PRAISE FOR BILLY GOAT HILL
“Billy Goat Hill is a poignant tale of a little boy’s loss of innocence and his longing for redemption. It is a boy’s search for God—and God’s search for a little boy. Ultimately, Billy Goat Hill is a story about all of us. Mark Stanleigh Morris is a master storyteller who brilliantly displays the freedom that comes from forgiveness—forgiveness received and given. This is some of the truest Christian fiction I’ve ever read.”
KYLE LIEDTKE, CHRISTIAN MEDIA CONSULTANT,
MEDIATALK COMMUNICATIONS
“Mark Stanleigh Morris has written a feel-good, make-you-cry, hope-and-tragedy, dramatic mystery adventure that packs an unexpected redemptive punch before letting you go. The fate and lives of Billy Goat Hill’s characters really hit home, from being skillfully crafted around the real-life events of the author’s world. From start to finish Billy Goat Hill teases our minds and reaches deep into the good and evil realities of our human experience. I found it to be both very satisfying and well worth the time to discover the treasures of Billy Goat Hill.”
CRAIG S PREST, COFOUNDER OF UNREACHED NATIONS, INC
“A remarkable tale that dives to the depths of utter hopelessness and despair and rises to the highest callings of human aspiration which lie at the heart of the word forgiveness. In a world full of hurting people, my prayer is that every single one would be blessed by this message of hope and inspiration.”
DAVE ROGERS, SENIOR PASTOR,
FELLOWSHIP BIBLE CHURCH, BEND, OREGON
“Billy Goat Hill is a genuine and gripping slice of life. With God’s grace and guidance, Mark Stanleigh Morris brings to light the key question for anyone challenged with past betrayal and loss. Can years of being harmed or harming others really be undone by a simple act of faith? The answer is not that harm can be undone, but that harm can be both redeemed and redeeming. A must-read for those of us seeking truth about God’s plan for our lives regardless of the past.”
SHELLEY MAURICE-MAIER. AUTHOR OF
THE SAMPLER 10 LIFE ENHANCING CONCEPTS AT YOUR FINGERTIPS
“Possibly the greatest challenge God’s people face is breaking down the wall that helps you to forgive and hinders you from being forgiven. Mark Stanleigh Morris clearly articulates through his nostalgic and descriptive writing style that, ‘We must find a way to forgive, or we only end up blaming ourselves.’ Billy Goat Hill is filled with real-life experiences that we all can relate to. This is one of those ’Once you pick it up you won’t put it down’ books. It will literally change your life!”
DR. GARY L PINION,
FOUNDER/PRESIDENT OF ENCOURAGEMENT DYNAMICS
“Mark Stanleigh Morris hasn’t just created fascinating characters. He’s given us authentic soul-searchers very much like those of us reading this book: honest and hopeful, yet sometimes wondering if inner peace in real life may be just outside our reach. Truly a remarkable story!”
DR TED W PAMPEYAN, LEADERSHIP RENEWAL CENTER
“Billy Goat Hill is an incredible story of the healing power of forgiveness, the great redeeming mercy of God, and the strengthening hope that accompanies salvation. No matter what life may have thrown your way, through this story you’ll find encouragement and comfort that God truly does work in all things, even the deepest, darkest moments of life, for the good of those that love Him.”
REVEREND JONATHAN HAYASHI, YOUTH PASTOR, CHRISTIAN
EDUCATION DIRECTOR—PLYMOUTH CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH
“Mark Stanleigh Morris’s writing is very expressive and creative as he draws pictures for the reader’s imagination and brings alive emotions for the soul to feast upon. By the time this heartfelt adventure concludes, one may likely discover new depths of God’s love and forgiveness.”
JERI PREST, COFOUNDER OF UNREACHED NATIONS, INC
For my wife, Karen
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It is said novel writing is a solitary endeavor. It is also said no man is an island. Writing is solitary in nature, but no writer is an island. We collaborate on many levels. From the collective influences of environment and personal experience, to the support and encouragement of family and friends, to the technical review and advice of editors and publishers—we are helped with what we do. It is through this grand collaboration that Billy Goat Hill found its place in the sun, and I am thankful to many for their kind and generous help. Most of all, I thank my Lord Jesus.
Special thanks to those who were there for me in the early years, members of the Lake Tahoe Writer’s Group and Silver State Fiction Writers; to Paul and Kim Morris for support and encouragement; to my agent David Van Diest for suggesting the rewrite and envisioning the perfect fit at Multnomah Publishers; to Don Jacobson and Doug Gabbert at Multnomah for seizing the moment and saying yes with conviction and enthusiasm; to my editors Julee Schwarzburg and Lisa Bowden for helping me reach higher than I ever could have without them; and to the rest of the wonderful staff at Multnomah who work so hard to keep your trust…one book at a time. God bless you one and all.
never thought I’d live to see my fortieth birthday. I consider it a miracle that I survived past the age of ten, much less that I am here now, about to tell you my story. My memories of my childhood, vivid and detailed as they are, rise up from a deep and well-guarded place where innocence once dwelled. The thing is, innocence is like a hard shell surrounding a vulnerable yolk—eventually the shell must break. I don’t mean to second-guess God, but some shells seem to break early, before we are prepared to deal with things profound and complex.
I have learned a thing or two, most important that we are born into this troubled world to learn about forgiveness—how to receive it and how to give it. I think this is the great opportunity of life.
I have come to know this, in part, because of a man I once knew. He was a Los Angeles city cop who gave me the best and the worst of all that he was. For a long time I tried to forget him, but he wouldn’t let me. Something about falling face first into the open eyes of a dead man stays with you, no matter how hard you try to forget. Some things cannot be forgotten, but they can be forgiven. This is the hope of my heart. It is the reason I tell my story.
My name is Wade Parker, and I come from a place called Billy Goat Hill.
NORTHEAST LOS ANGELES
SPRING, 1958
es’ not breathing! Mom! Dad! Help! Matthew’s not breathing! I scoop my baby brother up from his crib, his cold cheek pressing against my neck, and I run, and I run, and I run… tumbling headfirst into the treacherous deep of the Crippler.
Whee-e-e-e-chug-chug… Varoom!
I awake in a startle as the distinct ignition signature of Carl’s 1955 Chevy Bel Air pummels the night calm. I gasp for air, my heart pounding, as the cracked windowpane next to my bed rattles like a snare drum from the percussion of badly corroded mufflers. I wipe away tears and whisper in the darkness, “I’m sorry, Matthew. Please forgive me.”
Trembling, I sit up in bed and peer out the window as Carl puts the poor Chevy in gear. The transmission clanks and the car lumbers away from the curb. A trail of smoke lags behind the sickly sloth. The window by my bed hums louder, then gradually falls silent as I track the red glow of one working taillight until it fades into the night. This is the way it is, Carl rescuing me nearly every night.
The firing up of the Chevy means it is midnight, plus or minus one minute. Our next door neighbor, Carl, is a baker married to the night shift and the most punctual alcoholic I’ll ever know. He isn’t very keen on the virtues of preventive maintenance. His Chevy is not yet three years off the assembly line, and it already looks and sounds as decrepit as Betsy, our embarrassing-to-be-seen-in ‘40 Ford.
In the bed next to mine, my brother Luke sleeps on, snoring softly under his bl
anket. He is oblivious to the commotion of Carl’s routine departure. Through the narrow dimness that separates our beds, I can just make out the top of Luke’s red fuzzy head poking out from under his blanket.
Luke is something else, able to fall asleep at the snap of a finger and remain there in peaceful slumber until it’s time to get up. He’s like a light switch—off or on, awake or asleep, nothing in-between. I envy him. He doesn’t lie awake worrying about things like I do.
I shiver, visualizing the Crippler as I listen to Carl drive off down the hill. Absently, I anticipate the screech of brake pad rivets scraping against pitted and scarred metal drums. I hear fingernails on a chalkboard and feel it in my teeth when Carl halts for the stop sign at the bottom of the hill.
Luke stirs not, and except for his rhythmic wheezing, the night reclaims its calm, which ushers the return of my worried state of mind. Irritated, lonely, I flip my pillow over to the cool side and lay my head back down. I close my eyes knowing there isn’t enough time left to go back to sleep. Tossing and turning, listening to the quiet, I struggle in vain not to think about the Crippler. My mind swirls, searching for options that do not exist. I have to go through with it. I have to be a man and not back down.
But a larger dread, one bigger and far heavier than my immediate dilemma, has left me as weakened and tired as a fish slowly being starved of oxygen. Keep swimming or you’ll sink to the bottom and never come up. Things will get better,. I keep telling myself. But I feel like I am being tricked or duped by something I can’t see, a dark and dangerous foe—one who follows no rules, observes no code, intends me great harm, and takes pleasure in my suffering. Playing upon my fears, the invisible darkness is slowly sapping my essence. It is a bad way to live, looking over your shoulder all the time.
I wish I had someone to talk to. I have questions, lots of questions…
Who am I?
Why am I here?
Can you hear me?
Please, I need answers.
I can’t stand it any longer. Distracted, I get up and dress as quietly as possible, not daring to wake our mother, Lucinda, whom we regard with careful unease even when she is awake on account of her being sad or angry ever since our baby brother, Matthew, died.
Some nights I awaken to hear Lucinda crying in her room. I lie there and listen until my heart hurts so bad for her I tiptoe down the hall to her room and tap on her door. She never lets me in. “Go back to bed,” is all she ever says, and I feel my dangerous foe pull me a little farther into the darkness.
Fully dressed, I am ready, but it is still too early to head out. For a while I just sit on my bed and watch Luke sleep. I do that a lot, just watch him sleep; hearing him breathing comforts me. Over and over I tell myself…he won’t stop breathing.
The waiting gets to me, and I reach over and gently shake Luke’s arm. “I’m already awake, you big donkey,” he says grinning, and I feel a thousand percent better.
“Come on, Luke, hurry up!”
“Keep your shirt on. I can’t find my other tennis shoe.”
With one leg already hanging out of the bedroom window, I wave for him to follow. “Mac probably got your shoe again. Come on. I bet we’ll find it in the garage.”
Mac is asleep at the foot of my bed. His ears twitch at the mention of his name, and he lifts his head. He’s mildly annoyed that we are once again stealing out into the night. It’s two o’clock in the morning. Mac knows better than to bark, though. We do this kind of stealthy night crawling all the time.
Depending on his mood, Mac sometimes joins us on our nocturnal adventures. On this particular night, he opts to break the triad. Mac is very smart—he understands the concepts of culpability, accessory, and accomplice better than I do. I think he knows when we are up to no good. Besides, he manages to get himself into plenty of trouble without tagging along with us.
Luke complains while he hops across the dew covered lawn on one shoe. “Darn grass is wet.”
I love him and all, in fact he is my best friend, but sometimes Luke can be a royal pain in the rump. I tell myself all little brothers are annoying sometimes.
Opening the side door to the garage, I pull up as hard as I can on the doorknob to silence the squeaky hinges. Garage smells wafting in the blackness—grease and turpentine mixed with the fragrance of fermenting grass on the old push mower—fill my nose as I step through the doorway.
I flick on my Flash Gordon flashlight and scan the oil-stained floor, then smile when I spot Luke’s shoe lying next to Betsy’s front wheel. “Like I told you, Red, there it is.”
Luke balks, begrudging my intuitive powers. “You think you’re so darn smart, Wade; how come you’re not on Ed Sullivan?”
I am convinced Luke must be half myna bird. The way he mimics Lucinda can sometimes drive me up the wall.
“Maybe I’ll be on TV someday.” I jerk his brand-new Los Angeles Dodgers cap down over his eyes, and he swings at me in the dark, missing as usual. I pick up his errant sneaker, pooch out my mouth, plant my free hand on my hip, and try my best to sound like Ed Sullivan. “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen—we have a really, really, really big shoe.”
“You don’t even sound like him.”
I toss him his sneaker. “Put your darn shoe on and let’s get going. They’re probably already waiting for us.”
Luke methodically makes a bow with an over-long lace as I train the flashlight beam on his foot. He is only six years old and has yet to fully master the art of shoe tying. I wait patiently for him to finish. I have learned not to rush or bad-mouth his handiwork unless I am up for contending with his prickly temper. The opposite of me (the blond, blue-eyed, reserved older brother), Luke isn’t the least bit shy about expressing himself. He is a redheaded firecracker and making him mad is not a good idea at this moment. If he makes a ruckus, we’re sure to be discovered.
Back in the yard, we both jump when Mac materializes in front of us. He whines a little, as if to warn us not to go, then disappears into the inky black behind the garage.
“Darn dog! He’s just going to do his duty.”
“Shush, Luke. You wake up Lucinda and I’ll tan you good, right after she tans the both of us.”
He swings at me again.
Luke is quick to make judgmental or disparaging remarks about Mac. It is his way of clarifying his own position in the pecking order. I understand. But the fact is Mac, being the beneficiary of the best genes of the German shepherd and Doberman pinscher breeds, can make a snack out of little Luke anytime he cares to. Fortunately for Luke and me, Mac loves us more than…well, more than almost anything.
We’re risking the skin off our behinds this night because I ran my mouth off, an unusual behavior for me.
I suppose it’s not a bad thing to make bold and daring statements to an audience of admiring fellow daredevils, but it’s not a good idea to do it in the middle of a crowded schoolyard when Guerrmo Francisco Torres Smith, Gooey for short, is standing right in front of you. Gooey is nine, a year older than me, and does not like the fact that I am a better cardboard slider than he is. He also carries a grudge against me for letting him take the blame for the green dye that mysteriously ended up in the Highland Park public pool last summer.
It wasn’t enough for me to be the humble champion cardboard slider of Billy Goat Hill. No, I had to be prideful and brag that I could take the Crippler from top to bottom—IN THE DARK!
“Is that so?” Gooey had chided, challenging my outlandish claim.
Instantly I knew that I had messed up. Clamps of unease gripped my shoulders and I cleared my throat. “Yes, that is so, Gooey.”
He grinned. “Well now—let me get this straight. You are actually claiming you can run the Crippler in the dark?”
“You heard me.” I gave him a look that implored him not to push it any further. That was all he needed to drop the hammer.
He flashed a meaner grin. “So, for all these witnesses to hear…you are promising to run the Crippler in the dark. Is that
right?”
“Yep.”
“Well then, Wade Parker, Mr. Big Shot fancy pants champion cardboard slider—how about tonight then, say at about 2:15 or so? It should be quite a show. Maybe we can sell some tickets.”
Sensing the brewing of something big, more kids had quickly gathered around us. Some of them were Billy Goat Hill regulars. And just like that, the cards were on the table. It was not possible for me to back down.
“My old man’s out of town again…” I said with a measure of thespian couth. “…2:15 shouldn’t be any problem at all.”
“You are poco loco, man.”
My own words had pricked at a raw corner of my heart. Despite his many faults, I sorely miss Earl, our antisocial, often drunk father. Soon it will be my birthday, and I know all the luck in the world won’t help him remember it. The thought makes me angry. My eyes lock on Gooey and I spend an overdraft of gratuitous nonchalance.
“See you tonight then.” I feel a new pain in my gut.
Like old west townsmen roused by talk of a showdown, the crowd stirs and murmurs with excitement. With controlled desperation, I scan the onlookers’ faces, seeking their devotion, their genuflection in the presence of their champion. But I find no loyalty in their eyes, only the lust to be entertained, to be thrilled. I have somehow created a circus and they want to see the lions eat the trainer, the fall of the trapeze artist, the fatal crash of the champion of Billy Goat Hill. Their aggrandized hero has learned a painful lesson—Life is tough at the top.
I do however spot one friendly soul in the shifting crowd. Luke, his freckly face beaming with adoration, his chest swollen with pride, gives me the strength I need to endure Gooey’s relentless grin.
Cardboard sliding is a poor kid’s version of bobsledding. Our modest bobsleds are nothing more than sturdy chunks of cardboard cut from the large boxes used for shipping new appliances, and our snow is the thick dry weeds and grasses native to the hilly surroundings of Los Angeles.
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