Ichabod Ebenezer's Blog, page 8

Jason’s Grotto

Image by Quang Le from Pixabay

Jason’s text said that he was going back for more of that
delicious caviar he’d brought home. While we had no idea how long that was
supposed to take, when morning arrived before him, we decided to go after him.

According to Life360, Jason was up at Juliet Lake, and had
been for the last nine hours. We considered calling the police, or possibly the
park rangers, but we’d feel pretty stupid if he’d just gotten tired and fallen asleep
in his truck.

When we got there, his truck was empty—no Jason and no
diving equipment—and his rowboat lay in the placid water, still moored to the
dock.

“Help me pull it in,” Hector said, grabbing the mooring
line.

I put away my phone and started pulling the line he fed me. “What
are you expecting to find?”

“I don’t know yet,” Hector said. “Blood, maybe? His oxygen
tank? At the very least, his phone.”

The boat was empty though, no sign of struggle, no sign he’d
ever been here except the oars still in place.

“His phone is definitely here. It must be down with him,” I
said.

“I’m going down,” Helen said, pulling her wetsuit out of the
trunk.

“Me too.” The two of us suited up while Hector stood on the
dock looking for bubbles.

He shook his head as we approached the water. Down we went, searching out Jason’s secret grotto. My biggest hope was that his grotto had an air pocket and he couldn’t leave due to some malfunction. But as we approached the location of his cell, my heart sank.

We found him, affixed to the rock, split from neck to navel,
and stuffed full of the caviar he was after.

Helen screamed.

A shadow passed over us, blocking out the sun.

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The Carriage

Image by Radosław Cieśla from Pixabay



She was gone. Truly gone.

Gazing after her as the fallen leaves settled into the
tracks of her carriage, Lester wanted nothing more than to run after her. To
run, and keep on running until he fell from exhaustion or else caught her
carriage.

But where she went, he could not follow.

Was there a deal to be struck with some supernatural force?
A genie or devil who could grant him one wish and save him from this grief? If
so, he would take that deal, no matter what they asked in return. He would
gladly take her place. She could be alive, and he would be carried away in that
accursed carriage.

With no idea how long he’d been standing there, tears
standing in his eyes, he turned to head back home.

It would hardly be a home anymore, not without her there.
Her smile would never again brighten its rooms, they would henceforth lack the
warmth of her love.

And yet, go he must, for he had nowhere else to go.

“Why were you taken from me, Rose?” he wailed, dropping to his
knees. The visions struck him again. Her joyful laughter. Her mischievous eyes.
The brush of her fingers against his during her precipitous fall.

Night had falling before he climbed up off his knees. He
trudged down the track worn down by wagon wheels, but the collected leaves
looked like blood in the moonlight. He rubbed his fingers against his thumb,
imagining a different fate, one in which he was there a second earlier. One in
which he caught her hand and drew her close, and hugged her.

And now he was at his door step. His wife waited just
inside, but he had no idea how to tell her their daughter was gone.

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Uncle Georgios

Image by analogicus from Pixabay



Georgios sat in his usual spot, watching the sun rise over the Adriatic.

In the hours to come, young people in very little would
start setting up umbrellas and claiming their bit of sand for the day.

He set his straw hat on the small table and sipped from the
tiny cup of cappuccino.

“Uncle,” a young man said, approaching with hat in hand. Georgios didn’t know the man, but the title was one everybody used. “My boss, he badmouths me to all the women who come into the shop, and none of them will let me date their daughters.”

The man would be the first of many. They had respect enough
not to line up at his table, but this was how the morning would go. “I will
speak with Dimitris.”

The next was a farmer’s wife whose recent purchase of barley
seed had gone off and she couldn’t afford more. After that was a woman whose
husband was a lazy drunk and needed a scare. Finally, another young man who
wanted to start a business making whisky, but his parents wouldn’t provide
funds.

Georgios smiled, nodded, and sipped at cappuccino after
cappuccino, all while watching the young beach-goers. Of course. He’d handle
it. He handled all of it.

The truth was, much of it handled itself. The young whisky
man would buy the farmer’s barley cheap. It was already malted. People could
solve their own problems if they’d only talk to each other. But this way,
everyone felt they owed Uncle Georgios, and he kept a reputation around town.

Morning turned toward afternoon, and Uncle Georgios got up to go. “Uncle,” a young woman said, and he turned. “We are new in town, and the boys don’t ask me out.”

Georgios smiled. “I know just the boy.”

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Reunion

Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay



She dipped a strip of cloth into the refreshing pool

beneath the waterfall, and dabbed at her neck. The beauty of the glade was overwhelming.

A swarm of nearly invisible bugs held a rave in a shaft of sunlight, sparking long-forgotten memories. She missed even the bugs.

Missed them? How could she miss them? Until a month ago, she
was a corporate auditor. She’d never even been to the home her great grandmother
left a hundred years earlier.

And yet, she felt this compulsion. Strong enough to take a sabbatical,
to sell her condo and jump on the first available flight. And since then, she’s
been moving on instinct, seeing the familiar all along the way. Tracing her
great grandmother’s path as if it had been her own.

Like that spiky yellow fruit growing on that vine. She’d
never seen one before, but she knew it was edible.

She scrambled up the ancient tree roots that flowed like a
second waterfall over the cliff face.

Grandmother had told such stories of her mother’s village,
but everyone in the city said it was just jungle out this way. Even if it no
longer existed, she felt sure she’d find remains. Something drew her
here.

She was close. There would be a clearing just past these
trees…

But the clearing was empty. No sign of the village. She felt dizzy, nearly falling to her knees.  When she looked again, the village was all around her, the villagers going about their day. A woman saw her and smiled. “Truc,” the woman said, coming toward her.

“That was my great-grandmother’s name.” She’d been told she
was Truc’s spitting image.

“My apologies. The village only appears in the mortal world once every fifty years. For me, it’s only been two days since my sister left.”

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Celebrating The New

Image by ktphotography from Pixabay



“Everybody, come look!

There’s fireworks, and candles, and ‘fetti! It’s so beautiful! Molly says it’s just like New Year’s!”

Calvin stood in the doorway, and in a heartbeat, all the
other youngsters were running to join him. Only, Gramma Odette slammed a wooden
spoon down on the counter, and everybody flinched, frozen in their tracks.

“Calvin, honey, you go on out and fetch Molly. Tell her Gramma
has a little story for before y’all run out and join the fun.” She rested the
spoon across the pot she was simmering, and began the long process of shuffling
across to her knitting chair.

The children shared an unhappy look, but all of them knew
better than to cross Gramma Odette.

Calvin was back with Molly about the time Gramma settled
down, and she gestured for everyone to gather around.

“You know what New Year’s is? It’s arbitrary. Ain’t no reason to be on that day which couldn’t be had on any other. It’s an excuse for grown-ups to get drunk, and for kids to eat fudge. And there’s nothing new about it. You wake up the next day same old you, and the same old world. New Year’s ain’t nothing but a number getting bigger. You understand?”

“Uh huh,” Molly said. “Now can we go?”

“No, cuz you don’t understand nothing. What they’re celebrating out there is like New World’s Day. Because today the world’s been reformed. Today you and me, and everybody else is just as equal as anyone. And it’s never going back.”

“For reals, Gramma?” asked Lonnie.

“Cross my heart.” Gramma smiled, moving one arthritic finger
in an X across her nightgown.

“They gonna do this every year?” Sadie asked.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Can we go now?” Calvin said.

“You two watch the little ones,” Gramma said, nodding her
blessing.

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A Tinker’s Toss

Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay



Phillipe stood in the shadows beneath her window, hoping for
just a glimpse.

“Brenna,” he whispered. Just a prayer. Wishing her to
appear, even just in silhouette.

He had planned to marry her. This very eve, he’d acted upon that
plan. For six lean months, he’d saved every penny, skipping most meals, eating
what others threw out—only when nobody saw.

But a tinker’s apprentice made little indeed, and twelve
shillings fourpence farthing was a poor dowry to present any girl’s father.

His plan would change all that. The tanner’s son taught him
cards, and told him where he could play his earnings against others.

The room beneath the docks smelled of cigar smoke and damprot.
He watched the tables, studied the game. He waited. “The drinkers bet higher on
terrible bluffs as the night wears on,” his friend has said.

A hacking cough startled him from his studies, drawing his
attention to a black-robed figure, nearly blending into the dark corner near
the door. When the coughing ended. Phillipe returned his attention to the games.

When a seat emptied, Phillipe sat down. He placed his meager
fortune on the table, and the man dealt him into the circle.

Four hands later, he held only the farthing. His plan had
failed. He trudged toward the door when the hooded figure grabbed his wrist. “You
wouldn’t know it boy, but I’m rich.” A coughing fit began again, dragging on,
but the grip held. “One coin toss,” the man finally said. “If you win, my
fortune is yours.”

Phillipe imagined proudly seeking Brenna’s hand. “And if I
lose?”

“You instead will have my death.”

So, now Phillipe stood in the shadows beyond the lamplight. His labored breathing coming in rasps. Then Brenna was there, just long enough to close her drapes, and he would have done it all again.

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Hide and Seek

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay



“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Tommy’s sing song voice comes to me from another room.

As if. I’m the king of hide and seek. I’m not making a sound
until you find me.

The house, which had just been full of voices is quiet now.
I press my eye to the one tiny little hole in my hiding place. The hall is visible
through the open door to mom’s sewing room, but across the hall, the bathroom
door and Sissy’s bedroom door are both shut.

That’s an amateur move. A closed door means something to
hide. He’ll look there first.

I put my hand over my mouth to hold back a giggle, cuz oh no.
I may only be five, but this is my game, and there’s no noise.

I hear Tommy’s heavy boots on the hallway floor and back
away from the peephole. It’s tiny—just a nail hole in the corkboard, and almost
covered in newspaper clippings, but you don’t get to be king by taking chances.

This time, the game is super easy. Mommy told us to start playing just as soon as she heard Tommy’s car door slam, so he might not even know I’m playing.

I hear a doorknob and the sound of Tommy’s boots changed cuz
he’s on the bathroom floor. The shower curtain rustles, and Sissy starts
screaming just like mommy did before. Boy, she doesn’t like losing this game. Next
time she shouldn’t close that door.

Tommy’s walking on hardwood again, and Sissy’s done
screaming. A floorboard squeaks, and I know Tommy’s in the room with me. I hold
my breath. He’s just listening too, cuz the only sound is that drip, drip,
drip.

That’s okay, I can be super quiet. That’s why I’m the king of Hide and Seek.

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Santa

Image by 272447 from Pixabay



“You are wrong, you know. About Santa Claus.

He is real. My brother and I met him.”

The other children at the orphanage slid off their bunks and
gathered around the dim flashlight Aaron held. Bahi sat across from Aaron,
looking defiant.

“Oh, yeah?” Aaron said. He looked at the gathering children
who had all been his friends long before Bahi arrived at the orphanage. He
turned back toward her, sneering. “Let me guess. He looked just like your dad.”

“No, he was a white man. But he could disappear into the surrounding
sand the moment you looked away.”

“What are you talking about? Santa is a big fat man in a red
suit and a long white beard. And he’s not real,” Aaron said. A couple of
the other kids started giggling from beyond the range of the flashlight beam,
so Bahi had no idea who it was. “No old dude from the North Pole is going to
bring us any presents. Cuz none of us have parents anymore.”

“If you don’t believe in him, he won’t bring you anything,”
came a whispered voice from the darkness.

“Well, I believe in him,” Bahi said. She reached out, quick
as she could and snatched the flashlight from Aaron’s hand.

She held it up to her face. “He carried a heavy sack on his
back that was filled with toys. He gave me and my brother a red bouncy ball.
And he didn’t have a beard. He had a helmet, and a gun, but he said that was
just for the bad people. Like the ones who killed my parents. He promised he
would visit me here.”

She handed the flashlight back. “And you are saying his name
wrong. It is Sam T. Krause. But his friends call him ‘Sarge.’”

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Balloon

Image by Judith Scharnowski from Pixabay



“You’re right. The kingdom is gorgeous by balloon,” Ben
said.

Kelly smiled and swirled the champagne in her flute. “Is
that so? Wanna come closer to the edge and say it again? It might sound more
convincing.”

“You know I don’t like heights. Besides, I can see it fine
from here.”

The balloon operator stoically added another blast of hot
air to the volume above them. Ben closed his eyes at the harsh sound of the jetting
flame.

Kelly downed the last of her champagne. “Well, for what it’s
worth, I’m proud of you for even coming up here.”

Ben puffed out a deep breath and wiped his hands on his
jeans before gulping down his own champagne. He edged closer to the side of the
basket, but retreated as it creaked and swayed.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I thought this would be
easier; that I’d put my big boy pants on and have a romantic balloon ride with
you.” He reached into his pocket. “And for the last half hour, I’ve been trying
to figure out how to slip this into your drink.”

He held up a slender, golden ring. The setting sun shone a
rainbow off the diamond.

“Oh, Ben,” Kelly said, covering her lips with one hand.

Ben held out the ring, his hand shaking.

He fumbled the ring and tried to catch it, but ended up
swatting it. It hit Kelly in the face and careened out of the basket.

“No!” Ben lunged for the ring and smacked it again. It flew
in a great arc, landing in the bottom of the basket. Ben sat down and picked it
up.

Kelly sat, taking his hand in hers. “Yes.”

They kissed for a long time. Finally, Ben pulled away. “Can
we just stay down here?”

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Princess Mary

Image by 132369 from Pixabay

Footsteps sounded behind Mary, alerting her to another
person in the catacombs.

Who was it? Were they after her? No. She had been so careful
not to be seen.

But if they weren’t after her, what reason could they have
for being there?

She shook her head. It didn’t matter why—if they found her, she
would be killed, and father would pretend to be sad for a day. Then the kingdom
would go on as usual.

Princess Mary, she scoffed. Princess is just a euphemism for
prisoner. And with five older sisters, she was a redundant prisoner at that.
Even Mother didn’t care. Once little Henry was born, he was the only thing in
the world that mattered. One day he would be king, and Mary would just be old.

Mary took off her slippers and ran barefoot to the next
junction, ducking behind the brickwork arch. The footsteps continued; the clomp
of boots and the staccato of high heels. When they stopped, Mary chanced a
peek, and found herself face to face with Prince Henry.

Luckily, he had his eyes closed and his face pressed against
the lips of his Conquest-of-the-Evening. He shoved her against the wall on the
other side of the arch, and with him suitably distracted, Mary snuck away.

Imagining Henry’s reign made her want to vomit. Now, Phillip
on the other hand, there was a man. He was smart, and brave, and beautiful. He
should have been a prince.

And thanks to the key hidden in her bodice, she would be
with him momentarily.

She reached the hidden door, unlocked it, threw it open, and—

“Phillip! Who are all these men?”

Phillip stepped inside, followed by his soldiers. “Sorry,
Love. Thanks for getting the door though.” Then he ran her through with his
sword.

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