan was sent into the church while his sister got to stand around outside with his parents. He slowly walked up to the front of the church, where the coffin sat, turned sideways so that the longest side was exposed to the assembly. There were four steps that would take the shorter people up to eye level with what was inside the coffin….Tristan slowly proceeded up to the front of the church.

  Each step was like burning agony. He was still unable to cry and his grief and guilt welled up inside him. He’d overheard his mother and her brother talking about the arrangements and discussing how horrible Cancer is to have taken their father. He slowly mad
e his way up the four steps and peered into the casket.

  Grandpa laid there, an odd expression on his weathered old face.

  “Tristan!” Cried an unfamiliar voice.

  Tristan whipped his head around, assuming he was in trouble, but no one was there. He slowly walked down the steps and walked to the back of the church. Looking out of the window next to the thick heavy wooden door he saw his family outside, most of whom he’d never even been introduced to. No one was near the door. He walked around the church, looking for someone maybe hiding between one of the pews. Not finding anyone he headed back up to the front of the church again. Climbing the four steps he gazed down on one of the only three people that had shown him unconditional love. His cousin Joy wasn’t here today for him to lean on and his Uncle Stan, was outside consoling his sister.

  “TRISTAN! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!” Cried the voice again.

  “YES!” He replied.

  No one answered.

  “…great, now I’m going insane.” He muttered to himself. “Well, that figures. Beaten, abused, neglected and here I stand looking down on one of the few people who ever gave a damn about me….won’t Dad be happy.” He complained.

  Tristan looked up at the stained glass windows casting their multi-colored lights down on him, completely lost in his thoughts and grief he barely noticed a hand moving towards his arm. The hand’s iron grip caught his wrist startling Tristan who slipped off the steps and landed hard on the concrete church floor. Frightened he looked around the church for his assailant. Just like the voice, he couldn’t see anyone.

  “Wonderful. Just wonderful, I’m hearing voices, having hallucinations…great.” Tristan turned in place and yelled into the rafters. “You see what you’re doing to me?”

  “No.” Replied a confused but calm voice.

  Frightened and taken off balance Tristan toppled over into the first pew. He landed hard on the seat and then bounced off. He hit his head on the back of the pew in front of him and then landed face down. Slowly he got back to his feet, rubbing his head where the pew made contact. He looked around for whoever spoke, once again, finding no one.

  “Awesome, just great.” He muttered, still rubbing his forehead.

  “What is?” Replied a voice behind him.

  Tristan shouted and jumped sideways. An iron grip caught him before he could topple over again though.

  “Easy.” Said his grandfather.

  “Wha…..who….whe…” Stammered Tristan.

  “Relax Tristan. Calm down. We don’t have much time and I need to tell you something important.” Explained his grandfather.

  “But…you….you’re….” He continued to stammer.

  “Dead?” His grandfather offered with a characteristic smile.

  “Yes, well…more or less, dead here anyway.” He admitted.

  “I…I don’t understand.” Replied Tristan.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to son.” He replied.

  “Son? …I’m confused.” He stuttered.

  “Come, sit down. I have very little time.” He explained. “You aren’t who you think you are. You don’t belong here. This is a dream.”

  “A what?” He asked.

  “Well, more of a nightmare really, think about it Tristan. You don’t act like an eight year old. You’re constantly being punished and beaten. You live a horrible existence from one great pain to another.” Continued his grandfather.

  “Ya, well my friends’ parents have favorites too. That doesn’t mean anything.” Tristan shot back.

  “Stop. Remember the old priest who looked after you, Father Downing?”

  “No one knows about that…how do you know about that?” He asked in shock.

  “I was Father Downing.” Replied his grandfather.

  Tristan’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. Words wouldn’t come out. He stood up and walked brusquely over to the coffin. Peering in, he saw his grandfathers’ body laying there. Turning around he looked back at the old man still sitting in the pew looking intently at him.

  “How…I…I don’t understand.” He admitted finally.

  “Here. Let me simplify things for you.”

  Right before Tristan’s eyes the man who looked like his grandfather changed. A flash of light briefly blinded him and when he could see again, his cousin Joy sitting there. Then there was another flash of light and the smiling face of his Uncle Stan was staring back at him. Another flash and Father Downing was sitting there.

  Two years ago his mother had decided to re-affirm her Catholic faith. She started going to church and she dragged Tristan along with her. At the time there was a Deacon Downing there, who later became a priest. He was put in charge of Tristan’s Catholic education. Twice a week they would sit together and Tristan would tell him all about how horrible his life was and how no one liked him, how he felt alone. Deacon Downing started teaching Tristan how to meditate. How to clear his mind and focus, but shortly after becoming a priest Father Downing was sent to another part of the country and Tristan never heard from him again.

  Until today.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Excellent. I knew you’d recover quickly. You always were a fast learner Tristan.” Complimented Downing.

  “What…is going on here?” Tristan insisted.

  “In due time Tristan. First, we have to separate you from your nightmare.”

  “Well doesn’t that sound fun?” Tristan brooded. “Where were you eight years ago?!”

  “Tristan, son, it hasn’t been eight years. It’s been a month.” Replied Downing.

  “A month? A month since what?” He asked.

  “A month since you were attacked.”

  “What in the hell are you talki….”

  A flash of light burst from somewhere out of sight and Tristan hit the floor. His hands pressed on his temples and he clenched his teeth. He looked up and Father Downing immediately rushed to his side.

  “Don’t fight Tristan. You have to let go!”

  Tristan’s teeth clenched and he ground his teeth together as he gasped for breath.

  “Let…..go….of….WHAT!?” He demanded.

  “Your nightmare.” Continued Downing. “This isn’t your life. This is a nightmare, the Palace was invaded and you were hit by a spell! You’ve been unconscious for over a month.”

  “I….don’t…understand…Palace?” Gasped Tristan.

  “You don’t have to. Trust me.” Replied Downing.

  “I can’t.” Tristan replied as tears began gathering in his eyes.

  “You must!” Begged Downing. “Don’t fight! Annadora is trying to free your mind; it’s going to hurt more if you fight it. You must relax! You must calm yourself! Like I taught you!”

  “Taught me and then abandoned me!” Tristan accused through the pain.

  “I’ve never left you, son. You’ve been stuck in this nightmare for over a month….”

  “EIGHT YEARS! I’ve been in this sad excuse for a life for eight years Fath….” He stopped abruptly as his eyes lost focus.

  Tristan shook his head and stared at Downing. Another life, a better one was intruding on the life he remembered. Flashes of odd images of strange places and creatures seemed to overlap the world he accepted as his own.

  “Annadora….is…my mother…..wait, what’s going on here…” He asked.

  Fear was beginning to take hold. Tristan screamed again as his mind was being fully torn from all that he knew and accepted as reality.

  “Son! Please! Stop fighting! Relax your mind! You must!” Pleaded Downing.

  “Are you going to hit me if I don’t?!” Tristan challenged through his clenched teeth.

  “Tristan…Tristan…look at me.”

  Still kneeling on the hard concrete floor of the church he felt every imperfection in its surface. He could feel the fine dust that covered the surface, the smell of cleaning product. Something stranger then happened. Tristan’s vision ripped in two. With his left eye he could see Father Downing, kneeling
in front of him, concern clearly evident on his face. With his right eye he could clearly see the ceiling of a candle lit room. He could feel the imperfections in the concrete slab he was laying on and the rolled up patterned pillow under his neck and a familiar hand holding his. He felt fingers spread out over his head; the nails slightly dig into the flesh of his temples.

  Father Downing helped Tristan stand and sat him down in the front most pew. Still kneeling in front of Tristan he began to calmly help him clear his mind.

  “Remember what I taught you, breathe in deeply through your nose and exhale slowly out of your mouth. In deeply, out slowly…calm your mind…don’t try to understand anything right now, just calm yourself son.”

  “Why…do…you…keep…calling….me….son?” staggered Tristan.

  “Because you are my son, Tristan.” He said far too dismissively.

  “Is your mind clear?” He asked quickly.

  “Y…yes.” replied Tristan.

  “Excellent. Alright, your mother needs me to do some damage repair from inside your mind. I need you to listen to me son. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll listen…I still don’t see what is going on.” Tristan fearfully admitted.

  “That will come in time….I hope.” Muttered Downing.

  Tristan’s eyes both focused on him.

  “You hope?!” He demanded in a panic.

  “Son, you’ve been unconscious for over a month. We don’t exactly know what happened or why, all we know is this; you were training with Fallon, do you remember Fallon?”

  “My Swordmaster…” Tristan blurted.

  His eyes once again registered shock; he blurted it out before he’d even thought of it. Uncertainty crept up inside Tristan again. What was wrong with him? Fallon, his Swordmaster, and Gerald, his mentor…or Dana as his people call them. His people…what the hell was going on? He didn’t have people. Tristan, the skinny little big eared lonely introvert, didn’t have people. He was alone.