The desert smelled hot, like a
smoldering griddle. The white-hot brightness beat Mark?s shadow
into a small oval that sought solace beneath him. He knelt,
touched the sand and his fingers seared. Fist sized stones baked
on the desolate landscape and black distortions shimmered in the
expanse that stretched before him. A stone wall blocked the way
to a terraced mountain that stood far in the distance. It was a
mountain unlike any he had ever seen yet it stood there,
enduring, stoic, facing the onslaught of heat and time. This
wasn?t the way to school.
The sun began to roast his face and
neck; blisters started to form. Shade, he needed shade. The
mountain was too far away. He looked around and there was
nothing, nowhere to go, no shade anywhere. He knew he was going
to be late for school.
Suddenly it was cool, oh, so very
cool. He couldn?t remember how he had gotten there, but he was
standing in an ornate room. It didn?t matter. It was good to be
out of the sweltering sun. Looking around, he didn?t know where
he was. Three-quarter-round couches flanked matching large
marble tables, each in a different color. There were at least a
dozen of them, every one big enough to seat no less than thirty
people. Chalkboards lined the wall above a short stage. This
wasn?t the right school.
?Hello. Is there anybody here??
No one answered. A strange
uneasiness began to settle over him. There was a fear here,
tangible, like when you wake up in the middle of the night
startled, laying stark still, watching for a shadow to move and
straining for the slightest sound. He waited for any noise, any
movement of whatever was preparing to strike.
It grew from something
imperceptible at first then suddenly the danger was too real. He
could feel it, taste it and smell it. He just couldn?t see it.
It grabbed his stomach and squeezed, making him feel sick, like
he had to puke.
I?ve got to get out of here
!
He opened the door into a stone
hallway and looked both ways. It seemed endless, curving off out
of sight in both directions. The marble floors glistened.
Doorways, paintings and sculptures lined both sides of the hall.
A deep, contemptuous voice burst
into his head. ?This is where you?ll die.?
Mark didn?t turn to look. He darted
to the next room and ducked in. It was another classroom. He
looked back out. No one was there.
?You?re going to die here.? The
voice boomed from nowhere and everywhere.
Mark jumped. He looked behind
himself. No one was there. He backed into the hall. Every inch
of hall was decorated in ornate marble, stretching high to the
ceiling. The ceiling was decorated with burnished wooden beams
that spanned from wall to wall, forming a diamond shaped
pattern. Elaborate chandeliers dangled from every intersection.
?You?re going to die here.?
He looked around again. Still, no
one was there. He started running. The hall seemed endless. Step
after step took him past statues, doors and paintings.
Everything looked the same.
He knew the name of the voice. He
just couldn?t bring it to the front of his mind. It was an old
name, ancient and evil. It was a name that held meaning. He
didn?t know how he knew it, but he knew that people used to
shake in fear at just the mere mention of this name. What was
this name? He just couldn?t form it in his mind. It wasn?t like
any of the common names that he had ever heard associated with
evil like Lucifer, Satan, or the Devil. It was different. This
name itself was power, subtle and deadly. It felt like suddenly
realizing that a Copperhead was one step ahead and it was about
to strike. What was this name?
Somehow he knew some of the rooms
at this school had really bad things in them. Each of those
rooms held a terrible death; only you came back to life just so
you could die again. He had to stay out of those rooms, but
where were they?
The voice said again, ?You?re going
to die.?
He was still running when he came
to a corridor that crossed the one that he was in.
Which way
should I go?
Both ways looked the same and exactly like the
one that he was in. Something in him made him want to turn left
and run as far as he could. Something else in him made him want
to stand and fight. Which was right?
How can I fight
something that I can?t see?
The voice was everywhere he went.
He passed several more corridors before he had the urge to turn
left again. This short passage dead-ended into an odd shaped
wall. Eight inside corners inset into the end of the passage.
All but one corner had protruding stones. He used the stones to
climb the wall.
In the darkness of the platform
before him he knew that he must face this evil thing whose name
he might never know. He looked down and saw a sword in his hand.
It felt ever so right. Its long thin blade was sharp on both
sides. The handle and hilt were some form of polished metal. It
was light, too light for its size. He rested the point on the
stone slab that he was standing on. The sword tip slid into the
stone effortlessly. He raked it to his side, carving the stone
all the way, more than an inch deep, as it went. It took no
physical exertion to slash the stone.
?You?re going to die here.?
Mark saw, in his mind?s eye, a
sword coursing silently through the black toward him. He raised
his sword to block the blow. His assailant?s blade was sliced
cleanly in two when it struck Mark?s sword.
Mark?s mind flashed an idea of
escape. He jabbed his sword, hilt deep, into the stone floor and
sliced a circle around himself. Gravity worked.
Mark fell to the floor below. It
was a large room filled with rows of marble tables and chairs.
Each row was a different color. Dining booths lined the walls.
He picked himself up. Everything still worked.
?You?re going to die here.?
Mark started running again. There
was no way to get away from the voice. He desperately wanted to
get away from it. Running was the only thing that he could do.
His thoughts reminded him of a first grade reading book,
Run
Mark, run
. Running was his only escape.
A different level of consciousness
broke over him. He realized that he was kicking the covers off
his bed. He forced himself to lie still. Seconds ticked like
single drops of rain before the coming storm.
Is this real or
am I still asleep?
He waited. The voice was silent.
Mark slid his robe on over his
pajamas. The hardwood floor was unexpectedly cold. He almost
expected it to be marble. He found a pair of socks in his old
wooden dresser. He looked in the cracked mirror. The dream had
been so real. He expected to have a sunburn.
Going downstairs, he paused,
looking down the stairs before touching the wooden handrail. He
halfway expected it to be lined with pictures and statues.
Military life didn?t afford much in
the way of luxuries. Elbowroom was one of those extravagances
that was lacking in this house. That was obvious in the
combination kitchen-dining room where his family was seated for
breakfast.
His family was in their usual
morning places. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, reading
the paper; mom was busy in the kitchen, and James was at the
table, drinking his usual morning orange juice. He braced his
mind for the onslaught of the voice to commence again. It never
came.
James, his older and only brother,
was both a brother and a bother. James felt that it was his
place, and only his place, to insult Mark whenever the chance
presented itself. Let someone else try it and there would be
strife. James was definitely somebody to be reckoned with. That
was the major bother; Mark always felt like
the little
brother whenever James was around.
?Morning Mom. Morning Dad. Morning
James. What?s for breakfast??
?Baby?s hungry,? said James.
?Shut up!?
Steve, Mark?s dad, didn?t stir from
the newspaper. ?That?s enough, guys.?
Mark?s mom replied, ?Biscuits and
scrambled eggs.?
?Okay, sounds good.? Mark looked at
his dad. ?I had a strange dream last night.?
Steve looked over the newspaper.
?Dream??
?Baby had a scary dream. Poor
baby.? James stuck his lower lip out.
Mark gave James a scowl. He knew
that James was just trying to get under his skin. Mark almost
forgot to use the etiquette that had been pounded into his head
over the last almost twelve years. Being the kid of a Marine
demanded that the use of terms like ma?am, sir, please and thank
you, be steadfast elements of ordinary conversation.
?Yeah? I mean, yes, sir. It was
like, so real. You know the kind I mean??
Steve looked at Mark and nodded.
?Yes. The kind where in the dream you think you?re awake but
you?re not.? He folded the newspaper in half and laid it on the
table.
?Yes sir, that?s the kind.? Mark
yawned and rubbed his eyes. ?The first part was kind of all
right. I was just trying to find my way to school, only I didn?t
know the way. I was lost in some kind of a desert only it was
weird. It was too hot, even for a desert. It had rocks and junk
all over. And? there was this mountain in the distance.? Mark
paused here and then finished hurriedly, ?I knew I had to go to
school, but I couldn?t. I was lost. I didn?t know the way.?
Steve looked at Shirley. They both
had a prickle of trepidation. Was this the beginning of the
prediction that the hooded man had spoken of, or was it just
Mark?s natural apprehension of starting junior high school next
year?
Steve pulled a chair out for Mark
to sit in.
?Well, let?s see. Being in the
desert is kind of a normal dream. Feeling lost is kind of a
normal dream too, and dreaming about a mountain up ahead is kind
of common. You see a mountain looks big and imposing. It makes
you think that you can never cross it. Being lost in the desert
with a mountain being the only landmark, that leaves you only
one way to go. The way to solve the problem is to go toward the
mountain. You cross a mountain one step at a time.?
Mark said, ?I think I understand.?
Only he didn?t, not really. He knew that the dream had meant
much more than just that. The dream had the feel of being
important, very important.
?Well now, let?s see if we can
tackle the other part of the dream.?
?This part was different, but kind
of the same. I was in this school and everywhere that I went
there was this big voice. It kept telling me I was going to die.
I tried to get away but I couldn?t.?
?Baby was soooo scared.?
Steve looked at James. ?Knock it
off.?
James frowned. ?Yes, sir.?
?Tell me what the school was like.?
?The school was different from any
school I?ve ever heard of. It had marble walls and big crystal
hanging light things. It felt good to be out of the desert,
someplace cool. I don?t know if it was in the mountain from the
first part or not. I couldn?t see outside; there weren?t any
windows. It had this really long hall with lots of doors and I
knew some rooms had really bad things in them. I knew I had to
stay out of those rooms. I couldn?t get away from the voice
that?? Mark hesitated about saying the voice was in his head,
saying instead, ?It was everywhere, that voice. It hated me. It
kept telling me I was going to die.?
Steve paused for a moment. ?It
sounds to me like you might be a bit concerned about leaving
grade school this year and starting junior high school next
year. You don?t know what to expect. Anytime you change from
something that is familiar to something that is unfamiliar,
well, it?s a little strange feeling, maybe a little scary at
times. You did start school a year earlier than most kids. It
might be that deep down you?re feeling like you won?t be up to
the task. What do you think??
?Maybe
you?re right. I never thought of it like that. Thanks.? Mark
knew that his father?s explanation about this dream should have
been right, but his inner voice told him that it wasn?t.
Everyone
had just about finished breakfast. Steve said, ?You guys are
running late this morning. Go ahead and get ready for school.?
The
dream was still fresh in Mark?s mind when he went to school that
day. The school turned out to be the same as it had always been
and he was glad that it was. The beige cinderblock walls sported
a few bulletin boards and display cases. The terrazzo floor
exhibited the same old and worn appearance. The faint musty
smell of old paper and the unpleasant smell of copy machines
lingered in the hall. Unlike his dream, spring green filled the
large windows that still dominated the outside wall of his
classroom. This school was nothing like the one in his dream and
that reassured him that it really had been only a dream. It felt
like finally being home after a really bad day when everything
that could go wrong, did.
* * *
Steve and Shirley seized the
opportunity to go horseback riding while the boys were in
school. Shirley Young was Mark?s mother, twenty-nine on both of
her last two birthdays, and she still looked like she was no
older than eighteen. Sun-ray colored strands flowed across her
shoulders like a magazine model?s, and her gentle azure eyes
always reflected a deep felt love of all the wonders of nature.
Her smile warmed even the coldest winter day. It had been here,
in this very park, that Shirley had discovered her true purpose
in life. To her, keeping her family safe and secure was all that
really mattered.
Shirley, being raised in Georgia
and then moving to North Carolina, had southern charm dripping
from her voice. North Carolina had given her the habit of
calling everyone honey or hon, something that even after
thirteen years of marriage, Steve couldn?t quite get used to.
She held the reins lightly as her
horse ambled along the familiar wooded path. The sweet smell of
spring pine and daffodils wafted on the morning breeze. It was
beginning to look like it would be a perfect day. It had started
this same way twelve years ago. Tomorrow would complete the
twelve years.
?Honey, can you believe it?
Tomorrow Mark will be twelve years old.?
?It seems like yesterday.?
Steve Young was Mark?s father. His
square jaw and huge biceps were standard Marine issue, nothing
remarkable there. The remarkable thing about Steve was his
voice. His voice was a remnant of being raised in Scotland
during his formative years. He had never lost that sweet melody
even though he spent the latter part of his life in the Southern
United States. That southern drawl never did take hold.
Steve was just about to complete
his third tour of duty. Events of recent history had kept him
deployed for the most part. He loved to spend what little time
he had stateside with his family, and he always wanted to make
the most of it. To Steve, being a practical, down to earth, get
the job done kind of guy was what life was all about.
?Do you think he?ll like his new
bike??
?Yeah, he?ll love it. It?s the best
there is.?
Shirley stopped. Steve brought his
mount up beside her and his eyes smiled at her.
?While we are on the topic, Mark?s
birthday that is, we have never fully discussed what happened
here, twelve years ago.?
Steve?s eyes narrowed. ?Why do we
need to discuss it? What?s to discuss??
?Steve.? She hesitated. ?That horse
broke both of your legs. I heard them break. When I woke up, you
were healed. What happened??
?That?s not all that horse did.? He
put his hand on his collarbone. ?My left collarbone was smashed,
broken ribs, too. That horse hit me so hard, I know I had
internal injuries.? He remembered the taste of blood gurgling up
from his throat. Steve?s training as a Marine had taught him to
assess his injuries. That taste definitely meant he was bleeding
inside.
?Oh hon! I didn?t know.?
?Here?s the kicker, that horse
wasn?t after me. She was hell bent on getting to you.?
?What makes you say that??
?I tried to get her to come after
me. When I moved, she focused on you.?
?So that?s what you were doing. You
dove back in front of her to keep her from getting to me.?
?Yeah? Now you know. I don?t want
to talk about it anymore.? He tapped the horse with the reins to
get it going again.
?Why don?t you want to talk about
it??
?I just don?t.?
Shirley started to speak, but Steve
stopped and spoke before she could. He knew that she wasn?t
going to leave it alone. He turned the horse to face her.
?You know, throughout my life there
has never, ever been a situation where I couldn?t act in order
to make a difference.?
?But honey, it was you that acted.
What you did saved us both.?
?That?s not what I mean. I?ve been
shot, blown up, run over, half-drowned, folded, spindled and
mutilated and whatever else you can think of! I have always been
able to turn the tide! ME! Always, every time? every single
time, except this one time. The one time that it meant the most
to me to be able to act, I was the one who needed rescuing!? The
impact of his fist in his hand let her know how serious he was.
She looked deep into his eyes. ?I
guess that it has been eating at me too. I mean, there you were
on the ground, broken and bleeding, and I was helpless to do
anything. I think I kind of know what you are saying.?
?No! You don?t understand? I
failed! I tried to save the most precious thing in the world and
I failed! Do you understand what that means??
?Honey, you didn?t fail. Your
courage bought us a few precious moments of hope. If it weren?t
for that, then it would have been too late for those two guys to
help us.?
Steve looked down and shook his
head. She didn?t understand. Those two guys being there was just
a fluke. It wasn?t something that you could depend on. Being a
soldier that could get the job done was something that you could
depend on. Failure usually meant the death of what one held
dearest. He knew that he needed to change the subject. He calmed
his tone.
?While we?re on the topic, there is
something else you don?t know.?
?What do you mean??
?I had come around for a few
minutes. Tim, the big one, told me that our son would have to
leave home and go to an unusual school.?
?Unusual school? What unusual
school??
?He didn?t say. He did say that it
would happen when Mark was twelve.?
?Well, I?ll tell you this; Mark
isn?t going to any school that we don?t approve first.?
?We might not have any say in the
matter.?
?How can we not have any say? We?re
his parents.?
?I don?t know, but he told me that
I would know what to do, when I needed to do it.?
?And you believed him? You don?t
even know who these guys are!?
?He said they were Magi.?
?Magi? What do you mean, Magi??
?You saw what they could do.?
?Yeah, but? Magi??
?Yep, that?s what he said. He also
said that I could trust anyone that says ?The best people are
born in stables.
??
?We have heard that a lot.?
?Yep. It?s not your common everyday
saying.?
?Coincidence. That?s all it is.?
?Maybe, maybe not.?
* * *
After
school, the dream had faded from his memory, for the most part.
Friday afternoons brought a chore that he didn?t mind so much.
His father had assigned this chore in the third grade. ?Mrs.
Jenkins is an elderly lady. It?s hard for her to get around. I
want you to stop by her house every Friday, on the way home from
school. You check to see if there is anything that you can do
for her. If she offers to give you money, you refuse. Rain or
shine, you do this.?
Mark had no idea how old Mrs.
Jenkins was. He knew that she lived alone on a small income. He
also knew that his dad had been right when he had told him not
to charge her for anything. Mrs. Jenkins was a nice lady. He
enjoyed helping her. There weren?t too many things that she
could do for herself. Today, she was out of bread and milk.
Mark was on the way back from the
store when he saw Keith Green and his cohorts standing in the
street up ahead. Keith Green always meant trouble for Mark.
Keith Green always meant trouble for anyone smaller than he was.
Keith was a year older than Mark
and twice Mark?s size. Mark thought that he might stand a chance
at winning a fair fight against Keith, but with Keith, it was
never fair, and it was always a fight. Keith had been in many
fights. Every one he had started. Every one he and his
buddies
had won. Never was Keith anywhere to be found
without his
buddies
.
?Mark, Mark.? Keith was letting him
know that he was the next target.
Mark heard one of the cronies say,
?Hah! Sounds like a harelip dog. Mark, Mark? Mark, Mark, Mark.?
Mark walked to the other side of
the street. Beaufort, a ferocious German Shepherd ran to the
fence that kept him in his yard. He always tried to bite anyone
who got too close to his chain link fence. Vicious, he would
bite at the fence, snarling, barking, twisting his head in fits,
trying to rip a hole through the chain links.
Keith and his gang crossed to block
Mark?s path. ?Hi, Mark. I just want you to meet one of my new
friends.? The group surrounded Mark and Keith pointed to the new
guy. He turned to see who Keith was pointing out.
Mark only felt the blow that hit
his mouth. White flashed in the back of his eyes. He felt his
head wrench around from the force of the impact. The bag he was
carrying hit the pavement. Anger swelled in him. He thought to
return the punch.
?This is Rick. He don?t like
tattletales. Neither do I.?
Someone kicked the bag that he had
dropped. Milk splattered everywhere. Mark felt a hand push him
back. He tripped over someone kneeling behind him and fell over
backwards. Hands grabbed him. He felt himself flying through the
air. They were throwing him over the fence.
The ground came up and hit him
hard. He scrambled to right himself only to find himself looking
square into Beaufort?s foamy grin. He didn?t dare move.
Keith?s voice came from behind him.
?You said that if you ever saw anyone stealing, that you would
tell. You better think that over.?
Keith made sure that Mark
understood what this was about. Mark had never told on anyone
for anything. That particular situation had never come up. Mark
thought to himself,
I just said when the teacher asked, ?What
would you do if you saw someone stealing?? that I would tell.
What was I supposed to say? My teacher asked that question in
class and Keith isn?t even in my class. How did he find out?
Mark stayed as still as he could
while he and Beaufort eyeballed each other and the bullies
strolled off, laughing. He didn?t risk even a swallow.
You
don?t want to attack me, boy.
Something in Mark?s mind told him
that Beaufort wasn?t going to harm him. In fact, somehow he knew
that Beaufort wanted to go after the other guys. He was waiting
for permission from Mark to do just that. It was a thought and a
feeling that had just popped into his head, nowhere near
logical, but he knew it, none-the-less.
Mark knew that if Beaufort jumped
the fence and bit someone that Beaufort would be in a lot of
trouble. Instinctively, tentatively, he reached out and
scratched the dog behind the ear. He looked over his shoulder.
?That?s okay, boy. They?re gone now.?
That night, before bed, Mark went
to James?s room.
?What do you think it all means? I
mean my dream.? Mark sat on James?s bed.
?I don?t know. It sure is strange.
Dad?s probably right.?
Mark shrugged. ?Yeah, I guess
you?re right. What?s junior high like??
?Well? it?s different than grade
school. Like instead of being in one class all the time, you get
different classes and different teachers and all. There isn?t
any recess but there?s gym class. It?s not the same, but it?s
pretty cool. The best thing is lunch. If you don?t like what
they serve in the main line, you can get into the hamburger and
fries line!?
?You?re kidding!? He gave James a
friendly push.
?No, for real. They usually have
really good stuff in the main line, too.?
?What kind of stuff??
?Yesterday we had pizza. The day
before there was chicken-fried rice. Their meatloaf isn?t that
good. Mom?s is better.?
?What?s it like having different
classes??
?At first it was kind of? scary.
You know, like in your dream. See, they give you this piece of
paper with all of your classes on it with the times and room
numbers and everything. I used to dream, sometimes, that I had
lost the piece of paper and couldn?t find my way to class, but
it was only a dream. It doesn?t take long to remember where all
of the classes are. It?s automatic, like waking up and going
down stairs. After a while it?s like
??
James searched for another word, then shrugged and repeated, ?
Just
automatic.?
Mark pondered for a moment before
asking, ?What are your classes like??
?Well, first there?s homeroom.
That?s where they take the roll and give announcements. Then I
have history with Mr. Taylor. It?s kind of boring. Then there?s
Mrs. Hampton in language class. She?s really nice. Then gym
class with Coach Trimble.?
James deepened his voice to imitate
Coach Trimble. ?You?re going to do calisthenics and more
calisthenics.?
?Next is lunch. Then comes music
with Mrs. Byrd. Her class is okay but I?m not any good at music.
Then there?s science with Mr. Gardner. He makes you take a lot
of notes. Last is math with Mrs. Peabody. Math is kind of easy
with her. She explains everything.?
?It sounds okay.?
?Yeah, it?s okay. You get five
minutes between class bells. That?s enough time
so that you don?t have to carry all of your books around
all of the time. You don?t get a desk to put all of your books
in, like in grade school. You get a locker in the hall. You go
to your locker between classes and change books and stuff. It?s
neat because you get to talk to your friends. It?s not like
having to wait until recess. Everybody gets out of class at the
same time and goes into the halls to their locker
s
.
It?s different than grade school, but it?s better.?
?It sounds like they don?t treat
you like a little kid anymore.?
?Well, they still treat you like a
kid but not as much. You get to do more stuff, but they
definitely don?t treat you like a grown up.?
?It doesn?t sound scary.?
?It isn?t scary, just different.?
There was a knock on the bedroom
door
and their mom?s voice sounded
muffled
. ?Young man, you?re supposed to be in your own
bed.?
?Yes ma?am.?
Mark got up and started toward the
door. He turned toward James. ?Thanks.?
James smiled. ?You?re welcome,
Dweeb.?