Along The Watchtower

by Litwack, David

  The boy smiled. "And I may never think right. But my legs are fine. I can even dance." He spun around and did a little jig in place.

  I turned away. "Great. Glad to hear it."

  The boy looked distraught, like he'd said something wrong. "Maybe we can help each other. You've lost your leg and I've lost my words. I can be your legs and you can be my brain."

  "What other words have you lost?"

  The boy thought a minute and finally said, "Jell-O."

  "Jell-O? But you just said the word. How can it be lost?"

  "Someone told me the word. But I don't know what it means, unless someone shows me." When I looked puzzled, he explained. "Did you ever use one of those vending machines for drinks, where you punch in a number and the little basket slides around looking for your drink, and then dumps it into the opening?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, did you ever see one that was broken, where the basket wanders around and can't find what it's looking for? My brain's like that. The words are in their slots, but I can't find them. You hear 'Jell-O' and your little basket finds a picture, a taste, a color. My brain wanders in circles but doesn't find anything."

  I was watching him intensely now. "Do you remember the IED attack?"

  "Yup. I can find that picture easily. The sounds, the smells."

  "And the death?" I said softly.

  The incongruous grin spread across the boy's face. "I don't know 'death.'"

  "You mean no one died in your attack?"

  "No. I mean I don't know the word. Like 'Jell-O.' My little basket can't find that picture."

  I envied him. Like Richie, a magnificent innocence, with the ability to forget.

  Chapter Seven

  The Watershed

  For three days, I trudged to the watchtower at sunrise and sunset to stare into the void, but remembered little of what I saw. An image here, a shadow there, like the restless dreams I had as a child on nights when the moon was dark and the rain battered the castle walls and the wind howled outside my window. I could recall no person, place, or deed, nothing but the sense of an illness slowly sapping my strength.

  In between, I huddled behind the oaken door of my bedchamber, fearful of what might lie beyond. Since childhood, I'd gazed at the mural on the dome above me but had long since stopped thinking about what was painted there. Now I studied it, searching for hidden clues. It bore the image of an ancestor, a heroic dauphin from centuries past, with the Goddess to his right and the great elf to his left, challenging the thunderclouds over Golgoreth. Like the prince in the painting, I too had had been advised by the Arch Druid of the Moonglade. Yet his riddles stayed beyond my grasp. Speak the pain that can't be spoken. Seek the white rose. By the fourth morning, I'd had enough. I was the newest dauphin, and my people needed me.

  Following my session in the watchtower, I set off to explore as Sir Gilly had advised, hoping to meet a new ally who could shed light on the trials. I headed down a rarely used passageway that led beneath the castle. Stormwind Keep was built upon the ruins of an earlier structure destroyed by the Horde in the Great War, and so its foundation was honeycombed with ancient chambers. I'd explored them all in my youth, but these were strange times. Perhaps memory or magic had changed them.

  For my first venture, I chose the watershed, a favorite place to play as a child. No one ever went there except on the solstices. On each of those two days, in great pomp and ceremony, the huge iron lever would be reversed. At the start of summer, waters formed by the melting snows would be released to cool the castle. And in winter, the steam was let loose from the subterranean hot springs to provide heat. The kingdom was naturally mild in the spring and fall, but in the more extreme seasons, the watershed tempered the elements.

  Since my father's death, each day had grown hotter, and I looked forward to the cooling air below. I resisted the urge to hurry as I descended. Though I'd encountered no mischief since that first day, I proceeded with caution and was relieved when I reached the watershed unchallenged.

  The air was as cool and moist as I'd hoped. The river rushed before me, slapping the walls of the channel and sending up spray. Where a ray of light streamed through a crack in the roof, rainbows formed in the mist.

  Ahead, an arched bridge spanned the river, providing access to the lever that controlled the flow. Many a day I'd stand on its peak, gazing at the water frothing beneath my feet, wishing my mother were alive, or imagining I had older brothers who would save me from the trials.

  I mounted the bridge, careful not to slip on the slick planks. How absurd to fall and drown in the torrent below. Frederick the Fool, they'd call me after the Alliance was defeated due to my childish whim.

  I was so busy watching my footing that I failed to notice an ornate arch on the far wall until I'd reached the peak of the bridge. As a child I'd dreamed of being a castle builder rather than a warrior or king. Sir Gilly had humored me and given me access to the castle plans, which I used like a treasure map to explore. The castle was vast, and I hadn't been on this bridge in many a year, yet I was certain no archway had existed before. The work of a demon or my own forgetfulness? I took small steps down from the bridge and peered inside.

  The archway framed the entrance to a narrow stairway down. After a moment's hesitation, I knew what I had to do. The curse of the dauphin-confront the trials or submit to the Horde. I started slowly, counting the steps as I went, keenly aware I was heading below the waterline. Fifteen. Sixteen. One more to a landing with a closed door at its end. I pressed down on the latch and the door gave way with little effort. Beyond it was a dead end, a circular room, no bigger than one of the round tables in the royal banquet hall. It was empty except for a moth-eaten garment, the cloak of a peasant lying in a heap as if dropped in flight. I reached down to examine it. But no sooner did I touch it than it disintegrated in my hand.

  I heard the click of heels on the stairs behind me and turned. Despite the possibility that the first trial was at hand, I was undaunted. After all, I had the great sword by my side and years of practice in its use. I started to call out a challenge.

  But no sound emerged. I strained, swallowed to moisten my throat, and tried again, but only the weakest wail emerged. More nooo than hello. Some sorcery at work. I calmed myself as I'd been trained and inhaled the cool air.

  When my breathing had slowed, I ran back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, remembering to count as I went. Seventeen as before. At the top, I paused to listen. A thump of boots, the hollow thud of someone on the bridge. Not wanting to be trapped on the far side of the river, I rushed through the archway and back into the watershed.

  No one there, but the coolness was gone. In its place the air had become dank, and a hot breeze brought a flush to my cheeks. I strode to the crest of the bridge and gaped at the river below.

  To my surprise, the water had begun to steam-wrong for the season-and then as I watched, the sparkling blue became blood red, water no more, but lava, swirling and boiling, threatening to set fire to the wooden bridge. I dashed off and escaped to the far side.

  But once safe in the watershed, a deep foreboding overcame me, as if I could hear death's footsteps rustling the dried leaves on the cavern floor. Then something appeared in my path, a shimmer at first, a fluctuation of light too insubstantial to identify. The leaves gathered in a pile, drawn together by some strange power. They began to swirl, driven by the swelter from the lava, forming a whirlwind that rose to the height of my shoulder. As I watched, the whirlwind took shape, leaves no more, but a grotesque little man.

  Assassin or ally? An assassin seemed unlikely. He was less than imposing, a full head shorter than I was and not nearly as broad, with hunched shoulders and withered arms. He wore a rusted helmet tipped low, concealing his eyes, more foot soldier than knight. But most comforting, he appeared unarmed.

  I stepped forward to confront him. To my relief, I was able to speak.

  "Are you friend or foe?"

  "I am what you would have me be
." His voice was strangely flat, like it would not have produced an echo, even at the bottom of a well.

  "I would have you be friend. Can you help in my trials?"

  "In that, I am the best you could meet, because only I can grant you peace."

  "Then tell me where I may find the white rose."

  He took on an unnatural expression of joy, unnatural because no color showed in his cheeks, and his teeth, though visible gave no hint of a smile. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a white rose and offered it to me. But as I came closer to accept it, the rose transformed into a poor man's dagger, with no sharp edges and a dull point extending no more than a hand's length. Nothing but a direct thrust to my heart could do me harm.

  I yanked on the hilt of the great sword. One blow and the first trial would be vanquished. I'd trained all my life for this encounter, my muscles thickened by a thousand hours of swinging heavy steel.

  But when I pulled at the hilt, the sword stayed stuck in its scabbard.

  I shivered, not as from the cold but as a stretched cord vibrates-a thrilling rather than a trembling. And though I'd been taught never to look into an assassin's eyes, I was unable to turn away. The rusted helmet slipped back. Empty brown sockets stared back at me.

  The demon's laughter pierced the air.

  "Behold, I shall dispense with your world of swords and castles. And in so doing, I shall tire no more than if I quenched a candle in its sconce. Poof, and it's gone."

  He waved his free hand and an image came into my mind-my father as he lay in his coffin, the clay fragments covering his lips and eyes. My shoulders sagged as if a great burden weighed me down. What was the sense of it? One day, be it now or in a thousand years, some prince would yield to the assassin stare and fail. Stormwind would fall and the demons would win.

  I gave a violent shake of my head, the only part of me that could move, and imagined instead a delicate white rose, held in the hands of a young woman in a garden. She offered it to me with encouraging eyes, so different from the gaze of the assassin. I gave another tug on my sword and this time it budged, but no more than an inch.

  The assassin took a step forward, within easy reach if only I could draw my blade.

  The vision flickered and changed, my father's funeral bed transformed. This time, the young woman rested upon it, clutching a withered rose to her breast. As with my father, pieces of clay covered her eyes and mouth.

  The assassin came closer, the dagger now within reach of my heart. I placed myself in the vision, reached out, and removed the clay from the young woman's eyes. They opened. I took the last piece of clay from her mouth. She beamed at me, and the white rose bloomed at her breast.

  The assassin thrust his dagger, but suddenly my hand was free. The sword flew from its scabbard, and I swung the blade in a sweeping arc, tensing my muscles as I'd been taught, preparing to slash through bone. But I felt nothing. The blade passed through as if slicing through air.

  The assassin divided into two parts, the edges of each nothing but wisps. And then, like smoke in the breeze, he evaporated and was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Physical Therapy

  My high school gym appeared in a dream. I knew it was a dream because I could walk, run, maybe even dunk. I went out the door of the locker room and down the runway to the brightly lit basketball court. It was empty. Not a soul. No cheering fans, no bouncing balls. Just my quick breathing as the adrenaline kicked in. I broke into a jog, admiring my reflection as it raced me across the polished floor. The squeak of my sneakers echoed off the rafters where the high scoreboard hung.

  A basketball had been left out at mid-court, in the center of the team's logo. I picked up the ball, fingered its seams, rubbed the nub along its surface. The basket loomed ahead, the front of the rim forty feet away. I dribbled once, twice, bouncing on my toes, then took off and launched a step past the foul line. I was airborne, holding the ball high over my head as I floated toward the basket. The ball was just above the rim-and the hoop pulled away.

  I willed myself to stay in the air-it was my dream, after all-to rise higher. But the rim kept receding. Then I smelled the stench of something burning and fell hard. A sharp pain in my leg.

  I woke up to see Dinah at my bedside, staring.

  "Another nightmare, Freddie?"

  Breakfast sat on the bed tray in front of me. I shifted it a little so the watery light streaming through the curtain would fall on the meal. Orange juice. A hard-boiled egg. Toast, slightly burnt. I smelled the burning and pushed the tray away.

  "Not hungry?" Dinah said.

  I shook my head.

  "Anything I can do?"

  I just glared at the tray, trying to make it disappear.

  She headed for the door, but stopped and turned.

  "You're starting PT today, nothing too heavy, but you should try to eat. Want me to order something else?"

  "No," I said. "Thanks, anyway."

  After she left, I thought about my dream. I used to love that gym. Until that November day when the coach came in, the new coach, the one who replaced my dad. I had an unsettling premonition while showering after practice and was in a hurry to get home. As I toweled off, the door to the locker room opened and the coach called my name.

  "There's been an accident," he said. "Your dad. Some kind of fall from a ladder." He placed a hand on my shoulder, and his coach's voice quivered. "It's not good."

  He told me he'd fetch his car to drive me home, but I couldn't wait. I took off, running so fast I could hear my heart pumping in my ears. By the time I reached the gingerbread house, my legs had started to cramp.

  Joey had taken some of his pills and was sitting on the front steps in a stupor, giggling to himself. Richie was in the backyard, wandering in circles, crying and calling out my name. I rushed inside and yelled.

  "Mom, Dad!"

  No answer. I climbed to the second floor to check the bedrooms and then, when I heard music coming from above, went up to the garret. There was Mom, staring out the oculus at the ocean. A Bible lay open on a table near her, its pages fluttering in the breeze. Her favorite Christmas carol played on the music box Dad had given her, and she was singing softly to the tune.

  "Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o'er the plains-"

  My mother had a little girl's voice and the face of a ten-year-old who'd never grown up. But now shadows flitted across her features and lingered until they'd blotted out the light. Her eyes had a distant look, like she was seeing another world.

  "Dad?" I said, the only word I could get out. She nodded toward the stairs, without looking at me.

  "He's sleeping, Freddie. In the living room." Then she picked up the tune again. "What the gladsome tidings be, which inspire your heavenly-"

  In the living room, I found him. Someone had laid his body out on the sofa and covered him head to toe with a white sheet. I reached out and peeled it back, so I could just see from above his eyes to below his lips. His head was tilted at an odd angle, and he had a wry expression, like he was enjoying a private joke.

  From upstairs, the music still played. Mom was singing the chorus now.

  "Gloria, in excelsis deo, Glo-o-o-o-or-ia."

  The neighbor who'd brought my father home later told me what happened. He'd been cleaning out a gutter, one of the odd jobs he took to make a few bucks after losing the coaching job.

  "I was holding the ladder," the neighbor said. "I had a good hold on it, Freddie, honest. It was solid, no wobble to it. Then the strangest thing happened. He lost his balance, but only a little. The ladder never wavered. But he kind of let go and drifted to the ground like he didn't really care. I called 911 right away, but when the ambulance arrived, there was nothing they could do."

  I went out on the front porch surrounded by the white fence with the little tulip cutouts. Joey was still sitting on the steps, rocking back and forth and giggling. Richie had calmed a bit and approached me, oblivious to what had happened.

  "Did you dunk
today, Freddie?" he asked as he did every day when I came home from practice.

  I shook my head, unable to answer.

  "Well, you'll get 'em tomorrow, Freddie."

  I went back inside. I was all of fifteen years old, the youngest of the brothers, and it was up to me. I returned to the living room, to my father's corpse. With the index finger of each hand, I reached out and closed the lifelike eyes, to extinguish that look that seemed to say: I'm done with it, Freddie. It's all yours now.

  It fell on me to call the funeral home. They showed up within an hour. Two men rang the doorbell. One looked like you'd expect an undertaker to look-black suit, gray hair slicked back, waxen smile. The other wore the same suit, but it was too big for him. He didn't look much older than Joey. They expressed condolences and asked to see the deceased-had they said "the stiff," I wouldn't have been surprised. Five minutes later my father was on a gurney, zipped up in a black plastic bag, and taken out like the trash.

  After they took him, I noticed I was shivering. Sweat from my run home had condensed into a clammy film that made my shirt cling to my skin. I built a fire in the fireplace and sat on the floor warming myself, listening to the crackling of the wood, trying to make sense of what had happened. In the garret, the music box still played, and I could hear my mother singing along.

  The funeral was brief. The minister from the tabernacle stood by the sheet of AstroTurf that covered the dirt pile and chided my father for not being a church goer while praising my mother for her faith. Then he asked the three sons if we wanted to say anything-my mother was too distraught. Joey stood there and cried, but Richie kept poking me.

  "You do it, Freddie."

  I tried, knowing my father deserved it. I opened my mouth to speak.

  "My father was-"

  I was unable to continue. The people around me breathed in, a collective sigh like wind stirring over grass, and then silence. I tried to go on. It was expected. The good son.

  But the words caught in my throat. I swallowed and shook my head at the minister, feeling like all joy had vanished from the world.