Games Creatures Play

  “It works.”

  “I know.”

  They both laughed then.

  Tommy sobered first. “So you are a prince in this other place? The hidden world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I be calling you Your Highness, and bowing to you?”

  “It’s not necessary here.” He smiled. “America has no princes.”

  “How did we end up here? In America, rather than Germany?”

  “As other Germans did. Emigration from a set of principalities and duchies beset by wars and famine. We chose families who would bring you here. We sensed you belonged here. We heed such sensations. You seemed to do well in the United States.”

  They walked in silence. Tommy didn’t fail to notice that Anton had stopped giving off his weird scent. As they came around the corner on Tommy’s street, all Tommy could smell were the scents of autumn and dinners being made in kitchens all along the block. When they reached his driveway, they stood outside for a while.

  Lights were on in the house. Tommy could hear the vacuum cleaner running. He thought of that distant paradise, lit by sun and moonlight, of laughter and dancing and peacefulness. Peacefulness for everyone, it seemed, but him. Mike, he realized, returned to the mundane for his sake. Should he return to the fae for Mike’s sake, if for no other reason? But still there was that sense of matters unsettled here.

  “I have something I must do here, Anton. I feel it . . .” He broke off, but pointed to his chest.

  Anton’s eyes filled with tears, but he said, “Then we will do our best to enjoy these last few days together.”

  “You’ll take Bobby?”

  “If you haven’t changed your mind, yes.” He walked away.

  • • •

  In school the next day, Mike and Tommy felt relieved that they had been excused from a hideous assignment. The other students had been told to memorize at least twelve lines of a single poem, or all of two short poems, and each of them had to stand up in front of the class and recite it. The teacher excused the two of them because they were new kids and hadn’t had time to pick a poem and study it.

  Mostly, it was the usual chance for the kinds who tried to skate through assignments to recite a couple of limericks and the goody-two-shoes types to show off with poems like “Song of Hiawatha,” which Tommy could hardly listen to with a straight face. Eleanor Pinksey was into the tenth short stanza of “Barbara Fritchie,” right at the good part, when the teacher thanked her and told her that she could sit down.

  Everyone was watching the clock because the recitations were being done at the end of the school day. Way too much time left. Most of the students recited their poems in a singsong voice, making Tommy drowsy, and looking around, he wasn’t the only one.

  Half an hour later, underneath the droning of poetry was the sound that only a classroom full of restless students could make, a symphony of sighs, tapping pencils, shuffling papers, creaking desks, and the scraping noise made by chairs slightly but constantly repositioned on linoleum.

  Until Anton went to the front of the class.

  There was a little bit of snickering, and then he spoke, and everyone fell silent.

  “The title of my poem is ‘The Stolen Child.’ It was written by William Butler Yeats.”

  He recited the beginning of the poem, but it was when he spoke the lines that ended every stanza that Tommy and every other student in the class leaned forward, mesmerized:

  Come away, O human child!

  To the waters and the wild

  With a faery, hand in hand.

  For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

  Tommy watched his classmates’ faces, and realized that if Anton wanted to lead them away like the Pied Piper, it was in his power to do it. Anton looked at him then, smiled softly, and sat down, releasing the class from his spell.

  The bells rang for a duck-and-cover drill, and Tommy dutifully joined Mike under their desk.

  It was a world full of weeping, Tommy thought, and it could not be understood.

  • • •

  Over the weekend they learned that an American pilot, Major Rudolf Anderson, Jr., was killed when his U2 plane was shot down over Cuba. It was tragic, and especially upsetting to the military moms.

  Despite this and other unsettling reports, though, it seemed the crisis was coming to an end.

  Tommy read the papers and occasionally eavesdropped on his mother talking to friends on the phone about the news, but he spent most of that weekend reading a book he had found in the library, a book about knights.

  Anton came by and they walked over to Mike’s, where they were joined by Bobby. They were going to play baseball but it started to rain again, so Mike’s mom popped popcorn for them and they played Chinese checkers and Monopoly before going home. Mike, he noticed with a pang, was becoming good buddies with Bobby. He told himself that this was only right, but he also wondered if Anton had placed some kind of spell on them. He glanced at Anton, who shook his head no.

  • • •

  Halloween was a Wednesday, a clear and sunny day. He walked to school with Mike, who seemed more like himself than he had in the past few days. They sat at the same table at lunch, while across the cafeteria, Bobby, who had come to school with a black eye, sat near Anton, the two of them involved in some intense conversation.

  “I wish you would come with us,” Mike said.

  “I know. But if I do, how many more black eyes will Bobby’s old man give him?”

  Mike had no answer to that. A little later he said in a low voice, “I remember our time.”

  “Being a page?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t always so good.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Tommy smiled. “But we were the best at the quintain!”

  Mike smiled back. “You were the best of all of us.” His brows drew together. “Do you think it’s why we’re good at tetherball and dodgeball?”

  “Could very well be,” Tommy agreed. “I mean, not really fair—seven hundred years of practice . . .”

  That one made Mike snort milk out his nose.

  When he recovered, Tommy said, “Today we are going to play our best dodgeball game ever. If we’re going to have even a small chance of seeing each other again, I need your help.”

  • • •

  Dodgeball history was made at Grant Elementary that afternoon. For the first time, Anton was not the first person out. Tommy had delivered that honor to Ricky Gibson, who took it with his usual amiability and good grace. By managing where they stood when the teams were counted off, Tommy, Mike, and Bobby were on the same team, as was Anton.

  Tommy played as he had never played before. He found himself moving almost as if he were performing a dance—twisting, leaping, going low to ground. Moving just as smoothly and speedily was Mike. Between them was Anton. They shielded him.

  Tommy and Mike caught and dodged anything thrown at them, all the while defending Anton. Bobby saw what they were doing and played a solid offense.

  Once Anton was nearly hit but deflected the ball with his hands, and Tommy stretched and caught the ball before it hit the ground, which meant the thrower was out.

  Eventually the other team sensed what was going on and tried to focus on Anton, but that only made them vulnerable to hits from Tommy’s other team members—Bobby was especially deadly—when they allowed themselves to be distracted.

  Near the end of the game, only five players remained: three on Tommy’s team, two on the other. Then Mike was hit and was out. Tommy caught a ball thrown at him by one of the two remaining players on the other team, which meant that boy was out. Now there was only Eleanor Pinksey, Tommy, and Anton still on the court. Anton and Eleanor threw balls at the same time. She failed to dodge Anton’s throw, and in the instant it hit her, Tommy launched himself to stop the ball headed for Anton. He ca
ught it but lost his balance and ended up on his knees in the dead zone. The teacher blew her whistle to call Tommy out. Anton was the last player still in.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then all the other students started cheering. Anton moved toward Tommy and reached a hand down to help him to his feet. “Your loyalty never fails to move me,” he said softly, so that only Tommy could hear him.

  But Tommy didn’t rise. Holding on to Anton’s hand, he bowed over it, and said, “I would ask a boon, Your Highness.”

  Anton’s eyes widened. “Later,” he said, pulling Tommy to his feet as the others began to crowd around them.

  • • •

  They were walking home together, going to Mike’s house. Mike and Bobby moved ahead.

  “You asked for a boon,” Anton said.

  “Return for me in seven years.”

  Anton sighed. “I will try, Thomas, but that is all I can do. I have never heard of such a thing being granted to anyone, and those placed higher than I must agree to it. I’m not sure they will appreciate—dodgeball.”

  “If you will try, you will have granted me my boon.”

  They had nearly caught up to the others when Anton asked, “Where did you learn about boons?”

  “In this age which fails to enchant you, in this place, all children are encouraged to learn to read and write, and public libraries are built so that anyone may have access to books. I borrowed one about knights.”

  Anton smiled. “I will keep your lesson in mind.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be—”

  “Impertinent? No apology needed. As I’ve told you, I’m not a prince here.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true.”

  “I do tell you the truth, Thomas. For example, regarding this evening’s arrangements. I’m afraid things are going to be a bit uncomfortable for you . . .”

  • • •

  The news the next morning shocked everyone except one eleven-year-old boy, whose mother, discovering he had a high fever, had not allowed him to go trick-or-treating with his friends. Thomas Montrose was questioned extensively about the possible whereabouts of his friends, not because the obviously ailing boy was suspected of having a hand in their disappearances, but because the community was so desperate to have any lead that would help them locate Robert Patterson, Anton Grünwald, and Michael Wilshire. None of the many searches uncovered so much as a trace of them.

  Over the next few years, Tommy was often told that he was lucky to have caught the flu at just that time. He always replied by asking, “Is it lucky to be without my friends?” That proved to be a stumper for most people.

  • • •

  In 2011, Richard Gibson was retired, no longer the principal of Grant Elementary, but he came back every year for an event that had been started by Tommy Montrose: the Grant Elementary School Memorial Dodgeball Game.

  Ricky, as he was still known to most people, felt privileged to talk to the students on Halloween, before the game. He felt he owed this to four friends of his, especially Tommy Montrose.

  The story was just spooky enough to grab the children’s attention. He talked to them about safety on this night, and the tale that every child in town knew, of the three boys who disappeared on Halloween.

  But it was the second part of the story that meant the most to Ricky. It was of Thomas Montrose, who as a high school student tutored Grant Elementary kids in the public library after school. He somehow roped Ricky and some other friends into doing it, too, which is probably why most of that group became educators.

  Tommy Montrose didn’t go to college. He enlisted immediately after high school, when he was seventeen, and went to Vietnam when he was eighteen.

  On his first mission, he was taken prisoner with three other American soldiers when their Huey was shot down. All three of those men attended these events, every year.

  They came to talk about Tommy. Every officer had been killed in the crash, they said, and without even thinking about it, they made Tommy their leader. He was the youngest among them, but he had seemed somehow to have wisdom beyond his years, and skills that went way beyond basic training.

  It was Tommy, they said, who gave encouragement to his fellow prisoners, often telling them about the people he knew here in town, and what a fine place he lived in, and even about this dodgeball game. He kept their spirits up, telling them he was going to make sure they would live long enough to name their kids after him, because he was born for this. He wasn’t just talk, as they learned, because he also planned their escape.

  • • •

  On the night of Halloween 1969, Tommy broke them out of their prison and led them to freedom. They were nearly back to their own lines when Tommy told them to go ahead, and stayed behind as they made their way to relative safety. He gave them a big smile and ran off into the jungle, making more noise than a rampaging water buffalo. It was the last time any of them saw him alive, although for a time they knew he was out there, because he distracted the enemy—who were much closer than any of them had guessed—with lights he had gathered from heaven knew where and by singing some crazy song in German, drawing the enemy away from his fellow soldiers’ position.

  Those men also explained why the black-and-white POW/MIA flag was still flying at Grant Elementary, and they swore Tommy Montrose would not be forgotten. Because of him, after the war, they all settled here. Because he had talked to them about how important it was to him that they take care of children here.

  One was a state senator now, known for his legislation to protect children. Another a pediatrician. Another taught self-defense. And yes, they all had kids named Tommy, including the senator’s only child, a girl.

  • • •

  They had all gone home now, as had the children and the teachers. It was Halloween, after all, and there were preparations to be made. Ricky would go home soon himself, but he lingered just a little longer.

  Forty-two years since Tommy was gone, forty-nine since they had all been in sixth grade together. Ricky stood on the court where an amazing game of dodgeball had once been played, and remembered it in detail. The rules of the game had changed a bit since then, and the balls didn’t sting the way the old ones did, which was probably for the best. These days, you could watch professionals making moves that nearly equaled Tommy’s in YouTube videos. But for Ricky, even though he had been the first man out, there would always only be one dodgeball game worth remembering.

  When he thought of it, he found a kind of peace. It was as if he were eleven again, and his friends were nearby, whole and happy and celebrating a sweet victory, cheering for a geeky kid who had always been the first out in every other game. Tommy and Mike had seen to that, too. Ricky smiled, and began to walk home.

  • • •

  One knight guarded the prince and kept him safe in his hidden kingdom. No one doubted his courage or his skill, nor did they fail to see how highly the prince valued him.

  “Are you happy, Sir Thomas?” the prince asked him this day, as they approached a mown field.

  “Yes,” he answered honestly. “I am doing what I was born to do. And you, Your Highness?”

  “Oh, yes. I am with the best of my friends. And today, of course, there will be dodgeball.”

  DEAD ON THE BONES

  JOE R. LANSDALE

  Joe R. Lansdale is the author of more than thirty novels and numerous short stories. He has written comic scripts and screenplays, including several for Batman: The Animated Series. His novella Bubba Ho-Tep was made into a cult film. He has received a number of awards, including the Edgar®; nine Bram Stoker awards, among them Lifetime Achievement; the Inkpot Award; and the Grinzane Cavour Prize for Literature. His novel Cold in July is filmed, and he was a producer on the film Christmas with the Dead, scripted by his son Keith Lansdale and directed by Terrill Lee Lankford. He is a member of the Texas Literary Hall of Fame a
nd the Texas Institute of Letters, is Writer in Residence at Stephen F. Austin State University, and is the founder of the martial arts system Shen Chuan, Martial Science. He is a member of the International Martial Arts Hall of Fame and the United States Hall of Fame. He lives and works in Nacogdoches, Texas, where he lives with his wife, Karen.

  It was solid night out there in the woods down by the river, but we had plenty of light ’cause there was a big fire built up in the middle of the clearing for just that reason, and there was a dozen kerosene lanterns hung in the trees. The trees was mostly willows, though there was some giant oaks, and I was under one of the oaks getting ready to clean three catfish that was going to be grilled up for supper.

  Uncle Johnny said, “Now you skin them catfish out good,” and he gave me a knife and a pair of pliers, then wandered toward the fire to pile on some big-sized logs.

  I ain’t one to love cleaning fish, but at least catfish you don’t have all them scales, like a bass or such. You can hang them up and make a cut around the head and take the pliers and pull the skin off, like helping a lady out of a jacket.

  Uncle Johnny got him a bottle of beer out of a tub of ice, sauntered back over. He had on a chambray shirt half buttoned up and some loose pants and boxing shoes he only wore on nights like this. Them boxing shoes had cost him a pretty penny. That was why he kept them stored in the closet most of the time. They wasn’t for wearing around, but for boxing only.

  He had cut his hair close to his head. He always cut it skin-close on fight nights. The firelight crackling and jumping lit it up like it had been shined with floor wax and a polish rag. I could see cuts here and there where he hadn’t been smooth with the razor. It looked like the top of his head had been in a briar patch.

  He said something about making sure to look inside the catfish guts when I broke them open, ’cause he had found some stuff in them that was mighty curious from time to time. He even had a pocketknife he said he’d cut out of one of them once, a long one with a yellow-bone handle. That was the one he’d given me to clean the fish with. It was a good knife, and I knew when I got the skins off the fish and touched the point of it to their bellies, they’d split open like a hot watermelon in the sun. I was thinking I’d love to stick it in him, see how he split open, on account of he may have found some stuff inside catfish, but that knife wasn’t one of them. He ought to know I knew who it belonged to. I had sharpened it enough.