Incident At Monticello

By Scott D Wagner

Daniel Rengaw “(POV)” is a published Historical Novelist drawn into a historical mystery. First, by a letter quilled by Thomas Jefferson. The letter holds the signature of Jefferson and is dated more than one hundred and eighty years after his death ‘The Document’, as it becomes known, is curiously found on the writing desk in Jefferson’s Study at Monticello. A place where it shouldn’t be. A place that few have access to.

The Colorado Bureau of Investigation pushes the story further toward the murky as it determines that The Document could have indeed been penned by Jefferson. However, there are below the surface motives that may have skewed their analysis. These motives are both personal and internal. The internal: Fame driven greed of a Department Head. The personal: The same Department Head’s warm-for-the-form of Pamila Rengaw; Danny’s wife of thirty years. Both the Internal and Personal are over the shoulder glances that are looked at throughout the story.

Doctor Rengaw is intrigued by a 63 page hand written political dossier sent him. The dossier’s implied meaning for our country, and the fact that it contains the same unknown acronym as The Document, furthers to tickle his curiosity. There is also confusion about an article in a Virginia newspaper. The Managing Editor can’t explain its origin or how it got into the edition. Rojer Ousten, Curator at Monticello and long time High School buddy of Danny’s, begs him to come to Monticello. For these reasons and others, Daniel agrees to go to Jefferson’s home. His going is a balancing act; solving the origin of The Document, and helping his friend with a Press Conference designed by the Monticello Foundation as a fund raiser. Daniel’s visit to Monticello is brief at only 48 hours. Yet it is never without happenings. A tumultuous Pacific wave rolling continual across the ocean.

Monticello Foundation Chairman Peter Henderson, Rojer, and Daniel, attend a briefing with the FBI at Quantico. Assistant Director and Mr. Henderson’s friend, leads the analysis of the events that place The Document in the Study. This analysis determines a two second glitch in the digital security video from Jefferson’s Study. This glitch, this unexplained anomaly, is termed by the FBI as a Plasmic Event.

That same evening while asleep at Monticello, Danny has a sleep walking experience. Danny has been a sleep-walker since childhood. That morning recalling his sleeping travel with Rojer, he tells of a dream conversation with Thomas Jefferson in the study. Together they view the digital surveillance of the Study. There is a similar glitch. A very similar two second glitch. Perhaps a Plasmic Event.

This sends them in search of answers. Along the way they visit with the writer of the Dossier. They visit again only to find that he does not exist. They bump into other people that help them to find their answers. People that help; people that create questions.

Daniel’s rink skating mind glides a continual circle of confusion. Nothing is clear. Then some focuses. In the end of this Part One, he thinks he understands what he is supposed to; what they need him to. But it is this why they want him to know, and the what they want him to do with it; this is his new wrestle. With this, in this, he leaves Monticello. Intent to answer the what.

The two friends pull the reader within themselves as they share that which comes truest from the heart. Danny’s visit is laced with emotion, humor, anger, and searching for the truth. This travel passes close to some that once were here, again here, and again gone. Figures, that only in the end, are seen as who they are. Or who they were. Historical Icons.

This smallest part of the body as I have just time-lined, is only the skeleton. The heart of the body is the true being of the story. There are the lives of the characters. Lives that are cloaked with struggles, abuse, victories, and walks that still need to come to end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott D Wagner
• Release date: Jul 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310158384

Scott D Wagner

‘A good tale, always is.’ I inner embrace this phrase as being perfectly simple. However, what makes a good tale? That question is the demon that forever rattles around in the mind of every writer.‘A good story, beats good structure every time.’ If you hang around a group of writers for any length of time, and I highly recommend that you do not, you will hear this line. It is a phrase that I wholly understand. One that I less wholly embrace.A good story makes a story good. However, a good story that is given life, is breathe to the reader. An alive story, turns a good one into a great one.I write with this in mind always. Perhaps it is because I have enjoyed so many of the great authors. I will throw Charles Dickens out there. I would never compare my writing with the Master’s. Yet, I just did.Poetic flow with a mathematical coloring is the only way that I know to write. More right, it is my desire to write this way. My story is the reader’s story. Involved love for a character, engaged loathing for a character, this is my goal for my readers. My gift to the reader. My thoughts, my emotions, my senses, all need to be my reader’s. The characters thoughts, the characters emotions, their senses, all must live in the reader. If I have given birth to live alive in a story, my task is complete.I understand that my writing style is may not be for all. I have been told my writing is Old School Modern Classic. I smile. No better compliment.I love to converse with readers. email me:[e-mail] on!

Book preview

Incident at Monticello

Written by Scott D Wagner

Published by Scott D Wagner at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Scott D Wagner

Cover by Kane Woodward

‘Oh so good to be oh so young.’

Apparitions. The boy has apparitions. I remember my Father saying this to my Mother.

His name is Daniel. More memorable, my Mother correcting him. Correcting him, and not just for this misname, she did more often than he liked. My first remembrance of the-boy-having-apparitions, was when I was a child of six. Or so I’ve been saying for decades.

Apparition was an adult word and I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t know what it meant, but I did know it must be important. Why else would my Dad define the word to my Mom. Apparition: A supernatural appearance of a person or a thing. Since husbands in the mid-twentieth century were known to be much smarter than their wives, Dad had to define it to Mom. And I did know that my Dad was just about the smartest man ever. With his definition, I didn’t think my Mom thought him so smart. I don’t know… there was just something in her look.

What my Dad was brilliantly defining, what my Mom wished he wasn’t, and what I was so very young indifferent to, was that something happening within me was atypical of… well, of all normal kids. And this atypical didn’t figure itself out with adulthood.

This ‘something’ I grew up with. I heard hushed hints that it was abnormal. But it all seemed mostly good to me. I mean there was some bad. As I aged into and through adulthood, others struggled with it. For me it was quite easy. My near half decade had made this ‘something’ just another daily task. As simple as waking, walking, and talking. Though I did at times have issues with waking walking and talking, but it wasn’t always because of ‘something’.

In fact the abnormal was at times very good to me. A Business major by education, and a Corporate Chef by task, I had successfully written and published two Historical books. I gave a special acknowledgement to ‘something’ in the jacket of my second book.

So… Until just recently when Rojer asked me to visit him at Monticello, it was all good. It was there, at the home of our third President, high upon a rural Virginia mountaintop, did it all unravel. ‘Something’, turned into something!

‘Girls are Icky.’

This tale is about history. More so, it is the mystery of this history. It wasn’t history yet as it was all just beginning in the small town of Sparta New Jersey. Small then, now… well you’ll see. We were living just up the road from Upper Lake Mohawk.  Along with my parents Gordon and Suzanne, there were three brothers and four sisters.  We the Rengaws lived in a two story colonial at 21 Sagamore trail.  This dead-end road was my field of glory and failure until the age of fifteen.

It was the spring of 1969. A brown paneled truck pulled into the sloping driveway.  As a nine year old, I watched from atop The Boulder. The Boulder, one of those monuments that children set as a meeting place, was large in our front yard.  The Boulder was painfully important to me then, and need-to-know for you now. It was the same rock that a year earlier I had broken my right wrist on. Or off, as the case is. I snapped both my Ulna and Radius.  Fellow nine year old Lisa Zambrano convinced me that if I jumped off I could fly like Superman.  I did not.  Thus my mystery of girls began. A mystery that I still have not solved.

I impatiently watched as the driver unloaded three large boxes.  Wheeling the three questions into the house and receiving a John Hancock from Mom, the bearer of gifts departed.  Standing it no longer I leapt off of the rock; not breaking my arm.  I ran into the front room hoping to see what gifts had been bestowed upon the Rengaws.

Being more impatient than most nine year olds, I continually got; Daniel, you drive me crazy! I never understood her words; I was too young to drive. I’ll tell you what made her crazy. It was having eight children.

Receiving the cursory; Calm down Daniel!  Daniel meant business. Good Daniel was Danny; bad Daniel was Daniel.  A philosophy of speech that she passed onto my wife the day of our wedding.

What I discovered in the boxes aided my life on a historical path mapped out by providence. At this point it was providence. What I perceived as the ultimate collection of all knowledge bequeathed unto mankind, was brought into my life; the 1969 World Book Encyclopedia. (I didn’t really talk like that. I was only nine.)

Most importantly to me, included was the 1968 Year in Review.  The single Mile Stone that marked my year-long travel of historical knowledge gained. The 1968 Year in Review reinforced me.  I read it cover to cover and placed all the great pictures next to the stories. From the pages dripped all of the stories of the year. All of the triumphs, many of the failures, some of the famous births, and horrifically the infamous deaths.  Namely, the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy.

But the stories of the Apollo Astronauts were the magnetic field that held my fingers to the book.  I read them as if I was there with them. I was fascinated by the technology and the men. Those super-humans that were risking their lives to make President Kennedy’s dream come true.

I watched from the floor of my parent’s den as Apollo 11 was forever slowly descending closer and closer to the lunar landscape.  With unbroken attention I watched as the Lunar Lander Eagle dropped into The Sea of Tranquility.  The Eagle has landed, with less than 30 seconds of useable fuel left.  A few hours later, Neal Armstrong stepped off the landing pad onto the face of the moon.  One small step for man.  One giant leap for mankind. Although some dispute those as his exact words, I know what I heard. And they will always be chosen words to me.

‘I Struck’

The sun, without us noticing had slid from its nested tree-top perch to a place that warmed us with the hottest of the day. The stifling light of July was broken only by the creeping shade of a passing cloud. My memory had made permanent this day, this date. The Sea of Tranquility floated the Eagle exactly a year ago today.

Swiping the back of my hand across my glossed and dirty forehead, my head streaked with a thin dark paste. Becky (Lisa Zambrano) laughed, pointed, and said; You look like an Indian Tom. Huck (Will Kengla) turned to me and silhouetted Becky’s laugh.

Today being not different from many, the three of us had been living lives read. Our adventure began mid-morning at Upper Lake Mohawk. My red leaky flat bottom boat was chained and resting on the shallow bottom. Left unattended for two days, this was always its resting place. Our played River-boat needed to be pulled ashore, flipped, and made ready for our crossing to the Island. This was easily done by three undeniable explorers.

Our duties were unofficially assigned. Becky manned the two quart Eight O’clock Coffee can. The can had been pushed and stepped into a half circle. With this perfect tool, she was the First Mate of Bailing. Huck was Ensign of Left Oar. Becky silently scorned at his apparent out-ranking. It was just the way it was to Huck and I. A girl could not out-rank a boy. Tom, me, of course was the vessel’s Captain. My wheel on the bridge, was right oar.

Huck and I rowed with rhythm and fortitude. It was a game of strength; which of us could pull the boat off of its centered path. Huck being two years older and significantly larger, I struggled to keep pace. Once our path showed that I could not keep up, Huck eased his pulling. Unsaid so, he had won the game. The game that I would win one day. As we first played, and then went on, Becky steadily returned the intruding lake back unto its self.

Keeping a good pace we approached the opposite shore and the Island that rose from the water within 100 yards of the shore. The shore banked steep and high. Different days, many, we had ventured to scale this calling forbade-ness. It was jungle thick like. The ground was spongy with the discard of centuries. The dirt of the ground was hidden deep. Only the damp, once living, held our feet up. We all knew the threat of a Quicksand doom.

Tree roots rose and dipped back into the ground. Bushes and smaller living green, some with thorns, made passage a maze that could only painfully be cheated. Vines twisted along themselves and draped endlessly at shoulder level. Pines and Hard-woods, dead and alive, slapped their hands at us; further demanding a labyrinth honored.

This part of the lake was mostly without people. It was dotted by only two houses that stood where the marsh and an eased slope would allow. This recognized solitude of the Island made it perfect adventuring for young explorers. This same relative recluse-ness also made it an inviting place for teenagers.

The Island was not large. Perhaps the size of a football field. It was also shaped that way. It ran long and narrow. It was mostly sand; dirt and sand. Thin bushes and sapling trees that would not survive more than two seasons, were the Island’s only permanent occupants. But during the warmer times, we and others like us, held this spot during the day. The night was often lit with the campfires of those older. Huge; the Island, like the lake, was huge in our over active imagination. Over active, the only kind we had. Is that not the indulgence of what a child is? Is that not how it should be?

Captain Tom yelled; Ramming speed! Our pace double-timed. Becky braced for the collision that would never come. With a gentle sand forced slowing, our craft slid smoothly onto the Island. Securing our vessel our Island quest began. It wasn’t that we were searching for one thing in particular, but it was indeed always a venture.

All of our Island visits differed in our activates, but most included checking out the spent fire, inspecting bottles for notes from the shipwrecked, chasing frogs, occasionally finding and inspecting strange white translucent balloons, and trying to spear fish with pointed sticks. The fish didn’t have a worry. And of course an Island visit always included running and splashing at water’s edge.

Not finding any treasured balloons, and recognizing our always present urge to do something else, we decided that our time on the Island was at end. Re-taking our assigned stations we sailed back to port. I chained the boat and left it to slowly again find the bottom. We headed off for the something else. Stopping first at the Beachcomber, we purchased three for a dime strips of sugar dotted paper.

We passed through Our Lady of the Lake parking lot, cut through Reverend George Brown Elementary, and headed across the athletic field of Pope John the XXIII High School. We were migratory. None of us knew we were, but we always wandered on. Understanding without considering, we knew our final destination was going to be The Swamp.

Climbing the hill that back-dropped the diamond’s infield, Becky was the first to sit. She disappeared into the tall thick grass that the spring rains and the summer shine had teamed to sprout. Huck followed, and I again. We three now lay comfortably on our backs. The thick and tall green cushioned and hid us. The sun had passed just enough west as to allow our eyes to gaze upward without restriction. It was only our rustling sounds that provided comforting awareness of each other’s where-abouts. The long thick and near brittle blades of grass protected us. They were also always offering to slice open an un-cautious finger.

We’d entered a hovel that was too vast to even consider. A place that was not ours. It was the domain of the leaping grasshoppers, the hovering dragon flies, and the rhythmic crickets. Rare, and only found by accident, was the proud Praying Mantis. None were found this day. Such a stumbling upon always gathered many of the neighborhood’s young investigators.

As simple as it is, perhaps its simple-ness makes it so, these moments that have long since fled from my life, were the most peaceful of my young life. Nothing, something, never interrupts me here. Now, amongst my far ventured age, this understanding brings about a missing. Perhaps there is only one moment awaiting me that will ever again bring such peacefulness.

Still inhabiting a bug’s world I pick a giant Cumulous and watch it inch across the light blue Jersey sky. Staying with it, watching it phase from a running rabbit with ears flowing backwards, to a pointed spear that gently morphs into a rounded dull anything. Blue filled holes slowly collapse upon themselves. Other holes of blue open. Their fibers stretching, tearing, and discarding the puff; cotton balls gently push away. Whatever I found it to be, it became whatever I left it to be.

It is unspoiled that youth is wasted on the young. These youthful moments of still-photography in motion are the solace born of purest simple. My ability to, this senseless act of doing so near nothing, was long ago taken away from me. Stolen by the adult curse of need not do nothing. The need of not to do simple. Child-ness; an art long lost. Why do we cast off these never to return moments? But I digress. (See… right there! I understand that I’ve rambled. I understand that it is no longer productive for you the reader. Thus I feel the need to apologize for simple.)

Did they not know when they put this fence up last year that we would not be able to get onto the ball fields? They, whomever they are, why would they do this? These fields that were the setting for endless seasonal sport and youthful nonsense. These were our fields. Why would they fence us out? Us, all of Sagamore Trail, all of the kids that were a short walk away, we did not understand. Why would they do this? We, did not like they.

Moving on again, we slipped through one of the four holes that we had tunneled under the fence. These strategically placed openings were dug at our favorite entry and exit locations. Like ever dutiful woodchucks, we cared for and cleared these holes as soon as they, someone, dirt’d in our tunnels. They, someone, were ghosts behaving badly in the black hours that ghosts behave badly in. They were never witnessed doing their Tom-foolery.

Will, arms extended and waving for balance, was the first to pass over the creek. Decided by the wisest, the older kids, this was the creek that created The Swamp. Because we were told this, it was true. But still we needed to know more. Every so often Lewis and Clark would set off exploring for the source of this creek. As in Meriwether and William’s quest, we also failed. However, like them, we also discovered so much more.

Lisa followed Will and I across our bridge; a giant tree that had been intentionally felled by the Mohawk Indians. This we were also told. As the entire day was, a game was associated with The Swamp. The Swamp, though no one would admit it, was a scary kid place. However, it was also a magical kid place. It held tadpoles that would eventually hop and give you warts. It was common to see deer, fox, skunks, and many other curious critters. However, there were also leeches and snakes. Occasionally a kid not from the neighborhood would tell of seeing a giant alligator. I’d never seen one. Oh yeah… there was also the possibility of being taken and eaten by the New Jersey Swamp Devil. I had never seen him either. But the old man that lived at the dead-end of Sagamore trail had

The Swamp Devil was always sneaking just one snapped twig away. But the Taker of Children, is not where my biggest fear never rests. For me, the creature that only evil incarnate would have placed on earth, crawled constant on my attentiveness. The hiding, lurking, surprising, slimy snake. All the serpentine belly travelers are the scourge of the earth. True in New Jersey, truer in The Swamp, the Cottonmouths and Water Moccasins are those that are viper’d and supposedly threaten the greatest harm. However, I know of a boy who is no longer here. I was told this; he was stalked, surprised, and scared by a Gardner snake. Instantly his heart stopped. Snakes, all snakes, hide waiting, hiding and waiting for me. I know it, you know it.

The main body of The Swamp, the flooded area, is several hundred yards long and wide by half. Its length runs north to south. Today and always, the game runs towards the South.

Mostly, the depth of the dark brown leech infested water was around one foot. It was deeper in some spots. Which is where the snakes are. It was shallower in others. Which is where the snakes are. The bottom beneath the water was jet black mud that had been created by decaying dinosaurs. This sludge mired to the center of the earth. Willy told me so.

Standing on the edge, the last of the ground that was firm enough to support my Redball Jets, I stared ahead planning my path. Planning was everything. Lisa was to my right; Will to her’s. As I was, my two competitors were planning their path as well. This was the beginning of the game. A game that all the kids knew could bring death. It never had, but it was always out there. Minor cuts and bruises were not uncommon. I did know of a broken ankle and a dislocated finger. Unless these game injuries had happened to you, they were kid minor.

For a rookie looking out at the swamp for the first time, it appeared to be nothing more than flooded woods. To veterans, us, The Swamp was so much more. Dark and always so, even when the sun was bright everywhere, The Swamp’s colors where always dusted with gray. Under a translucent umbrella. This was to hide the Swamp Devil. And no doubt the snakes.

The dark that shouldn’t have been was left only in our thoughts. It was never spoken of. It was our not wanting to understand its creepiness that left it forever unmentioned. Rolling a rock to see what was on the underside, the rock that was The Swamp we left untouched.

Scattered throughout in an irregular speckling, the dark water pushed up tiny islands. Many more than we knew, but surely it was in the millions. Islands small and irregular. Most held planted a small tree. These tree’s roots lifted clear of the water and mated into a platform that foundation’d the island. Roots that were covered and packed with a soil that was not recognized by us. This soil, or whatever it was, was covered with a deep green moss-like something. Spongy, the islands would ooze water when stepped upon. The trees were mostly dead. Only broken and often sharp branches extended from the tree. What we didn’t know as ferns, lazily draped them. Scarecrows that had outlasted the autumn and held only the remnants of tattered clothing.

The game was simple in its concept and challenging in its execution. When Will yelled Bonsai, the race to the other side was on. The oldest of any group was the starter. The first one to reach the Skunkweed patch on the solid side was the winner. That is the only rule; simple. There had in the past been protests. But none in the history of Swamp Hopping had ever held up. First one to break open the Skunkweed was the day’s Swamp Hopping champion.

This rule is the only simple involved in Swamp Hopping. The ultimate goal was a clean winning run. Clean never meaning clean, but dry. It had occasionally been done by each of us, but not often. Getting to the weed patch quickest was winning. Quickest was jumping and sticking the island. Two, three, four, leap combinations. Long leaps with tree grabbing and spinning to stop momentum. Quick direction changes. All were basic Swamp Hopping fundamentals. Honed and not fundamental, was path planning. This was a skill mastered only by the elite. Planning often determined the winner. It was easy enough to choose your first dozen or so islands, but mid-run decision making was success or failure. Continual motion while surveying was success. Stopping to survey meant probable failure. Our Swamp Hopping elders coined the phrase; He who hesitates is lost.

Bonsai! Will screamed. I was off with a quick triple combination. Never touching heal to islands it was surgical in precision. Next a long jump, a tree spin, a small left, a double tap forward, right, double forward, left, left, and a long jump onto an island without a tree for a spin. Having to jump hard right next, I had to stop. Both feet landed hard and dug deep into the absorbing disk. My knees bent and locked. My arms flailed like windmills. Bending hard at the waist I fought momentum. Inertia’s finger heavy between my shoulders gently pushed me towards a wet place that I didn’t want to go. Straining hard momentum was stopped. It wasn’t. It was. It wasn’t! My right Redball twitched a lift. I stopped it. It stopped. It did. It didn’t. The point of no return passed. My right foot twitched again and didn’t un-twitch. Off to my right heard a small splash. A longer and louder one quickly followed. I knew what had happened and who it had happened to. My sneaker sock and foot slapped hard onto the water and disappeared eight inches down. Black dinosaur remains rolled to the surface circling outward

Snakes! I yelled with not one in sight. Now… as much as I was afraid of snakes, I was more afraid of going home with only one shoe. If that happened, it would be again.

Being a veteran of island hopping and experienced in my current situation, I knew a quick jerk of my foot would leave my right foot with only a soiled sock. Easy, easy, the toe of my shoe fanned the muck left to right. Slight at first, gradually making a larger and larger Snow Angel in the mud that was trying to vacuum away my Jet. History had taught me that a gentle heal-toe foot rocking would prevent a long bad-anticipation trip home to an angered mother. Feeling for attached canvas, I carefully and wishfully pulled upward a toe raised foot. A sound of sucking followed by a popping release loosed my foot. A black liquid cloud surrounded my foot to the surface. Clearing the surface there was only black. Dipping back and swirling, I raised it again to the island. Yes! I yelled with jubilation as red peaked through the black. I dip-swirled, dip-swirled, and dip-swirled. The wanting to cling mud melted into the murky water. It should be without saying that I did this only after first scanning for stalking snakes.

My moment passed and I looked in the direction of the double splash. What I saw was expected. Lisa stood in disbelief upon one of the larger islands. The once light red hair on the top of her head was soaked darker. Beaded water ran down her face dripping from a dimpled chin. Likewise, the entire front of her down to the soles of her feet was wet. From knees to feet and elbows to fingertips, mud painted. Looking to me with sadness that we all at least once had shared, dejection leaked wet from a sullen face. Lisa’s fingers were rigid, her arms were forced down and away from her waist. Her eyes dropped to her feet. I lost my shoes. She said this with scared sadness. Blowing water from her lips she bent to the water. Rinsing her arms she began to cry. A scared little girl coughed two quick crying breaths and determinedly halted her outcry.

Feeling bad for her and not knowing what to say, Willy caught my eye. He was still on a clean run and nearly 15 yards ahead. Turning left, south, a path was planned and I was off. Hopping, leaping and spinning, I looked at Will who had increased his lead. If he did not miss-step he would win. More importantly, I would lose. So I continued on a steady but careful path. I was not conceding the victory quite yet. In one last effort to distract and slow him, I yelled; I’m catching you Huck. He did not distract or slow. He did briefly laugh. Seconds and then a minute passed. I tried a second last effort to distract and slow; Will! Will! The Swamp Devil is right behind you. He quick stepped a three island tap tap tap and leapt to a tree’d island. He executed a standard spin. In doing so he saw it to be a lie.

I gained only yards as he quickly planned and started again with words very fitting; You’re a jerk Danny. Laughing at his fitting and completing a quick 10 island run, I was only 9 yards behind. But his lead seemed safe as he only had about 20 yards to go.

Still I tried one last last last… well, you know. Will-

Shut up Danny I’m not falling for it.

No Will I don’t see Lisa! Will double strode and stopped. He turned looking back.

Lisa! he yelled. The Swamp yielded nothing. He yelled louder; Lisa! Lisa are you okay? Are you coming? I was still moving south and I was listening.

There was a brief pause and then I heard a distant reply. Yeah I’m coming. Again a brief pause. I’m alright. She didn’t sound self-convinced.

Realizing that I had pulled even with Will, I stopped and looked to him. He looked towards her and then back to me. We both looked towards her. With typical Swamp Hopping noises she closed distance and then broke through into view. I broke towards the finish. You’re cheating Danny, Will said as he singled doubled and leapt. I was in the lead now with just yards to go. I could hear Lisa talking to us and Will yelling at me. Cheater! You’re a cheater Danny! No mistakes Danny and you got it. Left, double small, south again, two easy ones and one giant leap to semi firm ground. I bolted with just five yards to the Skunkweed. Running full out; one step, two steps, three, my left foot was pulled back with a jerk that hurt my toe and strained my hip. From my waist up to my face, I slammed into the damp softened soil. Soil entered my mouth as I slid for several feet. With my feet up over my back, I seemed unable to move. Not seemingly, I was unable to breath. Sucking to replenish the air that had been hard forced out brought pain. In that instant, I was dying. Seconds passed and I was still alive. The pain and fright was easing as I rolled to my back. A foul burning smell filled my nose. It was a loser’s essence of Skunkweed.

Slowly sitting, slower turning, and quickly spitting, I saw Will standing in the weeds. He stood proud with his arms folded and held high to his chest.

Lisa sounded coming up behind me; What happened to you Danny? Still sitting and breathing better, I turned to search the path of my result.

A tree root, I said. I turned back to Will.

He was in his glory; dancing and singing. Oh yeah! You tried to cheat. You tried to cheat. But cheaters never prosper. He repeated this twice more. I had to take it. It was simple. Well, at least a snake didn’t get me.

Lisa jittery, stood looking at me with unease. Wiping the water that remained on her forehead, she was uncomfortable and forced a smile that reflected this. Her playfulness had long since melted away by the fire that would be trouble at home. Wishing for a mystical saving, she looked to her feet to see if the Good Fairies of The Swamp had gifted her with a new pair. My knowing of her certain punishment, I tried to hide from my face. My mind’s face hid little. What she was feeling I had also