Children of Aerthwheel: The Godblood Saga

By L. David Hesler

Magic should not exist.

But it does.

The boundaries of reality have worn paper-thin in the town of Little Tree, Missouri. The community has been plagued by bizarre incidents for decades: unusual animal attacks, unexplained disappearances, and alleged murders. And now a mysterious darkness has settled into the town, bringing with it a horde of otherworldly monstrosities determined to find latchkey middle school student Andrew Fish.

Luckily, Andrew isn't alone. Fate has drawn him into the lives of other outcast children and together they face a relentless evil that threatens to spill into this world.

Magic should not exist. But it does.

And it is a burden that can curse entire families.


* * *

Fans of magic, Lovecraftian monsters, and animal shapeshifters will enjoy this dark urban fantasy by author, illustrator, and musician L. David Hesler

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. David Hesler
• Release date: Jul 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201835897

L. David Hesler

L. David Hesler is an author of horror, fantasy, and science fiction for teen and adult readers. He currently produces the horror fiction podcast Bad Notes; he also co-produces the Be Mega Podcast, where he spends a few hours every week creating absurd super heroes with his friend Adam Martens. When he isn’t crafting weird tales, he is either pounding away on a Schecter guitar in his home studio or he’s trying to catch up on a reading list that’s been growing since 1995. L. David Hesler’s work includes the short story collection “Prismatica,”the ongoing novella series “Divine Intermission,” and the YA fantasy novel, “Children of Aerthwheel.” His poetry and short fiction have appeared in the literary magazines “New Wine,” “The Ivy Review,” and “State of Imagination.” His original play “Public Domain” was produced in 2012. He has also published the YA fantasy adventure “Roswell Newton,” a re-imagining of his own independently produced web comic “The Adventures of Roswell Newton.” Hesler has also written and performed music for several alternative rock albums with the bands DeepSkyTraveler and The Pale Hypnotic. In 2011, he released an album of music inspired by his novel “Children of Aerthwheel.” Occasionally, he performs live music in the virtual world of Second Life. For approximately seven years, Hesler was heavily involved in local theater to the point that he co-founded a production company that ran performances of “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (abridged)” from 2000 to 2003. As you read this text, he’s probably thinking of ways to simultaneously give you goosebumps and make you giggle. Be warned.

Book preview

This novel would not have been possible without the constant dedication and support of my family and friends. The warmest, most sincere thank you to all the people who had a hand in helping to craft this story.

First, I must thank my wonderful wife. The spouse of any artist always suffers first and most; through good times and bad, my wife had my back. I could not have finished this book without her at my side.

I wish to thank John Wright for being a primary beta reader throughout the production of this novel; your ideas were integral and your patience was phenomenal, considering the amount of e-mail messages I tossed at you in 2011. I would also like to thank Michael Hollon for his careful input and suggestions as I prepared the final few drafts. Thirdly, I would like to thank Mark Warren for being a vigilant proofreader whether I asked him or not; your penchant for finding mistakes is a blessing for a writer who tends to make them on a regular basis.

Finally, I would like to thank you, dear reader. Without you, this book is merely a collection of words. Your imagination breathes life into the characters and mishaps that await. Thank you, reader. Should we happen to get separated along the way, please remember one thing.

Magic exists.

"In 1828, Isaac Harrison discovered a large deposit of coal on his land near Little Tree. He opened the mine in the winter months and used two mule carts to remove coal.

The mine remained in the Harrison family for many years until the land was sold in 1883 to a circus performer whose name was, over time, lost from records. Most locals remembered him as a struggling magician with a fondness for moonshine.

The new owner kept the mine in business for only a short time until one evening when, while intoxicated or angered by some unexplained event, he destroyed the entrance to the mine with a cart of dynamite and abruptly vanished; he was never seen or heard from again except for a brief letter that he posted on the wall of his abandoned home. It read: I AM A MAN TORN BETWEEN TWO WORLDS.

The note was assumed to be a suicide letter, though records do not indicate any investigation into the matter. The mine was never reopened and its exact location was never accurately recorded.

The Harrison family has since dispersed across the country and the newer generation has little to no information regarding the vanquished mining operation."

Nave County: A Retrospective Narrative, 1997

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"Local boy Grant Fish, the only son of the late Gordon and Geraldine Fish, killed the largest snake recorded in Nave County Saturday afternoon. The animal was discovered while Grant and his friends, including Sonny Harrison, Elizabeth Gardner, and Ted Allen, were helping build the foundation for the new Liberty Christian Church.

The snake crawled out of a pile of lumber and proceeded to attack Raymond Wedge. Fish, using a broken axe handle, dispatched the animal before Wedge received any serious injuries. The killed snake was laid across the tailgate of a pickup truck, hanging nearly four and a half feet over both ends. The snake is approximately twenty feet long and is as thick as a grown man's thigh. Local wildlife experts are unable to identify the deformed beast, stating that it is most likely a mutated rarity. Experts from the University of Missouri and Washington University in St. Louis are expected to examine the animal within days."

Nave County Tribune, 1942

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"... and in the course of the fire that raged through western Nave County, several homes and public buildings were damaged or destroyed. Authorities report at least two dozen fatalities along with a handful of injuries; in addition, thousands of dollars worth of damage was done to personal and commercial property.

Among the destroyed residential property was the Fish family household which housed the locally renowned snake, nicknamed Granddaddy Snake, killed by Grant Fish one day prior.

Experts from the University of Missouri were expected to arrive Thursday to examine the animal’s remains, but these plans have now been canceled.

The exact cause of the fire is still unknown at this time, but early investigation seems to indicate that it started somewhere in the vicinity of the Nave Hills State Hospital, which also suffered severe damage due to its proximity to the inferno."

Mason’s Post Dispatch, 1942

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Mortimer Finch, local postman and longtime resident of Little Tree, is believed to have been caught in the fire that swept through Mason’s Post last week. He was reported missing the day after the blaze, but it took authorities nearly a week to identify his remains. As of this printing, there appears to be no evidence that suggests Finch could have started the fire. Local investigators believe he may have tried to help stop the inferno and became overwhelmed as it grew...

Nave County Tribune, 1942

*   *    *    *

"Police officer Sonny Harrison rescued Nadine Webster from a sink hole last Tuesday evening. Webster, recently adopted by Edward and Caroline Webster, was playing with the family’s dog near the edge of Soldier Creek shortly after 6:00 o’clock in the evening. The dog jumped into the water, apparently chasing an unknown wild animal; six year-old Nadine followed. As the girl exited the stream, her foot was apparently caught in a mound of clay and mud. She was unable to free herself as her feet sank deeper into the wet ground. Hearing her cries, Webster's parents immediately called the police.

Sonny Harrison, now serving his second year on the Mason's Post police department, arrived on the scene to find Nadine sinking so far into the mud that only her upper body and one arm was free.

Officer Harrison eventually pulled the girl from the sink hole and briefly warned her of the dangers of playing near water or muddy areas. She thanked him with a kiss on the cheek and promised to never go near Soldier Creek again. Officer Harrison was awarded a medal of outstanding service for his quick thinking."

Mason's Post Dispatch, 1968

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Local carpenter Nathaniel Jameson Fish is the prime suspect in the disappearance of Lucille Nichols and Sara Hornberry Thursday night. Witnesses discovered Fish unconscious and confused behind the Liberty Christian Church. Fish claimed to have been attacked as he tried to save the girls from an unidentified assailant, but he was taken into police custody. At press time, the suspect is awaiting arraignment.

Broadcast from KCIT, 1983

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"All charges against Nathaniel Fish have been dropped. Fish, who has spent the past year and a half fighting for his freedom in the case involving two missing girls from Little Tree, has no plans to move from his childhood home. A consensus of local citizens continues to believe Fish is in some way responsible for the disappearance of the girls despite mounting evidence that suggests otherwise. Some authorities believe the girls were attacked by a pack of wild dogs similar to those that tormented the area in the mid-seventies; others fear that there has been a resurgence of bobcats, which have been seen more frequently in recent years. Mason's Post Sheriff Sonny Harrison has been known to fraternize with Nathaniel Fish and his father. When asked about his connections to Fish, Harrison said only, ‘The charges have been dropped. Nate Fish is a good kid.'

Rumors suggest that Harrison is quickly approaching his final years in law enforcement due not only to his open relationship with the Fish family, but because some believe he is becoming physically incapable of performing his job due to old age."

Nave County Republican View, 1985

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"Area local Nadine Fish went missing three days ago. Authorities have searched nearby streams and lakes, but there has been no sign of the victim at the time of this report.

Some listeners might recognize Nadine Fish as the wife of once-suspected murderer Nathaniel Fish, who was thought to have been involved in the kidnapping and murdering of two local girls in 1983. Though cleared of all charges, Fish has endured over a decade of rumors and false accusations. Despite this widespread infamy, Fish kept his home in Little Tree and attempted to have a family with Nadine Fish.

Many locals compare the case of Ms. Fish to the 1993 disappearance of Mason's Post police officer Michael Sullivan as well as to a string of other missing persons reports that have been filed over the past two decades. Authorities are quick to remind citizens to stay clear of flooding creeks and high water during storms. Additionally, conservation agency representatives warn children and adults alike to never approach strange or wild animals if camping or hiking.

KCIT , 2007

1

He could never defend himself.

Nearly a dozen different children cut in front of Andrew Fish and giggled amongst themselves when he didn't do anything to defend his place in the lunch line. He didn’t excuse himself, he didn’t protest. He didn’t make a sound.

He simply didn’t defend himself.

Why would he? He never stood up for himself before, so why start now? In his thirteen years, he had been called a fat geek, a chubby nerd, a flabby dork, and a host of other more disgusting names. He swept brown locks of hair from his brow, appalled by the sweat that coated his forehead, and let his gaze drift toward the floor. Without saying anything, he simply backed away from the plates and silverware as other children jumped ahead of him.

He imagined the voice of his stoic and passive father: Turn the other cheek, don’t make trouble.

Be a good kid.

The cafeteria was filled with the aroma of burnt French fries and overcooked meat patties that may or may not have been made from beef. Andrew tried to keep his eyes on the floor, making out oddly-shaped faces and figures in the swirling designs of the old marble tiles; all he could see was his father’s knowing and persistent expression. He kept his eyes drawn to the floor and listened to the wild and stupid laughter that marked the entrance of the Higgins brothers into the cafeteria.

The entire lunch crowd seemed to suddenly still itself when the brothers roamed in with self-pleasing smiles on their faces. Andrew could never understand how these brothers had attained such a steadfast hold on the people of Nave Middle School. Not only were the children slaves to the threesome’s antics, but the teachers and administrative staff also seemed hesitant to cross any of the Higgins brothers. It was as if they had created for themselves some strange adolescent celebrity that everyone seemed to at once fear and admire. Already, Miss George seemed to be forgetting her duties as the lunchroom supervisor as she disappeared into the lounge in the far corner of the cafeteria. It seemed a kind of protective spell had been put on the boys and they were free to say or do anything they pleased.

They zeroed in on Andrew without hesitation.

Check out the Fat Fish, Boyd Higgins said through a sneer filled with brownish teeth. He held a smart phone in his hand like it was a weapon. Lookit that purple shirt! Looks like a big whale out of the water!

Brad Higgins, the tallest and least vocal of the brothers, approached Andrew without saying a word. Instead of speaking, Brad squirted a mouthful of warm water across the back of Andrew's neck and shoulders. The water traveled between his shoulder blades and headed towards the waist band of his pants.

There, he's got water.

All three brothers brayed and slapped each other on their backs.

So, Boyd said abruptly. He pressed the button on his phone and the screen lit. Without looking at what he was doing, he opened the video recorder application and was filming his moment with Andrew. This seemed his favorite way to humiliate someone. The video would be online in less than twenty minutes. He sneered at the camera. We were talking, Fat Fish, and the three of us decided that you need help losing weight.

Yeah, the short Brock Higgins squawked. He was the only brother who actually belonged in the eighth grade. Brad was a second year eighth grader, Boyd had been a seventh grader two years in a row, and their older brother Bud had been held back so many times that he had simply dropped out of school and started working part time at the hardware store. Andrew was at least grateful that the fourth brother couldn’t bother him here in the cafeteria.

Brock hooted. Gotta lose that gut, Fat Fish.

So we think you need to skip lunch today, Boyd smiled. Give us your food and you can go run some laps around the parking lot.

Whatever, Boyd. Just leave me alone.

Boyd pressed the phone against Andrew’s face and brayed along with his brothers. Andrew felt tears welling in his eyes and he cursed at himself for wanting to cry. If he broke down here, in front of everyone in the cafeteria and in front of Boyd’s stupid phone, his life was over.

He would have been content letting the Higgins brothers insult him in front of the rest of the kids. Even if the whole thing was on YouTube, Andrew would have been content as long as he didn’t cry. At least it wouldn't have gotten violent; Andrew hated physical confrontation, as he had been taught by his pacifist father, and he had done a good job avoiding it up to now. Sure, he’d had a few bruises here and there, maybe some pulled hair or a black eye; but he never participated. He never put himself in the fight. It wasn’t confrontation if he wasn’t the one throwing punches. It wasn't a confrontation if he didn't fight back.

A girl stood up behind the Higgins brothers. Leave him alone, Hogface.

She was a new student. Andrew thought her name was Greta and he also thought that was a strange name for a girl her age. Then again, Andrew's last name was Fish. No E or R at the end of his name, so he couldn’t make fun of anyone else. Greta was one of only six or seven children in the cafeteria who had dark skin not because of farm work, but due to simple genetics. This was a cultural rarity in the minute town of Little Tree, Missouri. He didn’t know exactly what her ethnicity was and it really didn’t matter.

Black pigtails protruded at odd angles from either side of her head as she crossed her arms and stared at the Higgins boys. Her hair was like a mess of carefully stilled tentacles atop her head and her green eyes burned with some feverish energy that Andrew could almost feel in the air.

What'd you say, Sunshine?

Boyd Higgins had a tendency to refer to any female, despite age or stature, as Sunshine. It was something he'd apparently learned from his own divorced father.

Is that supposed to be an insult? Greta asked.

Boyd pondered the question, as did his brothers.

You know what my last name is, Hogface?

Boyd, who may have been cursed with the largest nostrils in the entire town of Little Tree, grappled for something to say. His nose twitched and the enormous nostrils flared without any particular rhythm. Andrew could almost hear the muddled machinery in Boyd's head cranking into overdrive as he searched for a response.

Del Sol, Greta said.

Duh-who? Brad asked.

Del Sol, Greta said again, "and it means From the Sun. It's Spanish."

I knew that, Brad said, but the expression on his face said otherwise.

Shut up, Boyd said. The entire cafeteria was silent. Even the servers in the kitchen seemed to have taken cover. Andrew watched Boyd's fists clench at his sides, heard the knuckles popping. It was like watching an approaching storm and trying to guess where and when lightning might strike.

I think you're the one who needs to shut up, Greta said. Her large eyes sparkled green. It was a mesmerizing compliment to her darker complexion. You can shut up and take your precious phone someplace else.

Nobody tells me to shut up, Boyd said. Especially a burrito-rolling roach like you.

I'll make you sorry you said that, Greta hissed.

And then she did the strangest thing Andrew had ever seen.

She smiled. Despite the tension and anger, she smiled.

Andrew heard her voice in his head.

At first, he thought she had screamed at him, but her lips didn’t move. They were frozen in that tight smile, teeth flashing and eyes shimmering. But her voice echoed in his head like thunder. He grimaced at the sound, instinctively wanting to cover his ears. But as soon as he understood what the word actually was, what it meant, he moved without any more thought.

Now! her voice roared inside his mind.

Andrew acted out of impulse for the first time in his life, pushed forward by something he simply didn’t understand. He saw Boyd's hands go flying from the ready position, heard Greta physically yell; not out of fear, but more like she might be enjoying the prospect of a fight. Andrew threw his weight against Boyd just enough to offset the older boy's balance. The swinging fist meant for Greta's face missed by almost a foot and Boyd reeled forward, his momentum too great to correct. He landed face first in a plate of cold and overcooked French fries smothered in ketchup; the phone went skittering across the floor. Eddie Barker, who had only moments earlier drenched his fries in what must have been his favorite condiment, hooted and slid several feet down the lunch table's bench seat, knocking children off the end. All at once, the cafeteria was filled with the sound of laughter. Even Brad Higgins couldn't help himself; it cost him Brock’s elbow in his ribcage.

Boyd stood and tried to wipe the ketchup off with his hands. A French fry clung to his eyebrow and quivered like some strange insect as he sneered and contorted his face.

Bitch, he growled at Greta. Then he turned to face Andrew. You and your salsa girlfriend are gonna get it.

The laughter went dead and Andrew breathed a sigh of relief when Mister Hollon, the only teacher in school with the backbone to discipline the Higgins boys, appeared in the doorway to the cafeteria. He taught eighth grade English and was fond of putting clever movie quotes on the scrolling screensaver of his computer in the classroom. But he had a way of exuding a fearless and unrelenting authority over troublesome students. He was more commanding than the actual principal, Mr. Crawford. Hollon’s confidence was especially effective on the Higgins boys.

It was a trait Andrew wished his own father possessed.

Each Higgins brother turned his attention to Hollon, who glared at the boys disapprovingly. As he slowly approached the brothers, he bent and retrieved the phone from the floor.

Is there a problem, Boyd Higgins? Hollon asked. His voice was deep and somehow overwhelming, like a truck engine in the middle of night.

I tripped, Boyd said. Fell and landed in that kid's plate. That's the only problem.

Why don't you bring Eddie a new plate of food so he can enjoy the rest of lunch? Hollon asked. And then you and your brothers can wait at the end of the line like everyone else. Your phone will be in the office after school.

Boyd nodded and went to the front of the line. He returned carrying a plate full of french fries and a plastic cup filled with ketchup. Eddie hesitantly received the food. Then Boyd glanced at Andrew and mouthed a phrase that sent chills down Andrew's arms.

By the time Andrew got his plate of food, the lunch shift was nearly over and Greta Del Sol had already disappeared to whatever class she had after lunch. He wanted to talk to her, ask her if she had somehow screamed into his head like some mutant superhero. It was insane, but he knew it had happened. He could still hear the word echoing even as he walked across the immense and chaotic room. He sat down in his corner of the cafeteria, where the rest of the quiet and socially rejected children either chose or were forced to sit. They stared at him and avoided him more than usual; it was as if his encounter with Boyd might draw more trouble to them. He was marked, now, and they would all do whatever necessary to avoid the wrath of a Higgins brother.

Mister Hollon stayed in the cafeteria for the rest of the shift and the Higgins boys never once acknowledged Andrew again until the bell rang and everyone was milling around, hesitant to go back to class.

Boyd Higgins glared at Andrew from across the crowd, almost a full head taller than everyone besides Brad Higgins, and mouthed the words again.

You're dead.

2

Greta Del Sol couldn’t concentrate in Art class. Sitting at the old slanted drawing desk near the back of the room and staring at a blank sheet of paper, she still felt the raw energy and anger that had surged through her body at lunch. It was like she’d stuck her finger into an electrical socket and somehow retained the jolt of electricity. It vibrated in the back of her head, made her heart race, and tensed every muscle.

Ms. Del Sol, the teacher said, we’re just sketching the first thing we saw this morning.

Her name was Mrs. McNeilsen and she was a talented artist herself. While the students worked, she walked about the room with a sketchpad of her own. Greta liked the woman, but she simply didn’t feel like working right now.

I know, ma’am, Greta said, gripping the graphite pencil in her left hand and trying to concentrate on the assignment.

Mrs. McNeilsen stopped walking and spoke to the entire class. Remember, I’m not asking you to create a masterpiece right now. That comes later. Right now, I just want you to think about what you’ve seen today. What was the first thing you saw after waking up? How did it look in the morning light? What do your memories tell you? If it helps, just shut your eyes and think for a few minutes.

Greta tapped the pencil on the blank paper a few times, then let her eyes close. The darkness seemed ablaze, as if her mind could not clear itself. She clenched her eyelids tighter and tried to take a few deep breaths. The electric haze that had taken control of her body seemed to settle and then dissipate. The darkness was hers again, an empty theater in which she could replay memories of the day. At the same time, she felt her hand begin to move, clutching the pencil like it might try to run away if she didn’t hold it tight enough.

What she remembered was her new mother sleeping on a couch that belonged to a friend from work. Greta had only been with her new family for a few weeks, yet she already knew how things would end. Her new father, Ron Martinez, was a fighter. He was an unassuming barbarian in a janitor’s uniform. The skin on his knuckles was like old, dry leather, ridged like a crocodile’s back. Those knuckles liked to dance on faces and last night, before Louisa Martinez had taken Greta away from her new home, the knuckles did a two-step on Louisa’s brow. He was an angry drunk who liked to hit things and hurt people.

What Greta saw this morning was her new mother lying on a yellow couch; she was wrapped in old blankets and the dawning light had made the raised mound of flesh around the woman’s eye seem somehow magical and unreal. When Louisa stirred, and the light struck her face from the side, Greta realized the severity of the injury. But the horrid implications of that moment went running away when Louisa opened her good eye. Good morning, Greta.

The soothing sound of her mother’s voice made Greta take another deep breath. As the air escaped through her lips, she opened her eyes and stared at the paper. It was no longer blank.

No, she whispered.

A man’s face stared back at her. Had it been the strangely concave and unshaven face of Ron Martinez, she might have understood the reason she’d drawn the portrait. Or if it had been the face of that jerk Boyd from lunch, she would have smiled and crumpled the paper before throwing it into the trashcan.

But this was different.

The face wasn’t unfamiliar; yet she had never seen the man in person. Even though the drawing was in gray and white, she could easily imagine his hair a striking red and his skin like cream, veins pulsing just beneath the surface. He scowled with heartless blue eyes that seemed like tunnels into someplace awful, bright at the edges but black in the centers.

Oh my, Mrs. McNeilsen said. She stooped over Greta’s desk and stared at the drawing with a broad smile. That’s a wonderful drawing, Greta! Dark, but wonderful. I didn’t know you were so artistic. Maybe we can display this at Halloween?

I’m not artistic, Greta said. She stared at the drawing in horror and felt like screaming. She whispered. I’ve never been able to draw.

Well, this picture proves otherwise, the teacher said.

Greta dropped the pencil and wiped the graphite from her fingers. Other children had stopped their work and were coming to examine the drawing she had somehow created.

No, she hadn’t created it. Greta decided she didn’t make this picture. It had made itself and used her as a tool; it was the only way she could have drawn his face.

Looking at the paper was like looking through a window, peering into a place that was just beyond her reach.

Who is it? asked one of the students sitting beside her.

She shrugged and stepped away from the desk. She knew, but she could never explain to them who this man was or how she knew him.

I don’t know. It just kind of came to me.

3

They waited like the predators they were, hiding behind the Stock Rite grocery store's west wall until Andrew passed with his book bag slung over one shoulder. The other shoulder strap had snapped long ago and he never got a chance to buy a new bag. Sometimes it made his back hurt and he had to shift from one arm to the other almost every fifteen or twenty paces. He was in mid-shift when the Higgins brothers cried out.

Fat Fish!

At the sound of that hoarse voice, Andrew dropped his book bag and broke into a stumbling sprint, never looking back. With his arms flying in the air uncontrollably and his heart thrumming in his chest, he tried to outrun the older boys. The sound of their bikes, the way the wheels screamed and grated between the ancient brake pads, reminded Andrew Fish of blood-crazed wolves howling after their prey. At some point the Higgins brothers had decided new phones and MP3 players were more important than bicycles and books. The discordant noise of the tires made Andrew's head ache.

He'd never had to run for his life before today (and he was unaware that it would happen again within the next twenty-four hours). Perhaps he was a better runner than any of the children in PE had led him to believe. The wind wrapped itself around his flushed face and made a whistling sound in his ears.

Slow down, Fat Fish! one of the brothers screamed. We just want to play!

We don't want to hurt you or anything, another boy yelled, then the air crackled with their stupid laughter.

The few people he spotted from the corner of his eye as he darted down the street seemed unalarmed at the sight of the boys on their bicycles chasing Andrew. They knew he was the son of Nate Fish, so why bother helping? Probably served him right, he probably had it coming to him, he was just that Fish kid, anyway. The apple didn't fall far from the tree, right? Andrew felt like screaming at the unmoving spectators, telling them how wrong they were about his poor father. They were like the Higgins brothers; the boys knew his father through their own father’s eyes, through rumors that had been twisted by time and turned into stories that weren’t even real.

At the edge of town was the small house where he lived with his single father, where he hid in his bedroom and read books or wrote useless stories to avoid the uncomfortable and awkward life of general silence with Nate Fish. Andrew gazed at the house and felt like crying if he wasn't already.

He could go inside and lock the door and they wouldn't be able to –

No, he thought. No! Oh, please, no!

Nate Fish was gone.

The driveway was empty and Nate Fish was gone.

The doors were locked because Nate Fish didn't trust anyone in Little Tree to stay out of his personal belongings. A sudden and shameful rage fell over Andrew like a heated blanket.

His father was always gone. He did odd jobs in the surrounding towns and counties, working for the few people who either didn’t know him well enough to form a negative opinion about him or were so desperate for a decent carpenter that they didn’t care if he was the outcast and reclusive object of gossip in Little Tree.

Forget about the thirteen-year-old boy who was, by simple association, an outcast within his own school and hometown, the child who carried his father's legacy like the weight of a dozen bricks on his shoulders. Leave home and leave the child by himself with a single key that was attached to the zipper of his book bag which was now sitting like a sack of trash on the side of the street a half into town.

Andrew thought about looking over his shoulder to see if he could spot the bag, though he knew it was too far away by now. Instead, he ran past the house where he should have been able to retreat to safety and headed into the field beyond his home. The grass was tall because no one tended to this particular pasture anymore. It belonged to his father, which would explain the way it had been discarded and forgotten; he felt a bolt of anger slice through his head as he thought such bitter things about his own dad. But it was true, even Andrew knew it was true; so many things in Nate Fish’s life ended up that way, set aside as other projects became more important, forgotten about over time and left broken or unfinished. There was a constantly growing mountain of more important jobs or tasks and Andrew felt as though he was always stuck at the bottom, unable to claw his way to the top so he could reclaim his father's attention.

His dad always warned not to wander too far into the grass because there were snakes. At one time, the area had been infested with rattle snakes, though Andrew had only seen one of the creatures once as a younger child. At the moment, Andrew could care less about snakes. In fact, he'd take six snakes instead of the screaming boys on their wailing bikes chasing him over the ditch and into the pasture.

After Andrew leapt across the ditch and scurried over the ancient wooden fence, he heard one of the bikes tumble into the grass. Andrew glanced behind for a moment and saw it was Brad, the tall