Fifteen year old boys hardly believe in monsters. That year, in the northwest, Sasquatch stories were on everyone’s lips. The three of us were on a short walk, a familiar trip to the spring. A large wooden cask, brown and covered on the outside with lime-green mildew. You could feel the moisture, smell the wet earth, see the beads of water leaking out, the glint of big yellow slugs feeding even as they produced their own slime. Shadows increased. Panic intensified as the sun slowly disappeared. The obvious trail back to our trailer was hidden to us. Yards from us, something cracked. A breaking. Dry sticks stepped on. A bone broken?
I am a romantic. I cry during Romcoms (though denying it
vehemently). My copy of A Severe Mercy is yellowed and dog-eared. I
believe in true love. My wife and I have “As you wish” stamped on the inside of
our wedding rings. Deep down I believe Hobbits are real. Elves too. In a world where
men are beheaded and burned at the stake for professing a risen Christ, dragons
are possible and less horrific. Monsters exist.
This is why I tear up at even a basic Hallmark movie. I
want that girls’ berry farm to survive! Her prince must save her! I hate murky,
grey endings. Evil must be quashed. That is how the world is supposed to work! And
it did, once, before the slithering monster came. And it will again. Every love
story should end “happily ever after.” Dragons slayed, evil sorcerers getting
their just reward. True kings crowned, friends safely celebrating.
The panic rose and rose. Though a stones’ throw from home,
in a secluded forest. Where monsters don’t exist. Did the way home open up
(magically), were our friends’ voices suddenly heard in the distance? Did evil
just retreat? A short walk and we were home.
“We have to feel the universe at once as an ogre’s castle,
to be stormed, and yet as our own cottage, to which we can return at evening.”
(Chesterton)
Photo by Ravit Sages on Unsplash
