The Boy Who Was Tense

Wil sat in the back of the classroom at his desk, trying to pretend that he was anywhere else but in school that day.  Mrs. Spontane was up at the front of the class, droning on and on about the daily Phonics lesson yet again.  He dreaded the Phonics lessons; they were unbelievably boring.

Why would he want to sit and do stupid Phonics workbook lessons when he had already read fascinating books such as The Lord of The Rings trilogy the previous summer?  He peeked at his Phonics workbook, dreading what he would find.  Today's assignment was to work on pages 164 to 172.  Every other day they had been assigned a similar number of pages.

For the past four months, each day during his Phonics lesson Wil had doodled in his notepad, or started writing down little stories, or anything else he could think of except to work on these pages.  Each day he told himself he would just work on the pages he had not done the next time around.  Of course, the next time around he didn't want to work on the pages, and the problem kept growing bigger and bigger.

The boy waited in fear for the day when Mrs. Spontane would ask everyone to turn in their Phonics workbooks so that they could be graded.  He could already imagine what would happen when his parents found out that he had only completed four of the assigned pages in the workbook.  His mother would look at him with cold, slit eyes, and demand an explanation.  She would lecture her son, whom she had named Wilhelm Patrick Gatly after her great grandfather - a merchant ship's captain and world explorer - and explain yet again how he could never expect to be anything in the world without achieving good grades in school.  His stepfather would confirm everything, and then assign additional practice work for Wil to do each night instead of going outside to play with his friends.

He did not really care about getting good grades.  He made sure to do his homework and study for his tests to keep his parents happy so that he would not get in trouble, or have to sit through yet another series of lectures.  It had not been so bad when he was in first and second grade, because it was easy to get good scores on his tests, and there was not very much homework.  Third grade had been a trifle harder.  But now he was in fourth grade, and not only did he have more work to do, but the tests were starting to become challenging.  Not only that, but he was now responsible for going to violin lessons once a week, and he had to walk there from school, and then walk all the way home, which was a good two miles away from the apartment where his violin instructor, Mr. Green, lived on Spring Street.

Every day arriving from school meant it was time to practice the piano for at least thirty minutes, followed by an hour of violin practice.  Homework needed to be worked on, followed by outdoor play if there was any time for it before dinner was served.  After dinner it was Wil's job to do the dishes - and unlike his friend Dave he did not get to load the dishes into a dishwasher - Wil had to scrub the greasy pans in hot soapy dish water every night.  If he was lucky he might get to watch a program on TV before it was time for bed.  Most nights, he was not so lucky.

The pressure was starting to build.  On a certain day of each week there were Cub Scout meetings to attend, and it seemed like he was given more homework to do after each meeting.  He had already been in Little League baseball for a few years, and hated it.  Now he was getting prepped to play basketball, which to him seemed to be yet another situation where he would be forced to participate in a sport he could barely manage.  These extra activities were the idea of his parents, who wanted him to be well adjusted and learn to socialize with his peers.  What they didn't understand was that he was too strange for his peers to want to accept him into their own special groups that they were already forming, with Junior High just a few years away.

With a start, Wil realized that Mrs. Spontane's phonics lesson had finally ended, and it was almost time to leave.  He remembered it was Wednesday, and he would have to walk to his violin teacher's apartment once again.  One of the boys he had played baseball with, Bruce Davies, had in a strange fit of kindness been nice enough to show him the way to his instructor's home on Spring Street, but since that day Wil had walked the entire way by himself each week.

The bell rang, and he gathered his textbooks and homework assignments and trudged toward his locker.  He put on his NY Yankees baseball cap and fall jacket, then gathered his heavy violin case and slung it across his shoulder so that it rested on his right side.  The shouts of kids laughing and calling out to each other in the hallway echoed around his ears.  Nobody said anything to him, but he was used to that.  He put his bag of books on his shoulder and headed out of the school, looking at the ground by his feet the entire way.

It was chilly outside, and the leaves had started changing colors.  Several brown leaves littered the sidewalk, and blew past his feet with each gust of wind as he walked away from the school.  He hunched his shoulders up against the cold, but the weight of his bag and violin case forced his shoulders back down again after just a few steps.  A few steps more and he forgot about the cold, and instead thought about the magical world he had read about in J.R.R. Tolkien's novels as he made his way to his instructor's apartment.  As he walked, a queer sensation began to steal over him in the middle of his musings, and he realized the cold was no longer the reason for it.  

He had arrived at the house.

The house had once belonged to someone fairly wealthy in the Victorian era, and at one time must have been the site of lavish parties and elegant gatherings of the elitist members of high society.  It was three stories tall, and even though it now had several broken windows, peeling paint and a partially caved in roof, it was easy to see the beautiful care and attention to detail that had gone into the architecture of this structure.  It had been empty for years, and at some point appeared to have been partially damaged by a fire.  There were giant red No Trespassing signs posted on the front door, and on a few of the trees in the yard guarded by a half-broken cast-iron fence.

It was well known to be haunted.  Bruce Davies had made sure he had pointed that out.  Then he had said, "Wanna go inside and see?"  Wil desperately wanted to go inside and see if there were really ghosts in this abandoned structure, and could almost hear them whispering to him as he stood on the sidewalk gaping.  But his fear of his parents and the knowledge of their severe disapproval of him trespassing on a property such as this was enough to deter him.  He had simply looked at Bruce and shook his head.  Bruce had shrugged, then they had continued on to Spring Street, and Bruce left him there to find his way to his instructor's apartment.

Every time he stood before this house, he wondered if Bruce would have become his friend had he gone inside with him.  Today, as he had every day he stood here before, he looked at the house and wondered whether he should go inside.  Just like every day before, he decided against it.

As he was walking away, Wil felt the touch of something go shivering up his spine.  As he turned to look, he heard a slight creaking noise, and thought he saw the back door of the house start to swing open.  Terror filled him, blind panic, and he ran all the way to Spring Street as fast as he could manage with a bag full of schoolbooks and his violin on his shoulder.  He did not stop running until he reached his instructor's apartment door.

The door to his instructor's apartment was locked.

Mr. Green's car was not in the driveway.  Wil looked at his watch and saw the time.  He really did not feel like having a violin lesson today.  He was on time, but Mr. Green sometimes arrived a few minutes late, and Wil's parents would have to pay for the lesson whether it happened or not.  Even so, he did not want to stick around.  In the short time that he had run from the haunted house, the sun had been hidden by some very dark clouds and the wind had picked up.  He felt a few light drops on his hands and face - it was going to rain.

Making up his mind to tell his parents that he had stayed and waited an extra fifteen minutes past his lesson, Wil started on his way home from Mr. Green's apartment.  He walked to the opposite end of Spring Street, which turned into Madison Street after he crossed Nelson Avenue.  He then headed down East Avenue, and shivered as the wind blew a little colder.  When he reached Lake Avenue he took a right, and headed all the way past the East Side Recreational field, which had a playground, tennis courts, basketball courts, baseball diamonds and even became an outdoor ice skating rink in the winter time.  He kept going past the Church his parents forced him to attend every Sunday, followed by Sunday School which always made him feel as though he was being forced to believe something that did not make a lot of sense.  A bit later, he reached Excelsior Springs Drive, which was a winding road with a fairly steep hill he would have to trudge down while keeping his balance.

This was the most direct way home, and he had walked it many times.  He kept wishing for a better way to get home - for a more direct route.  As he reached the bottom of the hill he wondered if he could save himself a little time by cutting through the forest in a diagnal path to Gick Road.  Looking around, he saw nobody outside watching him, and there were no approaching cars that he could hear.  He wasted no additional time, and stepped off the road and straight into the woods, aiming directly toward Gick Road as he did so.

Just a few steps into the small forest were enough to make Wil feel completely isolated from the world.  The roaring sound of cars on a nearby highway was cut off, and the normal hum of electricity that was such a daily part of life was suddenly missing.  There were some chirps of birds in a far off tree, and the occasional rustle of a small squirrel or chipmunk rushing away in panic from his intrusion, but otherwise it seemed unnaturally quiet.  The hairs started to stand up on the back of his neck, and he wondered whether he was really alone in this forest.

He shrugged his shoulders and decided to continue, walking deeper in and looking back every few steps, watching as the road became completely obscured by the surrounding vegetation.  It was dim, but sun still managed to poke through the tops of the trees and reach the ground, which was carpeted by a soft layer of brown pine needles.  Up ahead Wil could hear the gurgle of running water, and very shortly came across a small stream.

Wil frowned.  If he got wet, he would be in massive trouble with his mother.  But the stream was too wide to jump, and looked too deep to cross without getting submerged to his knees.  He also knew if he should stumble or fall, he would risk getting the violin wet, which would spell certain doom when he arrived at home.  Looking around for alternatives, he spied further up the stream a fallen tree.  He pushed his way through brambles and dead tree branches until he reached it.  The tree was narrow, but it had fallen across the river and looked like it would support his weight.  Closing his eyes for a moment, he stepped out onto the tree.

Just a few steps later Wil knew he was in trouble as he started to lose his balance.  His arms began to windmill, but then he remembered to keep his violin up in the air, and splashed down into the stream with his right foot.  His pant leg, sneaker and sock were soaked, but he somehow managed to keep the left leg dry as he hobbled the few remaining steps across the rest of the tree to the other side.  He sat on a large rock, and inspected the damage.

Without a doubt, unless he somehow managed to get to his room undetected and change, he was going to be in for a huge lecture.  Wil didn't understand why his mother was so stern about such things; after all, a little water never hurt anybody.  The last time he had gotten wet she had carried on as if he had managed to purposely infect himself with pneumonia.  This was not going to be a fun evening.

With a start, he suddenly realized that everything had gone very quiet on this side of the stream.  He could still hear the water, but the sound of birds and small creatures had all but died off.  There was absolutely no sound of cars passing, or the highway in the distance.  There was also no sign of a breeze any longer; the branches and leaves of the trees around him had gone completely still.

Something flickered at the edge of Wil's vision, something bright and shiny.  He turned, but didn't see anything immediately.  A few moments again the flicker returned, but it was only there as a flash, just long enough to be noticed but not long enough to be defined.  Intrigued and motivated to delay his confrontation with his mother, he got back up and started heading toward the source of the flickering light. As he walked, he didn't pay as much attention to his surroundings, and tried to remain focused on source of the flicker.  Every few moments or so it would flash again, egging him forward.

As Wil progressed, he started to realize that the light was growing dimmer the further he walked through the forest.  Up ahead, however, it seemed as though an opening could be seen, with a steadily growing light that was getting brighter as he approached.  The source of the flickering seemed to be in this space, making the light seem dim by comparison.  He also started to hear some type of strange music, of a kind he had never heard before.  It was playful and wistful at the same time, but he could not tell what kind of instruments were being used to make it.

He slowed down for a moment, then gathered his wits together and stepped boldly through the opening and into a clearing that seemed far more brightly lit than the road he had left behind.

The clearing was quite large, surrounded by trees and dense underbrush.  The grass was oddly short, and there were bunches of autumn colored flowers poking up here and there throughout the clearing.  The sky overhead was bright blue, and not a single cloud could be seen.  Dominating the center of the clearing was a long stone table, supported by large slabs of stone on each end, and covered with an elaborate feast.  It was here the source of the flashing light could be clearly seen. It was in the midst of platters heaped with bread, fish, roast turkey, duck, rabbit and goose, and dangling from an enormous silver pitcher.  The flashes were emanating from a brilliantly white, fiery crystal, twisting and turning and reflecting the sunlight all over the clearing.

"It's a bit rude, don't you think, to just barge in here and stand around without introducing yourself?" a gravelly voice asked.  Wil started, looking around, and finally noticed a small form near one end of the table, crouched on the ground.  He could not quite make out what it was, and hesitantly stepped toward it.

The gravelly voice interrupted his motion as it declared, "I did not give you permission to come forward!  Stay where you are and tell me your name, at once!"

Wil blinked a few times.  He still could not make out who, or what, was addressing him.  "P-please sir, I ... my name is Wil," he finished, feeling both self-conscious and increasingly alarmed at the thought that he was addressing something that was not human.

"Wil," the voice repeated, as if in thought.  After a few moments, it continued.  "Step forward so that I might see you better."

Will slowly took a few steps forward, his face screwing up in anticipation at what he was about to see.  There, in the short grass before him, sat the largest horned toad Wil had ever before seen.  Thinking he must be mistaken, he looked about, trying to see if there might be something hidden behind the slab supporting the stone table.

"No, no I'm down here," grumbled the gravelly voice, and with a start Wil realized it WAS coming from the toad.  "Not what you expected, was I?"

"N-no," Wil stammered, feeling more ridiculous by the second, and wondering somewhat if he might be starting to go a little crazy.  "I m-mean, I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was you."

The toad chuckled.  "No worries, young man," it said.  "I still manage to surprise myself when I look in that stream you crossed yonder.  Not what I expected either, not in a thousand years.  Be that as it may, I believe you might be the one who can help me."

Wil was confused.  "Help you?  But I'm just a kid."

A snort echoed loudly around the clearing, and the toad sat up a bit straighter, rubbing its eyes.  "I don't believe any adult would have managed to find me, or this fine clearing," he said.  "And an adult wouldn't believe they could hear me talk to them either.  They'd think they were insane and check themselves into the nearest insane asylum. But that's  besides the point.

"I need you to help me because you are the one who can.  I know this because I can tell, don't ask me how.  The question is, will you?"

Wil decided it would be wiser not to argue.  "Sure," he said, "but what do you need me to do?"

"Done," whispered the toad, and as it spoke a strong breeze ripped through the clearing, forcing the surrounding trees to bend and rustle their leaves loudly against each other.  The hairs stood up on the back of Wil's arms and neck, and he shivered, wondering what had just happened.  A moment later the breeze was gone.

(to be updated/completed by the author as time permits)