by Jenn Kelly
Meeka chewed on the ends of her hair.
“Jackson, I’m apprenticing to be a Dreamgiver,” he said.
Jackson nodded, as if to say, “Please go on as I need more information, and you’d better use words I understand because I don’t feel like standing around all day asking questions about answers that I need to keep asking questions about in order to get the answer.” You know that nod. I’m sure you’ve given it yourself.
“Let’s walk.” They turned down the path. “I assume you’ve heard all about the Author from Eleissa? Knowing Meeka, she took you to see Eleissa. She can’t help but show off her family.”
Meeka twittered behind them and Josh smiled at her. Jackson stopped walking.
They had come to a river.
The river was calm as the water slowly trickled by. It looked cool and refreshing. It was the kind of river that made you desperately thirsty just looking at it. Weeping willows stretched their long branches over the water, their tips dangling like lazy fingers, drawing enigmatic circles in its current. You could imagine yourself leaning against those glorious willows, their long branches hiding you in your own private shady oasis. You could lay there for hours, throwing duck feed at ducks, twiddling cattails in your fingers and daydreaming about absolutely nothing. Jackson could hear the calls of the birds hidden in the limbs. A chirping frog called its mate.
“The Author created every one of us, which makes us the same. No one is more important than another, or less important. We are all equal. The thing that separates everyone, that makes each person special, is the story he created for each of us. And each story is full of excitement and adventure, sadness and joy. And each story, your story, my story, Meeka’s story—they all intertwine, like rope.”
“Or like hair?” Jackson mused aloud.
Josh laughed. “Yeah, like hair.”
Josh bent down and picked up a pine needle. He twirled it gently between his fingers as he kept talking. “But people have a choice. They can be the hero in their own story and succeed, or they can try to be the hero in someone else’s story and fail.”
“What do you mean?”
Josh’s serene voice continued. “Let’s say someone was born to play the piano. His purpose, the story of his life, was to make beautiful music. And the people who listened to his music, they would have felt his happiness, the joy that comes from doing what the Author wanted him to do. But let’s say this same man decided to listen to what the world told him. And in this case, the world told him to be a successful businessman. So he worked very hard at learning the numbers and the ways of business. But as he got older, he strayed further and further away from his story, and soon he forgot he had one. He was secretly unhappy and had no idea why. But it was because it wasn’t his story he was living out; it was someone else’s. His story was to become a pianist. It was ingrained into his soul by the Author, and he chose to ignore that desire.”
Jackson thought very hard about this. Josh smiled and continued. “My job, as an apprentice,” he said, “is to help people remember that they have a story.” The pine needle in Josh’s hand twirled faster. He looked at Jackson. “That’s my story.” Josh looked intently at the pine needle in his fingers. “I have the same story my mom did,” Josh murmured.
“Where’s your mom now?”
“She’s doing her own job of helping people.” Josh paused, staring at the river. “Ever since I was little boy, I’ve wanted to do what she does. She’s on the other side, so I haven’t seen her in a very long time.” He cleared his throat and smiled lightly at Jackson. “So now I’m apprenticing, learning how to be a part of the Dreamgivers. It’s not easy, and there’s a lot of studying, but it’s worth every second.”
Jackson watched the trees sway gently, and he thought about what Josh said.
He thought about how he always wanted to be a writer. He had millions of story ideas, and it was just a matter of time before he wrote them all out. He knew they were good ideas, and of course they needed a lot of work. But he was only ten and a half, for goodness’ sakes. He thought about how he wanted to play ball professionally. To feel the hot sun on his head as he squinted at the catcher, the tension on the field as he prepared for the windup, the snap as he let go of that perfect pitch, and the screaming fans.
Jackson’s chest tightened. He felt like crying. Not because he was sad, but because, well, his heart was full. You know that feeling when you’re reflecting on your own story and your heart wants to just burst out of your chest because you are filled with so much hope?
Jackson wiped his eyes quickly. “So how do you help people remember their stories?”
“I lead them to the path. And then I let them lead themselves.”
“What do you mean?”
Josh the Page eyed Jackson. “Are you ready to go on your own?”
“Um, uh, I don’t know,” he stuttered.
Josh the Page nodded. “Then come with me.”
Jackson followed him down to the river’s edge, with Meeka trailing quietly behind them. The rays of sunlight misted through the branches of the trees. The river’s gurgling became louder. They stopped and listened for a moment.
“Jackson. Do you know who you are?” Josh the Page asked.
“Well, I know who my parents are.”
“No. Who you are. What makes up Jackson?”
Jackson thought for a moment. “Well, I like playing baseball, even though I’m not very good.” He glanced away, embarrassed. “I think I’m pretty smart, even though I can’t understand algebra. I think my stories are good, even though my grammar is atrocious. And I think I’d make a pretty good friend.”
Meeka nodded enthusiastically at him.
“And the Author made me, so he must have some purpose for me, in his story, right?” Jackson’s voice caught in his throat.
“You need to remember that,” said Josh the Page. “You need to hold onto those truths very tightly.”
“Why?”
Josh pointed at the water. “You’ll find a lot of stones in this river, and you have to choose one. It might be hard to find, but if you remember the Author and what he’s doing for you, you’ll find the right one. It will be a stone that’s calling your name.”
Jackson gazed at the river. The river was narrow, with long grasses and willow branches grazing the embankments. It went on, curving gracefully to the left. It was so peaceful that Jackson wanted very much to walk down that stream, to feel the cool water tickle his toes, with the branches shading him from the sun.
Jackson looked at Josh, and Josh smiled, but his eyes were very serious. Meeka looked down at her boots.
Jackson began to feel the seriousness of the situation. This wasn’t just a walk down the river. No siree, this was—dare I say it?—a quest. A very important, life-altering quest.
I just want to interrupt for a moment here before you get right into the story.
In your life there will be many quests, some as mundane as picking out your socks and some as exciting as picking out your socks. It all depends on how you feel about socks. Very few quests in your life will be important and life-altering. However, the important and life-altering quests are of a most serious nature. And when they come, you need to consider them very carefully, because they are indeed life-altering. I can’t tell you how, because I am not you.
Jackson’s hands sweated. He wiped them on his pants, leaving wet handprints. His upper lip was wet. He wiped it on his sleeve, leaving a wet trail. He felt like he was about to do a pop quiz.
“So I just step into the river?” Jackson asked.
“Yes.”
“And I just have to find my stone?”
“Yes.”
“And then I come back?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s all I have
to do?”
Josh’s green eyes held Jackson’s. He said nothing.
Jackson breathed deeply and looked at the water. Bits of leaves and twigs floated downstream. He placed his fo
ot into the water. It was cool, but not very cold. In fact, it was rather refreshing. His red pajamas clung wetly to his legs. Annoying, but bearable.
Jackson looked up at Josh, who sat down on the riverbank. Meeka stood beside him. They both smiled.
Jackson readjusted his satchel and took another step. And then another. And another.
Chapter 48
In Which the Quest Begins
The water trickled, gurgling and rushing against larger rocks. Jackson peered at the sandy bottom of the river. Tiny little minnows swam away from his moving feet, creating little clouds of fine sand in their wake. Jackson stepped carefully down the river, searching for stones. He bent down, his fingertips reaching into the cool, clear water. They scratched the bottom, and he pulled up a handful of sand. There were little bits of shell crushed by time in the sand, but no stones. He threw the wet sand, listening to the “plops” as it hit the water. He kept walking, but his focus was interrupted by the beauty overhead. The sun dazzled him, poking her head out between the giant boughs of the willows lining the bank. He stopped and smiled into the sky. If only he could bring a piece of this home with him! Jackson shook himself and kept walking. Stop daydreaming.
A black stone twinkled at him in the water. He bent down and picked it up.
Chapter 49
A Chapter that Involves More Questing
The black stone was smooth and fit snuggly into Jackson’s hand. Words were etched into it. Jackson squinted to read.
You have ugly hair.
Jackson laughed out loud. Okay, that was silly. That definitely couldn’t be his stone. It was too ridiculous. He skipped the stone beautifully on the water before it slipped under the surface. Jackson smiled to himself. His throwing was getting better!
He shifted his satchel. It was a little uncomfortable. Keep moving.
Jackson’s eyes caught on another rock, so he picked it up.
You play baseball atrociously.
What a ridiculous thing to write on a stone! Jackson laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. He swallowed, a little self-conscious. What a strange coincidence. How would a rock know if he was a good baseball player or not? Jackson knew he wasn’t a great baseball player. But still. This couldn’t be his rock. He tossed it into the water, watching uneasily as ripples bounced off the shore.
Jackson walked more slowly. He shifted his satchel, the strap digging into his shoulders. A stone winked at him from the water. He slowly picked it up. It was a dark gray with black writing.
You are stupid.
Jackson felt sick. He almost sat down in the water he felt so sick. A big lead ball had rolled into his belly, and it wasn’t leaving.
“I’m not stupid! I can read and I’m a great writer and I…” Jackson’s voice faltered.
But he didn’t understand algebra. He couldn’t remember what all the countries’ capitals were. He couldn’t remember all the countries, for that matter. He didn’t know the cosine of 7.88. And he definitely did not know what “couch” was in Spanish.
Jackson frowned at the stone in his hand. It was smooth, and his thumb fit right into a groove, like it was meant to. Was this his stone? It couldn’t be.
Could it?
Jackson watched the stone slip from his fingers into the water. It splashed, the water soaking the front of his legs. Great. He shifted his satchel. It was cramping
him in crampable places. (Yes, I know that’s not a word, but it should be.)
Jackson walked slowly and pensively around the river’s bend. (Pensive is like when you’re concentrating so hard, you don’t notice that your sister has dropped an ice cube down your back until it’s too late.)
Chapter 50
A Very Gloomy Chapter
Jackson surveyed the river gloomily, barely noticing the change in scenery. His head was full of thoughts. And not many of them were pleasant. He glanced up at the weeping willows (Salix alba var. vitellina), not noticing that their branches were less full, less weeping, and not as trailing. He squinted into the bright sky as beads of sweat dripped down his back. Jackson rubbed his arm across his forehead. His wet pajamas were beginning to scratch his legs. He walked on, dragging his feet.
The stream was no longer refreshing. He could feel little blisters popping up on his heels. He wanted to take his shoes off, to feel the soft, sandy bottom, but the soft, sandy bottom was now rocky and slippery. He found a few smaller stones hidden in crevices, but they were just stones.
About half an hour passed before Jackson spotted another etched stone. He picked it up hesitantly.
You have no friends.
Jackson’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton. He tried to swallow but he couldn’t. He laughed but the empty sky sucked away the sound.
It was true.
He didn’t have any friends. Lunchtime at school meant hiding in the library. If it was nice out, he’d walk to the highway bridge and sit on the stairs, alone. He was always chosen last to play games in gym class.
Jackson’s heart hurt.
He took a few more steps and his eyes blurred. He drew a ragged breath as he tried not to cry. He couldn’t cry. Not here.
Jackson stood there for a long time, turning the stone over and over in his hands.
It was time to go back. But how could this be the end? This wasn’t what the Author wanted for him, was it?
His satchel was getting very heavy now. Jackson readjusted the strap, but it was still uncomfortable. And he was thirsty. What if he drank from the stream? He looked down, but the water was murky. He couldn’t drink that. His gaze shifted to the river’s edge. The forest was no longer familiar.
Instead of lush willows there were scraggly black spruce (Picea mariana), their thick, dry, scrubby branches unmoving in the sun’s glare. No breeze, no clouds in the sky. It was a wasteland. A bleak, deserted wasteland.
Just like his dreams.
Just like him.
Jackson sighed heavily. He studied the stone he held, unable to move. The murkiness of the river shifted and Jackson saw another etched stone. He picked it up with a little hope in his heart. It had to be better.
You are not worth loving.
Hot, heavy tears fell from Jackson’s eyes. He was so tired, so sad, so lonely.
He wasn’t good at anything.
He was bad at baseball.
No one cared about his stories.
He had no friends.
He was alone.
Jackson’s shoulders slumped and the satchel fell off. It splashed into the water, speckling Jackson’s face with mud. He didn’t care. He watched the satchel float slowly away. What did it matter? It was just a bag, a bag of no importance, belonging to a boy of no importance. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Yes, of course it was gross, but what else was he going to do? He hadn’t perfected the art of a snot rocket.
“Help!”
Chapter 51
In Which a Hero Is Needed
Help me! Please!”
Jackson jammed the stones into his pajama pockets and ran down the river. He slipped and fell. The river’s thin, drippy mud soaked his face, but Jackson got up and kept running. He heard a loud gurgling and followed the sound, his blood running cold at the sight ahead.
A waterfall!
Jackson ran down the river’s edge, trying desperately to keep his balance. He ducked and dodged the branches as they scratched him, pulling at his shirt and hair.
“Hello? Where are you?”
“I’m up here! I mean, down here! Just help me!” the voice squeaked.
“Meeka!”
Chapter 52
In Which Steps Are Taken to Become a Hero
Jackson scrambled to the riverbank, his feet slipping in the shifting sand. He seized the dried prickly shrubs and pulled himself out. He ran down the riverbank, leaping over rocks and clumps of dead branches that were scattered about the forest floor. The dead trees sliced his bare arms with their little stiff twigs as he pushed through. A branch slashed his cheek and a searing whi
te pain burned his face. But he kept running.
Jackson reached the edge of a cliff, his chest pounding, his breath ragged from running. He looked over the side.
Chapter 53
A Chapter that Is a Little Scary
Meeka was stuck in a tree. A dead tree. A dead tree that was lying on its side, hanging over the edge of the cliff. Meeka clung desperately to something hanging in its brittle branches.
Jackson’s satchel!
Meeka’s long hair plastered her wet face, her little body soaked from the waterfall splashing ten feet away from her. Her big eyes bore into Jackson, who stared at her in disbelief and shock.
“Jackson! Help me, please!” she screamed.
Jackson snapped, “Meeka! Don’t move!”
She cried, her sobs barely heard over the pounding and splashing of the waterfall.
“Don’t cry! Be brave! Just hold on tight!” Jackson scrambled down the side of the cliff, and then his feet slipped and he landed hard on his back. He scrambled up quickly, ignoring the pain in his shoulder blades. He stepped carefully, holding onto the dead branches of the fallen tree, making sure every step held while he walked the precarious trunk. (Precarious in this case means the tree might break at any moment, so why are you even walking on it?)
He couldn’t go any farther. There was nothing left to hold onto. And the tip of the tree wouldn’t hold him.
Meeka’s eyes were shut tight, and her face was white with shock. Her little fingers clutched the satchel as it held by one slowly ripping strap.
“Everything is okay, Meeka. I’m here. Just don’t let go!” Jackson yelled over the rushing waterfall. “Okay,” squeaked her little voice. It was a long drop, the water churning and bubbling at the bottom, waiting to eat whatever fell off the edge. Sharp, menacing rocks poked out of the water.
