by C. D. Bryan
“Excuse me again, Mr. Minion,” said Thomas his hand raised slightly, “I was wondering how—”
“Thomas Dean,” said Pip, kicking him, “Don’t you dare ask him that.”
“Ask him what?” said Thomas, frowning. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes I do,” she said.
“I was only going to ask—”
“Ask how old I am?” said Minion.
“Right,” answered Thomas, looking at Pip with a handsome grin.
“That’s ok,” Minion replied. “I’ve been asked such a question many times before. I am 164 years old, give or take a year.” He smiled and winked at Thomas. “I became what I am today, at the age of twelve. And I knew my life would never be the same.”
J.R. knew he needed to sit when he heard that. He, Thomas and Pip stared at each other in total disbelief as Minion threw some dust into the fire, causing it to roar with flames. Each of them rocked back momentarily and Minion leaned to the side, and with a grunt pulled a long buck knife out of a wooden stump. Thomas scooted back. Minion’s eyes shifted in his direction and he flashed Thomas a crooked smile. Minion skillfully carved some meat off the rotisserie and placed it on wooden plates and passed them around.
“Please eat,” said Minion. “It’s good and you must be hungry.”
The campfire crackled and whistled as everyone ate. J.R. watched Minion as he stood and prepared for some kind of ritual.
“I’m sure the three of you, especially you J.R., must be wondering what this is all about and why you’re here?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Great Things Come to Light
Minion reached into a leather pouch, and pulled out a handful of red sand, which ran through his fingers. He stepped away from the campfire and turned in a circle, spreading the sand in the same pattern. Then he sat in the middle, closed his eyes and began chanting and mumbling under his breath.
J.R., Pip and Thomas glimpsed at each other in between bites of the meat and wiping their mouths on their shirt sleeves and fingers on their pants.
“What’s he doing,” whispered Thomas as he grabbed the last piece of cornbread off the silver tray.
Both J.R. and Pip shrugged their shoulders. And not more than two seconds later Minion jumped to his feet.
“J.R. Timble,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Come here.”
J.R. leaped to his feet, taking a defensive stance out of fear while Pip shrieked and Thomas coughed out his bite of cornbread.
J.R. cautiously stepped toward Minion and the circle.
“J.R.,” said Minion, “I want you to step into this circle with me. Do you understand?”
“Easy enough,” said J.R. nodding his head.
“Good,” said Minion, “go.”
J.R. stepped forward, but Minion placed the palm of his hand on J.R.’s head and held J.R. away from the circle with a stiff straight arm. J.R. pushed forward harder and harder trying to make it into the circle.
“Come on, J.R.,” Minion ordered. “Step into the circle. Do it.”
“But I can’t,” replied J.R. “you’re holding my head and I can’t reach it.” J.R. finally stopped trying and looked up at Minion. “Why did you tell me to step into the circle if you weren’t going to let me do it?”
Pip moved closer to Thomas.
“For a simple lesson, J.R.,” said Minion, “You see, think of the inside of this circle as representing all your dreams of what you want to be and do in your life. And think of your attempt to step into the circle as representing your willpower. And then think of my arm as things that make it difficult for you to reach your dreams.”
“Ok,” said J.R., “so what’s the lesson?”
“The lesson,” answered Minion, “is in your reaction. What did you do when you encountered my arm, making it difficult for you to step into the circle with your dreams in it?”
J.R. looked at the ground. “I gave up,” he said, glancing back at Pip and Thomas.
“Ah yes,” responded Minion, “And that is the lesson . . . instead of giving up on reaching your dreams because of a challenge that makes it too hard, use your willpower and willing heart, and make another choice or decision on how you can reach those dreams.”
J.R. stepped back and nodded his head. “I get it, I should have found another way into the circle.”
“That’s right,” said Minion. “It’s the way of the Whiffler’s Legend.”
“Way of the Whiffler’s Legend?” asked J.R. “We’ve heard of that, what is it?”
Pip and Thomas scooted closer to listen.
“Well, the Whiffler’s Legend tells us there’s a Promise the Whiffler made, and it has a long and ancient history, J.R.,” answered Minion. “It came from a time when people were enslaved thousands of years ago. They were suppressed and held back from reaching their full potential and from leading happy and rewarding lives. And the Great Spirit disapproved of this. So, the Great Spirit first adopted a name so that all men, and lady,” Minion winked at Pip . . . “would know it easily by a name. This name was Whiffler. It means . . . to lead others. Next, the Great Spirit cast out hope and aspiration among all living people. And from that the people formed desires for dreams of what they wanted to be and do in their lives. But sadly, life for the vast majority of these people remained chaotic. They faced challenges and obstacles they could not overcome. So, they gave up and they were left with only their dreams and no potential of reaching them. They were people like you and me.”
Minion scratched his head, and then ran his fingers in a downward stroke over his Fu Manchu mustache. “So, once more the Great Spirit returned. It cast out among all the living people, and those who would succeed them, a new quality of life. It cast out a belief in a power higher and bigger than the Great Spirit itself; a power with instincts to satisfy dreams with a willing-heart. You and I call this willpower. And to help the people, the Great Spirit decided that there would always be one earthly being to hold the position of a leader for them, a protector of sort. He gave that person his own adopted name of Whiffler. So, the Whiffler is the one person who can lead the people and their willing-hearts, and protect their dreams. As for the Promise, that’s simple. The Great Spirit promised that all the dreams, of all humans, would be protected. So the Whiffler protects all dreams as if they were his or her own, and upholds the Great Spirit’s Promise, hence the legend calls it the Whiffler’s Promise. But just as importantly, the person who is Whiffler has to want to protect people’s dreams, and want to uphold the promise, and want to stop any suppression.”
“You mean suppression, like that Pandemic?” said J.R. “and how it’s infecting children?”
“Yes,” said Minion. “You see, children are the most vulnerable, and without the Whiffler to protect them and to keep them believing in themselves, they will lose their willing-hearts, their willpower, and they will give in to what society says they should be and do in life.”
Minion stopped and suddenly stumbled backward, as if exhausted or weak. He caught himself and held his posture upright, regaining his composure.
J.R. reached out to help him.
“Then who’s the current Whiffler?” asked J.R. “Who’s the Whiffler that leads the people, Minion? And who’s the man holding the chest with you in the photo?”
Minion smiled even though he didn’t look so well, beads of sweat dotting his brow. “I am J.R.,” he said. “I’m the current Whiffler, Protector-of-Dreams, and the man holding the chest with me is a former Whiffler’s Ambassador. He was an aid to me many years ago, but no longer. He’s been trying to overpower me for years. And the chest you opened, it’s where I hid all my sacred objects, which are now yours, J.R. I stored them in the chest for safe keeping, because I had to cast a sleeping spell on myself. The only thing missing is the sacred text, as we call it, find the sacred text . . .” He rubbed his eyes, and yawned—on the verge of falling asleep. Then he turned and entered his tepee. “You’re to take my place, J.R. You will be the
next Whiffler, the Protector-of-Dreams. But you have to want it. Your willing-heart has to want it.”
Pip looked at Thomas. “You were right. You saw it in your dream.”
J.R., Pip and Thomas followed Minion.
Minion had taken refuge in a bedded place on the floor of the tepee where he rested his head on a brown fur rolled into a pillow.
“Wait a minute,” said J.R. “What if I don’t want to be the protector, or the Whiffler of this Great Spirit’s dream? I mean, I don’t even know what Great Spirit you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, J.R.,” replied Minion. “It’s the highest spirit you believe in most. It’s the highest divine spirit that any individual believes in most, no matter what culture he or she is from.”
Minion’s head slowly tilted down then bobbed up twice. He was having trouble resisting the sleeping spell. He opened his eyes. “J.R.,” he whispered, “you must find . . .” He nodded off to sleep.
“What?” said J.R. “Must find what?” He gently shook Minion’s shoulder and Minion jerked his head up one last time.
“On . . . map . . . across street,” uttered Minion with a snort before settling back into the furs, “truth . . . beware.”
“Oh great, did you hear that?” whispered Thomas, holding his forehead, “his last word was ‘beware.’ What’s that supposed to mean? Beware of what?”
“Yeah, I heard it,” said J.R. “But what text? And what did he mean by map, across street?”
J.R., Pip and Thomas watched as Minion’s serious-looking face faded into a grin, as if he were already transcending into a deep, happy, dreamy-state of sleep.
“Well, looks like he’ll be out for a while,” whispered Pip, as Minion’s body rolled over and cuddled deep inside the bed of furs.
J.R. motioned for the three of them to leave, and tried to encourage the peregrine falcons to do the same but neither falcon moved. Instead they stood dutifully still at Minion’s side. It felt right, so J.R. left them. But what didn’t feel right was what they found when they stepped outside of the tepee.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Painting Names are Not a Game
J.R., Pip and Thomas found themselves stepping into a long hallway—a gallery of sort—filled with giant paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling.
“I guess looks are deceiving,” said J.R., as he glanced at Pip and smiled.
Pip quickly turned around to look for the teepee, but instead found a gigantic oil painting mounted on the wall.
“Hey, look,” said Thomas excitedly pointing at a giant oak door at the end of the long hallway. “Now we’re finally getting somewhere. And hopefully it’s out of here.”
“Guys… you better have a look at this,” whispered Pip, staring directly into the painting, which stood four times her own height. She glanced back at J.R. and Thomas who were heading down the long hallway toward the door. “Hey you two… look at this painting, it’s the place we just left. It’s Minion’s teepee and camp fire, and everything. And you won’t believe this. All three of us are in the painting. Me and Thomas are setting next to the campfire, and Minion is standing in a circle, and J.R., you’re standing right next to him.”
J.R. and Thomas both stopped.
“Really?” asked Thomas.
“Really,” said Pip. “Take a look for yourself. And there’s more.”
J.R. and Thomas wasted no time checking out the painting.
“It is me,” said Thomas, “I’m in a painting, how cool is that and look,” he pointed at a gold nameplate fastened on the wall next to it, “this must be its name, Dream Sanctuary.”
“Probably,” said Pip, stepping over to the next painting and glancing down the hall at what was at least another twenty, similar in size, hanging on both sides of the hall. “Look at this one, it says, The Ambassador’s League, and look there are three people with missing faces in this one.”
“Weird,” said J.R., looking it over.
“And look at this one guys,” said Thomas. “It’s called The Underground Gates and it has the same thing, three people with missing faces.
Suddenly, a blustery gust of cold wind blew past the three of them and down the hallway, causing all the paintings to lift away from the wall in a domino effect.
“Okay,” said Thomas. “I don’t know what just happened, but whatever it was it can’t be good. And look,” he pointed toward the door, “there’s not even a single window in this hallway, so where did the wind come from.”
“Hey, look at the Dream Sanctuary painting,” said Pip. “Minion’s gone.”
“And gone sounds like a good idea to me,” said Thomas, turning for the oak door. “I’m getting out of this place.”
J.R. grabbed Thomas by the elbow. “Wait a second Thomas we should all go together.” But first he glanced at the painting and sure enough Minion was gone. Then, the three of them crossed the hall where they stood in front of another painting but this one was different. The canvas was completely black—lifeless of any color at all. And it was fully encased behind wrought-iron bars covering it from top to bottom like prison bars.
“Wow, this one’s odd,” said J.R., puzzled by the fact that it was the only one in the hall with bars around it. He looked at its name plate and read the painting title, “League Prison.” He looked over his shoulder at Pip and Thomas, “What?”
J.R. cautiously raised his hands to the bars. And just as he gripped them, with lightening speed, dozens of black outreaching hands and arms shot out of the painting’s surface and grabbed him. And others knocked Pip and Thomas backwards, causing them to fall to the floor.
J.R. struggled against the strength of the black hands, “WHAT—HEY—STOP, LET GO OF ME,” yelled J.R. at the top of his voice. “Help… Help Me…. Let Go of Me.”
J.R. tried to turn his head slightly looking back for Pip and Thomas, but one of the hands was wrapped around his head pulling it, forcefully, into the bars. And several more, at least six, firmly held J.R. by his arms while others wrapped around to his back, pulling him toward the painting, pressings his body tightly against the bars.
“Thomas, Pip, help me,” J.R. continued yelling in a panic his lips hardly able to move against the bars.
And just as quickly, the surface of the painting began turning gray in its center and white around its edges. And then faces began to push their way out, pressing themselves against the bars. At first they began moaning and groaning. Then, they began speaking, repeating the same word over and over; in a long, slow, drawn out and barely understandable voice, a lot like J.R. imagined a zombie might sound . . . “N e e e . . . v v v . . . e e e r r r r N e e e . . . v v v . . . e e e r r r r, N e e e . . . v v v . . . e e e r r r r .”
J.R. pushed against the bars with all his strength. “Help me—” he yelled frantically, fighting to push himself away from the bars.
Thomas jumped to his feet and grabbed J.R. by the waist and as he did so one of the black hands began trying to peel Thomas’ fingers back, to free his grip on J.R.
Pip just as quickly started violently hammering on the hands and arms with her fists. “Pull Thomas,” she screamed, “pull.”
Some of the hands momentarily let go, but only to return, and then dog’s muzzles pushed their way out of the canvas surface too. Snapping and growling trying to bite at Pip as she hammered on the arms and hands pulling at J.R.
J.R. pressed his knees against the bars and used his legs to push away too. And as he did he could see one of the black hands was carefully reaching into his pocket. And not a second later it came out, with its finger hooked around the gold chain of his Grandfather’s pocket watch.
“Pip,” yelled J.R. “My watch, grab my watch, don’t let it take my watch.”
Pip lunged in to hammer on one of the arms one last time and was nipped by the dog’s muzzle. She immediately retracted her arm, but like a bolt of lightning she grabbed the watch just as it was pulled from J.R.’s pocket. And as she did, the finger pulled the gold chain taught.
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Then just as quickly, all the hands released J.R. He and Thomas flew back and hit the floor.
And all the hands began reaching for Pip, and the watch in her hand. The dog’s muzzles violently snapped at anything that moved and bit at the chain and ultimately the finger hooking the chain.
Then just as quickly Pip fell backwards and hit the floor and dropped the watch.
The pocket watch hit the floor, bounced and landed in J.R.’s lap.
The three of them pushed themselves across the hall with their backs against the wall as the hands and arms kept reaching and grabbing through the bars at open air. Then, one by one the faces and dog muzzles started to withdraw back into the painting’s canvas, and then the hands followed.
J.R., Thomas and Pip sat as still as they could possibly sit, hearts pounding, breathing heavily to catch their breaths.
“Let’s,” said J.R. taking three deep breaths before finishing, “get out of here.”
There was no argument. The three of them pushed themselves up and ran for the door.
“J.R.,” said Thomas, “why would they want it? What’s so important about it?”
The three of them reached the door. Pip was busy looking through the key hole.
“Thomas,” said J.R. “I don’t really know. It has some kind of powers is all I know.”
“Come on,” said Pip, and together, they pushed the colossal-sized door as hard as they could and it opened, a mere foot.
Pip and Thomas sidestepped through first. However, J.R. looked back.
“J.R.,” whispered Pip, “where are you?”
“Be right there,” answered J.R.
He looked back down the hall and saw a small glowing light in the surface of The Ambassador’s League painting and ran to investigate. He cautiously looked over his shoulder at the black painting behind the bars. There was nothing there. And when he looked back at The Ambassador’s League painting, the glowing light was gone, and in its place, in the foreground, stood Minion.
