by Eydis
relax his mother. Our Boy promptly put on his shoes and left the house before his mother had the chance to ask him any more about it. He wasn't a very good liar and felt a bit uneasy about the whole thing. Our Boy didn't really know where to go. He didn't dare go to the playground in case Bullyboy was there. Or the beach or any fun place at all. He couldn't go near any grownup place either like the main shopping street, in case his mother went there. He took the only option he could think of. He headed for the forested hills. He felt a sudden rush of delight upon solving his little problem. Then he remembered. He wasn't particularly fond of hills. Or forests. But it did make sense, so he kept walking. And walking. He couldn't find any solution. As far as he was concerned he didn't have any options, so he just did the only thing he could. And kept on walking. I'd like to say that as he walked he thought to himself that it served him right, having to go wander through the forested hills, for lying to his mother. It is more likely that he harboured the notion that 'This is all Bullyboy's fault'. It wasn't too bad though. Our Boy soon learnt that forests are nice enough places and he enjoyed spending time there. At peace. So he started telling his mother more often than not that he was meeting up with Bullyboy when in fact he went exploring the forest. He climbed trees. Watched birds and bunnies and squirrels. Followed walking trails. Played with sticks and stones.
Most importantly, he had found a place where he could be alone. Safe. Albeit dreadfully lonely.
The Treasure Map
And the story may well have ended here, uneventful as his life would probably have been, had his mother not happened upon the most rarest of finds. She had wrapped it up ever so nicely for his birthday. Or as neatly as was possible given their means. She had recycled a brown paper bag because it would have been too costly to buy fancy wrapping paper. And still the parcel looked like it belonged on the cover of a style magazine. The cake was also very simple, covered in thick chocolate cream. It was simple yet elegant, much like Mrs. Paige. The same could not be said about the boys sitting around the cake. Their faces changed from greed to chocolate covered madness in the span of 10 minutes.
When Mrs. Paige was slicing the cake she had handed the slices out clockwise around the table, leaving Our Boy till last. She was used to serving the guests first. She had sliced each piece of cake evenly, but as she came to the last piece, she realised that it was noticably bigger than the others. She paused and stared, contemplating whether she should slice it up further, to give him an even slice, or to let him have that little extra bit.
'Ah well, it is his birthday, after all.' she thought to herself and lifted the slice over to Our Boy's plate. And it would have been just fine. Had it not been for the other boys. Children have an uncanny way of sensing any sort of discrepancy like that. Bullyboy, who had gotten a slice next to last, was quickest to notice it this time and bluntly remarked upon it.
'Hey! His slice is bigger than mine! That's not fair!'. This put Mrs. Paige in a right state. She didn't know how to respond because she cared too much about responding the right way. And because she cared too much she of course ended up doing the completely wrong thing.
'Oh, I see. Let's just swap, then shall we?'. And just like that she swapped Our Boy's plate for Bullyboy's plate.
'You are ok with that, aren't you, dear?' she asked Our Boy afterwards. Of course he wasn't ok with it, feeling the stab of betrayal with full force.
'No, I want the big slice.'
'Now dear, don't be rude.' was her only reply. Our Boy may or may not have acted out, as a result of that, but he definitely felt something akin to that which a resident of Jerusalem might feel upon being thrown out of his country. Maybe a resident of Jerusalem might feel offended by that comparison, but righteousness is a strong feeling. It's not a feeling easily measured by the extent of the crime. It's not easily measured by anything at all, really. It's a feeling. And a person feeling wronged in any way can easily feel more righteous than other people might judge normal considering the circumstances. Just like one person can easily be more happy with a journey to Disneyland than another. It's a perspective thing. Anyway. After the boys had smeared themselves in the sinful chocolate from the battlefield of the uneven slices they proceeded to the ritual of opening up the presents. Mrs. Paige had piled them charmingly on the floor, given that they only had that one table in the living room around which the boys had dined. Not that we'd really call that manner of eating dining. If anyone had bothered to take a proper look they'd have noted the graceful style with which the presents had been organised. Not only size and colour but also texture and depth blended beautifully. But no one appreciated that sort of thing around here. The boys were restless upon having to watch Our Boy open his presents. He decided to save his mother's till last, half hoping he'd be able to appreciate it in private. He didn't want Bullyboy to put his filthy chocolate smudged fingers on it. Our Boy looked around the nine presents, thinking strategically. He noticed a round package. Clearly a ball, he could tell. He was going to open that next to last, then, maybe, the boys would go off into a football game. Now he finally started opening the presents, one by one. A toy car. A block of paper and a charcoal pencil. A flashlight. A pack of cards. A book about a lion. Another pack of cards. A toy sword. Right. This was it. The football. It was working. It worked. Well, it was destined to, a ball and a group of boys fit together like a glove with a hand. Except. It was only a bit of his plan which worked. Our Boy hadn't taken into account how his mother would react. She knew nothing of Our Boy's fear. She felt quite hurt that he were to forget her present like that. As if her present didn't matter. She wouldn't stand for it. That elegant woman, who treated her son with so much respect, who organised everything neatly around his needs. Bowing down before others she could do all day long if need be. But she demanded recognition from her own son. Her only child. She didn't get all huffy puffy or high and mighty about it. She just calmly stopped the stampede of boys heading outside.
'One moment please, boys. There is one gift to be opened before you rush out for football.' And she handed Our Boy his parcel. He reluctantly took hold of it. It had been so close, they were at the door and all. He removed the wrapping to reveal a delicate and frail old thing. It was a book and it had the word pirate in the title.
'Oh, a pirate book! Thank you mother!' Our Boy's excitement did not go unnoticed by the other boys.
'Let me see!' Bullyboy said as he grabbed the book forcefully. Our Boy wasn't about to let go. They both stood their ground. Eventually it was the book that gave way. It ripped at the spine.
'My Book!'
Our Boy's mother, true to form, reprimanded her son feeling she had the right to because of blood being thicker than water, and the bond between mother and son stronger than having to respect each others boundaries. But no bond is strong enough for that. Boundaries are there for a reason.
'I don't believe it. I've always taught you to share your things nicely, haven't I?'
'Yes, mother. ' Our Boy uttered softly as he clutched the book in his arms. Bullyboy had let go, perhaps in the hope that by abandoning his direct touch with the damaged object he somehow could forsake responsibility in the matter.
'I think it's best that I take that for the time being,' Mrs. Paige said and held out her hand. Our Boy handed the book swiftly over.
'Now, boys. I think it's best you all headed out for that game of football. And let us not fret any more over this incident.'
'Yes, Mrs. Paige.' She carred Our Boy's gifts into his room and stacked them neatly on his table, so that he could look at them later. And it was later that day, after the football match and after the boys had gone home and after dinner, that Our Boy went to his room and looked at his book. After a few moments he went searching for his mother.
'Mother? Where did you find that book?'
'The one I gave you for your birthday?'
'Yes.'
'Why, I got it at the second hand book store. Why do you ask?'
'No reason. Does that mean that it used to
belong to someone else?'
'Yes. Does that bother you?'
'No. Just curious.' The reason Our Boy was so curious was in fact that he had discovered a map which had been hidden within the book's spine. The map was written on fragile, yellowish paper. It was clearly very old. Our Boy was dead certain it was a pirate map. It was after all hidden in a book about pirates. There was even one of those riddle-ish poems on top of the map.
In the count of 1,2,3
are hidden directions only I can see
No one else is this clever
My treasure is mine alone for now and ever.
Our Boy didn't think much of the poem, though. It was too strange. It didn't make any sense. Hidden directions in counting? What rubbish! Our Boy thought the map itself was a lot more interesting. The map clearly depicted a forested park but the park's name wasn't mentioned. As luck would have it, Our Boy knew it nonetheless. It was his park. Connaught park. He knew it because he had spent such a godawful lot of time there. He could make out the park entrance and the little pond and that must then be that little drinking fountain. Next to the fountain was written 123. One, two, three? Three steps? Then there was an X. A pirate X! This was just too good to be true! Our Boy had quite some difficulty with
