Into The Night, page 11
Having imaginary friends was natural for children. Mylah didn’t want to dash the creativity of her students. This world would have enough chances to destroy their imaginations, and there was no reason for it to start today in her classroom.
“I did say we’d practice these same drawings for two weeks, and this is what you chose to draw, so yes. You can continue to draw them.”
Sighs of relief swept through the classroom. Jimmy said, “Jano says thank you.”
Mylah chuckled and said, “Tell Jano he’s welcome. Now for our lesson.”
On the board, she modeled how to draw a body, legs, arms, and a head. The students went to work. Following her lead, they created new versions of their previous drawings.
Each day a new aspect was practiced. At the end of the week, Mylah was amazed by how much their drawings had improved. They became more detailed and less rudimentary. For being first-graders, they showed a great deal of talent.
She marveled at how the children’s depictions of their imaginary friends were so similar. Mylah assumed they’d told each other so many stories about these imaginary figures that they had a common description in mind. She didn’t want to brag, but the children were rapidly learning the drawing techniques she modeled for them. She left work on Friday feeling invigorated. Her project was coming along better than she had hoped.
The air was crisp and the sky was clear as she walked to her car. Mylah pulled her coat closed against her chest as the wind whipped past her. The crimson of the maples mixed with the golden cottonwood trees. How could an artist not love autumn? A palette of colors was laid out across the countryside, and Mylah took the long way home so that she could enjoy the sights a little longer.
The next Monday, Mylah picked up her lessons where she left off. Again, the children’s work was better than the time before.
“Children, I’m so proud of you! Your artwork is really improving, and I am very impressed.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kennedy!” Shouts of joy erupted in the classroom.
“Gregor says he’s glad you like what you see.” Peter smiled and nodded to the air beside him as he passed out the charcoal pencils to his classmates.
By Wednesday, however, an unusual change in the drawings took Mylah by surprise. A darkness enveloped them. The details had improved yet again, but there was an unsettling look in the eyes of Gregor, Jano, and Belzor. These imaginary friends looked downright, well, evil.
Only two more days to the unit remained, and Mylah looked forward to moving onto a happier project. Next week they would create Halloween decorations for the school hallway.
On Thursday, Mylah’s mind played tricks on her. As she looked over her students’ work, she could have sworn the eyes of the figures watched her. She heard someone whisper in the back of the room as she reached the end of the stack of drawings. She jumped, and a sound akin to laughter behind her made her turn. Of course, nothing was there.
She gathered her purse and coat, looked back into her classroom, then shut and locked the door. This project was no longer fun.
Friday, of course, brought even more vivid images from the children. Nervously, she paced around the room, checking their work as they furiously drew to finish their masterpieces. Mylah was eager for the week and that project to be over. She was exhausted as she made her rounds.
Was she losing her mind? Surely Jimmy’s eyes didn’t flicker black for an instant? No, that couldn’t be.
Then a deep voice behind her said, “Ms. Kennedy, what do you think? It looks real, doesn’t it?”
Startled, she spun around. Peter held her picture up for her to see. She forced a smile and said, “Yes. Yes, it does.” And it did.
The bell rang, but the students didn’t place their drawings in the cabinet. Instead, they left them sitting on their tables and rushed out the door, laughing.
“Well, I guess on Monday I will have to remind them what our end of class procedures are,” she muttered to herself as she reached to pick up the first drawing.
The piercing glare of Gregor made her blood run cold. Before she could pick up the paper, a clawed black hand came out of the drawing and grasped her wrist. Gregor cackled. Mylah struggled to free herself.
A rush of air swept through the room, and the papers swirled into the air, spinning frantically in a blur. Gregor continued his hold on her wrist.
“You cannot escape my hold, Mylah. Can I call you Mylah? Ms. Kennedy seems so formal. After all, we’re friends. Not-so-imaginary friends. Isn’t that right, my sweet?” His other clawed hand reached out and caressed her face.
“What’s happening? This can’t be real!”
“Oh, but we are real. We just needed your help.” Two voices spoke in unison. Mylah turned around to see the incarnations of Jano and Belzor.
“My help? What do you mean by ‘my help’? You can’t be real.”
“We are real now, Mylah. We’ve waited for so long to be given form, and with your help, here we are. The children and their drawings brought us into this world. Now our work can be done.” Jano’s eyes sparkled.
The three beings hissed hideous laughs.
“No! You’re nothing more than imaginary friends. I’m dreaming that I see you.”
Gregor’s razor-sharp claw slid down Mylah’s forearm, and a thin stream of blood flowed. He placed the tip of his finger in his mouth. “This is all real, and ah, yes, you are indeed my sweet.”
Mylah shuddered and struggled to free his grasp. “What are you? You’re no childhood imaginary friend.”
Belzor took a step forward. “You’re a smart one, Mylah Kennedy. No, we are not imaginary friends.”
“What are you then?”
Jano and Belzor grinned and gave a nod toward Gregor, who pulled her close to him. She smelled the putrid stench of his breath and the odor of singed hair.
“My sweet, we are demons. We have waited a long time for a means to cross over. We have hovered in this school for decades. The children were right. We were in this room, and you told them to draw what was in this room. You gave us our avenue to materialize in this dimension.”
“What are you going to do? Why are you here? Let go of me!” My tugged her arm, but Gregor only tightened his grip.
“Do? We are only the first. Others will follow. My sweet, we are going to conquer this world.”
In a flash, he entered her body.
On Monday, it was second grade’s turn to draw what was in the room.
THE HOPE CHEST
A lone watchman sits, leaning against the stonewall of the mountain tower, as he wearily gazes across the desolate valley below. The once verdant fields are mere dreams now. The rolling thunder in the distance is no promise of replenishing rain, but instead it is the ever-present rumble of artillery. The land and its people are all but ruined.
The world wasn’t always like this. I remember my grandfather’s stories.
Closing his eyes, he smells the delicate aroma of his mother’s cooking as it wafts through the air, mixing with the earthy smell of the wood fire as rain pours down outside their modest home. The magic of the moment is forever etched in his mind and rolls through his thoughts. He feels the warmth of the fire and the soft fur of the bear rug that covers the rough floor of his parents’ long-ago home as he takes a passage back in time.
***
Sitting at the foot of his wise and respected grandfather, a man of honor and integrity in their village, young Milo gazed at the old man in complete admiration. His grandfather sat in the well-worn rocking chair, taking puffs from his pipe as he amused the children with tales of faraway places and of a time when their land was full of peace and plenty.
“Tell us again about the ancient war, Grandfather.”
“Oh, my child, you have heard that story so many times. Surely you are tired of it by now.”
A chorus of young voices, pleading for him to tell the story, won the old man over--as everyone in the house knew they would. Milo’s parents shared a wink across the kitchen as they prepared the last of the evening meal. They knew their beloved patriarch would not miss an opportunity to tell one of his favorite tales. That’s all it was, they knew. These stories were nothing but lore that passed from generation to generation. There was no more truth to them than the stories of imps and fairies. How could there be? It kept the children occupied, however, and it gave the old man a chance to bask in their attention.
“Well, it was a long time ago, back when we didn’t have the modern conveniences that we do now. We were still a prosperous people, though. For centuries, our people farmed this valley. Life was wonderful, and everyone had more food than they could eat. Our cattle and goats were fat and sleek. No one saw the trouble that was coming. Our people were content, and sometimes when we become content we lose our watchfulness. Fat and satisfied, we were blinded to the evil approaching.”
The children huddled together. A gentle shudder passed among them. Lex, Milo’s older brother, wrapped a blanket around Milo and gave him a reassuring hug.
“It was the end of the harvest season, and oh, what a harvest it had been. The trees hung heavy with fruit that fall, and the silos overflowed with grain. Mounds of vegetables sat in everyone’s cellars, and the women were busy preserving as much food as they could from daybreak to sundown. The men labored in the fields to bring in the last of the abundance.”
“What did the children do, Grandpa?” Shia, Milo’s little sister, was smart for her age. At three, she was as involved as the older children in listening to the tales.
“The children?” Grandfather stopped to shake out his pipe and refill it with tobacco.
Impatiently, his audience nudged each other, eager for the story to continue.
“Yes, Grandpa, the children,” Shia said in an effort to prod him.
“The children, like children will do, played and made up games.”
“What kind of games?”
“Those with sticks and balls and races--the types of games I’m sure you all enjoy once you are done with your chores and your studies.”
“Races are my favorite.” Milo beamed. He was known as the fastest boy in the village.
“You are quick, my little one, and Shia is quick in her own way, aren’t you, dear?” His wrinkled hand patted her on her head. “Shia’s curiosity and Milo’s speed remind me of the heroes of this story.”
Milo and Shia blushed from the comparison.
“Before we can talk about heroes, however, we must talk of the terrible, terrible things that happened.”
The faces of the children fell. They knew this story.
“The marauders swept down from the north in a fury. Their horses were fast, and their hearts were cold. They killed and destroyed our people and our land. We fought back, however, and the war raged for many, many years. Starvation spread across our land, and many of our people died from illness. Fierce battles took a toll on them as well.”
Shia and her cousin, Ana, clasped hands and held each other. A tear trickled down Ana’s sweet face.
“The war went on for years, and even our wisest and bravest leaders didn’t know how to overcome our enemies.”
“Were you alive then? Did you see this yourself?” Pater, Ana’s older brother, was always a skeptic.
“No, son, I was not alive then. My great-great-great-grandfather wasn’t alive when this happened. This story has been handed down for centuries, but it is true.”
“What happened? How did our people live?” Milo brought everyone’s attention back to the story.
“We had all but given up. Our people were ready to surrender and be massacred. But then, two of the children saved us.”
This, of course, caused the children to sit up straighter and to open their eyes wide.
“There was a boy.” Grandfather nodded at Milo. “And a girl.” He glanced at Shia. “They were clever young children. Always curious, even amid war, they played their favorite games. One was hide-and-seek.”
“We play hide-and-seek all the time!” The children wiggled with excitement knowing that they carried on an ancient tradition of their people.
“Yes, you do. Now one day these two children, Oli, the boy, and Ara, the girl, went far beyond the boundaries of the village. They ran deep into the forest where they found a cave. This was no ordinary cave. It was in the base of the Holy Mountain.”
Looks of awe swept across the children’s faces.
“Down, down, down, they climbed into the cave. They were so amazed that they forgot to hide from one another. The wind gently whistled through the cave, and they were drawn to a glowing room. In the center of a room no bigger than this house,” Grandfather motioned his hands in the air, “was a chest. A beautiful wooden chest with sturdy metal hinges.”
“And on the top of the chest, there were words, weren’t there, Grandpa?” Shia knew. She knew the importance of the words.
“Yes, my child. The words said, ‘He who possesses this can never lose. Carry this into any battle you are facing, and you will surely never fail.’ Oli and Ara carefully lifted the trunk by the handles and carried it to their village.”
The moon had risen by this time, and the light from the fire flickered on Grandfather’s face.
“As they approached their village, they saw terrible carnage. Homes were on fire, and the marauders were killing families as darkness began to fall.”
A whimper escaped Ana’s lips.
“Ara and Oli were afraid, but they were brave. Braver than most grown men who have faced battle many times. They knew how to return to their village unseen. Their hours of playing hide-and-seek had taught them nooks and crannies that most adults walked past unnoticed.”
The screech of an owl outside caused everyone in the room to jump. Even Grandfather jerked ever-so-slightly. Mother and Father had stopped their activities in the kitchen and were also listening. The story was so powerful that they couldn’t deny it their attention.
“Tell us, Grandpa. What happens to little Ara and Oli?”
“It was dangerous, and they were tired from the weight of the trunk. Several times they dodged flaming arrows, and once Oli was caught in the tangle of a fence. Death surrounded them everywhere. Finally, exhausted, they gently knocked on the back door of their cabin. Their mother ushered them inside, shocked by the trunk they dragged into the house.”
“They had to be so tired and scared by then.” Little Shia’s concerned voice caused everyone’s heart to ache.
“The children collapsed onto the floor as their parents read the message on the top of the trunk. Their mother called for the oldest son, Link, to find the king, which was no easy task given the battle raging throughout the valley. Find him, he did, however, and the village leaders gathered around the trunk, eager to find what magic it held. What would allow them to win any battle?”
By now, Milo’s mother and father knelt on the floor alongside the children.
“The wise men of the community opened the latches on the trunk and a bright light radiated through the crack in the lid. Carefully, oh so carefully, they lifted the lid off the chest as blinding light rushed out of the trunk and shot in all directions. Inside, still glowing, was a golden plate with one word inscribed upon it. ‘Hope’ was all it said. Hope was all our people needed.”
***
The cold wind across the desolate valley brings Milo out of his reverie. He has volunteered to be the watchman for what is regarded as a foolhardy mission.
“You’re stupid to believe the rubbish of fairy tales, Milo. Be realistic and flee with the rest of us,” Pater told him as the rest of the village scrambled to escape to the rugged mountains of Ryon.
Milo and Lex would not give up, however. They could not accept surrender, even if their plan was built on no more than a misplaced homage to their grandfather’s long-ago stories. Lex rode his horse through dangerous enemy territory to the base of the Holy Mountain. Now Milo waits to see if it had been in vain.
As the ashen sun sets, Milo sees the nearly imperceptible movement of his brother’s large bay horse across the valley. A distinct amber hue, one bright enough to be seen even at this distance, radiates around the horse and his rider.
When all seemed lost, they had found hope.
SINCERELY YOURS
For several years I’ve prided myself in being a collector of the unusual. My idea of unusual doesn’t always match what others deem it to be. People bring all sorts of things into my shop, but most items are commonplace. Sure, an antique teapot or Grandpa’s WWII sidearm might have great sentimental value to the individual person, but as a category, those are typical artifacts that can be found just about anywhere. I’m not discounting the importance of memorabilia. I simply have more discerning tastes.
Two days ago, I heard the jingling of the bell on my shop door. Medium-height with short brown hair, wearing a thin brown coat, I wouldn’t have given the man a second glance on the street.
“Excuse me, are you Stanley Perkins?” He set a chest on my countertop.
“Yes, I am. What can I do for you today?”
“I understand you dabble in the unusual. I may have something that would interest you.”
I hear that fifty times a week.
Skeptically, I sized up the chest and saw nothing spectacular about it.
“I don’t have any use for an old chest, Mr.--”
“Smith.”
Oh boy, another anonymous peddler of the unimpressive.
“Looks can be deceiving. The chest itself isn’t of importance. It’s the contents that you may find interesting.”
I stared at the chest, and I’m afraid I didn’t hide my doubts well.
“You don’t have to make a decision now. I’ll leave this here for you to go through. All I ask is that you keep the contents in the same order as they are now.”
“Sounds fair enough. How much do you want for it? That is, if I decide I want it?”
“We can discuss the terms once you’ve taken a look. I’ll come back on Friday. I’ve only let a few people, those with an interest in the unusual and the unexpected, see what’s inside. Remember, go through every item, then we will close the deal.”
