No Better Place to Hide

a fantasy tale for everyone

Hello Undersiders, and welcome back! It’s summer now (I prefer the June-August summer designation for North America, rather than going off the solstice), and things are busy on the Underside’s underside, i.e. my regular life. We also have a little summer blues with regards to submissions, so I’m posting one of my own. This is an unpublished children’s fantasy story that I wrote for fun some years ago. Bring your kids and some popcorn!

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Photo by sutirta budiman on Unsplash

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No Better Place to Hide

By Luke D Evans

“To a hundred, Dess. Can you count that high?”

Placing her hands on her hips like her mother did at times, Dess leveled blue eyes on Jesse. “I’m not dumb, Jesse. I’m in the second grade!” Her lower lip drooped in a pout, her blonde curls bounced with the rhythm of her words.

“Well, don’t forget. I need time. Okay—go!”

Dess scrunched her eyes shut, and Jesse dashed down the hall as silently as possible. Slowly he turned the knob and swung the basement door open. Not a sound. He chuckled to himself. Dess always scraped a chair, creaked a floorboard, stepped on the cat’s tail—something to tell Jesse where she had gone. But not Jesse. Silent as a sock on a rug.

He tiptoed into the basement, leaving the lights off, all the better to discourage Dess from looking down here. All the worse to locate a good hiding place without knocking over some of the junk. Boxes, suitcases, lawn chairs scraped the ceiling like a basement skyline. But where to hide? Ah! The box from Dad’s new Macintosh. Perfect for a four-foot-eight, slenderish nine-year-old boy. He lifted it, struggling to pull it back behind some of the stacks, out of the way. Upstairs, he heard “seventy-four­, seventy-five”, in his sister’s girlish voice.

He stepped into the box, and crouched down. Snug, but it would do. He pulled the four flaps shut, immersing himself in a cozy bedtime darkness, and smiled. How would she ever find him? His heart fluttered at the thought. What a clever fellow!

After a few more seconds, he heard her feet padding about on the linoleum upstairs. Some moments later, they returned, followed by the sound of a door opening. Not the basement door, though; the hall closet. It was safe to say she would be a long time coming.

She sure was. He didn’t hear her for five minutes going on an hour. Not a sound, which was unlike her. He considered popping out, giving up, stalking up the steps sorta triumphantly. But if she had given up.... He would give her a couple more minutes.

What was that sound? A distant rumble, a tremor. He envisioned a bulldozer in the yard, come to raze the house. In his imagination, it tore across the living room, the kitchen, demolishing everything. Then he thought of a T-Rex, standing outside by the swings, picking birds out of trees and eating half the tree in the process.

Curiosity overcame him, and he peeked out between two of the cardboard flaps. A bright blue sky met his eyes, with a grayish cloud billowing up. In the basement? He poked his head out all the way, no longer caring if Dess was there to say “Ha! Found you! I found you! Haha!” The rumble had risen to a roar, deep and steady, a sound like the earth rolling over its hills and mountains.

A long stretch of grass, like a prairie, met his eyes, dotted here and there with trees. One of these trees hovered above him. But straight ahead, the cloud of dust grew, so as to blot out the sky. Through it Jesse saw faces with big dull eyes and furry heads bobbing up and down. A wild herd, on the move! Directly toward him, naturally.

In his haste, Jesse tumbled from the box, and his face met squarely with the dirt. He scrambled on his hands and knees, got to his feet, and darted behind a nearby boulder. His breath came in short little spurts. His eyes fairly popped from his head as he watched the beasts trample his box.

They were... what? Kinda like the buffalo in all those cowboy movies. Or maybe the wildebeests in The Lion King. Yeah, that was it! Wildebeests.

No sooner had they come than they were gone, leaving only a suffocating cloud of dust and a few poor shreds of cardboard. One piece flitted down like a feather and landed next to Jesse. He picked it up and stared at it, unbelieving.

“Where am I?” he said aloud to himself. “How did I get here?”

“Well,” a nasally voice said from behind him. “I don’t know how you got here, but you are in Thuf.”

Jesse spun on his heels to face the speaker, but saw only a boulder. “Wh... who said that?” he stuttered. He always fancied himself a tough kid, but this was a bit much.

The voice laughed, a goofy throaty sound. “Me. I’m Pottle. What is your name, manchild?”

Jesse looked up to see two large brown eyes staring at him above a long brown muzzle. Its lips raised revealing square, off-white teeth grinning good-naturedly. A tuft of brown hair rose from the top of his pointy head, which hung over the boulder directly above Jesse. The rest of him could not be seen, but Jesse had seen horses before. Even ridden one. But none of them had talked.

Jesse gaped for a moment, until the horse—Pottle, that is—burst out into a grainy, snorting laugh, snapping Jesse back to reality.

“How... you are... what?” is all he managed to say.

“Pottle. I am Horse. You are Manchild. Are there horses where you come from?”

“Yeah. They don’t... talk.”

“No? That is strange. But you talk, sure enough. Do you talk where you come from, or only when you come here?”

“Humans always talk. But animals don’t.”

Pottle puffed up his chest (Jesse couldn’t see it behind the boulder, but the sound was most peculiar—like a great raft inflated) and flapped his lips. “Well, an animal! I never! From a manchild! Well!” He stomped his hoofs and flared his nostrils.

“I meant no harm, Sir Pottle. I’m just not used to horses talking. Humans are the only ones who talk in my world.”

Pottle settled down a little, unpuffed his chest (like a huge whoopee cushion sat on by a giant), and settled his large round eyes on Jesse. “Pottle will do. That must be a very boring world, if only menkind talk. And what is your name?”

“Jesse.” He looked away wistfully, out across the open meadow and the bright blue expanse. “I want to go home.”

“But you only just came, Jesse.”

“I have nowhere to sleep; nothing to eat. It is scary.” He giggled nervously. “I’ve never said that to anyone else, just The Talking Horse.”

“Pottle,” Pottle corrected.

“Pottle,” Jesse repeated, with more respect.

A moment of awkward silence followed, with Pottle shaking his mane and Jesse scratching his neck. Neither made eye contact.

Jesse finally looked back up at Pottle sheepishly, and said, in quiet tones, “So, uhhh... Do you know how I get back home?”

Pottle leveled his big peepers on Jesse, and said, “I don’t even know where your home is! I’m really quite sorry.” His face acquired a perplexed look, then scrunched up in deep thought. It was all Jesse could do to keep a straight face.

“Ah!” Pottle exclaimed. “I could take you to Craesat. He would know how to get to your world! Yes, yes, that’s what I will do. My mind is quite made up. Come, follow me.”

Pottle’s head swung from atop the boulder, and Jesse heard hooves shifting positions, clop-clop-clop. Jesse walked around the boulder and stood beside Pottle.

Pottle looked down at him. “My, you are a small one, Jesse.”

Jesse’s hands went to his hips, and he blurted, “I am nine years old, you know! I am practically a man!”

“A very small man, what from what I have seen, young Jesse.”

Pottle began walking across the prairie, Jesse at his side.

After some time at a slow, deliberate pace, Jesse stopped. “Are we almost there, Pottle? It’s such a long way.” The boulder had long disappeared, and only tall grass and the occasional tree could be seen. Another dust cloud rose far to their right.

“Yes, yes, close is what we are.” Pottle pointed with his right front leg. “You see that darkness on the horizon? That is Tardown Forest. Not much longer, no, not at all.”

Jesse shielded his brow with his hand and squinted across the distance. “That is still very far away, Pottle. Can we rest? Or, I know! I could ride you! I did it once, at the county fair. It’s not hard.”

Jesse got to see the chest puff out this time. “Ride me? Oh, what a thought! What a thought!” He pranced around like a drama lord.

“But if I were a horse, I would let a tired boy ride my back.”

“Well, I am most certainly glad you are not a horse. The disgrace! Oh, my. No, no. I can think no more on it.”

And so they walked, and they walked, and the forest grew steadily larger and greener before their eyes. It looked like a beautiful place of abundant life. Before they entered, Jesse stopped and craned his neck to regard the top of the forest. Very far away it seemed, in the heavens themselves, although he knew that was not possible. An eagle soared above the canopy of leaves, its cry piercing the air, sending chills down Jesse’s spine. From within the forest came the sounds of birds chirping, squirrels chattering, leaves rustling. It all seemed so magical.

Pottle, who had continued to the forest’s edge before realizing the boy was no longer with him, called back, “Jesse, are you coming? Did you walk so far, only to quit at the end? Come! Come! Very close now, we are! Very close!”

Jesse broke his trance and ran, relishing the rush of oxygen filling his lungs. He reached Pottle full of mirth, laughing, tugging at Pottle’s mane. “Let’s go! Come on! Hurry up!” He practically dragged the poor horse into the forest.

Once inside, his mood became subdued. Serenity hung in the air like a vapor. A calm came over him, and only whispers escaped his mouth, as if normal tones would be found unfavorable. They tread the forest floor gently, daring to damage nothing, sticking only to the path which rolled before them like a creek bed. Deep into the forest they roamed. To Jesse it felt like a marvelous dream. The richness of the ferns, the moss, the trees, the soil beneath them; the feeling lingering all about them, of wonder and enchantment; the freshness in the air, so clean and crisp, so unlike the air back home.

A small voice suddenly hissed from beneath a shrub to their right. “You do not belong here. You are strangers.”

Pottle followed the voice into the shrubbery.

The voice turned shrill and frightened. “NO! NO! Do not come in here! Could be very dangerous for you!”

Pottle laughed. “Don’t you remember me, Craesat? It’s ol’ Pottle! I’ve brought you a friend.”

“Pottle?” the voice croaked. “I know no Pottle.”

“Come now! Of course you do! I’ve brought you vaswart and thyme and even some jasmine, from time to time! Don’t be silly.”

The voice took a moment to respond. Jesse envisioned a neurotic little creature nervously mulling over the ramifications of any potential action.

“Jasmine, you say?” the voice resumed. “I remember now. Big, goofy fellah. But he weren’t no horse.”

“I’ve always been one, Craesat. From my colt days.”

“Hmmmmmmm. Memory ain’t so good these days, I reckon. But your homely face could strike a man dead, so it could, or I be shackled.” The body connected to the voice slunk from the shrub, revealing a withered marmot with coarse brown hair bespeckled gray, and two sharp, beady eyes. It appeared old, but with an agitated vivacity and abrupt manner only a creature of his kind could possess. He stood on his hind legs before Pottle, inspecting him. Pottle stood with his lips raised in a toothy grin. Jesse remembered that grin, and the whole spectacle was enough to raise a giggle to his lips. At which Craesat spun around, leveling his black beads upon Jesse. “And who is this man whom you have with you? Is he friend?”

“I brought him to see you. He needs to go home, but doesn’t know how. We were hoping—ahem—that maybe you could send him back. What do you think?”

Craesat crooked his neck to face Pottle, and said in a coarse whisper, “Why doesn’t he use his paws and walk there? Should be much simpler, I would think.”

“But he is not from Thuf. In his world, only menkind talk. Can you imagine?”

“Thuf?” Craesat repeated, in the same coarse whisper. “What is this ‘Thuf’ you speak of?”

“We are in Thuf, Craesat. It is our world.”

“Is it now? It has been so long. Very well, then. Child!” he said, addressing Jesse, then turned to whisper to Pottle again, “Does it have a name?”

“Jesse,” Pottle whispered back.

“Jesse!” Craesat exclaimed. “What do they call this world of yours?”

“Oh... well, Earth, I suppose. Or America. Or... I don’t really know.”

“Don’t know? Well, how am I supposed to help someone return home when they don’t even know where home is? I have no such time to waste.”

“Please, sir, I really want to get back home. Can you try? Please?”

The gray-brown marmot, who had turned to waddle away, turned back, peering over his shoulders in deep consideration. “Come with me,” he said, after a moment’s thought.

Turning away again, he entered a small hole in the ground and disappeared. The hole was much too small for Jesse, let alone Pottle. They looked at each other, and Pottle did a horse version of a shrug. Jesse burst into laughter.

A moment later, Craesat’s head burst from the hole, bobbing like a cork. “Are you coming?” he said gruffly.

“We are a bit big for it, I’m afraid,” Jesse apologized.

Craesat considered that for a few seconds, then disappeared. Shortly thereafter, he reappeared, scrawny arms filled with bottles and vials and packets. He struggled to get out of the hole, but without the use of his arms, it was a venture in comedy. Biting his lip, Jesse offered his hand, but the marmot refused. “I can do it myself,” he stressed. “Been doin’ it for years, don’t need no manchild to help me from my own hole.” Nonetheless, it took some time before he managed to wiggle himself onto the surface. He plopped his wares into a heap, and collapsed to the ground, panting wildly. His beady eyes fairly popped from his head.

“Here, try this one,” he said between gasps of air. He picked up a canister and handed it to Jesse. The bottle read Yurisprig. “Cures mind-storms, that one does.”

Jesse plucked the top from the bottle, and removed a long, thin root, still seeped in mud. He hesitated, holding the limp form gingerly, eyeing it in doubt.

“Well, go ahead, it don’t work by sight!”

He puckered his lips and sucked it in. It shot down his throat as if in a vacuum. Jesse sputtered, and his eyes watered. His head became like a balloon, so light he could float wherever he wished. He batted his eyes to shake the sensation, and found both Pottle’s big brown eyes and Craesat’s beady black ones regarding him with intense interest.

“Did it work?” Craesat rasped.

“Well,” Jesse replied, patting himself up and down. “I’m still here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

Craesat shoved another bottle into his hand. “Here, try this.”

Jesse did, and continued trying one remedy after another, but each time, he was still in Thuf.

Photo by Josh McCausland on Unsplash

Eventually, Craesat gave up, crestfallen. His wares had been depleted, to no effect. He gathered what was left, and trudged back to his hole, tears welling in his eyes.

Jesse tried to feel bad for him, but all he could think of was home. So all he could say was, “What do I do then? Is there anybody else who might help? A wizard, maybe?”

Craesat’s face visibly brightened. Turning his ebony eyes upon Jesse, he chittered, “Whiz Ards are not familiar to me.” His eyes shone, and his tone lowered. “But there is one who deals in the unseen arts. He may be the one to help you. His name is Vrieuawceo.”

“Vroosho?”

“No, no. Vrieuawceo.”

“Uh-huh. Where does Vr—he live?”

“Down the path, in the big oak. Not half a day’s walk. Be there quicker than a raindrop falling from the sky.” With that, the old marmot vanished into the ground, arms laden with empty bottles and failed remedies. A whoosh followed his disappearance, followed by a loud whump and a clatter. The rough landing brought a cry of surprised pain wafting through the opening.

“Are you alright?” Jesse shouted down the tube.

He heard a shuffling down below, and then the return cry, somewhat perturbed, “Yes, yes—and who might you be?”

Jesse and Pottle exchanged amused glances, and continued down the path, side by side. At times a word passed between them, but mostly they walked in silence. The sun shone in strands through the branches, and a light breeze fanned their faces. A perfect, pleasant day. Jesse made comment to the fact, and Pottle shrugged it off, as if it was normal.

“Rain?” he responded to Jesse’s description of his world. “For a whole day? And what of the sun?” But Jesse didn’t know enough science. He vowed that, if he ever got home, he would pay more attention in class.

By and by, they came across an ancient oak. Knots like boulders adorned its massive trunk. It looked like those Redwood trees Jesse had seen in books, only the bark was much rougher, and the limbs lower. It occupied a wide area of the forest, its branches fanning out in all directions. In fact, it was like a forest all to itself. In the base they spotted an opening, small and dark. Above the hole was a plaque with the silhouette of a squirrel carved into its face.

“This is the place,” Pottle whispered in Jesse’s ear. Jesse nodded in answer.

They approached the opening with utmost caution. The cheerful serenity of the forest had evolved into an eerie stillness. Darkness fairly oozed from inside the tree. Pottle gulped.

“What do we do?” Jesse asked faintly.

A rustling came from within, and their hearts leapt into their throats like Scooby-Doo into Shaggy’s arms. A long, bony, furry finger materialized out of the mist, and bid them enter. Jesse and Pottle exchanged fearful glances. Pottle was too large to enter, but Jesse was not.

“Careful, my little friend,” Pottle said, and nuzzled the boy. Jesse rubbed Pottle’s mane and took a deep breath. He stepped through the darkness as through a curtain, entering into a homey setting with a cheery fire crackling in a fireplace. It never occurred to him to question the existence of a fire inside an oak tree. If it had, it would have been sufficient to tell him ‘magic’. For this was a magical place.

In a ragged upholstered chair sat a small cloaked figure, all black, facing the fire. His head was hidden in a large, black hood. In fact, only the long, bony, furry fingers could be seen of the creature.

“Why do you come here?” The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, and nowhere. Less a voice, more a breath, like an audible thought. It penetrated his skin, permeated his skull, haunted him.

“I want to—”

“Go home, yes, I know. What everyone wants.”

“Can you—”

“We shall see.”

“—help?”

“Go to Tar Creek. Wrap yourself in wild grayvine. Take a ladle. Cover yourself with tar. Repeat mantra.”

“Mantra, sir?”

“Mantra.”

“What shall I say?”

“The word—Mantra. Why do you fail to understand?”

“I’m...”. He almost said “sorry,” but it didn’t quite sound right.

“Where is Tar Creek?” Jesse asked instead.

A long, bony, furry finger raised, wavered at the effort, steadied, and pointed. The black cloak hung from his arm like a sheet. “Go.” The breath filled the room like an aroma, impossible to ignore.

“But, I have no ladle!” Jesse argued.

“Door,” the voice breathed, replacing ‘go’.

Jesse looked back at the door. Pottle stood just outside the entrance, peering in anxiously. Although he appeared clear to Jesse, he knew Pottle could not see him. Something tickled Pottle’s nose, and he twitched it, rumpling up his lips and rippling back the folds around his eyes in an imminent sneeze. Jesse almost laughed. Pottle caught the sneeze before it could form, and the relief in his eyes did make Jesse laugh. He spun around to see if Vr... the cloaked one had noticed. He did not seem to care, but the word ‘door’ intensified, now joined again by the word ‘go’. Jesse chose not to hesitate. He grabbed the ladle which rested by the door (he was sure it had not been there when he had entered), and slid through the entrance into Pottle’s joyful face.

“Oh, you made it, Jesse! Yay!”

“Were you frightened for me?”

“Me?” Pottle scoffed. “Nah! Not for a moment. It’s all safe in Tardown Forest.” But his tone betrayed him. No Oscar for Pottle.

Jesse just laughed it off. “Come on!” he yelled, waving his arm. He took off at a sprint in the direction the long, bony, furry finger had pointed.

Not far behind the giant oak, with its thick trunk and deep green canopy still visible atop the wooded hill, Jesse found the tar creek. Thick black mucus, which Jesse likened to caramel, flowed at a glacial pace along a creek bed. Jesse took a moment to marvel, leaning over, peering into the black depths. Pottle grabbed his shirt with his teeth, and yanked him back.

“Jesse child, that is very dangerous! You should never get so close to the Tar Creek!”

“But,” Jesse’s face crumpled up in exaggerated confusion. “I thought you said ‘it’s all safe in Tardown Forest’.”

“Well—not that.” Pottle took on the exasperated look of a parent asked to explain the world.

Jesse pointed to the overhanging boughs. “Grayvine! I bet that’s what he’s talkin’ about!”

“Grayvine?” Pottle stretched his neck upward. “Yep, so it is! What do you want grayvine for?”

“To wrap around me. It’s what Vroo... the cloaked one said to do.”

“Oh? Perfectly ridiculous.”

“It is not! The cloaked one is wise!”

“So we shall see.”

Jesse leapt as high as he could, fingering the edges of the vines hanging down, but unable to grasp them. Pottle reached his head up, clutched the sturdy vines in his jaws, and lowered them for Jesse to do the rest. For some time, they stripped the vines from the branches and trees, and laid them on the ground in a pile. Before long, they had enough, and Jesse was handsomely decorated in grayvine, looking like a bold snake handler. One could barely tell a boy stood beneath all the vegetation.

“Now for the fun part!” Jesse said, and handed Pottle the ladle.

“And what am I to do with this?”

Jesse laughed. “Dip it in the tar! He said to cover me with it.”

Pottle was aghast. “Cover you? In tar? I never! The nerve of that guy! Hmmph!” His chest did its inflation thing again, and his nostrils flared.

“But you gotta! I want to go home, and he said this is the only way!”

“He said that, eh? Cloaked, schmoaked. That’s what I say,” Pottle mumbled half under his breath.

“Well, he didn’t really say much of anything. But he told me to do this to get home. He looks like he knows what he means.”

Pottle held the ladle in his mouth, and stared at the stream of tar below him. Finally he looked back and said between clenched teeth, “How ‘oo I ‘oo ‘is?”, which, being translated, means, “How do I do this?”

“Get down on your knees,” Jesse suggested, gesturing with his hands toward the ground.

Pottle plopped to his knees without grace, then looked back at Jesse. “Ow ‘ut?”

Jesse started giggling again. A stitch rose to his thighs. He grabbed it, still giggling, then dropped to the dirt, now laughing uncontrollably. With the vines hanging all over him, he looked like some kind of mini lagoon monster, rolling around on the ground. Finally, he gathered himself and struggled back to his feet, using balled up fists to wipe tears from his eyes.

“Are you finished?” Pottle asked, but it came out more as “Ah u inisht?”

Jesse nodded, not yet trusting his voice after such hilarity.

“An’ ‘ow ‘oo u p’pose fo me ‘oo ‘ip ‘is?” Pottle had to repeat it several times in ascending tones and levels of patience for Jesse to decipher it as “And how do you propose for me to dip this?”

Jesse made a dipping motion with his mouth, followed by a pouring motion.

“Ea’y fo’ u ‘oo say,” which was never defined. Pottle did it, however. He was very careful to avoid falling in, foremost, and getting any of the dark, sticky stuff on his hair, second-most. A very unpleasant picture of himself formed in his head—completely shaved, with a sheepish grin on his face, and little red dimples popping up all over his pink skin. That would be the result, he was sure. A naked horse. Oh, the disgrace!

As fortune would have it, his luck held, and after several knee-cracking, neck-twinging trips, Jesse was completely covered in the thick goo, from the top of his head to the bottom of... well, the vines. He could barely move, but he enjoyed every minute of it.

Pottle asked “What did the quack say next?”

But before Jesse could respond, he begin chanting “Mantra - mantra -mantra - mantra...” He went on for several minutes. Pottle watched with a mixture of amusement and disgust and a tinge of hope. Several times Jesse peeked with one eye, between the streams of tar flowing from his forehead to his chest, to see if he was still in Thuf. After the third peek, he gave up, and collapsed to the ground in dejection.

“I won’t ever get home, will I, Pottle?”

Pottle wanted to nuzzle him, reassure him, but the tar held him back. Instead he said, “You always have me, little friend. Let’s get you to water, huh?”

Jesse said nothing for a moment, then muttered, “Sure.” He slowly rose to his feet. “Thanks, Pottle,” he said, and reached out and ruffled his mane. Pottle cringed a little at the touch, since Jesse’s hands were still drenched in tar, but his heart did little leaps of happiness. For the first time he felt loved, by such a small thing as a thank-you and a tug on his mane. It felt good.

A still, small voice etched the air. “You want to go home,” it said simply.

Jesse spun on his heels, eyes darting all around for the speaker. “Yes, yes! I do! Where are you?”

“Here, there, anywhere. I can be in the sky, like a bird; or on the ground, like a horse; or beneath the soil, like a marmot. But mostly I am wherever I choose.”

“Look to your left,” the soft, wise voice continued. “Beneath the fern leaf. But do not touch! I will be gone, and never shall you see me again, for I can move like the wind, wheresoever I please.”

Beneath the leaf, two tiny sets of whiskers framed a tiny nose; sharp eyes stood out from a reddish fur, with black stripes trailing beneath them. A chipmunk!

Jesse got down on his hands and knees, as close to the chipmunk as he dared. “What do I do?”

“Same as before.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“What did you do to get here?”

“Nothing! I mean, I was hiding in a box, from my sister, and...” It all seemed like so long ago.

“There you go.” Jesse heard a rustling, and he was gone. The chipmunk had vanished.

“But... but... I have no box!” he called out after him.

The soft voice of reason, of the chipmunk, floated down to him. “Pretend.”

Jesse turned to Pottle with newfound hope, and Pottle regarded him warmly. “Give me a hug,” he said, caring not whether he would need to be shaved later or not.

Jesse ran to Pottle as well as he could with the vines and tar covering him, embracing him, kissing his muzzle. “I’ll miss you, Pottle. I wish you could come, too.”

“I already miss you, too, little Jesse.” Tears glinted in his eyes. “But, come now! You have a home to get to!” He nudged Jesse away, still smiling.

Jesse plopped to the ground, and balled himself up the way he had when he was in the box. He squinched his eyes shut and concentrated as hard as he could. He thought, “There’s no place like home... there’s no place like home,” just because he could think of nothing else to think. It seemed appropriate.

“Hey! I found you! Hahaha!” The sound of Dess’s playful laugh was sugar to Jesse’s ears. He uncoiled his body, noting the pleasant absence of vine and tar, and smiled with all his teeth at Dess. That marked the first time his younger sister had found him in hide and seek. What timing she possessed!

“My turn now!” Dess shouted as she bounded to the stairs.

Could that have been nothing but a dream? It seemed so real, but also so spectacular. How could it be real? A foreign object laying on the floor by his feet caught his eye. He reached down and picked it up. The ladle! It dripped gobs of tar onto the concrete floor. So it was all true! Pottle, the stampede, the forest, Craesat, the cloaked one, the chipmunk, the tar... but Pottle most of all.

“You coming?” Dess gaped at him from halfway up the stairs.

“Yeah. Hey, let’s play something else, okay? I’m tired of hiding.”

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Photo by Mikael Kristenson on Unsplash

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