Jack Staples and the Ring of Time

by Mark Batterson

  “We will be home soon, I promise.”

  Far too exhausted to keep his eyes open a moment longer, Jack fell fast asleep.

  Chapter 3

  THE SHADOWFOG

  The morning after they arrived home from the circus fire, Jack’s brother and father left Ballylesson to make a delivery of stone and mortar to a nearby village. His father worked as a stonemason, and both boys often worked alongside him. A few days later, his father and Parker were still gone and had sent word to Jack and his mother that they wouldn’t be back for another week at least.

  Jack quickly learned that he had become a bit of a legend in Ballylesson. Everyone wanted to hear the story of the boy who’d been saved by the lion. Yet he hated talking about it; he didn’t even like thinking about it. Everything about that night at the circus confused him. Why would a lion sacrifice itself to save him?

  Five days after the fire, Jack felt much better. Doctor Falvey called his recovery “a miracle.” He said it should have taken weeks for the burns to heal, yet within a few short days, they were almost gone.

  Around three in the afternoon, on a cloudy Thursday, Jack was feeling desperate to leave the house. He’d been stuck in bed for a few days. Earlier in the week his best friend, Arthur Greaves, had come to visit, and the boys had promised to meet in the woods outside the schoolhouse on Thursday afternoon.

  Jumping down the stairs four at a time and running into the kitchen, Jack called out, “Mother, can I go and meet Arthur?”

  “I don’t know,” his mother answered. “Doctor Falvey said you need to take it easy. How are you feeling?”

  “Really good, Mother. I promise. Please, may I go? I haven’t been outside in ages!”

  She paused a moment, then smiled. “I guess I’m going to have to let you fly free at some point. But promise me you won’t be running about too much. I don’t want you to lose your breath.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Jack grinned and immediately darted for the front door.

  “If it starts to rain,” she called after him, “you come straight home!”

  “Yes, Mother!” he yelled over his shoulder.

  Jack ran straight into the woods. A week before the circus fire, Jack, Parker, and Arthur had begun building what Jack believed would one day become a mighty fortress. At the moment it was only a piece of wood wedged between two branches high up in a tree, but they had plans to add more boards in the coming days.

  As he arrived at the widest and tallest oak in the forest, Jack immediately began to climb. When he was nearly halfway up, something inexplicable happened. The air felt different—sharper somehow. Before he could think about what had changed, a mighty wind ripped through the forest, shaking the surrounding trees and sending earth and leaves flying. As the wind passed over Jack, he was petrified. His fingers gripped the branch above while his feet stayed rooted to the branch below.

  Then the wind passed, and something else changed. The forest was absolutely silent. It wasn’t the silence of nothing happening, as when wind blows through leaves, birds sing their songs, and crickets chirp. It was as if time itself were holding its breath.

  As he held tightly to the tree, Jack heard the sound of a thousand voices whispering in his ear.

  “I SSSSEE YOU,” the voices rasped.

  Jack leaped back without thinking. Only when he was falling through the air did he realize his mistake. As he dropped toward the forest floor, he heard the ringing of bells somewhere in the distance.

  When he opened his eyes, Jack gasped for breath. He was in his house, lying in the center of the upstairs hallway and feeling as if someone had punched him in the stomach. From somewhere in the distance, he could still hear the ringing of bells; though, as he listened, they quickly faded. He searched his mind, trying to remember what he had just been doing, but nothing came to him.

  Standing on shaky legs, he breathed in deeply, trying to fill his lungs. When he opened the door to his bedroom, the only light came from the full moon shining through the window.

  Jack was surprised to find his mother standing by the window and looking out. Next to her was a golden-haired girl a little taller than Jack.

  “How can you ask this of me, Elion?” Jack’s mother said.

  The girl, Jack supposed her name was Elion, spoke. “And you think you can keep her safe from what’s coming? You think you can stop him?” Elion’s voice had a strange musical quality.

  Jack’s mother began to cry. “But this is my child; she is mine!”

  As his mother turned to face Elion, Jack saw her cradling a baby in her arms.

  Elion reached up and placed a comforting hand on his mother’s shoulder. “This is the Child of Prophecy, and you know as well as I that he is coming. If I don’t take her now, all will be lost.” She turned to look at the cloudless sky. “We are not the only ones who can read the stars. The Lion’s Eye has been opened.”

  “Mother, what’s going on?” Jack interrupted.

  Both Elion and his mother spun around, his mother shielding the baby with her body and Elion drawing a short sword from inside her cloak. Elion stood on the tips of her toes, assuming a very dangerous-looking stance.

  “Who are you, boy?” Elion demanded. “Speak now, or die!” Her eyes seemed to gather the light of the room and shifted from deep blue to stormy gray. Jack was surprised to see that she was not a girl but a—he wasn’t sure what she was. Her ears were slightly pointed, and her pale skin sparkled in the moonlight. She was unlike anyone Jack had ever seen and was absolutely beautiful.

  Jack turned to his mother. “Mother, it’s me, Jack! What’s going on?”

  His mother looked at him as if she’d never seen him before.

  “Look at his eyes!” Elion gasped, stepping closer.

  “What do you mean?” his mother demanded.

  “Come here, boy.” Elion lowered her sword and offered Jack her hand.

  He stepped forward, feeling as if he were in a dream. Both Elion and his mother peered into his eyes.

  “I don’t understand,” his mother whispered, taking a fearful step back. “What does it mean?” She shared a confused look with Elion as the ringing of bells rose once again and an impossibly bright light exploded in the room.

  Jack gasped as his eyes shot open. For a long moment he didn’t move; he just stared up at the sky, listening to the ringing of bells. He was lying on the forest floor, utterly confused. What a strange dream, he thought as the bells faded. Of course my mother knows who I am.

  He rolled onto his side, and his breath caught. Not far off, thousands of thin, shadowy wisps were ascending from the forest floor. Still struggling to breathe, he rubbed his eyes, hoping to clear them. Yet the dark tendrils were still there and growing thicker by the second. What was just as strange was that Jack was sure he could hear a whispering voice coming from somewhere deep within the dark fog, though he couldn’t understand the words.

  It’s not just one voice, he realized. It is hundreds of them—thousands, maybe.

  The hovering darkness was no longer just rising from the ground but was beginning to move. And the wisps weren’t moving randomly or being blown by a breeze; they swayed back and forth as if searching for something.

  Jack’s breathing quickened as he sat up. He needed to move. He had no idea what this darkness was, but he was sure he didn’t want it to touch him.

  The shadowy coils began merging together, gathering into larger, finger-sized tentacles. And as the mist thickened, the whispering voices grew louder and angrier. Jack still couldn’t understand them—if in fact they were saying anything—but their sound sent a chill down his spine.

  After scrambling to his feet, he took a few steps back. The dark fog was spread out in front of him as far as he could see. The shadowed tendrils had become wrist-thick and were growing ever larger.

  Jack had once seen old Farmer McCauley’s hounds
hunt a rabbit. The dogs had run back and forth, searching for the hare’s scent. Once they’d smelled their prey, they had howled excitedly and bolted in the direction it had fled. As Jack watched the snaking, fist-sized tentacles, they reminded him of those hounds. The closer they came, the quicker they moved. The whispers were growing too—thousands of voices quickly resolving into a deafening roar.

  As Jack stumbled back, it was clear the slithering darkness had caught his scent, and just like Farmer McCauley’s hounds, it no longer swayed lazily but surged forward.

  Jack let out a terrified scream as he sprinted through the forest. Behind him the tens of thousands of whispers joined together, uniting in one bone-chilling voice.

  “THE CHILD,” the voices boomed.

  “HE IS HERE,” they screamed.

  “WE MUST TAKE HIM!” they thundered.

  The fear that only seconds earlier had paralyzed Jack now gave him wings. Jack ran faster and harder than he’d ever run. The tentacles had become as thick as his body and were still merging together, blanketing the forest floor in an ocean of darkness. The ocean writhed and rolled as black waves rose high, crashing down behind him. And within the waves were the shapes of monstrous beings.

  “THE ASSASSIN COMES,” the voices roared.

  “THE CHILD MUST BOW!” they shrieked.

  The fog was only a few paces behind him now, rushing in on either side and threatening to crash over him. In front of Jack was a small hill, and just a little farther was the field that surrounded his school. He was desperate to find anyone who might help him wake from this nightmare. Maybe his best friend, Arthur Greaves, would still be there? He quickly looked back to see the fog closing in, and in that moment, he tripped over something large and soft. As he hit the ground, the wave of darkness crashed over him, covering Jack with its embrace.

  Chapter 4

  BULLIES IN TRAINING

  Two years and twenty-one days earlier

  At the age of nine, Arthur Greaves was slightly rounder than the other boys his age. When he mentioned this to his parents, his father laughed and told him, “It’s just baby fat, my boy; it’ll go away soon.” But Arthur wasn’t so sure.

  He had only just moved to Ballylesson, which was a seven-hour’s ride from where he used to live in Droylldom. He arrived early for his first day of school so he could be sure to introduce himself to his new teacher, Mrs. Dumphry. Though he’d only been in Ballylesson a few days, he’d already heard at least twenty stories about her.

  “She’s the oldest woman in Ireland,” a neighbor boy told him.

  “She’s traveled to every country,” the boy’s older sister said.

  Another day Arthur had met a boy at the butcher shop. “She’s the oldest woman in the world,” the boy said, though Arthur wasn’t sure the boy could be trusted because he was at least two years younger.

  The morning Arthur walked into the schoolhouse, he didn’t know what to expect. It was pouring rain, and he was soaked when he finally made it inside. From the moment he walked in, he forgot all about Mrs. Dumphry. The schoolhouse was enormous—much bigger than his previous school. His jaw dropped at the number of chairs.

  Sixteen students in one school! He’d never dreamed of a school so big. His last school in Droylldom had only five students. As he walked farther in, Arthur spotted Mrs. Dumphry—at least he thought it was her.

  An old woman sat in a rocking chair facing the window. Her hair was wiry and gray and held at the back of her head in a large bun. He guessed that if she were to let it down, it would nearly touch the floor.

  Arthur walked cautiously to the side of the rocking chair. His parents had taught him not to sneak up on people, especially if they were old, and Mrs. Dumphry was definitely the oldest woman he’d ever seen. Her eyes were sunken deep into her face, and her hands were so wrinkled he couldn’t tell the wrinkles apart from the knuckles.

  At first Arthur thought she was sleeping. Her head was bent to her chest, and her knobby hands rested on the armrests. Yet as he watched, he was horrified to see that she was completely unmoving. She’s not breathing, he thought with alarm. “Oh no,” he whispered, wondering if the old woman was dead.

  He coughed, partially to be polite, partially out of fear. “Hello, ma’am. My name is Arthur Greaves, and today is my first day at your school,” he said. When he finished, he stood very still and watched for any sign of life.

  Arthur stepped closer and spoke a little louder. “It is very good to be here. My family moved recently from Droylldom, and I am pleased to meet you.” The last word came out in a squeak of fear. Arthur was sure of it—Mrs. Dumphry wasn’t breathing.

  He had never seen a dead person before, but he supposed if someone were to die of old age, it would be this woman. Taking one more fearful step forward, he decided to touch the poor woman on the shoulder, just to be sure. He reached out with one finger extended and shaking terribly.

  “Mrs. Dumphry,” Arthur whispered fearfully. “Are you …” Bringing his face close to hers, he searched for any sign of life. “Are you …”

  As his finger touched her shoulder, Mrs. Dumphry’s hand darted out and grabbed Arthur by the arm.

  “Boo!” she said with a grin.

  Arthur screamed and tried to run, but she held him in an iron grip. She leaned in, bringing her face close to his. “I’ll get you, Arthur Greaves. I’ll get you yet!”

  Arthur was as pale as a freshly painted white fence. His heart was in his throat, and he couldn’t move a muscle. Mrs. Dumphry burst into uncontrollable laughter, slapping her knee, then holding her stomach to keep from laughing too hard.

  “Gets ’em every time!” she cackled. “Every time.”

  She stood and walked to the blackboard. After grabbing a piece of chalk, she wrote out the words Mrs. Dumphry.

  “My name is Mrs. Dumphry,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly youthful. “I have been teaching here for longer than you can imagine, and I will be teaching here when your children’s children are old enough to go to school.”

  Arthur hadn’t moved, and no color had returned to his cheeks.

  “The lesson you just learned is of the utmost importance. You must never judge a scroll by its parchment,” she said with a look of glee. “I can hold my breath for five minutes and still run faster than any woman I know.” Mrs. Dumphry’s eyes glowed with a fierce pride. “And though I am old, I am young in here”—she pointed to her head—“and in here”—she thumped her chest over her heart.

  As Mrs. Dumphry danced a little jig, Arthur sat down at an empty desk, thankful he hadn’t peed his pants.

  A few minutes later the rest of the students began to arrive. Arthur had been assigned the only empty seat in the classroom. It was at the very back, and it took him only a minute to realize why the seat had remained empty. A cruel boy named Jonty Dobson sat next to him, and from the moment he sat down, Jonty started teasing Arthur and calling him all sorts of names.

  “Hey, little piggy, who let you out of your pen?” Jonty whispered.

  Arthur opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Oinker! I don’t know if we’ve been properly introduced,” Jonty whispered. “You can call me the big, bad wolf.” Jonty’s grin had wickedness in it.

  When Arthur finally spoke, his voice was shaking. “I’m not little piggy. My name is Arthur Greaves.”

  “You are a little piggy!” Jonty said. “And I am going to have fun with you this year.”

  “My father tells me that I am not actually fat, you know. He says it is just that some of my baby fat is refusing to go away.”

  Jonty’s eyes widened in surprise as a great guffaw of laughter erupted. “Baby fat! That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “Jonty Dobson!” Mrs. Dumphry’s voice was stern. “You are worse than your father’s father was. You will stay after class
for a one-hour detention.”

  Jonty looked properly scolded as he lowered his eyes. “Yes, ma’am,” he stammered, but the look he gave Arthur was one of pure murder.

  When it was time for recess, Arthur stood and quickly walked out to the yard. He very deliberately did not look at Jonty. Although it was no longer raining, thick pools of mud covered the schoolyard. Once outside, Arthur began looking for anyone who might be willing to talk to him. Yet wherever he looked, no one seemed the slightest bit interested.

  He decided he had better walk back inside and stay near Mrs. Dumphry. He knew it would be a bad idea to meet Jonty out in the yard. Yet just as he was about to enter the schoolhouse, out walked Jonty Dobson.

  “Where are you going, little piggy?” he chided. “I don’t remember saying you could leave.”

  Arthur stumbled back. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” he stammered. “I’ll tell Mrs. Dumphry it was my fault, I’ll tell her—” Before he could say another word, Jonty shoved him hard.

  Arthur fell flat on his back and disappeared completely into the middle of a large puddle of mud. When he sat up, murky water cascaded off him. Jonty laughed so hard that he fell to his knees and began hitting the ground with his fist. “Little piggy is taking a mud bath!” he squealed, sounding somewhat like a pig himself.

  Horrified, Arthur looked around to see all of the other children watching, and some were even laughing. As he began to cry, Jonty rolled on the muddy ground, laughing all the harder.

  “That’s not funny,” said a slim boy who had thick, bushy hair and was holding a large book to his chest. “You shouldn’t push people or make fun of them like that.”