The Dyerville Tales

by M. P. Kozlowsky

  “This isn’t my dream,” Vincent said. “This isn’t even my imagination. It’s better than anything I could ever create. I’ve never felt anything even close to this. I don’t want to ever leave.”

  “Vincent, you are welcome to stay here forever, you know. All our guests are. You’ll never have to experience another ounce of pain, another second of sadness. Never again. Your mother doesn’t have to leave you.”

  “I think I will stay. I . . .” Vincent trailed off, his mind suddenly captured by another thought, one of great longing.

  Reading his mind once again, the jackrabbit looked up at the house. “She is there too. As is your horse, Orin. They are waiting for you.”

  “That’s what I was missing.” Vincent jumped up, ready to run inside. But then he stopped and turned back to the jackrabbit. A look of concern crossed his face. It was an odd feeling that coursed through him, an unwelcome reunion with a bitter enemy.

  “They’re here,” he said, his voice sounding like it came from far away, “but they shouldn’t be. Just like I shouldn’t be.”

  The jackrabbit coughed into its handkerchief. “Such thoughts . . . maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are not ready to be here after all.”

  “I—I hadn’t thought anything like that since I came through that door. It’s like I almost forgot what still has to be done.”

  “Yes, that is very interesting. I did not expect this.”

  “What I complete here won’t be complete back there,” he said, pointing to the door, “will it? Orin, Stella, what they experience here with me they won’t experience back home.”

  “Does that really matter, Vincent? Reality is not black and white. There is no is and isn’t.”

  “But I can’t stay here yet, not if they’re still suffering through that door. My friends, Stella’s father, my mother, they’re counting on me. The witch has to be stopped so that everything can be set right. I can’t just wish for that.”

  “Here you can.”

  “But not there.”

  “Vincent, I have to inform you, once you leave, you cannot come back for a very long time, if ever. It isn’t allowed.”

  “I have to help them. I’ve already been gone so long. I’ve abandoned them. What if it’s too late?”

  The jackrabbit laughed. “Nonsense. You haven’t even been gone a minute.”

  “I’ve been here over a week now.”

  “I told you, time runs differently here. If you wish, you can stay for a lifetime and back home, as you call it, you won’t have missed a thing.”

  “Is that true?” Vincent asked, his eyes filled with hope.

  “I promise you, it is.”

  “I—I can be with my mother . . . just a little bit longer?”

  “You are afraid that she won’t be there for you when you walk back through the door. That the witch took her life and this is the last you will ever see of her.”

  Vincent couldn’t even respond to this.

  “Go to her now, then. Be with your mother, with your friends, with whoever you want. Take as much time as you need, Vincent. Live the life you’ve been denied.”

  And together mother and son lived another lifetime, the lifetime they should have had if not for the witch. Vincent’s mother had a chance to raise him into a man and see his love blossom with Stella, and he was given the opportunity to watch his mother grow old, to witness her as a grandmother. Decades of happiness. Decades of perfection and bliss.

  And then . . .

  “I don’t want you to die,” Vincent said to his mother, once again interrupted with troubling thoughts, when she was almost one hundred and twenty-five years old and he one hundred.

  “Die?” his mother questioned, as if she had never heard the word before. “I won’t. We’ll both keep going and going here, and if you want to be young again, if you want me to be young again, then you just have to wish it. We can do it all over again. A million times over, a million different adventures.”

  “But I have to go back; there are things I must do. I can’t risk forgetting. I came here for a reason. And I have to leave.”

  “I know you do, my son. I know you do.”

  “I wish I could see you back there. I’ve been looking for you, and I won’t stop until I find you. I’m just scared that when I do, you’ll be— The witch, she’ll have—” He couldn’t even bring himself to say the words. “If I lost you, I won’t have gotten to say good-bye. Not on the other side of the door. I’ll never have the chance to tell you how much I love you, how sorry I am about what happened. I feel like it’s all my fault. I want to set it right.”

  “Never, ever blame yourself, Vincent. No matter what happens, once you walk through that door, just know that I am a proud mother. You have been a wonderful son, and so many others need you now. I’m so happy we had this time. It meant everything to me. This is our good-bye. A temporary one. Until we meet again.”

  “I love you, Mother.”

  “And you never had to tell me that. I felt that every second of our lives together. I love you more than you can ever imagine.”

  And with that Vincent left the house and found the jackrabbit at the bottom of the hill, just beside the door.

  “It’s time for me to go,” he said.

  “You will be one of the very few to ever leave,” the jackrabbit told him. He reached into his overcoat and handed over Vincent’s sack with the gold book. “This tome: we’re quite familiar with it here. When you get back, I think you’ll find it a bit easier to understand. My gift to you.”

  “Thank you,” Vincent said, walking through the door. But before the words were even out of his mouth, he found himself floating in the river at the bottom of the cliff, his gold skin pulling him down, his body in incredible pain, as if it had thrashed around in the rapids for hours.

  With the sack over his shoulder, he struggled to shore, where he was pulled out of the river by Orin, nothing but a day having passed.

  CHAPTER 13

  The book made everything clear. Sitting before the embers of the dying fire, Vince no longer felt the cold that had ensnared him for so long, for he was now burning with clarity. He fully understood why his grandfather couldn’t stay in that wonderful place, that land of perfection, for the rest of time. Back through that door on the cliff, he still had things to do, miles to go.

  By the time the sun came up, he felt refreshed, even though he hadn’t slept. The cold had little effect on his brittle body, and there was no sense of weariness or fatigue. Somehow, beneath his skin, he felt altered. Like a burden was lifted. His mind was lighter, and he began to feel like he had years ago, when he still hoped.

  He picked up his bag, strapped it across his back, and set out for Dyerville, the snow finally starting to melt beneath his feet.

  The streets were now cleared, having been continuously plowed throughout the night. Still, it took several hours before he was able to turn off the main road and down the series of side streets that led to Dyerville. They became narrower and narrower until finally he found himself on a deserted road, the snow filthy atop it. Mountains were in the distance; many trees, on either side. There was nothing else. No signs of civilization.

  As he ventured forth, the road began to twist, and the forest closed in, thick trees reaching up and over, blocking out the sky like a canopy. Animals—deer and foxes and rabbits and assorted critters—could be seen darting through the woods, dodging trees, and bounding over ditches. It was a beautiful sight, and he could only imagine what the road looked like on a summer’s day. Behind his eyes, he pictured all the snow melting away in a flash, the water draining into the ground, and the forest filling with leaves. He gazed into the woods, hearing the birds chirping their songs and the trees whispering their delight, and it was then that he noticed something that he ordinarily never would: there, along the edge of the forest, was an odd stump. Could that be? He leaned forward, mouth slightly ajar. It was his grandfather’s hometown after all. Could he have been born right alongside this ver
y road, delivered by a witch?

  An hour later, Dyerville finally began to emerge, springing out from the woods. It was a small town, it turned out: a few traffic lights and nothing more. On a nice day he supposed it would be bustling with quaint life, especially along Main Street, where all the shops and restaurants were located. Instead, there were only a few people here and there, milling about. Most were shoveling the walks, tossing handfuls of salt on the ground, clearing away the fire hydrants, and so on. Thick icicles hung precariously above them like bars of a half-lowered cage. The entire town had been locked into place by the freezing cold.

  As Vince walked down the street, a lovely crunch under his feet, he noticed the bell tower of a church protruding from above the rooftops somewhere toward the center of town. It defiantly spiked the sky as if intending to pierce straight through it, puncturing the heavens and pulling it down to earth for all to embrace. Vince could make out the stained glass windows and the church’s many spires through the drifting snow, the imposing cross, the ancient design, as if this building were far older than all the rest. It was here, he assumed, that his grandfather’s funeral would be conducted the following morning; it was here that he would say his last good-bye.

  With nowhere to stay until then, he headed for the church; perhaps it would be able to put him up for the evening if he told the people there who he was. Maybe he could even get a warm meal and a place to dry his clothes.

  As he trekked onward, his eyes focused on the cross in the sky above the other buildings, there was no way to avoid walking into the back of a man drinking a coffee as he leaned against a lamppost. “Excuse me,” Vince said when the man turned around. The two locked eyes, and there was recognition on both ends. “M?”

  “Vincent!” he hissed. “Run, kid. She’s here for you.”

  Vince looked past M and saw Mrs. West conversing with some people on the sidewalk just ahead. He could hear her spitting orders at them as if they were standing a hundred yards away.

  “He’s somewhere in this town, I know it. Find him. Spread out. The place isn’t that big. Knock on some doors. He’s our responsibility. If anything were to happen to him, it’s our heads. Got it?”

  “No,” Vince muttered as he stepped back in fear. “Not now. Not yet. I’ve come too far.”

  “Hide,” M told him. “I never saw you. Hurry. Hide.”

  Mrs. West and her cronies began to disperse, and Vince quickly ducked through the first door on his left.

  He found himself in a lobby of some kind of business. It was clean and beige with tacky artwork in green plastic frames hanging on the walls and nondescript music. Across from him was a woman seated at a desk, chewing anxiously on a pen. She promptly asked if she could be of any assistance.

  “Um . . . yes . . . no . . . I’m not sure . . .” The words stumbled from his mouth, unable to clear the hurdles of deceit. What was his reasoning for being here? He had to think of something fast.

  “Are you here visiting someone? A grandparent perhaps?”

  Vince was startled by this question. How did she know? “Yes, my grandfather,” he said. “Vincent Elgin.”

  “Oh,” the woman gasped, a hand to her chest. “Oh, I . . . Let me . . . One moment—”

  Clearly she was aware that his grandfather had passed away but wasn’t sure Vince knew. As she walked away, he tried calling out to her to inform her that he did until he saw the sign behind the desk. This was an old-age home, the last place his grandfather ever lived. This realization hit him like a punch to his chest.

  Moments later the front desk woman returned, escorting a hulking man with thick arms folded across a wide chest. She bent down before Vincent. “This man’s name is Andrew Ennis. He can tell you everything you need to know about your grandfather.”

  That name: Vince recognized it immediately. It was the name on the letter he had received. And all at once he felt the great weight of disappointment. This man wasn’t his father. Not even close. The phrase in the letter, the initials were all just some horrible coincidence. It was Andrew who had written down his grandfather’s tales and sent them to him at the orphanage. His father had had nothing to do with it.

  Andrew hovered over him at well over six feet and looked bothered by just about every inch of it, as if he would be hiding somewhere if not for so large a body. His face was covered in coarse stubble, and the hair hanging out from beneath his hat was long and thick and greasy. Each arm displayed deep bruises—clusters of color—while his hands were severely calloused. To Vince, his sloping nose appeared to have been broken several times over, and because of this, he could only breathe out of his mouth.

  “Take a walk with me,” Andrew said to him in a much quieter and more comforting voice than expected. “I’d like to talk with you.”

  Dejected, Vince followed, although he was relieved to be indoors and away from Mrs. West and her search group.

  Walking the halls of this place, he felt his grandfather’s presence. It was like he was alive and near.

  Andrew took Vince into a large congregation area on the second floor. There were many elderly people milling about here, conversing, reading, playing board games, watching TV, enjoying a meal.

  Andrew offered Vince a seat at a table, and the two of them sat down, the large man’s knees popping like gun blasts, a dented and battered box of checkers left half opened between them.

  “First, I’d like to tell you how sorry I am about your grandfather. He was a lovely man. I was honored to care for him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence. Vince sat there with his hands folded in his lap while Andrew took off his hat and wiped at his brow, then shoved the box of checkers aside.

  “He could be difficult at times, your grandfather. Especially when he first arrived. Boy, did he give me a run for my money. But eventually we came to look fondly upon each other. There was respect there. Deep admiration on my part.” He paused here, as if reflecting on it all. “I assume you received the book.”

  “I did.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “I’m almost through.”

  “Just wonderful, isn’t it? Every day we would sit over there by the window and he would tell me those amazing tales. His mind wasn’t what it used to be, so he told me most of them over and over again, never realizing his mistake—not that I would ever complain or point it out. But you know what? As damaged as his mind became, those stories never changed. He could have told me them a million times over and they wouldn’t have varied and I would have never bored of hearing them. Eventually I realized I just had to get them down before . . . well, you know.”

  Another moment of silence.

  “There were others too. Other tales that aren’t in the book. He didn’t tell them as often, and I don’t remember them well enough to have jotted them down. There were some about his treacherous voyage overseas, another one about a ghost he encountered on the side of a lonely cemetery road, another about the extraordinarily lucky necklace he came in possession of but subsequently lost. There were so many that eventually my head began to spin. I was swept away by it all, every word. Who was this man? I wondered. And my second thought was, Could any of this be true, even in part?”

  Vince didn’t wait for Andrew to answer the question. He did so himself. “There’s truth to all of them.”

  Andrew smiled, his body finally relaxing. “I’m glad you said that. You know, everyone here has heard these stories at one point or another. They all have their opinions about them. But nothing got the people here more riled up than that story about the door on the cliff. Your grandfather loved telling everyone that it existed and that it wasn’t very far from here. He would get up and point out that window right there and say that if you were to keep walking in that direction, a straight line from the church without ever diverging, eventually you’d find it. He said it was a steep cliff, steeper than any he had ever seen. And of course, all alone, just at the edge of the precipice, was the doorframe. No door, mind you, just
the frame, leading nowhere. Been there for ages, he said. Go through it, and it’s a straight drop, all the way down. Well, you could just imagine how people reacted to such a story. Many dismissed him right off the bat, and the others who held out hope for such a place begged him for the words to enter that world of dreams. Of course he never revealed them, and that got the rest of the believers to doubt the tale. ‘If you know the words, then why aren’t you climbing that hill now?’ they asked. And your grandfather just sat there and smiled and said, ‘I had my chance.’”

  Vince almost asked if Andrew had gone through it but then realized that this man was alive and there was no way anyone would survive such a drop.

  “As far as I know, your grandfather never told anyone the words, and he didn’t put them in the book. Not directly anyway. I’ve had a couple of guesses as to what they were. But I don’t think I’d ever be quite brave enough to try one of them out. Even if I felt ninety-nine percent sure. There is still that doubt. No, it takes a special person, one far stronger than I to walk through that door.” He paused. “Or someone with absolutely nothing to lose.”

  “You’ve seen the door?”

  Andrew chuckled. “No. I never even bothered to look. It’s just something I fantasize about every now and then. In the end, though, I think it was just another one of your grandfather’s stories. He had quite the imagination.”

  Vince sat back, his mind reeling. “But maybe there was something more to it than that. Maybe he really went through that door and left a clue behind. The words. They have to be somewhere, right? He wouldn’t just erase such a thing. Maybe people have to seek them out. Maybe they have to really show they want them. Otherwise I don’t get it. If the place was so special, why wouldn’t he want to share it with everybody?”

  “Vince, from what I knew of your grandfather, he was a very puzzling man, very mysterious. But he was old. His mind wasn’t what I’m sure it once was. He always seemed to be one step removed, one step outside the ordinary. I’m sorry to say he was in this place for a reason. Maybe his mind was so fragile that he forgot those special words. Or maybe he never knew them. I think—I think maybe the door is just a metaphor. Do you remember anything? Anything he might have said to you when you were younger?”