Great-Grandpa’s House

I’m eight years old and itching to become a hero. My great-grandpa’s yard in Wahiawā is steeped in enchantment, and I’ve not yet been trained not to see it.

Great-grandpa and I built a wagon together two summers ago, and as I carefully pack it with necessities for my quest, I sense that I’m being watched. As I don my travel cloak—a bandana knotted too tightly beneath my chin—something glints in my periphery. It’s great-grandpa’s glasses that give away his position at the back steps. His crinkled eyes are like tiny tadpoles swimming in the ripples of his wizened face. He sees me off with a raised palm and the smile of a Buddha, and I wave solemnly back as I set off on my adventure.

I cross the steppe first, a sunlit grassland through which I lug my wagon. Though the ground is mostly even, I can soon feel my muscles burn and sweat soaking into my travel cloak. I take breaks to shake out my hands, white and tingly from pulling my wagon. It is a hard life, I think, being a traveler. I push on, as all heroes must.

Beyond the border of the steppe, I come upon a lake. Though I’m weary and in need of refreshment, I crouch beside my wagon and scan the area before approaching—I have heard tales of the creature that lurks near the lake, preying upon hapless travelers. My heart is a wild animal within my chest.

And then I hear its guttural war cry. Ko-ke-TOH-ko! I see its streaming feathers, its savage beak, its talons that tear ribbons from flesh. I fall backwards and land hard. The beast shrieks again. I huddle behind my wagon and will myself to think, think, think. I can hear its claws scratching in the dirt. I can see its shadow on the other side of the wagon. I take a deep breath, and before I can think, I leap to my feet and mimic its whooping war cry: “Ko-ke-TOH-KO!” I shout, swiping my hands through the dirt and sending up a red cloud. Through the red cloud, I see the beast’s spiky silhouette running to the steppe. It will find easier prey there.

The lake water is cool and clear, and I wash away my sweat and fear. I allow myself to thrill in my defeat of the beast, but only for a short while—after all, it takes more than one victory to make a hero.

I fill the pail in my wagon with water from the lake, then set grimly off to continue my quest.

The ground becomes rocky as I venture into the crag, and trickster sprites roll stones in my path. After my wagon lurches over a stone and slams into my heel for the third time, I finally stop to rest and reconsider my route.

If I continue on through the crag, I’ll have to abandon my wagon. My only other option is to enter the bordering woods, where perhaps the fae are kinder.

I take my chance in the woods. Twigs crunch beneath the wagon’s wheels. Stepping into the woods is like stepping into a temple: the air becomes cooler, the world becomes quieter, and I become more alert. I coax my wagon over tree roots and follow a sun-spangled path. As my sweat dries, it feels cool and taut like a second skin. A great shush ripples through the trees, as if the hand of a giant is ruffling the canopy overhead. The leaves whisper in the Old Tongue. The gnarled bark of the trees resemble the swirling patterns on the pads of my fingers.

And then I hear a sound that does not belong in this peaceful cathedral. Shouts from afar. I make haste with my wagon. There, beneath a jabong tree, are K and A. They are bickering so ferociously that they don’t notice my presence.

Once I’m close enough, I see that they’ve fallen into a fae trap—a spell common in citrus groves which curses even the best of friendships, such as K and A’s, to turn sour.

I remember that curses are washed away by rain and tears—water. Taking advantage of their clouded vision, I sneak up on K and A, then dump the pail of lake water over their heads. A mucus-colored mist hisses from K and A’s skin as the spell is washed from their bodies, and the shimmering mist hovers for a moment before being wafted away by the breeze.

“Hurry,” I urge them, “before the spell takes hold again!” They scramble into the wagon, and then we’re off.

Roots writhe like serpents as spellbound trees try to stop our escape. K uses her invisible bow and arrows to clear the path before me as A defends our rear with his sword. As we barrel through the woods, the wagon morphs into a demented chariot, and I desperately will myself to run faster as K and A drive me on.

At last, I see light spilling between the trees. We burst from the woods into a blindingly bright world. The wagon lurches out of my grasp and I roll down a hill. Gasping to catch my breath, I blink until my eyes have adjusted to the sunlight. I search for K and A in the rippling sea of grass and find them scattered nearby, fortunately flung from the wagon shipwrecked below.

I close my eyes and listen as my drumroll pulse slows. I’m starting to itch from rolling in the grass.

“C’mon,” K says. “I saw a dragon!”

A hero’s work is never done. As I stagger to my feet and collect the pail from the shipwreck, I see something glint in my periphery.

“It’s under gray-grampa’s house!” A exclaims, drawing his sword. “You hafta go first!”

Great-grandpa’s glasses give him away again, this time at the front porch. His cap is pulled low against the afternoon sun, but I can still see his slow smile as he realizes I’m looking back.