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.







   



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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.
“Yes, of course I would. But the sign says, “STOP. DO NOT ENTER” Hopsy said pointing the stone wall. He wished that ugly sign was not there. He suddenly hated it.
Peace took a forward step, turned, looked at the signs, shook her head, walked through the arched door, and came back holding a tall stepladder.
“Come, Hopewatch,” Peace said decisively. “Give me a hand. We have to take all  his red lights and signs down and put my signs up on the wall again.”
Her words sent a sudden wave of relief and curiosity. “They’re not your signs?” he asked, surprised.
“Oh, no!” she said with a desperate look on her face. “They are his.”
His? He definitely had to know now. “Whose?” Hopsy asked.
She breathed in short gasps. “That . . . that . . . the old . . . the first path’s monster,” she stuttered.
She can not even say the word, war, Hopsy thought. Her body shivered though the day was warm. Just the thought of uttering the word, war, seemed to give her a grave tongue-twister and grievous pain. Anyone could see that. Couldn’t they?
“I have an idea,” the boy said with excitement. He would do anything and everything under the sun just to see her smile.
“Let’s hear it then,” she said handing him the red blinking lights.
“Well,” Hopsy said, “if we take down the wall the . . .  he wouldn’t have a wall to put his lights and signs on.”
Silently, she looked into his eyes for a long time, and said nothing. Then absently, as if preoccupied with some deep thought, she resumed handing him the signs from the wall. After they took the signs down, Peace stepped down from the stepladder.
“Let’s put all this trash in the storage building,” she said, “and after that we’ll come back and put our signs on the wall.”
So they loaded all the junk on a wheelbarrow. Holding its long handles, she led the way through the arched door, followed by Hopewatch, who wondered why Peace had not responded to his brilliant idea.
Hopsy saw two humongous storage buildings. The one to his left had a red door, and the one to his right was green. They walked to the red door building. She pushed the door open and they stepped inside.
“Wow!” Hopsy exclaimed when his eyes adjusted to the dim lights of the huge warehouse. And he stared. And the more he stared the funnier, dizzier, and smaller he felt.
With his back against the wall, he felt as if his legs were turning into wet noodles. Unable to support his body any longer on his weakened legs, he let his body slide down onto the dirt floor.
Everywhere he turned his head and looked, either left or right or up and down, he saw signs, many, tons of signs. There were signs in many, many different languages, in many different shapes and sizes. Some were simple, some very elaborate, but all of them were written in bold lettering. Like “V,” STOP, or DETOUR, or a strange looking cross, or a tightly closed fist, or a fist with the thumb up and . . . And there was a man dressed in a tall hat, pointing his finger and staring at him, and . . . and bombs and airplanes and tanks and machine guns, and . . .  And he  started to cry. His teacher had said nothing about all these things, neither had the priest, nor his mom and dad. Why? What were they hiding from little kids?
Peace knelt in front of him, hugged his shaking body in her arms, kissed his tears away, and rocked him in her lap slowly for some time, as if he were a tiny embryo in his mother’s wound.  Hopsy felt like a small  bundle of flesh and blood, unaware, frightened, and very confused of the world he’d entered.
“Why didn’t you tell me when I proposed taking down the wall?” he moaned. “Why?”
“How? I thought. How could I tell him that I had done that many million times? How could I tell him that each time I took the wall down with my bare hands, that monster came back with many young men and big machines, and each time the wall grew thicker, bigger, and taller? How could I tell this little boy about this . . . this monstrous creature who hides himself behind beautiful slogans and deceives the minds of young innocent boys? In the name of “Peace,” he shouts, and burns, and kills. How could I tell him, I thought, about the millions upon millions of young men and women who had believed his words and died for him? How could I explain with words that peoples who learn and believe in the . . . the . . . his art, can never see, feel or  touch Peace? If I had told him all that, I thought, wouldn’t I be breaking his little heart? No! I said to myself. I couldn’t tell him all that. But I had to tell you something Hopsy. I had to give you an answer without hurting your feelings. I’m sorry, Hopsy.”
“Me too.”
Now he knew why Peace preferred to show him the truth instead of telling him, because he would’ve never, never believed her words.
“Come,” Peace said stroking his hair gently. “We have no time to cry. Do we?”
“No! We don’t,” said the little boy with a renewed determination. He stood on his feet and wiped his tears with the backs of his hands. “We have to put the signs of Peace on the wall.”
“That’s the spirit,” Peace said smiling. “We’ll never give up. Will we?”
“No!” Hopewatch said, unyielding. “Hope is in the air.”
“Hope and Peace are everywhere,” Peace said. Her eyes were now wet. Like two huge, sparkling with millions of dazzling starlights, wet blue seas.
With that, they stored the junk in their appropriate place. Lights had to go there, the stop sign over there, and so on. She was very methodical with all that junk. Then they walked hand in hand, frolicking now, now walking, and now frolicking again to the green door storage where Peace stored her simple, but beautiful signs. Hopewatch loved this storage building.
When finally they installed the lights and the signs up on the wall, they  stepped back and admired their work. The green lights flashed brightly, the white Dove flapped it’s wings, the word “Peace” escaped from its open beak, one after the other, the words flew up into the sky, and the talking-sign sang, “The door to Peace is always open. Welcome each, welcome all.”
Hopewatch laughed with joy. Peace giggled like little girls do. They were happy.

Tito was on his way home.
Hidden behind the trunk of a tree, Tito Sophron had witnessed everything. When he saw the new signs and lights of Peace on the wall, and she and the boy disappeared behind the arched door, he had sighed with a tremendous relief. Hopsy was inside the most secure place he could be. Now he could go back home and relax. But first he had to talk to Narkiz and tell her that her boy, Hopewatch, was safe and well. And maybe they would sit on the balcony with her potted begonias, and they could talk about her special boy over a cup of tea.
Balcony, tea, begonias, conversation?
He shook his head in exasperation. He’d hated those things. If someone dared to utter such . . . girlish words in the past he, Tito Sophron, would’ve given him something to remember and talk about for a long time. First, give his neck a swift twitch, then punch him on the nose. He smiled.
Hopewatch, Lilly and Buster, Narkiz, Peace – his new friends.
Lilly was right. Hopsy had to be special. For what, Tito didn’t know and he didn’t care to know. After what he’d seen nothing mattered to Tito anymore; nothing but Hopsy’s safety from Megalos. As he’d stared at the first path, Tito’s smile had faded away by his emerging thoughts. The Art of War. Megalos. The same path he’d chosen to walk for many long, long years. He fast-forwarded his career as a soldier. He was shocked by the enlightening revelation. “Kill, or be killed.” Simple as that. The enemy was childless, motherless. An “IT.” It had no family, no honor, no face. It simply was the enemy. Tito wondered if the enemy thought of him in the same way he had once thought of them. Unquestionably, Yes!
Although he had switched camps since the snake bite, he, Tito Sophron, would never, ever regret joining the Marines – saving his buddies made it all worth while. With a bitter grin, and a sad feeling in his heart, he recalled the phone conversation with Megalos. He had nearly destroyed his house venting his anger – doing his duty as he had promised – and Megalos could not even remember who Tito Sophron was. Then he remembered Narkiz’s words. ‘You are part of our family.’ Suddenly he found himself pacing faster toward the village. He smiled.
He had seen enough in the past year not to realize that some unknown entity was helping and protecting the boy. Just thinking of Buster licking the poisonous blood out of his leg, made the dead skin on his face quiver. Although he had cut the snake’s body in two right after the deadly bite, when he had looked for it again, the snake was not where he had thrown it. It had vanished. He knew his eye wasn’t playing tricks on him. His eye could see better than most people could see with both. But this? These pictures in the bluest sky? He’d never seen such beauty, such harmony. He hadn’t even imagined it could be possible.
No wonder Megalos was after Hopsy. Under his overwhelming influence, under his tremendous will, Tito had accepted Megalos’ sound judgement and had agreed blindly, wholeheartedly, to spy on the whereabouts of Hopewatch. He hadn’t asked why. He was simply following orders. Follow, observe, report. Would Megalos have sucked the venom and saved him from certain death? Tito knew better. Tito was an expendable it. A killer. A strange thought occurred to him. Killing one person is a heinous murder – a crime punishable by law. Killing hundreds and thousands is a glorious, honorable deed. History . . .
And now that megalomaniac was using poor Leo to accomplish his dirty deeds. For crying out loud. How could he use Leo?  He was just a child. In his mind eye, Tito could see an enclosed boxing ring. In one corner Hopsy, unarmed, no protective covering, no gloves. In the other Megalos and his war machine. No contest. Why then was Megalos afraid of this little boy? Now that Tito had seen what Hopsy could do with that book, he understood why Megalos was ill at ease, belligerent, combatant, and very anxious to nail down, once and for all, his one and only enemy. Peace. Megalos’ Achilles’ heel. Peace. The total extermination of “The Art of War” and the demise of Megalos.
The smile returned. Balcony, tea, begonias, conversation?
What was happening to him?
“Yes, ma’am. Tea will be just fine, ma’am. Just a dash of sugar, maybe some cream. Yes, thank you, ma’am.”
His roaring laughter shook his body as he walked homeward.





EIGHT


For the next seven days, Hopewatch stayed with Peace to keep her company. The first day, Peace showed him her house and his little room where he was going to sleep. He took the photo from his pocket, kissed the faces of his mom and dad, and placed it on the night stand next to his bed. Then Peace took him to the place where she wrote and published her latest book.
Birds from all over the world arrived at Dove Publication and sang their songs into all sorts of machines. The machines in turn, translated their songs into pictures, locations, sceneries, and live events. On each page were different locations, secret meetings, speeches, and all the gory, bloody details of wars.
“The numbers on the pages,” he said, “I don’t understand them. What are they? What are they supposed to mean?” Let her explain, he mused, then he would teach her how the numbers were suppose to be on the pages of a book.
“That’s very easy to see,” she said. I have no written words in my books, save the, “In the beginning . . .” The rest of the book is filled with live, unfolding events. I had to find a way to record the correct dates of those events, so the reader could see and understand when and where those events took place. You see now?”
“I see,” Hopsy said, looking at his favored page, but he saw no explanation, not yet, about page numbering.
She explained further that she had dedicated twelve pages to each year, one page for each month. So one hundred years, times twelve months per year, made the book twelve-hundred pages long. She asked him to look at the last number at the top right of the page. The number changed just as it had before and stopped at 45.08.06. The book he was holding was dated, 4000 B.C. so the date had to be 4045, August sixth.
“That’s correct,” she said after he repeated verbally his thoughts to her.
Hopsy opened the last page. It was numbered, 00.12.01. The last number changed and stopped at 31.
“Four-thousand B.C., December thirty-first,” he said smiling. “So the first dated page had to be,” he said looking at the numbers, 99.01.01, “Four-thousand ninety-nine, January first.”
“Right again,” she said, messing his hair with her hand.
Now that he knew how to translate the numbers into dates he liked her way better. Hopsy thought about his previous ideas, those crazy ideas of teaching her staff, reading, writing, and arithmetic. Yes, they were crazy ideas. He bit his tongue from telling her.
Hopsy asked her instead, “Why do your books have no words written on their pages?”
Later, much later, he wished he’d never asked her, because her answer was this: “How does one explain Love? Warmth? Passion? How does one explain Grief? Pain? The mourning of a loved one? How could she explain the pain of an un-nourished Mother holding her dying little baby in her bony arms, begging the skies, ‘Please, please, let my baby die, so she won’t suffer no more?’
“No, Hopewatch. Neither words, nor books of men, whether they said it or they wrote  it on a piece of paper, could ever bring out those feelings of that grieving Mother begging for her little one to die. Feelings and emotions are not words. They are the essence of our being, of our spirit and soul.”
Hopsy cried most of the night.

The next morning Hopsy was very curious to find out what had happened in the unnumbered page after the words, “In the beginning . . .” So, after a good breakfast, he asked Peace if he could see the magic after the words, “In the beginning . . . ”
“Sure,” Peace agreed with a big smile. “In the beginning . . .” is the best place to begin.”
Hopsy would remember the events of that day for the rest of his life. He would remember placing the 4000 A.D. book on the top of the table, tapping his wand on it three times, and saying the magical words: “Abbra Ca-adabbra! Show me the magic.”
Frightful and alone, Hopsy found himself standing in a moonscape-like land. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Behind him, there was a big blue sea  boiling with huge white capped waves that rolled onto each other violently. In front of him . . .  “I must be dreaming,” he said to himself, and pinched his cheeks just to make sure that he was awake. He’d realized then that this was not a dream. This was real. Everything in front of him, around him, above him, were as real as it gets.
The horse-shoe shaped cove with its calm sapphire-blue waters, the golden, fine sand on the beach, the lifelike, limestone animal statues on the sand, the eggshell-smooth rocks and boulders around the cove, the inlaid throne carved into the limestone, and . . . so many mind-bugling things that the little boy’s mind could not absorb them all at the same time.
Breathlessly, he looked around for a long time for something to happen, but nothing did. Suddenly he saw a tiny movement in the middle of the glass-like surface of the green-blue cove. A small rippling wave moved lazily, expanded itself in a circular motion, and touched the shores around the cove. As if that was a signal, smooth, small waves emerged from the same spot and extended themselves in the same circular motion toward the shore, one after the other, one following the other, and then . . . then . . . How could he explain magic? How could he spell it or voice it, when he, himself, could not absorb into his being all the majestic beauty that was occurring in front of his wide open eyes? Can anyone describe the amazing birth of Peace? Can anyone paint feelings?
At first he felt a blissful euphoria deep in his heart that engulfed his entire being.  The animal statues became alive. Silently they gathered and stared at the center of the cove as eight white doves emerged to the surface of the sea and flew up in the air. The first two, each with a golden sandal in their beaks, circled the cove, reached the sandy shore and placed them at the edge of the wet sand. The second pair, each holding the ends of a long, green waistband, and the last four, carried a beautiful white silk dress. Suddenly through the small cracks of the rocky landscape, colorful flowers sprang like instant Spring. Then, all motions and sounds ceased, as if frozen in time and space. “Waiting for what?” the little boy mused as he listened to the thump, thump, thump, of his heart.
With his mouth open, tongue hanging out, wide eyes and motionless, the little boy stared silently in the middle of the cove. “Ascending Peace,” he murmured.
Peace rose through the sapphire-blue waters of the cove. Her dazzling, waist-length, honey-brown hair bashfully veiled her nudity as she moved toward the shore. The four doves lowered her dress above her head and then each flew in a different direction, East, West, North, and South, to spread to the whole world the birth of Peace. Peace stepped into her golden sandals. The two doves that held her silk belt, flew around her twice, made a butterfly bow on her right side, landed on the top of the sand and cooing joyfully they made circles around each other.
She walked gracefully on the top of the sand, pet her guardian animals tenderly, and smiled at Hopewatch.
“So,” she said, kissing his temples as gently as a butterfly, “how did you like the unnumbered page?”
“Uh, uh,” he uttered in an amiable bewilderment. What more could he say? How could he describe splendor? No words or books can do that, can they? Only emotions. Overwhelming emotions. Undescribable emotions. Brain numbing emotions. Magic!
The next morning, and each morning after that, the little boy opened a different page from his 4000 B.C. book of The Art of Peace, and holding hands, they visited different magical places, talked to the birds and animals, and went to sleep under the shining stars, while hundreds of phosphorescent fireflies flew around them.
Then there was the immense desert, the green oasis, the palm and coconut tress, the camels, the ripples on the powdery, golden sand, the simmering heat, and the wind-blown mountains as far as he could see.
“I have so many questions to ask the Wise Magician,” the little boy said to himself, and at the end of each day, he wrote them down in his little notebook, so he wouldn’t forget them.
The snow covered mountains were peaceful. The green jungle was alive with giant snakes, colorful birds, gorillas and monkeys. The wide plains of Africa were teeming with lions and tigers, giant elephants and zebras, and tall animals with long feet and long, long necks, and . . . he wished he knew all their names.
On the last day, both Peace and Hopewatch worked on the new book of The Art of Peace, Volume One, to be published in the year 2100 A.D.
“This is very odd,” the little boy thought as he stared in the pages of the new book. The mountains, the jungle, the wide plains of Africa, the desert, and even her birthplace looked so different. They were not the same any more. “Hmm!” he said to himself. “I don’t understand this.” So, he took his notebook and wrote down many questions. “The Wise Magician should know all the answers,” he thought.
He was very surprised when he opened page 01.01.02 of the 2000 A.D. book. No landscapes, no mountains, no jungles, no sea, but buildings, buildings . . . The flashing sign on the top of the page read, “Books and Libraries of the World.” Enter one.
Quickly he entered into the biggest library he could see. Millions and millions of books. He paced through section after section and aisle after aisle, looking for sections “Peace,” or “The Art of Peace.” He was shocked. He couldn’t find such a section or aisle. Were all the books in sections and aisles “Peace” and “The Art of Peace” sold out? He had to ask the librarian. He had to know.
“Ma’am,” he said politely, “I’m looking for the sections or aisles, Peace or The Art of Peace. Can you show me where they are?”
She looked at the little boy for a long while. At first, she smiled mockingly, then shook her head, sighed, and shook her head again. Her smile turned to a grin.
“No such section in this or any other library, not even a single book on those two subjects. However, if you look at The Art of War section,” a small pause, “yes, our biggest section I believe, you may find the word, Peace, in any one of them. But, “The Art of Peace?” No, little boy. No such a thing.”
“Not even one book about the Art of Peace or just Peace, or–?”
“Nope!” she cut him short. “Not even a page.”
With horror, he stared at the pages of The Art of War sections. Page after page, book after book, picture after picture, burning, destroying, killing, using big words, such as, Democracy, Communism, Liberty, Country, God, and even using her name, Peace, as an excuse to continue inhumane acts, that set men against men, nations against nations, brothers against brothers. Civil war they called it. There were words like Peacemaker Missiles, Peace Treaties, Peace Talks . . .
How could all these wise men and women who wrote all these, thousands and thousands and thousands, of books, not know what “Peace” is? Tears rolled on his cheeks, his lips, his chin, and down onto the shiny floor. His knees bent; his behind hit the floor. How long he stayed there sucking his thumb he didn’t know. What was it that he had seen in those books? Another world? An ugly world? No!  It was his world – the world he was going to inherit.
He took his notebook again and wrote down question after question. The Wise Magician had a lot of explaining to do. He was frustrated and angry. He thought about asking Peace, but he changed his mind. He remembered how she had shivered and shook, the desperate anguish on her face, the horror in her eyes, just trying to say the word, War. No! He couldn’t ask, Peace. Not her.
The day he had to leave Peace and be on his way to the Wise Magician arrived. Silently he ate the breakfast she had prepared for him. His backpack was packed with his 4000 A.D. book, his washed, clean cloths, a fresh loaf of bread, honey, olives, and peanut butter, and fresh water in his canteen. With his backpack on, he opened the arched door, took a few steps, turned around, and stared at the beautiful sign on the stone wall. Peace took her green silk belt and wrapped it on his shoulders, around his neck.
“For me?”
“Yes!” Peace said . “A special scarf for a special little boy. Oh, Hopewatch! My dear little boy. If you only knew how much happiness, joy, and hope you’ve given me. Remember Hopewatch,” she continued after a moment of a thoughtful silence, “no matter where you are, no matter what you do, I’ll be always with you, next to you, in you. Remember, I’m everywhere. If you seek Peace, Peace will be there.”
“Remember, Hopewatch,” she resumed, “quarreling, fighting, conquering, building guns and bombs, and killing, and burning, and going to . . . peoples against peoples, groups against groups, nations against nations, is not an avenue to Peace. They are the horrible acts of . . . of . . . ” her face turned white, her body shivered, and her trembling, melancholy voice said, “. . . his Art.”  She looked at the little boy for some time. “I hope and pray,” she proceeded, “that the day will come when people will realize that they can not win Peace by taking a detour through that, that . . .  that path.”
Her body shook like a dry leaf on a tree ready to fall from the strong, icy wind. Trembling, she sat down, crossed her hands around her body, bit her lip, and her cloudy eyes looked around. Empty eyes staring. Fixed into nothingness.
Oh, how desperate she looks, the little boy thought. He had to do something to cheer her up. He couldn’t just go and leave her like that. But how? What can I do?  he asked himself. He looked around. Fixed eyed he gazed at a stone. An amazing idea entered his mind. He now knew how to make her smile; how to make her happy.
“Do you see that little stone?” he said looking into her wet eyes. “That stone,” he resumed with a smile, “it’s a magical stone.”
Peace cracked a slight grin. “Really? How is that?” she asked and bit her lip again.
“Observe,” he said as he took his wand in his hand. He tapped the stone three times. “Abbra Ca-adabbra! Show me the magic!” he wailed, knelt, took the stone in his hands, and placed it in her open, cupped palms. Then he spoke.
“I see Peace under the stone, on top of the stone, and around the stone. I see Peace, and nothing more but Peace. Like you said: Peace is Everywhere. So, there!”
She smiled. Then covered her face with her hands and wept.
“I’m sorry,” the little boy muttered , and tenderly touched and caressed her hair. “Did I say something wrong?”
Peace squeezed him in her arms. Her body was rigid and hard, like a stone. He felt her warm tears trickling down on his neck. Her sobbing slowed down, her body softened, her grip not as hard, now mild, then satiny smooth. Blurred blue eyes peered into his.
“Oh, Hopewatch, dear, dear little boy,” she muttered. “Your mother, Narkiz, is so right calling you, “My little precious.” You are a precious gem. That’s what you are. You made me very happy with your magic.”
Oh! She was smiling now. She looked very happy.
“One more reminder,” Peace said, “before we say our farewell. If you ever need me, just take the scarf . . . ”
“I know,” Hopewatch said, nodding.
She hugged him in her arms, they said their goodbyes, and off he went on the path to The Art of Magic with his silk scarf on his shoulders and The Art of Peace, Volume One, 4000 B.C. in his backpack.




NINE


Tirelessly, Hopewatch walked on the path to the Art of Magic. At first, he was very sad leaving Peace by herself and all alone, then smiling he would think over and over of all the magical tricks he would learn from the Wise Magician, but then he would become sad again remembering the sad face of his friend, Peace. He would touch the scarf, sense the silky feeling on his face and lips, repeat her name, Peace, Peace, Peace, and he’d promise  himself to come back and entertain her with his magical tricks. He thought that it would be grand if Peace could spend her vacation with his mother at his little village, while he was away on his quest. He was sure that Narkiz and Peace would become the best of friends. He was sure that all his villagers would like very her much, and would love to have her in their small, but beautiful village.
With those pleasant thoughts in his searching mind, Hopewatch sat under the umbrella-like branches of a fig tree, and ate his dinner: bread, honey, Yam-Yam peanut butter, and olives. When the night fell upon him, he admired the mesmerizing starriest sky, opened his sleeping bag, kissed the smiling faces of his parents in the picture, and went to sleep.
The loud braying of a donkey woke him early in the morning. He opened his eyes, stretched out his arms, yawned, washed his face, and looked at the bend of the narrow path. They were all lined up like a big parade. He saw the donkey, the old man with his long stick, the old lady with her kerchief, holding the cat in her arms, the pig, the rooster, the Mother hen and her yellow babies, the chickens, and the dog wagging its tail at the very end of the line.
“Where were they going?” Hopsy asked himself, and hurriedly put his stuff in his backpack and stepped in the middle of the path.
Wiggling his tail the dog rushed up to him, put his paws on his chest, and licked his face. The donkey brayed again, the pig went oink, oink, the rooster cock-a-doodled, clunk, clunk, said the chickens, while the cat merely stared at the little boy for a second, as if asking, “What’s all this commotion is about?”  then promptly closed her eyes, and went back to sleep.
“Are you moving?” the little boy asked when the parade came to a halt.
“Yes, of course we are,” the old lady said. “Why ask a silly question when you already can see the answer. Hmm?” She turned to face the old man. “Maybe he is not the one,” she murmured. “Maybe we were wrong after all. Yes?”
“Give him a chance, Mother, will you?” the old man said. Then he turned to Hopsy, looked into his eyes for a moment, then two. “Ask one more question, little boy,” he said. “Go ahead. Ask one more question.”
“Fine,” she said, stubbornly. “One more, and that’s it.”
Hopsy thought for a while trying to figure out what his next question should be without making the old lady angry again. He remembered what the old man had asked him the first time they had met. If the old man had said it, he could say it too.
“All right then,” Hopsy said, decisively. “Where are you going?”
“I told you so,” the old man said proudly to his old lady. “He is the one.”
Then both of them pursed their lips, knitted their eyebrows, thrust their eyelids to a thin line, and stared at each other in a meaningful long gaze.
“Mm-hm,” she mumbled. “Maybe you’re right. We shall see. And see we will. Hmm?”
“Wait just a second here,” the old man said. “I asked you the same question, but I don’t remember receiving an answer from you. Mother?”
“Certainly we didn’t,” the old lady confirmed. “If I remember well, and I’m sure that I do, I’m not that old to lose my wits or my mind, not yet. Yes? Of course I remember. He didn’t even tell us what his name is.” She paused. “Hmm! Strange. Very strange. We have done so much for him, and he, not even a thank you note. An ungrateful little child, if I know one. Yes?”
“You didn’t read my note?” asked the little boy.
“Note? Note? What note?” the old lady asked right back. “Speak up!”
“The note that I left on the top of the table thanking you for your hospitality, the dinner and the breakfast you prepared for me, the loaf of bread, and jam and jelly, the map showing me the path to the Wise Magician, and the First Aid Kit. By the way, the first aid, why did you gave it to me?”
“Never mind that,” she brushed off his question.
“Oh, that note,” said the old man with a huge smile, pointing the donkey with his stick. “He ate it.”
The donkey shook his head, his rubbery lips moved left and right, opened his mouth showing his big, yellow teeth, as if smiling, and moved one ear forward and the other backward.
“Well! Whatever,” the old lady said. She moved her hand in front of her face as if chasing some invisible flies. “I don’t like guessing games. Now, are you going to tell us what your name is and where you are going?” she asked. “Or will we have to wait until you’re well and ready to tell us? Hmm?”
“Oh, yes!” Hopsy said, apologetically. “My name is Hopewatch, but everyone calls me Hopsy for short, except my mother, Narkiz, who calls me “My little boy” or “My little precious,” and some other names, too.”
“Ah-ha, ah-ha,” she said with a tiny grimace on her lips. “Continue.”
“And I’m going to see the Wise Magician,” he said.
“What for?” the old couple said at the same time.
“Tell, tell, tell,” the old lady shouted impatiently, “before day light turns itself into night.”
“So I can learn all the magical tricks from the Wise Magician,” the little boy explained.
Instantly, Hopsy knew that he’d said something very bad; something neither of them wanted to hear. The old lady bit her lower lip, opened her eyes wide as if Hopsy were a scary monster, hugged the cat tighter in her arms as though protecting her from him, and took two steps backward. The yellow little chicks hurried to their mother hen, and the rooster boosted his red crest. The donkey flapped his long ears, the dog barked twice, and both dog and donkey put their heads between their legs. The old man took a step closer to the little boy and raised his stick above the ground. His face formed an icy mask and his eyes spat flames of fire.
“Did you say, tricks?” he shouted piercingly at the little boy.
He looked enraged. He was furious.
“Let me tell you something, uh, uh, Hopewatch and Hopsy and my little boy and my little precious or whatever-else-your name is,” he continued. “Everyone, boy or girl and their mothers and fathers and what have you, want to learn tricks. Well, whatever-your-name, if you want to learn tricks, you should have taken any other path, but this one and path number twelve. I’m sure the path to philosophy or science, psychology or sociology, and oh, yes, war and politics, could teach you lots and lots of tricks. Tricks to keep you busy for ten-and-a-hundred lifetimes. You are on the wrong path, little boy.” He shouted the last phrase. He was so angry.
“Turn back. Go back! You’re on the wrong path,” the old lady said in the same tone as he.
Suddenly Hopsy had one of his bright ideas.
“I would like to apologize for choosing poorly the word, trick, after the word magical. I should have known better. I’m sorry,” he said.
“Tweet, tweet, gibbering chipper, and a lot of blah-blah-blah,” the old lady said covering the cat’s ears. “Excuses, excuses. What else is new, huh?”
“Explain. Go on, uh . . .  what’s-your-name. Explain,” the old man demanded.
“I’ll have you know,” Hopsy said in a very proud voice, with straight posture and his chin up, “that I, Hopewatch is the name, spent seven days and seven nights with a young, beautiful lady, and . . . ”
“Tsh, tsh, tsh,” they tapped their tongues on their teeth and shook their heads.
“ . . . and her name is . . .”
”What? What?” they said in unison. They seemed to be hanging on his lips in an amazing anticipation.
“Peace.”
The old man and the old lady, the donkey and the dog, the rooster and his flock of chickens, the Mother hen and her yellow babies, the pig, and even the cat stared at Hopsy in silence, motionless, like stone statues.
The old man still gazing in the little boy’s eyes said, “Prove it!”
Hopsy took his backpack from his shoulders, put it on the ground, opened it, and took out The Art of Peace, Volume one, 4000 B.C.
“Proof number one,” he said, and handed the book to the old man.
“That’s no proof, little boy,” the old lady said in an angry tone. “Anyone can pick that book from the inlaid windows of that poor girl. Are you playing tricks with our patience? Is that it? Hmm?”
“Proof number two and three and four and five,” Hopsy resumed as he was taking out the stuff from his backpack. “She washed and ironed my cloths, gave me this loaf of bread, this jar with honey, and this with jam, and still another with Yam-Yam peanut butter.”
They all stared at the little boy a bit surprised, but said nothing.
“Last but not least,” the little boy resumed holding the silk scarf with both hands, “my beautiful friend, Peace, gave me this scarf. I also have an amulet under my shirt to prove that my name is Hopewatch.” Steadfast he looked into their eyes, then he continued. “I certainly hope that I have proved to all and each one,” he looked at the animals, and then back at the old couple, “that I have told you the truth. If you still don’t believe me, I’m sure I can show you more.”
“We’re sorry, my little precious,” the old lady said sweetly. “But you see, we have to be very careful with everyone who wishes to learn the magic from the Wise Magician. You see?”
“Yes! We’re sorry, Hopewatch, my boy,” the old man said . “Like my dear wife said, we have to be very careful. Many spies from the other paths, especially politicians and leaders of wars, infiltrate the path of the Wise Magician to learn his magic, and then they turn it around to their advantage by manipulating the very magic itself. I, for one, despise them all. How dare they use the hopes of the people and the magic of the Wise Magician to their advantage when both hope and magic belong to everyone and to all alike?”
Hopsy felt the urge to ask him two questions that burned the tip of his tongue and his little heart, since he had visited the big library. “What about Peacemaker missiles or Peace Treaties? he inquired.
Suddenly the old man’s eyes seemed to hold in them the sorrows and the pain of the suffering people in the entire world. For the millions who have died in the many, countless wars in the name of Peace, the myriads of injured afflicted people in those wars, for the innocent victims of famine, maladies and deaths, in the name of the survival of the fittest, the thousands upon thousands of holocaust victims, in the name of race purification and ethnicity, for the burning of forest after forest in the name of progress, polluting rivers, lakes and the sea, in the name of science and comfort, and . . . and . . . The little boy regretted with all his heart asking the question. He wished he hadn’t asked. He wished he could take it back.
“Powerful gamenames, son,” said the old man in a grave voice. “That’s all they are. When their bombs and missiles run out after dropping them against each other, after killing thousands and thousands, their enemies, as they call one another, then both sides take a short break, sit at a big table in comfortable chairs, and talk about Peace, while millions on both sides are suffering and dying, and when their stockpiles are piled up again, they break the Peace Treaties. Then, Peacekeeper bombs and missiles fall, the war, the killing, and the famine starts all over again, more monstrous than ever before, thanks to science and technology, because, by now, they have improved technological weapons that kill better, faster, and more efficiently, as if the dead ones really cared how they should be killed. Oh, Hopewatch, my dear little boy, I wish it was only weapons that killed people.
“Thinking tanks, heads of prosperous nations, sit behind closed doors trying to figure out who shall live and who shall die without using a single bullet. Economic wars, they call their new way of killing. Thousands and thousands; babies, children, mothers, fathers, and old people . . . death everywhere. So much stupidity. So much.
“We live on the richest planet in the universe, yet thousands of people die from starvation. Where is the wisdom of science and philosophy, of kings and rulers and presidents, and, and . . . the rest of the huge bunch who call themselves, intelligent, scholars, teachers, learned, and wise? There is no wisdom in our world. Not yet. Shooting fancy, smart words out of our mouths does not constitute wisdom. Writing profound opinions, no matter what the subject of that opinion may be, or who said it or who wrote it down for the rest of the ignorant peoples to see, read and learn, are mere self-centered views and observations which, let me add, may or may not apply even to themselves. Sad, blind, stupid people telling the rest of the world how to live their lives when they, themselves, have none.”
“No wise men?” Hopewatch dared to ask.
“Many,” the old man said quickly. “A wise man, if he is wise, knows one and only one thing.”
Silently the little boy waited. He knew the old man would tell him.
“That’s exactly what it is,” the old man said.
Pheope nodded quietly.
“Stay silent!” Hopsy stated.
“Right you are, Hopewatch,” he said. “I remember, this was a long, long time before you were born, there was this wise man, I keep forgetting his name, who said: “The only thing I know is that I know nothing,” and his fellow countrymen gave him poison to die. Pseudo-wise-men, enormous heads and figures throughout the history of humankind, and . . . are you listening little boy?”
“Yes!”
“So, one of the first lessons a wise man taught to others was this: “Communication is impossible.” That is to say, using language, of course, yet the rest of the pseudo-wise men talked and talked and talked, non-stop mind you, for the remaining two-and-a half-thousand years. Or was it three? Very hard to remember that far in the past.”
“Yip, yip, and la-de-da,” the old lady screeched. “Talk, talk, talk, and more talk. No more talk,” she shouted and looked up in the sky. “Come, all of you. It’s getting late. Time to prepare our camp for tonight. Go on, go on. Unload those sacks from that poor donkey, feed the hungry creatures, build a nice fire to cook our meal and to keep us warm from the chilly night, eat our dinner, then go to sleep, and wake up afresh in the early morning. You see? And you talk, talk, talk. No more talk. Hmm?” she finished and looked about.
The donkey seemed to have the happiest expression of them all. Hopsy stared into the donkey’s eyes, just like Lilly did when she was reading their thoughts. He let his mind free of everything but the donkey who stared right back at him. Hopsy was shocked. He didn’t know if he were making up things in his mind, or if he really were reading the donkey’s mind.
“About time,” the donkey seamed to be thinking. “About time for them to free me from the heavy weight on his poor, aching back. Humans and their mixed up priorities. I never could understand them, no matter how much I’d tried. Why can’t they take that heavy load from his aching back first and then talk as much as they wanted, blabbering on and on their endless chatter?”
Hopsy lost contact.
The donkey shook his enormous head in exasperation. His long ears flapped and hit onto each other, his big round eyes stared at the old man taking down the sacks and the saddle from his back. Then he stared at Hopsy again.
“Oh! That felt great,” he resumed.  A loud bray came out of his mouth. “That felt great, too. Let me see now. I’m free from all that weight. But again,” he mused in his donkey brain, “I’m free with the weight on my back or without it or with just the saddle, or sleeping in or out of the barn, or on the grass, or anywhere else. Therefore, freedom must come in many different shapes and forms. I sleep in the stable, the dog in his doghouse, the rooster and his big family in their coop, the pig in his pigsty, the humans in their fancy-mancy homes, and the cat, oh, well, she sleeps everywhere. Everyone likes the cat and she acts as if she likes no one. Such a mystery that cat. I tried and tried, but to my surprise, I still can’t figure out what is going on in her cat brain.
“Oh, well! Is freedom then a conscious choice that takes a form of a self-afflicting, uh . . . what? Confinement? Well, well,” he talked to himself, flapped his ears and shook his head  chasing away those thoughts out of his mind. “Philosophy is not one of my favorite subjects. Let humans deal with the philosophical question of what freedom is or in how many shapes and forms it comes in . . . ”
His thoughts froze with what he had discovered. Right then and there, he found himself amazed with what he was staring out of the corner of his eye. His favorite green delight grew on the side of the path. Erasing all previous thoughts, he broke contact with Hopsy.
That was very strange, Hopsy thought. Donkeys couldn’t think like that. How could they? It had to be his bizarre imagination. That’s all. But again, what if . . .
The donkey hoofed on toward the relishing, fresh, green grass, smelled its sharp, spicy, pungent aroma with his big, wet nostrils, opened his choppers, grabbed a bunch of the delicious, mouth watering grass, and his choppers began to work like no other choppers could.
Sitting by the fire, roasting sweet marshmallows after a nice dinner, Hopewatch told them all about the birth of his friend, Peace, the places they went, the fun they had, and the promise he had to keep after his journey to the Wise Magician.
“Such a delightful coincidence,” the old lady explained to the little boy sipping her hot tea. “You and all of us are headed for the same place.”
“Oh, really?” Hopsy said in an excited tone. “That’s so great.”
“By the way,” the old man said, “my name is Zoticus, and this lovely lady is my dear wife, Pheope.”
Having said that, he clapped his hands three times. Quickly the animals rose to their feet, hoofs, and paws, and made a long line. Except the cat. Snoozing and purring by the warmth of the fire, she opened her eyes for a moment, shut them back lazily, and resumed her snoozing and purring.
“Oh, well,” Pheope giggled pointing the cat, “Snoozz surely stands true to her name.”
“First on the line,” said Zoticus, “is our proud rooster, Regal his name, followed by his family, Mother hen, her yellow babies, then his chicken wives. Next on the line we have Mr. Scoop, the pig, then our strong donkey, Mr. Atlas, and finally, our dog’s name is Mr. Keen. Now look,” Zoticus continued looking at the lined up animals. “Look and listen, and listen carefully. Our new friend’s name is Hopewatch, but he is also known as Hopsy for short.” He clapped his hands twice, then he said, “Off you go back to your sleep.” Then he said, “Mr. Regal, don’t forget to wake us up on time.”
Regal’s cock-a-doodle-doo, woke them up before dawn. After a hearty breakfast to store energy for the long journey that lay ahead, they loaded Atlas, lined up on the down slopping path, and marched cheerfully toward their destination.
The cool morning breeze gathered the thick early morning fog in groups of small patches and blew them toward the parade. The dense fog moved on the top of the ground, as though walking on  invisible legs, moving closer and closer to them, devouring in its path the grounds, the path, the grass, the bushes, the trees, the air, and the sky above. The little boy felt as if he were swimming up in the clouds. The thick patches of fog came and passed through and above them, the bright sun touched the parade, then, thick fog embraced them again, as if the sun played a hide and seek, an early morning game with the Earth. The little boy heard the roaring waters of a river, way down below, as they were crossing a long wooden bridge. He could hardly see the railings of the bridge, the fog was so very thick.
The time came and went by, the sun rose up higher in the sky and burned away the morning fog. The parade marched on, and the little boy looked at a very unfamiliar environment. The stony, narrow, winding path stretched long and hard on the enormous and treacherous mountainside. It looked as if, after taking a sunbath under the hot rays of the sun, a giant snake had shed its skin and left it there, on curve after curve, hill after hill, up and around in an array of many amazing configurations. And way down below, the river rushed its watery mass through deeply carved, zigzagging canyons.
The donkey huffed and puffed from all the weight on his back, and the fat pig didn’t look all that happy either, climbing up and up on the winding path of the rocky mountainside. The yellow chicks seemed to be the happiest of them all, as they rode on their mother’s back and the  other chickens.
“Come along my brave ones,” the old lady encouraged them, while she wiped her face with her kerchief. “One more curve and we should reach on the top of the big plateau, our resting place.”
In the middle of big boulders, enormous cliffs and dark, open-mouthed caves, the great  flat plateau looked very inviting. Way down below, a small creek seemed to separate in two the well forested green land.
“A small green oasis,” the little boy thought staring at the tall blue, then gray, then ashen mountains, one after the other, soaring right next to one another – a giant circle of tall mountains. And in the middle of them all, way down below at their foot, the small green oasis hid itself from the rest of the world. He could see the flagstone roofs on the top of the small sheds and shacks, a small house, and a bigger one on the other side of the creek.
“How beautiful it is,” the little boy said while helping Zoticus unload the donkey. “Who lives down at that nice place?”
Suddenly Mother hen heaved a big cry and opened her wings. Hurriedly, her little yellow babies rushed under her open wings, one after the other, and Mother hen lowered herself above them, hiding them under her fluffed feathers and body. The chickens made a tight circle around Mother hen, and Regal puffed the feathers of his neck, raised his crest on the top of his head, and stood on guard in front of his flock.
The cat jumped from Pheope’s arms onto the ground, and let out a long shrieking “meow.”  She arched her back, her hair stood straight up, her ears touch the back of her neck, let out a long angry “Hiss,” and with her belly and claws hugging the ground, she moved and stood next to Regal, who was digging the hard soil with his claws.
The dog moved his ears back and forth for a second, snarled angrily, his body touched the ground. Crawling, he moved on his belly, and took his place at the other side of the rooster.
The old man grabbed the middle of his long stick from the ground, stood tall, pushed his head up, his searching eyes focused beyond the boulder at the far end of the plateau.
“Come out!” He spoke loud and clear. “Show yourselves. Who ever you are, come out.”
Angry orders came from beyond the big boulder. A big, round, shaved head appeared, stared at Zoticus and the others, drew back, and more angry orders were given. Two young boys, dressed in green uniforms, steel helmets, and shining black boots, emerged from behind the boulder. Handguns, grenades, and long knives were secured on their green belts. They jumped from rock to rock, reached the flat plateau, knelt on one of their knees, and waited silently.  Hopsy recognized one of the boys. It was Leo.
Snoozz, Regal, and Keen moved stealthily forward and stood still at six feet distance from the armed young boys.
“State your business,” said Zoticus pointing his stick at the two boys.
Leo pointed his finger at them. “Bang, bang, bang,” Leo said. “You’re dead. Dead. All of you are dead.”
“Status report,” the loud, demanding voice of a man reached Hopsy’s ears.
“Why is that man hiding behind the boulder?” Hopsy asked Pheope.
“Hush!” she said, sharply.
“Sir! Situation under control, sir,” hollered the other young boy.
“Megalos!” Zoticus shouted at the man behind the boulder. “Stop hiding yourself cowardly behind boulders and young children. Come out. Show yourself.”
The man behind the boulder yelled aloud, cursed a few times, paused, cursed again, and came out from his hiding place. He was dressed in a green uniform. He was a tall, big man, with broad square shoulders, big shaved head, square face, legs like tree trunks.  He held a flame thrower in his long, strong arms.
“Well, well,” he said in a sarcastic voice as he stepped in the middle of the two young boys. “What have we got here?”
“Sir! Under control, sir,” the young boys yelled obediently at the same time.
“Shut your traps, soldiers,” ordered Megalos. “I was not talking to you.”
“Sir! Yes, sir,” they shouted together, dutifully.
“Zoticus, my old friend,” Megalos said, “when will you give up? Don’t you see you’re losing the war?”
“How can I lose something that I do not have?” Zoticus replied with a wry smile.
Silently, Megalos tried to figure out Zoticus’ reply.
“Metaphorical nonsense,” Megalos said angrily. “Men,” he hollered, “I sure hope that you like the taste of a roasted rooster.”
“Sir! Yes, sir,” they answered in a single voice, stared at the rooster, and licked their lips.
The events that immediately followed happened quickly in front of Hopsy’s fascinated eyes. Zoticus raised his stick toward the three intruders. The rooster jumped in the air, flew, landed on the chest of Megalos, and started nailing down with his strong beak the square face of Megalos. Shocked and in pain, he closed his eyes, dropped the flame thrower on the ground, and before his hands could reach the rooster, Regal flew in the air, landed on his previous spot, and readied himself for a second attack.
In the meantime, both Keen and Snoozz leapt up in the air and landed on the chests of Leo and the other young boy. They fell on their backs, and with horror in their eyes, they stared at the enraged animals that were ready to cut their throats with their sharp teeth and claws.
“Leave!” Zoticus commanded in a thunderous voice. “In the name of Peace, drop your weapons and leave.”
“The . . . the . . . ” the two young boys tattered in terror.
“Keen, Snoozz,” Zoticus roared. Both Keen and Snoozz backed up reluctantly and took their place next to Regal.
Hurriedly, the two young boys and Megalos piled their weapons on the ground and marched up the steep mountainside. Halfway to the top of the mountain, Megalos paused, turned around, extended his arm and pointed his finger at Zoticus. “It’s not over yet. He is mine. Next time, Zoticus. Next time.” he shouted. Then he turned, cursed at the two young boys, and they resumed their climbing. They paused for a minute or two on  the very top of the mountain, and then, they disappeared beyond it.
Hopsy was speechless. Motionless. Frozen.
“Go on, Mr. Scoop,” the old lady ordered. “You know what to do. Yes?”
“Oink, oink,” the pig voiced, and moved his fat body toward the piled up weapons. The pig and the dog went to work. Soon enough, they’d dug a large hole, pushed the weapons in it, and covered them up with the soil.
“Rust away,” mumbled Pheope. “Come, come,” she said in a cool tone then,  as if nothing extraordinary had happened, as if confrontations like that occurred frequently, as if she were used to them. “Let’s eat, rest, and admire the beauty of nature.”
After a good meal, the little boy sat quietly, pet Mr. Keen, and thought about his new friends. No! he said to himself. They were not what they seemed to be. These farm animals were not the same as the ones in his little village. Did you see what happened? he asked himself. He still couldn’t believe how easily Keen, Regal, and Snoozz had disarmed those deadly, dangerous armed men, how fast Scoop and Keen had  dug the hole in the ground to bury the weapons. Special. They had to be special animals. He knew that dogs would protect their friends. Like Lilly’s wolf, Buster. He had seen what Buster could do. But cats and roosters? He was mesmerized with Regal, and shocked by the all-the-time-snoozing Snoozz. They were magnificent. Oh, yes, they were. His smile turned itself to giggles.
Then he started thinking about the old lady, Pheope. Unafraid, calm, hands simply crossed in front of her. ‘Hush!’ She’d stood there as if she knew the final outcome of the events to come. She was great! And, oh! What could he think and say about . . . him? How tall he stood, how steady he grasped his stick, how thunderous his voice echoed through the canyons and mountainsides when he said, ‘Leave! In the name of Peace, leave.’
When he first met them, Hopewatch thought that they were a simple, nice old couple. But that was then. Nothing looked that simple anymore. No! The old man was not a simple man. “Who was he, then?” he asked himself, although he already knew the answer. The little boy lowered his head, his lips touched Keen’s ear, and then he whispered.
“Keen, my friend, bark once for, Yes, and twice for, No.”
“Woof,” Keen barked once.
“Tell me then, Keen, is he the one?” Hopewatch whispered into Keen’s ear.
The dog  looked at the little boy as though he did not grasp the meaning of the phrase, eyed Hopsy, moved his ears, but said nothing.
“Oh, of course, of course.” Hopewatch criticized himself. “ Wide open question. I can see my mistake.”
“Woof,” Keen barked once.
Now the little boy knew what to say. His question had to be direct and to the point. No beating around the bush, or trying to read between the lines, or leaving any room for second guessing. So, he whispered again.
“Is he the Wise Magician?”
The dog stared at the little boy in silence, and the little boy realized, once more, what was the big mistake in his question, and why Keen was silent.
“I’m sorry, Keen,” he said. “I should be very careful with what I say and how I say it. Shouldn’t I?”
The dog barked once.
“Thanks for the valuable lesson, my friend,” Hopsy said. Then he whispered once again. “Is Zoticus the Wise Magician?”
“Woof,” Keen barked once and licked the little boy’s face.





TEN


They spent the night on the sheltering grounds of the small caverns by the plateau, and, early in the morning, off they went downwards toward the small green oasis at the foot of the surrounding mountains. Looking down at it from way up there, the little boy thought that the green oasis looked as if it were the bellybutton of the Earth. The thought of being tickled on his bellybutton made him giggle. His mother tickled him there all the time.
“What are you giggling about?” asked Pheope.
“Nothing,” he lied. “I was just wondering what is the name of the green oasis down there.”
“Oasis, of course,” said Pheope. “What else would you call it?”
“Oasis, ma’am.”
Walking on the downward path was much easier than Hopsy thought it would be. The welcoming committee waited patiently for them to arrive. At the edge of the green oasis, which now looked very big, the little white lambkins jumped and raced around the newcomers, the mother ewes looked at their little ones with pride, and the big ram with his huge curled horns lowered his head to Zoticus and Pheope to show his respect.
Snooze jumped down from Pheope’s arms, looked around, sniffed the air, and dashed toward the tall thickets. Keen streaked after her.
Flocks of chippering birds flew over and above Oasis, made a big circle around it, and disappeared into the rich green foliage of the trees.
And way, way up, up above the tall gray mountains, surrounding the green forest of Oasis, a bald-headed vulture with its ten-foot wingspan, fully out-stretched, soared effortlessly higher and higher in the uprising currents of hot air; gliding round and round watching; searching for its next victim, its next decaying corpse, its next newborn or wounded animal.
Zoticus crooked his neck, his eyes stared, his stick aimed at the vulture. “Maniacal Megalos.” Zoticus rendered, sullenly. “As long as there are young, innocent bodies for you to impose your will upon, you’ll soar and glide above. Look at him, little boy, how easily he controls his enormous wings, how easily he flies and hovers above mountains and valleys.”
Silently, narrow-eyed, the little boy peered at the vulture’s upward gliding.
“He’ll never give up,” Zoticus continued in a sad voice, as though waves of grief and pain had run down to his marrow through the aimed stick at Megalos.
His words sent a sudden surge of spiteful anger and a mixture of perplexity and despair spite into Hopsy’s heart.
Pheope’s eyes hugged Zoticus. “Neither will we!” she exclaimed in an amplified passionate tone. “Never!”
“Thank you, my dearest Pheope,” said Zoticus with a quiet sigh. He embraced Pheope and gently kissed her cheeks in gratitude. “I don’t know what I would have done or where I would be without you.”
“Talk, talk, talk,” she went, as if she had a huge lump stuck deep down in her throat. “So much work to be done,” she started counting the chores folding her fingers into her palm, “unload Atlas, milk the ewes, start a fire, boil the milk, make butter and cheese,” she skipped to her other hand, “take everything, mattresses, sheets, bet covers, out in the sun and wash them with soap and water, clean all the rooms spotless, put everything back where they belong, clip the wool from the ewes, sheep, and Horn, wash the wool in the fresh water of the Creek, and, and . . . and I have no fingers left to count on, and you talk, talk, talk. Now, let’s go to work. Yes?” she finished with her hands resting on her hips.
It took them ten days to do all that, and much, much more. After taking his shower and brushing his teeth in the cool waters of the Creek, Hopsy would sit down on the sofa with Pheope and Zoticus and watch the bread baking in the oven, rising in the pan, and changing from white, to yellow, to golden brown. He smelled the thin sliced almonds, honey, and eggs as they released  their sweet aroma into the room. His senses were fully awakened just thinking about what was coming next. Eating it. Devouring it. Munching the fresh baked steaming bread, smothered with fresh butter and sweet honey over it. “Eat, eat,” Pheope would say, and shove some more bread and food onto his plate. He would eat cheese, crispy vegetables from the garden, fish from the Creek, eggs from the chickens, and then he would wash them down with a glass of fresh milk from the ewes.
For the next two hours they would sit on the open porch. Pheope would sit in her rocking chair, and spin with her fingers the top of the spool. Then she would slowly release the soft puffy wool to spin and spin into a thin thread, and she would reel it into a big ball. Snoozz would eye it for some time, slit her eyelids, leap in the air, land on top of it, and then she would chase the ball with her paws. “Stop playing with that,” Pheope would yell at her. “Stop it, I say.” But Snoozz never stopped. She wouldn’t even look at Pheope.
Zoticus and the little boy would sit on the soft cushions of the sofa, sip their hot tea, and Zoticus would answer truthfully the many questions of the little boy. “Use your senses, my boy,” Zoticus would say to Hopewatch. “Remember, and don’t you ever forget this. Wise men don’t write words. They teach the words. They make you feel the words.” Pheope would add, “Mm-hm.  Mm-hm.” Then Zoticus would take a sip from his tea, put the cup on the table, and comb his gray beard with his fingers. “You see, Hopewatch,” he would resume, “when your senses are soaked with the beauty or the ugliness of a truth, any truth, forgetting it becomes impossible.”
Right then, Hopewatch would open his senses and his emotions, and his entire being would flee free to the moonscape cove, the birthplace of Peace. Zoticus was right. He could never forget what his senses had absorbed that day. The joyful emotions entering his body one after the other. How could he ever forget her soft kiss after she’d said, “How did you like the page after the words, “In the beginning . . .?” He re-experienced the same feelings, the same inward steering emotions every time his fingers touched his temples. Her soft lips, their gentle pressure against his temples, the radiating calmness in his entire being, the serene sweetness of her kiss that only his body could grasp. He had tried and tried to write those feelings down. But he couldn’t. Somehow his brain would go numb confronting his astounded emotions.
“How come I feel those emotions, but I can not express them when I try writing them down on a piece of paper?” he asked the Wise Magician once. Zoticus and Pheope chuckled and giggled in good humor, and between his chuckles, and her giggles, he said, “No one can, Hopewatch. No one.” And Pheope added, “Yes, yes. No one.” Then she yelled, “Snoozz, stop that. Go to sleep or something. Hmm?”
At the end of the day, Hopsy would say, “Goodnight,” to Zoticus, and the old lady would tuck him in his bed, cover him up with the soft covers, kiss him on his cheeks, and tenderly caressing his hair, she would say, “You have done well. Close your eyes and go to sleep, my little precious.” He would take the picture of his mom and dad, look at it for a while, kiss the faces on the picture, put it back on the side table, and before Pheope could reach the door, he would be asleep with a pleasant smile on his face.
Every morning Zoticus told him what he should do, so he could learn the magic. “Today,” he said the first time, his first lesson, “we are going to learn the art of our senses. Looking, listening, smelling, touching, tasting, and our long ago forgotten sense, instinct. So let me start from the beginning. Hopewatch, do you know what instinct is?”
“Yes! I do,” Hopsy said. “It’s a strange feeling we get that something will happen before it happens. Like intuition.”
“Good. Instinct also is an inborn drive, a blind knowledge. It’s nature’s gift to a guiding reason for all its creatures. When you lose those instincts, you lose reason. That is when one becomes a beast. Here comes the question. Pay attention.”
“I am.”
“Good. How did Mother hen know that Megalos was hiding behind the boulder? That’s the question, and here is the answer. Her inborn motherly instincts to protect her younglings felt the hidden danger before she could hear or see it. You also saw how Regal, Keen, and Snoozz used those instincts to confront the dangerous situation. The last ones to notice the armed boys and Megalos, was you, me, and Pheope.”
The little boy nodded agreement.
“So, the questions you should ask, and you, yourself, should solve without any egoism or arrogance, but only modesty and humility, are the following.
“The first question is this: Are animals more attuned than humans in protecting their younglings, their next generation? Mother hen gathered them under her wings, willing to die for them. Humans send their young ones to die in wars to protect whom? Answer me this, Hopewatch. If Mother hen was to send her yellow chicks to confront Megalos who would she be protecting?”
“Mother hen would be protecting Mother hen,” the little boy answered.
“Second,” Zoticus said, nodding approval of Hopsy’s answer,  “why do animals have more acute instincts than humans? And finally, did we have those instincts long, long ago, and if we did, what happened to them, or why did we lose them? Are you taking notes? Good. Now let me give you some helpful hints.
“The first group of wise men stared at the physical world, the world they could feel with their senses, and they studied it. This is known as, Materialism. Then other wise men came along, shut their senses, and sought eternal, abstract, non-material truths. And this is known as, Idealism. Out of these two concepts, the tree of knowledge grew into four different branches. One limb of this tree is Metaphysics; the search of the ultimate reality, including  idealism, philosophy and religion. You got it, Hopewatch?”
“Yes, I have. One looking out, and the other in.”
“In some strange way, yes.” Zoticus eyed skeptically the little boy for some time, then he continued. “So we climbed on the other branch known as Epistemology. The study of origins, validity, and the limit of knowledge . . . you got that?
“Yes! The limit of knowledge.”
“ . . . investigation of the nature of knowledge and the process of knowing. This is also known as, Theory of Knowledge, which includes, Logic.”
“I wrote it down,” Hopewatch said.
“Now let us climb on the other branch known as Ethics. Ethics is the inquiry into the nature of Morality. What is good and evil, right and wrong, like or dislike, and so on. This branch is the anathema of all mankind. Here is where we learn social science and political philosophy, and . . . ”
“Why?” asked Hopewatch.
“Why, what?” Zoticus asked right back.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Hopsy apologized, as remembered his conversation with Keen. Then he asked again. “Why is Ethics the anathema of all mankind?”
“Let me start with what someone said. I believe he was the same man who drank the poison. ‘Virtue is knowledge’, he said. But knowledge is not necessarily a virtue. So we got all mixed up when we climbed on this branch of Ethics. By studying it, we learn the standards of human conduct. We learn morality, customs, modes, religion, psychological behavior, what we shouldn’t be doing to others, and what others shouldn’t be doing to us. Okay so far?”
“Yes.”
“So, we put down certain principles to govern our proper ethical and moral standards.”
“Why?”
“Because you like your soup hot, I like mine cold, Pheope likes hers somewhere in between, and maybe, someone else doesn’t like soup at all.”
“Okay. I’ve got it.”
“So, we all have different opinions, different ideas, and different beliefs. Some, believe in prudence, some in pleasure, others in equality, but most people believe in “Might makes right,” which is power.”
“Might makes right. I’ve got that also.”
“And finally we have arrived to Aesthetics. The attempt by humans to determine what is beautiful or ugly, becoming or unbecoming, homely or repulsive. So, let’s stop at this point, reflect and ponder into the wisdom of mankind, and lets shove all of it aside for now. A small warning before we proceed. Knowledge derives from our actions and the facts we learn. By combining and processing these facts we gain Knowledge. Through Knowledge we gain Understanding, and through Understanding we gain Wisdom. Any questions?”
“Yes!” the boy said. “Why should we shove aside wisdom?”
Zoticus was silent for a long, long time. He looked as if fighting with his own thoughts. The features of his face seemed to shift from mask to mask;  profound sorrow for a moment, then to anger, to apathy, to despair, to solemn determination. Why did his simple question give Zoticus such feelings?
“All right,” Zoticus said at last. “I was thinking what will be the best and shortest route answering . . . no, explaining why we should put aside the knowledge of men that has been accumulated, throughout the eons. The wisdom of men. Hopsy, my son, listen carefully. Your request is not as simple as  you may think. Believe me is not. To accurately reply to what you’ve ask for, I have two options. One, to tell you, the other, to show you. Telling you would take a lifetime, maybe more. Showing you less than six hours.”
The boy was surprised, speechless. A lifetime? His question was so simple. Silently, his big unblinking eyes stared at Zoticus.
“Come!” Zoticus said and, in long strides, he paced toward the cabin across the Creek –  to his locked study. His long robe darted and flapped behind him like a flag left in  fierce wind. Hopsy followed, trotting like a pony behind a tall horse.
There were books and books everywhere. Floor to ceiling bookshelves against the walls, the many aisles. All were stacked meticulously with books. Zoticus’ library seemed as big as the one he had visited in the book. Zoticus moved his long legs toward the end of the room and entered in his study. He grabbed a book, came out, locked the door, paused, and stared at the little boy for some time.
As if lamenting the death of a loved one, Zoticus said, “Come, let us walk to the top of the hill. I’m sure, painfully sure, after you see this, you will know why we should shove aside the Wisdom of men.”
Silently, angrily, Zoticus paced up the hill and placed the book on the top of the green grass.
“Peace gave me one of her books,” the little boy said. “I think it’s the same book.”
“Not the same, Hopsy,” Zoticus exclaimed.” Not the same. Your book is dated 4000 B.C. and this one, 2000 A.D. I understand that you have seen some pages in your book. How did you like them?”
“Oh!” Hopsy said, remembering the splendid marvels he had seen on those pages. “Magic! Beauty, melodious happy songs, and joyous laughter.”
“Yes, Hopsy, my boy. I’m sure they were magical. Now then, if we were to open the same pages you have seen in that book and compare it with say, 3900, or 3800 edition, and so on, you and I, will notice some subtle differences in the first from the second, the second from the third, and so on.”
“I loved the date 45.08.06,” said Hopewatch. “That was my first magical page.”
“Page numbered, 45.08.06,” Zoticus murmured. “Oh, my innocent, little boy. If you only knew what Peace recorded on the same date in this book.”
“But I do,” Hopsy insisted. “Peace records the changes that occurred in the dated 45.08.06 page every one hundred years. The date and location is always the same. She records changing events and acts of nature and men once every century. Every book is unique. Every page is unique, even though it appears to be the same when you don’t really know what is recorded in those books, or in those dated pages.”
“I couldn’t say it better myself,” Zoticus replied. “Let us see then if humans are capable acquiring wisdom. Prepare yourself, my little friend. Close your mind. Open your senses. Look, listen, smell, taste, and touch the horror of man’s wisdom and the despair of Peace. Let them both enter your senses through your body, into your soul. Then tell me if men can achieve Knowledge, Understanding, and Wisdom. Now take my stick, tap on the book, and say your magical words.”
The old man gave his stick to the little boy and stepped back. Lamenting softly, holding his head in his hands, he waited as streaks of tears rolled on his aged cheeks, and trickled down his gray beard.
Hopsy held the stick unsteadily in his hands. Seeing Zoticus’ anguish he could only imagine the afflicting horror and sorrow in that page. With trembling hands, he tapped three times on  The Art of Peace, Volume One, 2000 A.D. Then he murmured, “Abbra Cadabbra. Show me the magic in 45.08.06.”
For ten minutes or so, he saw the same mountains, rivers, valleys, lakes, the sea, then they were gone. The scenery changed to a desert-like location called, Alamagordo, New Mexico. He saw low buildings, men in funny uniforms building something, testing  its destructive powers, time after time, on the barren desert, until someone yelled, “By God, we got it.”
Then the location changed again. Though he was looking at the same mountains, valleys, and rivers and lakes and sea as before, they were not the same any more. The big river was now called Ota. On the six islands on its delta, was a city called, Hiroshima. There were buildings, houses and farms, animals, and many, many people everywhere. The date on a big building said, August 6, 1945. People walked on the streets of the big city, shopping, selling, and shouting in a language he couldn’t understand. They were smiling and laughing, waving their hands to each other, then bowed and smiled again, and they were so alive.
Suddenly, there she was. His friend, Peace. He remembered her words. ‘Peace is everywhere.’ Hopewatch waved at her, but she didn’t see him. He though she was too busy. She looked very worried, though. She hurried from person to person, from group to group, telling them something in their language, now shouting, now moving her hands frantically toward the sky, but somehow no one paid her any attention.
Then Hopsy heard the loud engines of an approaching airplane. He looked up into the sky to see the flying thing. It was very big. When the plane was above the city of Hiroshima, the little boy noticed the opening of a big hatch, and something called, “Little Boy” now was falling, Wsssss! Ssssss!  on the city of Hiroshima. The airplane turned and took off.
“NO, NO, NO, NO,” the little boy’s instincts screamed and yelled in horror and in anguish. Somehow he knew exactly what was going to happen even before it happened. He had seen the destructive powers of that . . . that thing, in the big desert, and now “Little Boy” was, Wsssss! Ssssss! getting closer and closer, Wsssss! Ssssss! dropping itself upon the city of Hiroshima. Wsssss! Ssssss!
“STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT,” the little boy yelled as loud as he could. “Where is your KNOWLEDGE, UNDERSTANDING? Where is your WISDOM, when you already know that thousands will die? Desperately, he tried to close the book, to stop the massacre. He couldn’t. Hopeless and angry at his own helplessness, he turned around and shook the old man violently and begged bitingly, “Stop this, stop this. Stop it, please, please, stop it. Don’t you see that the “Little Boy” thing will kill them all, and my friend, Peace as well? Are those people in the desert blind?  Don’t they see their “Little Boy” will kill them ALL?”
“I wish I could,” Zoticus wept. “I can’t. No one can. It’s too late. Way too late.”
That thing called,“Little Boy,” Wsssss! Ssssss! touched the ground. Blinding light, powerful winds, destructive powers unleashed themselves on their outward circular path as the thick mushroom-like cloud rose high above Hiroshima. Buildings bent like little twigs and  toothpicks, and grumbling they were leveled to the ground. Homes flew into hundreds of tiny pieces. People and animals melted into liquid. Mothers with their babies in their arms burned like candles, trees burst into an inferno of blazing fire, and as the destruction continued, everything turned to rubble, debris, ruins, and nothingness. The alive smiling, happy people were now blind,  deformed, armless, footless, headless bodies. Innocent children, young boys and girls, men and women, old and young, dead. Everywhere.
And there, among all the vaporized, pulverized, disintegrated, incinerated, and mutilated bodies of what used to be people, the little boy could see, listen, smell, touch, and taste their agony, their despair, their cries and wailing, their hopelessness.
Now he could see his friend, Peace, unclothed and barefooted, tears in her eyes, screaming, yelling, running among the seventy-thousand dead, and the hundreds and thousands injured; running, extending her hands to everyone in the four-square-miles of the completely destroyed city, but somehow no one could hear her, no one could see her, no one could touch her, as if she did not exist, as if she were invisible, as if she were a ghost.
The book shut itself. The horror was gone back into the page, but the little boy knew, he would never, ever forget the horror in page, 45.08.06, Volume  One, The Art of Peace, 2000 A.D. Right then, his instincts came alive through the pores of his body, of his entire being, vivid, alive, and the little boy knew as-a-matter-of-fact that humans know nothing about knowledge, understanding, and especially, wisdom. No more instincts. Knowledge, understanding, wisdom. The killers of instincts. The killers of our inborn drive, of our blind knowledge. The killers of nature’s gift to a guiding reason for all its creatures.
“Will we ever learn?” Hopewatch asked when he finally stopped crying.
“Hope never dies,” Zoticus said.
“Neither does Peace,” said the little boy in his saddest voice, sniffing his runny nose.
The old lady rushed up the hill, followed by all the animals, and they made a tight circle around Zoticus and Hopewatch. They were silent. The old lady broke the circle and approached the little boy. Kneeling, she took him in her arms, rocked him like a little baby, and caressed his face and hair as gently as she could. “Shh, shh, shh,” she repeated over and again with a hushed voice. “Hush, hush, my little one,” and rocked and rocked the little boy. Some time later, much later, looking at Zoticus, she murmured. “Did you have to?”
“Yes, Mother,” he uttered. “How could I tell him? How else could I teach him the history of men without wasting away a hundred lifetimes?




ELEVEN


Hopewatch swore to himself that he would look into every page of the 2000 A.D. book, no matter the horror and the despair he had to absorb in doing so. In the twelve-hundred pages of the book, he figured there couldn’t be no more than ten or twenty wars in the twentieth century. After all, like his teacher in his village had said so many times, this century was the century of marvel, technology, and science. Airplanes flew every which-way, the first human stepped on the Moon, satellites hovered on the Earth’s orbit, radio, color television, computers . . .  and so on. He thought that with all these enrichments peopled enjoyed, they wouldn’t have time for more than twenty wars. He was shocked to find out that in the past one-hundred years some four-hundred wars took place on Earth. Most astonishing yet were the vast numbers of young men and women who were wounded, orphaned, crippled, homeless, hopeless, starving, suicides, jailed in concentration camps, gas chambers . . . chemical and biological warfare, and the thousands and millions who lost their lives fighting those wars, and . . . and . . . and there were no end to it.
When he had reached page 73.09.01, he found himself completely speechless. He could swear that he had seen the faces of the young man and woman somewhere. He closed the book and ran into the house.
“You’re supposed to be studying, little boy,” Pheope said. “Now go out that door and do what you must.”
“You don’t understand, Pheope. You–”
“Now I’m Pheope to you. Is that it? You’ve been here a little while and suddenly you feel that you can call me by my name? You’re a very ungrateful little thing, if you ask me. Doesn’t that old man teach you any manners, huh?”
“You don’t understand. That’s not it at all. Something . . . I saw something and you have to see it too.”
She squeezed her eyelids, contemplating, studying him. “And what might that be?” she asked.
Hopsy took the picture of Charles and Henrietta from the wall, gave it to her, asked her to sit in the couch, put the book on the coffee table, and opened the 73.09.01 page. She held the framed picture of her son and daughter tighter and tighter to her bosom by the unveiling truth before her eyes. When the book closed itself, she was crying and sobbing and laughing all at the same time. With trembling legs, she walked to the door.
“Zoooticuuuus,” she wailed.
Hopsy took her trembling hand and slowly walked her to the couch. Silently, they sat side by side. Pheope’s eyes stared at the picture and the only part of her body that moved were tears running down her aged face. Zoticus came in and sat next to her.
She turned to him. “Zoticus, she‘s alive. Our daughter, Henrietta, is alive,” she whispered. “Let him see the same page, son.”
Zoticus’ face turned to a carved stone. “Go ahead, Hopewatch,” he said in a tense voice holding Pheope’s hand. “Do as she says.”
When the book closed itself again, they stared at Hopsy, then at each other, and then at Hopsy again.
“We should be back by tomorrow some time,” Zoticus said in a jolted voice. His sad eyes that seemed to have a permanent gelatinlike film over them, now shone with bright shades of amber and hope.
Out the door they went, and hurried to Zoticus’ study. Fifteen minutes later, Hopsy saw a tall and a short ghost rising through the chimney and flying speedily through the air. Seconds later, they disappeared beyond the tall mountain.
Although Hopsy had suspected at times that Zoticus and Pheope were non other than his friendly ghosts, he’d never really thought he might be right. What threw him off was not Zoticus, but the mean mannerisms of Pheope toward him. She nagged and complained about everything, especially him. The woman-ghost in the classroom and in his dream was polite and respectful to Hopsy. She had fooled him all right. He couldn’t wait to see if she would change her nagging manners toward him by tomorrow and, if she did, how long it would last? Not too long, he was sure. Maybe a day, if he was lucky enough. He didn’t mind her nagging, really. Though she sounded tough, demanding, and mean, deep down Hopsy knew that he was learning invaluable lessons – lessons neither his mom and dad, Lilly and Tito, his teacher and priest, nor even Zoticus could teach.
Smiling, he called the animals. As he fed them, a crazy idea slipped into his mind. Animals? Were they real animals, or . . .  “Oh, that’s crazy,” he said to himself. He was stretching his imagination a bit too far. Like that time when he had imagined what the donkey said. All that was his own thinking. Wasn’t it? He gazed at them for some time wandering and mentally creating mythological creatures in his goofy mind. When he couldn’t hold his crazy ideas any longer, staring at them he asked, “Are you animals?” They stopped eating and stared back at him for only one second, and then they resumed their eating. He thought he could catch them if he surprised them, but it didn’t work. He had to stop his over-stretched, happy-go-lucky imagination. They were animals all right. But again, were they?
Hopsy was engrossed with his ludicrous ideas, such as – Atlas standing on his hind legs and talking about the weather with Horn, or how and where to find delicious grass, or Atlas possessing a human body and donkey head, and engaging in stimulating conversation with Hopsy or Snoozz . With such ideas, absurd ideas he knew, but he was having so much fun making them up. He went into his room, lay on the bed with his clothes and shoes on, and, forgetting altogether that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, he closed his eyes and slept the night away.

He was awakened by the loud banging of pots and pans on the stove. He went outside to wash his still sleeping face. The sun was not up yet. Small groups of clouds hovered like  guards on duty on the top of the surrounding mountains of Oasis. They were the usual morning clouds and when the sun rose up and bright, it would burn them to nothing. He didn’t like rain because on rainy days he had to be cooped inside, and Pheope wouldn’t stop telling him that he should be out there learning, and doing things around the crumbling house, instead of crowding her all day long. “Yip-yap, and yelp,” Hopsy talked in a high-pitched tone imitating her voice, and shaking his head and arms like Pheope.
He was still smiling when he pushed open the door to the kitchen. Zoticus was sitting in his chair with a coffee cup in his hand. He liked his morning coffee. “Eye opener,” he would say after the first cup was empty, then he would ask for some more. Zoticus stared at Hopsy in such way he had never seen before. Compassionate, loving, full of warmth eyes, thankful eyes embracing Hopewatch. He seemed to be on the verge of crying. Pheope turned her head over her shoulders and stared at him too.
“What are you smiling at, huh?” she said. “I’m very disappointed with you, little boy. We leave you alone for a night, and when we come back, we find you in your bed with your shoes and clothes on like a drunken prince after a long night at the saloon. Look at you. Mmm, mmm, mmm. Your clothes are all wrinkled up and messy. It’ll take me more than an hour ironing them. Do you see any dry-cleaners rushing to do that for you? Do you?”
“No, ma’am.” Hopsy answered, covering the dimple on his face.
“No more Pheope? Hmm. That’s good. Second–”
“Mother–” started Zoticus, but she cut him short in a hand gesture.
“You stay out of this, old man,” she said, still looking at Hopsy. “Second, I come home, open the ice-box and nothing is missing. That tells me that you went to bed without eating. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hm, hm. I thought so. You didn’t forget to feed the poor creatures, did you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“At least you did something right,” she said, her palms facing the ceiling. “Now, come here,” she ordered, pointing to the floor next to her.
Trying very hard not to smile or giggle, he stood next to her. She pushed her chair back and slowly rose to her feet. She grabbed him by his arms and, suddenly, Hopsy found himself in her tightly embracing arms, his feet dangling above the floor. He’d never imagined that she could be that strong. He could hardly breathe. And, as if her kisses were not enough, she started calling him syrupy names, such as, “My little one, my sweet honey, my precious, my pumpkin pie, my darling boy,” enough to make him shiver with all that sugar-coated stuff.
“Mother,” said Zoticus, “his face is turning yellowish red. Let him down before he faints.”
Reluctantly she let him down. Hopsy breathed fast to catch up with his lost breath. Zoticus put his cup down, stood tall, and lifted Hopsy on the top of the table. His usual brown, sad eyes were sparkling with joy. Gently he embraced Hopsy, and he murmured, “Thanks, Hopewatch. We’re very grateful to you.”
When finally Hopsy sat in his chair and was munching the biggest breakfast he’d ever had, they explained to him their trip to Vietnam.
Henrietta was alive and well. After the explosion, a rice farmer discovered her unconscious body. He had carried her to his house, and ten days later when Henrietta had gained consciousness, she couldn’t remember her past. She had had a dramatic, mind shuttering experience seeing her brother’s body blown to pieces, and banging her head against the solid trunk of a tree. They named her  Dan Ba, “Lady” in English. As the years went by, and the war in Vietnam was over, she married the man who had rescued her, and became a teacher. She taught English to Vietnamese children at the school. She was now forty-seven years old, and had a fifteen-year old daughter, named Phi Nhung, pronounced, Fee Yooong, but Henrietta’s husband had died from Agent Orange more than three years ago.
Zoticus and Pheope explained further that they had to put all the paper work together, and the next morning they would ride on the motorbike to the nearest town and report to the authorities that their daughter, Henrietta, was alive. Then they would fly to Vietnam.
Hopsy cleared his throat to stop himself from giggling. Zoticus smiled expensively, and an elusive smile appeared on Pheope’s lips.
She gave Hopsy a long, meaningful gaze, then she said, “Don’t be so smart, Hopsy.”
“Yes,”  Pheope explained, they would fly with their bodies this time, hopefully they could restore her memory with their presence, and bring Henrietta and their granddaughter back home. At first,  the united family would stay here in Oasis for some time, or as long as Henrietta and Phi Nhung would like to stay, and then they could either move to the house by the sloping hill, or to any other place they desired.
Was he going with them? No, they didn’t think so. No, he wasn’t. Someone had to stay in Oasis and take care of the poor creatures, do his homework, look after the house, and all that. She would cook plenty food for him to eat while they were gone, and if he were a good little boy during their absence, they might bring him a present from the far-away land.
“Did you get all that, Hopsy?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And if you start thinking there will be vacation time coming to you while they are here, I want that thought to be erased right now. I’ll have none of that. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said watching Zoticus’ face.
Suddenly, Hopsy knew the meaning of the second phrase he and Lilly had written on her notepad. What is the dream of all dreams that everyone dreams for his or her life? he asked himself. The answer was written on the ecstatic face of the old man. His constantly reserved face that seemed as if the plague of sadness had settled and built its permanent home on it, creating deep, carved wrinkles, and the saddest eyes Hopewatch had ever seen, now, as if enchanted, the cocooned sadness on his face had magically transformed itself into a beautiful butterfly.
Zoticus was a changed man. His foot tapped the floor rhythmically. His hand moved like a conductor’s wand keeping pace with Pheope’s speech. The accumulated smile on the corners of his lips readying itself to burst out to a roaring laughter, and his eyes, his sad brown eyes, oh, they were smiling. No, they were full of joy. On the old man’s face, Hopsy could see, happiness, joy, hope, and peace. Aren’t those feelings the ultimate dream of all human beings? The people of his village – farmers, carpenters, shepherds, the teacher, the priest, his father on his long voyages – they all labored throughout their lives just to keep happiness, joy, and togetherness; to create peaceful, good lives for themselves and their families. Is not this the dream of all dreams for everyone no matter how rich or poor, how old or young, what their job is, or where and how they live their lives in this big world? So Hopsy concluded that happiness, joy, togetherness, and peace are the ultimate dream of all dreams. Buried into his revealing thoughts, he didn’t realize that Pheope and Zoticus were staring at him silently.
“What’s wrong with you?” Pheope said with a smile dangling on her lips.
“Not a thing,” Hopewatch said raising his shoulders.

The next morning, Zoticus went inside the old barn and some while later he came out pushing an old motorbike. It had three wheels, a comfortable side seat for Pheope to get into, and on it, an embedded big bird that he’d never seen before was rising above red flames. The red and white motorbike looked magnificent. Zoticus climbed on the seat, held the handlebars firmly, put his foot on a lever, and pushed it down. The motor started to cough as if something was choking it to its death and puffs of thick smoke rushed out from the tailpipe.
“Come, come,” Zoticus said impatiently, petting the motorbike. “I’ve seen you do better than this.”
Soon it hummed and roared like an angry wildcat. Both Pheope and Zoticus were dressed in leather jackets and pants, funny goggles, and black boots. They looked like members of some strange, grandfathers-and-grandmothers-only bike gang.
“Don’t forget,” she yelled at him over the noises of the bike, “Be a nice boy, eat your meals on time, and feed the creatures, and . . .” The bike was too far away for Hopsy to hear the rest of her instructions.
He was laying on the grass by the river, resting his feet on the trunk of a tree and contemplating the events of the last two days when he felt something on his ear. Thinking that it was just a fly, he tried to chase it away with his hand. Then the persistent fly came back again and again. He finally opened his eyes to chase away the annoying thing. He almost had a heart-attack when he looked at the smiling faces of his friends Lilly, Buster, and Tito Sophron. Lilly was tickling his ear with a long blade of dry grass.
How did they . . . ? He stopped his thoughts. In his mind’s eye, he could see Pheope’s sneaky wide smile, hugging herself, staring at him, and yapping her mouth away.
“Did you really thing I’d leave you all alone to do as you please, huh? Did you? Well, well, let me tell you, little boy . . . ”
Why didn’t Keen or the other animals sense their presence and warn him that unknown visitors were on their way to Oasis? He knew the answer before he even finished asking the question. Lilly. Lilly had talked to them about their friendly surprise. He was surprised all right. He had to have a long talk with Keen and the always restless, Regal.
It took Hopewatch some long time to put his over-wrought excitement under some control. Then as a good host, he gave them the grand tour of Oasis. Everything in Oasis was open for his friends to see except two rooms: Zoticus’ study and Pheope’s loom room. He remembered when once he had peered out of curiosity, like a peeping-Tom, through the window of Zoticus’ study. There was no desk, no chair, no computer, no ancient scrolls, no magical stuff. Nothing but four white walls and the old brown door. An empty room. He guessed that Zoticus was hiding the contents of the room with magic.
During dinner, Lilly and Tito told him the news from the village. His father, Theo, had come home, and after forty days he went back to sea. Leo had another tooth missing next to the other, and everyone else was doing just fine. His mother, Narkiz, sent him hugs and kisses and said, she missed him very much. Lilly and Sophron kept her company most of the time so she wouldn’t feel the pain of being alone. At that point Lilly gave Hopsy a big hug and a kiss on each cheek.
“From Narkiz,” she said, and her face turned red, like a red cabbage. From then on, she sat in front of the fireplace and watched the flames as if they were the most impressive thing she had ever seen in her life.
He felt like asking her why she was suddenly acting so strange and being so quiet, but because it was bed time, he decided not to. Maybe tomorrow, or some other time.
“I should bunk outside,” Tito said, “so I can keep an eye on everything.”
“No, Mr. Sophron,” Hopsy assured him. “Oasis is a sacred place and I’m sure that no one would dare to come marching in uninvited.”

The next day, it was his turn to tell them his news. He told them everything, but the true identity of the two friendly ghosts. That was their secret and he had to respect it as such. The next four days were like a vacation to Hopewatch. Each day he would show them a different magic event in the 4000 B.C. book. On the fifth day they had a new visitor. He rode in on his brand-new, dust-covered bike.
“Hey,” he said looking at the three of them, “You must be Tito Sophron, you Lilly, and you must be Hopsy, or Hopewatch, or something like that.”
“I’m Hopewatch,” Hopsy introduced himself. “And who are you?”
“My name is Joe. Joe MacAllister. I’m an old friend of Henrietta’s. I understand that you found her. That’s what a very excited lady told me on the telephone.”
“Did she talk a whole lot and complain about everything?” Hopsy asked.
“Yes, that’s her all right. Who is she, anyhow?” Joe asked smiling.
Hopsy explained. “That’s Pheope. Henrietta’s mother.”
Joe looked at Tito. “You know,” he said, “I used to be in love with that girl. Come to think of it, I think I still am.”
“So Henrietta regained her lost memory?” Lilly asked.
“Yes, she did. One look at her mom and dad and everything came back to her like a roller coaster. That’s what her mother said.”
“When are they coming back?” Tito asked.
“That’s the confusing part,” Joe said. “She talked so much on the phone, going back and forth, that I could hardly understand exactly when they’re coming, or where I should be to meet them. My guess is that they should be here if not tomorrow, then the next day. I didn’t want to miss her homecoming on some misunderstanding of time or place, so here I am.”
“Welcome, Joe,” Tito said, shaking Joe’s hand. “Any friend of Zoticus’ family is also a friend of mine.”
Lilly and Hopsy took turns riding on the back seat of Joe’s bike, yelling their lungs out from the exhilarating experience. After that, Lilly and Hopewatch washed the bike spotless, and Joe put it in the shed.
“What do we do now?” Joe asked Lilly.
“Show him the book, Hopsy,” Lilly said, full of excitement.
Joe took the book in his hand and read the spine. “Very interesting,” he said as if talking to himself, then he opened it. He went through the pages of the book like shuffling a deck of playing cards.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he said looking at Tito. “If it is, let me tell you that I’m not a bit amused.”
“It’s not a joke, Joe,” Tito said. “Trust me.”
“Show him, Hopsy,” Lilly said. “Let him see for himself.”
“Joe,” said Hopewatch, “what’s your favorite number between one and twelve”
“To tell you the truth, I have no favorite number, so I’ll say five.”
“Good,” Hopsy said, smiling. “Now open the book where the middle number says, five, hold the book in your hand, and try to see not what’s on the page, but what’s in the page.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Joe said in a good humor tone.
“No, Joe, he’s not. In fact, he is very serious,” Tito said.
“Well, we learn something new every day. I guess I’d better try then.”
“Something very old and very beautiful,” echoed Tito’s words.
Four hours later, Hopsy took the book from Joe’s trembling hands.
“I’ll be damned,” Joe exclaimed in awe. “How do you do it?”
“I always liked men with thick heads,” Tito exclaimed. “Heck, I myself was one of them, right Lilly?” Lilly stared at her hands pretending she hadn’t heard her name and said nothing.
“Come, Joe, let’s take a stroll and I’ll tell you a snake story.”
“Do you know the place we just saw?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” Tito answered, “But I’ve never been there.”
“How could you?” Joe said, as if stunned by Tito’s answer. “That was Africa six thousand years ago.”
“Like I said, Joe. Come, let’s take a stroll, and I’ll tell you more than my snake story, eh?”
When they came back, Joe’s face was illuminated like a million candle lights on a birthday cake. Lilly made fresh coffee for Joe and Tito, grabbed two bottles of Coke that Joe had brought with him. All sour of them sat down on the grass, and sipped their drinks silently. The sun was about two arms lengths from setting beyond the mountaintop when Joe decided to talk.
“Hopsy,” he said, “how many such books are there?”
“Sixty,” replied Hopewatch, and he thoroughly explained how Peace published her books.
“Now I see,” Joe said contemplating. “That makes sense.” He paused for a few seconds. “Can I see the same page on the 2000 A.D. book?”
“No!” Hopewatch cried out instinctively. “I’ve seen that page, a very long page. I know you wouldn’t like it.”
“Hopsy, listen to me. I’ve read several books about the past one-hundred-years history of Africa. I have a whole section in my small library about its history. I know  whole lot about Africa and its people.”
“You know nothing. Nothing!” Hopsy shouted at Joe in a trembling voice. Just the thought of witnessing once more the despair of African people, filled his eyes with tears. Lilly tried to run to his side.
Tito placed his hands on her shoulders and held her back. “Let him be, Lilly,” he said gravely.
It took a long time for Hopsy to put  his emotions under some moderate control. He hadn’t learned how to do that yet. Zoticus had to teach him how to control all those outflowing emotions from his heart. Why hadn’t he taught him those lessons first instead of having him suffer with the suffering millions each time he opened the 2000 A.D. book? Then Hopsy remembered Zoticus’ words. “To know, you have to feel.”
“Joe,” said Hopsy staring into his eyes, “Do you still want to see this century’s same dated events in the 2000 A.D. book?”
“Yes. I’d like to see them now more than ever.”
“Then you’ll see them tomorrow. Now I think I have to go to sleep. I’m very tired.”
Slowly, like a snail, he dragged his feet toward the house. His trained ears could hear what they were saying.
“I’m tired, too,” said Lilly.
“How about some dinner? Aren’t you hungry?” asked Tito.
“No,” said Lilly, “I just want to go to my room and sleep.”
“How about you, Joe?”
“No thanks, Tito.”
“Funny. Ain’t it? I’m not hungry either.”





TWELVE


Hopsy had a dreamless night. It was twilight when he woke up. He laid stretched out in his bed, his hands under his head, staring at the dark ceiling. He thought about his reaction to Joe’s request. Had he overreacted? He had to learn how to control himself. He had to turn his heart into an unfeeling stone, kill all of his emotions . . . But wouldn’t that make him like an uncaring machine?
He remembered when he was searching fruitlessly for the “The Art of Peace” aisles at the library. There, he had read the military and civilian casualties during World War I. Many countries were on that list. Next to each country there were the numbers of men killed, wounded, or missing, and then the total casualties. On the very bottom of the big list, a line informed the reader the “Grand Total” of all casualties: 38,000,000.
Then came the other war. World War II. Historians kept tabs on wars, as if they were candles on a birthday cake. Hopsy read the number of deaths on that page.
Thirty million military and civilians had died in Soviet Union alone. Then there were the rounded numbers of thousands and millions of deaths in Poland, China, Japan, Germany, Austria, Romania, Finland, Yugoslavia, France, Italy, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Greece, USA, Great Britain, Canada, Belgium, Holland, Australia, New Zealand, and . . . Hopewatch had read the rounded numbers again, and again: 10,000,000, 1,325,000, 810,000, 1,520,000, 990,000, 550,000, 1,700,000, 1,300,000, 5,300,000, 340,000, . . . The Grand Total of military and civilian fatalities in WWII was 60,000,000. However, other sources suggested even higher casualties.
Staggering numbers, but . . . he was shocked by the enlightening discovery. His heart was not pounding, his breath was normal, and he felt no adverse feelings. They were not people. They were cold, uncaring black numbers on white pages. Could he shut off his emotions, lock up his feelings, and look at people only as numbers and not as human beings? Could he? No! he thought. Never!
How could he watch millions of Jews walking to their deaths and not feel their pain? How could he stand there and stare at each man, woman and child, look into their eyes, see each one’s fear and despair and not be affected? How could he stare into the vacated by hope eyes of a man as he walked to the open fiery mouth of the crematorium, lifeless, malnourished body, protruding bones, head down, arms like dead limbs, with a tone of voice full of apathy, “I’ve been tortured enough. Time to die,” and not feel? People with broken and surrendered spirits and with renounced faith in humanity, embracing their inhumane fate. The end of their suffering. Six million Jews had died in killing centers, camps, shooting operations, and ghettos.
No. He couldn’t shut off his emotions. Zoticus was right. “To know is to feel.”
He was very surprised to find Joe, Tito, and Lilly sitting silently and drinking coffee at the breakfast table.
“Hi, Hopsy,” said Lilly. “Would you like to have some breakfast?”
“Yes, and some coffee also. I don’t know why, but looking at your gloomy faces somehow made me feel very hungry,” he said with a smile. The first to realize the irony of his innocent joke was Lilly.
“Ha!” she said in a playful tone. “Look who’s talking. You don’t look any better yourself.”
“That’s because I overslept. That’s all.” The dimple made a big hole on his cheek.
“You expect me to buy that?” asked Lilly, peering at him.
“Both of you, cut it out,” Tito said shaking his head. “Joe, help me prepare some breakfast. That’s one way to shut them up.”
Like magic, the heavy air was lifted. Gone. They talked about this and that. Joe told them about his Toy Factory and how good it could be to have all three of them there, all expenses paid, of course, to give them the grand tour and introduce them to all of his friends and colleagues.
After breakfast was over and the dishes were cleaned up and on the shelves, Joe and Hopsy walked to a small path behind the house and disappeared beyond the thickets and tall trees. For the next six hours, Joe sat down wiped his eyes, sniffed his nose, and said words Hopsy couldn’t repeat even to himself.
“You were right, Hopsy,” he said ten minutes after the book had closed itself. “I thought I knew all there was to know. I was so wrong, Hopsy. I knew nothing. Nothing at all. I’m fifty years old. Today I feel like I lived all those years like a blind bat hanging upside down in my dark cave. I never believed in wars. Never got involved in them. Once, I remember saying to Henrietta, “War is a crazy thing – it makes you or breaks you. Show me another way and I’ll jump, I’ll dive into it with whatever I’ve got.” Well, Hopsy, today you’ve done it. You made a believer out of me. For six hours now I saw the outrage in Africa. Terrible. Inhumane. Unbelievable. Now I’ve something to sink my teeth into and taste it. You just tell me how I can help your cause, and–”
“Not my cause,” Hopsy interrupted Joe. “I’m just a messenger.”
“Should I talk to Zoticus and Pheope?”
“No,” Hopsy said with a twinkle in his eyes and a big smile. “They are the teachers of the messenger.”
The answer hit Joe like a blinding sun as soon as his fingers touched the spine of the book. “Where can I find her? Peace, I mean.”
“Open your mind, your heart, your eyes, look for her, and you’ll see her. She’s everywhere.”
On their way back to the house, Hopsy was smiling with his brand new thoughts. First there were the two ghosts, then his mother, Lilly, and Tito, and now Joe. They had helped him as much as they could, and also believed in and supported the path he had chosen. If he included himself and Peace, that would be eight people in all working for her cause. Tomorrow there will be two more. He brushed that thought out of his mind. Forget tomorrow. Tomorrow will be a joyous day for all of them in Oasis.
It was. Right after midday they were lined up on a bench at the edge of Oasis staring at the winding path on the mountainside.
“There,” Tito broke their long silence pointing. “I see dust. That must be them.” He paused and pushed his ears forward with his hands. “Someone is blowing the horn like a maniac.”
“That’s Pheope,” Hopewatch said matter-of-factly.
“I only see two of them on the bike,” Joe said.
“Me too,” said Lilly jumping up and down with excitement. “Where are the rest of them?”
“Something’s wrong,” said Joe in an alarmed tone, as he paced around the bench.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Hopsy said cooly. “Pheope is like that when she’s happy. If something was wrong, she would be very quiet. I’ve seen her do both.” He paused and looked at them and smiled. “Many times,” he added.
The bike reached the big plateau, and came down the winding dusty path. The driver put the brakes on and turned off the engine. Then the driver stepped down and helped Pheope to her feet. Hopsy watched and knew that something very wrong was going on here. Although their leather uniforms were the same ones that they were wearing when they left Oasis, he could see that the driver was shorter than Zoticus. He couldn’t tell if the driver was a woman or a man from all the dust on the driver’s face, the goggles, and the smartly concealed hair from the helmet. With both hands, the driver removed the helmet. Long brown hair fell on her shoulders, and as she removed the goggles, her gray eyes were staring at Joe.
“Henrietta,” he murmured and stepped slowly to her. They looked at each other for a timeless moment, then they embraced, as if they were touching the most fragile menagerie in the world.
“I missed you,” Joe said.
“Oh, Joe,” she whispered.
Then all hell broke loose.
“You!” Pheope said pointing her hand to Hopewatch. “Come here.” She looked at him, turned him around, and looked some more. “I just don’t believe it. I’m only gone for seven days and look at you. You lost three pounds already. Did you join the Air-Breathers-Anonymous or something like that?  Didn’t I cook for you? Didn’t I ask you to eat regularly, huh?” She turned and winked her eye at Tito and Lilly. “Who are they? Don’t tell me. Let me guess. They’re your friends and you thought while I was away you could invite them over, and instead of studying, which I emphasized to you many times, you, nevertheless, decided to have a friendly party after all. Is that it?”
“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am,” said Hopewatch covering his cheek.
“Which one is it, little boy? The yes or the no?” She took a long heaving breath. “Oh, never mind,” she said. “I’ll let it slide this time. Do you know why?”
Lilly bit her lips, Tito sat on the bench with his head buried between his hands, Henrietta smiled, and Joe’s face looked like a heap of confused mess.
“Because,” Pheope resumed, “You made me the happiest woman on earth.” She picked him up off the ground, showered him with kisses, then let him down. “Go say hello to her. Don’t ask me why, but I think she likes you.”
Henrietta knelt in front of Hopsy, held his hands, and kissed him on his cheeks. “Thank you, Hopsy,” she murmured.
Hopsy said nothing. His vocal chords couldn’t have responded even if he had managed to think of something to say.
“They look nice, don’t they?” Pheope said sitting next to Tito.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tito said. “But I was wondering, uh . . . you see. Where are your granddaughter and Zoticus?”
“They’ll be here soon,” she said. “They took the long way here because they had to haul stuff on the rental truck.”
“Long way?” Hopewatch asked, and looked at Pheope.
“Yes, the long way. Right through that tunnel there,” she said sharply, and pointed her hand at the eastern mountain.
Hopewatch knew there was no such tunnel through the eastern mountain or any other. Hopsy could see Zoticus using the power of his magical stick to drill the tunnel through, and when the truck had come and gone, the tunnel would be gone too. He chose not to reveal his thoughts to the others.
They left the bike there and followed Pheope to the house.
“Thank you, ma’am, for inviting us–”
“You can call me Pheope,” she said holding his arm, “and I’ll call you Tito, yes?”
“Yes, I’d like that. I feel funny when people call me sir or mister, or by my last name.”
“You’re a good man, Tito. I’m very glad to have you on our side.” Pheope smiled. “I have seen what you can do with that hand of yours. Poor table . . . ” They looked at each other and started laughing.
Lilly arched her eyebrow. “What’re they laughing about?” she asked Hopsy.
“I don’t know,” he said, and looked around for some explanation. None came.
Henrietta and Pheope washed up and changed clothes. For the next hour, they sat around and waited for the truck to arrive. In the meantime, Henrietta told them what happened on that fatal day. Her story was this:

It was the turbulent era of the sixties – Joan Baez, Bob Dylan . . . the war in Vietnam, the flower people, the hippies, the peace talks . . . the time for Charles and Henrietta to serve as advocates for peace. They had devoted their lives to bringing about peace. Talks, speeches, and meetings in crowded, dirty rooms occupied their long days, and their longer nights. They’d been shouted at, cursed, and showered with rotted fruits by the advocates of war. The fever of the war in Vietnam seemed to infiltrate the streets of villages, towns, cities, and the minds of the people. Almost everyone seemed to have an opinion either for or against the war.
The years went by, thousands of people died on both sides, and the war in Vietnam was about to end. It was March of 1973 when Henrietta and Charles went to Vietnam to see first hand the fruits of their labor – the preparation of the American troops to return  back home.
The ashen-colored clouds seemed to hug the earth. They hovered above Charles and Henrietta soundlessly, unmoving, as if deciding whether they should turn themselves into rain or climb higher, wait, and gather more strength. Undecided as they were, the clouds turned themselves into a heavy drizzle, drifting aimlessly like silver dust in the windless air, falling unnoticed on trees, on the  tall green grass, and penetrating deep into the soaked soil. The shining green leaves accumulated the thin droplets on their tips, forming them into small iridescent, reflecting droplets, and as they grew bigger and heavier, they yielded to the laws of nature, and plunged homeward, while other droplets started the same process all over again.
Charles and Henrietta walked wordlessly under the canopy of the drizzling clouds, shoes, hair, and shoulders soaked. The air was thick with the pungent smell of decomposed leaves and the sweet perfume of wet leaves. The sound of their footsteps was absorbed by the wetness of the soaked earth. Silence, fear, drizzle, and the thick jungle in Vietnam embraced them tightly.
“How much longer will it take us to get there?” Charles asked, glancing at his watch.
Henrietta took the map out and studied it for a while. “We should be right here,” she said pointing her finger on the map. “Another mile and we should be meeting with the others, unless of course, we’re lost in this soup-like environment. I feel like I’ll vanish in it and be lost for ever if I were to take a wrong step either right or left.”
“My cheery sister,” he said and smiled. “Not much fun walking in this jungle. As long we’re in it, we are at risk. I’ll feel much safer when we get to the MASH grounds. Dad and Mom will never forgive me if something bad happened to you.”
“Don’t worry, big brother. We’ll be there soon.”
Henrietta remembered her friend, Joe MacAllister, who was completely apathetic to either cause. “When killing is over and done,” Joe had told her, “then peace ought to come. So why bother taking sides, shelling my emotions either this way or that? Can I, Joe Nobody, stop the war or bring about peace? I can’t accomplish either the one or the other. I’m Joe Nobody. Let me be.  So, sit down, play some chess, take your mind out off the shit, and have a cold beer. Life is too short, Henrietta. Enjoy it as much as you can.”
“Have you no conscience, Joe?” she had asked him in anger and disappointment. She couldn’t stomach such jargons of apathy from the man she loved.
“Oh, I have plenty of conscience and I ain’t blind either. I see the both of you, I mean sides, shouting and hollering big words, getting beat up, and dragged into jails by the hundreds. And Henrietta, you and you brother, who have conscience and sight, tell me Henrietta, why are you questioning my conscience when the ones who started this whole mess, here and abroad, don’t have none? War it’s a crazy thing – it makes you or breaks you. That’s the bottom line. I want no part of either one. If that makes me unconscious or blind as you say, then let it be so. Do you know why, Henrietta? Because I am and will remain Joe Nobody.”
“But, Joe, can’t you see that we’re fighting for peace?”
“Oh, Henrietta, my dear girl. You’re talking your head off, but you’re not listening to your own words.”
“What? What am I missing?”
“The word, fighting, Henrietta. Fighting is war. Show me another way and I’ll dive in it with whatever I’ve got. Listen, Henrietta. I make toys for children, don’t I? Have you ever seen a weapon or a GI Joe coming out of my assembly line? No, Henrietta. I don’t make them. I hate that stuff, and I hate wars and fights also.”
Engorged as she was in her thoughts she didn’t see the almost invisible wire in front of her. She felt the thin wire on the ankle of her right foot, the line pulled the pin, and she heard the deafening explosion of the claymore mine. Henrietta saw the bits and pieces of her brother’s body, Charles, as they flew above and around her. The unleashed force of the deadly mine lifted her body like a twig and slammed it violently against the trunk of the tree. The last thing she saw before falling on the wet ground, was an immense darkness approaching toward her with lightning speed.
Henrietta finished her story by saying, “I’m sure Mother told you the rest.”
When the truck stopped by the house, Zoticus climbed down, followed by Phi Nhung. She was four inches taller than Hopsy with short black hair and oriental features. Hopsy thought that she was very pretty when her brown eyes met his.
After the initial clumsiness of introductions and all that, they all pitched in to help unload the truck. When the truck was gone, Pheope told Lilly and Hopsy to open their presents. In Lilly’s box, there were two boxes. She opened the bigger one first.
“My own kite,” she said and took it out. She admired her falcon kite, showing it all around, and then she opened the other box. She took out a silk-kimono with exotic flowers, a wide, red waistband, and a pair of soft, black shoes.
“I’ll see you in it at dinner time. Phi Nhung will help you dress properly. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they said at the same time.
“I had to go all the way to Japan for those,” Pheope said giggling. She looked at Hopsy. “Yours is straight from China. Well, go on, open it.”
Lilly and Phi Nhung helped him to take it out and placed it on the grass. When it was fully stretched, Hopsy was staring at a fifteen-foot long, colorful, silk dragon. The dragon looked at them with its enormous eyes. Its open mouth seemed as if were ready to spit flames. He loved it. “Thanks,” he said looking at Pheope.
She looked at him lovingly. “No expense too great for my little one.” She pause, looked at Lilly and then back at him. “Both the dragon and the falcon are . . .” a devilish grin appeared on the corners of her lips, and suddenly she let out a trailing witch’s laugh, “are magical.” Another bone chilling laughter followed.
“Mother,” Zoticus said disapprovingly, “Stop teasing the children.”
“Both the kite and the dragon are computerized,” Phi Nhung explained. “You can use the remote to activate them. I’ll show you.” She took the remote control. Lilly and Hopsy watched. She activated a key and the dragon’s head moved. Then she pressed the arrows and its head  moved up and down and left and right. Easy enough, Hopsy thought. Then she pressed another key. The dragon sprouted eight legs and stood up on its feet. She pressed another key, moved the joy stick, and the dragon stepped forward, bending its body, lashing its tail, and roaring. They all clapped their hands with joy, save Joe. Frozen and speechless, he stared and stared. When the demonstration of the dragon and the flying falcon-kite were finally over, Joe said that new computerized toys would be coming soon from the assembly lines of his Toy Factory, and that all the proceeds would be donated for the sacred cause of Peace.
An hour before dinner, Lilly and Phi Nhung disappeared into their shared room. When they came out, Hopsy, for a few seconds, couldn’t tell who was the exotic looking girl standing next to Phi Nhung. As soon as he realized that she was non other but his friend, Lilly, his eyes and mouth opened wide and stayed open, and the rest of his body turned to a statue.
“Hey, Hopsy,” Tito said, chuckling, “I’m sure we’ll see birds nesting in your mouth soon enough if you keep it open like that.”

The days seemed to be vanishing, as if splashing a drop of water on the top of a hot stove. Hopsy had to study every morning until noon, then he would be free to do as he liked. Henrietta and Joe, held hands, took long strolls. Tito and Zoticus had long talks, and Pheope moved like an animated toy from group to group. Hopsy had never seen her so happy.
Like all good things, Hopsy’s overextended vacation had to come to its final stage too. Henrietta and Joe had rekindled their love, and all three of them would be moving to Joe’s place. Riding on the two bikes, they waved their hands, farewell, and they were gone. Then Lilly and Tito were gone, too.
Hopsy watched them go and felt very lonely. Pheope ran her fingers through his hair and hugged him. “I’m still here for you, yes?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hopsy saw two tears rolling down Zoticus’ face.





THIRTEEN


For Hopsy, the transition wasn’t as smooth as he thought it might be. Pheope didn’t yell at him as much as she had in the past, she hugged him a whole lot more, and kept smiling at him for no reason whatsoever. Zoticus was an altogether changed man. His somber face was now radiating with happiness. He wore his new robes and shoes, and he even had trimmed his long-gray beard an inch or two. He looked like a distinguished professor ready to lecture heads of governments at the United Nations headquarters about peace, without engaging wars to achieve the ultimate goal of Peace.
Hopsy was very sad to see Phi Nhung, Henrietta, and Joe waving their hands as they drove away riding on the two motorbikes. What saddened him the most was when he had to say, “Goodbye,” to Lilly, Tito, and Buster. He had stared at them until they reached the big plateau and then they were gone behind the curving path on the other side of the mountain. He definitely missed them. He missed them all. Now he knew why his mother squeezed his fingers tighter, as the bus took his father away from her.
After a day’s rest, Hopsy went back to his lessons. He remembered what Zoticus had said in one of his talks. “The day you stop learning is the day of your funeral. Intellectual knowledge may have its limits, but the knowledge of the senses is limitless.”
So, Hopsy used his senses to learn the magic in both horror and beauty. There was no need for him to think, because everything revealed itself right before his senses. He would look at a bud on a branch, and he could see a leaf growing, making noises  as it stretched itself through the small bud. He could smell and touch the newborn little bud as it formed new leaves and branches, and he could taste the pungent flavor as he chewed one of them.
Some days, he would watch the new Mother hen sitting on the top of her eggs to keep them warm. He saw the new hatchling break the protective eggshell with their beaks to emerge out into their new world, naked, blind, helpless, and with their yellow beaks instinctively open to receive food from their hen Mother.
And then, for hours on end, the little boy would sit and watch a worm making a cocoon around itself, and when it knew that the time was right for it to come out from it cocooned shell, it would break through its shielding shell, emerge its head, unfold and stretch its wet wings to the warm rays of the sun, and then, oh, Magic! The worm had transformed itself into a beautiful butterfly. A complete metamorphosis. She would fly from flower to flower collecting their sweet honey. The colorful flowers would open themselves miraculously, as if yelling to the butterflies and bees, “Come, come, help yourselves. Spread our pollen from flower to flower to germinate our new generation and you, yours.”
“Harmonious symbiosis,” Zoticus said to him. “Everything depends on Everything else. All alive creatures, big and small, are driven by their senses and instincts. The Earth and the entire Universe are driven by their universal laws, and everything depends on the survival of everything else. Everything except men. Men use their Knowledge to construct  either innovative or destructive machines. Uncaring machines.”
There were days in which Pheope would look at Hopsy with a sly smile, and murmur her singsong, “Off I go to the mulberry patch, where the silk worms hatch.” She would mount the saddle on Atlas, and when she was ready and comfy on it, Snoozz would jump in her lap, and off they would go for the rest of the day.
On those days they would eat fresh, succulent black, red, and white mulberries, fresh baked mulberry pies, and Pheope would make jars and jars of mulberry jam. But the little boy knew there had to be more to those mulberry patch trips. What was she hiding in those big ballooned bags each time she returned from those trips? Secretly, the little boy tried to find out the secret of the mulberry patch trips from his friend, Atlas. He’d never asked Snoozz. He knew, she would simply ignore him. So, Atlas moved his ears back and forth, shook his big head from side to side, gave the little boy a big smile with his yellow teeth, and utterly refused to unveil the old lady’s secret. Why all this secrecy?
After dinner, Pheope excused herself, locked the door of the small loom-room behind her, and for hours and hours the strange sounds of, wshh-wshh, and then, thump-clunk, could be heard coming through the locked door. What was she doing in there? He asked her about it, and she simply said, “Life is full of mysteries, my little boy. “Patience shall unveil them all. Yes?” And that was the full extent of her explanation with what she was doing behind the closed door of the loom-room. When finally the, wshh-wshh, and then, thump-clunk, was over, she boiled liquid dyes of different colors and lock herself again in the loom-room with that sly, mysterious smile of hers.
“Rush, rush, rush,” she said to Hopsy when he asked her about the liquid dyes. “Would you eat a half-cooked meal? Hmm? Would you sink your pearly teeth into an unripe apple? No? Of course not. Have you ever tried to peel the skin of an orange that’s not yet ripe? No? Such a mess.  Do newborn babies stand on their two feet and stroll around and about their mothers? Stop shaking your head. You’re making me dizzy. Good. Does a farmer expect to see ripe, golden wheat fields behind his plow? Hmm? Does a fisherman expect to find his nets filled with fish while he is playing backgammon at the coffee shop with the priest? No, no, no! No to all. Yes? I wonder what that man is teaching you. Go, go! Leave me in peace. Millions of things to do, zillions to see, much to learn, more to forget, and you talk-talking away. Hmm?” Then she opened and closed her fingers in a ,”Go way, let me be,” gesture.
On his days off, adorned with his green scarf on his shoulders, Hopewatch would collect flat pieces of wood and bark, round, silvery leaves from the trees, and he would sit on the bank of the Creek. Then he would take his waterproof marker and write, PEACE, on the silvery leaves, attach them to the flat woods and tree barks, place them one after the other on the top of the water, and say, “Spread the word in the world,” as he watched his little sail boats sailing downstream on the waters of the peaceful Creek.
Watching his sailboats cruising peaceably on the waters of the Creek, listening to the singing birds, the croaking of frogs, the rustling leaves from the soft breeze, and Keen’s barking now and then, his mind took him back to when the three of them, Zoticus, Pheope, and he, went to a nearby town to enjoy the annual Harvest Fair. When they arrived at the fairgrounds they couldn’t find a spot for Atlas. After looking around for some time, Pheope hollered, “There,” pointing out a car ready to leave. She pulled the donkey into the vacated spot, put in its mouth the feeding suck filled with corn, and placed its robe behind Atlas’ ears.
“I expect to find you here when we’ll return from our sightseeing,” she said to Atlas. “As for you,” she turned and looked at Hopsy, “do as you like. Have fun.”
“Hopsy,” Zoticus said in a low thoughtful tone, “look around you, observe, and  listen. Everywhere we turn, everywhere we look, Life, the teacher, has a cryptic message for us to see, to learn.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hopsy had never seen so many people in one place all at the same time. Hundreds and hundreds of people. Children, boys and girls, women and men everywhere he looked. They were smiling, talking to each other, listening to live music, and admiring the handmade crafts displayed handsomely on the top of tables with blue, green, maroon, and black tablecloths. The aroma of the freshly cooked meals rose in the air, smelling delicious, tickling his nose, and making his tummy to rumble.
Some people were dancing to the tunes of the loud music, some lay on colorful blankets under the shade of giant oak trees, and yet others stretched their blankets under the sun to soak its warm rays. There were adults and children dressed in costumes, like ducks, or pelicans, fuzzy bears, gorillas, and eagles . . . and some girls were dressed like mermaids, hopping about, and now and then, holding on to each other as not to fall,  giggling and jesting as they went along.
A young father held the hands of his baby boy. The boy took a step, then another. The father let go the boy’s hands. The boy took another step all by himself, then another, lost his balance, and fell down. The proud father smiled at the onlookers, picked up his boy from the ground, and they repeated the whole thing again, and again, both, father and son, smiling, laughing.  Mothers pushed carts on small wheels, their babies all bundled up and warm, holding in their tiny hands small bottles, their mouths around the nipples, sucking the warm nutritious milk. Some people walked with their dogs by their sides. Small dogs, big dogs, funny looking dogs. Dogs in hats, in woven pullovers, in socks.
Hopsy looked at the faces of the people, listened to hundreds of voices, the  different uproars of cacophony, and suddenly it dawned on him that he was not just looking at them, but at Peace within them.
Hopsy had never thought, not even in his wildest dream, or his vivid imagination, that Peace could come in so many different forms, be so alive, so noisy, so out of hand, and so out of order. He was wrong in thinking that peace signified quietness, easy and subdued mannerism, and hushed conversations. This, what his senses were absorbing right then, was exactly the opposite. Noises, laughter, loud music, and lots and lots of fun.
The brief comparison intensified the peaceful quietness of Oasis. He smiled, and waved at his sailing boats.
At night, he would carefully fold his green scarf, kiss it, feel the silky texture on his lips, put it under his pillow, and leave it there until his next day off. The green scarf . . . the most beautiful and priceless gift he had ever received. He would treasure it for ever and ever.
Each day the little boy learned something new, a magical new, and as the days went by, they became weeks, then months.
Fifteen days before his ninth birthday, Zoticus gathered everyone in a big circle and raised his big stick to stop their loud ruckus.
“My friends,” he said, “I have an announcement to make. I’m very happy and proud to say to you that our friend, Hopewatch has graduated with honors.”
The loud cacophony rendered the air with unique animals’ sounds.
“I’d like to thank each and every one,” Zoticus continued when the commotion died down a bit, “for your patience, your help, and the wisdom you’ve provided educating our friend, Hopewatch. Let us present him with our going away presents.”
One by one they paraded in front of the little boy. Snoozz gave him three fur-balls, Regal three long feathers from his bloomy tail. Atlas and Scoop turned around, and Hopewatch pulled three bristles from each tail. Keen presented his three chewed up sticks. Finally, Horn stood in front of the little boy. Hopsy took his little carving knife and carved three small shavings from the huge horns of the ram. Hopsy put all of his presents in separate little bags.
“My turn, my turn,” the old lady said full of excitement and gave Hopewatch a box wrapped in colorful paper.
The boy held his breath, knelt on the ground, and with trembling hands, carefully unwrapped the wrapping paper from the paper box. He folded it and folded it again, and when it was small enough, he put it in his pocket.
“The box, the box. Open the box,” she yelled at him. “The wrapping paper is not my present to you, little boy. Sometimes I suspect that he has no wits at all.” She turned around and looked at the animals. “Did you see it? Did you? Hmm?” she talked to them. “I give him the . . . the what’s in the box and he collects the shiny paper-wrapper. Mm, mm, mm. My present is in the box. Everyone knows that except that little boy. In the box. In the box. Now, open it!” she ordered, impatiently.
So he did. And stared in wonder at what he was looking at. And stared some more, and then some more. The secret trips to the mulberry patch. The many hours behind the closed door of the loom-room. This was more than beautiful. This was . . . oh! This was magnificent.
“Well?” she shrieked. “What are you waiting for? Pick it up. It will not bite you. Take it out. Oh, look at him. Pretending to be a statue again. It’s not going to work this time, little boy. Enough of that, already. Do you like it? Hmm? Yes? Good. Now, put it on and let us take a look at you. Hmm? Come, come. We are, all of us, dying to see how it looks on you.” She put her fists on her hips, looked around, pursed her lips, slit her eyes. “Aren’t we?” she shouted.
For the next two minutes Hopsy heard the commotion of the different tunes of each animal, and hoofs and feet and paws pounded the ground, while Pheope nodded approvingly.
“That’s enough,” she shouted at them at last. They stopped their beastly singing and pounding and closed the circle a bit tighter around the little boy. Hopsy was motionless, speechless, paralyzed. Staring, staring.
“All right, all right. I guess I have to do it for you,” Pheope said. She stepped next to him with that good-evil mixed smile on her face, bent over the box, and rose up holding a cape in her hands. Ceremoniously, she turned around herself so everyone could see her present. “Up with your hands,” she said looking now at the stunned little boy.
He raised his hands above his head. He couldn’t remember how, but he did it. He felt the fine silk touching his fingertips, his hands, his arms, his face, Pheope kissed his reemerging forehead. The midnight blue silk cape hugged his body. A perfect fit. The bright golden stars shimmered and twinkled, and there it was a word woven in dazzling colors into the Milky Way – his friend’s name. Peace.
“So, how do you like it?” Pheope repeated, pacing around him. “As you grow tall, big, and strong, this present of mine which I made with these two hands, mind you, hmm, will grow also to fit you as perfectly as it does right now. It’s a magical cape. Do you understand?”
Hopsy nodded more than once. What else could he say? All the gang stared at him with awe and in a compete silence. They were stunned as much as he.
The old man rushed into his workshop and came out holding a stick, a head taller than the little boy. The intricate carving went round and round from the base of the stick all the way up to the top, and on the little ball at the very top, there it was again, carved into the wood. The name of his friend, Peace.
“Use them wisely,” Zoticus said. “Do not abuse either one.”
“Speak with your heart,” Pheope said . “Teach the word to the world. Yes?”
“I promise! I do!” he vowed. “I hope,” he continued, “that you, all of you, will come and see my first magical show at my little village. I want you to meet my mother and father, if he is back, I hope, from his long trip, and also meet all the villagers.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world. Would we, my dearest, Pheope?” Zoticus asked.
“Of course not, you old fool,” Pheope said. “Have you lost your senses?”  She paused. “Mm, mm, mm,” she muttered shaking her head left and right. “Poor thing. He’s losing his wits. Of course we’ll be there, my precious. That goes without saying. Does it not?
Hopsy thought wisely, and said nothing. He just looked at her affectionately.
“No answer?” she said, pointing her finger at him for added emphasis. “Speak up. Come out with your answer to my question. Out with it.”
Hopsy looked at her, stared at her pointing finger at him, then looked at Zoticus. Zoticus nodded once.
“We are waiting!” Pheope said and stamped her foot on the ground.
“Yes. It does,” Hopewatch said.
“Then why ask? My tongue is growing hair from repeating over and over not to ask silly questions and you keep doing it again and again. Why? Hmm? Don’t answer that.”  She stopped him by raising her open palm. “Just make sure that you don’t ask stupid questions when you already know the answers. Yes?”
“Oh, Mother. Give the little boy some slack now and then. Will you?” implored Zoticus.
Pheope cast an open palm and a hasty glance at Zoticus.  “I’m still waiting, little boy,” she said intently.
“Yes!” said Hopewatch, and tried very hard not to smile or giggle.
“And of course your father, Theo, will be there, too,” she said now. Her piercing eyes stared at Zoticus. “Right?” she asked him.
“Yes, my dearest,” Zoticus agreed, and said no more.
“All right then,” Pheope said, smiling now. “Let us go and have our dinner.”





FOURTEEN


Early in the morning, Regal, as always, woke them up on time. After a good breakfast, Hopewatch, Pheope, and Zoticus said their farewell. The animals he’d grown  to know and love, stood in a line to say their goodbyes too.
Up on the path of the mountainside the little boy went with his backpack on his back, presents and food packed nicely in it, water canteen filled with fresh water from the Creek, his tall stick in his hand, and Mr. Keen strode by his side to keep him company on the way to his little village. At the big plateau, they sat down to take a short break, and admired the beauty of Oasis below. At sun down they made camp at the bottom of the mountain, right after the bridge over the roaring river. The next day they stopped at the crossroads of the twelve different paths. The gleaming signs of Peace dazzled brilliantly in the setting sun.
“Keen,” Hopsy said, “would you like to spend the night with my friend, Peace?”
Keen wagged his tail happily. “Woof,” he barked.
The little boy fixed his hair with the back of his hand, brushed off the dust from his clothes, pet Keen’s ears and head, put a big smile on his face, and knocked on the arched door. Immediately, the door opened wide as though she knew he’d be knocking on her door.
“Oh, such a beautiful surprise, my dear friend, Hopewatch. And, oh!  Look at you. How handsome you look,” she said and hugged him tightly in her bosom. Keen barked and flapped his tail, as if to say, “Hey you two. What about me?”
“And who is your new friend?” Peace asked caressing with her fingers the smooth hair of the dog.
“This is Mr. Keen,” Hopewatch said . “Keen say hello to my friend, Peace.”
“Woof,” Keen barked, and extended his paw to Peace.
“Come on in. Come on in,” said Peace after the warm paw-hand handshake.
After a good shower and a delicious meal, Hopsy told Peace about Snoozz, Regal, Atlas, Mother hen and her yellow babies, Scoop and Horn; the incident with Megalos and the two armed young boys. He told her how Snoozz, Regal, and Keen had rescued the situation; about Henrietta, Phi Nhung, Joe, Lilly, and Tito; the magic he had learned from Zoticus and Pheope, and all the wonderful presents he had received from all his new friends. It was very late when they went to sleep.
“Goodnight, my little friend,” said Peace as she tucked him in his bed. “You are a very special little boy. Keen, would you take good care of him?”
The dog barked once, jumped on the bed, and stretched his body on the little boy’s feet. Peace pet the dog behind his ears, and kissed the little boy’s forehead and cheeks. “Goodnight to both of you,” she whispered softly, and closed the door. The little boy smiled dreamily, and with the same smile on his face, sleep took him in its restful arms.
Keen woke him up early in the morning. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, and the birds sang their songs to the awakening Earth. A few cotton-like clouds lazily cruised between earth and heavens. The sail boats of the sky, the boy thought as he stared at them. That thought made him remember his father. He wished that his father would be back home when he and Keen arrived at his small village within the next two days.
“I have one more present for you,” Peace said to Hopewatch. She took the “The Art of Peace, Volume One, 2000 A.D.” and put it in his hands. “I know,” she continued, “that you already know the painful differences in the pages of the two books. In the first one, we look at a world that used to be. Opening the pages of the last book, we see the world as it is now. This book contains all the events of the world and all acts of humanity of the past one-hundred years. The one I am preparing now, it will show the world as it evolves from day to day, from month to month, and from year to year, for the next one-hundred years. I certainly hope that this century will be less painful than the last. I surely hope that humans will take off their rose-shaded-blindfolds and stare at the world as it is, with their senses and their instinct of survival as species, and not through the millions and millions of worthless opinions printed in books.”
“I know,” Hopsy said in a sad tone. “I have seen all the pages in that book.”
“Lots and lots of people, as we speak, dedicated people, believers of a harmonious co-existence for the millions upon millions of life forms and things, and humans as well, who made Mother Earth their home, are spreading my name around the world. But lots and lots, is not good enough, is it?”
“No!” said Hopewatch, “we need them all. Young and old, men and women, teachers and preachers, writers and readers, poor and rich, one and all should befriend  my beautiful friend, Peace.”
They hugged and kissed, said their farewells, and Keen and Hopewatch trailed down the path to the little boy’s village. Keen pawed on next to his friend, wiggled his tail, but somehow he didn’t seemed to be happy.
Hopsy looked at Keen. What was Keen thinking?  If Hopsy were a dog, he’d most likely think, “Why didn’t Hopewatch invite Peace to his village to attend his first show? Why humans are not like dogs? A friend is a friend, and a friend is a friend for ever. No? Of course, yes.”
A big smile appeared on Hopsy’s face. He hugged the dog and whispered into his ear.
“Oh, my friend, Keen. Don’t you worry. She’ll be there. Trust me she will.”
When the sun was in the middle of the sky, they sat under a tree, ate their lunch, drank water from the canteen, and then walked and walked until the sun was about to fall down behind the tall, gray mountains. Keen found a nice place for them to spend the night. Side by side they went to sleep by the campfire.
“Soon enough,” said the little boy while eating their breakfast, “we shall see my little village. We shall see it from the top of that hill over there, not the first one, but the second.”
Down the mountain they went, and up they climbed on the first hill. Down and up hill they went again and then there they were on the top of the last one. They sat under the same tree where Hopewatch had admired his little village in the beginning of his journey. He put his stick on the top of the grass and placed his backpack next to his stick. Then he opened the flap of his backpack and took out the leftover bread.
“Here, my friend Keen. You eat the whole thing,” Hopsy said. “Don’t you look at me like that. Don’t you see how excited I am? I can’t eat a bite. Oh, Keen. You’ll love my mom, and dad, and I know, they’ll love you right back.”
Suddenly, both Keen and Hopewatch turned their heads and stared at the same spot beyond the hill. At first what they sensed was not a sound to hear or something to see, but just an instinct. An instinct that someone or something was behind the hill. The same instinct told them also that there was nothing to be afraid of. Zoticus was right in telling him over and over again, “Use your senses, use your senses. Trust your senses. They will never betray you.” So they relaxed. Hopsy took his stick in his hand, and they waited silently for that something to appear before their senses.
At first they heard the “ding-dong, ding-dong,” of a bell, then they saw a little girl holding a steering stick, followed by a silvery haired wolf, then many sheep and goats.
“It’s Lilly,” said the little boy, “with her wolf, Buster, her sheep and goats”
“Hopsy,” yelled Lilly jumping up and down, “you are back!”
Keen and Buster stared at one another for a second and they embarked chasing each other, playing and renewing their friendship all over again.
“Oh, Hopsy. You look so handsome!” Lily said when she was next to him.
“And you as beautiful as day lilies in bright sunlight.”
She blushed. “Buster!” she yelled at her wolf. “Come here!” Buster stopped his game with Keen, turned his head, and looked at Lilly, as if saying, “Right now?”
“Yes, right now,” said Lilly in a much quieter tone, while tapping her thigh with her hand.
Buster licked Keen’s face, as if to say, “Sorry pal, I’ve got to go,” turned around, and with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, approached Lilly. She hugged him with both hands and whispered something into Buster’s ear. Hopewatch heard the whispered words. “Mind the sheep and the goats, round them up, and bring them home safely.”

Lilly ran like a graceful gazelle down the hill to announce the good news to the villagers and to receive her coin, or many coins, she hoped, from Hopsy’s mother and father. The bearer of good news always received money and gifts from the relatives of the returning traveler. It was a tradition. Panting and out of breath, Lilly knocked on the door and knocked again. Narkiz and Theo came to the door and looked at the panting Lilly.
“What is it Lilly?” asked Narkiz with a big smile. “You look like you have seen a ghost.”
Lilly took a long breath. “He is here,” she exhaled the words. “He is here!”
Narkiz and Theo stood under the door frame as if hit by lightning. “Hopsy?” said Narkiz finally, holding her face in her palms, while Theo held her body to prevent her from collapsing on the ground.
“Yes!” Lilly said, “Hopsy is back. I ran like the wind to tell you the good news.”
Narkiz kissed Lilly’s sweaty cheeks, went in the house, and returned holding a big woven basket that was full with colorful, shining paper-wrapped sweet candies, and a glass of lemonade.
“Here,” Narkiz said, “drink your lemonade and take as many candies you can carry in the pockets of that pretty dress of yours.”
Lilly took the sweating glass with the lemonade in her two hands, and took a sip. “Mmm! It tastes so good,” she said, and drained the glass empty. She wiped her wet lemonade tasting lips, first with her tongue, and then with the back of her hands. Now her eyes stared at those colorful candies in the basket, thinking how many of them she could stuff in her pockets. Using both hands, Lily took handful after handful of the delicious looking candies, and filled her pockets full and fat, and all the while thinking, Where is my coin for my good news about Hopsy?
Theo reached in his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, opened it, and took out a crisp paper bill and handed it to Lilly. Lilly’s eyes opened wide. She’d never seen such a paper bill in her whole life. She could see the number, 50, written on its four corners. Was this bill hers to keep for her good news? Could she buy a brand new, pretty dress with that bill? And new shoes? And a new comb to brush her long, red hair? And maybe some earrings, too, so she can look pretty when Hopsy saw her again? She had loved the feebleminded expression on his face when she was dressed in her Japanese kimono.
“This is for you, Lilly,” Theo said to the awe stricken girl, “for the wonderful, happy news you brought into this house.” Lilly stared at the paper bill and took it with both hands. Theo put his hand into his front pocket now, and piled many coins in her cupped hands. “Now, Lilly,” he resumed, “go and knock on every door in the village, spread your wonderful news to all of them, and tell them to gather on the courtyard of  the coffee shop.  I am offering drinks and sweets to everyone.
“Here, Lilly,” Narkiz said with a huge smile, “have the whole basket.”
Lilly moved her full of coins hands back and forth not knowing what to do first. Drop the coins and the paper bill on the ground? No! Not that.  She would never do such a thing. Put her coins in her pockets? No! Not that either. Her pockets were filled with candies. Give her coins to Narkiz and take the basket from her? No! Not that also. Narkiz’s hands were already holding the more than half-full basket. So, Lilly kept moving her hands back and forth like a wired, witless toy. Way too much, she mused, and way too fast for a little girl to think and handle them all at once in her bewildered mind.
Theo stared at her, chuckled good-heartedly enjoying Lilly’s perplexed excitement. When his chuckling became only a smile, he said softly. “Lilly, why don’t you give me the coins and the paper bill, take the basket from Narkiz, put all the candies from your pockets back in the basket, then put your coins and the paper bill in your pockets. Yes?”
“Yes. Thank you, Theo,” Lilly said shyly, and did exactly that. Then with her basket full of candies in one hand, coins in her pockets, and holding tight the paper bill in her other hand, and hoping she might collect more coins, off she went to spread the good news to everyone in the village.

In the meantime, Keen helped Buster to gather the sheep and goats and to safely usher them into their harboring shelter. Lilly’s father and mother lived in a small house, a stone-throw away from the animal shelter.
“One hand washes the other and both wash the face,” Lily’s father had said more than once  to Lilly and Hopsy. “We take care of our goats and sheep, and in turn, they are taking care of us. We do barely nothing and they give us so much. Yes?”
“Yes, Father,” Lilly said politely, and Hopsy had thought of wool, warm jackets, socks, and overcoats for the cold winter, and floor coverings, cheese, butter, milk, and yogurt, and many other things.
Lilly’s father was, for sure, a wise man, Hopsy was thinking as he went on the downward-sloping hill.
When Hopewatch reached the small river, he sat on the riverbank, washed his hands and face, and combed his hair. Then, he fixed his green scarf on his shoulders, one end of it dangling in front of him, the other on his back, and holding his magical stick, he walked toward his village to see his friends, the priest, the teacher, his villagers, his mother and his father, and . . . and Lilly.
He stepped on the flagstone streets of his village and wondered, Where is everyone? as he looked at the empty streets. There were no children running or playing in the streets, no dogs barking their welcome, no cats crossing the little streets, no curious faces behind curtained windows or half-open doors. Where were they? Then it dawned on him. Now he could see the whole thing clearly in his mid’s eye.
Lilly running down the hill, knocking on his mother’s door, taking her coin for her good news, and his father, yes, he knew now his father was here, invited all the villagers in the courtyard of the coffee shop for the traditional treat of the good news; the homecoming of his son.
And he was right. As he turned the corner of the white painted house, just before the coffee shop, he saw some of the villagers sitting in their chairs around tables, some standing, some holding their drinks, others whispering to each other, smiling, waiting. Three of them parted and stood in front of the other villagers. The priest, his mother – oh! how beautiful she looked in her long blue dress – his tall, handsome father dressed in his captain’s hat and charcoal-gray suit, and next to him, his friend Tito stood smiling in his Marine uniform.
“Papa, you’re here,” he whispered. Though he wanted to shout the words right out, as loud as he could, and run into his strong arms, and shower his mother’s face with kisses, he had to hold back those overwhelming emotions. First he had to show his respect to the priest.
Everyone now were standing on their feet, looking at Hopewatch as he walked in front of the priest. The little boy kissed the priest’s hand and the priest said, “Bless you, my son.”
“Thank you, Father,” Hopsy said, respectfully.
With tears in her eyes, Narkiz knelt in front of Hopsy. Lovingly, she opened her arms to receive her little one to her bosom. “Come,” she whispered, “come my precious.” She held him tightly in her arms and showered his face with her kisses. “My handsome,” she murmured repeatedly, and the happy tears rolled down her face.
Sensitive hearts sniffed their noses, shook their heads, wiped some tears, and said, “Mm, mm, mm, how nice! How nice!”
“Papa!” said the little boy as he extended his hands to his father. His father took his stretched hands, and with a swift move he lifted him up, and the little boy landed on his father’s chest. Tightly, they held each other for some time; his father’s hands around him, his, around his father’s neck.
“Put him down on the top of the table,” the teacher shouted, “so we can see him also.”
Standing on the top of the table, Hopewatch turned around and waved his hands to his villagers for their warm welcome. People shouted and whistled, dogs barked, and the teacher raised his hand to hush their shouting.
“Hopewatch,” the teacher said, “first, and I speak for everyone here, welcome. Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” Hopsy said. “It’s nice to be back.”
“Having said that,” the teacher resumed, “when will we have the pleasure to observe your magical show, your magic tricks?”
“I know not of magic tricks,” Hopsy said in a somber voice.
Lilly looked at him, and bit her lip. “No magic tricks? But Hopsy, I’ve seen you do it,” she uttered in a whimsical murmur.
“Hush, Lilly,” Tito said. “He knows what he’s saying.”
Everyone looked stunned, petrified, as though asking themselves, “What has he been doing for the past year?”
“No!” Hopsy resumed, “I know no tricks. What I’ve learned, what I know,” everyone seemed to be hanging on the tip of the little boy’s lips to listen to what he had to say next, “is magic. Magic that you will absorb with your senses. Magic that will reach deep down in your hearts and souls, and will make you laugh and smile with tremendous joy. I have no tricks; only magic.”
Lilly looked at Hopewatch with her wet eyes.
“When? When?” asked the priest raising his cane above his head.
“Sunday. Right after your sermon, Father,” said Hopewatch.
“That gives us three days to build the stage,” the carpenter said, and took a bite from his chocolate dessert.
“I don’t need a stage,” Hopsy said. “The soil and the grass on the Main Square will do just fine.”
“All right then,” said the priest. “That settles that. Sunday in the Main Square, after Church, mind you,” he stressed, “and don’t forget to bring chairs and benches if you don’t want to sit on the dusty ground.” People laughed at his little joke. “Now,” he resumed, “that we all have seen and welcomed our Hopsy back to our village and to his family, let us all go to our homes, so Hopsy’s mother and father can enjoy the happy return of their son.”
“Capella,” Theo said. “One more round of drinks and sweets for everyone.” Then facing the villagers, he said, “I’d like to thank you all for the very warm welcome you shared with Narkiz and I, in welcoming our son, Hopewatch.
“No, Theo,” Tito said, and put a hand on Theo’s shoulder. “It’s my turn to buy.”
Theo nodded. “Thanks, Tito.”
Narkiz and Theo helped their son to the ground, and holding hands, they walked to their home. After a good shower and a good meal, they sat on the sunny porch and talked for a long time. Hopewatch told them about his new friends, about the caring Pheope, and the Wise Magician, Zoticus, and how Tito had saved his life.
Later on, he heard the barking of his friend, Keen. He could recognize it anywhere. He introduced Keen to his parents, and while Keen ate his food, he told them how special a dog Keen was.
On Friday, he walked though the streets of his village, smiled, shook hands, said, “Hello,” to his villagers, and sat at the coffee shop drinking fresh lemonade with his friends. Keen with his tongue hanging out of his half-open mouth, was resting under the shade of Hopsy’s chair. And Tito was here and there at the same time, it seemed.
The next day, Saturday, he took a long walk with Keen by his side. He was thinking about what he should do and what magic he should perform in front of his villagers. Should he show them the truth no matter how beautiful or ugly, or devastating it may be? How would his innocent villagers react to it? Could he show them only the fun parts of the magic and forget the horror and the despair of millions and millions of desperate peoples? Could he just forget or leave untouched the inhumane misery of the unfortunate? Could he do it? Could he lie to them  when he already knew that it would be a lie?
Words, words, and millions of books. Fancy, beautiful words. Words that do not touch the human agonizing, wounded spirit. Where are the emotions; the dreadful, painful emotions in those words? Why do they conceal them in beautiful slogans and dry, meaningless words? Why don’t the grownups tell the truth to their young ones? Are they ashamed by their own actions? Or, have they forgiven themselves and forgotten what they’ve done? Don’t they know that we, the children, have the right to know? The right to learn? The right not to repeat their shameful actions? Do they know that by the time we, the children, grow up, we will become conditioned just like them? Stone, uncaring hearts, selfish, hurtful to others, fearful of our own shadows, stripped of our free will to even feel our own emotions? Is this my world or theirs?
When does one say, No more? No more big lies to little children? No more massive killing? No more torturing? No more burning of people for any cause, no matter how great or profound a stupid word sounds? How could the wisdom of humanity create such horror in the twentieth century? Page after page, horror after horror, death after death. It seems the more we learn, the more sophisticated and the more technologically advanced we become, the more we destroy, the more we kill, the more mindless, apathetic, and uncaring we become. Is this the world you are preparing for us kids? Your kids?
Oh, yes! We know you love us. We know you like to protect us. From what? From ourselves? Oh, no! You’re only protecting your own guilty selves by not telling us the truth. It’s horrible. It’s horrible to have Fathers and Mothers and Grandparents, and teachers, and smart people write books and books and books,  look into the innocent eyes of their child, and, lie, lie, lie.
Hopsy sat down and with tears running down on his cheeks, pounded his little fists on the ground. Keen’s soft murmur sounded as if crying for . . . what? The boy didn’t tell him, and Keen didn’t ask. He just went, “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” knowing that his friend, Hopewatch, was in pain. That alone was good enough reason to share his friend’s anguish.
Tito came out from his hiding and sat next to Hopsy.
“Courage, son,” he said in an encouraging tone, and said no more.
At nightfall, Hopewatch and Keen sneaked into the house, locked the bedroom door, and climbed onto the bed. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Not even to his parents. Tomorrow, Sunday. The big day. The unveiling of the real truth through the pages of The Art of Peace, Volume One, 4000 B.C. and 2000 A.D. He closed his eyes. He fell asleep on the top of his own tears.




FIFTEEN


Dressed in their clean Sunday clothes, the villagers gathered in the church. Before the priest had the chance to say his last, “Amen,” everyone walked out of the church, formed little groups, and speedily moved toward the Main Square. They couldn’t wait to see the “Magic.” They all remembered Hopsy’s words. “No magical tricks, but only Magic.” Could he do that? How? How can anyone do magic without tricks? Is it possible? No one could do that. Not even the priest.  Oh! They had to see this magic show. They definitely had to. So, some whispered to each other, some of them laughed and shouted, some doubted, but they kept walking toward the Main Square.
“You go on,”  Hopsy said to his parents after church. “I’ll see you at the Main Square in a little bit.”
By the time his parents turned the nearest corner, Tito was standing next to the  boy.  His eye stared at Hopsy as they stood wordlessly across from one another.
“What’s the matter, Hopsy? Are you okay?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Sophron. It’s just something in my mind that I have to solve by myself.”
“Yes, Hopsy. I understand. Some things we have to solve on our own. I know the feeling, son. Sometimes, we have to throw ourselves into the fire to save our friends. We live with our injuries and pain and anger and later on we realize, finally, thanks to a snake bite, how beautiful life can be. You look worse than I do. I wish that I was a snake to bite your leg and bring you back to liking yourself more than you do right now.”
“If you only knew, Mr. Sophron.”
“Maybe I do, Hopsy, and maybe I don’t. It doesn’t matter what I know or think. Go on, son. Think it over. I know you’ll have your answers soon enough, and I also know that you’ll do the right thing. I’ve seen what you can do and I liked it. I’ll be sitting in the front row waiting for the magic. I’ll see you then, eh.”
“Thank you,” Hopsy said staring at Tito’s back as he walked slowly toward the Main Square with his shoulders hunched, and his head down.

With Keen trailing by his side, Hopsy walked to his home. He put the well prepared backpack on his back, the red scarf on his shoulders, and holding his stick, he walked toward the Main Square. No more thinking. No more pondering. No more lies. Enough of that. He knew exactly what he had to do.
Everyone was there sitting in their chairs and on the long benches. The children sat down on the packed soil in front of the big U-shaped grounds. In the center of the first row, there were two empty seats. Next to them, to his right, he saw the priest and the teacher, his  father, mother, and then Tito.  On the other side of the two empty seats, he saw Lilly and Phi Nhung, then Lilly’s parents, and after them the smiling faces of Henrietta and Joe. They had said, they wouldn’t miss his show even if that day Joe’s Toy Factory caught on fire.
Hopsy stepped in the middle of the stage, took a few steps to his right, and put his backpack on the top of the folding table. How nice his villagers looked, dressed up in their Sunday clothes. Especially Lilly in her brand new, long, red dress, her white sandals, shining red hair, and her dangling earrings. Keen sat on his hind legs under the table and stared at the villagers too. He thought that Keen was smiling at them.
The priest rose up from his chair to bless this special occasion. The villagers rose, too, and bowed their heads. When the blessing was over, people shouted, “Hopsy, Hopsy, Hopsy,” clapped their hands, sat down, and silently waited for the show to begin. Narkiz and Theo held hands and looked at their son with pride. Tito looked like a general in his uniform. The show was on its way.
Hopewatch set his stick and scarf on the table, opened his backpack, took out his silk robe and put it on. The fine fabric trickled down his body and touched the ground.
“Oh! Ah!” the villagers went as they stared at his magnificent cape.
Then he took out the two books, the little presents from his four-legged friends, his water canteen, and placed them on the table. When the preparation was over, he took his stick in his right hand.
Everyone was excited and restless, except an old couple, the carpenter and his wife, who sat side by side in the very last row, and munched red cherries from a woven basket.
“I’d like to start,” Hopsy said , “by introducing you to my friends, my special wise teachers, and to my other friends as well.”
The villagers stared at each other for some time, then all the eyes turned and stared at Hopewatch. “Who?” someone asked looking around. There were only the villagers and everyone knew every one else. There was no one there to be introduced to them.
“Where are they?” Leo laughed mockingly. “Where?”
“There!” Hopsy said, as he pointed his stick at the end of the empty road.
Bodies moved, heads turned to their left, eyes glanced over the empty little street, heads turned back, lips moved murmuring, and eyes stared at the boy again.
“Where? Who? No one is there,” someone shouted, and giggled.
“Yeah,” Leo said, and nudged an elbow onto the boy next to him, “where are they, Hopsy? They must be invisible ghosts or something.”
Ignoring Leo’s remarks, “There!” Hopsy said again, still pointing his stick on the end of the same street.
Keen barked once, and started running on the stone-paved street. All eyes followed Keen. And there they were. A tall, skinny, bearded old man, holding a long stick, and an old lady seated sideways on the saddle of a gray donkey, holding a cat in her arms. When they reached the Main Square, the old man helped his companion down. They took a few steps forward on the U-shaped opening and waited politely to be introduced.  The donkey moved his ears, showed his yellow teeth to the villagers, and off he went to search for some green grass.
“This is my teacher, my mentor, my friend. The Wise Magician, Zoticus,” Hopsy said with pride, and bowed his head before him.
The villagers stood up on their feet, and clapped their hands. Zoticus bowed his head to the villagers in respect, and stepped aside.
“And this,” Hopsy continued, “is his wife, Pheope.” A big blunder on my part, he thought right after he’d said it. Now it was too late. So, he readied himself for what was coming to him.
Pheope took a step forward, held the cat in one arm, placed the other on her hip, knitted her brows, and stared at the little boy. “That’s it? That’s all I get?” She started yelling, before anyone could do or say anything. “After all that I’ve done for you – the cooking, the washing, the ironing, the fresh bread baking. The many, many hours I have spent in my loom-room weaving that amazing looking cape of yours, tucking you in your bed every night, night after night, kissing that . . .  that face of yours right before our goodnights, holding you in my arms when in pain, teaching you not to talk, talk, talk, and ask stupid questions when you know the answers, and . . . and . . . and that’s all I get is, “His wife, Pheope?” Hmm? Speak up, little boy. I can’t hear you. Speak up!”
The children eyed her in awe. Silent smiles appeared on the villagers lips. Some threw their heads between their legs, some into their hands, and yet others firmly placed their hand on their lips to prevent the roaring laughter from emerging out of their system.
“Yeah, tell him, tell him,” old lady Zimmermann shouted now. “We work our hands to the bone and after ten children what do I get? I’m asking you, what? And here is, His wife.  Whoopee! Now we can lay on our backs and die, smiling and happy. Not fair. Not fair at all.” She stood on her feet, clapped her hands, looked around. People stared at her, her old man mumbled in embarrassment and tried to pull her down by her arm, and when she finally realized that she was the only one clapping or standing, she sat back in her chair.
“Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, one and all.” Hopewatch started all over again his new introduction. “Let me have your undivided attention. The lady before you, this amazingly charming lady, this thoughtful and wise lady, whom I admire and respect with all my heart, whom . . . ”
“Mm-hm, mm-hm,” Pheope repeated nodding.
“ . . . whom I’ll never forget as long as I live or could ever repay her efforts to my education, and her constant affections for my welfare. This astonishing lady’s name is, Mrs. Pheope”
“Hmm,” she said, shifting her body from one leg to the other. “That was a bit better. Yes?” She handed the cat to Zoticus, approached the boy, knelt down, embraced him in her arms, “How handsome you are!” she whispered into his ear, kissed his temples, stood up, her hand moved and messed his hair, combed it back with her fingers, and stepped back next to Zoticus.
When the pandemonium that followed calmed down a bit, Zoticus and Pheope stepped to the two empty chairs and sat down. Pheope sat next to Lilly, and Zoticus next to priest. Then Hopsy tapped his stick three times on the top of the table. Silence fell.
“Next,” Hopsy said, “I would like to introduce you to the rest of my friends.” He took a single piece from each little bag, and placed them orderly on the ground.
“What is he doing?” Lilly asked Pheope.
“Hold your horses, little girl. Rush, rush, rush.  What is the big rush? I don’t see anyone chasing you. Do you? No? So wait. Hmm? You’ll see. Yes?” Pheope said holding Lilly’s hand. Lilly said nothing, but she held onto Pheope’s wrinkled, gentle hand.
Hopsy tapped the ground three times with his stick. “Abbra Ca-adabbra! Show me the Magic!” he said.
The villagers couldn’t believe their eyesight. They rubbed their eyes, pinched one another just to make sure they were not dreaming, and stared at the U-shaped grounds with open mouths. Animals, animals, animals. There they were, one after the other, as though Mother Earth was giving birth to her children in front of the astounded villagers. And as if all this was not enough, they heard a loud, angry screeching, “Meow.” They stared at the cat as she flew through the air from Pheope’s lap and landed between the long ears of the donkey.
“Did you see that?” shouted Leo. “The donkey was standing upright and staring in my eyes. I swear it.”
“You’re freaking me out, Leo,” said the boy next to him.
“I swear–”
“Shut up, Leo,” Arlene stopped him.
“Sisters. Who needs them? They’re such a pain in the neck,” Leo said, and shut his mouth.
Looking at Hopsy, Pheope smiled with joy. “That’s by boy. That’s by boy,” she mumbled.
“You all know Mr. Keen,” said the boy, as he started his introduction pointing to each animal with his stick. “Next we have Mr. Regal, the Mother hen with her yellow little babies, then our pig, Mr. Scoop, and Mr. Horn. Of course you already know the strong donkey, Mr. Atlas. And last but not least, there she is, Ms. Snoozz.”
Snoozz hissed at the little boy, jumped on the ground, and with a single leap, landed in Pheope’s lap. For a second or two she kept her eyes half-open as if trying to decide if she should go to sleep or not, then shut her eyelids, purred, and snoozed away.
Hopsy whispered something in Scoop’s ear. The pig went “oink, oink,” wiggled his  cork-screw-like tail, moved his chunky legs, and when he reached the very end of the Main Square, he dug a hole next to the fence with the his long nose. The villagers watched, wondered, but said nothing.
“Keen you know what to do,” the boy said. One after the other, the animals followed Keen off the stage.
“More, more, more,” the villagers yelled cheerfully. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet on the ground, as they watched Hopsy walk to the cherry-eating old couple.
“Can I have a cherry?” Hopsy asked the old lady.
“Sonny, you can have the whole blessed basket,” she said.
“I need no more that one to make thousands,” Hopsy said, and holding a red cherry, he returned to the stage for his next magic. He took his canteen and stepped next to the pig. “You’ve done well, my friend,” he said to the pig. “Thank you. Go now and join the others.” The pig oinked away waggling his tail. Hopsy filled the hole with water, placed the cherry down in the hole, covered it over with the soft soil, washed his hands, and poured some more water on it.
Now, he stood tall and looked at his villagers. He tapped the wet soil three times with his stick. “Abbra Ca-adabbra! Show me the magic!” he said, and raised his stick high into the sky.
The top of the wet soil moved, cracked, a green shoot shot itself through the crack, its stem grew tall, made a small tree trunk, branches grew and grew, and pretty soon it turned itself to a big, blossoming, cherry tree. Bees and butterflies flew over the tree, touched the reddish-pink flowers, and flew away. The flowers were changing now to tiny green buds, the buds to large yellow fruits, and within minutes, everyone was staring at the cherry tree with its hundreds and hundreds of delicious, red cherries.
This time the “AHHs !” and “OHHs!” lasted for a long time. The kids swarmed over to the cherry tree, and with handfuls of cherries, they passed them out to the villagers. Laughing and cheering they yelled, “More, more, more. Show us more magic!”
“A miracle,” said the priest, spat a cherry seed onto his shoe, and crossed himself.
Everyone grew silent when Hopewatch took one of the books in his hands and raised it in front of him for everyone to see.
“This book,” Hopsy said, “is six-thousand-years old. First I will show you how and what the earth was like in page 45.08.06 of this book, and then I will show you the same page in the other book, which is dated 2000 A.D. I don’t have to tell you more than that, because you’ll soon know why. Empty your minds. Open your senses and your emotions to absorb and feel the magic. Free yourselves from all that you know, and you shall understand.”
Zoticus stood tall on his feet. “Hopewatch!” he said in his thunderous voice. “Are you sure that you want the children to see 45.08.06 of the second book, or any other page, for that matter, in that book?”
“Yes, I do!” Hopsy said respectfully but firmly. “Everyone declares that children are the future of the world. If that’s true, then, if anyone should see and feel the same page of the twentieth century, it should be all the children of the world. Let us kids see our world with our senses, the world of today, as it is. Let us feel the whole truth, and not the half-truths that are carefully prepared by story tale tellers and unwise men who masterfully covered up their wrong doings from us kids with glorious words to excuse their horrible deeds, and by coloring them with intellectual make-believe lies. If they are ashamed of what they’ve done, they should have not done it in the first place.
“Pheope taught me this: “If you already know the answer, why ask the question?” The world is shaking, the Earth is crumbling, crying, dying, falling from under our feet. People are terrified about how their children’s tomorrow will be with the hundreds and thousands of dawning horrors, yet, frightfully they resume their old ways, when we, all of us, should stand up on our trembling feet and choose another way; a way that is better. I don’t like the world they prepared for me to enter; the world they’re giving me. I want a better one, and a much better one than mine for my children.”
“All right then,” Zoticus said, softly, and sat down.
“That’s my precious,” Pheope said holding Lilly’s hand a bit tighter.
“I think he is my precious, too,” Lilly said shyly, and blushed.
“What? Did you say, ‘I think?’ Is that it? No, little Lilly, don’t think. Stop thinking. Open your heart. Let your heart speak. Hmm?”
“Yes!” Lilly said, and said no more.
Hopsy passed both books around, so the villagers could have a good look at their unwritten, blank pages. Then he took the 4000 B.C. book and put it on the dusty grounds in the middle of the stage.
“Free your minds, unlock your hearts, open your senses, feel the Magic,” Hopsy said, and tapped the book three times with his stick. Then he raised his stick high above his head, as though wanting to touch the skies and the bright sun above. “Abbra Ca-adabbra! Show me the magic!” he said softly. His stick touched the top of the book. He took the book in his hands, and holding it, he turned slowly on his heel for all to see page 45.08.06.
Oh, sublime silence! Amazing, graceful silence. You, who can feel and understand  the millions upon millions of beautiful words, but can utter none, the little boy thought as he stared into the bewildered eyes of children, men and women, old and young. Their senses were absorbing hungrily the magic, as if all knowledge was suddenly erased from their minds, as if they were staring at their world for the first time in their entire lives. Silently, they were looking, listening, touching, smelling, and tasting the evolving magic of a world they had not seen before.
Hopewatch closed the book. Not an, ”Ahh!” Not an, “Ohh!” Just sublime silence.
“Miracle!” uttered the priest again.
“The miracle that was,” said the teacher somberly.
“Prepare yourselves,” cried the little boy, “to see the world in which we now live and breath. The world that powerful and unwise men are preparing for your children, and for the children of your children. This world you are about to see is not colored, not defused, nor does it have a single word to alter it in any way, shape or form. It’s the world of the ugly, nasty, hideous, despicable; the unedited wisdom of mankind. Forgive me for the horror and the anguish you’ll feel in your hearts and in your souls, but we have to see the truth. In this book, page after page, there is nothing but horror. One page worse than the other. And I have seen them all.”
With tears running down his face, sobbing and weeping like a wounded animal, that couldn’t escape, nor heal his injured wounds, Hopsy took the 2,000 A.D. book in his hands.
“No! No! No, my precious,” wailed Narkiz, and ran next to him. She hugged and held him tightly in her arms. “No, Hopsy, no. Don’t do it, my darling little boy,” she whimpered in desperate agony.
The villagers were silent. Theo stepped next to the tightly embraced mother and son.
“Narkiz!” he said affectionately, and softly touched her shoulders. “Let him do it. Let him show the world what they already know, but don’t dare to see, to recognize, and finally say, Enough is enough! Come, Narkiz. Let us take our seats, and let the boy do what he must – what we should’ve done long ago.”
Theo helped Narkiz to her feet. Then he spoke to his son. “Show us, Hopewatch. Show us the truth.”
“Oh, Papa. If you only knew, if–”
“Hopewatch,” Theo said, “I’ve seen those six islands. I know where they are, and trust me, son, I know what’s coming next.”
“No, Papa. You don’t.”
“Then it’s time for me to learn. Let me learn. Teach me. Show me, Hopewatch. Go on, son.”
Clenched to each other Narkiz and Theo ambled off and took their seats.
“Yes, son,” Zoticus said in a voice that held infinite sadness. “Show us!”
“Show us,” Tito shouted, angrily.
“Show us!” the villagers demanded eagerly.
Hopewatch wiped off his tears with the back of his hands, heaved a sigh, and though holding the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders, he put the 2000 A.D. book on the ground. The magical stick touched the book three times. “Abbra Ca-adabbra! Show me the magic of horror in 45.08.06,” he muttered.
The book opened by itself. Hopewatch put his stick onto the page and took a backward step.
For the first twenty minutes the villagers watched silently. Then they started screaming, “NO, NO, NO.” Then yelling, cursing, moaning, and crying, they gazed at  the people of one civilized nation, burning, destroying, killing, mothers and sons, old and young, indiscriminately, the people of the other civilized nation. Icy horror. Their senses saw and understood the total devastation of the innocent. Of their own innocence as well.
“Where is the glory in this page of human history?” Joe MacAllister cried. “Where?”
“Look, look!” Hopsy bellowed over their cries. “Look at that naked, barefoot lady. Look at her desperate face as she tries to reach, to touch their horror, their pain, their despair, their wailing cries. Does anyone see her? Does anyone knows who she is?”
Decisively, forcefully, Hopsy stepped on the end of his stick. The stick flew up in the air and landed in his hand. The book closed itself shut. The horrid scene was no longer. The villagers were frozen – solid stone statues. But their eyes and hearts and souls were bleeding.
“That barefoot lady,” Hopsy resumed in a somber voice, “that naked lady is your friend. She is my friend. She is our only hope. She is our hope to see that our tomorrow will be better than our yesterdays. Her name is Peace. Let us open our arms and our hearts to welcome Peace. I want you to see her, to touch her, to talk to her, to feel her magical presence.”
Stone faced, unaware of her discourse, tears staining dark-red splotches on her new dress, Lilly stood on her feet. Steadfast, as if enchanted by some magical spell, her eyes locked on Hopewatch. “Peace,” she murmured and tapped the ground with her new shoes. “Peace,” she said, and tapped her heel again. Her voice was barely more than a hum. Her voice drew strength from the very murmured word, the very shy tapping sound of her foot.
“Show us Peace! Peace! Peace!”
Soon her voice grew louder and louder, it gained strength and meaning, and her wailing and thumping became one and the same.
“Peace, Thump! Peace, Thump! Peace, Thump!”
The little boys and girls turned their heads. Angry faces, pursed lips, and with the dreadful images carved on their faces, their horror-written eyes stared at Lilly. One after the other, they rose on their feet, and followed Lilly’s single tap, single voice. Heels pounded violently on the top of the dry Earth. Thick clouds of dust flew forcefully up into the air. In a single voice, they chanted feverishly, angry, enraged by the vivid unedited truth.
“Peace! Peace! Peace!” Piercing, terrific thunder.
Suddenly the lengthy coiling tension of their trance snapped like a tiny twig in the hands of a giant. The enchantment faded, the shouting ceased, the pounding stopped. Dazed by the dreadful illuminating enlightenment of the truth, confused and frightened, they sat down.
Silence. Severe silence. Nerve-wracking silence.
The stick began to shake in the trembling hand of Hopewatch. He could hear the loud, winding breath of his villagers rushing, gasp after gasp, through their chocked up with emotions throats, as if the clean air of their village was contaminated by the sickening powers of the “Little Boy.” The minutes lapsed by in a horrible, strange, feverish silence. Little by little, the ghost-like ashen faces of his villagers turned to light-gray, to dark. Their immense rage lessened, simmered down, clenched fists rested on their thighs. They almost looked like humans again. Almost.
Hopewatch couldn’t tell who was who anymore. It seemed as though the “Little Boy,” had sucked them in its fiery mouth, fused them into a single body, and spat out of its flaming mouth look-alike sameness. Gray shadows, shimmering thin shadows, elusive. The beautiful face of his mother now seemed distorted, ugly, grotesque, swelled up with anger and grief.  Tearless.
Hopsy’s eyes swept the villagers. An icy shiver ran through the length of his being. What have I done? Look! Look at them. The priest kept his hands above his head, the end of his cane stretched high, eyes stared up into the heavens, as if asking, demanding, “Why? Why?” The teacher’s erect body and broad shoulders, were now squeezed into a thin something; something that looked like the body of a human, not long ago. Narkiz’s hands were clenched like vise-grips onto his father’s right hand, her head buried in his chest, her shoulders twitched spasmodically. His father’s fisted right hand rested on Narkiz’s shoulders, while he heaved long sighs, gustily, one after the other. Pheope’s  arm was around Lilly’s small body, and Zoticus shed silent tears down his long gray beard.
Then, there it was. Hopewatch saw it clearly. A tiny spark. A spark of Hope. They blinked their eyes, and blinked again, and each time the spark grew and grew into a fiery blaze and touched Hopewatch. Hungrily, he inhaled their Hope. Undying hope. Hope for themselves, for their children, for their children’s little children, and the children to come. Now that Hopewatch had seen the hope in their eyes it was time for them to see what they had hoped for. Peace. Just saying her name gave Hopewatch an immeasurable joy.
Eyes, demanding eyes, heart-shattered eyes, shifted up and stared at Hopewatch.
“Show us,” they muttered in a numbed voice. “Show us Peace.”
With a quiet sigh, Hopewatch’s eyes were fixed on the green scarf. In a voice barely audible, he said, “All right.”
He took a long breath, and felt the uncoiling tenseness of his body. He felt better! Peace! Magic! Hope! The words escaped through his mind’s dungeons of horror and disgust, shy at first, emerged, united. A ball of undying fire. Better speak louder.
“All right!” Hopewatch said again.  “You shall see Peace. However, I can not do this magic alone. For this magic, though it is  the easiest to recognize, nevertheless, it’s the hardest to achieve. For this magic, I must implore the helpful hand of a little girl.” Better. Much better. The little boy was back. He smiled. “Let me see who is the one who will help me with this magic. Hmm!” he said looking around.
“Me, me, me,” the little girls shouted like screeching birds.
“You!” Hopsy said looking at Lilly. “Yes! You, young lady.”
“Me?” Lilly mumbled crushing Pheope’s hands in hers.
“That hurts, little Lilly,” Pheope said. “Stop that. I say, stop it. Yes? Stop it and get your pretty face up there. Hmm? Let go my hand. Up you go.”
Self-conscious and featherbrained, Lilly let go of Pheope’s hand, stood up on her shaking legs, and somehow, her feet managed to take her next to Hopsy. He looked at her, nodded in an encouraging gesture, as if to say, “Don’t worry, Lilly. Piece of cake.” Lilly smiled. Hopewatch took the green scarf and placed it over her shoulders.
“Would you like to see my friend, Peace?” he asked Lilly.
She nodded a few times and uttered a slow, “Yes.” She looked around for a second, then two. “Yes!” she said again in full confidence. “I’d like that very much.”
“Thank you, Lilly,” he said. “Hold the end of the scarf, extend your hand, and as you spin around yourself, let the scarf fly free, let it spin above your head.”
And Lilly turned and turned, whirling around and around, and the silk scarf made round shapes above her spinning body. The air filled with the melodies of thousands of birds, and colorful butterflies flew above, around and about the villagers. A white dove sang, “Peace, Peace, Peace,” and the words, one after the other, flew into the wind traveling in all directions upon the Earth.
And the villagers watched the magic.
Descending through the bluest of the all the blue skies, Peace lowered herself. Her golden sandals touched the ground, her smiling face shone bright, her honey-brown hair danced on her shoulders, and there she was standing in front of them in her long beautiful, white dress.
The villagers watched silently, reverently. A lengthy, “AHH!” escaped from their wide open mouths.
“Oh! Hopewatch, my dear, dear friend. I missed you so!” said Peace with her melodic voice. She knelt in front of him, hugged and kissed him, and held him in her arms. “You are such a precious friend,” she whispered to him. She stood on her feet and looked at the villagers. “And now that you have surprised the wits out of me, be kind enough to introduce me to all your friends.” The villagers cried and laughed at the same time at her comment. Then Peace said, “First, the children. Start with the children for they are the future of the world.”
“Let me then start with my beautiful assistant,” he said. “Her name is Lilly. Lilly, this is Peace.”
“Come! Come Lilly and stand in front of me,” Peace said, and gently put her hands on Lilly’s arms.
Name after name, Hopewatch called the name of each little girl and boy, and each time, they rose up on their feet and stood in front of her, next to her, around her. Peace extended her arms over them like a Mother hen protecting her yellow babies under her wings from approaching danger.
“You are my hope,” she said touching and caressing their hair. “My only hope.”
“Where there is hope, there is will, and where there is hope and will, there is Peace,” cried the teacher in a trembling voice.
“Amen to that,” said the priest, and made a cross in the air.
Quietly the little boys and girls left the stage and sat on the ground. Then one after another, the villagers walked to her, said their names, and took their places.
With her arms around Lilly and Hopewatch, Peace looked at each one in turn, smiled, thanked them for their warm welcome to their little village and into their hearts.
The villagers roared suddenly. “One more, one more. One more magic.”
Looking at their ecstatic faces, their joyful laughter, their animated gestures, listening to their loud demanding voices, whistling sounds splitting the air, and the pounding of their feet, Hopsy’s mind took him back to the Harvest Fair. His villagers yearned one more magic from him, when the magic was already with them, within them, in their laughter, on their smiling lips, on the frantic, puppet-like gestures of their hands, and under their thumping feet.
“All right. One more then,” Hopsy said. “My next magic  is the magic of all magic, but I’m not the one who will show it to you.”
“Who then?” asked Lilly’s father.
“You!” Hopsy said, gleefully. “All of you.”
“But we’re not magicians,” said the cherry-eating lady. “We’re farmers, shepherds, housewives, and all that. We’re just a simple folk.”
The teacher stood on his feet and looked at the villages. “No, we’re not,” he said sternly. “We, all of us, are magicians.”
“Yes, we are,” said the priest and stood tall. “Look,” he continued, “look at each other, look at the person next to you, to the man, woman, or child in front of you, in back of you. Look inside your own selves, and ask, what is it that you see? What is that thing, that strange, wonderful, magical thing you sense right now?”
The villagers looked at one another, turned around and looked some more. They stood on their feet and started touching shyly one another, as if they were total strangers, as if they had never seen the exhilarated faces they were looking at, and suddenly they were hugging one another, crying, laughing, and murmuring, “Magic. The magic of Peace!”
Oh, it’s magic all right, Hopsy thought as he became soaked by the miraculous feelings of the villagers. Looking at them, he could envision a united world, a caring world, where the malign afflictions of wars would be eliminated from the face of the Earth. If the magic of Peace could touch the hearts of his villagers with its healing powers, its warmth, and joy, why not also the hearts of thousands, millions, and zillions of others? At first, his message had reached less than a handful of people. He could count them on the fingers of his hands and still have uncounted fingers left. And now? What about tomorrow, or the day after?
He knew, no . . . he could see his villagers as soon as they went to their homes, picking up their phones, dialing numbers, talking in excited tones to their relatives and friends who lived in other villages, towns and cities, spreading the magical powers of Peace. Would the relatives and friends of the simple folks of his village believe what they’d been told over the phone lines? Would they suddenly abandoned the old belief that War meant the coming of Peace? No! Most likely not.
He, Hopewatch, had to show them; he had to make them feel. Just like the tiny boy at the Harvest Fair, today Hopsy had only taken his first step on the uphill, winding path to his Destiny. He had a long way to go. Nothing could stop him now. Nothing! One of his sailing boats had reached the safe harbor of his village. Wouldn’t it be miraculous when all his Peace sails touched the sandy shores of the entire world? He smiled. He had no reason to hide his dimple.
Slowly, Hopsy approached his seated parents with opened arms. Narkiz and Theo stood on their feet. And the boy said, “I love you, Mom. I love you, Papa.”
Narkiz hugged her precious.
“Hopewatch,” she whispered, her voice sounded as though it had traveled into the past and into the distant future, and had returned to her like a divine message. “My son. My Hopewatch!”



                       

EPILOGUE


“If by a singular and peculiar  chance a stranger were passing by the Main Square of this little village, I’m sure he would have wondered why all eyes were dripping wet on their smiling faces. That’s what I think. Don’t you? Hmm?”

“If a little boy named Hopewatch, or Hopsy for short, and a little girl named, Lilly, come knocking on your door, please, invite them into your home and let them show you their magic. And don’t be afraid if you see a man with a crooked smile on his half-burned face, or a gray wolf trotting next to him. They are harmless. Yes?”

“If a little boy named Hopewatch, or Hopsy for short, and a little girl named, Lilly, come to your village, or town, or city, please, please do not, I say, don’t miss their magical show. Hmm? And my children remember this: You are the future. Yes?”
   

The End






“The End?
Is it now?
As the good book says, this is only: “In the beginning . . . ”
What we invest in between “In the beginning . . .” and, “. . .” of the book The Art of Peace is up to you.
Up to all of us.
Are you listening?
Oh, I see! You’re smiling. That’s good. No?