We’ll just see about all this change stuff. 7th Avenue was still his neighborhood, and change didn’t happen unless and until he agreed to it. With his hands still in his pockets, Morroc pirouetted with the grace of a professional dancer, nodding his head at the same time. Yep, we’ll just see about all this change stuff. Just wait until tonight.
MORROC decided, given his recent run in with Johnny Law, he needed to be discrete about executing his plan that involved the execution and removal of the Buddha statue, so he hung low for a couple days until everything seemed normal, and no one appeared to pay him any attention. Then, around three a.m. on the morning of the third day after his release, he paid a visit to the corner of 7th and Mission Way.
As Morroc strolled down the street, he noticed all the street lights lit for the first time in as long as he could remember. Even so, the distance between them left potholes of darkness with eerie shadows conducive to the kind of mischief and mayhem he had planned. The half-baked moon played peek-a-boo with him as wispy clouds moved across its path. He could feel the coolness of the fall night air, his favorite time of the year, even now creeping onto the stage of life. Time to get things in his neighborhood back to order.
Tonight he carried more than his switchblade. Over the past few days, he had added to his arsenal. From the belt that held up his green khaki pants hung a recently sharpened machete in its leather sheath. He carried in his left hand a crowbar, and in his right, a heavy iron-headed wood maul. He’d never seen such a tool before entering O'Leary's Tool and Hardware, but was instantly impressed by the tool that resembled a cross between a sledge hammer and an ax.
Walking over to where the Buddha statue sat in its perpetual position of meditation, Morroc was relieved to find the streets deathly quiet with no cadre of worshippers or curiosity seekers. He was alone to do the job without witnesses or interference.
As he approached the Buddha statue, he leaned the wood maul and crowbar against the old oak tree. He remembered sitting under this tree many times over the last twenty years. It had been a favorite place to meet his friends after school for a friendly, and sometimes not so friendly, game of stickball. The tree had been smaller back then, hardly more than a sapling, and much more friendly, Morroc thought. It had grown old and diseased, having suffered its own assault by a hard life on 7th Avenue.
Morroc pulled the machete out of its sheath and swung it around like a sword, its blade catching the light of the closest street lamps. He walked slowly around the statue studying it for a moment. There was no hurry. Plenty of time to slice it into tiny pieces. How could something so innocuous, even innocent, have caused such a change to his neighborhood? It was just a painted lump of some unknown material, possibly wood, that had been manufactured into the shape of a holy man from far away that some of the local yahoos believed possessed special powers.
That was it, wasn’t it? The only power the damn thing possessed was the power of perception. If enough of the silly people in his neighborhood perceived something had special powers, then it did. Wasn’t that how Morroc had carved out his own little niche of influence and power? When folks started perceiving him to be “one hard-ass rock of a dude”, then that is what he became. It was just that simple. Morroc stopped pacing around the statue and instead stepped closer to it. Staring it straight in its tranquil face, he smiled.
“This town is too small for the two of us, Buddha-boy. One of us has got to go, and since I was born in this rat-trap, you’ll just need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
With that declaration, Morroc raised the machete high over his head and swung it in a wide, vicious arch intended to separate the smiling head from its rotund body. But nothing happened—not a sound, not an impact—nothing. At first, Morroc thought the statue must have been made of something much less substantial than he’d imagined. Maybe it’s just painted styrofoam or some flimsy balsa wood, Morroc thought, expecting the head to roll from its body any second, but it didn’t. The statue appeared completely unaffected by the attack. So Morroc swung a second time with the same lack of results. Still nothing. It felt like he had tried to slice a cloud.
Maybe the few beers I had earlier in the evening have dulled my aim, Morroc thought. He glanced over to where the crowbar and wood maul rested against the oak. Time to bring in the big gun. He dropped the machete to the sidewalk and then jumped in surprise at the loud clanging sound of metal on cement.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”
He tiptoed over to the oak tree and hefted the wood maul with both hands. “Yeah, this will do nicely,” he said softly as he walked back to the Buddha statue. He squared himself up, spreading his legs in a wide stance and took aim at the center of the head. He lifted the maul high over his head, intending to crash it down on the Buddha’s head.
And that’s when it hit him; a wave of compassion and love beyond anything he had ever experienced, freezing him in his tracks, the weapon suspended in mid-air, a look of shocked amazement on his face.
As he stood there, a vision of his dearly departed grandmother slipped quietly into this mind. Grandma Josephine, who’d been the best part of his early childhood memories, had exuded compassion and a love for life that Morroc had never before or since experienced. But she had died suddenly without warning, leaving a raw empty hole in the young boy’s heart. A wound that had long since scarred over, transforming his heart into a hard, calloused rock of apathy and hate.
Morroc felt the warm trail of tears run down his face at the memory of the one woman who had truly exhibited unconditional love for him. “Why did you leave me?” The question had haunted him for years. “Why didn’t you take me with you, Grandma?” But once again, as had happened so many times before, no answers came to his questions.
Morroc shook his head to clear his mind, and the vision evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. He raised the wood maul higher in the air with a renewed intention to destroy the statue before him, but once again he was stopped a split second before his arms started their journey downward, this time by a voice.
Break the cycle. Just three words. Words that made no sense to Morroc, but before he could resume the blow, the voice repeated, Break the cycle.
Break what cycle? Morroc wondered, as he looked around. Not seeing anything resembling a bike or motorcycle, he turned back to the statue, and once again heard the voice, this time more adamantly, say, Break the cycle of the past.
Oh, that cycle, Morroc thought, as he slowly lowered the wood maul. A spark of comprehension began to form in his mind as the wave of love and compassion massaged his heart.
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” he yelled at the statue. What the hell am I doing? he thought, as his words reverberated down the empty street. I’m yelling at a lump of nothingness. Get on with what I came here to do. But still he stood there staring at the statue’s eyes that seemed locked on his own.
Then the image of the statue was replaced by another vision — this one of a 7th Avenue of a time long ago. There, a much younger and smaller Morris was coming to the plate, not with a wood maul in his hand but a stick—the best the neighborhood kids could do for a bat. And there on the mound was Eli winding up to pitch the ball, a black orb covered with electrical tape, the original cover of the ball having fallen off long before.
Morroc remembered that day from so long ago. It had been the day before the incident in the schoolyard when he’d stuck Bubba, been tossed out of school for it, and his life had spiraled down an entirely different path.
Break the cycle, the voice repeated more softly this time, and as the words hung in the air, he heard voices behind him. He turned around to see who was intruding on his clandestine mission, only to find the scene before him had changed once more. This time, it was a vision of 7th Avenue just a couple days ago. There again were young boys of all ages and sizes just loitering on the street with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Nothing to do but get in trouble, Morroc thought, or was that the voice again? It wa
s getting harder to tell the two apart.
The maul, now lowered to his side, fell from his hand and clattered to the sidewalk pavement. Something strange was going on here. Something he needed to pay attention to. He turned back to the statue with a renewed respect for it.
“Okay, I get it. The kids in my neighborhood are as lost and confused as I was.” He spoke softly, almost in a whisper. The last thing he needed to get around the neighborhood was that he’d been caught talking to the damn thing. “But what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I’m just one guy with a long rap sheet of petty crimes. No one’s going to listen to me.”
Nothing happened. What did he expect? The damn thing was a lump of nothingness. He started to glance down to where he’d dropped the maul, but before he could pick it up, he heard a new sound behind him, like the chord from a celestial harp.
He swung around and there, off in the distance across the railroad tracks, was a beam of light engulfing O'Leary's Tool & Hardware.
“What the...” Morroc turned back to the statue. “That music was really cheesy, you know that, don’t you?” Had the statue's shoulders shrugged just a bit?
Morroc knew the owner. He’d been in the store as recently as a few days ago when he’d purchased the tools for tonight’s mission. The guy seemed to be an okay sort of person, but so what? What did he or his store have to do with all this? He stood on the street corner for several minutes pondering the question. The music had disappeared, as had the light over the store. Everything was back to normal.
Well, maybe not quite everything. Something had fundamentally changed within the young black man. It would take him a few days to sort it all out. Meanwhile, the statue would remain. Three days later, Morroc walked into O'Leary's store with an idea and a proposition.
Two Years Later
THEY CALLED THE BOY standing on the mound “Little Eli” even though he was only a few inches shorter than his old man and could throw a fastball harder and more accurately than anyone in the state, as he once again proved by striking out the final batter with only four pitches.
His teammates stormed the mound, threatening to knock the tall boy off his feet as they jumped on him, slapping him with their baseball caps and cheering. The O'Leary's Hardware team had won their twelfth game in a row and was heading to the state Little League championship. Coach Morroc beamed from the sidelines as his young players celebrated the victory. Before joining them on the field, he turned to the cheering crowd of proud parents in the stands. He caught Marcus O'Leary's attention where he stood next to Molly. Morroc flashed them a two-thumbs-up sign that they promptly returned.
Before the day was out, the three friends would make it a point to swing by 7th Avenue and Mission Way to give thanks once again to the Buddha, but they’d probably leave the ball cap on his head...at least until after the state finals were over.
Elliot Savant
A STRONG BELIEF AMONG many of the founding residents of Foster Flat is that the magical powers from Foster’s collection are heightened by a special ley line that runs through the center of town before continuing to Asheville and beyond. This same ley line is reported to run through Mt. Mitchell north of Foster Flat. Mt. Mitchell is not only known for being the highest peak of the Appalachian Mountains, but many feel that a trek up to its summit is a great way to awaken one's soul consciousness.
Of course, I don’t know if any of this is true or not. I’m just reporting a few tidbits of what I’ve heard all my life growing up in this small town. I do know that when you combine the reported magical powers, the spiritual ley lines of the area, and the imagination of a young boy...well, it’s the making of an interesting story—like the one that follows.
Mimi Rawlins
DODGER weaved his way through the cluster of automobiles lining the front of the strip shops, sliding his skateboard expertly in and out with easy grace. His eyes, half closed behind the mirrored sunglasses, saw each hunk of metal not as dusty, salt-encrusted road machines but as sculptured monoliths of an alien civilization placed in his path as an impediment to his final destination. His destination was not the neighborhood Vantage Drug Store as an innocent bystander might think but the lair of Dodger's arch villain, the Grand Torturer himself—Clevis the Clever.
Dodger cut in tightly on the last barrier, an ancient black Cadillac with more years on its frame than Dodger had on his thirteen-year-old body. He was just rounding the left rear fin, having weaved out wide to avoid the Caddy's trailer hitch when something from inside smacked the rear window. The impact was with such force that Dodger veered sharply away to miss the shards of glass he expected to come raining down on him.
"What the...", he muttered as he regained his balance. He paused a moment to catch his breath before pushing himself back towards the ancient auto. As he approached the Cadillac, he noticed the out of state plates—Illinois. Dodger hadn't paid much attention in geography class but knew Illinois was a far cry from the quiet mountain village of Foster Flat, North Carolina, where his mother had imprisoned him for the summer—again—with Uncle Matt. He still remembered her conversation on the phone, the one Dodger wasn't supposed to hear.
"I don't know how I'll ever repay you for this, Matt. I really appreciate it. I just need to rest for a couple months. I don't know what else to do with him. It's gotten to the point I don't know what I can believe from him anymore. Everything that comes out of his mouth is suspect."
She paused for a moment, then continued. "I know boys have vivid imaginations at his age, but Dodger can't seem to tell the difference between a vivid imagination and out and out lying. I'm afraid he'll end up a juvenile delinquent. The time with you is exactly what he needs—the firm hand of a man."
As if Uncle Matt could provide such a thing, Dodger thought as he slipped beside the black Caddy and tipped the rear of the skateboard up, catching the front end with expert ease. The Caddy's windows were darkly tinted, making it almost impossible to see inside. It was an amateurish job, and the many trapped bubbles of air distorted the view further. On the side panel of the front door, an equally amateurish sign read, "FORTUNES FROM THE FUTURE, Pasquill Ill."
Where else would fortunes come from if not from the future? Dodger wondered. He glanced around to be sure the owner wasn't returning. Confirming that the coast was clear, Dodger eased himself towards the rear side window. Wonder what's inside that made that noise, Dodger thought, as he tried to peer through the dark glass. Might be a poor dog left abandoned by its dumb owner. If so, it wouldn't be any time before the animal would fry in the summer heat. Especially since the windows weren't even cracked open.
Dodger pressed his face against the glass, cupping a hand on either side to reduce the glare of the sun. He could just make out the details of the back seat, or more accurately, the lack of one. In its place, running the entire width of the interior, was a gray wooden box that looked like a handmade coffin. The open top rested against the back of the seat, which had been left in place. As Dodger's eyes adjusted to the change in light, he could make out the irregular line of holes drilled into the thick wood and the bent remains of a hinged latch, its screws torn from the bottom of the box.
Whatever is in there must be a mighty powerful animal to tear itself free from its prison, Dodger thought. An instant later, the animal bounced from the front seat, off the window Dodger was looking through and landed half in and half out of the box in the back seat. With his nose pressed against the glass, Dodger felt the impact just before he flung himself away from the car, his heart pounding as though it would crack his ribs from the inside.
"Holy shit!" Dodger screamed, stumbling back from the car, dropping his skateboard, then tripping over it and falling on the hot asphalt. Luckily, the thick denim jeans and knee and elbow pads he wore protected him from scraping anything other than his pride.
He sat there for several seconds, stunned and embarrassed. He glanced around, then breathed a sigh of relief when he realized no one had seen him fall. He jumped up before anyone wal
ked out of the stores.
What had it been? His mind had a split-second snapshot of something moving at blazing speed straight towards his face, but the image was too blurred to tell what it was.
As Dodger crept back towards the rear window of the car, his imagination began to fill in the missing details. Maybe it had been a chimpanzee, like the one he'd seen in the Barnum and Bailey Circus a few years back. Maybe the owner of the Caddy made his livelihood stealing valuable animals and selling them back to distraught owners.
Or maybe it was an experimental prototype of some scientific research to design the perfect fighting machine. Nah, whatever it was, it was way too small for combat.
Only one way to find out, Dodger told himself, as he eased up to the Caddy, keeping his head below the line of the rear window. He glanced around one last time to be sure no one was approaching, and then, like a frightened soldier sticking his head out of a fox hole, peered over the rim of the window.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he found himself staring into a pair of anguished eyes. The animal sat on its haunches on the now closed wooden lid, panting heavily. It wiped a thin layer of froth from its mouth, never taking its eyes off Dodger.
As the two of them studied each other, Dodger felt a warm glow that started in his toes and seeped up both his legs, as though he was easing himself into a warm bath. The eyes spoke to him, sharing the loneliness of their owner, the desire for someone – anyone – to understand. Dodger understood. In that brief moment, he knew he was bonded for life like twins are bonded, as a mother is bonded to her child, like true friends who have lived through a life-threatening experience are connected for a lifetime and then some.
Fantastic Fables of Foster Flat Page 4
