As tired as he’d ever been, Peter found himself walking the night in search of a magical English boy lost in rural Pennsylvania. He hunted around the house grounds, rummaged through bushes and weeds for a repentant Tyke hiding there, but found nothing. Pretty soon, Peter was crouching by the side of the road where last he saw that boy, contemplating his options. After a few minutes, the quiet of the woods can become a racket. You quickly come to realize that there is activity all around you. Things were alive and getting on with their business. A patient person can start to feel like he’s a part of it.
“Diiiiccckkkkoooon!” Peter yelled, because he wasn’t patient. He laughed at himself, in spite of his actions. This felt ridiculously futile. How can you search the earth for something that’s in your mind? What was he going to tell Alyssa when he returned? And what did she want, exactly? Am I supposed to bring the kid home? Get him to sign some kind of confession? Blood and hair samples? He isn’t real, dammit!
His mind was cloudy. It was such a reversal from this morning when he had those euphoric moments. Those glorious, cinematic fantasies running rampant through his brain. He was too tired to even think now. Perhaps that was the problem? Dickon was in his head, so he needed to clear out the rubbish.
He took some deep breaths and just thought about the kid. Pictured him. Cheeks so red that he looked like they’d been pinched by a cooing, adoring aunt with fingers the size of dinosaur eels. Those puppy eyes, pleading to be understood. And those crazy old clothes. Where did they come from? Those old clothes?
Thinking back on that dream he’d had about Douglas Windward, Douglas’ garments looked so real. The pants were cut in a way that he was pretty sure he’d never seen before; all loose-fitting and somewhat shapeless and unbecoming, making your rear end look like a pillowcase full of raspberries. He wasn’t certain that’s what they looked like, but they seemed accurate, somehow. Detailed. Perhaps he knew more about old-fashioned daywear than he thought. How did that happen?
But if he was losing his mind, why did he see these random characters? How come I’m not seeing Batman, or Daffy Duck, or John Cleese? People that mean something to me. Why a little kid playing 60’s radio hits? It didn't make sense. He was coming to accept that all the weird events that he thought were real, were also just a product of his illness. Alyssa certainly wasn't crazy, and she seemed to believe that the problem was with him, that meant everything, from the wallpaper to the face in the window was coming from him.
He wasn’t absolutely sure, but this felt like the lowest moment in he and Alyssa’s relationship. There was a time he’d had a fight with Marnie, his business partner. Marnie was a self-taught Buddhist, an amateur archer, and also a brilliant engineer. They had met on Linked In and hit it off instantly. Two years later, they were having a shouting match standing in the middle of her workshop, a place he’d practically been living for the last couple of years. He was so comfortable there that he was standing in his socks, drinking straight from the orange juice carton from her refrigerator when the argument began. The disagreement was over the patent application. She’d wanted to draft it on her own, citing all these crazy reasons that were tantamount to conspiracy theories. He’d insisted they get a lawyer, and neither of them would budge on it. They didn’t speak for weeks and it seemed like his whole life was falling apart. He was broke and it seemed the last two years of his life, all the work, which he was proud of, was going to end up a disputed asset in a mess of a lawsuit. This put a big strain on his relationship with Alyssa. He had put a big strain on their relationship. All at once it seemed his life was coming to an end, but it had all passed. Would this pass? It wasn’t the same kind of problem. It didn’t feel the same. He knew he couldn’t just wait this one out, he had to make it happen.
He let out a long sigh and lowered himself onto the grass. His limbs were so weary that they took to the soft ground like a kitten to a warm lap. His eyes closed on their own, trying to catch some sleep without his permission. He forced them open. Concealed in the crisscrossing shadows cast by the waxing moon, the boy Peter had been searching for slunk out, bashful and guilt-ridden, and stood before him.
“Ah yoom ashamed o’ misself, Mr. ‘uffy,” said Dickon. His shoulders slumped, and his head was bowed. His large, sorrowful eyes looked like two soap bubbles ready to pop. “Ah down’t know wha’ ah did, but ah did it, nonetheless. Ah should’ve known my place.”
Peter shook his head. He was too tired to discuss this. Besides, he had to stop thinking of Dickon as a real child. Why was that so hard to do? “It’s okay, kid. I didn’t come out here because I’m angry. I came out because I don’t know what else to do.” Dickon didn’t respond. He continued averting his eyes. Peter, truly, didn’t know what his next move should be. “She can’t see you, so what does that say? Nothing good. I know that much.”
Dickon cleared his throat. “Mrs. ‘uffy, ya mean?”
“I do.” Peter thought that this would be a good time to start smoking. “What do you say when a person is crazy, Dickon?”
Dickon’s eyes widened, a little, surprised. “Crazy? Madness, like?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. Like what’s a cute way to put that, where you come from?”
Dickon shrugged. “Er…a' sixes ‘an sevens, sir?”
Peter pointed at the boy. “At Sixes and Sevens! See? See! I’ve never heard that phrase in my life! What is that, some poker thing? I must have heard it somewhere if you’re saying it.” Peter had, now, gone from nodding to shaking his head. “What am I gonna do, Dickon? I’m not well. It’s looking like my mind, my marriage, and my life are coming to an end. That’s three pretty decent things that were fine yesterday.”
“Ayum sorry, Mr. ‘uffy.”
“What are you sorry about, Dickon? Tell me. Let’s get it all out on the table. What makes you feel sorry?”
The boy sighed. It was obvious he was regretful to a degree that he couldn’t express. “Ah shouldn’t av coom near yer ‘ouse. It wor bein' uppity. Ah did it, though, an’ it can’t be undid. Ah just wanted Mrs. ‘uffy ta ‘ear us laykin’ a song, then she’d know ah wor real.”
Peter grunted. “What song did you play?”
“Yeh want ah should layk it?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
The boy was still a bit shaken and reluctant, but he lifted his fife to his mouth and began his song. Peter listen as attentively as he could, but he didn’t know it. It didn’t even sound vaguely similar to anything he’d ever heard. He had musical dreams, from time to time, where he was controlling instruments and voices, his every musical thought transcribed just as he had them. Intense, but not really like this. Peter searched his mind, but he couldn’t name this tune. Is this from a movie? One of those ninety-hour-long Tolkien films? There were always wind instruments playing in those. A Led Zeppelin song? Jethro Tull? And who was Jethro Tull? Dammit! I’m not even thirty years old! I shouldn’t know Jethro Tull!
He felt himself becoming strangely comfortable sitting there on the grass. A gentle warmth enveloped him like an electric blanket, and he wanted, more than anything, to lean back and sleep. But soon he was past the contented balm. Then far past it. He just kept getting hotter. Then he was too hot.
“Aaaaaah!” he yelped, hopping up to his feet. “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! I’m burning up!” He slapped at his limbs and twirled in place, and he whipped off his shirt and began swinging it around like a flag of surrender. “I’m gonna die! Dear god! I’m gonna die!”
Dickon had stopped playing his fife and was watching Peter’s antics, slack-jawed and disbelieving. “Theer aren’t enny flames, Mr. ‘uffy!”
A few minutes later, Peter was, again, sitting on the ground. As the adrenaline passed through tissue, Peter settled down. Dickon came a little closer, but not too close. “Orril right, Mr. ‘uffy?”
Peter gave him a contented nod. “All right,” said Peter. “Something awfully weird is going on with that flute thing you have there. What other settings has it got?”
Alyssa had always dreamed of having a four-post bed, of waking up in the morning with lacy drapes melting all around her. Peter had always supported her in this, but when he walked into their bedroom that night, after having been on his feet for what seemed like forever, he was happy to see their new bed wasn’t like anything you’d find in a vampire’s castle. It had massive front and headboards carved out of walnut. It looks like it weighs about ten-million lbs. Okay, how the hell did she get this up here? Should I be impressed or frightened? My wife is some kind of secret, super ninja. Wait, do ninjas even have super strength? Alyssa wasn’t asleep, and her eyes zeroed in on him the second he came through the door. She and Peter did not have a history of fighting, and whenever they did fight it had been done with a hint of playful absurdity. There was nothing playful about this, though. This had been coming for some time, perhaps?
“Well?” she said.
Peter shrugged, exhausted. Her stare was as pointed as a javelin. Peter didn’t know what to say. “I’m not sure what you sent me out there to do, honey. I spent most of the time trying to figure that out.”
She took a deep breath and looked away, as if she found him unbearable. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Honey, I’m tired. So tired. Can’t we call this off? Start again tomorrow?”
Her head snapped back-and-forth. “No.”
Peter took a step closer. “Okay, listen. I wanna try something,. Since this isn’t getting over on its own, can we try something? Just promise to be patient and reasonable.”
“What?” she demanded, sitting up.
“Well, you wanted me to go find the magical English kid, and I did. I found him, okay?”
Alyssa smacked a palm on her forehead and fell back on the bed, which was not, historically, a sign that she was prepared to be patient and reasonable. Alyssa wasn’t at all sure what she’d wanted to happen, actually. She had just hoped to provoke some sanity in her husband, not add to his delusion. Apparently, it had not worked. “Oh, god! When is this going to end!”
“Okay, just bear with me! You see, Dickon has a magical flute that I think is…well, magical. Okay, I’m gonna stop using that word so much, or ou’re gonna get really tired of it, I can tell, so I’m gonna…”
“Too late, Peter.”
“All right, all right. Just let me try one thing.”
“Great,” Alyssa replied, her hand smooshing her eyes and nose.
“Right. I got to thinking this when I saw him at the window, back when the living room melted”
“I remember, Peter,” she said curtly, beyond fed up.
“Yes, of course. So, it turns out he was just trying to get your attention, hon. He stood at the window and played a song on his flute - well, fife, not a flute - that had a…uh… hell theme. so everything got hot!”
Alyssa said nothing, but he could see that behind her hand her face was crinkling up, tears of frustration ready to burst like a lawn sprinkler. She was angry, but it was anger at something she couldn’t name, at whatever it was that was collapsing her world around her. He sat down on the bed, which was a boxy Henri II style. Peter would never know this because Peter would never ask. “So…” he said.
“We’re gonna try something. I have the boy out in the hall, and he’s going to play a song for us. One that’s going to relax us. You still can’t see him, though.”
Her hand dropped to her chest. She had a look of weary acceptance that almost broke Peter’s heart. His wife was suffering. He turned around and saw the boy standing in the doorway, fife in hand. Peter nodded to him, and Dickon assented. Peter shooed him back. “Remember what I said,” he whispered. “Get back. Far, far back. Just in case.” The boy backed away, out of sight. Just to be safe, Peter went and shut the door. The agreement was he would start things off, then he’d go downstairs, as far away as possible, but staying in the house(if he wished to stay in the house). All the while, Alyssa watched Peter fool around at the door, her eyes pitying them both.
The song began. Peter made sure it was understood that his flute was not to instruct his or Alyssa’s behavior, in any fashion. He was only to lighten the mood, break the tension, and even in that, not too much. At first, nothing happened. Alyssa wouldn’t even look at Peter. She was just biding her time until she figured out what to do about her husband losing his mind. He sat down on the end of the bed and placed a hand on her leg. She didn’t shrug him off, or anything aggressive like that, but she turned her head away. She couldn’t know, but there was silent music at play all around them. Profound notes prodded and tickled them both, forming a thrum that would not be denied in the dead of winter, much less a lazy summer night like this one. By the time the music stopped, and the unseen minstrel had departed the premises, as he’d been told. This was to no loss, because the spell had been cast, and had done all it could. She calmed down. Her hand slid into his, their fingers entwined. As they were being drawn in to one another, Alyssa began to understand, a part of her, anyway, that something unusual was occurring, something that imbued her thoughts with candor.
“What do I do about you?” Alyssa asked, the distant voice of concern haunted the back roads of her voice.
Peter shrugged. “Do what you always do. ”
“It’s not working, though.”
“Everything’s fine.”
She shook her head, her eyes were heavy. “No. I’m losing you. I know it.” There was not a pinch of doubt in her voice. The strain on her was obvious. She was falling apart, just like he would be if the situation was reversed.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peter said.
“You’re already gone, Peter.” Peter stretched out beside her. He rubbed her shoulder, but it didn’t seem to mean anything to Alyssa. The spell was making her honest, but it hadn't really improved her mood.
“Everything’s fine. Really. I know I’ve been acting weird, but…” Something new tinkled underneath Peter’s skin. It was more music. Different music. Not the kind that inspired leisure, like before. This music, though distant, was having a very different effect on him. An arousing one. He smiled. “You feel that? Anything?”
Alyssa shook her head. “Not now, Peter. Not tonight. Don’t even go there.” Peter heard some faint notes playing outside. The boy, Dickon, was drolling out some sad melody. Sad sounding, it may have been, but it made Peter feel anything but. He doubted the boy even knew what he was doing.
“You don’t…feel that? I know you can’t hear it, but…nothing?”
“Cut it out,” she insisted, annoyed. “I don’t want to, and that’s that. Get it?”
Peter laughed. He hopped off the bed, jolly as St. Nick. “It’s not working on you! Gotta fix that!”
She cursed under her breath. She was getting upset. “What are you talking about?”
“Be right back!” Peter zoomed out of the room and into the hall. His excitement drew him in several directions, and he was confused, at first, turning round and round. It took him a minute to realize the greatest pull was from above him. The attic. He raced up the stairs, toward the epicenter. When he got there, he stopped in front of the window. The flute’s notes were barreling through the glass, penetrating it and finding a greater volume and renewed vigor when they came out the other side. Peter spread out his arms and laughed.
“Alyssa! There’s really great stuff going on up here!” he yelled. His wife didn’t answer. He spun around and shot down the stairs, through the hall, and stomped up to his wife’s side of the bed. “Come on! Get up! I’ve got something to show you!”
Alyssa turned away. “Not interested.”
Peter hopped up and down. “You gotta get up!”
“Bugger off!” she yelled. It was a phrase she learned in England. She had always used it with a tongue firmly in her cheek. Peter became rabid. He slid his arms underneath her and lifted her up. Her eyes popped wildly open. “Leave me alone, you asshole!” she hollered, but there were laughs interpolated among the words. That last word she’d learned more locally.
“It’s not too late to carry you across the threshold! Like Van Damme!”
“What are you doing, you psycho!”
The two of them twirled in the center of the room. It was dizzying. Alyssa’s laughter trailed circles in the air around them. They fired out into the hall and up the attic stairs. Peter was breathless, his wife a struggling, surly package in his arms. He set her down, standing, in front of the window. Alyssa smacked him on the chest. “What are you doing, Peter?” she cackled. Alyssa started to say something else, but the words caught in her throat. She turned around and faced the dazzling glass. She was baffled for a moment, but then the music reached her. She couldn’t hear it, but she felt it, all the same. Her breath came out in ragged pants that peaked with the arousing trills of the silent pipe. “Peter, what is going on?” she said, turning back to him, facing the window. Her grin assumed a devilish symmetry, succumbing to the spell.
Peter stepped forward, he crossed his arms confidently. “I think we’re about to do some serious Van Damme-age.”