The following is an excerpt of:

Hiraeth: 

The Boy Who Dreamed and the Big Bad Wolf Which He Became

By Tex Batmart

If you haven’t been with us from the start, check out Chapter One here

Chapter Two: Daycare Boogaloo

While for most children, their second year of life is tenderly referred to as the “terrible twos”, it has been noted that our protagonist did not suffer the same fate. Rather, it was at this point (and, according to some sources, only at this point) in his life, that he was outgoing, engaging, and otherwise extroverted. There has been some speculation as to why he postponed the outward stirrings of rebellion, but it is the opinion of this author that he preferred to keep his enemies off-guard, and had overheard somewhere of the strategy of homicide by pleasantry.

Ultimately, of course, he discovered that this friendliness gained him absolutely nothing beyond the expectation of continued good behavior, and by his third year, he had almost entirely abandoned this tactic, except in the most dire of emergencies, or when he really, really wanted something.

Records from this time are few are far between, but it was during his second year that he decided to liberate himself from the tyranny of diapers. It has been reported that it was most likely a combination of an attempt to emulate the older kids by which he was now constantly surrounded, and an extreme dislike of the discomfort of carrying on while trapped within the confines of a soiled and clinging diaper. Of course, the real reason he began to utilize the facilities was, in fact, a two-pronged method of attack: The first, of course, was to continue in his campaign to gain the (foolish) trust of those in some position of authority above him (or so they continued to believe).

The other was far more devious and subtle: by ditching the padded protection which his Pampers could provide, he would be able to lull the maternal unit into a false sense of security, a weakness which he could then exploit at a moment of his choosing, by declaring a state of gastro-intestinal emergency, requiring a complete and total cancellation of all plans which she might have chosen to pursue.

But, aside from laying the groundwork for eventual domination and subjugation of those wills weaker than his own, there were two events which he would carry with him far past the time when every other memory had long since faded into nothing more stories told around the fire at family reunions and other opportunities for his mother to use his life as nothing more than a tired and tried old punchline. The first of these was arguably the least important. As soon as he had potty-trained himself, his mother took him to partake in his very first swimming lesson.

He wouldn’t be able to retell much of this in future years, but the image of vaulted wooden ceilings somewhere in between a longhouse and cathedral, and being completely surrounded by a deep blue sea, pleasantly warm, but slightly off-putting in its aroma, stuck with him powerfully. He managed to find a center, within himself, of peace in his deepest terror. In future years, when this memory resurfaced, he would cling to it as some sort of proof of concept that such a state could be found once more, though he was never to wholly recreate it, no matter how diligently he endeavored.

The second memory, however, stuck with him much as flaming napalm is wont to do with skin. It was an afternoon. Overcast, if the memory is to be believed. The young boy, his life still measured by many in months, plays in the living room while the black and white television airs something which doesn’t terribly interest him. There is a knock upon the door. This, in itself, is not unusual, as his great-grandmother who lives next door is a frequent visitor.

He glances with the indifference of someone who has not known sorrow at his mother as she opens the curtain to see who is outside. He knows that momentarily, he and his mother will have a visitor, and he will have to be quiet, or pick up his toys, or have to perform some little song and dance (quite literally, I might add) to entertain whomever has decided to drop by. Aside from a moment of discomfort at the notion of an unplanned performance, he turns back to his toys, and tries his hardest to push the unpleasantries from his mind. But then something unexpected happens.

His mother slams the curtain shut, as much as fabric sliding upon a rod may actually be slammed, and scoops him to standing, pushing him quickly, though not entirely roughly, toward his bedroom door. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s never seen her act like this before. She opens the door and scoots him inside. He wonders for a moment if he’s done something wrong, as this timeout is coming from out of nowhere. She then speaks to him, “I want you to press yourself up against your door as hard as you can, okay?” She looks over her shoulder briefly, then turns back to him. “There’s a bad man at the door.”

She closes him in his room, and he does as he is told, listening for any clue as to what is going on. He cannot make out the words, but he easily recognizes his mother’s tone, for it is the same one which he uses when he’s trying to get something which she has no intention of allowing him to have. Only catching snippets as the sun begins to sink, he manages to make out “You can’t be here,” and “I’m going to call the Sheriff.”

Images of bandits in black hats began racing through his brain, for sheriffs still rode horses and all bad men were easily identifiable even in shades of grey. There was then silence, and the sound of the phone’s rotary being dialed. Now he could only hear his mother’s scared and broken tone as she was speaking to somebody.

Some time must have passed, as the sun had all but disappeared from behind the solid grey sky outside. He hears another knock upon his door, and then his grandfather’s voice. There is some more talk, quieter than the young child would have preferred, but his mother’s voice sounds calmer now. As he begins slipping through the cracks between boredom and sleep, a raised voice stirs him back to waking, “You can’t come here,” his grandfather booms, “The Sheriff is on his way.”

It is then that the boy finally succumbs to sleep, his anxiety having thoroughly exhausted him. When he wakes up again, there is no more talk of what had happened, and the only thing which he remembers for the next few years is an image of a man on horseback chasing after some villain of the week.

In the years to come, he pieces together the story of that day, mostly in surprised reaction to the fact that he can remember any of it in the first place. Since their divorce, his mother had gone to a judge to have a restraining order placed upon her ex-husband. Apparently, during the final months of their marriage (and the first months of our hero’s embryonic life), he had attempted to strangle her, trying to end both her life, and the life of their child which grew within her.

When he showed up on her doorstep that autumn afternoon, his mother did her best to send him on his way. Seeing that he wouldn’t leave, she then placed a call to her father so that she might not have to face this threat alone. By the time the child’s grandfather had arrived, his father had taken his leave. Later, though, he returned once more, and this time did not leave until the sheriff took him away.

The lesson which our young protagonist gleaned from all of this was that his mother considered his father to be a “bad man.” Of course, this conclusion would not be arrived at until he had reached the venerable age of ten years old, but even without all of the pertinent information, this incident would color and continue shaping him throughout his entire life, as he attempted to come to terms with who he was, and how to balance just how much of his father he might carry within him.

To read the next installment, click here