by Phil Lollar
His father met him halfway. “Have fun at Emmy’s?” Harold asked.
Johnny took a deep breath. “No,” he said. “You probably know I didn’t have dinner there.”
Harold nodded. “Yes, I know. I just got the strangest phone call from Deputy Miller and Karl Mangle, who were both at the sheriff’s station.”
Johnny exhaled slowly. “I just wanted to finish my lightning experiment . . . and then we saw Ben, and . . . things . . . happened.”
Why isn’t he livid? Johnny wondered.
Harold regarded him evenly. “Yes, things always seem to ‘happen’ with you.” He peered over his glasses at Johnny, who wondered when the boom was going to be lowered. He wished his father would hurry up and get it over with. He just wanted to go inside and try to sleep.
Harold sniffed and said, “Well, at any rate, it seems you are a hero again.”
Johnny blinked and shook his head. “What?”
“You broke up an illegal moonshine operation,” Harold replied patiently. “You also reunited a father and son, as I understand it.”
“Actually, I feel kind of bad about the still,” Johnny said. “Professor Mangle was just trying to raise money to help Steve.”
Harold nodded. “Yes, but he said he realizes how foolish it was to do it that way. He was quite impressed that you stood up to him the way you did. And of course, Deputy Miller is your greatest champion.”
Realization was slowly dawning on Johnny. “Wait . . . does this mean . . . I’m not in trouble?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Harold replied. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, John. I honestly don’t. But while I try to figure it out . . . how can I punish a hero?” He turned and walked back inside the house.
Johnny blinked several times, still dazed.
This had been one of the strangest days of his life.
But even stranger days lay ahead.
Epilogue
The next week was a complete blur. Johnny was still so dazed by what had happened with Ben and Professor Mangle, and by his father’s reaction to it all, that he could barely concentrate on his schoolwork. And he was still having trouble sleeping. He needed something to clear his mind. So he was extremely happy when on Sunday, Fiona set his breakfast before him and said, “What do you say we do something fun after church today?”
“Like what?” he asked.
She sat down beside him. “Well, the weather’s beautiful, and I’m thinking it might be the perfect day for a ride. There won’t be many more of these lovely days once winter lets loose. Thanksgiving was a few days ago, and I usually hang up my saddle after that. So . . . are you up for it?”
Johnny thought it was the greatest idea he’d ever heard. “Yes! Absolutely! I am completely up for it!”
“Well, don’t hold back, John Avery; tell me how you really feel!” Her eyes twinkled. “Eat your breakfast, then. You’ll need your energy to keep up with me!”
They’d been racing across the hills for the last ten minutes. Johnny looked over his shoulder to see Fiona at least four lengths behind him.
“C’mon! Can’tcha catch me?” he called back to her.
“Wait! Hold up, John Avery!”
Johnny smiled, reining Toby in. He knew Fiona was letting him win their race, but he didn’t care. He liked being in front all the same. “Whoa, Toby,” he said. “Let’s let the slowpoke catch up.”
Fiona pulled up alongside him.
“What’s the matter? You’re not tired, are you?” Johnny teased.
“Me? Tired? Aach, no!” she answered between gasps. “Just because my lungs are about to burst? What could make you think I’m tired?”
“You sure? Your face looks kinda blue. That’s a sign you’re not getting enough oxygen.”
“Not a bit of it! It’s the sun playing tricks on yer eyes, lad. I’m as fit as a fiddle, and don’t you mistake it.”
“All right then. Let’s race to that tree. Ready . . .”
“Hold on. I may not be tired, but poor Earl here, he needs a moment.” Fiona breathed in deeply, letting the air back out in one long puff. Then she looked at him and straightened her back. “We’ll trot a bit,” she declared with a slight nod.
Their gait was closer to a walk than a trot, but Johnny decided to say nothing about it. It was enough to be outside with the soft wind blowing through the trees and the damp earth thudding softly under the horses’ hooves.
Once Fiona had regained her air, she leaned back in the saddle and said, “And just when did you become such a good rider, John Avery Whittaker, that’s what I’d like to know! If ye aren’t careful, you’ll put Earl here to shame!”
Johnny smiled. “I learned from watching you.”
“I don’t see how you could do that, unless you have eyes in the back of your head. You’re always in front of me!”
They both laughed a bit, and as they quietly sauntered on, Johnny suddenly realized that Fiona had become more than a stepmother to him. She’d become his mother. Not that she could ever replace Janneth. She couldn’t do that, nor did she want to. She’d said as much many times over the years. But for all the effort Johnny once put into keeping Fiona at arm’s length, he now found his arm getting shorter all the time. With the tension going on between him and his dad, it was a comfort having Fiona around.
He had the sudden urge to tell Fiona about the journal and the cloth and ask whether she thought the cloth could have healing power. He thought he could trust her, of all people. Then an idea occurred to him.
“Fiona?”
“Yes, lad?”
“Do you remember back in Scotland, after you married Father, he bought you that really pretty dress?”
“Of course. It was my wedding dress. Such a pity. I had to throw it away because the dog spilled a bowl full of chocolate cake batter all over it.”
Johnny hesitated. “Yeah. Well, the dog didn’t spill it. I did.”
Fiona didn’t flinch at the news but simply responded, “You did, eh? Well, why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, why are you telling me about it now?”
“I guess because I wanted you to know that I’m really sorry about it. I shouldn’t have done it. And I wouldn’t have . . . if I’d known how nice you are.”
Johnny waited for her response. Would she be upset? Would she pull away? Knowing her reaction to this question would help him decide whether he could open up about the more-important question at hand.
Her reaction surprised him. Her lips pursed, and she looked over to him and said, “I appreciate your honesty, John Avery, even if it is a bit late. But . . . would it disappoint you too much if I told you that I always knew you did it?”
“You did?”
A dimpled smile formed on her face. “The dog was smart, but not even he could make handprints.”
Johnny wasn’t one to blush, but he did then. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“I suppose I figured you’d been through enough, with your mother dying and me comin’ in.”
They rode on in silence. Johnny thought of Janneth. Even though he was young when his mother died, he never quite escaped the pain of her passing. The effect of it seemed to sear itself on his soul, making the slightest recollection of it as painful as the day it happened.
Fiona must have guessed what he was thinking. She rode up beside him and touched his arm. “Things have been pretty rough for you, I know,” she said. “But the thing to remember is that God has a purpose in it all. You might not be able to see it. In fact, you may never be able to see it. But trust me—no . . . trust Him—He does have a purpose for it all.”
Johnny sighed. He’d heard such words before, and they always seemed to him to be the things people said when they didn’t have a good answer. “If you say so,” he responded.
Fiona reined in her horse. Johnny followed suit. “No. Not because I say so,” she said. “Because it’s true.”
Johnny didn’t wan
t to be disrespectful, but he did want to be honest with her. “It’s just kind of hard to believe when He takes your mother away,” he said quietly. “I mean, you can’t know how it feels because you haven’t had anything taken away from you.”
He could tell his comment struck her. She looked down at the reins in her hands and took a deep breath. “You’re right, John Avery. I haven’t. But I’ve seen God at work in those who have. Even though bad things happened to them, they knew that God was still there, loving and caring for them.”
She raised her eyes, looking into the sky as the soft wind caressed their faces. “We must have faith,” she continued simply. “If we put our faith in God, He’ll never fail us. Never.” Then she turned her gaze to him, looking gently into his eyes. “I want you to always remember that. Okay?”
Johnny shrugged. “I guess.”
“In fact,” Fiona said as an impish grin formed over her face, “I want you to think about that . . . while I’m racin’ you to the Great Tree!” And with a kick to the haunches of her horse, she leapt into a gallop.
Johnny scowled. “Hey! No fair!” He spurred his horse after her.
They raced across the field, Fiona in the lead but Johnny gaining on her. The Great Tree had become the finish line for their races. The huge oak looked to be a hundred years old, massive in height and impressive in girth. After their races, they would stop and lie down beneath it, surveying the clouds and pondering the questions of life. It had become his favorite tree, and he would not let Fiona beat him to it! He spurred his horse mercilessly.
“You cheated!” he called out to her.
“Posh!” she laughed, looking back at him. “Can’tcha catch me, lad? You’re not getting tired, are ye?”
At that moment, Johnny saw what Fiona did not. She had topped the rise, and she had apparently forgotten about the long, thick branch of a beautifully shaped elm tree that stretched across the path. The branch hung low enough to require anyone on horseback to duck under its massive sprawl.
“Look out!” Johnny screamed.
But it was too late. Fiona had barely turned around when the branch met her full force directly on the forehead. Her scream was cut off as her head snapped back and her body flew off her horse as she tumbled to the ground.
“Fiona!”
An hour later, Fiona awoke. “Harold,” she whispered groggily.
“Shh. I’m right here,” he said.
“I had the most real dream. I was riding with John Avery . . .”
“That was no dream. You were riding. Apparently you had a little run-in with the branch of an elm.”
“Oh . . . yes. Dumb place to put a tree—in the middle of a forest.” She smiled. “Where’s Johnny?”
“I’m here,” Johnny announced. “I’m so glad you’re all right. When I saw you sprawled out on the ground . . . and then you didn’t wake up . . .”
“How did I get back home?” she asked.
“John rode back to get me,” Harold explained. “I drove the truck.”
“Out there? How did you manage that with no roads?”
“Well, let’s just say the truck will need a bit of servicing.”
“We were worried about you, Mommy,” Charlie said in a small voice.
“No need to worry, love.”
“We were going to take you to the hospital,” Johnny said, “but Doc Willis is always home on Sundays, and he lives a few blocks away. I was just leaving to get him.”
“Nonsense,” Fiona said. “Don’t bother the man on the Sabbath. I’m fine. Aside from a little headache.” She moved to stand up. “I’d better get supper on the table.”
Harold stopped her, saying, “No, you just lie here and rest for a bit.”
“I told you, I’m fine,” she protested. “It’s late. You must all be starved.”
Charlie fairly hid behind her father, her eyes wide with fear. “It’s not very late,” she squeaked timidly.
“Of course it is, Charlie,” Fiona said. “Why, it’s so dark in here, you can barely see your hand in front of your face.” She sighed. “I must have been out cold for hours.”
Johnny and Harold looked at each other. The room was drenched in light from the afternoon sun. In fact, it was so bright that Johnny had to move out of the glare reflecting off a mirror on the bureau.
Johnny leaned closer, looking into Fiona’s eyes. The whites of both were not white at all but blood red from an internal hemorrhage. Her pupils were also oddly dilated, one as large as a cat’s eye in the dark, the other not quite so big, but still more than he would expect in a room this bright.
Harold lifted his hand in front of Fiona’s face. All five fingers were stretched out. “Fiona, how many fingers am I holding up?” he asked.
She frowned. “Harold, have ye gone daft? I just said it was so dark in here you couldna see your hand!” She sighed. “John Avery, turn on some lights, child.”
Johnny didn’t know what to do. Fear began to rise within him. “But . . . Dad?”
Johnny saw the look of concern etched on his father’s brow. His jaw clenched the same way it had when Johnny’s mother got sick with the fever that eventually took her life.
“John, run and get Doc Willis,” Harold commanded, fighting to control his voice. Then looking right at him, he mouthed the word Hurry! so Fiona and Charlie couldn’t hear.
“Yes, sir,” Johnny whispered. He could barely breathe for the thought of what seemed to have happened.
Run, he told himself. Run as fast as you can, and don’t let your mind think of anything else but running even faster.
Johnny and Charlie waited outside on the porch while the doctor examined Fiona. Charlie kept asking questions about the accident, but Johnny kept wishing she would just be quiet. The evening sun had faded below the horizon, and he shivered without its warmth. He began to feel hungry, but he quickly regretted the thought of even caring about food at a time like this.
After what seemed like forever, Harold and Doc Willis walked out of the house. “Thanks for coming, Doc,” Harold said softly.
The doctor put on his hat and smiled sympathetically. “It’s my job,” he replied. “I’ll check back in on her in a few days. It may be that internal swelling is the cause of her loss of sight. If so, once it subsides, her sight should return.” He put his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “I know things seem bleak right now, but give it some time. That’s the best we can do.”
Doc Willis shook Harold’s hand, turned and nodded at Johnny and Charlie, and stepped from the porch.
“Daddy,” Charlie asked tearfully, “is Mommy gonna see again?”
“I don’t know, honey,” came the answer. “I don’t know.”
Johnny’s mind seemed to turn as dark and cloudy as the night. And with the darkness came a fear of what might lie waiting for him in the dark. His heart raced, his stomach churned. Was it my fault? he thought. I should have been in front of her.
His mind replayed the moment of the accident, but this time his horse’s hooves stuck in the mud, and no matter how much he kicked his heels into the horse’s haunches or urged him on, the horse went slower. And then Janneth rode faster. Wait . . . was it Janneth or Fiona? We’re in Scotland, right? No, wait . . . We moved.
Everything felt so confusing. Johnny couldn’t decide whether he was hungry or tired or whether his Grandpa Jackson would pick him up. And why was his mother screaming? Where did the blood come from? And then . . . the most-pleasant smell, the loveliest sound, the gentlest touch, the sweetest taste, the most-soothing light . . .
“John!”
Johnny saw his father standing in front of him, shimmering like an apparition. He was saying something, but Johnny couldn’t make sense of the words. They sounded as if they came from a tin can . . . as when Johnny had put string through the ends of two tin cans, and then Grandpa Jackson stretched the string tight and talked into his can while Johnny listened through the other. He remembered the beaming smile on Grandpa Jackson’s face when Johnny talked back
through his end of the—
A slap hit hard against Johnny’s face, stinging him roughly. “Can you hear me, John?” his father said.
The fog that had been clouding his thoughts began to lift. His father squatted in front of him, his face concerned and intense.
Confused, Johnny said, “Yes, sir.”
“You’re in shock. I know how it feels,” Harold said. “From the war.”
“I’m sorry,” Johnny said.
Charlie cried. “Is Johnny okay?” she asked.
“Yes, dear. He’ll be fine.” Harold stroked Charlie’s face. Johnny wondered why his father never caressed him that way.
“John, that phone call was from my contact overseas,” his father said.
Phone call? What phone call? Johnny thought. He suddenly realized he was no longer outside on the porch, but sitting on the couch in their living room. How did I get here? he wondered.
His father continued. “He’s translated some portions of the journal already. He began with the most-recent entries, the ones your grandfather wrote. John,” Harold said pointedly, “Mangle was right. The journal does mention a cloth instilled with the power to heal. Your grandfather knew of its power. But that’s not all,” he said excitedly.
Johnny’s mind still struggled to make sense of what his father was saying. He simply nodded.
“John, listen to me! Focus!”
Johnny tried. He concentrated as hard as he could.
“Your grandfather wrote in the journal that he had possession of the cloth! And that he kept it secure—in his trunk! Do you understand, boy? That cloth is in the trunk up in your room!”
“No, it isn’t,” Johnny said.
“Yes, it must be—”
“No, Dad,” Johnny interrupted. “I was using it the other day at the water tower.” His mind drifted off. The water tower. The experiment. I need to go back and get the battery and take it to Ben. Ben! I wonder how he’s feeling?
