Draconis' Bane (4 page)

Laughing, Tristan and
Paul began to eat. Tristan looked up as he heard the garage door
open, his mood slightly darkened. What kind of mood will Dad be in
tonight? I hope he doesn’t yell. None of my friends know he yells
at me. Oh God. Please let him be in a good mood.

“WHY HASN’T THE LAWN
BEEN MOWED!?” he father bellowed.
Oh no. Oh please no…not now…not today.

“Tristan! Didn’t I
ask you to mow the lawn?” he father demanded.

“Y…yes Dad. I thought
I would do it tomorrow afternoon, you know, after Paul goes
home?”

“PAUL! Who in the
hell is Paul!?” his father demanded.

“H..he’s my friend
from school. Don’t you remember? I asked if he could come out and
sleep over tonight.”

“Well I’m not driving
him home!”

“You don’t have to.
His parents are coming out to get him…I told you that.”

“Fine! But I want
that lawn mowed first thing in the morning!”

“But Dad….Paul’s only
here until noon. Even if I get up at eight I won’t be done until
eleven…” Tristan stammered.

“I don’t care…you
have responsibilities. You should have mowed it yesterday.”

“…but, I had Karate
last night. I…”

“SHUT UP! I don’t
want excuses. Mow the lawn!”

Tristan hung his
head, his larger than average ears completely red. Anne smiled
across the table as Paul tried to make Tristan laugh with a couple
jokes as Tristan’s parents started discussing today’s news. When
Anne had friends over Dad never yelled, she always got to leave the
table early and go play. But after supper was over Paul offered to
help Tristan clear the table.

Depressed and feeling
very self-conscious Tristan led Paul up to his room where they
played board games and listened to the radio for the rest of the
night. Paul never mentioned what happened earlier, probably sensing
that Tristan was too embarrassed to talk about it. Before they went
to sleep, Paul in a sleeping bag on the floor and Tristan in his
bed, Paul offered to help Tristan mow the lawn tomorrow. He was
greeted by silence as Tristan nodded off to sleep.

The next morning
Tristan was up at seven and finishing mowing the lawn around ten as
a car pulled into the driveway. Sweating and exhausted he looked up
to see Paul getting into his parents car, he smiled and waved and
Tristan returned the wave, his heart sinking as Paul’s parents
backed their car up and left, two hours early.

For weeks afterward
there was no mention at school about Tristans’ father. Then, on
their way in from recess another friend of Paul’s asked about a
bruise on Tristan’s shoulder.

“Did you Dad give you
that?” he asked.

Tristan made eye
contact with Paul and knew as his gaze dropped that Paul had told
his whole class about Tristan’s treatment at home. He had thought
everyone was taking it easy on him because they were starting to
like him; instead it was pity.

“Nah, that’s from
playing street hockey.”

“Oh! Cool.” Someone
replied.

“…ya. It’s almost as
rough as our football games.” Tristan chuckled.

Everyone laughed, but
inside Tristan was dying a little. He was never very proud of his
home life, but one of the benefits of living so far away from his
classmates was that he could keep it a secret. Now everyone knew,
some decided that his home life was punishment enough; others
decided to use the knowledge as a weapon. Either way, no one else
ever slept over at Tristan’s house again.

Thus, at the age of
eight, the ‘wall of silence’ was born. The more people knew about
Tristan, the easier they could hurt him. In one of his classroom
day-dreams Tristan decided that ‘The Wall’ as it would later be
simplified, was the only way to keep his heart from breaking.

Finally his mother
came out of the house, his little sister in tow, protesting every
inch of the way. She was put into the car and the two hour drive to
the place where his Grandpa was to be buried began. I’ll save you
the time and point out the obvious, the entire drive was punctuated
by his sister hitting and biting him, Tristan retaliating, his
father yelling at him, Anne’s self satisfied grin as Tristan looked
back out the window, ranting inside at the injustice of it all.

Arriving an hour
before the funeral was to start Tristan was sent into the church
while his sister got to stand around outside with his parents. He
slowly walked up to the front of the church, where the coffin sat,
turned sideways so that the longest side was exposed to the
assembly. There were four steps that would take the shorter people
up to eye level with what was inside the coffin….Tristan slowly
proceeded up to the front of the church.

Each step was like
burning agony. He was still unable to cry and his grief and guilt
welled up inside him. He’d overheard his mother and her brother
talking about the arrangements and discussing how horrible Cancer
is to have taken their father. He slowly made his way up the four
steps and peered into the casket.

Grandpa laid there,
an odd expression on his weathered old face.

“Tristan!” Cried an
unfamiliar voice.

Tristan whipped his
head around, assuming he was in trouble, but no one was there. He
slowly walked down the steps and walked to the back of the church.
Looking out of the window next to the thick heavy wooden door he
saw his family outside, most of whom he’d never even been
introduced to. No one was near the door. He walked around the
church, looking for someone maybe hiding between one of the pews.
Not finding anyone he headed back up to the front of the church
again. Climbing the four steps he gazed down on one of the only
three people that had shown him unconditional love. His cousin Joy
wasn’t here today for him to lean on and his Uncle Stan, was
outside consoling his sister.

“TRISTAN! CAN YOU
HEAR ME?!” Cried the voice again.

“YES!” He
replied.

No one answered.

“…great, now I’m
going insane.” He muttered to himself. “Well, that figures. Beaten,
abused, neglected and here I stand looking down on one of the few
people who ever gave a damn about me….won’t Dad be happy.” He
complained.

Tristan looked up at
the stained glass windows casting their multi-colored lights down
on him, completely lost in his thoughts and grief he barely noticed
a hand moving towards his arm. The hand’s iron grip caught his
wrist startling Tristan who slipped off the steps and landed hard
on the concrete church floor. Frightened he looked around the
church for his assailant. Just like the voice, he couldn’t see
anyone.

“Wonderful. Just
wonderful, I’m hearing voices, having hallucinations…great.”
Tristan turned in place and yelled into the rafters. “You see what
you’re doing to me?”

“No.” Replied a
confused but calm voice.

Frightened and taken
off balance Tristan toppled over into the first pew. He landed hard
on the seat and then bounced off. He hit his head on the back of
the pew in front of him and then landed face down. Slowly he got
back to his feet, rubbing his head where the pew made contact. He
looked around for whoever spoke, once again, finding no one.

“Awesome, just
great.” He muttered, still rubbing his forehead.

“What is?” Replied a
voice behind him.

Tristan shouted and
jumped sideways. An iron grip caught him before he could topple
over again though.

“Easy.” Said his
grandfather.

“Wha…..who….whe…”
Stammered Tristan.

“Relax Tristan. Calm
down. We don’t have much time and I need to tell you something
important.” Explained his grandfather.

“But…you….you’re….”
He continued to stammer.

“Dead?” His
grandfather offered with a characteristic smile.

“Yes, well…more or
less, dead here anyway.” He admitted.

“I…I don’t
understand.” Replied Tristan.

“I wouldn’t expect
you to son.” He replied.

“Son? …I’m confused.”
He stuttered.

“Come, sit down. I
have very little time.” He explained. “You aren’t who you think you
are. You don’t belong here. This is a dream.”

“A what?” He
asked.

“Well, more of a
nightmare really, think about it Tristan. You don’t act like an
eight year old. You’re constantly being punished and beaten. You
live a horrible existence from one great pain to another.”
Continued his grandfather.

“Ya, well my friends’
parents have favorites too. That doesn’t mean anything.” Tristan
shot back.

“Stop. Remember the
old priest who looked after you, Father Downing?”

“No one knows about
that…how do you know about that?” He asked in shock.

“I was Father
Downing.” Replied his grandfather.

Tristan’s mouth
opened, closed, and opened again. Words wouldn’t come out. He stood
up and walked brusquely over to the coffin. Peering in, he saw his
grandfathers’ body laying there. Turning around he looked back at
the old man still sitting in the pew looking intently at him.

“How…I…I don’t
understand.” He admitted finally.

“Here. Let me
simplify things for you.”

Right before
Tristan’s eyes the man who looked like his grandfather changed. A
flash of light briefly blinded him and when he could see again, his
cousin Joy sitting there. Then there was another flash of light and
the smiling face of his Uncle Stan was staring back at him. Another
flash and Father Downing was sitting there.

Two years ago his
mother had decided to re-affirm her Catholic faith. She started
going to church and she dragged Tristan along with her. At the time
there was a Deacon Downing there, who later became a priest. He was
put in charge of Tristan’s Catholic education. Twice a week they
would sit together and Tristan would tell him all about how
horrible his life was and how no one liked him, how he felt alone.
Deacon Downing started teaching Tristan how to meditate. How to
clear his mind and focus, but shortly after becoming a priest
Father Downing was sent to another part of the country and Tristan
never heard from him again.

Until today.

“What’s going
on?”

“Excellent. I knew
you’d recover quickly. You always were a fast learner Tristan.”
Complimented Downing.

“What…is going on
here?” Tristan insisted.

“In due time Tristan.
First, we have to separate you from your nightmare.”

“Well doesn’t that
sound fun?” Tristan brooded. “Where were you eight years ago?!”

“Tristan, son, it
hasn’t been eight years. It’s been a month.” Replied Downing.

“A month? A month
since what?” He asked.

“A month since you
were attacked.”

“What in the hell are
you talki….”

A flash of light
burst from somewhere out of sight and Tristan hit the floor. His
hands pressed on his temples and he clenched his teeth. He looked
up and Father Downing immediately rushed to his side.

“Don’t fight Tristan.
You have to let go!”

Tristan’s teeth
clenched and he ground his teeth together as he gasped for
breath.

“Let…..go….of….WHAT!?” He demanded.

“Your nightmare.”
Continued Downing. “This isn’t
your
life. This is a
nightmare, the Palace was invaded and you were hit by a spell!
You’ve been unconscious for over a month.”

“I….don’t…understand…Palace?” Gasped Tristan.

“You don’t have to.
Trust me.” Replied Downing.

“I can’t.” Tristan
replied as tears began gathering in his eyes.

“You must!” Begged
Downing. “Don’t fight! Annadora is trying to free your mind; it’s
going to hurt more if you fight it. You must relax! You must calm
yourself! Like I taught you!”

“Taught me and then
abandoned me!” Tristan accused through the pain.

“I’ve never left you,
son. You’ve been stuck in this nightmare for over a month….”

“EIGHT YEARS! I’ve
been in this sad excuse for a life for eight years Fath….” He
stopped abruptly as his eyes lost focus.

Tristan shook his
head and stared at Downing. Another life, a better one was
intruding on the life he remembered. Flashes of odd images of
strange places and creatures seemed to overlap the world he
accepted as his own.

“Annadora….is…my
mother…..wait, what’s going on here…” He asked.

Fear was beginning to
take hold. Tristan screamed again as his mind was being fully torn
from all that he knew and accepted as reality.

“Son! Please! Stop
fighting! Relax your mind! You must!” Pleaded Downing.

“Are you going to hit
me if I don’t?!” Tristan challenged through his clenched teeth.

“Tristan…Tristan…
look
at me.”

Still kneeling on the
hard concrete floor of the church he felt every imperfection in its
surface. He could feel the fine dust that covered the surface, the
smell of cleaning product. Something stranger then happened.
Tristan’s vision ripped in two. With his left eye he could see
Father Downing, kneeling in front of him, concern clearly evident
on his face. With his right eye he could clearly see the ceiling of
a candle lit room. He could feel the imperfections in the concrete
slab he was laying on and the rolled up patterned pillow under his
neck and a familiar hand holding his. He felt fingers spread out
over his head; the nails slightly dig into the flesh of his
temples.

Father Downing helped
Tristan stand and sat him down in the front most pew. Still
kneeling in front of Tristan he began to calmly help him clear his
mind.

“Remember what I
taught you, breathe in deeply through your nose and exhale slowly
out of your mouth. In deeply, out slowly…calm your mind…don’t try
to understand anything right now, just calm yourself son.”

“Why…do…you…keep…calling….me….son?” staggered Tristan.

“Because you are my
son, Tristan.” He said far too dismissively.