The Lonely Old Man - Part IV

Tale #1 (continued)

A great whooping and hollering went up from the rest of us. Sand led the charge. I followed close behind, breathless with excitement and smiling from one ear to the other. The stars atop the water now died in a glorious supernova of splashing, diving, and a constant barrage of those falling from the rope above.      

The grass was soft and it was warmed by the sun. We dried ourselves upon it, sprawled in various starfish-shaped patterns. I thought this because my father once showed me illustrations of starfish in a picture book. He had seen them during the first war when he was in the navy. And so, lying beside the wandering river Red, I imagined us children as a congregation of spiny starfish on the sea floor. But I knew starfish would never learn to appreciate warm grass and towels. Without hesitation, I leapt to my feet, ran across the lawn, and cast myself upon the gravel and clay-sand. The water chuckled and combed my boyish locks.

The other children shouted, "What are you doing?" 

I smiled at the sun and simply wiggled my fingers and toes. I was a starfish.  

After a minute or so, the pebbles began to feel like mountains under my back. So I crawled into the current to wash off and then rejoined a few of the others on a grassy knoll that rose slightly from the rest of the green. I ignored their looks and sat down with an absentminded sigh. I plucked a tiny wildflower from the assortment of grasses. The petals were bright purple and became darker when I crushed them with my fingernail.  

"You were lying on the rocks." 

I looked up; Rosaline had said it. 

We all called her Rosie, despite her mother's attempts to keep it according to tradition. She had wavy chestnut hair that flowed well past her shoulders and chalk skin that never seemed to darken. She wasn't talkative like the other girls and spoke softly when she did, but her eyes never seemed shy and her smile was cheery.  

"I was a starfish," I replied, shrugging. 

"I've never seen a starfish," she said. 

Shrugging again, I said, "I've only seen pictures. But my father saw them in the war." 

She wrinkled her nose and grinned. "They were in the war?" 

I paused my destructive pastime and looked up again–only to glance back upon seeing her face. Humor was never my strong suite, and I often struggled with sarcastic hints or joking as Rosie now displayed. My mouth opened and closed several times, but I decided in the end to remain silent. The flower was all but destroyed. Time to pluck a new one. The second stem broke with a soft pop. 

I remember that entire scene very well–even now. The air was golden and moved about on the wings of breezes that had no direction. It rearranged our tousled hair fondly and seemed to impart a shield of gold to each and every child; even Aiden’s raven head seemed to glow. Dust particles and late pollen drifted in the precious hue, dwarfed by clusters of summer snow sent by cottonwood giants downriver. 

I gazed from my perch on the knoll, gathering as much as my distracted young mind could muster. I would answer any question cast my way, but otherwise remained still and observant. Interest on an item or topic would filter through the group, and then be replaced by another. At one point they talked for ten minutes on the merits of eating grass. The afternoon past quickly in this way and I mustn't bore you with unnecessary details. Imagine if I told you the water games we played. So many! My favorite always meant shallow water because I found the deep, southern side to be frightening. 

My brother Sand was strong; this I have said already. But he was many other things too: fast, smart, shrewd, and always competitive. He arranged the water games with the utmost fairness and direction. He would always assign himself and George as opposing team captains, and from there, he would separate pairs according to their skill. The teams were always fair. 

I treasured the times I was selected for his team. Even if we ended up losing, I began each round with complete confidence in my brother's leadership. I was convinced that Sand and I together made our team the greatest team known to mankind. The greatest team. 

Save The Stone was the overwhelming favorite. Sand and George would choose two white stones, often as big as a grown man's hands clasped together. They would then place the rock in shallow water, away from the current. Each team would strive to save their stone that, in a ceremonious and often emotional trade, was cruelly captured by the enemy. An imaginary line was drawn from a wooden pole onshore. Upon crossing the line, we would be at the mercy of the other team and possibly time imprisoned onshore. But you see, here is the triumph! If a lucky, lucky boy or girl managed to reach the white stone, they were only a trek to their own side away from victory. 

When I had finished killing flowers and the others had bored themselves with conversation, this very game began. I was on the greatest team because Sand chose me for his crew. Some might say that the teams were abstract or randomized or incidental, but I know deep inside that Sand chose me. 

And we were the greatest! The twins, Luke and Lizzy, having been assigned different teams, seemed to only care about capturing each other. But we others splashed through the shallows and tried, tried, tried to reach the white stone. Sand and I – what a team! I followed his very footsteps and was only imprisoned twice because he was too fast and left me stranded in enemy territory. He would wave apologetically from the fray and I would laugh and slap my knees excitedly. 

Then the moment came.