HOPEWATCH &
The Art of Peace
A Fiction Work by:
Yianni Palos
Copyright © 2003
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce “HOPEWATCH
& The Art of Peace”
or portions thereof in any form without the prior written permission of
the author.
PREFACE
The twelve immemorial travelers sat in their ancient thrones and
silently stared at the massive, double doors. Mankind’s world, the
world they had ruled, lived, and loved it seamed to be seeking its own
destruction. There was nothing they could do to save the human race.
They could strike thunderbolts, move mountains, change the flow of
rivers, steer the depths of oceans, control the fury of the wind . . .
but they were utterly powerless to change the course of the fast
approaching doom. They had summoned the Alloterrs, who regulated
inevitably the affairs of life and ruled both gods and man, to appear
before them, to reveal the next torch bearer of Hope through their
intricate tapestry.
In front of them, an old couple sat by the enormous marble table,
looking intently at the dimly flickering light of Hope. They had kept
its flames burning in the hearts of humans for a long time. The time
had come to step down, to hand the torch to the new Messenger of Hope –
to become his guardians, his teachers. Patiently, they waited, too.
The double doors opened silently. Both gods and men rose and
respectfully bowed their heads as the Moirai entered into the immense
room, placed their living web of life onto the table and, in solemn
faces, looked at the old couple.
The long silence became eery, unbearable.
“Have you decided who my successor is?” asked the old man, humbly.
“Yes!” the Moirai spoke in unison. “A boy not yet conceived. On
the day of his birth, the Amulet of Hope shall be delivered into his
hands. His name shall be known as “Hopewatch.”
ONE
Although his name was Hopewatch, everyone in his small village called
him “Hopsy.” He was seven years old, medium stature for a boy of his
age, with chestnut-brown hair, and an exceptional childlike smile. The
very thought of a smile seemed to initiate a small dimple on his right
cheek. He had tried pushing his tongue against the small dimple or
sucking his right cheek to hide it when it wasn’t an appropriate time
for him to be smiling, but after some time it became very obvious to
everyone what he was trying to do. As he grew, he’d thought of many
different ways to somewhat hide his odd behaving dimple, but finding
all his efforts in vain, he finally gave up and learned to live with
it. What he liked most about himself was his extraordinary big
honey-brown eyes. They seemed to exert his true feelings at all times.
One look into his eyes and his mother, Narkiz, knew instantly how he
felt.
“You’re an open book,” she would say to him. “I know when you’re sad or
happy, excited or content. One look into your eyes and I know whether
you’re lying or telling me the truth.”
Hopsy thought that his mother was the most beautiful lady in his small
village. She was slender and somewhat on the tall side for a girl. Her
shoulder length charcoal-black hair prettified her oval face and her
warm chestnut-brown almond-shaped eyes. He loved her beautiful
smile and her soft and gentle voice. She loved dresses. “Pants are
made for men and boys,” she would say smiling to him. “Do I look
like a man or a boy to you?” Unlike some of the other women in his
village, he’d never seen his mom in trousers.
The night before his seventh birthday, he had tried and tried to
sweet-talk to his mother. He had offered the once-a-year occasion as an
excuse to skip school just for that one day, but she just wouldn’t
listen to his reasoning. He still had to do his homework. He still had
to wake up early in the morning. He still had to attend his regular
classes at the school. Her last words were, “You are going, Hopsy.” And
that was that.
It was on this day when he . . . no, not he . . . when the vision came
to him for the first time.
He was standing in front of the blackboard with a piece of white chalk
in his hand, adding, and multiplying numbers. He was halfway through
solving the math problem when he suddenly found himself nearly
paralyzed. He felt like a frozen statue – a statue made of bones and
flesh. He had tried to move his hands, his feet, and other parts of his
body, but he could not. The only thing he could feel was his pounding
heart as his unblinking eyes gazed at the blackboard. He also felt
something calm and soothing taking hold of his mind and the huffing and
puffing reactions of his bizarre thoughts. It seemed to him, standing
there almost paralyzed, that his mind would fly apart if he brought no
order in his confusion.
The numbers he had written, magically flew off the board one after the
other, and as if parading, they vanished through the solid walls. He
saw two ghost-like shadows looking at him as they loomed outside the
classroom window. They emerged through the thick glass panels, hovered
over his classmates, and finally landed gracefully in front of him. He
caught their eyes not merely looking at him, but staring, staring.
Staring at him.
Hopewatch couldn’t see their facial features. Somehow their faces kept
changing and moving like tiny rippling waves on the top of a pond. He
was sure that he could poke his finger right through their ethereal
bodies. Their eyes reminded him of a big glass marble he once had. He
couldn’t tell their age, or even what they looked like, but he
was sure that the figure of the tall ghost belonged to a man, and the
short one to a woman. They faced one another, nodded agreement, then
they turned and smiled at him.
The man ghost glided effortlessly over the polished wood floor without
moving his feet, approached the blackboard, took the white piece of
chalk from Hopsy’s hand, and started writing something. What was he
writing on the board? Not knowing became unbearable. He felt as if
nothing he had known was as important as knowing this. And there it was
at last. A single phrase.
Dream the Hopeful Dreams of your Destiny
The ghost put the chalk back in Hopsy’s hand, smiled, glided back, and
held the hand of the woman ghost. Holding hands they bowed their heads
to him with respect. Then they floated through the air, waved their
hands goodbye to him, flew out the room the same way they had arrived,
and disappeared from his sight as suddenly as they had appeared.
“Well done, Hopsy!” The teacher’s lofty voice shattered his vision into
nothingness. “Next time I’ll give you a harder problem to solve.” He
chuckled. “You can step down and take your seat.”
As if in a daze, Hopewatch stepped down, eased himself into his small
desk, and stared at the chalkboard. He saw his own handwritten numbers
on it, and although he knew he had not finished solving it, the problem
was solved. Not only that, but the man-ghost’s message was not on the
board any more. Just like the two ghosts, it had vanished, too.
Confused, Hopsy slipped his hands under his desk and pinched his legs
to ensure himself that he was not dreaming. He was in the classroom,
the teacher was there, so were his schoolmates. Did they not see the
two ghosts – their message on the board? He looked around. The faces of
his classmates seemed to look as they always had. Normal.
He looked at the blackboard again. He could see that the math problem
was solved correctly, but he couldn’t tell how. He tried to remember
how and when he managed to solve it, but couldn’t. Somehow, for him,
time itself had been frozen during his vision. Or, was it the other way
round? It had to be. No one had seen the two ghosts or the writing on
the board. No one but him. He had to hide his dimple with his hand.
“Dream the Hopeful Dreams of your Destiny.” The seven words seemed to
be carved into his mind. Although he couldn’t understand their meaning,
the phrase was there, seen clearly with his mind’s eye. He felt a
little strange, but also excited at the same time by the thought that
the message was a secret birthday present for him. Yes! A secret
present from the two friendly ghosts. What else could it be? He made a
mental note to thank his mom for not listening to him, for making him
go to school.
On the way home he decided to tell his mother the whole story about the
two ghosts. His mother would know what that symbolic phrase was trying
to conceal and what it meant for him if it revealed itself in a much
simpler way. He trusted his mother’s judgement. She was always there
for him; she was a good listener. She would listen to him without
interruption, smiling, encouraging, holding his hand. He was very happy
to have such a superb and understanding mother. He couldn’t remember
ever seeing her angry; not with him. Not with anyone.
Without looking back he walked toward his home. A block away from
school, Hopewatch recognized Lilly’s light footsteps approaching. The
shepherd girl. His best friend since they were babies. Lilly’s flowing,
long, curly red hair bounced on her slender body with each step as she
walked next to him. For a while they walked in silence.
“Both Lilly and you are Sunday children,” his mother had said
once. “You were born first and the following Sunday, there comes
Lilly crying.”
Everyone in the small village believed that Lilly was a very strange
little girl. The villagers murmured flying telltales about her since
she was a tiny baby. She would sit cross-legged in front of animals,
her green eyes staring into theirs, whispering her thoughts to them.
The animals would look into her eyes, listened attentively, nod their
heads, or wiggle their tails in response. The villagers believed that
she could talk to animals.
“Can you read my thoughts, Lilly?”
“No.”
“You told me that you can read the thoughts of animals. How come you
can’t read mine?”
“Because animals want me to read their thoughts, and because they never
learned how to hide them from me or from other creatures. Somehow
animals know what other animals think and feel. They can sense it. They
have this extra sense that we humans don’t have. When they talk to me,
I feel like I’m reading a book. It’s all there in the book. All I have
to do is read it. I know it sounds weird. But just because I can read
their thoughts that doesn’t mean I’m crazy, or something. Does it,
Hopsy?”
“No, it doesn’t. Of course not.” He paused, then asked, “Do they tell
you their secrets?”
“Animals don’t have secrets, Hopsy. They’re not like us.” Lilly touched
his arm gently. “Hopsy, we don’t have any secrets between us. We’ve
always trusted each other. Haven’t we?”
“Yes.” He sighed. Staring at his shadow in front of him, he walked on
it step after step. “It’s funny,” he murmured as if talking to himself.
“I step on my shadow but I feel nothing. Like a ghost it follows me
wherever I go. Lilly . . . ?”
“What?”
“Do you think if I had stepped on a ghost, I mean a real ghost, would
he feel something, like pain?”
Lilly grabbed his arm and they came to a stop staring at each other.
“Hopsy, let’s sit against that shaded wall, and you tell me what it is
you are not saying. I can see it in your eyes, but I can’t read your
mind, remember?”
After putting their books on the ground, he sat down with his back
resting against the whitewashed wall. Lilly sat in front of him and
crossed her legs under her body. Her hair touched the blades of the
grass. Her green eyes stared into his, intensely.
“Now, tell me,” she said quietly. “Everything,” she emphasized.
Hopewatch took a long breath and let it out slowly, readying himself
for the worst. Ghosts? He knew there were no ghosts nor did he believe
in ghost stories. At best they were only imaginative and entertaining
stories – stories to scare small children. Lilly would laugh at him.
No, that was not fair to Lilly. Lilly would laugh with him, but not at
him. There was a certain respect and understanding between them. Lilly
was his best friend. He lifted his head and stared into her attentive
green eyes.
“Thank you, Lilly,” he said.
“Tell me – when you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.” An easing smile
appeared on her face. The same soothing, trust-me smile she
always had when she talked to her four-legged friends.
“Today at school – did you notice anything strange when I was doing the
math problem? Did you see something . . . uh . . . unusual?”
“No, I didn’t. But I felt something.”
“What, Lilly?” he said, excited.
“I felt as if the air-conditioning was blowing icy-cold air in the
classroom. It lasted for maybe a few minutes, I think. I had to hug
myself and rub my arms to stop shivering. When you finished the
problem, the air was normal again. That was weird.”
They, his two friendly ghosts, were in the classroom. No! It was not
just a vision. They were real. They were there, and Lilly had felt
their presence but couldn’t see them. Why did the ghosts show
themselves only to him? What was their message? Why him? His
imagination, his young need-to-know mind ran wild.
“Lilly, you may think that I’m climbing up on the nut tree, or losing
my mind, or something even worse, but it wasn’t the air-conditioning
that made you feel the icy-cold air. It was them. And I didn’t solve
the problem either. They did it for me.”
“They? I don’t understand you, Hopsy. Who are they?”
Looking into her eyes, he told her everything. First her eyes got big,
then bigger, her mouth opened wide, and when he finished telling her
his vision, she mouthed a soundless, “Wow!” After the initial
secret-sharing excitement was burned-out somewhat, Lilly wrote the
phrase on her yellow notepad. Then they manipulated the words moving
them around, attempting to better understand the real meaning of the
phrase. They ended up with two phrases, which they thought made more
sense than the single one. Full of excitement they read the results of
their combined efforts.
“Your Destiny / The Dream of Hopeful Dreams.”
“Hopsy,” said Lilly in a trembling voice, “you must be special to them.
I think they’re preparing you for something very important.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
They were so much engrossed with Hopsy’s vision and trying to solve the
mysterious phrase that they didn’t notice a man sneaking closer to them
until his tall figure was standing above them. He stood there, hands
crossed in front of him, his right foot tapping on the soft grass, and
staring down at Lilly’s notepad.
His name was Tito Sophfron. The right half of his face was severely
burned from the top of his forehead to under his chin. A milky filmed,
pupilless right eye gaped open through his burned eyelids. It seemed
that it was always fixed on the same spot, as if staring through
whatever his good eye was looking at. Both his mouth and nose were
deformed and crooked terribly toward the burned side of his face.
“What are the two of you doing here?” he shouted with his throaty,
raspy voice, his eye still glued on Lilly’s notepad. “Give me that,” he
demanded, thrusting his long arm towards Lilly.
“No!” Lilly said and jumped to her feet. “You can’t have it.” She
started taking backward steps while holding her notepad behind her back
with both hands.
“Give it to me, you animal freak, before I break your neck like a twig.”
“Leave her alone, Mr. Sophron,” Hopewatch said calmly. He stepped
between them and faced Tito. “What she wrote on her notepad doesn’t
concern you.”
“You crummy little things. I’ll . . .” Mr. Sophron started to say, but
left his sentence unfinished.
Buster, Lilly’s two-year old wolf was standing next to her, snarling
and showing his sharp teeth to Mr. Sophron.
Lilly’s father, Antony, being a shepherd himself, had found Buster in
the woods when he was still a tiny cub. He had watched the young
white-haired animal crawling on his belly, its big golden eyes staring
at the same spot, carefully moving toward its target. When it was close
enough to his quarry, it leapt into the air and its paws touched
squarely where the sparrow had been. The cub looked up at the
might-have-been meal as it flew into the thick branches of a tree.
Despite this failed attempt, and with a renewed confidence, the cub
then scrutinized the slight movements of the grass. He hopped in the
air and landed on all four paws at the same time. Another futile
attempt. He ran after the trail of the escaping lizard through the
zigzagging grass.
Antony watched and smiled. The cub had stepped in Antony’s shadow,
looked at him with his big, golden eyes, and showed him its small sharp
teeth. Antony tried to scoop him off the ground. The pup moved rapidly,
crawled into the bushes, and tried crudely to imitate the rumbling,
growling sounds of his parents. The cub gave a fair fight before he was
captured. Antony fed him some fresh milk, put the cub in his lunch
sack, and knowing Lilly’s abilities with animals, he gave it to her as
a present. From that day on, she took good care of him and named him
Buster. And as if by a miracle, wolves no longer attacked or mutilated
their sheep or goats.
“Keep that thing away from me,” Tito muttered. Terrified he walked
backwards distancing himself from Buster’s teeth, then he was gone.
“Thanks, Buster,” Lilly whispered in his ear as she combed his gray
hair with her hand. “Come, Hopsy,” she said smiling, “let’s go away
from here before Buster gets angry.”
Tito Sophron paced to his door, pushed it open, and kicked it shut. He
was furious. He had been humiliated by those two little punks. He was a
soldier. He had fought and shed blood for his country. He had been
deformed doing his duty – protecting his fellow men, his flag. What was
wrong with the world anyhow? The Spartans knew exactly what to do with
their children. Took them off the streets at age seven, taught them
soldiering, taught them to be strong, taught them to fight, made
killers out of them. Kill the enemy. They’re everywhere. Kill them all.
Exterminate.
Tito’s blood was boiling hot. He forced his fingers into a giant fist,
raised his arm above his head, and hammered the table forcefully.
The middle of the table caved inwards, broke in two, and with a final
squeaking sound, fell on the floor. He stared at his fist as if he had
never seen it before, then he chuckled aloud. “I still got it! God help
me, I still got it,” he shouted and tried to smile at his image in the
mirror, but he couldn’t. His smile looked more like it was frowning or
mocking him. No matter. Although he knew that his smile looked crooked
and ugly, it was his smile. He liked it. He’d earned it. Hadn’t he?
His eye stared at the broken table. Suddenly, an uncontrollable urge of
wrath rose from the great depths of his gut. His right booted foot
landed hard on the half table, sending it to the other side of the
room. He watched it crash onto the floor. It squeaked and creaked like
a dying creature as it fell apart. He smiled. Yes! That felt good. He
kicked the other half even harder. It flew six feet high, traveling
toward the kitchen window. It smashed the glass into tiny pieces, and
bits of glass struck noisily down on the floor. It went through the
broken panels, and landed outside on his small vegetable garden,
destroying his tomato, onion, and pepper plants. Now that he had worked
the anger and frustration out of his system, he felt much calmer, and
nimbly justified.
Now he could pick up the phone and do his duty as he’d always done. No
little punks would take glorious fighting warriors and make amicable
citizens out of them. That was unacceptable to Tito. He could never
permit that. As long as he had one drop of blood left in him, he’d be a
fighting soldier, so help him God.
He picked up the phone in his huge hand, dialed a number, and tapped
his boot on the floor, nervously.
“It’s me. Me, Tito. Yes, Tito Sophron. Tito in the small . . . village,
you know. Yeah, that Tito. I think it happened. I heard him talking to
his, uh . . . animal-talker friend. She freaks me out, man. I heard
words . . . Something about destiny, ghosts, dreams. No, I didn’t have
the chance. Sir . . . the wolf – she has a damn wolf for a pet.
Unbelievable. Yes, I’m listening. I will, sir. Yes, sir. Goodbye, sir.”
He’ll show them punks and, at the same time, do his patriotic duty for
his country.
Somewhere at the foot of the tall mountains there was a green oasis.
Hidden under the shade of the enormous trees, a well preserved old
wooden house was built on the banks of the peaceful creek. After
entering through the window panel, fixing the math problem, leaving
their message on the blackboard, and paying their respect to Hopewatch,
the two ghosts flew hurriedly back home, and emerged into their living
aged-old bodies.
“It started,” said the old man. Then he took his long stick and made a
circle in the air. “Now let’s sit back and watch.”
Instantly, the circle became a giant, alive, viewing screen. They saw
the puzzled face of Hopewatch as he walked back to his seat.
“Such a beautiful little boy,” the old lady said, giggling with joy.
“He is the one, yes?”
“Yes, Mother. He is the one. We know that already. That is, if he
doesn’t change, if he follows his destiny, if we can keep him safe from
his enemies, if –”
”Look here,” she stopped him. “I’ve been married to you for how long
now? I don’t know and I don’t care to know it either. I’ve lost a son
and a daughter for our cause. Your children. I want no more
deaths. If you can’t protect the boy, then cancel the whole thing. You
listening, old man? I have no more tears left to cry. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Mother.”
She took a picture from the wall and stared at the faces of her son and
daughter. Charles was six years older than his sister Henrietta. Like
their father, Zoticus, they were tall and slender. “My tall cypresses,”
Pheope used say to each one as she looked lovingly into their
eyes. They looked alike except for their eyes. Charles had inherited
his father’s serious, pale-brown eyes, and Henrietta her mother’s,
shining, gray-blue eyes.
Both, she and her husband, Zoticus, were devastated when the messenger
had knocked on their door. The message was very simple, but explicitly
clear. Their son, Charles, and their daughter, Henrietta, were both
dead. Charles had died instantly from the powerful explosion of a
claymore mine. For Charles the evidence was conclusive. Fingerprints
and dental records showed, without a doubt, that Charles’ body was
blown to bits and pieces. The messenger had ensured them that Charles
had died instantly. As for Henrietta, although they couldn’t locate her
body, she, the messenger had said, had either been eaten by wild
creatures, or drifted away in the thick jungle, most likely injured
from the powerful blast, and died elsewhere. After two days of
searching and combing the immediate vicinity in the thick jungle of
Vietnam, their investigation hadn’t produced any hopeful evidence that
she might be alive. So, Henrietta was listed as MIA – Missing In Action.
With hardened hearts and saddened spirits the old couple had accepted
the government’s explanation and looked no further into this saddest of
affairs. Scratching their deep wounds would only make it worse
than their bleeding hearts could bear. It had taken more that three
years for Pheope to accept the death of her children and to return
their framed picture to the wall of their house. She placed the picture
back on the wall, and after making sure that it was perfectly level,
she turned and stared at her old man as if he was not there.
“Can you protect the child?” she asked at last.
“Yes! With my life.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes. It’s a promise.”
“Good.” She kissed his aged, wrinkled cheeks, held his hand gently, and
sat by his side. “Now we watch.”
After about two hours or so, Zoticus snapped his fingers and the screen
disappeared.
“I believe they handled Mr. Sophron wisely,” Pheope said, giggling. “We
have to keep an eye on that Tito. Such a mean man. Destroying his own
furniture. Did you see that table flying out the window? I thought that
was hysterical.” She stood up, still giggling. “Some tea?”
“Yes. That’ll be just fine,” he said, and made a mental note about Tito
Sophron
TWO
As the bright sun vanished behind the gray and ashen colored mountains,
the blue sky painted itself bluer. Flickering, as if trying to wake up
from its long daytime sleep, the morning star appeared in the sky, then
turned itself to dazzling gold. The quarter moon emerged shyly next to
the shining star and slowly grew to silver. The earth was changing her
bright and colorful dress to her dark one, preparing nature for her
nighttime creatures.
Dusk was hugging the earth when Hopewatch arrived at his home still
pondering the events of the day. His mother, Narkiz, was taking the
evening meal from the oven. He breathed the delicious aroma of baked
chicken, potatoes, onions, and carrots smothered in olive oil and lemon
juice. His favorite! He licked his lips in anticipation. She put the
roasting pan on the top of the white-tiled countertop. The steaming
chicken looked golden crisp. Next to it he saw a freshly baked
chocolate cake with white icing letters. He read:
Happy Seventh BirthdayHe felt strange. How could he forget his own
birthday? His birthday was always so special to him. Each year, he
would invite Lilly, devour large pieces of chocolate cake, act silly,
play, and watch television.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I had a long and very
strange day, and I . . . I just forgot.”
“I thought so,” Narkiz said and opened her arms wide. He rushed into
the safe harbor of her bosom. She hugged him tightly and kissed his
hands and cheeks. “Happy birthday, my precious little one. I just wish
your father was here to celebrate with us your seventh birthday and to
see how much you’ve grown since the last time he saw you.” She
sighed. A momentary sadness appeared on her face, then it was gone.
His father, Theo, was the captain of a merchant ship. He would come
home from his long journeys all over the world, stay with them for ten
or twenty days and leave again for ten months or for a whole year
sometimes. His mother’s face would sparkle with joy and happiness in
those days he was home. Then before the day of his departure, she would
cry secretly so his father wouldn’t notice her sadness and despair. But
Hopsy knew better. “I shall never get used to this separation thing,”
his mother would say to him while looking at his father as he took his
seat on the bus. As the bus became smaller and smaller, a small dot on
the dusty road, she would hold his hand tighter and tighter. Sometimes
it hurt him terribly but he didn’t mind. Something in his heart pained
him even more.
“Hopsy?”
“Yes, mom?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? What’s wrong with you today? You’re
here and you’re not. Aren’t you going to invite her for your birthday
dinner?”
“Invite?”
“My forgetful, absentminded son.” She shook her head in exasperation.
“You’re such a silly goose sometimes.”
“Oh, yes! I’ll be right back,” he yelled, and ran out of the door.
Lilly was all dressed up, waiting.
“Happy birthday, Hopsy,” she said, and handed him a small round stone.
Veins of blue, black, and red could be seen inside the see-through
glasslike stone. “I found it in the river and I thought you might like
it.”
“Thanks, Lilly. When did you find it?”
“Some time. Don’t you like it?”
“I love it. It’s very beautiful.” Suddenly he found the air unbearably
thin. He felt strange, uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell why his stomach
was acting so funny. The whole day was strange. What was wrong with him
today? He wanted to say something nice to her, but he couldn’t find the
right words. “Uh . . . we better go. Mom is waiting for us,” he said
instead.
“Did you tell her?” asked Lilly.
“No,” he mumbled.
“Will you tell her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
When they arrived home, Narkiz had prepared he table with festive
colors, the special china, the delicious food on the plates, and seven
little white candles on the birthday cake.
“Mmm,” they said at the same time as they sat across from each other.
With elbows resting on the table, they stared at the cake, and
licked their lips.
Narkiz cast her eyes at them. “Chk, chk, chk ,” she warned them and
waved a finger. “First a silent prayer, then roast chicken and veggies,
and, if you’re good, then we’ll cut the cake.”
After a while, Hopsy glanced at his mother. She looked shocked. Her
eyes peered at him, then at Lilly, down at their plates, then back at
him, to Lilly . . . as if watching the strangest Ping-Pong match. Most
of the food on their plates was gone, the soft drinks in their glasses
almost finished, much cacophony from knives and forks, but not a sound
from either him or Lilly. He knew his mother. She couldn’t stand not
knowing. Lilly and he, almost always, talked loud, shouted at each
other, and ate as fast as they could chew, just so they could get to
the delicious dessert faster.
“What’s wrong with you two?” she asked with a sigh. “You haven’t said a
word, or gulped your food down like hungry wolves, and you’ve
completely avoided eye contact with each other and also with me, as if
I don’t exist, as if I were a ghost.”
Instantly Hopewatch and Lilly eyed one another. Their forks froze in
midair and their mouths stopped chewing. Lilly nodded slowly without
taking her eyes from Hopewatch. Their heads turned, unblinking eyes
stared at Narkiz, and as if something or someone removed the cap on the
piled up words in their minds, they both started talking excitedly, and
moved their hands like maniacs at the same time.
Narkiz smiled and covered her ears with her hands as they chattered in
marvelous shrills and moved their forks in front of her like deadly
swords.
“You’re impossible,” Narkiz said with an exasperated smile. “You
refused to talk since you got here as though you were eating
tongue-numbing leaves and all of a sudden . . . all right. What is it?
Birthday boy, you go first.”
By the time they had finished telling Narkiz the events of the day,
Narkiz’s facial expression was rapidly changing from smiling to somber,
to frowning, to terror, and finally, to relief. Suddenly she stood up
and disappeared into her bedroom.
Hopsy and Lilly looked at each other, frowned and moved their hands and
shoulders in an I-don’t-know gesture. Was she upset with them? Did she
think that they were making up cruel stories to scare her or something?
She just stood up and left. She’d never done that. She’d always asked
question after question. Why not now? What was wrong with her? Why did
her face change like that?
Hopsy heard her approaching footsteps. Holding a small silver box,
Narkiz took her seat at the table. Her face looked distant and calm.
She put the little box in front of Hopewatch.
He eyed its intricate patterns, conscious that both Lilly and his
mother were staring at him intently. A wave of frustration, a
discouraging feeling entered his mind. He felt that he already had
enough surprises for one day. Reluctantly he stretched out his hand,
the tips of his fingers touched the box, and instantly he withdrew
them, as if the surface of the box held some unbearable energy. Minutes
seemed to elapse in a dull and uneventful silence.
“Open it,” Narkiz said in a whispering tone. “Go on . . . Open it,
son,” she repeated as if awakening from a spell, encouraging him.
“What is it?” asked Hopewatch, still unwilling to touch it.
“Just open it, look at it, hold it. Then I’ll tell you where and how it
came to me.”
“More mystery,” Lilly said rubbing her hands with excitement. “Open it,
Hopsy. I’m dying to know what it is.”
“Wow,” said Hopewatch as soon as he flipped-open the cover of the box.
“Wow.”
“What? What?” Lilly shouted. “Let me see.”
Hopewatch moved his fingers on it. As he gently ran his fingertips on
its smooth surface, something warm entered through the pores of his
skin, vibrated through his flesh, and an exquisite, nameless feeling
stirred his heart. Holding the silver chain with both hands, he pulled
it out and lifted it up in front of him. Sparkling with colorful
lights, a transparent amulet hung on it. His name was carved inside the
amethyst stone.
HopewatchHe was speechless. How could anyone carve his name inside the
transparent stone? Weird. First the ghosts, then Tito and Buster, and
now this. His seventh birthday seemed to get stranger and stranger by
the minute. What was going to happen next?
Lilly stretched her hand over the table. “Let me see, let me hold it,
Hopsy,” she begged. She took it from him, and looked and looked.
“Beautiful,” she repeated breathlessly. “I knew it,” she resumed with
conviction. “I knew it.”
“Knew what, Lilly?” Narkiz asked in a surprised tone.
“Hopsy is special.”
“I must say that I have to agree with you Lilly,” Narkiz murmured
quietly.
Four wondering eyes filled with amazement and fascination stared at
Narkiz. She took a long breath, stared at the amulet, and as if talking
to herself, she started telling them her story.
“I have seen them also – the ghosts. It was the day you were born . . .
the most precious little bundle I ever saw in my life when the midwife
placed you in my arms. “Get to know each other,” she said to me with a
tired smile, and left the room quietly. You were so soft, so handsome.
And those eyes of yours, staring at me. My heart was pounding with
immeasurable joy in my swollen chest. I don’t remember for how long I
held you in my arms, just looking at you and loving you more and more
as the seconds ticked away. Then I noticed a shadow coming through the
window of my room and then another one followed.”
“The ghosts!” Lilly uttered in a bewildered voice.
“Yes, the ghosts,” Narkiz said and sighed. “At first I was horrified.
I’d heard many horrible stories of ghosts breathing into the mouths of
newborn babies, suffocating them, or even stealing their souls. With my
arms wrapped tightly around my precious baby, I gazed at the short
ghost. My frantic mind wanted to do a million different things but my
body refused to follow its commands. I just stood there frozen, as if
in a trance, staring at them.” Her voice took a throbbing richness that
Hopsy never heard in it before. “Then the lights of the room grew
brighter and brighter, and the air enhanced itself to the sweet smell
of jasmines. I felt like screaming for help, fleeing the room with you
in my arms, and never look back, never return. Right then the woman
ghost looked at me kindly, smiled, and suddenly all my worries seemed
to fly out the window. She came closer, bent over and looked at you for
a long time. Then she put the amulet in your little hands. Maybe it was
my excitement, or my state of mind with what was happening, but I
swear, you smiled at her. The man ghost looked at me, and said, ‘Give
him the amulet at age eight. It will protect him from any harm.’ Then,
they were gone.”
“His name – that’s why –”
“Yes, Lilly. That’s why we named him Hopewatch.”
After Hopewatch said goodnight to Lilly, he remembered what she’d said.
‘You are special.’ Special for what? He didn’t feel special. The more
he thought about what was happening to him, the less he understood.
“Your destiny . . . ”What was his destiny? What is the dream of all
dreams? His name, Hopewatch, carved in the amulet. Hope watcher? How
does one watch hope? He closed his eyes. Sleep followed.
Three hours later he woke up smiling and giggling. Fourth of July, he
mused, as he remembered his vivid dream. Lights. Beautiful, colorful
lights. Rainbows of blues, reds, greens, yellows, gold, silver .
. . and all different hues in between. Brilliant lights ripping through
the air and opening up like exotic flowers. His best dream ever. If
this is the dream of all dreams, Hopsy thought smiling, then he
was the luckiest boy on Earth. Hurriedly, he pulled the covers over
him. He had to see the Fourth of July again.
THREE
Eerie and spooky things started happening to Hopewatch from that day
on. They were playing baseball. The day was beautiful, the sky
was cloudless and blue, and the cool breeze just right. Leo took
practice swings to loosen up. Hopsy guarded second base. At thirteen,
Leo was eight inches taller than Hopewatch and very fit. “Mister
Macho,” the teacher called Leo once, and the name stuck with Leo. He
was mean. Mocking everyone, and fighting with the other kids seemed to
give him enormous pleasure. Although some of the kids liked to be his
friends, he always brushed them off. “Who need yuh,” he would say
looking down on them. “Don’t needs yuh. Don’t need no one. Baby sitting
ain’t my rocket. Go to your mama. Go on now. Go on before I kick yuh
where it hurts,” he would say, exhaling forcibly, and snorting like a
happy pig in ankle deep mud.
The pitcher tossed the ball. An eery silence fell over the field. Hopsy
heard the bat strike squarely against it. Clung. The baseball flew
toward him and Hopsy knew it would land right between his eyes.
Terrified, he closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and waited for the
blow. Just before the ball landed on its target, forceful hands dragged
him down ento his knees. He squinted, peered around, but no one was
there for him to see. The ball flew inches over his head. Leo made it
to second base just before the ball thrown by his teammate landed
safely in Hopsy’s glove.
The silence seized. People on the bleachers leapt to their feet,
clapped their hands, and shouted. Hopsy’s mother moved her hands
forcibly to her sides in a proud gesture of “Yes!”
Leo chuckled. “Hopsy, you were very lucky . . . this time. Next time,
wham, right there – right between your eyes. Too bad you had to duck,
huh.”
“Yeah, right,” said Hopewatch staring at Leo’s missing tooth. “Who
knocked it out, Leo?”
“Mind your own beeswax,” Leo replied angrily and kicked the dusty
ground.
Although Leo thought that no one knew how or who knocked his tooth out
of his mouth, the word had spread around the village like a virus.
Everyone knew Leo’s “Who-knocked-out-the-bully’s-tooth,” story.
The baseball incident was the first. The second time, Hopsy had climbed
to the very top of a tall tree to check a bird’s nest when the branch
he was holding snapped with a spooky sound. Then silence. The same eery
silence just before Leo had hit the ball. He found himself flying
toward the hard ground – his death. Or if he were lucky enough he’d end
up with broken ribs, arms, or legs. Maybe more. He looked at the ground
coming at him fast and hard and suddenly he felt his body as weightless
as a feather, floating and drifting slowly downwards through branches
and leaves. Amazed, he saw the tree branches below him move out
of his way, as if invisible hands were making a safe path for his
downfall. His feet touched the ground. He moved his hands frantically
over his body, checking for injuries. He couldn’t believe it – not a
scratch. He looked around, eyes searching. Nothing. Nothing but trees,
grass, blue skies, and cool breeze cooling down his inflamed face.
Six months after his seventh birthday, Buster, Lily, and he strolled on
the banks of the river gathering edible snails, when they heard a
panic-stricken yell.
“Jesus Almighty God!”
They rushed toward the voice. Tito Sophron was sitting on his behind,
knife in hand, the leg of his pants drawn above his right knee.
“Damn snake,” he repeated, and kept cursing and cursing as he moved the
sharp knife over his leg, cutting hastily skin and flesh three inches
lower from a very tightened string around his leg. Tito bent his body,
and tried to suck the blood with his mouth, but he could not reach the
cut. “Hopsy, Lilly, help me,” he begged squeezing frantically his leg
with his hands. “Please. Don’t let me die like an animal.”
The most incredible, the most amazing thing happened right then. Buster
leapt into the air, landed next to Tito’s leg, growled once, and
started licking the venom of the viper snake. Hopsy couldn’t take his
eyes from Tito’s disfigured face. His good side looked pale like a
bleached yellow wall. Blue veins flared ready to explode, ticking,
ticking, while his burned side was bloated like a grotesque, dried-up
leather ball. His arms were stretched by his sides holding his
motionless body, open palms turned to fist, and his wide open eye was
glued at Buster’s tongue licking out the poisonous blood. Hopsy
wondered what made Buster to suddenly suck Tito’s blood, when not too
long ago, he yelped at him angrily, ready to tear him apart while
protecting Lilly.
“I owe you . . .” Tito said, and paused. “I owe you my life,” he
continued staring at Buster, then at Lilly and Hopewatch. A queer
smile, an appealing smile, almost human-like, appeared on the left side
of his face. “Not too late for someone to change his bad habits, is it?”
Tito Sophron had been in many places and he’d seen whole lot in his
life. After he came out of the hospital, he had received many
shining medals for his bravery and a monthly check from the government.
Great many stories flew around since his coming back home, but only he,
Tito, knew the real truth of what had really happened. One of Tito’s
Vietnam buddies had sat in the café, sipped his beer, heaved a
long sigh, and looking at the curious faces of the villagers he started
telling his version of Tito’s bravery in Vietnam.
“It was like hell. We heard the automatic weapon spitting out bullets
in our direction, and quickly we took cover in this empty house. I
looked around. Tito was not in the house. We thought that the poor
sucker was gunned down and dead. Then, without any warning, came the
blazing hellish fire. The fire . . . it was as if someone had poured
odorless gasoline in and around the house. Fire was licking and
eating the wooden house, black choking smoke entering our lungs,
bullets flying like mad hornets from the machine gun. We were trapped
like blind mice. We knew that we were either going to take a bullet if
we ran out of the door or burn to ashes if we stayed inside.
“Suddenly, the continuous yackking and rattling of the deadly weapon
stopped. Two seconds later Tito knocked the door down and jumped into
the hellish inferno shouting, “Get out, damn it. Get out. I’ve got the
son-of-a bitch.”
“There was this injured guy in the back room with half his leg blown to
pieces. Tito ran to the door like a raging bull facing the red cape and
knocked it down. We fought toward the exit door and rushed out of the
house coughing and spitting smoke, and I thought, ‘Poor Tito and that
legless guy will burn to ashes.
“Oh, man, you had to see him when he appeared under the door frame. He
held our buddy in his strong arms; blanket over the guy, alive. But let
me tell you, my friends, the horror I saw with my own eyes. Tito’s half
burned face was still smoking. His eye seemed to be melting in front of
us. “He’s safe,” Tito said, and collapsed on the ground.
“Some while later, the chopper landed and took him to the hospital. We
thought we would never see him again. Well, we were wrong. After about
three months, and with half his face gone, he came to pay us a visit.
He was going home, he said. I’ll never forget what he said next.
“You’re my brothers, my family, my friends. I’ll miss you.”
The story teller drew quiet for some time. Then he knocked the butt of
his beer bottle on the table and, “To Tito,” he saluted.
And now Tito was asking Lilly and Hopewatch if it were too late to
change?
“No, Mr. Sophron,” Lilly said, petting the enormous neck of Buster.
“Buster doesn’t think so.”
“Come,” said Tito, pulling down the leg of his pants. “I’ll walk
you home. It’s not safe for you wandering all alone, you know.”
From that day on, Tito, who had been nothing but mean to Hopsy since he
had returned from Vietnam, now seemed to follow Hopewatch everywhere.
He would suddenly appear out of nowhere, smile, “How is my boy today?”
he would ask, and disappear again.
FOUR
It was the oddest year in Hopsy’s life. One mystifying event followed
another and he didn’t know how to explain them even to himself. They
just kept happening every time he was in some dangerous situation. No
one in the village suspected anything. The only people who knew about
the mysterious events were Hopewatch, his mother, Lilly and Buster, and
his new friend, Tito Sophron.
“You must have a guardian angel following you and protecting you,” his
mother had said to him, and Lilly nodded agreement with that simple
explanation. Tito’s “When the time comes, you’ll know” answer to the
strange events was even simpler and more humble than his mother’s
explanation.
Seven days before his eighth birthday, the village crier spoke loudly
announcing the coming of the greatest magician into their village.
“My fellow villagers, ladies and gentlemen, and especially all the
children of this village, listen to me. The greatest magician of all
times is to arrive into our village and entertain all of us with his
magical tricks. This once in your lifetime, not to miss, event is going
to take place in our Main Square this Sunday after church.” The crier
then moved about fifty or sixty yards and cried the same message all
over again.
The traveling magician arrived on Saturday and the villagers helped him
build the removable stage. They went back and forth to his covered
wagon, and moved boxes and boxes and stuff onto the top of the stage.
The stage looked great in the middle of the big Main Square when it was
finished. After the Sunday service was over, the villagers gathered
around the stage to witness first hand the magical tricks of the
magician, who was kind enough to bring such a show to their small
village. The magician came out from his wagon and stepped onto the
stage.
“Oh! Ah!,” the villagers went on and on admiring his magical, long
cape. He looked so handsome and so very tall in his tall hat.
The magician tapped the top of the table with his magical wand to quiet
down the villagers. Then he walked through the children sitting on the
ground and grown-ups as well, and started collecting shiny coins from
their ears. After that, he did card tricks. Then he cut a white cotton
rope in four pieces and put it back together in one piece again, and
did the same trick with a newspaper page.
The villagers oohed and aahed at the end of each magical trick, and now
and then they looked into each other’s ears to see if there were any
more coins.
After the magician completed his white rabbit-in-the-hat trick, he put
his hands on his hips and two white doves flew out from his wide
sleeves and landed on the table next to the rabbit.
“Magic, magic, magic,” the villagers shouted very loud, whistling and
clapping their hands feverishly, and Hopewatch thought, It’s so
much fun to be a magician!
“I’d like to have a volunteer for my final magical trick,” said the
magician looking at Hopsy’s mother. “Come!” he said extending his hand
to her. “Come up on the stage”
“Me?” Narkiz said shyly, and looked around bemused.
“Yes, you, beautiful lady,” he said. “You shall be my assistant
for my final magical trick. Come, come,” he said. “No reason for you to
be shy or frightened. I promise I’ll be gentle cutting you in two
pieces.”
“Oh, my! Oh, my,” she said, and with a great reservation she stepped
onto the stage.
“Narkiz, Narkiz, Narkiz,” everyone shouted and clapped their hands
applauding.
Narkiz smiled at her proud, little precious son, as if to say, “Don’t
you worry, son. It’s only some harmless magic trick.”
The magician rolled a big box into the middle of the stage, and opened
the two concealed covers of the box. Narkiz climbed in the box and lay
down on her back. The magician put the lids back on and whispered
something to her. She nodded, smiled, and wiggled her toes. The
magician took a huge lumberjack’s saw, placed it in the middle of the
box, moved it back and forth, and cut the box and Narkiz’s body in two.
“Ah! Oh! the villagers screamed in an alarming horror and disgust. They
covered their eyes with their hands, then peeked, and snooped with
open-mouthed curiosity through the narrow openings of their fingers.
With tears falling from his cheeks and his bottom lip covering the top
one, Hopsy stared into the eyes of his smiling mother. He couldn’t
understand why his mother was smiling. Anyone else in her place,
including himself, would have been screaming their lungs out from the
unbearable pain. It was horrible, insane. He couldn’t stand looking at
her like that, but all he could do was stare – stare at her smiling
face, her wiggling toes, and bite his lip to stop his sorrowful sobbing.
The magician pushed and separated the box in two. The smiling face of
Narkiz was to his right, her wiggling toes to his left. The
villagers screamed in revulsion. The magician smiled in pleasurable
satisfaction with the horrific affects he had bestowed upon the poor
villagers, and Hopsy was on the verge of shouting at the cruel magician
and crying out of despair.
He loved his mother in one piece. What would he do with a two piece
mother? How would he explain to his father what happened to his wife?
His father would be furious with him for letting something like this to
happen to his lovely Narkiz. This was bad. Very bad! Hopsy’s mind
painted pictures of horror. He could see his mother’s upper part
resting on the bed, or in a chair, while her lower part strolled in and
around the house. He felt his pounding heart beating faster and faster
as if wanting to jump out and run deep into the woods and hide there
for ever and ever.
When the magician knew at last that his trick would have a lasting
effect in the minds of his shocked audience, he put the two parts
together, smiled reassuringly, tapped his magic wand on the box three
times, and wailed his magical words.
“Abbra Cadabbra. Show me the magic!”
An utter silence fell on the Main Square.
Slowly the magician opened the upper lid, then the other.
“Come out. Step out,” he said in a thunderous voice, and helped Narkiz
down on the stage. They took a few steps and bowed in front of the
bewildered audience.
Suddenly, pandemonium broke out in Main Square. The villagers stood on
their feet, clapped their hands feverishly, pounded their feet on
the ground, and screamed and yelled with delight. Hopewatch leaped with
joy into the arms of his one piece mother.
Right then and there as he hugged her neck tightly against his face, he
knew he must, he had to become a magician. He knew that the magician
had laid the groundwork to his destiny. The decision struck him like a
bolt of lightning. He had finally realized his calling. Tito was right
after all with his simple down-to-earth explanation, “When the time
comes, you’ll know.” But, “The Dream of Hopeful Dreams?” He didn’t know
how to translate the true meaning of those words. He was sure though
that the answer to that question would also come to him somehow -
just the way he had discovered the path to his destiny. He had to be
patient.
The villagers helped the magician load his belongings into the covered
wagon, gave him gifts and plenty of food, two live chickens and a cat
to keep him company on his journeys to many different places. They
filled his collection plate with coins and some paper money. Then they
told him to keep all the coins he’d collected from their ears, he
certainly deserved it, and begged him to come back as often as he could.
For the next seven days, Hopewatch thought over and over again about
his inspired revelation to enter into the enchanting world of magic.
Could a little boy of his age become a magician? He didn’t know. He
also had no idea where he should go to acquire such knowledge and
skills. He figured out that if there were schools and teachers for math
and geography and history, and so on, there ought to be a school where
he could go and learn the art of magic from the wise magician.
Certainly the wise magician would charge his students an arm and a leg
to teach such amazing skills to little boys like himself. His mother
wouldn’t mind paying the exuberant amount of money for his tuition.
Now that he had solved those puzzling questions, he opened the yellow
pages of the phone book and looked under, Magician, then under Magic,
and finally, under Wise Magician. He couldn’t find a single
advertisement for what he was searching. When he had spoken to his
mother about his newly revealed desire to learn the wonderful tricks of
magic, although she had agreed wholeheartedly with him that he should
learn the magic, she didn’t know where he could find a magician or how
easy or difficult it would be enrolling in such a school. Then he
thought of Tito Sophron. Tito had been in many places. He’d definitely
know how to locate the wise magician’s school.
Hopsy smiled with his sneaky thought. He would pop the question to Tito
tonight at the dinner table. His mother had invited Tito to attend his
eighth birthday celebration. He remembered Tito’s shocked face when he
opened the fancy invitation envelope from his mother. Poor Tito opened
his mouth and the envelope fell on the floor. He stuttered like an
retard for some time, and then his huge body fell on the couch.
Finally, when he regained his composure, he stood on his feet, and made
a saluting gesture.
“I’m honored by your mother’s invitation to your birthday party, my
boy. Of course I’ll come.” He rushed to his closet and stood there
staring at his clothes. “How should I dress up, eh, how?” he talked to
himself aloud.
“Casual and simple,” said Hopsy.
“Casual and simple,” he tried to imitate Hopsy’s voice. “Are you out of
your mind?” he resumed with his regular heavy edged voice. “For one, I
don’t remember when was the last time I’ve been invited to dinner by
someone, and two, it’s your eighth birthday.”
Then he stared at Hopsy, his good eye got bigger, his hands moved
nervously in front of him as if gesturing something, looked at them,
then shoved them nervously into his pockets.
“Tell me, Hopsy,” he said, “who else is going to be there? You see,
son, because of my face people somehow shy away from me. It’s been a
long time. I think I forgot how to mingle with people, or to be my old
self around them.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Sophron. We like you just the way you are. My mother
invited just you, and I’ve invited Lilly and Buster.”
“Oh, good,” Tito said, and heaved a big sigh of relief.
At exactly six o’clock, Tito knocked on the door. Hopsy took his huge,
baseball glove-size hand, and showed him to the table. He was dressed
in his freshly pressed Marine uniform and shining black boots. The
medals on his chest shone like Christmas lights. He looked very
awkward, and stiff.
“Thank you for the honor, Narkiz,” he said, standing by the table like
a soldier before his general.
“Thank you for coming to Hopsy’s birthday dinner,” Narkiz said politely
as they shook hands. She pulled the chair for him. “Now sit down and
relax as you would’ve done in your own home. I already know that this
home is also yours. You have done so much for my son lately that we
feel you are part of our family.”
“Thank you, Narkiz.”
As soon as Tito sat in his chair, Buster skidded toward him, lifted his
body and his paws landed on Tito’s legs. He pet the animal below his
ears and tapped his smooth back.
“Buster” said Lilly, “leave him alone. That’s enough. Go sharpen your
teeth on the yummy bones Narkiz gave you.”
Buster eyed her for a second or two, growled at her with his wolfish
sounds, put his paws on the floor, scurried to his plate, and
resumed his loud bone-chewing.
After a cold beer and some idle conversation about this and that, and
the nice weather they had this year, Tito finally relaxed a bit and
dared to stretch his legs under the table. As the evening went along he
seemed to relax more and more, and sometimes he even smiled at the
silly jokes made by Lilly or Hopsy. Halfway during the traditional
birthday meal – baked chicken, potatoes, onions, and carrots smothered
in olive oil and lemon juice – Hopsy popped the question to Tito. He
thought about it for a second, then he shook his head gravely.
“I’m sorry, Hopsy,” he said. “I wish I did, but I don’t. Come to think
of it, I’ve never heard of such a school. But don’t you give up. When
the–”
“When the time comes, you’ll know,” Lilly finished Tito’s phrase.
They all started laughing at the same time.
After they finished their scrumptious meal, and the plates were stashed
in the sink, Narkiz put the chocolate birthday cake in front of Hopsy.
“All right, Hopsy,” said Tito. “Close your eyes, make a wish, and blow
out the candles.”
Hopsy closed his eyes and he wished to himself. “I wish and I wish
again that by tomorrow morning I would know how and where to find the
wise magician’s school.” He opened his eyes, took a long breath, and
blew out the eight light-blue candles.
Narkiz went into her bedroom and came back holding the amulet. While
Tito studied it with a curious expression, Narkiz told him how the
amulet came into her possession. Then no one could stop Lilly from
telling Tito what they were writing on her notepad the day Buster got
very angry with him. Throughout the detailed narration of the two
incidents by Narkiz, Hopsy, and Lilly, Tito nodded wittingly, and here
and there he dropped an, “Aha,” or “I see.”
“Oh, I knew he was special, all right,” Tito said when Lilly and Hopsy
finished telling him everything, but he didn’t elaborate any further
than that, no matter how many questions Lilly asked him. He
looked at the amulet one last time and ceremoniously placed it around
Hopsy’s neck. “Keep it under you shirt, Hopsy,” he said and tried to
smile. “Let no one see it.” He paused and apologetically looked at them
for a few seconds. “I’m sorry that I can’t answer your questions, I
really am. I’m not good at spelling out what others entrusted me.”
Suddenly his face become challenging and deadly serious. “But, I’m
going to tell you this, Narkiz. I’ll protect your boy with my own life
if I have to. That’s a promise.”
That night Hopsy had a dream. He was sitting on the balcony of his
house all alone, sipping lemonade, and thinking about the wise
magician. As if enchanted by some magical spell, he could now see a
colossal stone castle on the very top of the steep rocky mountain. He
was astonished when he found himself in the middle of the enormous
courtyard of the castle. For a second he wondered how he got there,
then he put it out of his mind. He saw children wearing long and
colorful cloaks, holding magic wands, and making things appear, then
disappear. Others climbed on brooms and flew around and about smiling,
giggling, and having fun. Hopsy was about to step on a toad when it
bounced in the air and safely landed in front of him. The toad looked
at him. “Watch your steps,” it croaked, and hopped away.
A blonde haired-girl about his age looked at him, searchingly. “Go
away! You’re a human boy. You don’t belong here,” she said in an angry
tone, and touched his shoulder with her wand.
Suddenly the scenery changed. He found himself standing on the top of a
hill in the middle of a treeless green land. He looked around for some
time and all he could see was silvery-green grass and blue skies. Then
he saw something like cotton clouds floating toward him. He looked at
them and instantly he knew that the two friendly ghosts were paying him
a visit once again. He smiled. They waved at him, hovered around and
about in some strange formation, and soundlessly landed in front of him.
“Come, Hopewatch. The Wise Magician awaits,” said the woman ghost.
“Your destiny awaits,” said the man ghost.
“How do I get there?” Hopsy asked them.
“Trust your instincts,” she said.
“Trust your senses and you shall know,” said the man ghost. “Let them
be the pathfinder of your destiny.”
“The amulet will guide you there,” they said in unison.
Instantly, he woke up. The ghosts’ words still echoed in his mind. He
blinked and blinked his eyes by the enlightening knowledge within
him. He now knew how to find the Wise Magician. Holding the
amulet with both hands, he closed his eyes, smiled, and went back to
sleep.
FIVE
When Narkiz awoke, she found herself siting upright, gasping, drenched
with icy sweat. An uneasy feeling washed over her, a feeling of
impending doom. Her heart pounded like an alarm clock, her chest rose
up and down in short gasps, her hands shook. “A dream,” she murmured,
but she couldn’t remember having one. “No!” She was sure it was not
that. It had to be something else. What?
“Hopsy!” she moaned in terror.
She run out her room, and opened Hopsy’s bedroom door. She rendered a
long sigh of relief as her eyes hugged the smiling face of her precious
son. He was sleeping peacefully on his left side, hands out of the
covers, holding tightly onto the amulet. She leaned over him, kissed
his forehead and cheek, sat on the bed, looked at him lovingly, and
when finally she left the room, she closed the door behind her as
quietly as she could.
Narkiz watched Hopewatch as he opened the door of the house and looked
at the beautiful morning. He breathed in the crisp morning air,
stretched out his arms yawning, and smiled. Narkiz walked to the door
and hugged her little boy.
“Breakfast, my precious?” she asked.
“Mom,” he said eyeing her carefully, “I had a dream.”
“Come, son,” she said pushing him gently in the house. “Let’s have our
breakfast first, then you tell me all about your dream.”
When he finished telling her his dream, she hugged him for a long time.
Of course, she thought. It all made sense now – the pounding heart, the
fast breathing, the uneasy feelings. Yes, it was a dream that woke her
up, but not hers. Quietly she started preparing his backpack. Although
she had known, for the past eight years, that the time would come when
her little boy would be on his way to something special, and although
she had prepared herself for the occasion, suddenly she found out that
she was completely unprepared. Her motherly instincts demanded that she
hold him tightly in her arms and never let go, but did she have the
right to interfere with her son’s destiny? What if her parents had
rejected her husband, Theo, for marrying her? Would there be the birth
of their son, Hopewatch? She shook her head slowly as an answer to her
heartbreaking, but nevertheless, accommodating thoughts.
“Hopsy?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Narkiz pleaded earnestly as she helped
him with the backpack. “The world out there is very big. It can be
cruel, nasty, and very mean.”
She wondered why her last words stirred a sad feeling in him. Was it
the subtle change of her worried voice?
“I hope,” she said looking at him with her cloudy eyes, “you’ll find
what you’re looking for. Remember, my little precious, I will always be
with you.”
“I know, Mom. I’ll be careful,” he said touching the amulet beneath his
shirt.
She kissed his hands, and slowly she let them go, as if one more second
of touching her son’s hands meant the whole world to her. He reached
the corner of the house, paused, turned, and waved his hand, “Goodbye.”
Narkiz waved back, “Hurry back, my little one,” she whispered. Then he
was gone.
Heavy hearted, she stood at the same spot for a long time, hoping for
his face to reappear, to hear his voice once again, even if that meant
only another goodbye. The loud ringing of the phone startled Narkiz.
She rushed into the house and picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” she said, and quietly she listened for the next two minutes.
“Thank you, Tito,” she said complacently, sighed, and hung up the phone.
What Tito had said was encouraging and reassuring news about Hopsy’s
safety on his journey to his quest. Deep down she knew that the
two ghosts, the amulet, and now Tito, were protecting her precious to
reach his chosen destiny. Why had to be her son? Exhausted, her body
fell on the sofa. She felt as if a vacuum had sucked up all her energy.
She placed her hands on her lap, closed her eyes, and the tears
trickled down on her cheeks.
Hopsy reached the boundaries of his small village and sat under the
shading umbrella of a big tree. He took off his backpack and placed it
in front of him. He looked at his village on the side of the small,
gently sloping hill. The small river below made a semi-circle around
the village before it disappeared beyond the green hills. He could see
his house, the church, the school. He could see people walking on the
flagstone streets. They looked tiny, like little dots on the page of a
big book. He couldn’t make out who was who or what they were doing. He
sighed.
“Oh, how beautiful you are,” he talked to his village, “with your
washed white wall houses, the red-tiled roofs, red, yellow, and pink
bougainvilleas on your walls, flowers on your balconies, the little
flagstone streets, the creek. When I’ve learned what I want, I’ll come
back and entertain you.”
With that pleasant thought, he opened his packsack and took out some
bread, olives and cheese, and ate hungrily. A small sparrow flew down
through the branches of the big tree and landed next to him.
“You look hungry,” he said to the sparrow, and gave her some of his
bread. “There you go,” he said, and placed it on the ground between him
and the sparrow.
The sparrow looked at him, tilted her head left and right, and,
unafraid of the boy, took tiny bites with his ash-gray little beak.
Hopsy took his water canteen from his backpack and poured some water in
its small screw-cup.
“There you go. Have some water, too.”
The sparrow dipped her beak in the cup, lifted her head up to the sky,
swallowed the cool water, and chirped after each drop. After drinking a
few more drops of water, she fluffed her feathers, picked the leftover
bread into her beak, stared at the boy, and flew up into the branches
of the tree.
She has to feed her little babies, the boy thought. That thought made
him both happy and sad at the same time. Though he had left his village
and his mother just that morning, he knew in his little heart that he
already missed both, especially his mother. Was she crying? He closed
his eyes, sighed, then looked up into the branches of the big tree.
“I have to do this,” he spoke to the mother sparrow. “I have to. Don’t
you see that I am on my way already? I can’t just turn around and go
back. I have to do this,” he insisted. “It’s my destiny.”
With his belly full and his thirst quenched, the boy stood up on his
feet, put his backpack on his back, heaved a big sigh, and off he went.
He walked and walked tirelessly until the sun lowered itself in the
western sky with its dazzling colors.
“Magic!” Hopsy spoke to the sky and to the sun on the distant horizon.
He stopped and stood still for some time admiring the magical colorful
lights. Suddenly through the fused rays of the setting sun, he saw a
few shadows moving toward him, growing bigger and taking on shapes as
they advanced closer in his direction. Hopsy put his hand above his
forehead to block the glare of the dazzling, orange sun. Now he could
see a small grey-haired donkey, an old lady sitting sideways in the
donkey’s saddle, and a very tall, skinny, old man, holding a big stick,
walked next to the donkey,. The ripped and parted seams of his long
robe swept the dusty path. They stopped when they were in front of
Hopsy.
She was dressed in a long brown dress, decorated with small flowers,
sandals on her bare feet, and an ashen kerchief that covered her gray
hair. Her smart, constantly searching eyes were gray-blue. With her
eyes fixed on him, she moved her head forward, “Mm-hm,” she said, and
nodded a few times. The old man’s pale-brown, melancholy eyes eyed
Hopewatch compassionately, intently. His gray-white hair and beard were
long, his forehead was carved with deep wrinkles. The end of his long
stick and the bleached by the sun robe touched the dusty earth.
They are much older than I thought, Hopewatch said to himself. Much
older than his mother or father or the teacher. They were even older
than the old, old priest with his white beard and long ponytail. He’d
never seen them before.
The donkey, the old man, and the old lady looked at him for a long
while in silence. Silently, he looked at them, too.
“Where are you going little boy?” asked the old man. “Are you lost?”
His voice was peaceful, warm, and friendly.
The donkey moved his big head, flapped his huge ears, and stared at the
boy with his big golden eyes. The old lady bent down her gray-haired
head and narrowed-eyed she peered at Hopsy from the top of the donkey’s
saddle.
“Where do you come from, little boy? Are you lost?” the old lady asked
affectionately. Her voice was soothing yet alert at the same time.
Hopsy thanked them for their concern, then he said, “I was looking at
the bright, orange sun and the colorful clouds in the sky. How
beautiful and dazzling they are. Such magic. Magic,” he repeated.
The old man stared at the old lady, she stared back at him, the donkey
blinked his eyes, and then all of them stared at Hopsy.
“Where are you going, little boy?” asked the old man again.
“Where do you come from, little boy?” the old lady repeated.
“Does it really matter where I come from?” Hopsy replied politely.
“No, not really,” said the old man with a smile, “but don’t you think
that you have to know where you’re going?”
“Yes, of course it matters where you’re come from,” the old lady
expressed angrily. “Don’t you be listening to that old fool. It’s
always important to know where we come from, and where we are. Hmm?
We’d be lost for ever if we didn’t.”
“Oh,” the boy said, surprised by the sudden anger of her voice.
“Don’t you listen to her, son,” the old man said . “It doesn’t matter
where you slept last night. All that matters is where you’re going to
sleep when you’ve reached where you’re going. Am I right?” he asked the
little boy and raised an eyebrow.
Was he smiling? Hopsy couldn’t tell. “Yes. I guess you’re right,” he
said.
“So, little boy,” the old lady said furiously, “you must think that I’m
wrong then?” Her lips now formed a thin line of anger.“Is that it?”
He could tell she was very upset with his answer. “No,” Hopsy responded
calmly. “I think you’re right also. I think that both of you are
right.” He smiled thinking that what he’d told them was a smart answer.
“Oh!” they said at the same time. They stared at each other for a few
moments in thoughtful silence, then they eyed the little boy
again, and stared some more.
“Yes, I think so,” Hopsy said with conviction.
“How can we both be right,” the old man said with a display of an
evasive smile on the edge of his lips, “when each of us thinks that the
other one is wrong?”
“Yes, how? Hmm?” asked the old lady, and pushed her head forwards, as
if asking him, “Where do you get those crazy ideas of yours?”
She looked very surprised and very troubled with his simple answer.
“Let me tell you something, little boy,” she shouted, pointing her
finger at him. “For a long, long time now, don’t you dare ask how long
– since the old man and I met, fell in love, and married, we have
debated and quarreled over and over again who was wrong and who was
right. This kept our blood flowing, kept us young in our hearts, and at
the end of the day, though our squabbles were not yet solved, we were
always happy. Who are you, little boy, to tell us otherwise? Are you
the thief of our happiness? How could both of us be right? Hmm? Do you
know something that we don’t? Are you a disguised magician? Didn’t you
say, ‘Magic,’ twice?
She was furious. Oh, she was. Hopsy could feel her anger dripping down
on him. He sensed it down somewhere deep in his stomach.
“Here, my sweet honey,” the old lady said to the old man. “Come, give
me a hand. Help me down from this beast. I want to talk to this little
boy, and talk I will. I’d like to ask him, how both of us can be right,
and both can be wrong at the same time. That little boy has a lot of
explaining to do. Come now, dear. Help me down.”
The old man walked in front of the donkey, paused, looked at Hopsy
disapprovingly, and shook his head. “Look what you have done to my dear
old lady with your both right and both wrong nonsense,” he said. “Look
how upset she is.” He shook his head again, turned around, raised his
hands, and helped his old lady down.
The donkey jolted his giant head, flapped his huge ears, his big golden
eyes stared at the little boy, wiggled his tail happily, then stretched
his big head up toward the big sky, opened his mouth, and started
braying a donkey song. Very loud.
“Shut your big mouth,” she shouted at the donkey, and slapped its ears.
The old lady stood in front of Hopsy with her hands on her hips. Pursed
lips, an angry face, and two gray eyes stared intensely at him.
“Look here, little boy,” the old lady said. “Explain to me how can I be
wrong and right at the same time? Hmm? Come, come, explain, speak up.”
“Explain, explain, speak up,” the old man said, leaning on his long
stick.
The donkey moved his jaws happily chewing long sprouts of green grass.
Hopsy was sure that the donkey was thanking him in its donkey mind for
his senseless answer which had made the old lady get down from his
back. The donkey moved his ears back and forth, as though he’d
figured out that chewing the exquisite spicy grass was much better than
having someone mounted on him.
“Well?” the old couple said at the same time, still peering at him.
“Well,” Hopsy started explaining. “It’s very important to know where we
come from.”
“Aha!” yelled the old lady and stared at the old man. “See? I was right
all along. Go on, go on, little boy. I love the way you’ve started your
explanation. I knew he was wrong.”
“Just you wait,” the old man said calmly. “Just you wait and listen and
see. Go on, little boy. Tell her the rest.”
“Well, as I said,” the little boy resumed, “it’s very important to know
where we come from, because–”
“Tell him, little boy. Tell that old man why. Because . . .” she helped
him to resume.
“Because if we don’t, how would we know how to turn back if we’re lost?”
“Good point, little boy. Um-hm. That was good,” said the smiling lips
of the old lady. “Do you know what I tell him all the time?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then look, listen, and learn. Are you listening?” she asked.
“Yes!”
“I always tell him that if we don’t know where the sun comes up at
dawn, how would we know where the sun will come up the next morning?
Right? Now, go on, son. Go on! Tell him some more.”
“We have to know also,” the little boy resumed, “where we are. Because
if we don’t know were we are, how would we know which way to go, where
we’ve started or where we’re going, or even which direction, and which
path or road to take? So we have to know where we come from and where
we are.”
“And . . . ” they said in unison and gazed at the little boy, as if
their lives depended on what he had to say next.
“And we also have to know where we are going–”
“Why?” the old lady stopped the little boy. “Hmm? Why?”
“Tell her, son,” the old man said in an encouraging tone.
The donkey stopped chewing the grass, his big eyes stared at the little
boy, and his huge ears moved forward, attentively.
“Well,” the little boy continued, “if we don’t know where we’re going,
we’ll be always going, and going, not knowing when or where to stop,
and we’ll be forever lost.”
“Because . . .?” they said at the same time as they craned their heads
closer to him.
“Because by going and going aimlessly we come to a point, then we stop,
look around, and no matter how much we look, we no longer know
where we are, or where we came from, or even where we’re going.”
They looked at the little boy silently for a long time, then stared at
each other, then looked at the little boy again. The donkey flapped his
big ears and resumed his chewing.
“So, little boy,” the old lady said, eyes sparkling, “it seems that
both, the old man and myself, are right. Yes?”
“Yes!” said the little boy nodding.
“Come then, come,” the old lady said with a big smile. “You’re riding
on top of the donkey. You’ll be our guest for tonight. We’ll give you
something to eat and a bed to sleep in, for the night is coming soon.
You made both of us very happy with your explanation. The least we can
do for you is to be thankful and hospitable. Hmm?”
“Yes! The least we can do,” the old man agreed.
The donkey stared at Hopsy and slowly moved his head left and right in
a negative gesture.
“I’d rather walk. I love walking,” the little boy said. “Mother
says that it will make me grow big, tall, and strong.”
“And very handsome, if I may say,” added the old lady giggling. “All
right then, my handsome little boy, we’ll walk with you. Yes?”
“Yes, thank you,” Hopsy said.
They took the boy’s backpack, placed and secured it on the top of the
donkey’s saddle, and holding the boy’s hands, one on each side of him,
they started walking, followed by the happy donkey. And as they walked
they started singing.
Leaving the past behind, remembering we walk,
Walking into now we learn, sing, and smile,
Toward our fate we walk, we walk.
Soon, they reached on the top of a downward sloping hill. Now, Hopsy
could see a big old barn, a storage shed, and a small, wooden house
under the big trees.
“There we are. Our little home,” said the old man pointing down below
with his long stick.
“Home, sweet home. We’re back,” the old lady sang.
Down the sloping hill they went, smiling and happy. And there they
were, all them, waiting. A red rooster, a dozen chickens, a Mother hen
with her yellow tiny babies chippering around her, a fat, white pig, a
white spotted black cat, and a dog with honey-brown hair, white patches
on his paws and under his neck, and a brown spot on it’s cute nose.
“Just look at them,” Hopsy said . “They’re so happy to see you.”
“I better feed them. They must be hungry,” the old man said.
“I better start cooking,” the old lady said. “We are hungry, too. Hmm?”
“How can I help?” Hopsy asked them.
“Little boy,” the old man said, “you can take the saddle from the
donkey, put it in the storage room, and then treat him with some golden
hay.”
The little boy took down his backpack, pet the long neck of the donkey,
and thanked him for carrying it on his back. Then he took the saddle
off and treated him with some hay. The old man went in the storage shed
and came out holding a big sack with both hands.
“Here, here.” he said. “Tsh, tsh, tsh,” he called, and threw handfuls
of yellow corn seeds on the ground. The pig, the rooster and all the
chickens, rushed to the golden seeds and started eating. The cat
meowed. The dog barked.
“Patience, patience, my good friends,” the old man said. “I only have
two hands, two feet, and one body.” Then he walked to the shed and came
out holding two smaller bags. “There you go, my friends,” he said
pouring some dog and cat food in two separate bowls. The dog barked and
moved his tail happily, the cat meowed and purred thanking the old man,
and they both started eating. The old man went to the stone-fenced well
and filled a big, beat-up tin container with fresh water.
The old lady had started the fire in the iron stove and their dinner
was almost ready. The little boy licked his lips as he inhaled the
mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread.
“Come, come, set the table,” the old lady said as she lit the oil lamp.
“Dinner is ready. Let’s eat before the twilight is gone. Night is
falling very fast.”
“A moment of silence to thank Mother Nature for the plentiful food she
has provided for us,” the old man said in a very appreciative tone.
After paying their silent respect, they ate their delicious meal,
cleaned the table, washed the pots and dishes, and went to sleep.
The bright rays of the sun came through the small window of the room
and touched the face of the sleeping little boy. Hopsy opened his eyes,
“Good morning sun, nice to see you, too,” he said. He stretched his
arms, yawned a few times, stepped down from his huge bed, kissed the
picture of his mom and dad he had placed on the side table, and put it
back in his pocket. He walked to the well and washed his face with the
cool water, brushed his teeth, and entered the kitchen.
On the top of the table he saw his backpack, a glass of fresh milk, a
big plate with scrambled eggs, and toast, and jelly and jam. He also
saw a nicely folded map, a First Aid Kit, and a small note. He read the
note first.
Little boy. Eat your eggs and toast and jelly and jam, and drink every
drop of your milk. Hmm? We stuffed your backpack with food (a loaf of
bread, boiled eggs, jelly, jam, and fruits), so you have something to
eat on your long journey. We left you a map and marked the road with
arrows for you to follow. Be careful, little boy. The world out there
it’s very big and it has many, many, way too many paths. Choose the
right one. Goodbye, goodbye, and thank you for all. Remember: just
follow the arrows. Yes?
Hopsy ate his breakfast, drank his milk, washed the dishes, put the
note and the map in his little pouch, wrote a thank you note for the
kind old couple, and with his backpack on, he walked out of the house.
He said goodbye to the pig, the chickens, the Mother hen, her little
babies, and the rooster. He pet the cat, hugged the dog, and off he
went following the marked arrows on the dirt road. He stopped at the
top of the small hill, turned around, and waved his hand at the house.
“Goodbye little wooden-house,” he said. “Thank you for letting me sleep
in one of your rooms. And now goodbye, goodbye. I’ve got to go.” Follow
the arrows, he reminded himself, and walked onwards to his long journey.
SIX
“Happy Days?” Leo mumbled and turned off the television set rumbling
with anger. He hated both the tune and the show – his mother’s
favorite; Arlene giggling with the tasteless humor. Humor? Give me a
break. He picked up the handset and dialed the number.
“Yeah . . . it’s Leo, sir.” He listened for some time. “Sir, I
will, sir. I said that I’ll try, sir. Fine. Yes, sir. I’ll stop him,
sir. Yes . . . No matter what it takes? I like that. Thank you, sir.”
Click. The line was dead.
Leo brushed his hands together with excitement and walked into his
bedroom. He pulled the big box out from under his bed, unlocked all six
combination locks, one after the other, and placed the content of the
box on his spotless army styled made-up bed. In his mind’s eye he could
see Sylvester Stallone readying himself for revenge in First Blood.
Leo’s favorite action movie. He loved Arnold too. Tough
guys–unforgiving, merciless. For them, killing seemed like strolling in
the park with gorgeous women hanging on both their arms – lustful looks
in their eyes.
Leo looked in the mirror. “Uniform, boots: Check. Knife and gun in
their holsters: Check. War paint,” he grinned. “Check.”
Leo was ready to open the front door when he heard his mother’s voice
from upstairs. “What’re you up to, Leo?”
“Oh, Mom,” he retorted. Narrow eyed he peered up the stairs. “Let me
be, will yuh?”
He stepped out the door and slammed it shut. Gee whiz, why don’t they
leave him alone? Why don’t they mind their own business? Not a minute
ago he, Leo, was swimming in the sea of pleasure. He was smiling. He
was happy. He was Stallone, Arnold, and, oh, yeah, Bruce Willis, all in
one. And now? Now she’d made him angry. He took a deep breath and
let it out slowly. He had to calm down before . . . Yeah! Smiling
crookedly, he hurried his pace.
Hopewatch saw the figure standing in the middle of the path. It was
Leo. He was fully dressed for combat. He held a large knife and
pretended to remove dirt from his fingernails as he kept eyeing
Hopewatch.
“Check out what the wind blew my way,” Leo said, sneering.
“What do you want, Leo?”
“Me? Nothing.”
“Then get out of my way.”
“No can do, my man. Orders, you know. He wouldn’t like it. Personally,
I think he hates you.”
“Who?”
“Listen, Hopsy,” Leo hissed as though spitting dirt when he said
Hopsy’s name, “if I were you, I’d turn around and scurry on back home
with my tail between my legs. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.
Do you? Take my advice. Go home.”
“Like you said, Leo. No can do, my man.”
“You know something? I was calm. I was happy just standing here
cleaning my fingernails with this here sharp knife. Now you come,
standing in front of me, jabbering your mouth, mocking me, and making
me very angry. I’m warning you, do what I say. Or else . . .” Or else,
what?”
“Listen to this. I love this line . . .” Leo cocked his head to
his right side, put the knife in its sheath and moved his fingers as if
readying himself to draw his pistol. “Prepare to die.”
The rustling sounds from the nearest bush startled them both. Tito’s
impressive figure rose tall behind the thicket. Tito’s face looked
somber and dark, his eye glued on Leo. He took slow steps, like a wolf
before attacking its prey, and stood menacingly between Leo and Hopsy.
“Give me the belt, Leo.” His mouth hardly moved, but the words sounded
eery and dry as if they were generated in a deep well before they came
rushing out.
Leo took backward steps. Hopsy checked Leo’s face. He had that look.
The same evil grin that hang on his lips before he had struck the
baseball. Kissing eyebrows, squinted eyelids, pursed lips.
“Traitor,” Leo shouted angrily. “Traitors must die!”
The immediately following events happened very fast. Leo’s hand moved
swiftly to his pistol. Hopsy heard the deafening “Boom.” Tito’s body
charged at Leo like a striking snake, grabbed the gun with his right
hand while his left backhanded Leo’s face. Leo moaned in pain.
“Get lost, Leo. Beat it,” Tito said, and waved his hand at him as if
shooing chickens.
Leo took a few steps toward the village, paused, turned and stared at
Tito. “You hit me. I’ll tell him that you hit me. You’re in big trouble
now, mister. He’ll fix yuh. He hates traitors you know.”
“Go home, Leo. Don’t make me come after you. I usually don’t forgive
people shooting at me. But, hey, I’m a changed man now. Can’t help it.
You should try changing too, Leo.”
“No way in hell,” Leo said, spitefully. “I’ll be back,” he
hooted, turned, and scurried home.
“You’re bleeding,” breathed Hopsy as he stared at the steaming blood
coming through Tito’s fingers.
“Not to worry, son,” said Tito reassuringly. “Just a scratch. I’ve seen
enough and I’ve been through hell in my life. I’m, you could say, used
to being shot at and injuries. Let’s go and sit by that tree and have a
look at the damage on my arm. How about you, son? Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure, Hopsy?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Hopsy said admiring Tito’s cool courage.
“That’s good. All of a sudden I feel better,” Tito said sitting down
with his back resting against the tree trunk. Carefully he rolled up
the sleeve of his injured arm.
“I have–” His very thought made Hopsy shiver. The First Aid Kit. How
did the old couple know this would happen? Or was it a coincidence? He
suspected that Tito would follow him. He always did since the snake
incident. Although he was annoyed at first by Tito’s constant shadow,
he’d grown to like it. He also liked the idea that Tito kept an eye on
him. Way too many strange things kept happening around him. And now
Tito’s promise to Narkiz had come true. Tito had taken a bullet on his
arm protecting him. But the First Aid Kit? How could he explain that?
“Just a scratch, Hopsy. Nothing too serious to write home about,” Tito
said as Hopsy applied the gauze around the bullet wound. “Now I believe
you were going somewhere?”
“Yes, I was,” Hopsy said. “Are you going to follow me again?” Tito
nodded. “Then why don’t we walk together?”
“Because we don’t want our enemies to know our strength. Do we?”
Enemies? He had no enemies. Everyone liked him, except of course, Leo.
Hopsy couldn’t understand why Leo hated him so much. But then again,
Leo hated everyone, except of course his younger sister, Arlene, who
had knocked the tooth out of his mouth. From that day on, Leo was
terrified of her; he tried to stay out of her way even in their own
house. That thought made Hopsy smile and remember the
“Who-knocked-out-the-bully’s-tooth” story.
“Mr. Sophron,” Hopsy said with a big smile, “do you know who knocked
out Leo’s tooth?”
“No, not really. Too busy looking after you. But if you do, I’d love to
hear it. Just like everyone else, I like a good laugh now and then.”
“Well,” said Hopsy, “it’s a funny story. My mother and I were going to
Sunday morning church service when Arlene, Leo’s twelve years old
sister, and her mother, Joan Carpenter, came out of their home and
trotted along with us. Joan’s face, which most of the time stays drown
and sullen because of the many complaints she’d received from the other
villagers about her son Leo. But on that day her face shone like a
bright sun after the heavy rains were over and the clouds were gone.
After the morning pleasantries were over and done with, Joan hopped
jovially in front of my mother and started laughing like a schoolgirl.
“Let me tell you, Narkiz,” she said, “about the mysterious ways of God;
about the miracle he bestowed upon my poor unworthy existence.”
“Oh, Mother,” Arlene retorted sulkily, and then smiled as if she
already knew what her mother was going to reveal to my mother.
“So, there we were having our supper,” Joan Carpenter started her
story, “bless the great Lord, when Leo flipped his hand in front of
himself, like that, fast and swift, and when his hand stopped moving,
and his palm had become a fist, like this. Next thing I know, Leo
extends his fist over Arlene’s orange juice and opens his hand. Guess
what I see in Arlene’s glass? Go ahead, give it a shot.”
“A dead fly,” I said.
“Oh, no. No, Hopsy,” she said, and shook her head. “It was a fly all
right, but it wasn’t dead. It was alive. A dreadful one; one of those
big ones, you know, the ones that buzz around and around and make lots
of noises, very annoying if you ask me. It was drinking and swimming
happily on the top of Arlene’s orange juice. Now I saw this and in my
poor mind I thought that the unholy hell was about to break loose and
destroy my house. I thought my Arlene here would take the glass and
dump the juice on Leo’s face. I could see the two of them yelling,
fighting, tearing each other’s faces, not to mention all the mess on
the table, the floor–”
“What happened next?” my mother stopped Mrs. Carpenter before she could
describe all the mess her two children could have done in the house,
outside of the house, in the yard, and maybe on their red-tiled roof.
Joan took a long breath. “Well, let me tell you, Narkiz. Nothing like
that happened. It was like I was watching a picture show. Arlene here
stood up with a smile, and in perfect composure, (you know how she
smiles when she gets angry) pushed her glass toward Leo. ‘Drink it,
Leo,’ she said. Oh, my. I thought her voice sounded like a stone thrown
into a deep river. Very peculiar, weird, throbbing, like waves, you
know. Anyhow, Arlene says, ‘Drink it. Leo,’ and Leo says, ‘Make me.’ So
my little darling girl, Arlene–“
”Oh, brother, so embarrassing,” Arlene interrupted her mother.
“You hush and let me tell them the story the way I saw it. Where was I
. . . ? Oh, yes. Arlene pushed back her chair, nice and slow, stared at
Leo, and without rushing her steps, she walked toward him. He stood up.
When she was an arm length from him she stopped and said again. ‘Drink
it, Leo!’ I was frozen with the idea of my two children fighting right
in front of me, and with what might happen next. ‘Make me,’ Leo
repeated. ‘Make me. Can’t, can yuh?’
Wham.
Arlene’s fist struck Leo’s big mouth. I don’t know if Leo saw silver or
gold stars flying in front of him, but I’m sure he saw one of
those colors or maybe both. Blood came out of his mouth. He moaned and
started spitting blood on my beautiful wood floor. Then out came the
tooth, hit the floor, bounced up and down a few times, then stopped. I
was horrified, and this . . . this . . . oh, I was thrilled with
joy. I put my hands over my mouth to contain the piled up laughter in
my throat. I felt like a cheerleader holding pom poms, jumping up and
down, and cheering, “Arlene, Arlene, Arlene . . .” But I bit my lips
and held in my joy. I didn’t want to embarrass Leo more that he was
already. I know he is a blockhead. I know he has discipline problems,
Lord I tried, but you see Narkiz, he is still my child.”
“What happened next?” my mother asked, and I listened closely,
expecting to hear the worst part of the story.
“Nothing much really,” Mrs. Carpenter resumed as if talking mostly to
herself. “Leo fell on his knees crying, ‘She knocked my tooth out,’ he
cried, and I said, ‘Go wash your face, Leo. Stop bleeding on my floor.’
‘Mom, she knocked it out,’ Leo moaned, picked up his tooth from the
floor, and before he’d reached the bathroom door, Arlene said, ‘Hey,
Leo, don’t put it under your pillow. Tooth fairies don’t give presents
for knocked out teeth.”
Mrs. Carpenter sighed. “I’m telling you, Narkiz, the good Lord blessed
my house with his presence. I’m going to light the biggest candle I can
find in the church praising his name.”
Tito and Hopsy laughed for a long while, then they ate.
“I better be going now,” Hopsy said with a smile. “Thanks, Mr. Sophron.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the funny story and for the first aid on my
arm. Now scram. I’m not that good with niceties,” Tito said, and
chuckled pleasantly.
“Peace?” shouted Megalos in anger and disgust. The word came out of his
mouth as if spitting chewed up, bitter grape seeds. Megalos was
terrified of her. If he only could exterminate her, total chaos would
follow. Chaos – his bread and butter. He would become ageless,
boundless, timeless, eternal. The king of the hill, the tycoon, the
Chief Executive over life and death. He loved wars. War was his game.
His opponents were not the enemy. They were part of the game. Just like
baseball. At the end of the game, win or lose, you shake hands and look
forward to another prearranged game. And now this little boy,
Hopewatch, was following her footsteps. He had to stop him.
His freshly shaved and oiled head gleamed under the bright lights. He
raised the black whip above his head, his hands shook as if having
fits, breathed in short, violent gasps, and brought the whip crushing
down on the shining table like a sledgehammer.
“I don’t want to hear that word. Not at this meeting, not out there,
not ever. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” four voices said in unison.
The minutes went by in horrible silence. Megalos loved spreading fear
through their hearts. The oldest and the most effective weapon of
governing the lives of the weak. Grant them raw fear; reap the rewards.
So damn easy. He peered at their intimidated faces, one after the
other, cherishing the affects of his iron-glad words.
His gray eyes landed on the historian, Professor Marcus C. W.
Coopenthall. He was a short, skinny little man with wild gray hair, and
a goat-like beard. Next to him sat two look-alike, corpulent,
middle-aged men with their unlimited money supply for his holy cause,
“The Art of War.” He, Megalos, needed them. No! Not really. He could
fight, if he had to, with his bear knuckles and enjoy punching his
opponent face. They needed him. That’s right. Without him, they
wouldn’t have a choice but to shut down all those weapon
factories they owned around the world. The Art of War kept them
in business, kept the money rolling in, piling up.
Megalos stared at the forth person in the conference room, Leo. Leo was
shaking. Good, Megalos thought. Fear should teach the little punk not
to fail next time. The one thing Megalos liked about Leo, was the
punk’s mean and vexatious character. In many ways Leo reminded him of
himself when he was at Leo’s young age. He had such beautiful memories
from his boyhood. He was indestructible. Not only the children and
their mothers were scared of him, but also both their cats and dogs. He
felt like smiling with his fun memories, but he thrust them down into
the turbulent ocean of his past life. Right now, he had to be stern and
tough and vicious. He pointed the whip at Leo. “Speak,” he shouted.
“Like I said, sir. Tito came out of nowhere. He surprised me. But I
drew my pistol, the one you gave me, and shot the traitor.”
“Yes. He is a traitor,” said Megalos shaking his head and grinding his
teeth. “But you see Leo, you didn’t kill him, as I ordered. The bullet
just scraped his arm. Next time make sure that you shoot him right
between his eyes.” He chuckled. “Come to think of it, Tito has one eye.”
Leo forced himself not to smile. “Yes, sir. Right in the eye.”
“Good,” Megalos said, and placed his whip on the notes of the
historian. “Read,” he demanded.
The professor fixed his reading glasses on his thin nose, cleared his
throat, and started reading.
“Leo was surprised by the sudden presence of Tito Sophron. Leo stepped
back, and fired the gun at the traitor. The bullet scraped Tito’s arm–”
“Professor Coobenthall,” Megalos stopped him, and stared despairingly
at the ceiling. “I was wondering for whom do you work for. Them or The
Art of War? Who is your employer Professor?”
“The Art of War, of course,” the historian mumbled.
“Then, my dear professor, I must advise you, for your own good, of
course, that you change your writing style.”
“To what, if I may–“
”Write: Young Leo eyed the traitor, Tito Sophron, like an eagle before
attacking its prey. The traitor had to die. Leo stepped back slowly and
drew his gun in lightning speed. When the heavy smoke thinned in front
of Leo, he saw the traitor’s hands holding his chest. Red steams of
blood rushed out through the traitors fingers and stained his shirt.
Young Leo had shot Tito Sophron in the heart.
“You shot me,” cried the traitor, and like a rotting log, he fell into
the deep ditch.
“Wolf meat,” said the brave boy and spat on Tito’s face. “They’ll take
care of you before sunrise. Why waste another bullet?”
Young Leo turned around and looked about. The soles of the cowardly
Hopewatch seemed to be touching the back of his head; escaping Leo’s
justifiable wrath. Leo smiled. He knew he could catch up with the
coward, but he didn’t feel like jogging at that moment. He’d take care
of him next time. Our hero climbed down in the ditch and kicked the
dying traitor to fend his anger. He had done well for now.”
“Very vivid,” said the professor still writing.
“Brilliant,” said the two look-alikes at the same time. “Brilliant.”
“Print it. Publish it,” Megalos ordered.
Megalos pushed back his chair, stood tall, walked around the huge
table, hands held the whip on his back, and stopped behind the two men.
“Don’t turn your heads, gentlemen,” Megalos said. “Just write the
checks.”
“How much?” said the one on the right.
“Just sign it. I’ll take care of the proper amount,” Megalos said, and
sat back in his chair. “Leo, you stay,” he resumed looking at the two
blank checks on the freshly varnished table.
“Yes, sir,” said Leo, obediently.
The other three knew that the meeting was over for them. They left the
room silently.
SEVEN
Hopewatch walked and walked, and walked some more. When the sun was
ready to do its magical disappearing act behind the tall gray
mountains, he found a nice place to sleep the night over. Mr. Sophron,
as usual, appeared out of nowhere. They thanked the old couple
for their delicious dinner, ate, and then Tito disappeared again into
the woods. Hopsy kissed the picture of his parents, and went to sleep.
When the sun came up, following the arrows on the road, he walked again
until the sun was in the middle of the blue sky. Suddenly, the road
ended at an enormous plateau. The little boy stopped and stared around
for a long time.
“Which one do I take? Which one do I take?” he asked himself staring at
the twelve different paths.
“Take me, take me,” each of the paths seemed to sing like sirens to
Hopsy.
“I think I’ll stop, eat some bread, boiled eggs, jelly and jam, drink
some water, and rest for a while, before I decide which path to take,”
Hopsy concluded.
Hopsy sat under the shade of a tree where he could see all the
different paths, and took out his lunch that the old couple had stuffed
in his backpack. Magically, Tito sat next to Hopsy, and when they
finished eating, he was gone again.
The little boy took the map out from his pouch, and opened it in front
of him. He looked at it carefully. He could see now the big road that
he had traveled ending in the center of the half-circle shaped plateau.
“Now I see,” Hopsy spoke to himself, looking at the big road.
“Everyone travels on the main road, comes to this big plateau,
and then chooses his or her own path.” With that philosophical thought
locked in his mind, he resumed reading, from left to right the
different colored arrows drawn on each path.
“I will lead you to pride, and honor, “The Art of War,” said the first.
“I will lead you to the glorious, “The History of Humanity,” said the
second.
“I will lead you to the art of knowledge and reason, “The Art of
Philosophy,” said the third.
“I will lead you to the world of “The Art of Science and Technology,”
said the fourth.
“I will lead you to the “Art of Social Science,” said the fifth.
“I will lead you to the intricate paths of the mind, “The Art of
Psychology, said the sixth.
“I will lead you to “The Art of Magic,” said the seventh.
The little boy smiled and giggled cheerfully. He now new which road he
had to take, so the Wise Magician would teach him his magical tricks.
He would now learn how to make a rabbit suddenly appear in the tall
hat, how to make white doves materialize in thin air, how to fish
flowers out from the wide, long sleeves of his cape, snatch many coins
from the ears of his villagers, and many, many more fun tricks. Then he
would go back to his small village and entertain his papa, Theo, and
his mother, Narkiz, the teacher and the old priest, and everyone else
with his magical tricks. Hurriedly, he took his pen and made a circle
on the seventh path and then, made a forward pointing arrow . After
that, he read the rest of the last five paths.
“I will lead you to “The Art of Biology” said the eighth.
“I will lead you to “The Art of Politics,” said the ninth.
“I will lead you to “The Art of Justice,” said the tenth.
“I will lead you back to “Your Little Village,” said the eleventh.
The little boy marked the eleventh path with a backward pointing arrow.
Then he read the last remaining path.
“I will lead you to “The Art of Peace,” said the last one.
“I’d like to thank you all and each one in turn,” Hopsy said looking at
each path on the half-circle of the big plateau, “for all the
opportunities you’re giving me, for all the things you’re willing
to teach me. But I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to take the path to
The Art of Magic. Though each one of you sounds promising and fun, I’m
not ready for you. No, no, no,” he repeated ten times. I’m not ready
for you, or you, or you . . . ” he said as he pointed his hand to each
of the other ten paths. Looking at the eleventh path, he said
respectfully. “Thank you path eleven for willing to show me the way
back to my village, but you have to wait until I’ll come back from my
journey to The Art of Magic.”
He folded his map, put it in his little pouch, and rose on his feet.
Now that he’d studied his mop, silently he scrutinized the twelve
paths. All of them were open for him to enter. All but one. A huge
restricting wall blocked the path to The Art of Peace.
“This is very strange,” Hopsy thought staring at the enormous erected
stone wall that blocked the entrance of the last path. He
couldn’t understand why anyone would build this huge restricting
barricade.
Two round, red blinking lights were mounted at each side on the top of
the wall. Under the warning red lights was a big red sign. The sign
said:
STOP
DO NOT ENTER
PATH UNDER REPAIR
DETOUR: Through “The Art of War”
Below the warning sign he saw an arched entrance door, and on both
sites of it, there were two inlaid bookshelves. Books were stocked
neatly one next to the other, at each side of the door. At the lower
rim of each window was a smaller sign. He read:
“The Art of Peace” Take One. It is Free.
The little boy moved his legs all the way to his left. He arched his
back and started reading the golden lettering on the wide spine of the
first book.
The Art of Peace
Volume One
4000 B.C.
A hologram of a white dove, holding an olive branch in its claws,
seemed as if it were ready to jump off the spine of the book and fly
into the sky.
Then he read the spine of the next book, and the other, and the other .
. . all the way down to the last one.
“How can it be? How can it be?” Hopsy repeated with surprise over and
over. All the books seemed to be exactly the same. All of them said,
The Art of Peace, Volume One. The date on the last one was: “2000 A.D.”
That was the only difference between the first and the last.
The little boy put his finger on the last book and as he moved to his
left, he read the chronological date on each book. He counted sixty
books in all, thirty books on either side of the arched door. Now he
knew that every one-hundred years, a new Volume One of The Art of
Peace, was published by Dove Publication.
Hopsy felt a little disappointed because he did not expect to see the
same Volume One of The Art of Peace in the span of six-thousand years.
He thought there would be hundreds and hundreds, and zillions of
different books, many volumes, and magazines explaining The Art of
Peace to everyone.
So, he took the book dated 4000 B.C. and opened the first page. It had
no number on the top of the page. Five inches below the top it
said, “In the beginning . . .” The rest of the page, and also the
back of it, were blank.
On the top of the next page there were the numbers, 99.01.01, and the
rest was empty of any words, numbers, or even pictures. Then every
twelve pages the middle number change to 02, then 03, and so on. On the
last twelve pages of the book, the middle number was 12. On the very
bottom of the last page there were only three dots. “ . . . ”
Completely confused with the chaotic disarray of all those numbers, he
was now sure that Dove Publication knew nothing about numbering
correctly the pages of their books. All the books he had read or looked
at in the small library at his school, were numbered
starting with one, the two, and so on, keeping the correct number on
each page. He made a mental note to tell the people at Dove Publication
that they had it all wrong, and that he would be glad to teach them how
to fix their mistake, so he and everyone else would know which page was
which.
“It’s got to be some big mistake,” the boy decided. He put the 4000
B.C. book under his arm and opened the 3900 B.C. book. “The same
mistake also,” he said disappointed, and put that one back on the
shelf. He took the 3800 B.C. and opened it. The same beginning, the
same ending, the same stark white, blank pages, page after page. He
opened the next, and then the next to that, and the next to that, until
he reached the 2000 A.D. book. He hoped that the last one would be
different than the rest. He closed his eyes, and wished that the last
edition of The Art of Peace, Volume one, was filled with colorful,
beautiful pictures, and amazing stories. He opened it. The same
beginning, the same end, the same numbering. “No!” he exclaimed, shook
his head, and looked at the cloudless sky in desperation.
Not only he had to teach them how to number pages, but now he had
to also teach them how to read and write more than “In the beginning .
. .” And when they had learned enough reading and writing, he had to
tell them many stories about his beautiful village and his colorful,
but simple villagers, what they did and how they did it. Then he could
tell them about his mom and dad, about all the children in the school
and the teacher, and all the things that had happened to him since he
was born, especially the odd things that kept happening to him since
his seventh birthday. Then they could go to his village and take
lots and lots of pictures to fill up all the empty pages of the book.
His village and the villagers would be more famous than that Marco Polo
guy, maybe even more famous than Colombus and his three ships. Hopsy
knew that this would be much better than all these empty books.
Right then he remembered the traveling magician who had stopped
at his little village to entertain all the villagers with his magical
tricks.
So, the little boy thought that all those books in the inlaid windows,
had to be, he hoped would be, magical books. Holding in his hand The
Art of Peace, Volume One, 4000 B.C., Hopewatch walked to his backpack
under the tree and carefully placed the book on top of it.
He then cut a small, straight piece of wood with his pocket knife and
shaped it like the wand the traveling magician had used to put his
mother back in one piece. He raised his brand new wand above the book,
tap, tap, tap, he tapped it three times, and just like the magician, he
rendered the magical words, “Abbra Ca-adabbra.” Slowly now he took the
book with both hands and placed his finger somewhere in the middle of
the book.
“Come out. Step out. Show me the magic!” he bellowed, and opened the
book. He was stunned. Both pages where stark white; not a single word,
not a single picture. The left page was numbered, 45.07. 01, and the
right one, 45.08.01. He was ready to close the book when the last
number on the right page whirled and started to change to two, three,
four, five and stopped on number six. Suddenly colorful, ethereal
shapes started materializing on the 45.08.06, blank page. The shapes
moved slowly as if awakening from their long, long sleep. In an
thrilling astonishment the little boy’s eyes focused on that page. He
was mesmerized; he was speechless with the magic he was witnessing.
There was the winding river with its crystal clear waters flowing down
through tall snowy blue mountains, the rolling hills and the green
valleys. Tall trees, bushes, green grass, bamboo tress, and
colorful wild flowers sprang up and grew on the hills, the valleys, on
the shores of the lake, on the banks of the river and on the six
islands of it’s delta. Faint musical sounds reached his ears, and
suddenly birds and butterflies jumped out of the page and flew up, up
in the sky.
Eyes wide with glee, mystified, the boy threw himself on the tall
silvery-green grass, and watched the birds, dragonflies, and
butterflies as they flew and hovered above him. He looked at the magic,
listened to the delightful songs of birds, smelled the sweet perfume of
the flowers . . . He smiled brightly, and laughed, and laughed, and
laughed. He felt the magical clarity as he watched them flying in the
blue, blue sky. He thought he was . . . or was it a feeling? He
couldn’t tell. A feeling of being lifted higher and higher, flying,
floating among them, with them, and smiling with joy. Smiling,
giggling, laughing.
“The Art of Peace, Volume One, 4000 A.D., page 45.08.06,” he said to
himself, over and over again, so wouldn’t forget this magical number.
A beautiful hummingbird flapped its wings and hovered in front of the
little boy.
“Thank you, thank you, little boy for believing in The Art of Peace.
The beautiful magic of Peace,” sang the hummingbird to the little boy.
“But now we have to leave, we have to go,” the hummingbird finished in
a sad chirp. Before Hopewatch could respond, the snowy mountains, the
big river, its delta with its six islands, the hills and the valleys,
the silvery-green grass and the colorful flowers, the birds and the
butterflies, all, flew back into the book and vanished on page
45.08.06. Instantly, the last number changed back to 01. Then the book
closed itself.
The little boy threw himself onto his feet, opened the book, and in an
utter disappointment he stared at the blank, 45.08.01, page. “Come out,
come out! Show me the magic!” he hollered and waited while holding his
breath. Nothing happened. He closed the book, tapped on it three times
with his wand, “Abbra Ca-adabbra!” he said and hurriedly opened the
book. “Please, please, do it again,” he hoped and wished. Like a
night owl gazing into the darkness of the night to spot the
movements of a concealed creature, he stared and scrutinized the page.
White pages stared back at him, and white they remained. He gazed at
the blank pages for some time hoping to see the magic again, but
nothing, nothing happened. He closed the book and tried it again and
again. Nothing! Nothing after nothing. “You are in that page. I know
you are. So, come out!” he demanded. Nothing again.
“I have to get to the bottom of this,” the little boy said stubbornly,
a blunt defiance in his tone, and momentarily ignored his journey. With
dashing legs, arms jerking, head forward, pursed lips, he reached
to the shut wooden door of the Art of Peace and tapped on it with his
wand. Not receiving an answer, he eagerly banged on the door with his
fist.
“Hello! Is anyone in there?” the little boy cried out. “Please, answer
me if you are in there.”
“Give me a moment,” a soothing voice of a young girl came through the
arched door. “I’ll be right out.”
Shortly, the arched door opened slowly, and a beautiful young woman –
Younger than my mother – the little boy thought, stood below the
opening of the arched door. Her long, silk white dress touched the
ground. A wide, emerald-green silk belt, made a butterfly bow above her
right hip and the two ends of it dangled down to her side and touched
the toes of her golden sandals. She is as beautiful as my mother, the
little boy mused looking at her long, honey-brown hair, her oval face,
and her big, midnight-blue eyes.
“I can’t remember the last time,” she said in a melodic, nostalgic
voice, “when someone knocked on my door. It’s been so long, oh, so
long!” she said in a sad murmur, and sighed, as though the waves of
grief and pain had run her being’s length and were returning now from
some remote, distant shore. He knew that feeling. He could see it in
the eyes of his mother every time his father had to leave on one of his
long trips.
The young woman moved her head slowly to her left and then right, as if
chasing memories? Dreams maybe?
Her eyes focused on him. “What is your name, little boy?” she asked.
Her voice took an elevated richness, sending a warm, soft, safe
tingling feeling through his body. Funny! It was the same warm and safe
feeling he’d always felt in his mother’s arms.
“My name is Hopewatch, but everyone calls me Hopsy for short, except my
mother, Narkiz,” he said. He was wondering how a beautiful woman like
her could hold so much sadness in her eyes. He tried to figure out how
many zillions of friends she must have.
“Oh!” said the beautiful young woman, teasingly. “And what does your
mother, Narkiz, call you?”
Hopewatch’s face turned red. “Do you really want to know?”
“Of course I do,” she replied cheerfully now. “Would I have asked you
if I didn’t?”
He felt that same warm feeling again.
“All right,” he said and sighed in exasperation. “She calls me, “My
little boy,” or “My little precious.” And now,” he continued hastily to
cover up his bashfulness, “it’s your turn to tell me your name.”
“I think you know my name,” she said. “Why don’t you give it a try? Let
me hear you say it. I want to hear it so much!”
She closed her big, blue eyes, and waited silently for his answer. Oh,
how beautiful she looked!
Without thinking, the words escaped out of Hopsy’s mouth. “Peace! Your
name is Peace,” he said.
She opened her eyes as if just awakening from a long restful sleep.
“Gleaming, twinkling, and flickering with millions and zillions of
stars in the midnight blue skies,” the little boy thought as he looked
into her sparkling eyes. A tiny-weeny, itsy bitsy bit prettier than
Mother, maybe? Quickly, he erased that thought from his mind. Both his
mother and Peace were the prettiest. Yes! That’s it. Done with.
“Hopewatch, would you like to see my house?” Peace asked.
“