by Phil Lollar
Johnny’s lungs burned and his legs ached, but he didn’t let up, even when he lost his way. It took precious moments, but he backtracked, found the path, and kept going.
Finally, he saw the clearing. He burst into it—and stopped dead in his tracks, startled by what he saw.
The pup was sitting up.
He was tied to a tree with a long, loose rope.
He was eating from a pie tin, next to which was another pie tin filled with water.
Johnny set down the paper bag and approached the pup slowly. There was no cape on him. Johnny examined the wound.
It was sealed and healing.
And then Johnny saw the cape. It was neatly folded and lying on the ground, along with the rest of his costume, a step or two from the pie tins. Johnny picked up the cape and unfolded it.
It was completely clean.
He was so stunned that it took several seconds for him to realize the pup was now standing, licking Johnny’s hand. He knelt down to pet it.
“You’re all right!” he said. “You’re really all right!”
The pup barked and wagged his tail.
Johnny scratched the dog behind his ears. “You don’t have a collar or tags or anything. Do you belong to anybody, boy?”
The pup jumped on him and licked his face.
Johnny laughed. “That tickles! Stop!”
The pup barked again.
“Okay, I get the message! I guess you belong to me!” He looked at the cape again, and then back at the pup. “But ... how could this happen?”
He gathered up the rest of the costume and the paper bag, untied the dog’s rope leash from the tree, and started back toward his house. Johnny marveled; the pup wasn’t even limping. “What am I gonna call you, boy? Rex? Rover?”
The pup growled.
Johnny had a thought. “How about ... McDuff?”
The pup barked.
Johnny chuckled. “Okay, McDuff it is!”
When they got back to the Whittaker house, Johnny saw his father’s car in the driveway. He looked down at McDuff, who seemed to be perfectly fine now. “I’d better not introduce you to everybody just yet,” Johnny said.
He and McDuff strolled to the shed and went inside. Johnny set down his things and then tied the pup’s leash to one of the workbench’s legs. “It’s pretty heavy. I don’t think you can go anywhere.”
But McDuff looked as if he had no intention of going anywhere. He sat and panted happily.
Johnny scratched him on the head, then picked up the cape and looked at his father’s car again. He took a deep breath. “He’d never believe me, McDuff. I’m not sure I believe it myself.”
Just then, he heard the squeal of car brakes. He looked out and saw a strange car stop and park in front of his house. A man exited the car and walked quickly toward the front door, disappearing from sight. Johnny recognized him: Dr. Karl Mangle, the man who recruited Harold to the University of North Carolina and more recently to Duke.
Johnny folded the cape and put it under his arm. “I’ll be back later, boy.”
McDuff curled up, nestled down, and went to sleep.
Johnny crossed the yard to the back door and went inside. At first he didn’t hear anything, but as he moved through the kitchen, two low voices floated to him from his father’s study. One was calm and reasonable, the other animated, excited, and slightly accented. The calm one was his father’s. Johnny inched closer so he could hear them better.
“Slow down, Karl!” Harold said.
“But it’s remarkable! Unglaublich! Incredible!”
“What is? Take a deep breath and tell me what you’re talking about.”
Johnny heard Dr. Mangle inhale and slowly exhale. Then he continued, “This paper you gave me with the strange words!”
“What about it? Were you able to translate them?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Well, what do they say?”
“Harold, do you remember when we first met—on our study sabbatical in Europe and the Holy Land?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I was there looking for religious artifacts and relics. Well, one of the relics I was looking for was a very old journal.”
Johnny gasped, then quickly slapped his hand over his mouth to keep quiet.
Neither of the adults apparently heard him, for Mangle went on: “The words on this paper appear throughout the journal, but not always in the same language. You see, the journal was started many centuries ago, and as it was passed from generation to generation, the people of each new generation wrote in it in their own language. But no matter the language, these words always appeared.”
“What language is this?” asked Harold.
“Old Scots Gaelic,” Mangle replied. “This phrase—‘neamhnaid fior pris’—means ‘pearl of great price.’ And this phrase—‘beatha fhada’—means ‘long life.’”
Johnny’s eyes grew as big as saucers.
“Pearl of great price,” said Harold. “A reference to the biblical parable?”
“Yes,” Karl replied, “and it is very appropriate for the subject of the journal!”
“Why? What is the subject?”
Dr. Mangle took a deep breath. “The journal, if it still exists, tells of a very old and very special piece of cloth, a cloth imbued with great powers.”
“Such as?”
Mangle’s voice lowered almost to a whisper. “The power to heal wounds almost instantly,” he replied. “And ... the power to extend life!”
Johnny took the cape from under his arm and looked at it, mesmerized. He heard his father sit heavily in his desk chair, and Johnny quickly stuffed the cape inside his shirt.
Harold inhaled and said, “Karl, this is the stuff of science fiction! Surely you don’t believe—”
“The journal was real, Harold! Scholarship has confirmed it! And if it was real, then the cloth must be real as well! Now, listen to me very carefully: This paper with the words on it—where did it come from?”
Johnny held his breath, frozen to the spot. Emmy! He had to warn her! He forced his foot to move and was just getting ready to sneak away when his father spoke again.
“I ... I found it in one of my books,” Harold said. “It’s an old book on the history of Scotland. I bought it years ago but never read it, and when we moved here, I was thumbing through it and the paper fell out.”
Johnny exhaled quietly, relieved.
Mangle spoke again, his voice much colder now. “A book. On the history of Scotland.”
“Yes, it’s around here somewhere. Let me see if I can find it for you.”
His chair squeaked loudly as he rose from it, and Johnny took that opportunity to move silently back into the kitchen and out the back door. He ran across the lawn and into the shed, closing the door behind him. McDuff jerked awake and sat up.
A million thoughts raced through Johnny’s brain, and he began pacing in front of the pup, whose head moved back and forth, following his new master.
“He lied, McDuff,” Johnny said softly. “He covered for us, Emmy and me. Why would he do that? I’ve never heard him lie before.”
McDuff whimpered, and Johnny stopped and scratched the pup behind the ears for a few seconds. Even though Harold had lied, he had to suspect something. Johnny knew he could expect a barrage of questions from his father at some point. What would he tell him?
Another thought hit him: Who had unwrapped the cape from around McDuff? And folded it up? And fed the pup and gathered up the parts of his costume?
Johnny leaned on the workbench, pulled the cape from his shirt, and held it up in front of him. Could it really be true? Could this piece of cloth really heal? He dropped a corner and looked at McDuff. Yes, it had to be true. He had seen it work! There was the proof, sitting on the floor in front of him. This was big. Bigger than big. This was epic!
He dropped his arms. Long life. The most stunning thought of all hit him:
A name was written at the bottom of the last entry in
the journal he had discovered in his old trunk, right below the words “long life” ...
His name.
John Avery Whittaker.
Why was it there? What did it mean?
What was he supposed to do now?
