Tears began to flow freely down Sarah’s face. She looked back at her grandfather, who was also stunned, and then at Hank, who opened his arms. She ran to him shaking. The old man continued, “It’s not like that, Grace. Your Sarah is my Sarah. Of that, I am sure. They’re not two spirits fighting over one body. Kenneth, you told me you found Sarah after a fire, a little girl wrapped in old cloth. Isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, yes, it is.” He said leaning over and nodding.
“Did you keep the cloth?” the old man subconsciously held his breath, waiting for the answer he hoped would bring proof to their dilemma.
“Yeah, we did. It was quite unique, old even, with unusual symbols on it.”
“Has Sarah ever seen it?” the old man asked again, continuing to hold his breath.
“No, she hasn’t,” Grace answered. “We thought it might be better to show her when she was older.” Grace scoffed shaking her head, “That’s ironic isn’t it?”
“Can you get me a piece of paper and something to write with? I want to show you something that might help you understand what has been happening. And would you mind letting me see the cloth?”
As soon as he was given the paper, the old man drew a simple symbol on it. The one Sarah had drawn the week before during story time. Grandma Grace entered the room, holding a small cardboard box. In it was a bundle, sealed carefully, in a transparent garment bag. She was about to take it out of the box when the old man stopped her.
“Before you open that, look at what I have drawn.” They both leaned over and noted the symbol. “Sarah drew this last week. I was telling the story and stopped to have the kids draw what I had just described. She drew what she had heard me talk about, and then she also drew the other side of the coin, which I had not described!”
Grandma Grace held the crayon scrawled drawing of the symbol close and said, “I still don’t see what this has to do with anything. I want my Sarah back.”
The fire marshal looked at his wife, and said, “Give him a minute Grace. It’s going to be alright. I feel it.”
“Thank you, Kenneth. I’m grateful for your patience.” The old man turned to Sarah and said, “Sarah have you ever seen the garment that your grandparents have in that bag?”
Sarah looked back at the old man and said, “No, I have not.”
“Now, please answer one more question.”
Sarah nodded, “Okay.”
“What was the color of the dress you were wearing when I rescued you from the dragon?”
A gentle smile brushed Sarah’s lips as she thought back, “It was green, dirty, and tattered, especially after I tore the hem out to bandage your wounds.”
The fire marshal and his wife both gasped, then Grandma Grace drew out the garment, carefully unfolding it. It was burned and torn at the hem, and it was green.
Sarah rushed over toward it, “My dress! It’s my dress!”
The old man continued, his eyes glistening, “I am not sure of this, but it is the only thing that seems to fit the facts. I believe that Sarah was also transported through time. Only, for some reason, her body was changed back to a child as she was swept along. She lost her memories and woke up in the ashes of the fire you were investigating, wearing the tattered remains of the dress you now hold in your hands. You see Grace, your Sarah is my Sarah.”
A tight smile sild onto Grace’s lips. The old man watched as her face contorted. She gripped the edge of the table as anguish fought with truth for control. Grief postured for release, and hot tears swam in the fray. Finally, faltering words slipped from her in sad whispers, “I’ve lost my baby. She’s leaving me. I didn’t have her long enough.” Her head bowed, she held her face in her hands and cried, “I don’t understand. It can’t be. Oh, Kenneth what is happening? Am I going crazy?”
Sarah rushed to Grace, wrapping her small arms around her waist. Grace lifted her up and Sarah buried her face in Graces neck. “Grandma... please don’t cry. I love you. It’s me, Grandma. You’re not going crazy…and if you are, I am going with you. I need you. Grandma please, please ... it’s me. I can’t do this without you. You’re my mama. Please,” then Sarah began to sob, and Grace hugged her tighter, and wept with her.
For a long time, they just held each other. The men were afraid to break the sacredness of the moment. Then Grace sighed, looked up, and said. “Well, I don’t know about you, baby, but I feel better.”
Sarah laughed, wiping her nose on her hand. Grace looked at the act and scolded, “Sarah, I don’t care if you are a thousand years old and some type of fairy princess, you’re still my granddaughter, and if I have told you once, I have told you a hundred times—Do not wipe your snotty nose on your hand!”
The fire marshal and old man hee-hawed in chorus, but were halted in mid-breath by the stern voice of Grace, “And if any of you old men start mocking us women about our crying, the fur will hit the fan. Have I communicated in such a way as you understand?” she added, continuing to stare down her nose through her wire-rimmed reading glasses.
The old man was about to snort but caught the fire marshal’s facial expression and strangled the laugh before it was born.
“I hear ya, Grace. I hear ya. But the question still remains: Now what? What are we going to do?”
The old man scratched his head and said, “I think we need to carry on as though we’re not aware of the murders, since most people don’t know what’s happened. You haven’t even had time to file your report. The last official word on Thomas was that he was moving out of state. If we go ahead with story time tonight, I don’t think the dragon will risk exposing himself in public. So, continuing as normal may be the safest play for the moment. I have a friend I need to talk with, and then I will get back to you. Now, I need to get going. See you tonight.”
Hank looked at Sarah and said, “The truth is out there now. I know you will want to tell your grandparents more, and feel free to. What hasn’t been said is probably not something I even remember. Right now, this story teller needs a break, needs to talk with himself, and needs to get the story time version of this fable. So, see you tonight. Okay?”
The Sarah he used to know looked back through the eyes of the little girl and nodded, then quickly winked, letting him know, that she would be careful. What her grandparents didn’t know, they could not accidently reveal. Who would believe them anyway? So why risk being taken from the people she loved because some child protective service employee heard her grandparents were nuts, or worse, risk the story getting out and back to the dragon. She was tired and needed a nap anyway. Sometimes it was good to be a six-year-old.
***
Before Sarah reached the stairs that lead to her bedroom and the nap she craved, her grandmother’s strong hand clasped her shoulder, “Not so quick, young lady,” and then Grace frowned, and said, “Are you a young lady?”
Sarah turned toward her grandmother and answered, “To you always, even if you live to be ninety, and I make it to seventeen.”
“Ha!” Grace cackled, “That’s something else we need to work on—your math skills. But don’t think you’re getting out of here until I hear the rest of the story. I am claiming my rights as a curious woman and your guardian. Now sit back down while I get you some cookies and a glass of milk, then you can tell me all about it.”
Sarah rolled her eyes and slyly winked at her grandfather, who had included himself in the moment and also wanted to know more. Her grandmother brought a small plate of chocolate chip cookies and a cold glass of milk and said, “Start.”
Sarah sighed and said, “Ok. My father was a very busy king…”
Chapter Thirteen
Story night at the library
The old man couldn’t nap that afternoon. The speaker never slept, and now that he had begun talking again, wasn’t inclined to quit. The old man did nod off a few times, but his daughter called to check on him right as he had fallen asleep. They talked long enough for him to assure her that he was fine, and then he drifted off again.
Finally, the rumbling in his belly reminded him that he probably ought to eat something lest he embarrass himself and his assorted crew of candy crunchers. He ate a can of chicken noodle soup filled with so many crackers it was dusty, took a quick shower, decided not to shave, and got dressed. As he pushed the latest trash out of his truck and was about to drive away, he stopped, walked into his garage, popped open an old army locker, and removed a long bundle. “I sure hope I don’t need this,” he heard himself say. Then another voice joined in, “But if you do, you’ll have it. Besides, the closer I am to it, the more I can help you.” Throwing the bundle into the truck, the old man got in and drove to the library.
The host of children had a hard time settling that night. They squirmed, and chatted, and fussed, and then finally gathered close to their story teller. The old man was also restless. In spite of all that had transpired, all he had rediscovered and remembered, and even with the threat of death and dismemberment hanging over his head, he was excited.
A few years ago, he had started to believe that he must have made up the story rather than lived it. He was tempted to see a counselor but knew he would be placed on drugs that would steal his memories. It might mean peace, and maybe he wouldn’t be plagued with nightmares from a time out of this time so far away, but nightmares were a small price to pay to remember the good things. So, he decided to keep his memories, fight his doubts, and just keep living. Now, in a remarkable way, by telling the story, he was forced to relive the memories. It amazed him, when he first started telling the story how easily it had slipped from his lips, how vivid the memories were. The realism crept into the story, even the redacted version he told the babes that gathered at his feet. He enjoyed how their faces reflected their captured imaginations and was sad that tonight would be the end of the story, or at least the part he could tell.
So once again the old man settled in, his bones creaking as they positioned themselves in the old rocker. A small hand touched his arm and the six-year-old queen of story time laid her head against his shoulder. He was glad she was there but also fought back sadness. This is not the life they should be living. They should have been allowed to grow old together, not this abomination of him being an old man, and her, a first grader. But before the sadness could drown him, he began the ritual of meeting the eyes of each child who had become dear to him. They gazed back and smiled, a room full of snaggled-teeth and bright eyes.
As his eyes lit upon Sarah, he tipped his head toward her. She grinned back, then leaned in and whispered, “Grandma Grace heard the story this afternoon and told Grandpa and me to go on without her. She needed some time to herself to process things.”
The old man nodded his understanding and then noticed how close the children had gathered. Tonight, they had slipped out of their little chairs and moved toward him. His eyes twinkled as they hovered close. He had learned to love every one of those, booger-eating, snaggle-toothed, little knot heads. When he had first started with story time, he couldn’t wait to be done with it; now he didn’t know how he was going to live without it.
His urchins must have also sensed this was the end, and apparently felt that the closer they could get, the longer the story would last. Their parents hovered around like chickens guarding their brood. The old man took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and was about to begin when the library door, clinging and rattling with the bells his daughter had attached to it, opened. Reverend Laden Long sauntered in.
The old man’s eyebrows cocked in surprise, but he brushed them back into place quicker than a mongoose could strike a cobra’s neck. The speaker’s voice, deliberately cold in the old man’s mind, said, “Well now, look-a here. The devil’s come to church. Good thing you brought me along, isn’t it?”
The old man thought back, I am not going to hack his head off in here! I might get blood on the children, and besides that, I would never hear the end of it from Sarah. She wants to skin him herself.
“Well, you’re going to have to say something quick. He sees you’ve noticed him. Look closely. He is trying to veil his eyes, but your discern-ornament gifting keeps him from hiding from us.”
What do you mean? the old man asked Speaker, confused. Then he saw it as the man neared. The eyes of the reverend were slitted, serpentine. He could hide everything else about him, but the dragon could not hide the windows of his soul from the old man.
“Nod to him like you’re not aware, and then begin the story. Hurry, before he senses something,” Speaker demanded.
The old man turned his attention to the children at his feet and then asked his typical opening question, “All right now, where were we? What happened last in the story?”
Amongst the confused chorus of conflicting cries, a pretty little red-headed girl on the front row, calmly raised her hand. It was such an unusual gesture that the old man ignored the ruckus and smiled down at her. “Hush everyone!” he growled in a friendly way. “I want to hear from Luwanda. She has been very polite and not bawled out the answer like certain other little heathens. The old man looked down at her grinning, rewarding her sweet calm.
“My uncle said he has heard this story before. He told me that the dragon was really a good dragon and just lonely. He wanted the princess to marry him, but mean old Harry stole her away.”
The old man looked around the room, saw the Reverend Long’s wicked smirk, then he quickly looked back at the innocent one in front of him and asked, “Who is your uncle, my dear? I think he and I have heard different versions of the story. I am sure his intentions were to help you understand, but I have to say, I think he is a little confused. You see in my story, the dragon is selfish and does not care who he hurts so long as he can get what he wants. Your uncle is right about one thing, Honey. The dragon does want the little girl.”
The speaker’s voice in his head yelled at him, “Princess! Not little girl!”
The old man immediately thought back, I said exactly what I meant I want him to know I know what he is up to.
“Oh.”
My uncle is right over there, the little red-haired girl beamed, pointing at a burly man in fashionable clothes, seated a few rows back. She waved to him, and he waved back. The old man looked back thinking he was definitely going to talk to the girl’s uncle after story time. The old man nodded to the uncle, and for the first time noticed his serpent eyes glaring back. The old man quickly blinked back his surprise and casually scanned the room for more serpentine eyes like the uncle.
The speaker calmly spoke, “I count five of them. Of course, I am limited to your eyes, but I would be willing to say that at least twenty percent of the adults in this room are not our friends.”
Not missing a beat, the old man continued speaking to the little red-haired innocent, “But the dragon doesn’t love the princess, Honey. I promise you that. Now let me continue. When we last heard from Harry, he was speaking with the sword named Speaker that could speak to Harry using just his thoughts.
“Harry answered the sword, ‘But what now? How do I rescue the princess? I am not even sure she is the princess anymore.’
“The speaker answered, ‘She is still Sarah, princess of her father’s kingdom, Harry. But she’s struggling. She doesn’t want to be a dragon. She doesn’t want to be selfish and hurt people, and even though she may get a little dragon-y, and maybe even turn a little greenish, and even sprout some scales, she will still be a good person as long as she keeps fighting to be. If she gives up, well then, you have to let her go because then she will have completely turned into a dragon, whether she looks like one or not.’
“Harry scowled.” At the mention of the word scowled, fourteen children tilted their heads in sync. The old man, in spite of being surrounded by veiled enemies who were intent on his destruction, laughed, “I see you might not know that word? It means, well…” He looked up and saw the expression on Reverend Long’s face, and taking advantage of the moment, pointed at the reverend and said, “Why, it looks just like Reverend Long’s face right now.” Ev
ery urchin head in the room pivoted, staring at the counterfeit clergy caught before he could react, in the spotlight of their innocent eyes. The old demon’s glare intensified under the scrutiny. The old man, concerned his little flock might be frightened, discovered to his amusement that his courageous little princess was lightening on greased wheels as well, “Ewwww!” Sarah whispered in mock fright, “He does that so well!” Several children, catching Sarah’s innocent and fearless manner, echoed her response.
“Wow! That looks mean!” a little freckled-face boy, sucking on his perpetual tootsie-roll-pop, chimed.
“No, it doesn’t!” another fearlessly naive candy-cruncher added. “He’s just helping Mr. Hank out and doing that on purpose.”
The old man, sensing the timing was perfect, said, “Yep, that’s what a scowl looks like. Thank you so much Reverend Long!” and then, “Let’s all give the reverend a clap for his help in telling the story.”
The room exploded with mirth. The old man’s flock loved to clap, and of course, several had to holler, and then a couple of the rowdier boys on the back row had to have a clapping contest. The old man, looked at each one with the slightest hint of an arched eyebrow and said, “You can clap, or you can listen, but you cannot clap while I am telling the story. Now, which will it be?”
Silence, like a guillotine in its track, fell across the crowd. They shifted, sat down, and were soon staring intently at the old man, anxiously waiting for him to continue.
“Harry scowled. ‘I will never let her go. I will fight the old dragon down every dark place in this gloomy lair. If I must, I will grab him by the tail and haul him into the light.”
“The speaker corrected, ‘Harry, we are not talking about the dragon. We are talking about the princess. If she chooses to become a dragon, there is nothing you can do.’
“‘That’s not true I can win her back - help her heal her heart. I will die before I let her go.’
The Princess Who Forgot She Was Beautiful (The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Book 1) Page 12