Chapter Three - The Headmaster.
I awoke in my grandmother’s house. Tucked comfortably in the bed of her spare room.
I felt sad but I could not remember why. I gazed around at the room whilst I tried to remember. Its cold, blue walls brought back the truth and seeing my ruined clothes at the end of my bed confirmed it. My parents were dead and my home destroyed.
I leapt out of bed, pulling back the bed sheets in one and ran downstairs.
‘Grandma! Grandma!’ I yelled. ‘Where are you?’
Although I knew, I still hoped that it had all been some nightmare, some horrible, horrific nightmare.
She emerged at the bottom of the stairs, arms open to receive me. A sombre expression on her face. She had been crying.
‘So it is true? They are dead.’ I said, as all hope left me.
‘Yes, Gareth. It is true.’
We stood there, crying for at least an hour together – unable to muster the motivation to do anything else. I took the day off, Grandma, explaining on the phone. Everything seemed dull. Nothing was important now.
The next day, I got up to go to Brookhelm Middle School, as always, to finish my last year there. I loathed it – learning about maths and English when my parents were dead! None of it mattered! Valentine’s Day and Sarah left my mind – I hated her now. She didn’t matter. Nothing did. The kindness of everyone around me sickened me after a while. Somewhere deep down, I knew that they meant well, but I didn't care. I later regretted treating them badly and was filled with self-loathing. But it did not matter now.
The days crawled on into weeks, weeks into months. I never felt the same. The funeral was a blur to me – it didn’t matter.
My birthday passed by during the summer holidays – it meant little to me and was without incident. We tried to celebrate it as best we could with Grandma inviting some of my friends over. But it made little difference. My parents were gone. That’s all that mattered. Nothing cheered me.
And yet, these words comforted me, even when there was no comfort to be had; my mother’s last words: ‘You are greatly loved, Gareth. Greatly loved.’ she would say with a smile, most days in fact. ‘I love you, your dad loves you and most of all, God loves you.’
You probably did not want to hear an old man’s account of past sorrows, therefore, I apologise. But at least now, you get a sense of how I was feeling and perhaps how later events would be affected.
During this time, my mind occasionally wondered back to the night of the disaster as I wondered about the old man who had been my companion. I wondered what it was that he would have told me – what he still might tell me. But each time I decided that it wouldn’t help my parents to know. He couldn’t help them.
One day, a letter came in the post – it was addressed to me. I forced the thought upon myself that it was probably a letter from school or something else as equally depressing and boring. I suppressed the hope that it was from the old man. I flipped it over to open it and found that I was right, trying to suppress my disappointment when I saw the emblem of the local library. They asked for my late library books to be returned.
On another day, as we were out shopping, I bumped into an elderly man in a cloak. I couldn’t see his face. Hope suddenly gripped me.
‘Old man?’ I asked, before I gasped at my own rudeness.
Grandma looked stunned – she thought I was being rude – I had never explained about my companion and the fact that I hadn’t known his name. She never even met him. It transpired that he had placed me in his cloak and put me on the doorstep at her house. He knocked on the door but when Grandma went to see who it was, he had gone. Maybe she thought that I would open up in time – she never asked where I’d been, but she’d heard about the incident soon enough. It was on the news the next day.
The elderly gentleman in the cloak now looked around, realising that the words had come from me. He was not my old companion. He must have seen my shame and disappointment, because he did not tell me off and even Grandma did not think to punish me.
Grandma, by the way, was a stocky woman with curly, grey hair. She would never tell me her age, but she outlived Grandpa by far – and he died of old age. There was something about her stubbornness that made her strong. Something that I admired. She would never give up on anything she deemed worthwhile. Never. This made her such a strong Christian – well, God did, often using this characteristic that He had given her. This meant that, whether I felt like it or not, we would go to church every Sunday – whatever had happened in our lives. She often said: ‘it’s the times that we don’t feel like it that we should go the most, Gareth.’
I didn’t often agree with her when I was feeling down but her stubbornness always won through.
I remember when Grandpa died – when she realised he was dead – poking him to wake up one Sunday to go to church – she just prayed that he might get up in Jesus’ name and commanded it of him in that same name, laying hands on him. After this, she just got up and went to church, saying: ‘Well you’ve had your time now, Walter. See you later.’ True, she mourned – but because she missed him – not because she feared where he was. She believed that she would see him again someday. She never gave up and she never blamed God. She put me to shame and she tried to convince me to forgive the men who killed my parents to little avail back then.
Eventually, the Summer holidays had started – and with it came many games of football with my friends, the aforementioned Birthday party, camping trips and weeks of sunshine. It was a time meant for excitement, though it was lost on me.
One day, however, was very different from all of the past summer holidays and it changed my life forever.
I woke up at a friend’s house, as usual for me in the summer holidays. This time it was Mark Polterkiss’ house. I curled up in my sleeping bag refusing to get up just because a stream of sunlight was on my face.
I spent the next twenty minutes trying to get to sleep, lying as still as possible – until I decided it was no use - I just wasn’t tired enough. I got up, got dressed into a blue t-shirt and yellow shorts, leaning against an old chest of drawers as I did so, and marched downstairs, looking for breakfast. I’d have woken my friend but I knew that he did not do well in the mornings.
Today, it was cereal, yesterday it was toast; slightly burned by another friend’s mum – I regretted never having used the toaster or any other cooking device in my life – but I ate it all the same.
I was greeted by Mark’s mum with a greeting, too cheerful for the morning as I proceeded to pour cornflakes into a large, round dish, adding fresh goat’s milk afterwards, curious to taste the combination.
It was not bad. I should explain that we had fresh goat’s milk in the house because the family kept goats. It was a goat farm and normally I would stick with having dry cornflakes. But today was different. I decided to give it a go – though only at the encouragement of Mark’s mother.
Half an hour later, as I was reading a particularly interesting book about a convicted Godfather, on the run from the cops, sharing a flat with a mysterious time-traveller - it was full of humour, if nothing else; Mark came downstairs and grunted his greeting. He then proceeded to put a glove on his foot – thinking it was a sock – and pour marbles into some goats milk. I decided to wait until his spoon was nearly at his mouth before I enlightened him. He grunted in annoyance.
An hour later, after playing a game of Terribith – a particularly competitive role-playing game where each player attempted to siege each other’s fortress or ambush each other’s soldiers in the woods or basically, conquer each other totally – Mark’s mum came in and said that she was ready to take me home now.
I said ‘goodbye’ to Mark and arrived home twenty minutes later, remembering, this time to take my stuff with me – a lesson I unfortunately learnt last time at the cost of the belongings – somehow they ended up in the garden and got chomped by goats. I was not impressed but moved on easily, having lost much more in the past.
I was sitting reading my book again, slouched on my sofa at Grandma’s and listening to the tick of the living-room clock, when there came a knock on the door.
I waited for Grandma to answer it as I went to check my reflection in the television screen – light blue eyes stared back at me, set in a gaunt face as untidy, black hair framed the image. Grandma still hadn’t answered. I called for her, having heard the knock again. No response. I actually went upstairs to look for her when it came again. I resolved to answer it before whoever it was knocked again.
I opened the door. No one. At least not at first. I stood in the doorway, looking past my rusty garden gate and past the hedges on either side and saw no one. I went down the garden path and looked left and right to see if anybody was there. No one, it seemed. At least not at first - It took me a while to register his appearance though, when he did wave. This was partly due to a long, white beard now hanging from his face. I hadn’t been looking properly. I just glanced in each direction, expecting to see no one in my annoyance, before frowning and realising that my eyes had just glazed past him and a postman, with his car.
‘Boy!’ he boomed, standing next to the postman, having just greeted him.
‘How are you?’ he asked, nodding ‘goodbye’ to the postman and walking towards me.
He was dressed in a large, flowery, summer shirt and wore black trousers with smart, black shoes – I was surprised I didn’t notice him – he stood out enough! I guess I must have just thought that it couldn’t be him – he was wearing the wrong clothing. But he wasn’t. He was dressed for summer, just like everybody else. I don’t know why but I must have assumed that he would always wear the same clothes that he had worn on that night – silly really.
I stood there. Stunned.
‘It’s you!’ I said, eyes wide. ‘It’s actually you!’ I said, now running to embrace him.
‘I need some help.’ he said, looking grave. ‘Things have gotten worse and – well – this day was always going to come. Let us go inside.’
Once inside, I proceeded to make him tea, now realising how odd it was that I was allowed to use the kettle, but not the toaster. That’s how it had always been and I had never questioned it.
My companion was waiting patiently on the living-room sofa when I brought him his tea, with a pot of sugar and carton of milk.
‘Ah, I forgot the spoon.’ I said at once.
‘No need, no need.’ said the man, waving his hand airily. ‘I have one here.’
He pulled a small, plastic spoon out of his shirt pocket. I suppressed a laugh but my expression betrayed me. He chuckled.
‘So, I am here today –‘
‘Wait, a second! I’m Gareth, what’s your name?’ I interrupted, impatiently.
‘Dwindle Berry. Glad to meet you.’ he said, seeming grateful of the interruption.
‘So, w-what happened on-on the night we l-last met?’ I asked, forcing myself to ask, despite my reluctance to talk about it.
‘If you let me continue then I can tell you.’ said Mr. Berry.
I closed my mouth then, ready to listen.
‘As you know, there was a tragedy in Rohlongtom, as well as another one in Little Hollow. I am sorry that I could not make it to your parents’ funeral, incidentally. It was not my fault. –‘
‘What happened?’ I interrupted.
‘I was attacked by a member of the group of men we had seen with the big lizards – which by the way are called dragons, or, as we now call them, dinosaurs – I shall not bore you with the details but it detained me well past the time of the funeral.’
‘Ok,’ I said, confused. ‘What do you mean when you say dinosaurs?’
‘Exactly what I say – they were dinosaurs.’
‘Aren’t they extinct though?’ I asked, perplexed.
‘Most are, but some are in hiding, breeding far away from where we would expect them to be – where we rarely venture – if anybody comes across any they tend to be eaten or they try to keep such things secret – the government would not publicise it even if they knew – just like they wouldn’t report sightings of angels or exorcisms of demons, or aliens - if they exist.’
‘How did they become extinct?’ I asked, curious.
‘There are many theories but I favour the one where Saint George set a trend by killing one of them and freeing a maid from its clutches.’
‘Where did you find that theory?!’ I asked, startled.
‘A website,’ he said, handing me a card.
I glanced at it and read:
http://www.creationworldview.org/articles_view.asp?id=50
-The Existence of Fire Breathing Dragons.
‘Right.’ I said, taking the card and stowing it in a jean’s pocket, not sure whether I could believe him or not.
In school, we had always been taught that nobody knew how dinosaurs had become extinct, although they presented many convincing arguments. Still, I suppose that they only ever taught us an evolutionist’s perspective and Dwindle’s view did seem coherent in itself – I had never considered a Creationist’s view on dinosaurs before and we always assumed that they existed millions of years ago – no longer alive now because they died out and evolved into something else – except crocodiles and alligators – they were resilient enough not to have to evolve, apparently. At least, that’s what I’d been taught in class.
Still, this idea that dinosaurs, or - as Dwindle called them – dragons still existed probably wouldn’t have been backed up by the website – perhaps this was his own idea – after all, it is possible that some could have gone into hiding. And they are discovering new species of creatures everyday – I suppose that even if they were discovered, they would no longer be called dinosaurs by whoever discovered them, they would be called something else. I did, in the end, check the website and found what he said to be true – about the theory of Saint George killing one and setting a trend, being there that is (not about them still existing).
Although, I supposed that there was no denying the existence of whatever these lizards were, either way – I had seen them with my own eyes and couldn’t believe it. I suppose that this was an unusual sight though. I mean, I had never seen these creatures before and they had definitely breathed fire. At school – in fact, everywhere I went – dragons were considered mythological. Therefore, they must have never been seen by anyone else either – or anyone willing to admit it, anyway. I supposed that I would never tell anyone either – people would think me loopy, after all. I supposed that – besides those men, that girl, their victims and us – nobody else would know of them.
‘Anyway,’ continued Mr. Berry, clearing his throat to wake me from my thoughtful state. ‘I am here to invite you to my school.’
‘School?’ I said, incredulous and confused.
‘Did you not know?’ he asked, stroking his beard in thoughtful confusion. ‘Oh well! You do now. I am a headmaster of a school!’
I looked at his now beaming face in astonishment. How he could ever be responsible for such a complex establishment seemed ludicrous to me. He just did not strike me as organised enough - or responsible, for that matter.
‘Oh come now, how could this surprise you so?’ he asked cheerily, looking at my expression of bewilderment. ' 'After all, did I not strike you as organised, responsible and well-mannered?’
‘Uh –‘ I said, unsure of what to say and unwilling to lie or hurt his feelings.
‘Well. I suppose it is what God thinks of us, not what each other thinks that matters. He chooses the weak to shame the strong after all, the foolish to shame the wise. First impressions are not always accurate either, so either way, it’s fine.’ he said, chuckling uncertainly.
I thought of how my first impression of him had changed rapidly in the encounter, but not towards the view that he would ever make a decent headmaster. Still, who am I to question God? I thought.
‘So where is this school and what is its name?’ I asked, focussing again upon the man in front of me.
‘I cannot tell you where it is because I would not want enemies to know the location – you may let it slip or be tortured into it, for example. However, I can tell you its name.-‘
‘Yes?’ I interrupted, eager to know.
‘Ah, I can’t, actually – you might blurt it out by accident. Sorry.’ he said, sighing.
‘What?! No I won’t!’ I said, disappointed.
‘Prove it.’ he said, with another sigh.
‘Alright then, what do we do at this school?’ I asked, confused and annoyed.
‘Well, you have your usual school exams that I have to put you through as would be expected. In addition though, there are many other wonderful lessons that you may thoroughly enjoy and which include no real exams or paperwork – or not usual stuff, anyway.’
‘What sort of lessons?’ I asked, curious to hear more.
‘Oh, fun ones, but important for building you up nonetheless.’ he said, happily. ‘Based on the gifts of the Holy Spirit and the prayers of God’s saints, mostly.’
‘Gifts of the Holy Spirit?’ I asked, confused. ‘What are they? And what have the prayers of the saints got to do with me?’
‘My dear boy, we – us Christians – are the saints. Sinners that are now Christians – sure, we sin sometimes but we are referred to as saints, even when we sin. It says so in the Bible.’
‘Where?’ I asked, sure that he was wrong.
‘Well, off the top of my head – Acts, chapter nine, verse thirteen – Ananias refers to God’s people as saints.’
‘Well, what if he is wrong?’ I asked, feeling unworthy of the title.
‘Dear Gareth, the Bible is God’s word - it is ‘God-breathed’, as Timothy puts it in Two Timothy, chapter three, verse sixteen.’
‘Alright then.’ I said, satisfied. ‘So, if we are God’s saints then it is our prayers that the lessons are based on?’
‘Well, yeah – and God’s will, including the Gifts of the Holy Spirit which He gives us in time – and which we should eagerly desire. You know the miraculous powers I had when we first met? That’s one of them. The others can be found in One Corinthians, chapter twelve.’
‘So what are the other gifts? And why didn’t I hear about this in Sunday School?’
‘Well, perhaps they did not think you could grasp such a subject yet. As for the gifts – look them up.’ he said, handing me a Bible.
I asked again where to find them as I searched. When I got to it, I read aloud: ‘Now to each one the manifestation of the Spirit is given for the common good. To one there is given through the Spirit the message of wisdom, to another the message of knowledge by means of the same Spirit, to another faith by the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing by that one Spirit, to another miraculous powers,’ at this point I nodded at Mr Berry as I read, ‘to another prophecy, to another distinguishing between spirits, to another speaking in different kinds of tongues,’ I frowned at this, quite confused and looked up but he just gestured for me to continue reading, ‘and to still another the interpretation of tongues.’
‘Does that satisfy your curiosity?’ asked Mr Berry.
‘A bit, but what does it mean by speaking in different kinds of tongues? Like with a cow’s tongue or a dog’s?’
Mr Berry chuckled at this: ‘Perhaps you will find out later, dear boy.’
‘And what sort of grades do people normally get, when they come out of this school?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious and trying not to imagine myself speaking with a long, pink cow’s tongue.
‘Oh, good ones.’ he said with a smile.
‘Great.’ I said, unsure of what that would actually mean and again, seriously doubting his abilities as head teacher.
‘Well, I can give it a go. Sounds more interesting than the school that I was going to go to anyway. When do I start?’
‘September 1st, same as any other school.’ he said, eyeing me uncertainly. ‘And do you agree not to let the whereabouts of the school reach others from you – either directly or indirectly?’
‘About that – how am I going to get there, if I don’t know where to go?’ I asked, frowning.
At this, Mr Berry reached into his trouser pocket and brought out a small, rusty ring. He held it up to show me.
‘Now remember this, boy, because I won’t tell you again.’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘This is the object you need to pick out amongst the lost property at Shindon Bus station, if you are to arrive at the school. The transport leaves at nine o’ clock in the morning, so be prompt.’
‘How am I supposed to get there by that time?’ I asked, suddenly worried.
‘Well, you have two options – either stay there overnight or get a lift from someone, unless you can get a train, taxi or bus there somehow. The school is a boarding one so it’ll only be a termly inconvenience.’ he went on.
‘And what type of transport is this exactly?’
‘A secret, Gareth.’ he said, winking and tapping his nose knowingly (and annoyingly for me).
‘I’m sure that there is nobody here that would betray your trust, Mr Berry.’ I said, incredulously.
‘Even so, the less you know the better. Besides, don’t you like surprises?’ he said, now standing up to leave.
‘Not really.’ I groaned.
‘What an unusual child you are, Gareth! How can you not be excited?’ he said, beaming.
But then panic set in – ‘How am I going to get my school stuff in time? I only have today and tomorrow! What am I going to tell the school I’m already booked to join?’
‘Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll talk to the school – what’s it called?’
‘St. Julian’s Upper School.’
‘Really? What a funny name.’ he chuckled. ‘Oh, and we can go to get the school stuff now – that’s why I came – to show you the best place to get it all. I’ll even pay for it all if you want – for old times’ sake.’
‘Thanks, but what would you have done if I simply wasn’t in today?’ I said, bewildered that he would make such a risky assumption.
‘I would have been told to come another day – God told me to come, after all. Although I’m convinced that I could have written a letter, if it wasn’t for all this secrecy and for the fact that I need to show you where to go and how to get there – as well as paying for the stuff.’
‘So how long will it take to get there?’ I asked, still bewildered.
‘Not long, I’ll drive – well, when I say I, I mean Drale. You’ll see what I mean if we go now. Are you ready?’
‘Uh,’ I said, ‘sure, I’ll just leave a note for my Gran.’
‘No need, dear boy – I talked to her yesterday whilst you were away.’
I stared at him, stunned.
‘Close your mouth, boy – you’ll catch flies.’
I now closed my mouth and eyed a rather large bluebottle fly cautiously, now buzzing near my nose. I waved it away impatiently.
‘What do you mean, you talked to her yesterday?’
‘I talked to her yesterday.’
‘Nothing is ever simple with you, is it?’ I snapped.
‘Fine,’ he sighed, ‘yesterday I came here and met your gran again –‘
At this he chuckled at my gormless expression.
‘That’s right, I’d met her before – she used to teach me, to be precise. Her Religious Studies classes were thoroughly entertaining and instructive – hopefully similar to classes when I take them.’ He mused. ‘I remember when she used to rant about the crazy notions of a Buddhist woman; she had met at a greengrocer, one lesson.’ He chuckled again. ‘Anyway, like I said, I explained who I was – well, actually she didn’t need much reminding, I think I was quite mischievous in my time - and let her know what my plans for you were. She had no qualms and actually prayed in agreement with me. That’s why she isn’t here now – she agreed to go to a day spa, as long as I paid for her, so as not to interfere or hear anything that it would be unwise for her to hear.’
At this, he glanced at the clock. I followed his eyes to the living-room clock, mouth open again – I must have looked so confused.
‘Right, well, we should get going – unless you have any complaints?’ he asked, briskly.
‘Uh, sure.’ I said, recovering myself.
I resolved to follow him, even though I had more questions, this would not be the time.
Bibliography!
I felt sad but I could not remember why. I gazed around at the room whilst I tried to remember. Its cold, blue walls brought back the truth and seeing my ruined clothes at the end of my bed confirmed it. My parents were dead and my home destroyed.
I leapt out of bed, pulling back the bed sheets in one and ran downstairs.
‘Grandma! Grandma!’ I yelled. ‘Where are you?’
Although I knew, I still hoped that it had all been some nightmare, some horrible, horrific nightmare.
She emerged at the bottom of the stairs, arms open to receive me. A sombre expression on her face. She had been crying.
‘So it is true? They are dead.’ I said, as all hope left me.
‘Yes, Gareth. It is true.’
We stood there, crying for at least an hour together – unable to muster the motivation to do anything else. I took the day off, Grandma, explaining on the phone. Everything seemed dull. Nothing was important now.
The next day, I got up to go to Brookhelm Middle School, as always, to finish my last year there. I loathed it – learning about maths and English when my parents were dead! None of it mattered! Valentine’s Day and Sarah left my mind – I hated her now. She didn’t matter. Nothing did. The kindness of everyone around me sickened me after a while. Somewhere deep down, I knew that they meant well, but I didn't care. I later regretted treating them badly and was filled with self-loathing. But it did not matter now.
The days crawled on into weeks, weeks into months. I never felt the same. The funeral was a blur to me – it didn’t matter.
My birthday passed by during the summer holidays – it meant little to me and was without incident. We tried to celebrate it as best we could with Grandma inviting some of my friends over. But it made little difference. My parents were gone. That’s all that mattered. Nothing cheered me.
And yet, these words comforted me, even when there was no comfort to be had; my mother’s last words: ‘You are greatly loved, Gareth. Greatly loved.’ she would say with a smile, most days in fact. ‘I love you, your dad loves you and most of all, God loves you.’
You probably did not want to hear an old man’s account of past sorrows, therefore, I apologise. But at least now, you get a sense of how I was feeling and perhaps how later events would be affected.
During this time, my mind occasionally wondered back to the night of the disaster as I wondered about the old man who had been my companion. I wondered what it was that he would have told me – what he still might tell me. But each time I decided that it wouldn’t help my parents to know. He couldn’t help them.
One day, a letter came in the post – it was addressed to me. I forced the thought upon myself that it was probably a letter from school or something else as equally depressing and boring. I suppressed the hope that it was from the old man. I flipped it over to open it and found that I was right, trying to suppress my disappointment when I saw the emblem of the local library. They asked for my late library books to be returned.
On another day, as we were out shopping, I bumped into an elderly man in a cloak. I couldn’t see his face. Hope suddenly gripped me.
‘Old man?’ I asked, before I gasped at my own rudeness.
Grandma looked stunned – she thought I was being rude – I had never explained about my companion and the fact that I hadn’t known his name. She never even met him. It transpired that he had placed me in his cloak and put me on the doorstep at her house. He knocked on the door but when Grandma went to see who it was, he had gone. Maybe she thought that I would open up in time – she never asked where I’d been, but she’d heard about the incident soon enough. It was on the news the next day.
The elderly gentleman in the cloak now looked around, realising that the words had come from me. He was not my old companion. He must have seen my shame and disappointment, because he did not tell me off and even Grandma did not think to punish me.
Grandma, by the way, was a stocky woman with curly, grey hair. She would never tell me her age, but she outlived Grandpa by far – and he died of old age. There was something about her stubbornness that made her strong. Something that I admired. She would never give up on anything she deemed worthwhile. Never. This made her such a strong Christian – well, God did, often using this characteristic that He had given her. This meant that, whether I felt like it or not, we would go to church every Sunday – whatever had happened in our lives. She often said: ‘it’s the times that we don’t feel like it that we should go the most, Gareth.’
I didn’t often agree with her when I was feeling down but her stubbornness always won through.
I remember when Grandpa died – when she realised he was dead – poking him to wake up one Sunday to go to church – she just prayed that he might get up in Jesus’ name and commanded it of him in that same name, laying hands on him. After this, she just got up and went to church, saying: ‘Well you’ve had your time now, Walter. See you later.’ True, she mourned – but because she missed him – not because she feared where he was. She believed that she would see him again someday. She never gave up and she never blamed God. She put me to shame and she tried to convince me to forgive the men who killed my parents to little avail back then.
Eventually, the Summer holidays had started – and with it came many games of football with my friends, the aforementioned Birthday party, camping trips and weeks of sunshine. It was a time meant for excitement, though it was lost on me.
One day, however, was very different from all of the past summer holidays and it changed my life forever.
I woke up at a friend’s house, as usual for me in the summer holidays. This time it was Mark Polterkiss’ house. I curled up in my sleeping bag refusing to get up just because a stream of sunlight was on my face.
I spent the next twenty minutes trying to get to sleep, lying as still as possible – until I decided it was no use - I just wasn’t tired enough. I got up, got dressed into a blue t-shirt and yellow shorts, leaning against an old chest of drawers as I did so, and marched downstairs, looking for breakfast. I’d have woken my friend but I knew that he did not do well in the mornings.
Today, it was cereal, yesterday it was toast; slightly burned by another friend’s mum – I regretted never having used the toaster or any other cooking device in my life – but I ate it all the same.
I was greeted by Mark’s mum with a greeting, too cheerful for the morning as I proceeded to pour cornflakes into a large, round dish, adding fresh goat’s milk afterwards, curious to taste the combination.
It was not bad. I should explain that we had fresh goat’s milk in the house because the family kept goats. It was a goat farm and normally I would stick with having dry cornflakes. But today was different. I decided to give it a go – though only at the encouragement of Mark’s mother.
Half an hour later, as I was reading a particularly interesting book about a convicted Godfather, on the run from the cops, sharing a flat with a mysterious time-traveller - it was full of humour, if nothing else; Mark came downstairs and grunted his greeting. He then proceeded to put a glove on his foot – thinking it was a sock – and pour marbles into some goats milk. I decided to wait until his spoon was nearly at his mouth before I enlightened him. He grunted in annoyance.
An hour later, after playing a game of Terribith – a particularly competitive role-playing game where each player attempted to siege each other’s fortress or ambush each other’s soldiers in the woods or basically, conquer each other totally – Mark’s mum came in and said that she was ready to take me home now.
I said ‘goodbye’ to Mark and arrived home twenty minutes later, remembering, this time to take my stuff with me – a lesson I unfortunately learnt last time at the cost of the belongings – somehow they ended up in the garden and got chomped by goats. I was not impressed but moved on easily, having lost much more in the past.
I was sitting reading my book again, slouched on my sofa at Grandma’s and listening to the tick of the living-room clock, when there came a knock on the door.
I waited for Grandma to answer it as I went to check my reflection in the television screen – light blue eyes stared back at me, set in a gaunt face as untidy, black hair framed the image. Grandma still hadn’t answered. I called for her, having heard the knock again. No response. I actually went upstairs to look for her when it came again. I resolved to answer it before whoever it was knocked again.
I opened the door. No one. At least not at first. I stood in the doorway, looking past my rusty garden gate and past the hedges on either side and saw no one. I went down the garden path and looked left and right to see if anybody was there. No one, it seemed. At least not at first - It took me a while to register his appearance though, when he did wave. This was partly due to a long, white beard now hanging from his face. I hadn’t been looking properly. I just glanced in each direction, expecting to see no one in my annoyance, before frowning and realising that my eyes had just glazed past him and a postman, with his car.
‘Boy!’ he boomed, standing next to the postman, having just greeted him.
‘How are you?’ he asked, nodding ‘goodbye’ to the postman and walking towards me.
He was dressed in a large, flowery, summer shirt and wore black trousers with smart, black shoes – I was surprised I didn’t notice him – he stood out enough! I guess I must have just thought that it couldn’t be him – he was wearing the wrong clothing. But he wasn’t. He was dressed for summer, just like everybody else. I don’t know why but I must have assumed that he would always wear the same clothes that he had worn on that night – silly really.
I stood there. Stunned.
‘It’s you!’ I said, eyes wide. ‘It’s actually you!’ I said, now running to embrace him.
‘I need some help.’ he said, looking grave. ‘Things have gotten worse and – well – this day was always going to come. Let us go inside.’
Once inside, I proceeded to make him tea, now realising how odd it was that I was allowed to use the kettle, but not the toaster. That’s how it had always been and I had never questioned it.
My companion was waiting patiently on the living-room sofa when I brought him his tea, with a pot of sugar and carton of milk.
‘Ah, I forgot the spoon.’ I said at once.
‘No need, no need.’ said the man, waving his hand airily. ‘I have one here.’
He pulled a small, plastic spoon out of his shirt pocket. I suppressed a laugh but my expression betrayed me. He chuckled.
‘So, I am here today –‘
‘Wait, a second! I’m Gareth, what’s your name?’ I interrupted, impatiently.
‘Dwindle Berry. Glad to meet you.’ he said, seeming grateful of the interruption.
‘So, w-what happened on-on the night we l-last met?’ I asked, forcing myself to ask, despite my reluctance to talk about it.
‘If you let me continue then I can tell you.’ said Mr. Berry.
I closed my mouth then, ready to listen.
‘As you know, there was a tragedy in Rohlongtom, as well as another one in Little Hollow. I am sorry that I could not make it to your parents’ funeral, incidentally. It was not my fault. –‘
‘What happened?’ I interrupted.
‘I was attacked by a member of the group of men we had seen with the big lizards – which by the way are called dragons, or, as we now call them, dinosaurs – I shall not bore you with the details but it detained me well past the time of the funeral.’
‘Ok,’ I said, confused. ‘What do you mean when you say dinosaurs?’
‘Exactly what I say – they were dinosaurs.’
‘Aren’t they extinct though?’ I asked, perplexed.
‘Most are, but some are in hiding, breeding far away from where we would expect them to be – where we rarely venture – if anybody comes across any they tend to be eaten or they try to keep such things secret – the government would not publicise it even if they knew – just like they wouldn’t report sightings of angels or exorcisms of demons, or aliens - if they exist.’
‘How did they become extinct?’ I asked, curious.
‘There are many theories but I favour the one where Saint George set a trend by killing one of them and freeing a maid from its clutches.’
‘Where did you find that theory?!’ I asked, startled.
‘A website,’ he said, handing me a card.
I glanced at it and read:
http://www.creationworldview.org/articles_view.asp?id=50
-The Existence of Fire Breathing Dragons.
‘Right.’ I said, taking the card and stowing it in a jean’s pocket, not sure whether I could believe him or not.
In school, we had always been taught that nobody knew how dinosaurs had become extinct, although they presented many convincing arguments. Still, I suppose that they only ever taught us an evolutionist’s perspective and Dwindle’s view did seem coherent in itself – I had never considered a Creationist’s view on dinosaurs before and we always assumed that they existed millions of years ago – no longer alive now because they died out and evolved into something else – except crocodiles and alligators – they were resilient enough not to have to evolve, apparently. At least, that’s what I’d been taught in class.
Still, this idea that dinosaurs, or - as Dwindle called them – dragons still existed probably wouldn’t have been backed up by the website – perhaps this was his own idea – after all, it is possible that some could have gone into hiding. And they are discovering new species of creatures everyday – I suppose that even if they were discovered, they would no longer be called dinosaurs by whoever discovered them, they would be called something else. I did, in the end, check the website and found what he said to be true – about the theory of Saint George killing one and setting a trend, being there that is (not about them still existing).
Although, I supposed that there was no denying the existence of whatever these lizards were, either way – I had seen them with my own eyes and couldn’t believe it. I suppose that this was an unusual sight though. I mean, I had never seen these creatures before and they had definitely breathed fire. At school – in fact, everywhere I went – dragons were considered mythological. Therefore, they must have never been seen by anyone else either – or anyone willing to admit it, anyway. I supposed that I would never tell anyone either – people would think me loopy, after all. I supposed that – besides those men, that girl, their victims and us – nobody else would know of them.
‘Anyway,’ continued Mr. Berry, clearing his throat to wake me from my thoughtful state. ‘I am here to invite you to my school.’
‘School?’ I said, incredulous and confused.
‘Did you not know?’ he asked, stroking his beard in thoughtful confusion. ‘Oh well! You do now. I am a headmaster of a school!’
I looked at his now beaming face in astonishment. How he could ever be responsible for such a complex establishment seemed ludicrous to me. He just did not strike me as organised enough - or responsible, for that matter.
‘Oh come now, how could this surprise you so?’ he asked cheerily, looking at my expression of bewilderment. ' 'After all, did I not strike you as organised, responsible and well-mannered?’
‘Uh –‘ I said, unsure of what to say and unwilling to lie or hurt his feelings.
‘Well. I suppose it is what God thinks of us, not what each other thinks that matters. He chooses the weak to shame the strong after all, the foolish to shame the wise. First impressions are not always accurate either, so either way, it’s fine.’ he said, chuckling uncertainly.
I thought of how my first impression of him had changed rapidly in the encounter, but not towards the view that he would ever make a decent headmaster. Still, who am I to question God? I thought.
‘So where is this school and what is its name?’ I asked, focussing again upon the man in front of me.
‘I cannot tell you where it is because I would not want enemies to know the location – you may let it slip or be tortured into it, for example. However, I can tell you its name.-‘
‘Yes?’ I interrupted, eager to know.
‘Ah, I can’t, actually – you might blurt it out by accident. Sorry.’ he said, sighing.
‘What?! No I won’t!’ I said, disappointed.
‘Prove it.’ he said, with another sigh.
‘Alright then, what do we do at this school?’ I asked, confused and annoyed.
‘Well, you have your usual school exams that I have to put you through as would be expected. In addition though, there are many other wonderful lessons that you may thoroughly enjoy and which include no real exams or paperwork – or not usual stuff, anyway.’
‘What sort of lessons?’ I asked, curious to hear more.
‘Oh, fun ones, but important for building you up nonetheless.’ he said, happily. ‘Based on the gifts of the Holy Spirit and the prayers of God’s saints, mostly.’
‘Gifts of the Holy Spirit?’ I asked, confused. ‘What are they? And what have the prayers of the saints got to do with me?’
‘My dear boy, we – us Christians – are the saints. Sinners that are now Christians – sure, we sin sometimes but we are referred to as saints, even when we sin. It says so in the Bible.’
‘Where?’ I asked, sure that he was wrong.
‘Well, off the top of my head – Acts, chapter nine, verse thirteen – Ananias refers to God’s people as saints.’
‘Well, what if he is wrong?’ I asked, feeling unworthy of the title.
‘Dear Gareth, the Bible is God’s word - it is ‘God-breathed’, as Timothy puts it in Two Timothy, chapter three, verse sixteen.’
‘Alright then.’ I said, satisfied. ‘So, if we are God’s saints then it is our prayers that the lessons are based on?’
‘Well, yeah – and God’s will, including the Gifts of the Holy Spirit which He gives us in time – and which we should eagerly desire. You know the miraculous powers I had when we first met? That’s one of them. The others can be found in One Corinthians, chapter twelve.’
‘So what are the other gifts? And why didn’t I hear about this in Sunday School?’
‘Well, perhaps they did not think you could grasp such a subject yet. As for the gifts – look them up.’ he said, handing me a Bible.
I asked again where to find them as I searched. When I got to it, I read aloud: ‘Now to each one the manifestation of the Spirit is given for the common good. To one there is given through the Spirit the message of wisdom, to another the message of knowledge by means of the same Spirit, to another faith by the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing by that one Spirit, to another miraculous powers,’ at this point I nodded at Mr Berry as I read, ‘to another prophecy, to another distinguishing between spirits, to another speaking in different kinds of tongues,’ I frowned at this, quite confused and looked up but he just gestured for me to continue reading, ‘and to still another the interpretation of tongues.’
‘Does that satisfy your curiosity?’ asked Mr Berry.
‘A bit, but what does it mean by speaking in different kinds of tongues? Like with a cow’s tongue or a dog’s?’
Mr Berry chuckled at this: ‘Perhaps you will find out later, dear boy.’
‘And what sort of grades do people normally get, when they come out of this school?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious and trying not to imagine myself speaking with a long, pink cow’s tongue.
‘Oh, good ones.’ he said with a smile.
‘Great.’ I said, unsure of what that would actually mean and again, seriously doubting his abilities as head teacher.
‘Well, I can give it a go. Sounds more interesting than the school that I was going to go to anyway. When do I start?’
‘September 1st, same as any other school.’ he said, eyeing me uncertainly. ‘And do you agree not to let the whereabouts of the school reach others from you – either directly or indirectly?’
‘About that – how am I going to get there, if I don’t know where to go?’ I asked, frowning.
At this, Mr Berry reached into his trouser pocket and brought out a small, rusty ring. He held it up to show me.
‘Now remember this, boy, because I won’t tell you again.’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘This is the object you need to pick out amongst the lost property at Shindon Bus station, if you are to arrive at the school. The transport leaves at nine o’ clock in the morning, so be prompt.’
‘How am I supposed to get there by that time?’ I asked, suddenly worried.
‘Well, you have two options – either stay there overnight or get a lift from someone, unless you can get a train, taxi or bus there somehow. The school is a boarding one so it’ll only be a termly inconvenience.’ he went on.
‘And what type of transport is this exactly?’
‘A secret, Gareth.’ he said, winking and tapping his nose knowingly (and annoyingly for me).
‘I’m sure that there is nobody here that would betray your trust, Mr Berry.’ I said, incredulously.
‘Even so, the less you know the better. Besides, don’t you like surprises?’ he said, now standing up to leave.
‘Not really.’ I groaned.
‘What an unusual child you are, Gareth! How can you not be excited?’ he said, beaming.
But then panic set in – ‘How am I going to get my school stuff in time? I only have today and tomorrow! What am I going to tell the school I’m already booked to join?’
‘Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll talk to the school – what’s it called?’
‘St. Julian’s Upper School.’
‘Really? What a funny name.’ he chuckled. ‘Oh, and we can go to get the school stuff now – that’s why I came – to show you the best place to get it all. I’ll even pay for it all if you want – for old times’ sake.’
‘Thanks, but what would you have done if I simply wasn’t in today?’ I said, bewildered that he would make such a risky assumption.
‘I would have been told to come another day – God told me to come, after all. Although I’m convinced that I could have written a letter, if it wasn’t for all this secrecy and for the fact that I need to show you where to go and how to get there – as well as paying for the stuff.’
‘So how long will it take to get there?’ I asked, still bewildered.
‘Not long, I’ll drive – well, when I say I, I mean Drale. You’ll see what I mean if we go now. Are you ready?’
‘Uh,’ I said, ‘sure, I’ll just leave a note for my Gran.’
‘No need, dear boy – I talked to her yesterday whilst you were away.’
I stared at him, stunned.
‘Close your mouth, boy – you’ll catch flies.’
I now closed my mouth and eyed a rather large bluebottle fly cautiously, now buzzing near my nose. I waved it away impatiently.
‘What do you mean, you talked to her yesterday?’
‘I talked to her yesterday.’
‘Nothing is ever simple with you, is it?’ I snapped.
‘Fine,’ he sighed, ‘yesterday I came here and met your gran again –‘
At this he chuckled at my gormless expression.
‘That’s right, I’d met her before – she used to teach me, to be precise. Her Religious Studies classes were thoroughly entertaining and instructive – hopefully similar to classes when I take them.’ He mused. ‘I remember when she used to rant about the crazy notions of a Buddhist woman; she had met at a greengrocer, one lesson.’ He chuckled again. ‘Anyway, like I said, I explained who I was – well, actually she didn’t need much reminding, I think I was quite mischievous in my time - and let her know what my plans for you were. She had no qualms and actually prayed in agreement with me. That’s why she isn’t here now – she agreed to go to a day spa, as long as I paid for her, so as not to interfere or hear anything that it would be unwise for her to hear.’
At this, he glanced at the clock. I followed his eyes to the living-room clock, mouth open again – I must have looked so confused.
‘Right, well, we should get going – unless you have any complaints?’ he asked, briskly.
‘Uh, sure.’ I said, recovering myself.
I resolved to follow him, even though I had more questions, this would not be the time.
Bibliography!
- http://www.creationworldview.org/articles_view.asp?id=50. Publisher: Got Questions Ministries. Title of Article: The existence of fire breathing dragons. Date last accessed: 12/03/2011.
