The Beginning Hour

The Beginning Hour: Chapter Two

Of Oaks and Owls

Chester lay still, focused on breathing and calming down and, most importantly, overcoming the dull pain in his forehead. "Man," he muttered lowly. The sound of his own voice comforted him. "So much for having no imagination."

He verged on adding a few expletives, but cut himself short. Men were speaking nearby. "Dad?" Chester muzzily interrupted the overheard conversation. "Shut up." Even though he felt sun on his face, he added, "It's too early," for good measure.

His dad instantly stopped talking. In the silence, Chester could hear wind whistling through trees and the gentle rustling of branches. Judging by the damp leaves tickling his neck, he'd fallen asleep in the park.

Wait. If he'd fallen asleep, who was watching Emma and Brian?

Chester's eyes snapped open. He hoped to see his father leaning over him with Emma and Brian playing safely close behind. He expected his eyes to be flooded with blinding light. He dreaded seeing another stink bomb overhead... or were the stink bombs merely part of his elaborate dream?

What he saw wasn't hoped for, or expected, or even dreaded. It was entirely unpredicted, completely out of left field: Chester opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a crowd of robed men. Robed. They looked as though they'd stepped straight out of the Skull and Bones Society.

"What the hell?" one of the men asked. Everyone's eyes were trained on Chester. "Who's the kid? Where's Nott?"

Another man smacked the speaker. Silence resumed. There were heavy footsteps, squishing in the damp ground, and the confusing sea of faces parted before Chester's eyes. Chester remained flat on his back, taking it all in with a slightly furrowed brow.

A tall, thin man casually approached Chester. Chester hardly noticed him. He was too busy wondering why he'd never seen any old, gnarled oak trees in the park before.

The man nudged Chester's face with the toe of a thick army boot, finally gaining Chester's full attention. He was the darkest white man Chester had ever seen: black hair, black clothing, tall black boots, dark brown eyes framed by heavy lashes. Though he certainly couldn't have played quarterback, the man's style gave him the allusion of being physically intimidating.

"Hey," Chester acknowledged the boot. "Have you seen my brother and sister?"

The only response Chester received was a raised eyebrow. 'Now there's a great 1950's actor,' Chester mused: hansom, austere face with expressive eyebrows. Chester could easily picture this man working alongside Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly.

Never, of course, would Chester have admitted to his mother that her endless movie marathons were rubbing off on him. Like peas and Frank Sinatra, he occasionally found himself almost enjoying Sabrina. People can become accustomed to anything.

"A muggle," the dark man sneered, turning to his companions.

"No," Chester corrected. "A preschooler and a kindergartener. Hey, are you guys putting on a pla--"

Chester finished his question with an involuntary cringe. The man who had first spoken raised a long, polished stick. By now, Chester knew exactly what the wooden electric guns were capable of.

Or wait... that was all a dream, wasn't it? Was he still asleep? Dreaming would certainly explain the ancient oaks.

Either way, the outstretched stick was quickly pressed back down by the dark man. "Turner," he hissed. "Have you no intellect whatsoever? The wards can surely detect any aggressive magic, even outside the apparation barrier. That's your third misjudgment in as many hours. One more and you'll be rewarded." The voice was cold and deadly serious. Chester nearly laughed. If this man wanted to use sarcasm effectively, he'd have to work at cutting down on the clichés.

Chester must have accidentally snickered aloud, because the moment this thought popped into his head, Mr. Dark Humor turned on him sharply. He addressed Chester directly, yet Chester could tell that the words were not meant for him alone. "We'll play with you when we return. A victory celebration."

"No thanks. I don't do dress-up." Chester shrugged to indicate his Grateful Dead tee shirt. "I guess I'm just too heavy metal for drama club."

Chester certainly hadn't intended to mock anyone, but self-deprecating humor is easy to misconstrue. The man obviously made this mistake. He swiftly placed his booted heel directly on the back of Chester's hand, which rested on an unearthed oak root. His lips curled into a sneer and he pressed his foot down.

Chester had been wondering whether or not he could find a pair of boots like that at the Army Surplus Store. The pain caught him entirely by surprise. He screamed aloud and clenched his toes. Never before had Chester experienced pain anything akin to this; he imagined he could feel individual bones breaking.

"My Lord," someone called from a distance. "Avery's arrived. The American aurors have been taken care of. It's past time."

The dark man looked Chester directly in the eye and twisted his heel, obviously enjoying Chester's unabashed yelp. He then straightened and turned in one fluid movement, shooting a streak of light over his shoulder. The light missed Chester by inches as he curled onto his side, folding his knees over his burning hand.

The world went dark. This was a first for Chester: He'd never passed out from pain before. Later, he'd be quite thankful none of the robed men stuck around long enough to see his girly swoon.

O O O

Chester sat up and opened his eyes. As if by magic, he wasn't in the park any more. Old oak trees and elegant snow-white birches extended endlessly in all directions. There was an unnatural lack of undergrowth and an equally unnatural abundance of large boulders.

Chester slowly pushed himself to his feet with his good hand. His entire right arm throbbed, despite the injury being solely contained in his palm. He hesitated before inspecting the damage, half afraid that he'd find the hand flattened like a pancake. The back and palm were well on their way to developing bruises, but the injury looked otherwise unimpressive. Chester was almost disappointed; if he had to be in pain, he at least wanted a war wound to show for it.

Chester attempted to flex his fingers and was rewarded by an uncomfortable jolt. He wasn't dreaming, then. Didn't people always say, 'Pinch me, please,' when things got unbelievable? Well, this time no pinching was necessary.

Perhaps he was in heaven. The forest rose majestically around him. A crisp breeze ruffled his hair. "God?" he tentative called.

Then he remembered: You don't feel pain in heaven. Otherwise, what would be the point of behaving? 'Could this be Purgatory?' he wondered. 'Does the church even endorse Purgatory anymore?'

As Chester stood vainly attempting to puzzle out where the heck he'd landed, a soft whimpering arose, echoing around him. "Who's there?" Chester asked the trees. Does God cry?

God didn't respond. Instead, a head emerged from behind a boulder to Chester's left. 'Chesser?' the head tentatively whispered.

"Brian?" Chester spun on his heel. "Oh my God, you can't be dead, too. Mom's gonna kill me when she finds out." Chester paused a moment to give the matter rational thought. "What'd you ever do to deserve Purgatory?"

Brian's whimpering escalated, until he was crying in earnest. He obviously hadn't taken in a word Chester said. "I thought you were dead, Chesser," he tearfully babbled between gasping gulps of air. "You screamed. I thought those bad men had killed you. I thought you were gone and I was all alone."

Chester had to restrain from answering, 'Yeah, me too.' Instead, he shook his head encouragingly and joined Brian behind the boulder. Walking did nothing for the pain in his hand.

The odor assaulted him first: behind the boulder, it smelled as though someone had been sick. Then he saw the clear glass bottle laying on the ground and the dark stain on Brian's pants, and everything came crashing down around him.

Chester wasn't sleeping. None of this had been a dream. He wasn't in Heaven. He wasn't in Purgatory. He wasn't even dead.

But his parents were.

They were heaven and they were in Purgatory and they were sleeping, never to be awoken, no matter how hard Chester shook them or Brian pulled their hair.

Chester fell to his knees before Brian. He grabbed his brother tightly in both arms, rocking and sobbing from a pain infinitely worse than the one radiating from his hand.

The usual order of emotions reversed. As Chester broke down, Brian calmed. After a few minutes (or a few hours, neither could be sure), Chester became aware of an incessant murmur pouring out of Brian: "I w-want Mom and Dad. I want Emma. Mr. O'Neil. Mom and Emma and Dad. I want Dad. Make Mom and Emma wake up. I want my mom and dad."

"No," Chester shakily shushed Brian. He pulled Brian away from his chest, but Brian immediately latched back on, burying his head in Chester's shoulder. "No, I can't wake them up. Not anymore."

"You have to." Brian pounded Chester's arm twice with his fist before blindly grabbing a handful of his brother's shaggy hair. "Please. I t-tried, and I couldn't. Mom and Emma. Just wake them up a little, please, just wake them up."

"Mom and Emma?" Chester pulled Brian back again, rougher than before. "Mom and Emma," he repeated. "Where's Emma?"

Brian tried to curl up against Chester, but this time Chester resisted. He mercilessly held Brian at arm's length. 'I won't shake him,' he mentally promised, and then he shook Brian hard. "Where's Emma?"

Brian sunk to the ground, sobbing. He waveringly pointed to his right. "In the rock."

Chester didn't want to look. He truly didn't. But if Chester chickened out now, what would become of her? Emma was his sister, and no matter how devastated and frightened Chester might have been, he couldn't abandon her.

A small body lay half hidden in a crevasse of the rock. At one point--or probably many points--water had rained down into the crack and frozen, expanding to leave jagged gapping wounds in its wake. Emma's Cinderella princess dress had caught on the sharp edge and torn. Like their mother's, her face pointed downward, concealed under locks of flowing hair.

Chester had seen things on T.V. He'd watched R rated movies behind his parents' backs. He'd heard music lyrics that technically weren't allowed in school. He'd played video games where he'd heartlessly (even enthusiastically) inflicted virtual damage. He'd discovered his parents' bodies and witnessed a murder. Adults say violence desensitizes kids, and they very well may be right; but nothing, nothing could ever have prepared Chester for this.

A breeze rose up. The yellow dress slightly lifted and fell, shimmering under the clear light. Chester's mind went darkly blank. For the first and only time in his remembrance, he felt a hollow yet heart-stopping apathy toward life.

The breeze died down. For a second barely perceivable time, the dress shifted. A dam broke within Chester and he threw himself at his sister, laughing in a voice hardly his own. Emma was breathing. Emma was alive.

She'd been knocked unconscious against the rock. The left side of her baby-round face bore a bruise of violent purple. Though her eyes were currently shut, it was clear that the left one would not be opening any time soon. Despite the head injury and torn dress, though, her breathing appeared to be regular and strong.

The moment Brian understood the implications of Chester's laugh, he clutched desperately at Stella's curls. Chester didn't bother to untangle the yanking fingers; after all, he too felt an overwhelming urge to touch her face and hands and rising chest.

O O O

The three children hid behind a boulder until the sun had sunk low in the sky. When it became abundantly clear that no one was coming to collect them, Chester slowly stood with a limp Emma in his arms. The sun was blinding bright, dying with a flourish that lit up the oak leaves like blazing green candles. Long, parallel prison-bar shadows spread across the forest floor.

Brian looped his hand under Chester's belt. "Are we going home?"

"Yes," Chester said. Then he set off into an unfamiliar forest with identical trees in a randomly selected direction. Sure, they'd head straight home.

As Chester walked, he mentally tallied all he knew: Men in robes had attacked his neighborhood with electric guns. He'd been knocked unconscious. The men had kidnapped him, Emma, and Brain only to abandon them in a secluded forest. One of the men made reference to returning.

Were these people members of a cult? Of a bizarre satanic clan? Did they intend hold Chester ransom for money or sacrifice him to woodland spirits?

There would be a search party. Chester kept his ears tuned for voices calling their names. By the rough position of the sun, Chester hadn't been unconscious for long. They couldn't be far from home.

Thinking of home brought Chester's parents to his mind. He cried silently as he walked. The tears wouldn't stop, even when an owl swooped past and when Emma stirred. Chester wondered whether the crying would ever end. It seemed unlikely.

As the night drew near, more owls awoke. They flew low, daringly low, at times diving mere feet from Chester as though to say, 'You don't scare me.' Their wings beat heavily in the air and they called to one another with long, echoing hoots.

"These birds aren't very good hunters," Brain shakily declared. Chester hadn't been the only one crying silently. "They're too loud. All the mice are gonna be scared away."

"Good. I'm glad." Chester set his hand on Brian's head, but immediately lifted it off again as his palm throbbed. To compensate, he tilted his head back and shouted, "Run, mice, run."

An owl screeched indignantly and flew directly in front of their faces. Brian giggled. "They're like the bats we saw at Silver Lake with Daddy," he observed with delight. Then, suddenly, Brian stiffened and the hold on Chester's belt tightened. Neither boy said another word.

The sun set. Though this was quite inevitable, Chester had half expected the night to never come. Wishful thinking. A gray dusk settled over the forest, hovering densely like fog near the bases of the trees.

In fifth grade, Chester's teacher read his class The Hatchet. In The Hatchet, a boy his own age became stranded in a secluded forest. So far as Chester could remember, the boy forged a shelter, secured several food sources, and built a campfire from scratch. Within weeks, he'd been hunting wild chickens. The boy even started a modest fish reservoir.

The story had seemed plausible at the time. Chester had even thought up ways he'd improve upon the boy's situation.

Now the tables had turned and Chester found himself entirely disillusioned. There wasn't an inch of shelter so far as the eye could see: no underbrush, no low-hanging branches, boulders left miles behind. There weren't clumps of berries hiding chickens. Fire seemed like a feat for the gods. Chester was more concerned about locating water than keeping fish fresh.

Chester refused to claim defeat until the dark nipped at their heels. Finally, he selected a giant oak and sat heavily down on its roots, leaning back against the rough bark. Brian released Chester's belt and continued standing, peering at him through a misty veil. "What're you doin'?"

"Resting." He'd thought that much was obvious. "Emma's heavy."

Brian briefly considered Emma before joining Chester. He leaned over and rubbed dirt off the toes of his All-Star Converse high tops. "Okay," Brian announced after several minutes. "Let's go."

Chester ignored Brian. He let his head fall back against the tree and half-shut his eyes. Brian didn't approve of his reaction. The preschooler prodded Chester's shoulder and whined, "Come on, I wanna get home before it gets dark. I don't like the dark."

Chester passively allowed Brian to tug on his arm twice before grabbing the kid's shirt and pulling Brian down beside him. "Quit that," he commanded irritably. He was beginning to feel frightened again, and the sensation did nothing for his temper. "We're sleeping here tonight."

Brian immediately leapt back up. "No." He shook his head violently. "I'm hungry and I want to go home." It was a testament to Brian's resoluteness that he clearly enunciated every word.

"Well, we don't have much of a choice, do we?" Chester snapped in return. If felt as though the pain in his hand and the aching of his arms were feeding off one another in a vicious upward cycle.

Brian took a quick glance around. Chester could see the wheels turning in his brother's head; the kid was afraid to stay in the woods but terrified to wander off alone. Finally, Brian weakly insisted, "I'm not tired. I can't sleep without my Spiderman nightlight."

Chester wasn't a fool. He knew that it wasn't the nightlight Brian missed.

As of his 'I'm not tired' assertion, that would be Pinocchio speaking. Chester figured Brian was tired probably beyond exhausted. It had been a long day--the longest of their lives, with miles of walking to boot. "Fine," he relented. "Just take a quick nap with me. Then we'll finish going home."

Brian was either gullible or even more exhausted than Chester had originally conjectured. He curled up next to Chester without a trace of a fight. Within minutes, Brian's hitching breath evened out and tears stopped dripping onto Chester's bare arm. Brian was asleep.

Chester, however, didn't catch a wink. Dark settled over the woods. Soon he couldn't see his own hand held in front of his face.

Noises Chester hadn't heard during the day arose from the blackness. Breathing... was that Brian? Rustling... could that be the owls, populating these woods like rabbits? At one point, Chester could have sworn he heard the crunching of heavy padded feet on fallen leaves. He literally stopped breathing, his heart pounding in his chest.

'If I die now,' Chester attempted to reassure himself, 'I'll get to see Mom and Dad.'

The thought did nothing beyond causing his heart to ache as it pounded. Chester wanted his mom and dad and wanted to live. The tears, which had taken hours to quench, started afresh. 'St. Michael, the Archangel' he mentally chanted. He didn't know for what exact his was praying. Safety? His parents? Reassurance that a miracle would occur and everything might turn out all right? Each wish seemed more improbable than the last, so he prayed all the harder. 'Defend us in battle. Be our protection...'

Slowly, the stars rose in the sky over Chester's head. They weren't city stars, few and far between... no; these stars formed a veritable sea, saturating the sky like a thick dusting of powdered sugar. Chester leaned back against the oak and allowed them to burn thousands of tiny holes into his vision. He now understood the concept of a 'milky way'.

With the stars came a nearly full moon. Distinct white beams shone through the trees. Chester's surroundings became visible again, and he found himself alone with the owls. Their presence soothed him. It occurred to Chester that his father would have loved to see the bright sunlight and mis-placed boulders and gnarled trees with lean shadows and the endless array of stars he'd experienced today. Then Chester, hardly for the hundredth time, quietly grieved.