The Quest of Perkins Vale

by L. B. Dunbar

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice full of concern.

  “Nothing. I…I have a stomach ache,” she mumbled.

  I held my arm aloft for a moment trying to decide – move up and smash those luscious breasts – move down and hold her across her pelvis. I chose the latter, letting my hand wrap over her hip to hold her down on the bed. She was trapped under my weight.

  She was stone stiff and her eyes blinked rapidly as she kept them focused on the ceiling.

  “Close your eyes,” I demanded softly.

  She squeezed them shut, appearing like she was in agony.

  “Relax, Hollister.”

  “How do you know my name?” she asked, turning her head in my direction. Her nose was close enough to almost rub mine. I felt her breathe on my lips when she spoke quietly to me. Her eyes captivated me as she opened them and looked at me for the first time in wonder.

  “You’re Hollister SanGrael, and I’d know you anywhere,” I said. I was relaxed even if she wasn’t. I felt my large body growing sleepy again, despite the excitement of holding her. I couldn’t allow myself to be too excited, though, as she lay there under obvious duress.

  “But how…”

  “Sh,” I cut her off. “In the morning.”

  “No, now,” she said firmly, her voice rising slightly.

  “Hollister. Not now.” My lips watered to kiss her shoulder. It was right below my chin. A slight dip of the head and I’d taste that white skin that tempted me, but I was familiar with temptation. I knew how to resist it, and resist her, I must.

  I fell into a hazy sleep and dreamed another dream for the first time in years.

  Quest One: the dream twelve years ago…

  [Perkins]

  I was wandering the woods around Lake Avalon in upstate New York, as I often did to pass the time. My young life was full of dull days, and I was in need of adventure. Going a particularly long distance that day through the bright green woods, I noticed that, at times, the forest was diluted in shadow or steeped in streams of sunshine. The position of the sun displayed the passing of time, but the sky had reached a point of overcast grayness, and I no longer had a sense of the direction I travelled.

  At newly fourteen years old, my young body should have been in shape from all the walking I did throughout the forest, but it wasn’t. Considered chubby by others, my face was still round, my knuckles swollen like a toddler, and my legs thick like tree trunks under a rounded tummy. I was big for my age, not only in width, but also in height. Adults looked at me with confusion as my baby features conflicted with my tall stature. Used to stares, I had not grown comfortable to the cruel words of other children.

  Homeschooled by my mother, I was about to enter the local high school as a boy rarely exposed to other children. My mother, Iglasia, kept our existence secluded within a moderate frame house in the woods. After thirteen years, she finally decided I needed interaction with other people my own age. Her fears of me becoming one of them were misconceived, as she had done nothing to prepare me for the cruelty of other children in their adolescent years. Thus, I didn’t know yet that I would be bullied despite my size, for my size, along with a quiet demeanor but an inquisitive mind. I didn’t know how to talk to other kids. Their interactions would eventually enthrall me to the point that I would get caught in the future staring at others, earning me nicknames like “freak” and “creepster.”

  On that particular day in my wanderings, I was trying to block my thoughts and concentrate on a sound that beat in my head instead, when the gray clouds opened up and rain poured so thickly I couldn’t see a foot in front of me. I began to run, as if I knew where I was running to, growing soaked instantly in the deluge of water that cascaded over me.

  Almost too late, I found what looked like the crumpling barricade of a stone wall and the opening for what once was a gated entrance. Stopping myself by slamming my hands flat against the gritty cement posts, I took a moment to catch my breath while leaning on the old entryway. Eventually, I used the stone structure as a guide, feeling my way around the muddy surface to face what looked like a rather large home in disrepair. It was dark. I assumed from the lack of light that it might be abandoned, as was often the case of the older mansions within the woods.

  I couldn’t distinguish the color of the home as the rain had soaked the limestone to a dark gray. Stumbling up the drive, I was focusing my attention on a heavy wooden door; it was my only hope of escaping the rain. To my surprise, the door was unlocked; a firm push against the water-swollen wood panel allowed it to open. My soaked body wandered slowly through the dark hall, softly calling, “hello” and listening as it echoed in the emptiness of the sparsely furnished rooms. No curtains or carpets could absorb my sound. I only heard the squeak of my own rubber-soled tennis shoes against cement floors. I climbed the large stair structure to the second floor, finding a long hallway with several closed doors lining the walk. Hesitantly, I knocked on the first door then turned the knob to find a small bedroom with only a double bed. My curiosity discovered several more such rooms until I reached the end of the hall to find a double set of doors.

  Dispensing with the knock this time, I pushed slowly on one door, as I moved forward into a room that was backlit by the low glow of embers in a fireplace. The room was antiquated with a large stone hearth. Another bed filled the center of this room, but there I found an older gentleman lying peacefully amongst several pillows. For a moment, the man looked like he might be dead. I waited, watching the sheet that was neatly folded over the older man’s chest. The shallow sound of a breath, followed by the miniscule movement of the sheet as it rose and fell, would be the only motion within the room.

  Breathing out a breath of my own that I’d been holding, I reached out to touch the paper-white skin of a hand that laid flat to the gentleman’s side. I used the tip of my finger to poke the frail hand. It was so gentle, I wasn’t sure I made contact. Suddenly, two eyelids flipped open as if a switch turned on. The sickly man rotated his head slowly to gaze at me.

  “Who are you?” he said with a throaty sound, as if his voice had not been used in a long time.

  “I’m Perkins.”

  Foggy eyes blinked several times and the man rotated his head on one of his many pillows, looking toward the dying fire. I noticed him swallow hard, as the cloudy eyes seemed to search for something on that side of the room. A sense of panic filled those old eyes, as they roved as far as they could, before he returned his gaze to me.

  Upon further inspection, the gentleman didn’t look nearly as ancient as I first thought. His slightly graying hair hinted he was older than my mother, but not near as old as the old man I’d sometimes seen wandering the woods like me. Still, the gentleman was sick. Trapped as I took in the strange sight of an ailing man lying in a bed, I noticed the man swallow again.

  “Are you thirsty?” I asked kindly.

  “Yes,” the man croaked. I noticed a pitcher of water on the nightstand on the other side of the bed with a small glass next to it. I rounded the bed and poured the man a drink then held it out to him. When the man made no attempt to reach for the glass himself, I moved closer to the bed and aided the man in a sip of the water.

  “Thank you,” he said smoothly, now that his throat was soothed.

  Silence filled the air as I stood there. I shivered. Whether from the cold of my wet skin or the stare of the older man, I couldn’t be sure.

  “Why are you so wet?” the man finally asked.

  “It’s raining,” I replied, without offering further explanation of why I was in the house of the stranger.

  The man looked past the soaked me, to the fire, and gave instructions to add wood to restart a blaze in order to dry myself. Standing for a long time, letting the warmth caress me and melt my anxiety, I sensed the stranger continued to stare at me from behind my broad back. I would have liked to ask any number of questions. Who was this man? What was wrong with him? Why did he lie alone in this collapsing home? But my mother had war
ned me I asked too many questions, and I thought it best to remain silent.

  “Pull up a chair and sit down, wayward traveler,” the man said kindly, breaking into the inquisition in my mind. I turned to notice more of a spark in the man’s gray eyes, as the older person seemed to assess me.

  “Want to tell me a story?” the man asked me. Shaking my head to decline, I didn’t admit I didn’t know any to tell. The man harrumphed deeply, moving his glare to take in his dark ceiling. The room had heavy-looking wood beams overhead. Under the glow of the small fire, it felt cavernous. Eventually the older eyes closed. I finally sat in the chair the man recommended, near the fire, and let the same sensation of sleepiness overcome me as well.

  Upright in the chair, my head felt heavy and bobbed forward several times before I positioned my bulky body sideways enough to balance my heavy skull against the back of the chair to rest. I sensed I was sleeping, but I wasn’t quite asleep. A weighted feeling pressed down on me, holding my large body on the chair, as I heard a sound. I detected there was another presence, other than the old man in the bed, within the room.

  I didn’t dare to move. I couldn’t even if I tried. Caught in that strange sleeping-sensation of being consciously aware of my surroundings, but unconsciously sleeping at the same time, I remained awkwardly frozen in the chair. My eyes floated lazily open every few seconds, as the procession before me was a collection of snapshots.

  Blink.

  A boy younger than me entered the room.

  Blink.

  He approached the sickbed with a plate and large knife.

  A rush of blood flooded my veins, as fear for the old man flowed within me. Hypnotized by the movement of the boy and the placement of the plate with the large weapon on the side table, I was too mesmerized with the pointed silver implement to notice anything peculiar about the appearance of the boy.

  Blink.

  A second person stood in the room.

  Blink.

  Subtle red hair atop a girlish figure, possibly my own age, approached the bedside stand clasping a candelabrum in her hands. She looked delicate and full of purpose as she placed the lighting instrument on the table, brushing back his graying hair. She bent to kiss the forehead of the man.

  Blink.

  So focused on the scene of endearment, I didn’t notice the other girl, at first.

  Blink.

  She had a presence in the way she held her body erect that shouted confidence. Hair the color of midnight fell straight down her back. My eyes remained open at her determination to place a large cup-looking object; similar to a chalice I had seen in church, to the man’s lips, allowing him a sip of whatever was inside. The older man smiled warmly at the second girl before she placed the drinking vessel on the side table.

  Neither the boy nor the girls acknowledged my presence in the chair near the fire. They exited silently after a second kiss was placed on the forehead of the older man. When they left, I felt the eyes of the old man on me. His gaze was heavy.

  “Ask the question?” the man croaked in a sleepy tone.

  I blinked. I didn’t know what to ask. I didn’t know what the man meant. For all my mother’s accusations of asking too many questions, I was at a loss for what question I was meant to ask.

  “Ask the question,” the man demanded more firmly this time.

  I sat upward slowly in the chair, the sluggish feeling of my body now a steady ache. Warmed up from the cold rain, but only barely, my skin now itched in unmentionable places as my clothes dried crisp but damp. My legs stung with the pressure of having walked too far, and my neck pinched from the odd position of my nap. My mind registered the realization that I was lost. I was in a stranger’s home, and it was now truly dark. The emotions overwhelmed me, as the man demanded gruffly one final time: “Ask the question.”

  My lips started to tremble. I sucked in a breath to hold back the tears that might spill foolishly, exposing me to further ridicule. The old man shook his head in disgust, stared at the ceiling like he had done before, and eventually closed his eyes. The movement of the lazy opening and closing of the older man’s eyelids hypnotized the fear in me and tranquilized me back to a restless sleep.

  I awoke the next morning to find the bed empty of the old man. There were no sheets or blankets atop it. The pillows lay flat from their propped up position the night before and stripped of covers, as well. The fire was extinguished, and the space slightly cleaned as larger clumps of ash had been removed. I stood with a shaky, achy body. I cracked my neck with the use of my palm under my chin, twisting my head side to side. I twisted at the waist to rotate my back, hearing the sound of a slight creak before my eyes found the side table. Empty of the knife, the cup and the candle, I began to believe the whole night had been a dream.

  Overexerted. Hungry. Tired. I had definitely dreamt the whole night.

  Sunlight streamed through the windows crossed with multiple Xs; no sign of the previous night’s rainstorm present in the brightness of a new day. I exited the room, not finding either my host or the midnight visitors, as I quickly let myself out the decrepit mansion.

  Wandering across the shallow front yard, I noticed the dryness of the would-be grass that practically blended with the gravel drive, which was hardly distinguishable with all the weeds interspersed throughout the pebbles. Dark eyes scanned the space as I kicked the small stones beneath my shoes. I crossed through the ancient gateway from the night before and travelled along the side of the crumpled stone enclosure. Finding the edge of the lake that bordered the back of the home, I knew I could follow around the water’s edge, for a while, to find a familiar path that would lead to my home. I stopped suddenly as I approached the drop off to the clear blue water. Lying on the ground was the old man from the night before.

  I rushed forward and knelt to assist the man who lay on his side, knees pulled upward in the fetal position. His wheelchair was sideways also. My large meaty hands cupped the thin man’s upper arms in an attempt to set him upright, but the growling voice from the night before spoke to me again.

  “Ask the question!”

  I let the man go. I didn’t know my own strength, and the release of my hold, dropped the man back to his side. The old guy let out a grunt as he hit the ground with a soft thud. I stood staring down at him as he broke into a hoarse laugh. I felt that laughter like the slow vibration of an earthquake. A slight shake at first that developed into a larger tremble as my legs wobbled and my arms shook.

  “Shut up,” I said softly, as the man continued to laugh in his curled position.

  The sound was like nails on a chalkboard, a sound I hadn’t ever heard before in my life until recently.

  “Shut up,” I stated louder. The man’s eyes opened and then closed as a giggle shook over his frail body again.

  “Shut up,” I screamed down at the man.

  Suddenly a force pushed me from the side. It was the unexpectedness that made me stumble as I tangled my own feet over each other.

  My eyes turned to meet my attacker when the sharp gray eyes and midnight black hair froze me in place.

  “How could you?” she said, venom in her mouth as she stood with her feet spread, hands on her hips. Cold steel met my puppy-dog brown. The laughing gentleman stopped his giggle. He blinked at the possible altercation about to take place between a large boy and the fierce girl.

  I blinked at her as well, stunned by her beauty. She was younger than me, but I would not know that by the shapeliness of her body. My tongue was frozen like I’d had too much ice cream. Tied up and bound, I couldn’t respond to her.

  “How could you pick on someone older than you? Smaller than you? Weaker than you? Can’t you see he’s crippled?”

  I…I didn’t know, I stammered in my head.

  Fisting my hands slowly open and closed at my side as a calming maneuver, I remained silent. A second motion took my body as I continued to blink at the girl, silenced more so by her beauty than her accusing words. A third sensation moved agains
t me. One I didn’t recognize as coming from the sight of a beauty before me. My young penis pulsed.

  Ashamed of this physical response to her and insulted by her accusation that I would harm an old, sick man, I moved forward to assist the gentleman into an upright position, but she body blocked me, placing her back to me. With strength I wouldn’t have guessed in her delicate young arms, she pulled the older man upward to sit. I bent at the waist to further assist her, but she pushed my large arm away, cutting me off with the finality of her words, “I don’t need your help.”

  The next morning…

  [Perkins]

  I woke the next morning with a start, the words of the girl haunting my memory. I woke to realize a different girl was tucked into me. She had shifted in the night and my ankle locked over hers. My arm still draped over her hip with my hand on her lower back. Her forehead was against my bare chest, her hands on my hard waist. It was intimate for someone who seemed so hesitant to be in my home. Without thinking, I kissed the top of her midnight black hair. She pulled back with a start and stared at me as if not recognizing me. In many ways, she didn’t recognize me.

  She blinked several times at my face then rolled her head back on the pillow to look around the room. Finally she returned her focus to the position of our bodies.

  “Uhmm…”

  I cut her off by quickly removing my hands and my leg. She slid onto her back and pushed her hands into her long hair, holding them in place for a moment.

  “Breakfast?” I asked.