He was tired. He leaned heavily on his shield but kept his eyes on the dragon. It was one of those natural lulls in the battle, long after each side had assessed, attacked, countered and then repeated.
When it had swallowed him he had panicked at first, but found the shield and sword in his hand. He convinced it to spit him out.
Then it was on. They danced. The dragon hissed and spat, he laughed and slashed. He felt pretty good about how things were going, when it started out. But as he got closer to victory, it adapted. It learned.
Things got harder. He called forth armor and cloak. The dragon scored meaningful hits. It started to look satisfied. He began to get worried. Then he began to get tired.
That hadn’t happened before. He had always had a deep wellspring of energy. He had never fully tapped it because, frankly, he hadn’t had to. He found himself going back and back to it. It took longer and it was harder each time.
He wasn’t the only one to conjure things. The road shifted and blurred as the fight wore on, soon they fought in the dragon’s lair.
They danced. He used every trick he knew. He was almost there. The dragon was bleeding, heaving, one leg useless. But he was done.
He knew it. He had nothing left. The well was empty. In fact, he stood at the edge of it now. A wide yawning abyss. The dragon smiled. It knew too.
He had a choice. With the last of his strength he could lift his sword just as the dragon struck and hope his sword held true.
Or he could just let go. Topple backwards into the abyss of his empty well into the void.
This thought terrified him. Death was a certainty and it was no shame to bow to it when it came. He had fought valiantly, he could go with honor.
Fuck that. He wouldn’t give it the satisfaction. He laughed his defiance, opened his arms wide and toppled backwards. He would take his chances with fear and the unknown.
As he fell backwards he felt the dragon lunge for him.
Damn thing bit his toe.
As he tumbled, he reached for it – his thumb and toe met, his body forming a rough circle.
And darkness was once again all he knew.
Iggy watched as Gretchen performed her magic. He was enraptured. She bowed to the moon, she sang and rang a bell. It was hauntingly beautiful and he knew how rare it was for anyone to see anything like this shit. Either high on mushrooms or otherwise. Something was bugging him though. The music.
That’s it. The music. It was all wrong. He turned off the satellite radio. That seemed right. He reached for his phone and synced it to the mini van’s entertainment system. He called up his library. He hit shuffle. The back of his hand itched like fucking crazy. He saw Gretchen lean into the car.
And then he lit up. He gripped the wheel. With both hands. Fully. His legs locked up against the floorboard. He was dug in. Fuck me, he thought, she wasn’t kidding. His music boomed from the speakers. Iggy had never felt so alive. He could feel Gretchen. He could feel her holding on to Frank.
I got you, Iggy thought. I got you both.
Gretchen sighed with relief. He had made the first hard decision. He had chosen the fear. Would he learn the lesson? She knew this man. Loved him. She thought so. And besides, she was going to be there to help. He wasn’t safe yet. He stood in both worlds, one foot in, one out. She reached down with one hand and found the seat catch. She pushed the seat back as far as it would go and when it clicked, she straddled him in the driver’s seat. His eyes never left hers.
He was a boy.
He had been having the dream for awhile now. It confused him. Sometimes, he liked the dream and just before he went to sleep he would sometimes hope he would dream it. Sometimes, he did not like the dream. It confused him. She had pale skin and soft dark hair. She made him feel things.
He would rather play with his army men. It was his favorite toy. He would set them up in rows and they would have their battles. He had a little plastic bag he kept them in and he would take them out into the woods close to his house and play with them.
He was six. His mother and father encouraged him to go outside and play. He liked his army men but he would much rather read his Hardy boys books. He had liked the first one very much. The Tower Treasure, it was called. He was excited when he learned there was more than one book. He was on number 11, While the Clock Ticked.
But mom and dad told him to go outside and play, so he did. They also told him to come back before it got dark. It was starting to get dark. So he gathered his army men, put them in his bag and started to walk back home. He got to the sidewalk and as he passed the green house he saw an older boy in the yard. The boy waved at him.
He waved back. The boy stepped to the sidewalk and smiled at him. “Hi.” He said.
“Hello.” He said.
The boy pointed to his plastic bag. “Do you like army men too?”
He nodded.
“I have a whole bunch of army men. Would you like some?”
He thought about it. The boy smiled at him.
He nodded.
“They are right over here.” The boy walked into the yard over to the side of the house, motioning for him to follow.
He followed.
“Oh. I left them inside.” The boy said. “I tell you what. I’ll give you all my army men. I’m too old to play with them anymore anyway. But first, I need you to do something for me.”
He leaned against the side of the house and took out his erect penis.
“Do you like lollipops?”
Before he knew it, he was choking, gagging, it filled his mouth, went up and out his nose. He had a panicked moment when he could not breathe. The boy was there with his shirt off, collecting and wiping his face.
“Welcome to the brotherhood, little man.” He said. “Because you were such a good boy, remember this. Always get payment first.” He then tousled his hair and walked away. To the sidewalk. And then he kept walking. For a couple of seconds he didn’t understand.
This wasn’t his house. There were no army men. There never was.
His rage was incandescent. He had been tricked. Used.
Because he didn’t know better. Because he didn’t know. It was his fault.
He was so angry he could not move. Yet he did. He went to the sidewalk.
On it was a large crow. It stood before a milk carton. Like the kind he got at the cafeteria at school.
It picked the milk carton up by the spout. It tilted it up. Milk cascaded all over the crow’s face and body. It screeched and shook. It was very angry.
It was the funniest thing he had ever seen (you didn’t). The white milk. The black crow. It’s anger. He laughed as the crow screeched. He laughed very hard.
And it occurred to him…it wasn’t the crow’s fault. It was just a bird that wanted a drink of milk. Well, it got it. He laughed and laughed.
As he laughed he walked back home rubbing his thumb along his jawline as he went.
When he finally looked up, he wasn’t home but in front of a hut.
An old man stood at a well with a bucket. He waved and motioned for him to come through the gate.
He did. The old man nodded to him and carrying the bucket filled with water, went into the hut.
He followed. It was the hut of a potter. It was filled with pots. Vases. Cups (and oddly, a singular ash tray). There was a small wooden table. On it was a vase. It looked new.
“I’ve been expecting you.” The potter said. He poured some water from the bucket into a stone kettle. Then he put the kettle on a hook over his fire.
“How so?” He asked.
“I made the vase. Someone always comes when I make something like this.” He said.
“So it’s for me?” He asked.
“Yes and no.” He replied. “Will you have some tea with me and then do me a favor?”
He considered it. His thumb rubbed his jaw. “Yes.”
He watched him make the tea. He didn’t feel like speaking so he didn’t.
They drank the tea. It was very good.
Then the potter got his cloak and picked up the vase. They left the hut.
They walked along a tidy dirt path through a charming little village.
They came to another hut. The potter stopped.
He handed the vase to him and as he reached for it, the edge of the vase caught the meat of his thumb and sliced it clean open. It was so sharp he didn’t even feel the cut.
“Oh dear.” Said the potter. “Here, let me help you.” He took out a rag and snatched the afflicted thumb. He pressed hard. “I should have warned you, the edge of this one is razor sharp, be careful when you handle it.”
The potter motioned to the hut. “If you would be so kind to deliver this to the herbalist, I would really appreciate it. She doesn’t like me much I don’t think and I don’t want to antagonize her. I really appreciate this. You are a good boy, you know.” Then the potter walked away.
He looked at his thumb. It wasn’t bleeding anymore. In fact, there was already a scar.
He took the vase and went to the hut. He knocked on the door.
A very old and very ugly hag opened the door.
“WHAT?”
“The potter asked me to give this to you.” He said and showed her the vase.
Her demeanor instantly changed.
“Oh did he now?” She said. “Well I guess you ought to come in dear boy, come in!”
She swept him in and hurried him to a stool. “Sit! Sit!” She hooted.
“I really don’t have time to stay.” He said.
“But you haven’t given me the vase yet.” She pouted.
He held it out to her. “Careful, the edge is sharp.” He warned her.
She slid up to him with a grace that did not belong to a woman of her age.
“Oh, I’ve always known that.” She said.
He looked at her. She was…familiar.
A name came to mind. It was not that of a flower.
“Gretchen?” He asked.
The hag melted and she was in his lap.
“Well done, darling. Time to go home.”
The End of the First part.
Author’s note: If you have been a victim of sexual abuse it is a great comfort to tell someone. Anyone. A pet. An imaginary friend. Best of all the resource below.
You are not alone.
https://www.rainn.org/resources
