Swing Low: Chapter 2

A coming of age story, with a twist.

All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions.          -Leonardo da Vinci

I love storytelling. There's nothing quite like a good story to inspire and excited my imagination. I love both Fiction and Non-Fiction. Did you know that our brains are hardwired for stories?

It's true. Why else would TV, Movies, and books be so popular? Before technology and modern writing had their place among us, verbal storytelling is how information was passed from one generation to the next.

I often wonder how it would have been, after a long day and a good meal, to gather around the hearth as a family. With a fire crackling and a loaf of pan bread rising in it's heat. The hints and smells of tomorrow's pastry filling the room. Then to listen as the household patriarch entertained the family with a story.

All worries would take a back seat as tale filled the room. He'd tell it so well, that the moral was disguised in the art of the narrative. The kids wouldn't even realize that they were learning some of life's most important lessons. They would just see in their minds, the fantastic story coming to life, more vivid in detail than any modern movie could convey.

Like his father, and his father before that, this hard working head of the house would be a master of verbal storytelling. I can only hope that one day, I will be able to impart my stories with the verbal skill of those great fathers of old. Until then, I have to write, re-write, and edit some more. Feel free to comment and help me in this endevour as I improve this book and my craft as a whole.

If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #3 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 2We live in a unique time. Our pocket in this world seems like it is cluttered with lint. The only thing to be done is to pull that pocket inside out and shake it clean. Just like my dilemma of trying to fit in, shaking one’s life clean would require a great deal of discomfort for most people. I don’t think I could have always done it. But I’ve never been the boldest of my peers. Like me, I think most teenagers use their peers as a measure of their self-worth. I don’t know why I struggled so much then. No doubt confrontation, rejection, and self-doubt all contributed to my placid demeanor. Many of the other boys and girls had a sense of purpose or ambition that aided them. I didn’t really understand them, or belong. I’ve often wondered, would I have had more friends if only my father had allowed me to follow the profession of my heart. I wanted to be a doctor, but they don’t make any real money around here. They just get sick more often.So I found myself at the mercy of the only friend I had in the whole school. But to be her friend came at the cost of my self-respect. I would have rather had no friends. But now, looking back, I wonder if I couldn’t have been better to her. Maybe I could have done something for her. Often we look back on our past and see our experiences through the microscope of wisdom. In moments of reflection, most people, despite regrets, feel they wouldn’t change a thing. I know this as well as anybody. I feel the same way, with this one exception. If only I’d have known, I’d have treated her differently. I tell you this because there is one thing that I hope you never have to regret, either.Krystal was leaning against my locker, pinning the flimsy yellow clanker shut. Her pink lips, too big and moist for human lips, reminded me of a peeled pomelo. I took a deep breath and dragged my feet across the hall to my locker. As I reached out to open the short metal cabinet, Krystal’s lips parted. Her tongue graced the top of her front teeth as if they needed wetting before her proud and relentless voice threatened to dry them out.“How was your class?” she started, but, as usual, she didn’t wait for my reply. “Same as usual, I bet. By the way, I checked to see if the theater director chose her cast yet, but she hasn’t. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. So did Master Haimi give you much homework? I didn’t get any from my teacher.”I had an above-average command of the English language, probably better than Krystal. But since she was born to it, she’d opted out of her language classes last year, and was now ahead of me in the curriculum. Since Master Haimi had been her teacher last quarter, Krystal rarely failed to recap where she supposed I was in my lectures. This brought her some degree of pride. She had a great memory, but liked to flaunt it. I always felt belittled by her approach.“I’m guessing she's started in on her whole political society lectures now, am I right?”I could barely nod before she blurted, “Don’t worry, the assignments will be easy enough. At least I had no problem. Of course, not everyone in the class aced them, but I found them to be so common sense. If you have any questions, you should ask me.”As quickly as possible, I replaced my textbook and grabbed a folder from my morning class. Even though I gently closed the locker door, when the latch caught, the whole thing rattled. Please let Krystal have somewhere else to go, I hoped.“Good news—I can walk home with you today.”My shoulders sank. Here we go again.There was one nice thing about walking home with her. Since she was a native English speaker, I could hone my own command of the language. Of course, that was if I ever got a word in.Most everyone here spoke decent English. It was unusual to hear anything different anymore. Still, natives to the language, by which I mean Americans and Britons, had their unique sayings, like “pulling your leg” or “What’s up?” These didn’t make sense literally, and the more of them you knew how to use, the smarter you would sound. Well, even if I couldn’t get a word in, I suppose that was okay, too. If I didn’t feel up to it, she could carry the entire conversation. She wouldn’t even mind.Maybe it was the way she brought up Master Haimi. Maybe it was just because I was flustered over being called out in class. But without realizing it, I was the one talking. I didn’t dare share with Krystal the thing I’d witnessed in the restroom. I didn’t even mention the thoughts I had about God and the Devil. But I did tell her about my near humiliation in class. I shouldn’t have. That just gave her the perfect opportunity to coach me through the next couple of weeks.Krystal was quick to take the conversation back. “Since Haimi is starting into her politicking lectures . . . you’re not a Believer, are you? Of course you’re not. That’s good. Here’s the gist of it. If she ever calls on you again and you haven’t been paying attention—because admit it, she’s pretty hard to listen to—just make something up about how it’s important to believe and not believe at the same time.”I looked at her a little confused and she backpedaled.“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not talking about being a Believer-believer. What I mean is, you see, she’s going to try and teach you how as a journalist you have to know how and when to believe in somebody and their story. You can’t be a truly good journalist if you don’t believe in what you’re writing. But then you need to know when you can stop believing, and find the next thing to believe in. It’s all relative to who you’re talking to at the time, and what the story is that you need to publish. One day you have to be a devout Buddhist, the next you must be a drunken brawler, or be convinced that you can find mercenaries a paying client. You might even need to sympathize with the witches and Believers if the situation requires it, only to be loyal to the municipal judges the next moment.“Switching from supporting one political participant to their opponent in the same campaign is a trick that only the best journalists can pull off. You wait and see. I’m going to be such a journalist. My name will be famous. Everybody will know who I am and they’ll all want me to represent them. I won’t just be a reporter; I’ll be a celebrity.”Krystal finished her lecture with a playful bump to my shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but I rubbed it, anyway. If I rubbed it, maybe the memory would wear off, and it would be as if she hadn’t touched me to begin with. Not that she had lice or germs or anything like that. Sometimes I would almost get the courage to tell her that I’d rather walk alone. But every time I looked at her condescending face, I’d lose my resolve. There was just something behind those haughty eyes of hers.I didn’t say anything that day, nor would I ever. But I dreamed of it all the time. The truth is that I was afraid of confrontation. There were other times when I wasn’t so annoyed by her, but it’s hard to explain. I almost felt like she was wearing a mask, that below the layers of foundation, lipstick, and mascara there was another Krystal. This other Krystal would be hurt by my rejection of her. Her sturdy frame and fleshy mask might hide it, but there was something small and fragile under that stylish blond mop above her head. So, I bore my torment in silence.We walked along the dilapidated lane together. The streets had been poorly maintained before the war. Now you had to look hard if you wanted to see that the road had once been paved at all. Tall trees hung over it, their large green leaves shaded us from the intense sun. A few rays of light spilled through the foliage, but we unconsciously skirted them.Just like in class, my mind stopped paying attention to everything and recessed back into my own thoughts. Let Krystal talk. She wouldn’t notice I wasn’t listening. Even if she did ask me a question, she would just answer it herself a second later. How could she ever hope to be a great journalist if she never learned to listen to others? Then again, she had apparently listened well enough to remember what Haimi had lectured on in the previous quarter. And from what she said, maybe listening wasn’t the important part. Believing was the most important part.I shuddered. Believing. That would just bring me one step closer to being a Believer, especially if I ever need to do any interviews around one of those fanatics. Everyone knew that was dangerous. But thinking beyond that group, how could I just sympathize with something or someone, then stop the moment my story was done? Being passionate about writing is one thing, but to believe is something that runs deeply. If I could choose to believe, then forget the next day, what kind of a person would I be? Would nothing be sacred?An old bike tire bounced in front of us. We both had to stop while three grubby children ran after it with sticks. The last one was too young to even need clothing. He was probably four years old or so. Another year or two and his parents would have to start buying him some pants. The kids’ parents were nowhere to be seen. But that was the way of it around here. The parents always had so much going on and the kids always returned home for supper and sleep. The little boy especially would not wander too far away. He would still likely be nursing until he started school.Krystal huffed, as if it was a big joke. She never could get used to it. Kids that old running around naked, breastfeeding till they were five or six. I looked at her as the kids darted out of sight. Her bewildered face still betrayed her foreign upbringing.“You’ll be quite the sympathizer.” The words just slipped out of my mouth.She looked at me, an eyebrow lifted. Had I really just said that? Her questioning glare turned back into a smile, and she nudged me with her elbow. Again, I started the procedure of wiping her gesture off. Crazy girl. She probably assumed me to be telling the truth. Why not, though? Most people here hadn’t quite picked up on sarcasm yet. I think the only reason I had, at least to a small degree, was because Krystal insisted on being around me so often. Americans are so rude. That’s why they’re one of the few cultures that fully embrace such demeaning chatter.At last, about two kilometers from my home, she waved good-bye and headed up a side street. Her home was on one of the wealthier blocks. She’d told me once that when her mom had died, her dad moved here to be an on-site reporter.I had a different idea of why he moved here. If he did much reporting at all, it was minor compared the other personal interviews he conducted around town. Fair skin and a thicker wallet could open many doors.Once Krystal’s street was out of sight, the lane took a meandering turn. I’d arrived at the corner of the city’s market. The place was a bustle of activity. Everything you could buy was for sale here. Fish, vegetables, shoes, knives, snake oil. It may not all be quality merchandise, but what’s a hammer that breaks when it pounds a nail? Nobody around here could afford a hammer made of good steel. Instead, you just learn how to hit the nail softer so the hammer doesn’t shatter. Since the nails were softer than, say, American nails, you also learned to hit them better, too, else they would quickly bend out of shape. That was the way of things around here. Times were hard, so you learned how to get by. We adapt to the circumstances before us. Such one-sided compromise is the only way to survive. But it can also be unsettling at times, especially when it concerns the non-merchandised parts of our society.Staring at the commotion of the market, I made a rash decision. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. The market smelled like old meat and dried salt-fish. Then there was all the noise, which made thinking impossible. So I did something stupid. I stepped into the woods. More of a jungle, the locals don't refer to this tropical forest as such. That would suggest a sense of normality to the vast island of dense growth. No, the woods are different. Everyone here knows it. Not only was it foolish of me to brave the outskirts of these ominous canopies, but skirting the market would add an extra half hour to my walk home. I live every day in fear of people. Could a few trees really be any worse? Besides, I was in no hurry to get home.I'd walked only a few hundred meters into the dense overgrowth when an unsettling circumstance presented itself. At first I didn’t think much of it. Just a rustling of shrubs and other vegetation. But as the sound drew closer, I caught sight of the movement. My heart quickened a few beats and my feet stopped moving. Maybe if I stood still I might go unnoticed. It could only be a witch or a Believer. I guess it could be an animal, but that would be too lucky. Animals are far from being the most dangerous things out here. Both witches and Believers were strange. Neither was the sort that you wanted to meet alone.I slowly crouched, as low as I could, hoping the trees would make my fat frame invisible. What I would have given to be skinny right then. Whoever was coming was getting closer. At first I heard them to my left, then my right. They were zigzagging, as if trying to find me. I held my breath and willed every hair on my chubby body to hold still. I closed my eyes and waited for the worst.Suddenly he was right in front of me. His tangled hair and sweat-streaked shirt made him look wild. I didn’t mean to scream. It just kind of happened. “Please don’t hurt me, please,” I squeaked.The man, startled, tripped, landing only a meter away from me. I was sitting on my knees, his wild red eyes locked onto mine. They seemed to burn into my flesh as he scrutinized my presence. He pushed himself to his knees, then shot out a hand. The force of the fist was mild, but it knocked the air from my lungs as he grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling me off balance so that I nearly fell into him. “How long ’ave you been ’ere? Were ’ou following me? What’d ’ou see?”“N-nothing, I s-s-saw n-n-nothing.” I tried to turn my head from his flammable breath.He said no more, but those red veined eyes bored so deep into mine that I had to look down. I saw his hands. They were hard, callused hands. One of them was dripping blood. When he’d tripped, he’d broken a bottle of cheap booze, sending a shard of glass into the side of his hand. He didn’t seem to notice. He was drunk. But this was a different drunk. He had done something that he was ashamed of. Witches prided themselves in their wicked ways. Believers would say that anything they did was justified by their faith. This man was trying to hide a powerful guilt in that bottle. I knew why he was here. I’d heard the rumors before. I’d never believed them, and my parents denied the possibility. But I knew.“I’m just going home from school. Please, I just heard you coming and got scared.”“You should be scared. Sneaking ’round ’ere like this, in the middle o’ th’ woods.”“I didn’t mean to—th-th-the market is just right there.” I pointed a shaky finger toward where I’d come from.He released my shirt. I tried to move back. It’s hard when your whole body feel like noodles. He seemed to waver a moment, but then he was back on his feet. He ran a few meters, tripped on a fallen log. He steadied himself, then disappeared in the trees. I could still hear him as he put a little more distance between us. Slowly I found the strength to stand again. I rested my hand against a tree, my arms and chest were still quaking. But the fright was over now. My body would realize that any minute.I had a decision to make. Turn back and go through the market, or continue in the woods? I decided the market would be the safe play. But when my feet were firm enough to carry me there, I found them taking me deeper into the woods. I am not an adventurous type. My decision to stay in the woods confounded even myself. I felt as if there was something deeper inside me, tugging me forward. It was a part of me I’d never felt before. Maybe I was under a spell, but that man was no witch, and he was definitely no Believer.Thick thorny brambles covered many of the open spaces beneath the canopy of tall ancient trees. Those places not forbidden by these noxious shrubs held the occasional banana tree or bamboo thicket. But directly below, in the shade of those impossibly high trees, of which were this place's primary inhabitants, hiking was made more easy. Little grew beneath those branches except for the fungi that forever ate at the decomposing remnants of leaves and old fallen trees. So, I stuck close to these gravity defying behemoths, walking unencumbered as I searched for the better part of an hour.Yes, I was searching. It took me the whole hour to realize that I was searching. My true motive was revealed to me. Nobody goes wandering in the woods alone. Not without good reason—and a compass. If you don’t know the woods, and I didn’t, you could get lost for a long time. At last I convinced myself that I would not find what I’d unwittingly been searching for. I turned around and headed back in the direction I’d come from.After two hours, I was still in the thick of it. I should have been back at the market by now. I stopped and listened. My throat whistled with every breath as I tried to hear any sounds from the city.Silence.My stomach knotted, and I felt the forest closing in on me. I was too old to cry, but I wanted to. Nobody would notice out here. My eyes closed, squeezing just enough tears to blur my vision, until I heard a snap. I stood tall and rigid. Snap. There it was again.Through the trees I caught a momentary glimpse, maybe even just a shadow of a man—no, a beast. It was huge. Too far away for me to see any detail, its hulking form appeared sporadically between open patches of trees. It walked like a man, but there’s no way I could even fit my arms around its head. The thing seemed to be looking down into its massive arms. I couldn’t see its face, but the way it hunched over, it seemed sad. But what do I know. My eyes were fuzzy, and even if they weren’t, I had no idea what I’d just seen. Maybe I hadn’t seen it at all. Maybe my fear was just playing tricks on me. My legs had no problem this time. They carried me away as fast as I’d ever run.Like the drunken man I’d met earlier, I stumbled and pressed on. My chest ached. I was not the running sort. I didn’t eat a lot. Maybe I had a bad thyroid. My belly just never seemed to take on any shape but round. After a while my body finally said, enough! Cramps in my side and mucus in my lungs forced me to take a break. I sat down, wheezing and coughing.Will I ever get out of here?A dog barked.What other man or creature lurks in these woods, ready to kill me?Another bark.What am I going to eat?The third time the dog barked, I stopped my self-pitying spiral.Why would a dog be out here?A faint smell of stew caught my nose.I stood up, and life flowed back into my flesh. I’d done it. I’d found my way out!Walking at a quick pace, I followed my nose and the barking of the dog. The trees thinned and I cleared the woods. I found myself only two blocks from home. The neighbor’s dog had retreated, but I could smell dinner coming from several of the houses. Too tired to run, I walked as quickly as my feet would carry me until I got to the sagging slab of cheap weathered wood that was my door.“Iddo! Where have you been?”My mom was relieved and angry at the same time. Telling the truth would not be good for me. I tried to think of something that wouldn’t involve me getting switched. But before I could come up with anything, I heard my voice mumble, “In the woods.”“What?” She let a pan drop two inches onto the table. It made loud clunk, and a few small splashes of thickened soup flew out. I think she let it fall on purpose, for effect. “You know better than to go wandering off in the woods! What were you thinking? Are you okay?”“I’m fine,” I breathed, not wanting her to know how shaken I’d really been.She came over and wrapped her arms around me. That wasn’t at all what I’d expected. “Please don’t go in there. I’ve heard the most terrible rumors about those woods. If I lost you . . . promise me you’ll stay out of there!”I pulled back, not wanting to let myself crack under her embrace. “I’m sorry.”“Sorry is not good enough. I want you to promise that you won’t go back in there.”I bowed my head. “Okay.”“Now go get cleaned up. Your father will be home soon. Not a word about this to him.”“Okay.”That definitely had gone better than I’d thought it would. And was she protecting me? Not a word about this to my father? My mother’s name, Soportevy, translates to “angelic girl”—a fair assessment, especially considering the circumstance.My father got home, and we ate mostly in silence. At least I was silent. They tried to find things to talk about. My father asked me about my day, and my mother diverted his attention.“You’re awfully quiet today, Iddo,” he said. “Usually I can’t get you to stop talking.”That was true. Even if I didn’t say much at school, I usually found talking around my family much easier.“I just have a lot on my mind today.”“Please, do tell,” he pressed. “The air is getting a little thick around the table with all this silence.”I looked at my mother, who had a worried look in her eyes. She knew that I couldn’t lie, yet she didn’t want me to tell him about getting lost on my way home.“Come on, out with it,” he demanded. Then his eyes took on a cold stare. “This is about being a doctor again, isn’t it?”My father, being a strict but poor man, wanted a life for me that was beyond his own reach. His shrewdness in public understanding moved him to place me in grammar school. This was preparatory to the vocational training in journalism that would soon follow.To be a journalist in any other part of the world might be considered an honorable profession, but even in my muddled thinking, I knew what a journalist here meant. For me it stank of mildewed potatoes. But we’d argued this all before. I’d committed to following his plan.Arguing with my father’s logic was like telling a rock to dance. A journalist here could go far, so long as they printed the propaganda of the ambitious governing bodies. But an unbiased journalist would not only find their career at a short end, but sometimes their life, also.In any case I shunned the idea of becoming a rich, fat house cat of the publishing world, one that wanders among press with an eye for the next morsel to feed my own selfishly obese lifestyle.The last time I’d raised the issue was a Sunday, on the first week of April. I’d complained to my mother in private, since all my direct appeals to my father had failed spectacularly. She always smelled of a fresh morning. Not the kind you might see on a soap commercial, but more of the morning that melded a clean smell of sweet-fruiting blossoms with the tangy scent of burning sticks. This from the endless meals she cooked by fire for our family. She was the essence of purity and hard work, and she seemed to absorb my sorrows and radiate comfort. I asked her to convince the dictator of our home to allow me to follow the course of my own heart. That was the first time I ever saw the sweet tears of my loving mother. In the pureness of those glimmering drops of polished glass, a thousand words of understanding were passed into my soul with the clarity that only the eye-dew of a mother can convey.My ability to put into words what even the great Michelangelo might struggle to paint is obviously lacking. Still, she let me know that she loved me, that she fully supported my tender wishes to help others by studying medicine, and that, despite her compassion, she could say nothing against her husband and master. My heart wrenched in disappointment, not only for the futile nature of my predicament, but also for her sorrow and the part I played in causing it. I decided then and there that I would never trouble her heart over the matter again. I would follow the prescribed course set by my patriarch and bring them the monetary treasures that would, if not lighten my conscience, at least distract theirs somewhat.My father knew I still disagreed with this course of study. So, I can easily see why he immediately jumped to the conclusion that this was the subject of the night’s silence. “I’ve already told you that I’ll stay in journalism,” I said, trying to disarm him.He eyed me suspiciously.Nervous, I ran my hand through my hair. That was dumb. His face lit up and he reached toward me and plucked a leaf from out of my hair. He held it up and his stare interrogated me. He knew. That leaf could have been from anywhere, but I knew that he knew.If my skin was white like Krystal’s, I’m sure my face would have been blushing bright red. Granted, it would have to first make its way through all her layers of makeup. But even though my skin is dark, a parent knows a blush from their own kid, and my face was hot with it.“I—I . . .” I sighed. “On my way home from school, I was on the edge of the marketplace when I saw a man run out of the woods. He saw me, and grabbed me. He accused me of following him, but I told him I hadn’t, then he ran away. I’ve heard lots of weird things about those woods. I guess I’m just trying to make sense of them all.”There—I’d said something. I hadn’t admitted that I’d been in the woods, but there was enough truth in it for me not to give myself away in a complete lie. But now, instead of releasing tension from the air, the opposite seemed to occur. “What kind of rumors have you been hearing?” Father asked.His eyes were intense. Mother froze as if this new revelation was worse than my drifting into the woods.“Silly things, really.” I half laughed, not wanting to continue. But those penetrating eyes of his. “I hear rumors at school about men taking babies into the woods, only to return without them.”Mother stood up. I’d clearly said something that upset her. It’s not like we hadn’t talked of this before. But now it seemed more personal, since I may have actually met one of these men. I moved on, trying to find something different to say that might ease her from that topic. By now I could see that there might be some validity in those rumors. Then there was that large—“I’ve also heard stories of witches, Believers, and a large man or creature, or something.”Mother walked quickly out of the room. My eyes followed her, then I looked back at my father with a question in my gaze.His attention had also followed Mother out of the room. Looking back at me, his stare softened. “Did you see any of those other things, too?”“No.”“I know you went into the woods. I can see the scratches on your arms.”I looked down. Sure enough, little pink pinstripes crosshatched both of my forearms. I looked up, ready to plead forgiveness. It wasn’t necessary.“You’re old enough, you might as well know. But don’t talk about this with your mother. Clearly it upsets her deeply.”That night, I slept poorly. The things my father had told me confirmed many of the echoing rumors I’d already heard. I was right about that man leaving the woods. Father hadn’t said much about the witches or Believers, but the large manlike creature, he did admit to having heard rumors about that. He said he didn’t know what to think of the matter, but that there was danger there, and it might be related to those men who go into the woods in the first place. He reiterated my mother’s desire that I not go back into the woods.I tried to sleep. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw that massive head. Giant arms would reach for me and I’d nearly fall out of bed.End of Chapter 2Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think could be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 3Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.