While Peter and Derek were talking in the kitchen, Alyssa was descending the front stairs after several hours in their bedroom. Peter had wanted to speak to her, to have a conversation, very badly, but she hadn't been up for it. She still was not up for it. She heard talking in the kitchen, and it made her consider turning back around and hiding behind a locked door for a little while longer. Unfortunately, it was at this particular time in human history that someone chose to rap angrily on the Huffys’ front door. Alyssa, being merely on the precipice of consciousness, was not, as of yet, enjoying its benefits. She did not immediately react as the knock became more insistent. Being the closest in proximity to the front door, the responsibility to answer it seemed to fall on Alyssa’s shoulders. This was an even more unfortunate thing. The door swung open to reveal two rather diminutive figures standing there.
One was a red-headed girl, whose feet were aching from many miles of walking she'd done in bad shoes. The other was a young, bashful boy dressed like he was enjoying a game of golf in the era of black and white news reels at movie theaters. He tried to stand off to the side and not be associated with the girl, but a stern hand on his shoulder kept yanking him back into frame. Alyssa fixated on the boy, not knowing whether to hug him or run from him. Miranda-Julia, as is her way, helped move things along.
“Lose something, Mrs. Huffy?” Miranda-Julia demanded. “Don’t bother thanking me for bringing him back!”
Alyssa Huffy responded to the girl’s mildly annoyed overture with, perhaps, the loudest door slam ever heard in the town of Sparkle. Maybe all of Forest County, PA. It shook the foundations of the Huffys’ old house. Peter came barreling through the door followed by Derek Windward.
Peter, having dealt with non-Kansas people throughout his adult life, knew just what was happening and what needed to be done. He assessed, rather wisely, that the situation could be quickly resolved by his total emasculation and complete sacrifice of his dignity.
“Alyssa! Sweetie! This is my fault. All of this is happening because of me. I did this! I’ve been lying. I’ve been dishonest. Everything that is about to go down is my fault! Okay? Let’s just establish that up front! Okay?”
Peter came to learn, through an on-the-job training process, that non-Kansas people didn’t hold something back when they felt it. They spat it out onto the floor like a rejected monkey organ and made everyone deal with it. This was not anything like the world Peter grew up in. People were quiet there. They were deferential and properly ashamed of their bodies. A hundred Huffys(Kansas branch)stuffed in a room made less noise than a gerbil chewing on seeds in its cage. Alyssa’s parents were so much like his own that it was uncanny. They let people speak. They didn’t overreact. They didn’t react, most of the time. The familiarity of their manner made Peter very comfortable.
Back in the present, Alyssa was starting to wake up and she began to vocalize her discontent. Her lips were parting. Peter, absolutely, could not allow it. Also, in accordance with another lesson hard learned, Peter’s brain sounded a persistent alarm to the tune of DO NOT TOUCH HER. “Before we say or do anything,” he said. “I think…”
That, however, was when Miranda-Julia Cappern decided to continue her insistent rapping at the front door. Slamming doors was what she usually did, and she was quite peeved that it had been done to her. When the tip of her jelly shoe, suddenly, began jabbing at the door and adding to the ruckus she was creating, it raised Peter’s hackles. He stomped his foot, looked over his wife’s shoulder, and spoke his mind in a non-Kansas manner. “SHUT THE HELL UP, MIRANDA!”
And she did, for the time being, choose to not continue making an issue of the issue. Alyssa, still not entirely awake, remained passive, her anger never having been given the chance to find purchase. But it was not over. She looked at her husband and was in no mood to grant forgiveness to him, or anyone, for any reason. She had a comforter draped over her shoulders on a hot day. Peter saw this as a sign of something bad. Peter walked up to the swinging kitchen door and pushed it open, holding it there for his wife’s convenience. “Let’s just sit down,” he said. “Let’s get it all out in the open, all this stupid shit about magic and everything else that some of us did not even believe in before this morning. Okay?”
Skinny little Derek Windward smiled at the idea of total honesty. It was something he’d been seeking for a long time. “I’ll make some more tea!” he called out, before shooting back into the kitchen. Peter stared at his wife as he continued to hold the door, his eyes and face a perfect portrait of guilt and remorse. Alyssa pulled the comforter up around her shoulders. She said not a word as she walked past him and sat down at the barn door.
The front door opened, and those two diminutive figures who’d been standing on the other side stepped in, one dragging the other along by the hand. Miranda-Julia had finally eschewed any pretense that doors, locks, and propriety in general, had any meaning when they got in her way. Derek Windward, trying to weave some culinary spell, was washing off a spoon because he didn’t want to go riffling through their kitchen drawers.
“Would you be wanting sugar, Mrs. Huffy?” he asked sweetly.
“It’s Alyssa,” she said, just a little abrupt. "And make it coffee."
It sounded like a fairy tale. Perhaps it was a fairy tale. If so, it was one that was distinctive from most others in that it was not merely an allegory, it had all truly occurred. Derek told most of it himself, but he didn’t speak of everything, there was just too much, and some things were more important than others. Nothing was said of a place Peter had dubbed Sparkle-wacko. It was too confusing, and it had no bearing on the present, so Derek didn’t even attempt to explain it. He spoke of his ancestor’s notebook and some of its revelations. He spoke of something called Tibb, to which Miranda-Julia had much to add. Derek concluded by speaking of a thing called the Bunyine, which cannot die. It all sounded too fantastic to be true, but everyone was quiet when the boy was finished. The message had been conveyed, and it had been understood. Underneath the heavy bulk of Alyssa’s comforter, which was still draped over her shoulders, she and her husband Peter held hands. The needful pressure of her fingers made Peter want to cry. They were back to being themselves. Alyssa was the first to speak. Her voice was certain. Confident.
“Okay,” she said, with very little telling emotion. She had only half-believed what she was told, but she took it seriously, nonetheless. “Nobody leaves here after dark. If it can’t get to us in the attic, that’s where everyone stays tonight. We’re going to need a half-dozen sleeping bags. Peter and I will go to town and get things. Supplies. Derek, you have to get your mom here, she’s in danger.”
“Okay,” the boy answered.
“Call her now.”
Derek suddenly seemed embarrassed. “Um, she doesn’t have a cell phone.”
“What?” Alyssa spat. Almost alarmed.
Derek’s face was apologetic. “I know. I know. I don’t have one, either, though.”
Alyssa accepted this with click of her tongue and a sharp breath. “Okay. All right, then. We still have a few hours of daylight. We need to get ready.” This was Alyssa taking charge. What Peter called ‘Mom Mode’. Everyone started to get up from their chairs, stretching and fumbling for their keys and phones. Even Dickon was getting up, having spent the entire half-hour in silence. Miranda-Julia saw everyone suddenly active, and she spoke up.
“Wait a minute!” she yelled. Everybody stopped what they were doing and looked at her. She pointed a finger right in Dickon’s face. His eyes fixed on it. “What about him?”
Alyssa shrugged. “What about him? He’s fine.”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. He’s fine, Miranda. You two stay here and wait. If he disappears, just wait here for him to come back on his own.”
Dickon nodded and sat back down, whipping the hat off his head and setting it on his lap. His flute was jutting out from an inside pocket of his coat, and he set it right. Miranda-Julia looked around at all of them, dumbfounded. She threw up her hands. “I mean, what the heck is he!” she asked.
Peter and Alyssa looked at each other, neither had an answer. “I don’t know,” Peter said sincerely. “Let’s think about it, later.” Following his example, everybody started to get up, again.
“He can vanish!” said Miranda-Julia. “I’ve seen him do it!”
Alyssa nodded. “Me, too.”
“Me, too-plus-one,” Peter added.
Derek crossed his arms, always thinking. “He’s like Tibb,” he said.
Miranda-Julia swung around and gave Derek a nasty look.
Derek shrunk back. “What?” he pleaded. “I’m not saying he’s evil or anything!” Even so, Miranda-Julia did not like the comparison. Not even a little.
Peter chuckled, rubbed his neck. “Yeah. He’s definitely not evil.” Everyone was paying attention to him now. Dickon visibly shrank. He was feeling bashful, again. He hated being the center of attention. His modesty was precious.
“Where are you from, Dickon?” asked Derek. He smiled at the younger boy. Dickon met Derek’s eyes, pleased to speak to someone of a similar temperament.
“Er tyke,” Dickon answered.
“A tyke?” asked Derek. To which Dickon nodded.
“Er tyke.”
Derek nodded back, mostly understanding. He turned and looked at the others. “A tyke. He’s from Yorkshire, like the Bronte sisters.”
Alyssa’s eyes rolled. She gave Peter a little, playful punch. “Oh, my god! I lived in England, and I didn’t recognize the accent. He’s from Yorkshire, Peter.”
“Like the pudding that has no pudding?,” Peter said.
“Yes, exactly,” she said, poking Peter in the chest.
Miranda-Julia, however, was still a little uncertain. “Who cares about pudding? How do people disapparate? I looked that word up. I mean, God, how come I’m the only one asking these questions?”
Derek, as usual, was still thinking. “Last night…hmm…” Derek said.
“What is it, Derek?” Peter asked. Suddenly interested. “Whattaya got?”
Derek turned to the boy, again. “Are you Tibb’s brother, Dickon?”
“What!” Miranda-Julia gasped.
Derek looked at Miranda, too distracted to be intimidated. “I think he and Tibb are brothers.”
“Why?”
“There’s a lot of evidence for it.”
Peter nodded. “He just does, Miranda. Leave it at that,” he said, and then he started to get a little impatient. He made a rolling gesture with his left hand. “What else, kiddo? We don’t have much time. Gotta get this moving along, okay?”
Derek turned to the younger boy, again, and addressed him clearly. “Is he your brother, Dickon? Tibb?”
Dickon looked away, then back. This sounded like some kind of accusation, and it made him a little more precious. “’at may be, sir,” he answered, clutching his tweed hat.
Miranda’s eyes shot wide open. “What! You’re kidding! You’re the brother of chimp boy?”
Derek shook his head. His eyes were deadly serious. “No, Miranda,” Derek said. “Tibb is not a boy. He’s not.”
“What do you mean, Derek?” Peter asked. “‘Not a boy’. What is he, then?”
Derek shook his head, earnest and dour. “He’s not a boy. Neither is Dickon. Not really.”
Peter’s face was quizzical. He looked Dickon up and down, seeing nothing too unusual. “He looks just like one, kiddo. I wouldn’t know what else to call him. He looks like a kid. Oh, wait a minute….” Peter remembered what Douglas had said about things that had retained their old forms, ‘merely, as a guise’.
Derek emphatically disagreed. “You can’t go by that, Peter. You can’t go by how things look. Not in Sparkle.”
Alyssa was getting tired of all the questions, though. She put her head on Peter’s shoulder, exhausted in several different ways. “Let’s figure this out later, okay?”
“Later works for me,” Peter added.
Derek turned to the younger boy, again. Dickon met his eyes, always glad to help. “Can you tell us anything, Dickon? Anything, at all.”
Everyone was watching Dickon now. The boy blushed, his hands nervously fumbled with his hat. “’e says, um…‘Tibb-e-rius cried when ah died’.”
Derek leaned in, mouthing the words like it a tongue-twister. “Tibb-e-rius? Tie? Tie-beer-ee-yus?” he said, looking at the little boy for some kind of positive cue.
Dickon gave a little nod. “Tie-beer-yus.”
Alyssa shook her head, more mystified than anyone. “Huh? Tiberius? You mean like the roman guy? Tiberius, the roman guy?”
Derek nodded. “Emperor Tiberius cried. I’m pretty sure that’s what he means.”
“Well, what does that mean, Derek? Is that some kind of riddle, or something?”
Derek seemed lost in his thoughts. “I think…” said Derek.
Miranda-Julia was patient for one full second, but acted as if she’d been waiting all day. “Wellllllll?” she said.
Derek shot back to reality. “It’s an old story. Really old. I don’t even remember where I read it.”
“What story?” asked Alyssa.
“Well…” Derek answered, searching his memory. “I read it a long time ago. Emperor Tiberius cried when a messenger came and told him that Pan had died. Pan the god. That’s what I read. Some guy had been told by a disembodied voice that Pan was dead. It spread all over the empire, then it just became accepted, or something. A god had died. I think it scared everyone.”
“The god Pan?” Alyssa repeated.
Peter shrugged. “You mean like…Peter Pan?”
Alyssa spun at her husband. “No, Peter! That goat-legged guy! The one who plays a flute!”
Alyssa looked to Derek for confirmation, but his eyes were fixed on Dickon. He watched the boy, fascinated, like he was changing color, or shape, right before his very eyes. “A pipe,” Derek said.
The kitchen grew as quiet as a winter forest. The little boy sitting at the barn door was shriveling under the gaze of four sets of eyes, squirming like a moth in a killing jar. He hated being the center of attention. He was only Dickon.