Authors: Don Hurst
Cloud Riders (4 page)
The fence could be found at the edge of Morristown Forest, at the end of Gable Avenue, the same street where his human lived. Iron bar points not quite as sharp as the tips of his two magnificent protruding fangs ran along the top of the rusted iron.
He remembered roaming the mansion's perimeter one night when some boys hurled rocks over the fence at the mansion. Front window glass shattered with a tinkling fracture. This puzzled him. He couldn't put his claw between the fence's uprights because of an invisible barrier, yet the boys’ rocks easily sailed over the iron bars. In cat fascination, he watched as they ran, laughing, yet in obvious fear of the human inside the old building. He stared at the broken window. The pane of glass became whole, healing itself.
With thoughts of the rocks soaring past the fence, Isno decided to give bounding over it another try. Being the greatest cat in the world, giving up didn't seem to be an option. Toward the mansion fence, Isno ran faster than if dog-chased. His yellow eyes were on the target of his leap, about a dog or so above the pointed bar tips. He leaped high into the air, easily clearing the fence points and smacked into the invisible barrier. It didn't frighten him. He had tried many times before, only to collide into the same hidden obstacle, bounce off and land back on the ground; each time with a screech of disappointment. Why couldn't he jump over the dog-darn fence if boys could lob rocks over it? How could it defeat him each time? It defied his considerable cat logic.
"Isno Gravity. Would you like to come in?"
Isno leaped sideways and defensively rolled over on his back, his claws bared and scratching the air to ward off a would-be attacker, his cat heart almost giving up one of his lives. The voice had come from the fence itself and had scared him beyond all cat reason. Isno realized his intelligence far exceeded any other living thing in existence; not to mention all non-living things. Well, if a fence wanted to talk to him he would talk back. “In come I?"
Isno's ears popped out from their flat-against-his-head attack-protected mode into their fully extended listening position. Did he say that aloud? In an almost human-like voice? Surely it couldn't be. He tried again. “I in come?"
"Saturday night,” the fence said. “The fence master will lower his guard to allow human Paul Winsome to enter."
"Talk I am always want,” Isno said with immense cat glee. “Be happy I. Fence? Cat me. My human? Hear?"
"I would not know. I am a fence.” The fence laughed. “Get it? I am a fence. And I said—"
"Human my. Hear?” Isno repeated, not sure if the fence had heard his first try.
The fence sighed. “Your human will hear before Saturday has expired."
"Talk I?” Joy raced through the cat more pleasurable than teasing dogs or catching birds. He purred through a cat smile. “Talk I."
"Saturday night. Be late and you will find a shut gate."
"Leap I?"
"Listen, Isno Gravity. Did I not say
gate
?"
"Say you."
"If you wish to enjoy the gifts of speech you must first learn to listen, Isno Gravity. You know how aptly you are named. Would it not be pleasurable to be able to thank the boy who gave you your splendid name?” The fence fell silent for a long moment before asking, “How will you enter?"
"Gate. How cat I?"
"The opportunity will present itself as Paul Winsome enters. And so, we arrive at an understanding, Isno Gravity. I believe I have a treat for you which will forever bring you pleasure when remembered, provided the predictions are correct. It is all up to your human, Paul Winsome. If he fails, we will no longer have the pleasure of life."
Isno purred, until his above average cat mind replayed the fence's words.
If he fails, we will no longer have the pleasure of life.
Saturday morning sunlight filtered through the Venetian blinds and filled Vicki's bedroom. She awoke and found Paul sleeping in her overstuffed chair next to the room's window.
"Paulie. Wake up.” She shook Paul's shoulder. “Why are you sleeping here?"
Paul awoke thinking he would find himself in his own bed. Instead he sat in the comfortable chair next to Vicki's bedroom window. Then he remembered. “I had a dream. Don't laugh, Sis. You were being kidnapped... by a gorilla."
She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. “Wake up, my King. Your queen is safe and the gorilla has been returned to the zoo."
Vicki's amused-puzzled look made Paul feel silly. “We don't need to mention this to Dad, right?” A blush heated his face and migrated to his ears.
"I'll make it a point.” She giggled.
Paul raised from the chair and started to leave.
"Paulie,” she whispered and Paul paused at the door. “Thank you."
Paul returned to his room with a smile branded onto his face. Perhaps no one ever acted so goofy about a dream. His dad once said: ‘If you never make a mistake, you have never tried to do anything.’ A big shadow called Claude Nab saying it ingested little girls? Another of his dad's teachings: ‘Humor cures even itself.’ He'd have to ask his dad what he meant, but figured it somehow fit the present situation.
Afternoon smiled with springtime blue skies and puffy clouds as Paul walked to Morristown Park with his dad, Harry Winsome. They enjoyed the Saturday ritual whenever Harry proclaimed it to be a cloud-riding sky, a day to allow the imagination to identify cloud shapes. Sitting on a secluded park grassy hillside, they watched billowing clouds drift across the sky, distant winds changing their shapes.
Studying clouds might sound boring to some of his schoolmates if he chose to tell them about these Saturday outings with his dad, but such outings were totally fascinating when viewed with someone as imaginative as Harry Winsome. Paul especially liked the vantage point of the grassy hill. Free from any auto traffic and its fumes, the grass aroma perfumed the senses.
"That one looks like a fat monster,” Paul said, pointing to a large white shifting shape. “Like maybe he'd like to gobble up all the other clouds around him."
"And what does the cloud beside your monster look like, Son?"
"Like a horse on steroids."
Harry laughed. “It could be a unicorn. Your oversized monster might be an oversized leprechaun.” He smiled. “On steroids.” He grinned and touched Paul's shoulder. “What do you see now?"
"Still see a fat monster and a big old horse."
"Your perception is your reality. And if your monster gobbled up my unicorn, what would you have then? A monster with a horn?"
They fell back against the grass. For the hundredth time Harry Winsome talked about perception being reality. Yet his dad tried to tell him something of more importance, a teaching beyond the fun they enjoyed on their ritual outing—a lesson more serious than determining the shape of a fat cloud monster and an oversized cloud horse.
"Is there more, Dad?"
"Time is a mysterious traveler, Son. We ride within its boundaries, an illusion-filled journey delivering its answers on its own schedule."
"You're telling me to wait and the answer will come in time?"
"In what we call time."
They laughed. His dad could be so funny and serious at the same moment. He asked his mother about it once and she answered, “Paul, your father is a complex man. It's not for us to know, darling. We just have to listen and learn.” She smiled and patted him on his head, as if she had provided the wealth of knowledge necessary to understand the intricate diversities of Harry Winsome.
As Harry studied the clouds, Paul scooted over next to him. He lifted himself off the grass, rapped his arms around Harry's shoulders and attempted to push him backward onto the grass. He instantly found himself turned onto his back and plopped to the ground, one of Harry's hands pushing on his chest to hold him down, Paul again the defeated wrestler. The ritual always ended in the same way, his dad's move quick and almost embarrassingly easy for him to accomplish.
"One is never defeated when one keeps trying,” Harry said.
Sure, like Paul would ever be the one to do the pinning. Maybe if he could get the unicorn cloud of his dad's to come down and help him. Use his horn to pin him to the ground while Paul's horse on steroids came to sit on his legs.
"There will come a day when you will understand just how important the cloud shapes are, Son.” He allowed Paul to sit back up and gave his shoulder a friendly slap, but his expression implied seriousness beyond their banter. “But we have to leave that for another day."
Paul and Harry returned home late in the afternoon and met his mother at the entrance, white-faced and distressed.
"Paul, could you please leave your father and me alone for a few minutes?” Betty asked in an urgent voice. “I need to talk to your father.” Her lips flashed a smile which didn't quite work.
Harry's nod toward Paul made it an order.
"Okay. I'll go up and talk to Vicki."
"She's not there,” Betty said.
Paul climbed the stairs and checked Vicki's room. The late afternoon sunlight lit up her bedroom, a floodlight illuminating her absence. Her computer screen was blank, television turned off, and her cell phone abandoned next to it. He closed the door quietly, as if not wanting anyone to hear.
In his room, his stomach squeezed; a scared feeling taking over his day. Vicki and his parents smiled down from the photograph above his desk.
"Son, I'm coming in.” Harry Winsome knocked once, opened the door and strode in. The expression on his face almost matched the one his mother wore earlier. He pushed a folded piece of paper toward Paul. Its yellow tinge made it look quite old.
Paul almost ripped it in his rush to unfold it. The note was handwritten with script as precise as the writing examples posted in his English class.
Paul Winsome.
Come at once.
Yours in wisdom,
Maken Fairchild.
"The guy in the haunted house?” Paul's voice and eyes pleaded. “Dad?"
"Vicki is missing, Son,” Harry said, lines of worry creasing his brow and the skin around his eyes.
"Does this Maken Fairchild have her?” Paul jumped to his feet. “Does he?” He felt ready to tackle a bear. “Shouldn't you call the police, Dad? Do you think she went into the forest?” His voice vibrated with panic. “How come this note is so old?” He stared at it, then back to Harry, then back at the writing. The words remained the same.
"Paul, listen carefully.” Harry placed a hand on his shoulder. “You asked this afternoon, if there was more. The time has arrived to teach you about entering a period in your life which will test everything you accept as reality."
"Is that why you don't call the police?” Paul looked into his dad's eyes. “If the guy in that haunted old house has her, the police have guns and stuff.” He stared directly into Harry's eyes. “Dad, it's Vicki."
"You need to go to the mansion at once and make yourself available to Maken Fairchild. It is the only way, Son. Trust me.” Harry's gaze held Paul with an intenseness he had seldom seen before. “It's a test I went through when I was fifteen. It is a calling which cannot be ignored. I made a mistake, Son. I assumed your lesson would come—"
"But, I'm only fourteen,” Paul said and immediately regretted his words. What did it matter? “Does Mother know where Vicki is?"
"Son, if she did, your sister would be here with us. You will go to the Fairchild mansion and follow Maken Fairchild's directions.” He squeezed Paul's shoulder. “For your sister's sake, trust me. Knowledge comes to those who seek it out.” He lifted his hands, palms up, indicating helplessness Paul never saw before. “I wish I could help. Everything depends on you. Sometimes responsibility is thrust upon those least expecting it."
"Shouldn't we call the police first? Maybe they should go and question him. Dad, some of the kids at school say he's a werewolf. Or a vampire. A serial killer or—"
Harry Winsome put one finger to his lips to cut off Paul's litany. “Yours is a danger greater than most boys will ever have to face. All I have taught you has been in preparation for this moment. Go. Now."
"Aren't you coming with me?"
"This is your turn. Please trust me."
Paul walked slowly to stretch out the short walk to the end of Gable Avenue and the huge old house which looked like it should have fallen down years ago. He stood outside the long iron fence pegs, looked around and saw his cat sitting nearby, watching him. Probably Isno thought no one would feed him if Paul found himself killed trying to save Vicki. “Isno. Good to see you, friend."
The cat blinked and stared at him.
"Well, wish me luck."
The rusty gate groaned as Paul opened it far enough to slip through. The Victorian structure gave the impression of being several houses stacked one upon another, rotted timbers ready to fracture and crumble the building forward to crush Paul.
A blur of fur streaked through the closing gate. “Darn, Isno! You scared me.” As the gate clanged shut, Paul watched Isno sprint across the brown dead grass and disappear around the corner of the huge building.
Walking toward the porch, his footprints made Paul doubt a broom had touched the brick pathway in a decade. Overgrown flowers framed the walkway and leaned toward him, as if reaching to grab his feet. At the bottom of the stairs, he took several deep breaths to battle his churning stomach, caused partly from being startled by Isno, but more about his unknown future. Thinking about Vicki returned his resolve. He didn't care about scary Maken Fairchild, if the mysterious man had Vicki. Paul would find a way to bring her back home.
Paul climbed the wooden stairs, testing each step to see if it would crumble under his weight. Peeling, cracked gray paint, and splintered wood siding made the building look decayed and ready to collapse. Dirt-streaked shuttered windows didn't look like they would permit light in or out. Anyone would have been scared to visit the mansion. The horror stories he'd heard at school about Maken Fairchild were alarming, and being next to the Morristown Forest made it all the more creepy.
