“‘You cannot have her!’ the dragon roared.
“Then it occurred to Harry he was in a dream, and he had as much power in that dream as he wanted to have. So, he railed back at the dragon…” The old man saw questions arise in his young audience and quickly switched to dictionary form, “To rail means to be angry in your response. Harry was mad at the dragon and let him know it. ‘Neither can you, you old serpent. You are going to die if you don’t leave her be!’
“The dragon answered by spewing flames. They burst around Harry. Suddenly he bolted upright, fully awake. He looked around. He was still in the tunnel, still huddled close to the old knight’s skeleton, and still had no idea how, or even if, he could rescue the princess. Then he heard the faraway roar of a very angry dragon.”
“But what about the ring?” several of the children asked. “Remember, Harry found a ring, and he was amazed, and then you switched over to the princess and her dream and …”
The old man grunted, scowling, then asked, “Whose story is this!?”
Without hesitation the whole room echoed back, “Ours!”
A deep sigh surrendered from his lips. He was owned, and he could do nothing about it, so he pulled the switch and, rather than suffer derailment, simply altered the tracks, and said, “You are right.” The room lit up with tooth-gapped smiles and sparkling eyes. “But my dears, who is telling the story? Hmm?”
The puppies quieted and looked a bit sheepish, all, of course, except the indomitable queen of story time, Sarah, who simply scowled. The old man looked at her a moment, saw schemes of mischief brewing, and wisely decided to move on before they matured.
“Yes, I know. The question you are all wondering is what happened with the ring? That is where we are. So, let’s go back before Harry visits the princess in the dream. Remember, he had just discovered the ring and was stunned. As he cleaned the dirt off and studied the ring, he could not believe what he was seeing. He rubbed the ring, looked closely at it, shook his head, and then looked again. He knew that ring, or at least, he had seen a ring an awful lot like it. It looked like the ring his father wore, which had been handed down through the generations to every first-born child of his family. The ring was old. It had patina—that is a stain from age; only old, old things have it, and usually only old metal things, ok?” His puppies nodded in chorus, and he continued, “The whole ring was shaped like a boar’s head complete with tusks that protruded—that means stuck out a little bit, in this case like tiny bumps—except… one of those tusks was broken off. The tip was broken, and it had been that way for a while because the break was almost smooth.”
His pet nagahina looked puzzled, rubbed her chin, and then, in spite of her best intentions, abruptly raised her hand and declared, “Harry tamed the boar hog. His family had wild hogs on its ring. Did everybody in his family for a long, long time know how to capture wild hogs?”
The old man looked at her and smirked, then hid the answer behind his eyes, and said, “I don’t know,” and tried to go on with the story.
“Hmmmph!” she grunted. “Something is going on here. I can feel it.”
The old man stared down at her. She sat with one knee up where her elbow rested. Her fist ended under her chin, and she was leaning on it in a way that would have made a French sculptor proud. The old man listened, barely able to keep from snickering as she talked to herself, “Something is going on here.”
The rest of the children were not privy to the interchange and were in danger of growing restless. With this threat looming, the old man quickly continued with the story.
“Harry looked at the ring carefully, then shrugged his shoulders and stuck it in his pocket. The ring was a mystery, but one he didn’t have time to dwell on. He had to move forward, and that meant moving the old skeleton out of the way so he could continue moving down the tunnel. With as much respect as he could muster, Harry gently grasped the skeleton by its dusty chest piece and, with both hands, picked up on it. The skeleton broke in half.”
“Ewww!”
“Gross!”
“Did the bones crack and tumble out?”
“Was it loud?”
“Did dust get in his eyes? I saw a movie once where dust from old things like that caused people to get sick.”
“No, no. He was more embarrassed than frightened. He didn’t know who the skeleton was, but he knew it must have been somebody great and ancient, who fought for good and apparently lost. So, when the skeleton fell apart, his first response was to apologize, but then he realized whoever the skeleton had been, they were no longer there and couldn’t hear him. So, he just picked up the rest of the bones and gently moved them out of his way. But as he did, he spied something shiny, something he had not seen during his first observations of the bones. The shiny object was round, similar to a coin but larger, and it had a blue tint to it. Etched on one side of the disc were three lines. Each line moved out at an angle with the center line being straight up and down. At the top of each line there was a small dot. So, three small dots and three lines. Can you see that in your imagination, or do I need to draw it and hand it around?”
“Draw it! Draw it!” the small mob of screeching children cried.
The old man smiled, stroked his chin, and said, “No.”
“What?” they all bellowed. “What do you mean, no? Ah…come on, show us what it looks like! Pleeeeease?” they begged in shrill voices.
The old man stood firm. He had an objective in mind, “No, my dear ones, I won’t show you. Instead, I want you to show me!” And with that, his perceptive daughter quickly handed out paper and crayons. The old man continued, “I will describe the disc to you again. You then, must draw it and color it to the best of your ability. Most of your pictures will look very much alike, and that is fine. But listen close, then draw and color it, and we will see who sees the most and listens well. Now get to it. With that, a tornado of activity began with squeaks and squawks and bellows and whines commencing in their normal course. “Ok, now are you ready to listen while I describe it again?”
“Yes!” they echoed. There was, of course, the humbug or two who declined to play, but then the old man bribed them with more story and candy corn left over from last Halloween, and most fell in line, except Thomas who wasn’t allowed to eat candy corn. Sarah saw the poor boy’s dilemma, walked over to him, and whispered something in his ear. His immediate smile threatened to break his freckled face, and he nodded fiercely.
Sarah walked back to her place at the small table, which was now full of intricate disc designs, and began to draw. The old man, having seen the whole affair, quietly walked over to the little sovereign and whispered, "Sarah… what did you just tell Thomas?”
She beamed in triumph and innocently cupped her hands around her mouth, bent over to the old man’s ear, and in a barnyard whisper said, “I told him he didn’t have to chew.”
“What?!” the old man asked, puzzled.
She continued her virtuous pronouncement, and again whispered, “I told him he didn’t have to chew the candy corn. His mama insists that he has to chew all his food so many times, and that if it is in his mouth, and it is food, it must be chewed before it can be swallowed. So, I just told him not to chew and let it dissolve. If it’s not chewed, it’s not food; therefore, he is not eating it, right?” Her naively sweet expression reminded the old man of a baby cobra he had once seen devour a mouse. The serpent just figured that is what you did with mice. And apparently, Sarah thought, in her savant and shrewd manner, this is how you got around parents. Amused, he shook his head, about to leave the little monarch to her own devices when he noticed what she had drawn. On the paper before him was a rendering of the small coin-like disc, only it was the side of the disc he had not described! His mouth gaped open as he looked at the little artist. At first, words wouldn’t come, then he coughed, cleared his throat, and spat them out, “How did you know this?”
“What do you mean?”
The old man shuddered as his trembling
hands snatched up the drawing and held it to the light. He blinked and looked back at Sarah, stunned.
“Sarah, this is a picture of the other side of the coin, and I haven’t described it yet! But you drew it! How did you know what it looked like?”
The little girl looked back at the old man and meekly asked, “You didn’t tell us what it looked like?”
“No, Honey, I did not,” he bent down and spoke in a quiet voice, but not a whisper because he knew whispers attracted curious ears, while a normal, though quieter, conversation would just blend into the ordinary buzz of the room.
The little girl blinked, tilted her head in puppy fashion, and said, “But I saw it as soon as you described it. You talked about the lines with the three dots, and then you talked about this side,” she insisted, pointing toward her drawing.
“I am sorry, honey, but I did not. I really did not describe it, but here it is.”
The old man looked closely. It featured a simple, child-scrawled drawing of a triangle inside a circle with a blue center. The old man almost expected to see the words runā tikai patiesību, or in English speak only truth in the center of the circle. They were not there. He knew those words were on the flip side of the disc, but how did a six-year-old child know to draw the symbol?
After assessing the drawing, he moved around the room to see if other children had also drawn the back side of the disc. He carefully scanned their efforts and did not find any that remotely resembled what Sarah had drawn. He kept shaking his head, and his daughter, who had been overseeing the whole pictorial extravaganza, noticed his bewilderment and whispered, “Dad, I don’t know what is going on, but I better move this forward.” And then in a normal voice, “Ok, Dad, are you ready to look at what these young artists have drawn?”
The old man looked at his daughter, shook his head, and said, “No.” He looked at her and whispered, “I am not feeling well all of a sudden, Roo. Can you bail me out here?”
His daughter walked closer to him, placed a gentle hand on his arm and said, “Daddy, are you ok? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
Her question shook him from his trance and he said, “No, it’s not like that honey. It’s just I don’t feel well, and I need to go home and lie down. I’ll call you later.” With that, he left the building, got in his truck, and drove off.
Chapter Six
The old man screeched into his driveway, slammed on the brakes, and clambered out of his truck before the engine had quit sputtering. By the time the ancient machine backfired in protest, he was halfway to the front door. He jammed the key into the lock and stopped. What am I doing? What can I do about it? What just happened? How did she see the back of the disc? Those and a hundred other thoughts like them fought over the limited space in his soul. And what do I do now? His heart raced against his tired old chest, and he thought…Well, whatever I do, I better sit on it, otherwise I’m liable to stroke out.
He walked over to the threadbare couch, a holdover from a thrift store sale, and plopped down. He took several deep breaths trying to calm himself. It half worked. His mind kept racing, but his lungs decided keep up with it.
So, what is going on here? His heart argued logic into a corner and held it there. Truth is, I don’t know.
“Liar,” he countered.
I am not lying I just can’t be. Not like this. He snorted, laughing at himself, “I’m talking to myself again. Old people do that. I guess that means I’m old. But what now?” The old man just sat there tossing and turning questions over and over in his mind then finally slipped down into the soft couch and slept.
***
Back at the library
As the door closed behind the old man, most of the children at story time were busy with their drawings. The old man’s daughter was a master of adaptation and had, with her father’s sudden departure, been forced to move the children to another activity. Lizzy did not notice that Sarah, whose eyes had followed the old man out the door, had become very quiet and withdrawn.
Once the old man left, Sarah ran to the window that looked out onto the parking lot and watched as he climbed into his worn-out old truck and drove away. Sarah was about to move back to her place at the table when a movement outside caught her attention. Drawing closer to the dusty window, she placed her two small hands on the glass, and stared wide-eyed. At the end of the parking lot, shadowed by trees, stood a tall man dressed in black, wearing a clerical collar. Sarah watched as this man’s eyes followed the old man and watched him as he pulled out of the parking lot. Slowly, he turned toward her and sneered a cold smile that could not hide his cruel eyes. Sarah moved back as the man began to walk up the steps and into the library. She quickly took her place at the table and pretended to draw. She was afraid to look up but listened closely as the old man’s daughter greeted the tall reverend.
“Good morning, Reverend Long. I suppose you have come to pick up your grandson, Thomas?”
“Yes, is he prepared? It is time, and he should be punctual.”
“I am sure he is,” the librarian responded. “Thomas, your grandfather is here. Are you ready to go?”
Thomas, the old man’s invisible page turner gulped, quickly chewed, and swallowed the candy corn he had been too impatient to let dissolve and turned to meet his grandfather. Sarah, who had been seated across from Thomas, looked up just in time to see his face pale and his hands tremble. The young boy absently slid his hands down his side, quickly wiping the accumulated sweat off his palms, and turned to greet the stern form of his grandfather. He bowed his head, almost shrinking in size, as he turned to meet the towering cleric. He need not have bothered. The Right Most Reverend Laden Long was focused on Sarah.
“And just who is this little lamb, Thomas?” he asked as he leaned his dark, goateed face over the table.
“My name is Sarah, and I am not a lamb. I am a lioness. Would you like to see my picture?” Before the menacing cleric could answer, Sarah shoved her drawing of the disc in his face. “Do you like it?”
Reverend Laden Long’s piercing grey eyes widened, and his thin lips instinctively began to snarl before he quickly covered the expression with stone-cold features. He continued to glare at the child’s scribble then down at her innocent face. He backed up and grabbed Thomas by his frail shoulders. The man’s eyes narrowed, and his teeth gritted. He stared down at Sarah and whispered, “Very good little girl. Such a nice picture. Such a shame it won’t be finished.” And with that he cast a hard glance at her and shoved his pale grandson forward.
Sarah, who had stood up, now collapsed back into her little chair and watched with sad eyes as they left the library. “Poor Thomas,” she thought and then turned back to coloring her picture.
***
Next library day
The old man hadn’t wanted to get up. His eyes fluttered open at 5:30am after sleep had eluded him most of the night. A sense of restless dark dreams, that wouldn’t stay long enough to be remembered, bothered him and he wondered if that wasn’t a good thing. He watched the clock as he sat in his kitchen drinking coffee wondering if he should keep telling the story at story time. He didn’t know what to say to his daughter. He even wondered if he was sane. Was life so tedious and boring? Had it become so tiresome and predictable that he had lost his mind? From all he had ever heard, some people never realized they were mentally ill, and one of the primary symptoms was that they thought their grand illusions were real. Perhaps that is what this was, and now, for the first time, he was getting a glimpse of the real world and starting to see his imagination had deceived him. He had about decided this was true when he realized if it were true, and he had just imagined the story, little Sarah would not have known how to draw the symbol. This realization blew through his nicely arranged admission of delusion like a whirlwind through a junkyard. He had all the parts, and they had to have come from somewhere. They just didn’t suddenly one day appear. So, what now? The clock on the wall continued to tick louder as the time drew closer. The quietness of the hous
e haunted him, driving him forward step by step. The conclusion was coming; the story had to end, but how? He shrugged his shoulders, took a deep breath, picked his keys off the table, and walked out the door.
As the old man pulled into his favored parking spot, he noticed, that just like always, the lot was full, and people were waiting. He looked at the large bay window expecting to see it lined with little faces and was not disappointed. His eyes softened as he climbed out of the truck and saw the children waving at him. He was half expecting them to run down the sidewalk and was a little surprised when they didn’t. I bet my daughter has them corralled today, he thought as he opened the large, matching double doors into the foyer of the old house that was now a library. He heard the typical chaos of loud shouts and cries and laughter and chatter that marked this library as being alive with children, and not the sterile silence of stodgy, elderly women searching out genealogies. His eyes searched the room, glancing quickly around it, scouting. He was looking for his little nemesis, the psychic little princess, who had read his mind and blown it away with her amazing scribbles, when he saw his daughter’s smiling face and lithe form walk toward him. He noticed she had started to get a few grey hairs, but on her, it was beautiful. Looking him over, she asked, “Are you ready for story time, Dad?’
He smiled and replied, “As ready as I will ever be. Is everyone here?” What he really meant was: Where is the holy terror that I’ve grown so fond of?
“Everyone but Sarah,” his daughter answered quickly, “but we can’t wait on her. I am surprised though. Usually her grandfather brings her by early, and she is one of the first ones here. I am sure he would have called if something were wrong.”
As soon as he heard Sarah wasn’t there, the old man’s heart sunk. He couldn’t explain it, but it was like a dark cloud moved in and hovered close. As the seconds raced by, and he walked into the story room, foreboding hung heavy like a stale thick blanket. A grey fog was circling, swirling; he didn’t know how to deal with it. It was like grief but stealthy, an awareness of something being stolen, apprehension standing just far enough away to be felt, but not close enough to examine.
The Princess Who Forgot She Was Beautiful (The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Book 1) Page 5