Story of Thomas

By Scott Patrick

The emotional and spiritual challenges a daughter and her father face after the tragic loss of their family inspire, create, and transform an imaginary world. In this world, Shari, the time-traveling Gypsy, teams up with Thomas to help an innocent boy find his way home. In the real world, Thomas and his daughter, Shari, slowly grow closer to the peace and happiness that were stripped from their lives. Shari escapes into the world she creates through her sketches. These sketches come to life and change the world of imagination, as well as the troubled world that Shari and Thomas must live. It may be that the lines between the real and the imagined are not so hard to cross. This is a story of truth, faith, love, and hope. This is the story of Thomas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887636900

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1: Timothy

Chapter 2: The Beach

Chapter 3: Thomas

Chapter 4: The Key

Chapter 5: The Clock

Chapter 6: The Cat

Chapter 7: Seventy-seven

Chapter 8: The Reflection

Chapter 9: Emma

Chapter 10: The Canyon of Doom

Chapter 11: The Field of Coal

Chapter 12: Jack

Chapter 13: The House of Light

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Story of Thomas

Scott Patrick

Copyright © 2023 Scott Patrick

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88763-689-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88763-690-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

Timothy

When the Magnificent Majestic lifted sails and began to move out of the harbor, Timothy watched in wonder. How do those people find the courage to set off on such a perilous journey? I could never do that, he said to himself with just a whisper. Most of the harbor was cleared to make room for the larger ship to sail. There were only a few small white sails out past the point. There was nothing out past the horizon but the hot sun and the tiny reflections from distant swells. Timothy sat down on the small dock. The large planks were solid and comfortable. He was in a safe and familiar place where he cautiously neglected the tiny sticks he played with so he could watch the Magnificent Majestic sail away.

There were three little sticks. They were a horse, a dog, and a girl named Scarecrow. With slight glances as he played, Timothy watched the bulging birth and tight sails of the Magnificent Majestic shrink toward the swollen orange sun until it was no larger than the sticks he played with. He always loved to watch her leave, but he didn't wave anymore. He didn't even pretend anyone could see him. He was just a little boy made out of sticks, his mom would say.

Before the ship was past the fingers of land that protected the bay, Timothy was lost in play. One of the sticks looked vaguely like a horse, if a horse had two heads and only one front leg. The second stick looked just like a dog. It was even black with two holes for eyes. The dog's name was Jack. The girl named Scarecrow was just a straight stick with bark peeled up to look like hair. These were the three little sticks that chased Timothy's day into the dim dusk light.

Timothy would see the giant ship named Magnificent Majestic again, but this was the last day he would feel the safety of the familiar dock just down the rocky hill from his house. If he would have known, he might have put a splinter in his pocket so he would remember when he was just a little boy made out of sticks, playing on a wooden dock with little sticks. By morning, he would be on an amazing adventure and would never see that dock again.

That's not a horse! That's a dog! Dogs are for barking! Horses are for riding! Don't you know anything, Scarecrow? Timothy shouted. Then he leaned back and laughed as if Scarecrow the Stick had said something funny.

Timothy's mom stepped out of the house onto the porch where she could just hear her precious son's voice over the waves. This was the way she would know he was okay. The sun was going down, and the tide was coming in, but Timothy was a good boy. He never broke the rules. He knew to be in before dark.

She let a smile lift one side of her face and listened for a bit while she watched the setting sun from the porch. She patted her damp hands onto her apron. Then with love in her heart and posture like a marble statue, she stepped out of the amber light and walked back into the house to finish dinner—never to see her son again.

It was like the giant ship had somehow taken the steady warm breeze aboard and sailed away with it. The air became still, and Timothy lined up his little sticks and began teaching Scarecrow how to dance. He had the rhythm of a wind chime, but Scarecrow didn't mind. To Timothy, she danced along with him.

Jack the Dog barked like he had created the universe and needed to tell someone in one syllable or less, like dogs do. The horse ran in circles, prancing and dancing too. Then that quick gust of wind that sometimes charges down the mountain behind took the liberty of sweeping the sticks off the dock. Timothy gasped in shock to see his friends fall to the rocks and waves below.

There was no way to save them. Caught up in his imaginary world, Timothy quickly stepped over to the edge of the dock. Close to the edge, the thick boards nagged a warning, squeaking a protest. Timothy stopped and peered down, leaning as far as his courage would allow.

He was afraid of heights and knew that another gust of wind could easily tip him into the abyss. They were sticks he had found only that morning, but he had grown fond of them. He had worked hard with dirty fingernails to scrape and make up Scarecrow's hair just right, fluffy and wild. Maybe that's why the wind took her. It was his fault, he thought. He had to save her.

It was easy to let the horse go from his mind. It was just a stick and didn't even really look like a horse, but he would never find another stick that looked just like a dog. It even had a name, just like Scarecrow. He had to save Jack the Dog and Scarecrow or at least try.

Timothy stepped back and looked over at the sun, taking note that the Magnificent Majestic was just a tiny dot dipping behind the swells close to the horizon. The sun was red but still left that magical amber light. He had just over an hour. There was time.

With a sun sparkle still in his eye, he started down the dock toward the beach; he kept one eye on the waves slicing across the rocks and one eye on the house above. Then something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He stopped to look. His sticks were there, floating all together. They were blown a lot farther away than he had guessed, but they were all still together.

What luck! he thought. They were even close to a boulder. Timothy shouted, Scarecrow! and turned again to run to the end of the dock.

It was a simple task to scramble down to the waterline. Tossing sand with his toes behind him, Timothy danced over the small rocks and slinked like an eel around the larger boulders. Grown men would have trouble racing across this rocky shore, but Timothy had spent his whole life here and knew every tricky path.

Simple sometimes comes at a terrible price, however, and Timothy yelped when he tore his pant leg on a barnacle. A hermit crab at his feet slurped scornfully back into its stolen shell, but Timothy ignored it as he passed. Mom is going to kill me, he thought, slipping his finger into the tear in his pants.

The foamy water was now splashing between the rocks and over his feet, and Timothy only had one last large boulder to climb. Once atop the boulder, Timothy caught the sun and had to lower his head and pull his brow down as a shield. The glare of the dimming sun was still fierce, blinding. It was mocking him, daring him to swim out blindly.

The boulders acted like a barrier, and the water on the seaside was only a couple of feet deep, but Timothy didn't know how to swim. The tide was also coming in, and with each wave, this adventure became even more treacherous. On the boulder he was safe but wouldn't be for long. Soon he wouldn't be able to cross back, and a larger wave might even soak him.

Carefully scanning the seemingly perilous shallow water with its endless train of sticks and foam, he spotted the trio of sticks he meant to save from the helpless march down the shore or out to sea. Timothy shouted again in desperation, Scarecrow! I can't swim! His hopes of saving them were fading.

A piece of his heart was left broken, heavy and dangling, smashing against his chest like a mallet on a drum. He couldn't reach them and knew he had to turn back. With one last fold of his imagination, he stretched his hand out. The setting sun was both sitting just above his fingers and reflecting off the water beyond.

Scarecrow, he moaned.

Scarecrow, boomed an echo off the air itself and caused Timothy to finish the folds and perk up to listen. His eyes still on the sea, he watched his friends lift and fall behind a swell, out of sight and out of reach.

The odd echo was still on his mind as a wave pushed all the way up to his fingers and splashed on either side of the rock like a giant seal spitting out its nostrils. He put his folded imagination in his pocket and sat up straight atop his rocky perch to look around and behind him. The echo had no explanation, and he couldn't do anything from where he was.

Never turn your back on the sea, he heard his mom say in the back of his mind. He had to time it just right now. To make it back to safety without being drenched up to his waist, he had to splash with one foot into the receding foam and the other onto the wet sand just as the bubbles burped from the tiny sand clams living below. With a small skip and a careful scramble, he could slink his way around the boulders and back to safety. He calculated the simple task in his mind and decided to wait for the next wave. This gave him time to look around and wonder at the booming echo he had imagined.

He sat with his back to the sea and listened while he looked around. His first thought was that his mom had called him, but he could see the house, and she wasn't there. The porch sat lonely on the side of the rocky hill. There was no red hair flowing off his mom's head while she swung the big wooden spoon around in circles in the air. That was good news because Timothy knew he was breaking the rules, if only a bit. However, it still left the mystery of the boom.

The wooden planks of the trail to the house were clear as well; only they weren't lonely. A few gulls had gathered for a rest in hopes they would get a taste of some leftover dinner. Fat chance, Timothy thought, suddenly feeling aware of the curl and rumble in his stomach. He was hungry as he listened to the suck of the wave making ready for another try at pushing this big boulder up the beach.

In his memory, the sound from a minute ago was starting to take other forms. It was definitely a word, Scarecrow, but it sounded like an angry old crow, stuck in a barrel. That was a distinct possibility, but a quick scan of the shore eliminated that. There was nothing under the dock either. It could have come from the sky. It sounded like it was in the air itself.

Timothy looked up at the sky as the wave crashed against the rocks along the shore. It swallowed his path and lapped at the rocks before him with a tongue of cool foamy water. Timothy crouched, braced for the leap. This was the time. By chance, a pink puff of cloud formed the shape of a doorway above. Timothy smirked. The doorway of hope, he said to himself so the cloud would likely hear him. The cloud shape didn't last, just like they never did, but Timothy missed it slowly changing into the shape of a wing like they sometimes do.

A tiny bug had fluttered to a landing on the tip of his nose, causing him to flinch and brush it with his sleeve. There was no time to be bothered, and Timothy frowned. The wave swell was shrinking back down the patch of sand below him. He leaped from the boulder to follow his carefully calculated path.

The foam passed, and the tiny sand bubbles popped, but Timothy's foot didn't splash. His other foot never stomped the sand. Timothy was gone. There was only a tiny bug, slightly bothered, and perhaps bewildered because it had lost its place to land as well.

*****

Scarecrow! The word came muffled and hollow. It was followed with the hollow thumping on the door. Shari had only let her head submerge in the water seconds ago, so there were still bubbles trapped, popping, trying to find an escape from her ears. Only part of her hair stuck out of the water. It was puffy and wild, half drooping on a block of wet bun like a ship with furled sails coursing across the still foamy bath water. The rest of her hair floated around her forehead like seaweed around an island.

Up on the side of the tub, one small hand casually held a sketchbook with brass ringlets. Up on the other side of the tub, another small hand rested with Hello Kitty fingernails gripping a large pink pen. They looked like two soldiers dancing on the seashore, one holding a flag and the other a spear, with a ship sailing between them.

The rest of Shari's body was submerged, even her feet. A few bubbles escaped from her ears and nose to give away her location as if she was a mermaid swimming under the water behind the ship. She blew a few more out her mouth and imagined them popping at the surface like balloons that had escaped to the clouds. Only the dolphins can swim as fast as a mermaid can, she thought, letting go of a few more balloons. Her eyes were closed, and she ignored her dad until she heard the thumping again.

Scarecrow, and a couple more thumps. He wasn't angry. That was a good sign. He was usually angry at something or other. Things that sometimes didn't make much sense but made to sound incredibly important.

She swished her knees back and forth together and felt the still-warm water turn to waves over her forehead. She had a few seconds and still had breath to hold. Imagining the sunset over the sea in a faraway land, she barely twitched her fingers. The pen looked like it was drawing in the air, maybe a doorway to a castle or a bird with outstretched wings.

Thomas rested his fingers on the long brass door handle. It was against the rules to lock any door in the house. Shari had found that out the hard way, and Thomas remembered with regret the night he kicked the bedroom door open. He knew it would be unlocked, but he hesitated.

The bathroom was off limits as a common rule, and he didn't want to poke in on his daughter. There were several nights when she had to rescue him from the floor, but he didn't really remember those days well. He had never actually seen his daughter naked since she was a baby. As far as he knew, her skin looked like Hello Kitty pajamas. They never really saw each other at all anymore. Running late, he hesitated a moment more.

Gripping the handle slightly, he pushed down and was thankful it wasn't locked. There was a continuous string of shame wound into a ball next to his heart. He hadn't been outwardly mad in a while, and he feared that string. He didn't want that string caught on a door handle and pulled out, piling up into a mess.

He hesitated a second longer and pushed the door in, careful to keep it only a crack. Scarecrow, he said with as much temperament and kindness as he could muster.

He heard the water splash like a dog jumping in a mud puddle. He bit his bottom lip, waiting for the bark. More splashing, and she yelled, Dad! He kept the door cracked. He could see lipstick drawings on the fogged-up mirror. It was a hermit crab blowing bubbles and snapping at some seagulls. At least that was what it looked like. He didn't have much time to study it.

I'm in the bath! she yelled, sounding out the words like she was telling a child to get out of the road. He lowered his head and averted his eyes even though he couldn't see anything anyway. Looking down the hallway, he watched the cat cross from the living room to the kitchen on some devious task, probably bored and annoyed at all the sound.

He was running late but pulled his voice into a patient trot. If his voice was a horse, it wasn't well trained, and his voice cracked with the strain. I'm going to Amanda and Avery's for coffee.

Thomas didn't like the idea of leaving her alone, especially in the bath. She was all he had left besides the fluffy orange-and-white cat that was now busy smashing its face into the leg of the kitchen table. He could lose the cat, but he couldn't lose her. She was twelve, however, and much wiser than he was.

Okay, Dad, Shari said.

Looking up at the sound of her voice and seeing only the foggy mirror with the hermit crab, Thomas added through the cracked door, I'll be back in about an hour.

Okay, Shari said with a hint of kindness. Then, Close the door! she snapped, and Thomas obeyed. The light from the bathroom still filled his eyes, leaving him stumped in the suddenly dark hallway. He reached across and flicked on the hall light so that the same thing wouldn't happen to Shari.

The cat, apparently bored in the kitchen too, decided to meet him in the hallway as he passed. Thomas reached down and scratched its head a few times. Keep an eye on her, he said and wiped his hand down its back. Using its tail like a soft tentacle to grip his ankle, the cat purred, clearly not minding such a simple task while napping.

When the door closed, Shari reached over and set her sketchbook on the seat of the toilet. The pink fur, which her dad hated so much but pretended to like, smashed under the weight, like a thousand tiny slaves bent over to the task of carrying their queen. Water dripped from her elbow onto the pink fur mat on the floor when she carefully reached over to place her pen next to the book. Then she slid back down into the water, up to her chin, and smiled.

She tried to remember the last time that her dad was happy, but the thought brought a tear to the place just behind her eyes. He wasn't exactly happy, and he wasn't exactly mad. They were both in that place where sadness smashed from all sides, and any emotion could squeeze out like frosting from a pastry bag in the hands of a crying lunatic. Shari could escape into her sketches, paintings, puzzles, and patchwork; but her dad walked a fine line as if he wanted to fall off but couldn't find the courage.

Shari was outwardly happy, cautiously proud, and secretly scared that her dad had found a couple of friends his age