Growing Young (standard:drama, 8737 words)
Author: J F Maschino	Added: Jun 04 2004	Views/Reads: 3128/2138	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Stunned by the sudden death of his Great-Grandfather, Andy Grey is in for the surprise of his life.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Sara?” 

“Sara,” I said.  Sara and I first met in the second grade at St. Mary's
Catholic School and fell in love at first sight if that kind of thing 
is possible with kids so young.  We'd always been together, married 
after I got out of the service and successfully raised a boy and two 
girls.  She had had a series of minor heart attacks over the past few 
months starting right after Christmas.  “We saw the doctor yesterday.  
Her heart isn't getting any better and there isn't a damn thing he can 
do about it.” 

“What about a transplant?” Earl asked. 

I shook my head.  “He didn't mention anything about that,” I said.  “But
I got the feeling she's too weak for surgery.” 

“Well, that sucks.” 

Nancy arrived with our food.  I slid the popcorn out of the way, and she
sat the steaming basket in front of me, its twin in front of Earl, and 
then disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. 

We attacked the fried clams lost in our own thoughts.  Several moments
passed before Earl slid his basket away, wiped his hands and mouth with 
his napkin, threw it into the empty basket, and leaned forward.  “You 
know, Andy, I've always been fond of you and Sara.” 

“You have to be,” I said around a mouthful of food.  “We're the only
family you've got left.” 

“That's true,” he said giving me a wink.  “But you're good people, too. 
It's like you and Sara are one person and it's a damn shame age and 
disease is going tear you guys apart when nothing else can.” 

I started to say something, but he held up his hand stopping me. 

“I'm going up to New Hampshire for the weekend with a girl I met at the
single's club a few weeks back, but come first thing Monday morning, 
I'll swing by your house.  I think I can help Sara and give you kids 
some more time together.  A lot more time, actually.”  Earl smiled, 
slid back in the chair and stood.  “Hope you have a good weekend, the 
Lord knows I will.” 

I watched him go, stiffing me with the tab again, and wondered if he
really could help Sara. 

* * * 

Saturday, I had to ask the Sheriff to repeat himself three times before
I would believe Earl had died.  Sara was sitting in her rocker covered 
with a quilt crocheting yet another unneeded afghan.  She burst into 
tears when I told her.  We were both stunned.  Earl had always been 
there, our personal Rock of Gibraltar. 

I phoned Earl's lawyer.  He had already been informed and confirmed what
I knew, that I was the only benefactor as well as the executor of the 
will.  My next call was to arrange a simple graveside service at the 
Maine's Veteran's Cemetery per Earl's instructions.  Then I spent the 
next several hours calling everyone I believed Earl knew.  I was 
exhausted by the time I hung up the phone for the last time.  I glanced 
over at Sara still sitting in her rocker.  She looked paler than 
normal.  The thought struck me that I'd in all likelihood be calling 
these same people in the not too distant future, and I quickly pushed 
it out of my mind.  I didn't want to think about Sara dying. 

By Tuesday, yesterday, everything was over.  Everyone who had come to
say goodbye to Earl had returned home.  My refrigerator was overflowing 
with casseroles given to me by well wishers who believed the only way 
to console the grieving was by feeding them.  I was at a loss sitting 
behind Earl's desk in a small office tucked away in the back of the 
Augusta store wondering what the hell I was going to do now.  For the 
nearly fifty years I'd been with Grey's Stamp and Coin Company, I'd 
never made a major decision without first bouncing it off Earl.  I knew 
I could run the company without him, I had during his numerous 
vacations, but I wasn't sure I wanted to.  Nothing would ever be the 
same without him. 

I drummed my fingers on the desk top cluttered with memos from
perspective sellers, and was struck by such a horrible thought that my 
mouth went instantly dry.  If I felt so alone with Earl's passing, how 
was I going to feel when Sara died?  Would I want to die, too? 

I shook my head trying to erase that thought.  I snatched up several of
the memos and began to leaf though them to see if anything interesting 
jumped out at me.  I didn't want to think about losing Sara.  Losing 
Earl had been hard enough. 

A knock on my door was a welcomed interruption. It swung open before I
had a chance to respond and Tim Drake stepped in.  He managed the 
Augusta store, was short and round, somewhere in his mid-thirties, and 
reminded me of one of Tolkien's hobbits. 

“Don't mean to bother you,” he said, “but there's a strange little guy
out here who's demanding to see you.  Claims he flew in from London 
last night.  He's probably pulling my leg, but he does have a British 
accent so you never know.” 

I shook my head.  Earl would have fallen out of his chair laughing
hearing Tim call someone else a strange little guy. 

This man had to be a buyer or seller, I thought, one who didn't know how
to use the Internet or was eccentric, or both.  It was something Tim 
could easily handle, but I needed the distraction.  “Send him in,” I 
said. 

Tim retreated and in a moment a thin man barely five feet tall stepped
in.  The door shut behind him as though it was one of those automatic 
doors at the grocery store.  The man was wearing a tweed coat and a bow 
tie.  In one hand he carried a bowler's hat, a worn leather briefcase 
in the other.  He sat the briefcase on my cluttered desk without asking 
permission knocking off several loose sheets of paper in the process.  
I followed the papers' lazy decent to the wooden floor vowing to pick 
them up later. 

“Mr. Andrew Grey, I presume,” he said in a very pronounced British
accent. 

“Yes, have a seat.”  I motioned to the two padded chairs before the
desk. 

“That won't be necessary, I shan't be here long,” he said.  “Do you have
anything to prove your identity?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“A driver's license will suffice, assuming you are not too old to
currently hold a valid driver's license.” 

“Who are you?” 

He spun the combination locks on the briefcase, and then opened it.  “My
name is Paul Abbot.  I am the senior partner of The Devonshire Security 
Agency based in London, England.  Mr. Earl Grey employed us to deliver 
this package to you in case of his untimely demise,” he said as he 
pulled out a 9 X 12 manila envelope.  “Assuming you can sufficiently 
prove you are indeed Mr. Andrew Grey, that is.” 

I exhaled sharply.  My initial reaction was to throw Mr. Paul Abbot out
on his rear.  How dare he march into my office and insult me? 

But curiosity won over.  If this man was legitimate, then he was
carrying something Earl didn't trust his lawyer of thirty years to 
handle.  I also didn't put it past Earl to be pulling one last 
practical joke on me.  There was only one way to find out which one it 
was. 

I yanked my wallet out of my trouser pocket, flipped it open revealing
my license and held it up for Paul Abbott to see.  Paul studied it 
briefly, looked at me, and then back at the license.  He nodded, held 
the envelope out towards me. 

I snatched it from his hand before he had the chance to withdraw it out
of my reach as Earl might have done.  Earl's name was written on the 
front in perfect calligraphy.  Below Earl's name was mine in smaller, 
but equally neat lettering. 

“Good day, Sir.”  Paul closed the briefcase and relocked it.  He
executed a perfect military about face and left the room 

I studied the envelope.  It was a normal manila envelope about an inch
thick and not overly heavy.  I had received dozens just like it stuffed 
with advertisements from perspective sellers.  I couldn't imagine what 
could be so important to require a security agency to protect it, and 
for the senior partner himself to deliver it in person.  And not a 
simple delivery either, but one involving a transatlantic flight.  
Surely they had peons for such things. 

I sat the envelope on the desk, and quickly went to the office door.  I
depressed the push button lock to stop Tim from waltzing in uninvited 
and hurried back to my desk.  With trembling hands, and feeling 
slightly foolish, I undid the clasp and peered inside.   Nearly two 
dozen sheets of paper stared back at me.  I pulled them out, noticed 
the top page was written in Earl's chicken scratch prose, and then 
looked inside the envelope to make sure I had everything.  I did.  
Leaning back in my chair, I began to read. 

* * * 

Hi Andy, are you in shock?  If you're not, then I'm the only one.  I
expected to live forever!  The past few years I've been thinking about 
bringing you and Sara along for the ride, but now it looks like you and 
Sara are going to be on that train without me. 

How did I die, Andy?  Did I do something crazy like jumping out of a
perfectly good airplane and my chute didn't open?  Or did I die 
climbing Mt. Everest and my body is still up there curled in a fetal 
position frozen for eternity under ten feet of snow? 

I always wanted to climb Mt Everest, but I doubt my death was as exotic
as that.  I probably just forgot to look before jogging across the 
street to buy the morning paper.  Either way, dead is dead and you're 
reading this at my old desk or sitting on the john at your house 
wondering what the hell is going on. 

Here's the skinny.  Everybody I know, and many more who I don't, wonders
how in the hell I've manage to live this long.  And stay healthy, too.  
Hell, Andy, I can walk faster than you can run and I'm nearly a half 
century older than you.  I haven't seen a doctor in nearly six decades, 
I smoke two or three cigars a day, drink enough rum to make the stock 
holders of Captain Morgan very happy, and I eat all that crap that is 
suppose to clog your arteries, yet I'm still here, or was I should say, 
healthy as a horse and would've been around a lot longer if I hadn't 
got myself killed. 

How?  Again, nothing exotic, just plain old Earl Grey dumb luck. 

Can you remember back to when you were in school, history class to be
precise?  Probably not.  But there was this story about this guy named 
Ponce De Leon.  Old Ponce spent most of his life searching for the 
Fountain of Youth down in Florida.  Everybody thinks that man was a 
fool.  I certainly did, but, Andy, Ponce was no fool.  He was just 
searching a few thousand miles too far south is all. 

It was the fall of 1949.  Your grandmother had died early that summer
while you were doing your hitch in the Army over in France.  I knew 
Margaret at the time, but we were a year away from dating, three before 
getting married, and I was going out of my mind staying in that house 
by myself.  Everything reminded me of your grandmother.  I couldn't 
look at the couch without remembering all the nights we sat there 
listening to the radio, or the kitchen table without thinking of all 
the meals we ate together.  I couldn't even sleep in my own bed for 
reasons we don't need to discuss. 

I needed to get out of the house and a good friend of mine suggested
hunting might be the ticket, even told me about seeing a small herd of 
deer out in East Pittston a few days before.  I hadn't done any hunting 
since I was a teenager, but what the hell.  I've always liked deer 
meat, and hunting would get me out of the house and my mind off your 
Grandmother, at least temporarily. 

On a gorgeous Saturday two weeks before hunting season began, I drove
out to East Pittston to do some scouting.  The sky was a clear blue, 
the temperature warmer than normal for the end of October, and the 
leaves on the maples and oaks were at the peak of there fall colors, 
brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows.  Even if I didn't see a single 
deer, just being outdoors was good therapy. 

I parked my truck off the road between two medium sized oaks near where
I was told the deer had been seen and started to walk in a westerly 
direction.  Traveling was easy; tall grass on even ground between a 
splattering of trees with very little brush or thick undergrowth.  
Sometime in the not too distant past I figured the area must have been 
farm land.  I scanned the ground about me looking for the tell tale 
signs of deer, apple trees, large areas of flattened grass where they 
had made there beds, hoof prints, tuffs of hair left on tree branches, 
piles of dung.  I didn't see anything that told me deer had been there 
recently, but I kept walking enjoying the chatter of the birds and 
seeing more than my fair share of squirrels, reds and grays, scampering 
about the trees gathering acorns for the upcoming winter. 

After about three hundred yards or so, the ground sloped down slightly
towards a small meandering stream.  That was where I saw my first sign 
of deer, a hoof print in the soft mud, and it was fresh, possibly no 
older than a few minutes. I stood, looked downstream, felt the breeze 
blowing into my face, and smiled.  If the deer was indeed downstream 
like I suspected, I was sure I could sneak up on him. 

I started down stream being careful where I placed each foot so as not
to make any noise and watching for more signs of my deer.  And there 
were plenty of them.  There were fresh hoof prints everywhere along 
with a few tuffs of warm hair on a hawthorn branch.  I was close.  I 
expected to see the big fella round every turn. 

I eased around a small bend.  The stream continued to the right, but to
the left was what appeared to be a well defined game trail in the 
center of the thickest growth I'd ever seen, so defined that the 
vegetation had been worn completely away.  The deer I was following had 
continued following the stream, but I wasn't even thinking about the 
deer then.  I was curious about where the path went and what I might 
find at the end of it.  I was imagining a whole herd of deer or perhaps 
moose. 

I crept forward, still careful not to make a sound.  The brush grew
thicker and meshed together several feet over my head blocking out 
enough sun to give the appearance of dusk.  I figured a man could take 
refuge in there during heavy rain and not get wet. 

After what seemed like forever, the path made a sharp right hand turn
and opened into a large clearing almost perfectly round bordered by 
giant hemlock trees growing so close together they looked like fence 
posts.  These trees towered into the sky, the upper branches making a 
perfect canopy over the clearing blocking out all sight of the sky.  No 
vegetation grew there; the ground was covered with dried needles.  
Several large boulders forming a straight line stood near the center of 
the clearing.  On either end of the boulders were tall totem poles 
carved out of what I think is granite.  The totems weren't extravagant. 
 They're tall, probably twenty feet, and have round abstract faces, 
large eyes, two small depressions where the nose is suppose to be and a 
line for the mouth.  A kindergartner could have made them easy enough 
if he was using clay. 

I set off for the nearest totem thinking I'd just stumbled onto a
previously unknown ancient Indian community.  After a few steps I began 
to feel funny.  My legs weakened, a dull throbbing ache erupted behind 
my eyes, and my left arm began to tingle.  I thought I was going to 
collapse right there in the clearing.  I was terrified.  Your 
grandmother complained about similar symptoms moments before she 
collapsed onto our kitchen floor.  The doctor told me a vein had popped 
in her brain, an embolism he called it, and there was nothing he could 
have done to save her even if she had been standing right in front of 
him when it had happened.  I thought the same thing was happening to 
me. 

I turned, and stumbled out of the clearing onto the path going as fast
as I could make my legs work, which wasn't all that well.  I had to get 
to my truck.  I didn't want to die out in the woods where nobody knew 
where I was. 

The further I got from the clearing, the better I felt, so that by the
time I reached my truck, I was feeling fine; better than I had in 
years, in fact.  But I knew something had let loose inside my head. 
Feeling good for the moment was just the calm before the storm.  I had 
to get to the hospital.  The doctors couldn't save your Grandmother, 
but I was hoping they could save me. 

I slid behind the wheel of the truck and readjusted the rear view mirror
so I could get a good look at my eyes.  I figured if a blood vessel had 
burst, the whites of my eyes would be red, but my eyes weren't red at 
all, they were clear.  That was when I noticed the wrinkles around my 
eyes, laugh lines your Grandmother called them, weren't as pronounced 
as they used to be.  My eyebrows seemed thicker and not as gray.  But 
what really caught my attention, what really got me thinking, was that 
my receding hairline wasn't receding anymore, I had a full head of 
hair.  And it wasn't snow white, but mostly brown with a few specks of 
white thrown in for good measure. 

I leaned back wondering if I was imagining things, not understanding
what was happening.  Were these changes nothing more than my 
imagination caused by a burst blood vessel, or had I truly grown young? 
 It felt as though I was growing young.  As I told you, I felt great.  
No pain from my arthritic knee or shoulder.  I wasn't out of breath 
like I should have been after my mad dash out of the woods.  In fact, I 
thought I could have run a few more miles with no ill effect if I had 
to. 

I glanced back into the woods wondering just what I had stumbled across.
 Did anyone else know about it?   I thought about marching right back 
out there, doing a more thorough investigation of The Clearing, as I 
came to call it, but decided I had better wait.  If I had indeed grown 
young after only a few moments in The Clearing, how much younger would 
I grow if I went back?  What would my friends think if I returned 
looking forty years younger than I had when I left? 

It took all the will I could muster to start the truck and head back to
town.  Every morning I wanted to go back there, and every morning I 
convinced myself I had to wait.  And wait I did until the following 
spring.  It was the longest six months of my life. 

I spent that winter at the state library researching the property,
finding out it was owned by an old widow woman who was living in a 
nursing home in Gardiner.  There was no mention of a clearing with 
magical powers, or even that the area had once been home to a 
mysterious Indian tribe.  It seemed no one knew about The Clearing 
except me, and I only did because I had literally stumbled into it. 

I had no trouble finding the site again come spring time; the location
was burned into my memory as though I had lived there for a hundred 
years.  The moment I stepped into The Clearing I felt the same 
sensations, and stepped back out after only a few seconds had passed.  
Returning to the truck I noticed I didn't need my glasses to see 
perfectly, and I was hearing things I hadn't heard in so long I'd 
forgotten I couldn't hear them.  A look in the truck's mirror proved 
what I already knew; I looked younger than I had when I left the truck 
a little while before.  Instead of the 55 I was, I looked like I was in 
my 40's, and felt younger still. 

I was ecstatic.  Finding The Clearing meant I could be young forever. 
My only regret was that I hadn't stumbled onto The Clearing before your 
Grandmother had died. 

I visited the old widow the moment I got back to town and made her an
offer to purchase all 950 acres.  She nearly fainted at my offer, said 
she would have been happy to sell the property for half that, but 
gladly took my money just the same.  I simply smiled.  As far as I was 
concerned, I was getting a bargain. 

Well, Andy, that's my story and I swear on a stack of Bibles I'm telling
the truth.  I doubt you believe me, and I don't blame you.  I'd have a 
hard time believing me too if it hadn't happened to me.  The only way 
to know I'm telling the truth is to go out there yourself.  Just don't 
stay too long or you'll get too young too quick and people will ask 
questions you won't want to answer. 

Now, it's easy to find.  Go out to East Pittston using State Route 126. 
Turn onto the Grove Road and drive exactly 2.3 miles.  The property is 
on your left.  You can't miss it.  I spent most of that first summer 
putting up no hunting, no trespassing signs every fifty feet around 
that property.  I didn't want anybody stumbling onto it like I did.  I 
figured if the wrong person found it, say someone like Hitler, he could 
really screw up the world being able to stay young forever.  I had to 
keep The Clearing a secret.  Now you have that responsibility. 

When you get there, you can easily park between the two giant oaks a
short distance from the road during the spring, summer, and fall.  If I 
died during the winter, you just got to wait until the snow melts.  And 
that would be my last joke on you.  Telling you you and Sara could be 
together forever but making you wait until spring to see if I'm pulling 
your leg or not.  I suppose you could hike in on snowshoes, but I 
wouldn't recommend it at your age. 

Once you get there, hike due west for 300 hundred yards until you get to
the stream.  Follow the stream, about two or three thousand yards, I've 
never actually measured it, until you see the path branching off to the 
southeast.  That will take you to The Clearing. 

Well, I've said my piece, Andy.  What you do with it is up to you. 
Earl. 

* * * 

I leaned back in the chair, hands behind my neck, and stretched.  What
in the world was that all about?  It read like science fiction, but 
Earl had looked young his entire life.  It couldn't be true, but what 
if it was true? 

I snatched the pages back up and read it again.  After reading Earl's
tale for a third time, I had the beginnings of a migraine, but I was 
still at a loss for words.  Earl loved telling stories, loved having 
people wonder if his tales were true or not, but this one was far more 
elaborate than most.  The little man with the British accent delivering 
the note, giving directions to a piece of property I didn't know Earl 
had owned until two days ago when I had discovered the deed among the 
paperwork I had received from his lawyer, and giving an explanation on 
why he lived such a long healthy life in a matter of fact way did make 
the tale seem plausible, but finding The Fountain of Youth in rural 
Maine?  It just couldn't be.  It had to be the hoax of all hoaxes.  It 
just had to be. 

But Earl had lived to be 115.  To live as long and as healthy as he did
was unnatural, as unnatural as A Fountain of Youth existing. 

That was my rationalization to investigate Earl's story.  I expected The
Clearing really did exist with the boulders and stone totem poles as he 
described, but I didn't expect to grow magically young the moment I 
stepped into it.  I believed I'd find another envelope, this one in 
protective plastic, near one of the totems with a simple message from 
Earl stating, “Fooled you again.” 

But I'd be lying if I didn't admit a part of me hoped Earl's story was
Gospel.  I wondered if Earl had planned to tell Sara and me about The 
Clearing on Monday if he hadn't died in the car accident on Saturday. 

I searched the letter for the directions, committed them to memory, and
then stuffed the sheets back into the manila envelope, locking the 
packet in the wall safe hidden behind a painting of the Portland 
Headlight.  I glanced at my wristwatch.  It was almost noon.  If I left 
then, I estimated I'd be home about my normal time, maybe even a little 
earlier.  Sara would never need to know I'd been on a fool's errand. 

I grabbed my L. L. Bean windbreaker, left the office, and told Tim I had
errands to run and would be gone the rest of the day.  He simply 
nodded. 

It was a beautiful spring day, warm with a tinge of coolness reminding
us winter had just past, not that we could forget.  In a half-hour, I 
was turning onto the Grove Road in East Pittston.  I reset my trip 
odometer and drove slowly.  There weren't many homes this far from 
town; I counted four, three were old farmhouses with attached barns, 
the fourth a rusting mobile home with a car out front resting on cement 
blocks, before the meter registered I had traveled the required 
distance.  On the left were two oak trees growing just far enough apart 
to drive a vehicle in between, a no hunting/no trespassing sign was 
attached to the first one.  I glanced up and down the road and smiled.  
There were more of the orange signs attached to trees at about fifty 
foot intervals as far as I could see. 

I parked in between the trees, a little worried the ground might be too
soft and I'd get stuck, but it wasn't and I didn't.  I stepped out of 
the car, locked the doors, slipped the keys into my pants pocket, and 
took a deep breath.  The air smelled fantastically fresh.  I could hear 
birds and crickets and the distant chatter of squirrels.  Nothing man 
made interfered with the sound of nature like it did back in Augusta. 

I glanced around ensuring I wasn't being watched.  Satisfied I wasn't, I
headed in what I believed to be a westerly direction.  The ground was 
slightly uneven, but easily transversed. Scattered green sprigs of new 
growth stood out against the brown meadow that had been beaten flat by 
the winter snows. 

After fifteen minutes of walking, I glanced back at the car, but
couldn't see it through the foliage.  Anxiety knocked the wind out of 
me.  What if I got lost?  I didn't tell anyone where I was going, 
didn't own a cell phone, and didn't have a clue how to survive in the 
wilderness if I did get lost. 

I leaned against the nearest tree, an elm I think, fighting the urge to
flee, and regained my composure.  I was there for Sara, not for me.  If 
Earl's tale was true, I could save her.  If not, then the joke was on 
me.   I pushed away from the tree with renewed determination. 

After ten more minutes had passed, I began to hear the soft babble of
running water; in another ten, I was at the stream.  The stream was 
wider than I had imagined it to be, about eight feet, and running swift 
with the winter runoff.  I decided I wouldn't get too close to the 
edge.  I didn't want to fall in and not be able to get back out. Before 
starting down the stream, I removed a white handkerchief from my pocket 
and tied it to a pine tree branch so I would know where to leave the 
stream and head east towards my car. 

I picked my way along the stream's bank maintaining at least a ten foot
distance from the rushing water.  My body was sore, every muscle ached, 
I was gasping for breath, but I felt more alive then I had in a long 
time.  I didn't have to convince myself to keep going; I had to urge 
myself to slow down.  I was excited with anticipation, like the last 
few miles of a long road trip, I couldn't wait to arrive. 

Finally, after what seemed like forever but was probably no more than a
half hour, the stream took a sharp right hand turn and there, at the 
bend was Earl's path just as he described it, hard packed dirt leading 
into the woods framed by high dense shrubs on either side intertwining 
overhead forming a natural canopy.  I laughed, shook my head.  If this 
was a hoax, Earl had done a lot of preparation. 

I stumbled down the path as fast as my body would let me.  The pain no
longer mattered.  I had to get to The Clearing.  It was calling to me 
the way a cigarette calls to a person trying to quit smoking. 

Traveling on the path was no different than walking down a sidewalk at
dusk.  The brilliant sunshine had been reduced to a smoky gray, and the 
temperature was much cooler.  I zipped up my jacket while I walked not 
wanting to pause for even a moment. 

Another eternity passed, probably a half-hour, but I didn't check. The
path continued straight and true not looking any different then than it 
had when I first entered it.  I didn't think I'd ever get there when, 
boom, there it was, right in front of me.  I stopped short, about a 
foot from actually entering The Clearing and stared. 

The totems were much taller than I had expected, nearly twenty feet
reminding me of the pictures I've seen of Stonehenge, except these were 
free standing with crudely chiseled out faces.  A dozen boulders 
arranged in a straight line separated the totems by 70 feet. Earl 
hadn't said the boulders were perfectly round and looked like giant 
marbles.  A lot of some ones had to have gone through a lot of trouble 
to create the site.  But why? 

As I gazed into The Clearing, it struck me how pristine it was.  The
Clearing was clear of all vegetation and debris one would associate 
with a site deep in the Maine woods, as had the path.  The whole area 
was better maintained than any of the State parks I had ever visited.  
How could that be?  And by who?  Earl? 

A mystery, and one I couldn't solve standing still, but I was hesitant
to enter.  I had that hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, and 
could feel my heart thudding at my temples.  Foolish I know, but I had 
a sudden urge to turn around and march out of there, never to return.  
I laughed, called myself a loon.  I had come to enter The Clearing, to 
check out Earl's story, and I wasn't going to leave without doing so. 

I inhaled sharply, held my breath, marched into The Clearing straight
towards the left hand totem.  Almost instantaneously, an incessant 
ringing filled my ears and I felt slightly faint, similar to the motion 
sickness symptoms I've suffered my entire life.  A tingling sensation 
erupted from the base of my neck and sped down my left arm into my 
fingers.  I stared at my arm wondering if I had been struck by 
lightning.  The word FLEE flashed in my mind in large red neon letters. 
 I turned, stumbled back towards the path which seemed a mile away.  
The ground appeared to sway and heave like an earthquake had struck.  I 
forced myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Just a 
little further and ... 

* * * 

I was lying on the ground, pine needles pricking the side of my face and
hands.  I took a deep breath; the rich aroma of the needles filled my 
senses.  I was no longer dizzy; the ringing was gone, as was the 
tingling sensation.  In fact, I felt no pain whatsoever.  My joints and 
muscles were no longer aching from the hike. 

I stretched, rolled onto my back and opened my eyes.  And saw nothing. 
I closed my eyes, rubbed them with the palms of my hands, and then 
opened them.  Still nothing.  Fighting panic, I put my hands right in 
front of my eyes and strained to see them.  I couldn't.  I was blind!  
Did I have a stroke?  A heart attack? 

Methodically, I tested each arm and leg for movement.  They seemed to
work the way they were suppose to.  Apparently, the only part of my 
body affected by what ever had happened was my eyesight.  If I wasn't 
alone in the woods I'd have been relieved, but I was and I felt 
hopeless and I couldn't see, pardon the pun, anyway out of my 
predicament. 

Then I thought of Sara sitting in front of the TV watching soaps
crocheting yet another afghan for one of the kids.  She didn't know 
what was happening.  She assumed I was at work and would be home around 
six like I always was.  What would she do when I failed to arrive?  
Panic undoubtedly, but her heart wasn't strong enough for that kind of 
strain.  I had to make it out to the road, crawl every inch of the way 
if I had to, and flag down a car.  There was no other choice. 

I rolled on to my hands and knees and began to crawl toward where I
believed the path lay.  The soft pine needles soon gave way to hard 
packed ground tearing at my hands and shredding my pants at the knees.  
I went as fast as I dared, which wasn't very fast, afraid I‘d crash 
headfirst into the thick growth surrounding The Clearing.  It was going 
to take forever to reach the road.  I'd never make it home before six.  
Damn The Clearing.  Damn Earl Grey. 

Time stopped having meaning.  Maybe hours passed, maybe mere minutes, I
don't know, I was too numb with fear concerning Sara to care, I stubbed 
my left hand against an exposed root.  Instantaneous pain shot up my 
arm.  I immediately retracted my hand, lost balance, and rolled into a 
heap.  I cradled my injured left hand in my right and slowly rocked 
back and forth, my eyes pinched shut trying to hold back the flow of 
tears, willing the pain to go away.  I knew I had broken it, it hurt 
too bad not to be broken, and I didn't have a clue what I was going to 
do if that was the case.  How can a one armed blind man crawl through 
the woods?   He can't.  I wanted to punch Earl. 

I opened my eyes and looked at my hand while I gingerly inspected it
with my right.  I couldn't see it, I couldn't see anything, it was 
habit that made me look. 

And I was glad I did.  While gently running my fingers over my hand and
down my wrist, a dull blue light briefly penetrated the darkness, 
winking out in less than five seconds. 

I froze.  Was that real?  My head felt fine.  I wasn't dizzy, no
ringing, no tingling sensation.  Was the short circuit in my brain 
fixing itself?  Or was it the calm before the storm? 

I moved my right hand again, slowly, further up my wrist until my
fingers came in contact with my wristwatch.  I felt the Velcro strap, 
the smooth face, and the two buttons on either side.  Without thinking, 
I depressed the top button. 

Blue light lit up the watch's face, and then winked out.  I depressed it
again, holding it down.  The light again penetrated the darkness and, 
this time, stayed on. 

I laughed, not the “that was the best joke I've ever heard” type laugh
but the nervous relief laugh of a man who just discovered he'd been 
foolish.  I wasn't blind.  The sun had simply set and the brush was so 
dense no light from the stars and the moon could penetrate them.  But 
if the sun had set, what time was it? 

I jerked my arms up in front of my face and peered at the illumed dial. 
10:15.  It was like someone had kicked me in the shins.  I had been 
unconscious for nearly nine hours.  Sara had to be frantic, calling 
everyone we knew seeing if I was there before alerting the local 
authorities that her husband was missing.  What irreparable damage was 
I causing her heart?  Damn Earl and his fantastic story!   I should 
have left well enough alone.  The only cure for a curious cat was 
death, and I feared I might have hastened Sara's. 

I scrambled to my feet and, using the illumed watch dial, took my
bearings.  I was somewhere on the path, but I didn't know how far I had 
traveled from The Clearing, or how far I had to go to get to the 
stream.  I stayed close to the edge of the path so I could continually 
see the thick brush, and dashed as fast as I dared towards what I hoped 
was the stream. 

Walking was awkward, right hand on left wrist keeping the watch's button
depressed and having only the tiny blue light to go by, but I went 
fast.  In short order I noticed the air around me was beginning to 
lighten, then I heard the babbling of the stream.  That quickened my 
pace.  Each step the stream grew louder and I could see more. 

Finally I broke clear of the path.  Stars littered the sky.  The full
moon showed directly overhead negating my need for the watch's dial 
light. 

I increased my pace as I traveled along the stream watching intently for
the handkerchief I had tied to the branch hours before.  I was afraid 
I'd miss it in the dark, but my worries were for naught.  The white 
cloth stood out clearly on the dark branch. 

I turned east, was almost running then through the field feeling an
occasional branch whip across my chest.  The pain from such incidents 
was brief and I ignored it.  The only thing on my mind was Sara.  I had 
to get home to Sara.  It was a mantra running through my mind.  I had 
to get home to Sara. 

I crested a small knoll and saw moonlight reflecting off my car's
windshield.  I pumped my fist in the air as though I'd just won a 
marathon and ran faster.  As I neared the car, I slowed to a trot 
stuffing my hand into my pants' pocket for the keys.  My pockets were 
empty.  The keys must have fallen out when I was crawling through the 
woods. 

I didn't scream in anguish, nor did I pause wondering what to do next. 
The keys were replaceable, Sara wasn't.  I automatically went to the 
front driver's side tire and reached as high as I could until my 
fingers closed on the small, magnetic hide a key box I had hid there 
the day after I bought the car three years before.  I've done the same 
with all my cars, occasionally needing to use the hidden key, but none 
of those times were as dire as this one. 

I pulled the key from the box discarding the box on the ground.  I
unlocked and opened the front door and slid behind the wheel.  I 
started the car and reached up to adjust the mirror for night time 
driving and froze.  It wasn't my reflection staring back at me. 

I pulled down the sun visor and snapped opened the mirror attached to
it.  Immediately the small penlights surrounding the mirror 
illuminated.  The image staring back at me was an image I hadn't seen 
in nearly thirty years.  It was me, but a much younger me. 

I gingerly touched my face.  The skin was softer, smoother.  The
varicose veins starting to show on my nose were gone, as were most of 
the wrinkles I'd earned from years of hard living.  I realized that my 
chronic back pain was gone, as was the arthritic throb in my knees and 
hips.  I wasn't out of breath after my record-breaking jaunt through 
the woods and could have easily gone further if I had to.  I was young 
again.  For the love of God, I was young again.  Earl had been telling 
the truth! 

I slapped the visor back in place, threw the car into reverse, and
recklessly pulled onto the road.  I shifted into drive and squealed the 
tires as I shot forward.  I laughed.  The possibilities were endless.  
Sara and I were going to be together forever. 

I ignored the speed limit, driving as fast as I could keeping a careful
eye out for the police.  I couldn't be stopped.  How could I convince 
the police the 75 year old man pictured on the license was me?  I'd be 
arrested for carjacking and suspected of murdering the man whose 
license I carried.  Would they take a sample of my DNA?  And what would 
they think when it came back as the 75 year old man they were looking 
for?  I didn't want to know, I didn't have time to know, and, at the 
moment, it didn't matter.  The Sara mantra played continually.  I had 
to get home to her. 

I arrived back in Augusta, zipped across the nearly deserted city to our
house on the west side.  I was expecting to see every light in the 
house on, cars littering my driveway and cluttering the sides of the 
street, and was shocked to see none of that.  No cars, all the lights 
were off including the outside light.  Fear filled me, a sense of 
dread, knowing what I'd see when I walked in through the front door.  I 
was hoping I was imagining things, but deep down I knew something was 
terribly wrong. 

I parked the car in the driveway, killed the ignition and ran to the
front door.  I expected it to be locked knowing I'd have to go around 
back and recover the key hidden under a flower pot near the rear 
entrance since I lost my keys somewhere back in The Clearing, but I 
thought I'd give it the good old college try just the same.  The knob 
twisted effortlessly.  I took a deep breath trying to calm my nerves, 
and then pushed the door open. 

I switched on the foyer light.  “Sara?” I shut the door behind me.  Even
my voice sounded different, stronger, deeper, and less scratchy as it 
echoed about the house.  There was no answer.  All I could hear was the 
tick of the grandfather clock in the living room. 

Paws, our fourteen year old tabby sauntered into the room, her tail high
in the air.  She rubbed against my leg saying “hello.” 

I reached down and gave her head a pat.  “So, you still know it's me,
girl, huh?” I said.  “Where's Mom?” 

Paws continued to rub against my leg purring like a tugboat.  I
straightened, walked through the kitchen and into the living room 
turning on the lights as I went.   I prayed she had called one of the 
kids, that they had picked her up and had taken her to their home 
leaving behind a note telling me where to find her, but that prayer 
wasn't answered.  I found Sara sitting on the sofa, a shawl draped over 
her shoulders, an open Bible on her lap.  Her head was bowed as though 
she was either praying or sleeping. 

I ran to her side, bile rising in my throat, knowing but not wanting to
know.  I knelt next to her. 

“Sara,” I said brushing the side of her wrinkled face with my smooth
hand.  Her skin was cold, too cold. 

“Sara!”  I checked for a pulse and couldn't find one.  I pressed my head
to her chest yearning to hear the familiar beat of her heart which had 
comforted me oh so many nights.  But there was only silence. 

Paws rubbed against my again.  Ignoring her, I held Sara and cried. 

I don't know how long I stayed there holding her, hours, minutes, I
simply don't know, but it was long enough for my legs to stiffen and go 
slightly numb.  I couldn't believe how cruel life could be.  I'd found 
away for us to stay together forever, to stay young together forever 
and Sara died before I could make it happen.  It was so unfair!  I 
punched the arm of the sofa.  Angry, disgusted, full of grief en masse. 


And that was when it hit me.  Maybe all wasn't lost.  If the unknown
power source inside The Clearing had made me young again, surely it 
could turn back the clock to when Sara was young, back to when she was 
alive and vibrant and healthy.  It had to work.  She couldn't have been 
dead long, not more than a few hours I believed. 

That was when I ran into my study, grabbed a pad of paper and wrote this
all out.  I'm sorry if my handwriting is nearly illegible, I'm in sort 
of a hurry.  Kurt, I believe you'll be the one to find this if it comes 
to that.  You live the closest and are our only son, so it makes sense 
you'd be the first one to search the house looking for us.  Everything 
I wrote is true as I can remember it.  If you want to read Earl's 
letter, it is still in the safe at the Augusta store.  I hope I wrote 
this all for naught, that you're mom and I have showed up on your door 
step looking surprisingly younger and in good health. 

But for now, I have your Mom in the front seat of the car.  The seat
belt is holding her in place.  If anybody happens to see us drive by, 
they will think she is sleeping.  No one has any reason to suspect 
otherwise. 

I plan to carry her to The Clearing, lay her just inside, then retreat
back to the path to wait, watch, and pray.  I expect to watch the years 
melt away from her face.  I expect to see her chest rise and fall as 
she starts to breathe again. 

If not, well I have a revolver in my jacket pocket.  I don't want to
live forever without her. 

Kurt, if you're reading this standing in my kitchen, then your mother
didn't recover. You know where we are.  Please don't call the police or 
anyone else.  Follow the directions to The Clearing, and take a shovel 
with you.  I know what I'm asking is something a father should never 
ask a son, but Kurt, please bury us together near The Clearing in one 
grave. 

Afterwards, let your wife read my letter, then your sisters and their
husbands.  Pick a day a year when all of you can visit The Clearing 
together.  Have what Sara and I tried to have but couldn't, an eternal 
life together. 

The end 


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