by C. D. Bryan
Thomas began laughing too, bringing his own nervous state to ease. “Ha ha, very funny,” he said.
“Oh beans,” blurted J.R., checking the time. “It’s 7:20; my mom is gonna kill me if I’m not home on time. I have to go.”
“Come on,” said Pip. “I’ll show you a shortcut through the park, follow me.”
J.R. felt a little reluctant with Pip’s follow-the-leader routine, especially since it had brought them to a near death encounter with what he was sure must have been Zeek. But he didn’t have much of a choice. Pip was already off and running, blanket and gym bag tucked under her arm. So, J.R. and Thomas made a dash to try to catch up, and J.R. got a firsthand taste of how fast Thomas could run.
Pip stopped in the bushy easement across the street from the house on that corner, and threw the blanket over her head to hide herself.
Seconds later J.R. looked back at Thomas, “Where’d she go?”
“Oh brother, I don’t know,” responded Thomas.
They continued running toward the street. But when a ghostly figure stood up, and turned in the direction facing them, both J.R. and Thomas jumped and did an about-face in midair and started running in the opposite direction.
“Hey wait,” yelled Pip, as the boys ran for their lives. “It’s me. Where are you going?”
The two of them stopped and slumped over to catch their breath. They looked up at each other and shook their heads.
“What are you trying to do, Pip,” yelled Thomas, “scare the life out of us?”
“Shhhh . . .” ordered Pip as a powerful beam of light panned over them. “It’s the guard. He must have heard you boys screaming. And look there, look at that.” Pip pointed at the house.
Thomas and J.R. looked on in amazement at the floating, flying silhouettes drifting about in the large windows of the Sleeper’s house. Some looked like flapping bat wings, and others flew about like gliders.
“Wow, you’re right,” admitted J.R. “That is strange.”
“I know I’m right,” replied Pip, “and for your initiation, you have to go look in the window and see what they are, and knock on the door to get him to answer.”
“What? No way,” said J.R. “I gotta get home, besides I don’t want anything to do with that funny business.”
“That’s right,” said a familiar deep English-accented voice coming from the shadows. “It’s funny business that’s none of your business. You kids high-tail it out of here.”
Pip and Thomas took off running and screaming at the top of their lungs. But J.R. stumbled backwards to the ground in a state of shock and fear. A tall dark image came out of the shadows. J.R. twisted around to his hands and knees then pushed off into a sprint.
“J.R.,” yelled Pip “grab my gym bag, I dropped it.”
J.R. did just as she asked, swooping it up as he ran past. Man alive, he thought, this thing weighs a ton. But regardless of the weight, he ran at top speed. First he sprinted by Thomas, then by Pip, and then passed the house on that corner. And with every stride, J.R. increased his distance from Pip and Thomas. The three of them ran down the street and toward town.
J.R. finally slowed to a jog and flopped down on the ground under a tree, dropping Pip’s bag, and dumping some of its contents.
He took a moment to catch his breath and then began picking up Pip’s things. Among them was an odd shoebox-sized chest. It was heavy. And he could see it was made of redwood.
“Wow, so it is true, this must be what they were talking about.”
He looked back for Pip and Thomas, who were still two blocks away. He knocked on the surface of the chest. It sounded hollow. The outside was covered with a green flaky mineral. And under it was some kind of barely-visible ancient writing; a gold-colored hieroglyphic type of artwork. J.R. knew that whatever it was, it was special, and it was also probably very old.
He looked at his pocket watch. It was 7:30 P.M. and he was still a few minutes from home. He slid the chest back into Pip’s bag as Pip and Thomas grew nearer.
“Pip,” shouted J.R., “I have to get home, I’m late . . . I’ll give you your bag tomorrow, Ok? See ya Thomas.”
“Ok,” yelled Pip, seeming not to care too greatly.
“See ya,” yelled Thomas.
J.R. felt a little strange about it, but he could feel some kind of weird connection to the ancient looking chest, and he needed to examine it more closely.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Artifacts are Not What They Seem
J.R. flung the screen door open and charged through the back door into the kitchen. He glanced at the pocket watch.
“Crud . . . 7:44,” he said with a sigh as his mother walked in and turned off the beeping microwave. “Hi, Mom, love ya. I’ll be in my room, night.” He turned to make a quick escape up the staircase.
“Hold on, young man,” she said. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, and where have you been? You know 7:30 was our agreement. You should have been home by now. Actually that means walking through the door at 7:25 so you’re sure to be here on time.”
“Yes ma’am, I know, but it’s just that . . . you see . . . you wouldn’t believe the day that I’ve had and well, it is my fault, yes, for being late, that is.” He couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth, and apparently neither could his mother who looked surprised by his admission.
“Ok, tell me what it is that you think I won’t believe.”
J.R. rattled off every last detail right down to the color of the track, the phone ringing in the phone booth, the friends he had made, and the dog in the woods. He deliberately left out the part about the house, Pip’s gym bag and the wooden chest, which was dangling behind his legs.
“It won’t happen again, I double promise,” he said.
The two of them stood quietly while looking at one another. J.R. was waiting for the verdict; unsure if he’d be found guilty and grounded, or if she’d believe he had a really bizarre day and let him off? He gazed around the kitchen, trying to look innocent, and spied the brown paper package from his Uncle Travis. He had completely forgotten about it in all the day’s craziness. His anticipation peaked. He grinned.
“Ok, J.R., I’ll let it go this time. I know kids have crazy days too, but just this once and I mean it . . .” She hardly had a chance to finish her last word before J.R. snatched up the brown package and ran towards the steps.
“I better get to bed,” he said. “I’m really tired. Exhausted is more like it. This has been the strangest day of my life. And oh, don’t forget tomorrow’s Thursday. I have a track meet. Hope you and Grandfather can make it. Thanks. Night.”
“Sleep tight,” she responded.
Halfway up the staircase, J.R. stopped and removed his shoes since his grandfather sometimes fell asleep early in the evening.
He tiptoed into his room, closed the door, locked it and flipped on the light.
“Jicky-Jack, I’m back,” he said, reaching for the wooden statue only to discover it was gone. He glanced around the room. “Where’d that thing go?”
He off-loaded his backpack and shoes onto the floor at the foot of his bed, and carefully placed Pip’s bag next to his. Then his mind skipped past the statue and on to his curiosity with the chest, and the package from his Uncle Travis, eager to see what was inside both.
He placed his marble next to the desk lamp and hung the pocket watch on the lamp switch. Wasting no time, he turned on a flashlight, doused the bedroom light and rolled into his hideaway under the bed. After wedging the flashlight in the box spring above his head he reached out from under the bed and pulled the chest out of Pip’s bag. Then he blindly grabbed whatever cloth he could get his hand on to clean it.
The chest was caked with dirt and some kind of mineral in some places, and dried mud in others. As he rubbed most of it off, he could see its markings weren’t like any he’d ever seen in any of his junior archeology books. He pushed the dirt into a pile, covered it with the cloth, and examined the chest. “Hmm, strange
, no hinges, no knobs, and no keyhole.” The closer he looked at it the more his curiosity grew. As he rubbed his bare hand across the surface of the chest the entire thing began glowing blue. He immediately dropped it on the floor and pushed it to the far end under his bed where it stopped glowing. “Okay, you’re going back in the bag, that’s for sure.”
But first he decided to open the package from his Uncle Travis. And inside he found a brown cardboard box holding another box made of green jade. Its inside was filled with golden-colored straw, and atop of that was a folded piece of paper. J.R. opened the paper and read:
~~~~
Dear J.R.
Hope everything is going well for you and your mom and grandpa. Tell everyone we said hi. I know it’s that time of year when school’s almost out and track season is winding down. Hope you did well this year.
As you can tell from the postage, your dad and I are in China. We just left India last week. We’ve been very busy. We’ll probably be here for another four to five weeks. Anyway, sorry if this is arrives late… it’s your birthday present. I thought it might be a nice addition to your junior archeology collection you said you were building. Besides, as weird as this sounds the old couple I purchased it from begged and begged me to buy it, saying someone I knew needed it. Boy was that a funny sales pitch. They said it will tick uncontrollably at times and it has ancient powers. He also said he thought that it came from one of the Americas. Not so sure I believe all that, but just the same I call it the “Timble-Ticker,” what do ya think?
Anyway, I couldn’t pass it up. The ole guy said it’s one of a set of two, as he knew it, and that it had been dated back to the fifteenth century. Can you believe it, J.R.? The little, three-sided pyramid you have in your hands is over 500 years old. Yeah, not sure that I believe it either, but who knows . . . Well, I gotta run. Happy Birthday.
Love and Friendship,
Uncle Travis
a.k.a. Traveling Travis
~~~~
J.R. dumped the Timble-Ticker, into his hand, pricking his finger on one of its tips. “Ouch. Wow, 500 years old huh?” he whispered. He set the three-sided pyramid upright in his palm. It was heavy for its size. It must be made of bronze, he thought, noting its green-colored appearance. He immediately noticed that each side was decorated with designs and symbols, very similar to those on the chest, he thought.
“A Timble-Ticker, huh, what’re your ancient powers?” he whispered, as he reached over and set it on the surface of the wooden chest where it began to vibrate and rumble out of control. His eyes widened in surprise. And at the same time there was a knock at his bedroom door, followed by the sound of the doorknob rattling. In no time at all J.R. managed to scoop up the pyramid, return it to the jade container and replace the lid. He quickly turned off his flashlight and listened. The Timble-Ticker, much like a bee’s buzz, vibrated twice more as if rebelling for being placed back in the box. J.R. settled his head into his pillow, flicked on the flashlight, looked down at the chest and the jade box containing the Timble-Ticker, then he killed the light. The knocking continued at the door, this time in a tapping kind of way, but no one said anything. He lay completely still pretending to be asleep. The door knob rattled more. “Maybe I should answer it,” he whispered, “Nah.”
Soon the tapping stopped.
He looked in the direction of the chest near his feet. “That really freaked me out,” he mumbled, staring at it and not feeling too sure he wanted to close his eyes and leave it unattended. A long while passed and he tried to keep a focus on it. But his eyes closed ever so reluctantly as he whispered, “I wonder where my statue went?”
CHAPTER NINE
Time is Lost
J.R. hurried down the stairs turning the corner to the kitchen and heading for the back door. “Hi, Mom, Bye, Mom” he said, halfway out the door. “See ya at my track meet.”
“Why, J.R. Timble,” said his mother. “Where are you going?”
“What do you mean? I’m going to school. I have my last track meet today.”
“J.R., honey, come here,” said his mother, her voice soft and tender and her arms reaching out. “Sit down.”
J.R. did just as she asked, while looking at his grandfather’s watch at the same time.
“Sweetie, what do you mean you’re going to school? Do you know what day it is? It’s Saturday. The last day of school was yesterday; your last track meet was on Thursday . . . the day before yesterday, and the track and field competition was yesterday, Friday. There is no school. Not until fall now.”
J.R.’s cocked his head to the side. “What? But . . . how?” he said, “I mean I just woke up, and just now I—” He was speechless and bewildered, how could I have missed two days of my life and not even know it, he thought. He looked at the calendar on the wall near the phone and sure enough it was turned to Saturday.
“Mom, something’s wrong here. I have school. I have a track meet today, and tomorrow I have my track and field.”
“No, J.R., that’s all done,” she said again.
“But how can that be? I don’t remember a thing. Wouldn’t I remember all that? Wouldn’t I remember my races and all, and you and Grandfather at my meet?”
“Listen, J.R., I know this is hard and there’s a reasonable explanation. Grandpa and I never made it to your track meet. But you won three of the four races that you were in and a medal for each win. You made a big deal out of beating the pants off some kid named Preston, something about him calling you “Lil’ Boy Blue,” and you missed school yesterday.” She became silent, and tears slowly pooled in her eyes.
J.R. moved to a different frame of mind. If Mom is crying, he thought, something is seriously wrong.
“These kinds of things are hard,” she said. “And we often go into denial when they happen.”
“When what happens, Mom?”
“Grandpa . . . sweetheart . . . I came to pick you up from school Thursday, before your track meet, but I changed my mind and let you stay instead. He would have wanted it that way. He would have wanted his jackrabbit to run his races.”
“What are you talking about, Mom?”
“Sweetheart, Grandpa’s gone,” said his mother. “He died on Thursday.”
J.R.’s skin filled with goose bumps.
“Sometimes our mind does strange things to us,” she said, “like making us intentionally forget things until we can deal with them. It’s trying to protect us.” She wiped away her tears.
J.R. tried and tried but couldn’t remember supposedly winning three of his four races and beating Preston. And he certainly couldn’t remember losing his grandfather. He felt robbed. Then finally, what his mother said settled in, denial or no denial. Grandfather was gone. J.R.’s heart sank deeper than he’d ever felt it go; a choking lump swelled inside his throat until he, too, let himself feel the loss. Tears rolled down his face and he embraced his mother and her pain. He wanted to make hers go away—more than his own.
“How, Mom? How?” he said, tears streaming from his eyes.
“While he was reading,” she said, catching her breath and gathering her composure. “You know how he was, he always liked reading and listening to that radio.” She took a moment’s break from the feelings. “Now you go put your stuff back and take the day off. If you need me, I’m here for you. You’re still Grandpa’s Jackrabbit, you know.” They both smiled behind the tears. “Oh, by the way,” she said. “It’s not really the time to talk about it in detail, but how many times do I have to ask you to keep your window closed? There was a bird in your room and I had to let it out.
“I don’t remember having it open in a while, mom. So, that’s weird. But I’ll remember from now on.”
“Of course you will,” said his mother as she gave him a big hug.
J.R. went back to his room, grabbed the Timble-Ticker, Pip’s gym bag, and the mystical chest. He felt lost. What happened, he wondered, how could I not remember school, the races, and most of all Grandfather? Maybe it’s that pandemic, ma
ybe I’m infected. Maybe it’s in my blood. But he reasoned that it wasn’t because he could still envision his dreams for his life. He pulled his pocket watch out, looked at the time, and then glanced out the window where he saw a shiny gray falcon sitting on the window’s ledge. “What the heck.” He moved closer for a better look.
The bird pecked on the window.
J.R.’s mind began racing. “No, that’s just not possible,” he said, putting the notion out of his mind that his statue was alive as the falcon now, or worse that maybe his grandfather was alive as the falcon now. He felt weird for even thinking such things. And suddenly the bird flew away. J.R. pulled the marble out of his pocket and rolled it through his fingers. “I have to do what Grandfather said,” he mumbled. “I have to keep following the signs and stop that pandemic.” He looked out the window and the bird was now back.
J.R. grabbed the rest of his things and ran down stairs and out of the house and looked at his bedroom window on the second floor. The falcon was gone. Then he looked to the sky, and circling above him, he saw the large wingspan of a bird he was sure must be the falcon. Then he took off running for the clubhouse, glancing up from time to time to check on the bird. It was following him like some kind of guardian. And something about that felt comforting to him. As a matter of fact, it followed him all the way to the clubhouse, which proved to be a wise choice for a destination because both Pip and Thomas were already there. And unbeknownst to J.R., they were waiting for him.
CHAPTER TEN
The Beans are Spilled on Dreams
J.R. approached the lean-to. He could hear Pip and Thomas talking. He looked to the sky but didn’t see the falcon. So, he shaded his eyes and after a few seconds of searching he saw it sitting on a short plateau jutting out of the cliff above. It was standing tall and keenly alert, as if on guard duty. Again, he found it comforting, especially in light of the dog episode last night—or two nights ago as his mother explained the lost time.
