The Mandrakes, Volume III: Call of the Loon

The Mandrakes

Volume III: Call of the Loon

By Zachariah Jack

Copyright 2017 Zachariah Jack

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2017 by Zachariah Jack

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Forward

The Mandrakes, Volume III

Prodigy. The last word young Jacob Winslow Marshall would conjure were he to apply description of himself. Prescience. Now, that was a concept which he understood, though he couldn’t have picked the alien word out of a perp lineup. Until he could.

Elkin Pond epitomized the beauty that was southern Vermont, but in Jake’s case, the body of water provided separation between divergent worlds the boy inhabited. Finding succor in the warmth of an elderly couple’s sphere on one side enabled ultimate divestiture from the ignorance, negativism and narrow-mindedness rampant at the boy’s birthplace on the opposite edge of the pond. Though integrally important to him, the reasons for the tie to the hand-hewn home had dissolved the day his real Daddy left.

From earliest years of Jake’s life, he recognized a destiny of dramatic import in the dimness of a Texas horizon yet to be explored. The state remained as nameless as the inherent trait--- prescience--- by which he drew the certainty. Until he learned it.

He knew it to be where he must make way in order to fulfill purposes. Emphasis on the plural. There was a promise to be kept… and…

Someone awaited.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Forward, The Mandrakes, Volume III

The Mandrakes, Volume III: Call of the Loon

June, 1991

May, 1994

July, 1998

November, 1998

May, 1999

December, 2002

April, 2004

January, 2006

Discover other titles by Zachariah Jack

Biography

The Mandrakes

Volume III: Call of the Loon

June, 1991

Noooooooooooo! The crescendo of the long, woebegone wail was meant to make a point. And split eardrums. From a head-covered position and squinch-faced demeanor, I hazarded a single-eyed peek from inside protective hands, surveying the damage. All three persons in the room appeared in ear-covered distress. I deemed the broadside successful.

It proved only temporary, however. After a minute’s recovery, the man in the striped shirt with the sharp weaponry--- who had strapped me into position for the beheading--- came again. This time, the broom sweeper aide and Mamma plastered my shoulders against the swiveling death chair in apparent collusion with the beast’s murderous intent. Pointed scissors waved ever closer while dastardly abettors attempted reassurance by the most transparent of felonious lies, saying anything they thought might engender cessation of attempting salvage of my head.

I wasn’t at all certain my body would do well detached from the familiar anatomy, and less, that it wouldn’t leave a scar… a bad one. Could it even be put back, it occurred to me to worry? I needed to alert an authority of the cruelty threatening me. The banshee shriek was the last-ditch effort left in my sparse arsenal of protections for self-preservation. So, I tried it again.

Nooooooooooooooo!! Under the heavy hands pressing me into the death seat it was all I could do to inflate five-year-old lungs with enough air to get the message out but even then, the effect was not near as shrill as would’ve been preferred.

Mamma tried soothing me with obviously faked compassion, Jake, Jake… listen to me, honey. This is for your own good. It has just gotten too out-of-control, my little one, and we are trying to make things easier. That is all. It won’t hurt in the slightest. But it must be cut. Your Daddy says we must and it will be a whole lot better. Now calm down and sit still for us, or it really could hurt you, dear.

Well… that sure worked, I screeched inside. Not!

Easier? Better? For whom? Duh, I reflected, insanely ill-at-ease, you really think so? Of course, it will hurt. And that man--- Wilbur, or whatever you call him--- is NOT my Daddy. My Daddy would never try something like this. And he would surely be here to save me from this Devil with the sharp scissors. Totally freaked, I opened my mouth to renew complaints.

A sweaty palm clamped suddenly over mouth and nose, immediately cutting off the attempt, but worse, my breath as well. Big eyes widened in terror as I realized now that the broom sweeper’s nasty paw was only an additional method for inflicting torture. It would be better for them, my mind reasoned, to render me unconscious--- or worse--- before implementing the decapitation process just verified as coming.

I had to do something.

Much as I didn’t want to, I pushed my tongue through pressed lips, wiggling it against the gross out palm bearing the warts which I had seen layering it upon entering the death chamber. All red and gooey with thick pus, or something. I had been nearly nauseous by the glimpse. The feel of them against my tongue was far, far worse.

Yuckkk! came the outcry from the mouth attached to the warty-palmed man. Boy, I thought, did that gripe have it backwards. It was my tongue on those revulsions. Yet, he did loosen his grip a tad. It gave me just enough of an angle to open my teeth and chomp down on one finger. Ouch! That hurts, ya little turd bucket. Leggo! I held fast, clamping down as hard as possible, hoping to sever the stupid thing. I could already taste blood, and dearly hoped it wasn’t my own. Scissor man was out of view…

Shrieking now, in his own banshee rendition, the glass-eyed sweeper wailed in agony.

Just as I thought I was making progress, Mamma’s hand slapped the bejeebers out of me. I let go in shock. She had never before struck me. I was more forlorn than ever in knowledge that evil intent had invaded all those present.

Jacob Winslow! You stop this. Right this instant! I will not have this kind of behavior from you, young man. Just wait until we get you home and I tell your Father! She was almost frothing as she hurled this at me. The wild-eyed look scared me almost as much as Mouth-clamper and Head-chopper. I pulled up short and sat deathly still, staring from one to the next in sheer horror that three grown adults would do such things.

Watching, quietly now, I saw the bleeding pinky rushed to the nearby sink and stuck under a streaming faucet. Mamma implored the two executioners, Please forgive me. I don’t understand what has gotten into him. Her sidelong hard look daggered me with venom, as surely as if I had been bitten by a pit viper. It hurt. Bad.

Head-chopper went to a cabinet, removing bandage and nursing materials. Returning to help the injured--- but not enough--- warthog who was now blotting a blood-seeping gash. The two worked at medicating and securing the wound.

Mamma came back and bent down over me, hissing not at all kindly through clenched teeth, This is just abominable behavior Jacob. I will not have it. Now sit up straight and act like a big boy. Mind your manners. I cannot believe you would do this to these nice men. Your Father is going to be angry when we tell him.

That broke through my arrested psyche. Well, I’m sure not gonna tell him. And, he is NOT my Father, and you know it, Mamma. You should be ashamed of yourself--- all of you, looking from one of them to the next, you shouldn’t be trying to knock me off just to get me out of the way. He hates me! And you know that, too! Just let me out of here and I promise to leave and never come back!

All the words just tumbled out in a heap. I pulled up short again, amazed at myself for the very grown-up response to this barbary. Scissor-wielder cocked his head at Mamma as he taped a bandage on the wart-covered pinky. Ma’am. Mrs. Howard. I don’t think I am going to be able to help you and your son today. There seem to be issues that may be needing more attention than just a haircut will help. He glanced my direction. What’s more, we won’t be incurring any more damages at this time. So, if you would be so kind as to remove my barber drape, you and your son can take off. That would probably be for the best. The man’s jaw set decisively.

Firmness in the tone left no real basis for debate. Mamma huffed her way through doing as requested, removing the death cape from its snug tightness around my neck--- no doubt meant to keep blood from dripping down my headless body and making a mess--- then hustling the two of us out the front door.

I focused on the red, white and blue whirly cylinder on the pole outside, trembling at the near-death experience and wincing by the hard grip of Mamma’s hand over my wrist. She dragged me with her to our station wagon parked in front, loaded me ungently into the restrictive child seat without so much as a word, started the old car and screeched out of the strip-center lot.

Thirty minutes later found us sitting in the bathroom at the forest home. Me on a closed commode seat, boosted by a telephone book; Mamma on the kitchen stool, bending my head back over an adjacent sink edge. She wielded Spotty’s dog clippers and fairly spat the first words from her mouth since the chamber of horrors. Now, Jacob Winslow Howard, I don’t want a single movement or word from you. Keep your head leaning back into the sink, just like it is.

With that, and the fear of God paralyzing me, she proceeded to strip the wild mess of curls in curved path after curved path by progressive arcs from brow, up over the crown and down my neck. Within seconds, my riot of lifelong ringlets lay orphaned in the porcelain sink. Limply staring up at me as if to say, ‘What did we do, Jake?’ I turned my neck when given license to move, peering from there up to the mirror. The bald pate staring back bespoke naked overexposure; my face lent credence to tragedy. In unspoken defiance, I yelled mindfully: It is NOT Howard. It is Marshall!

But, I also sighed in relief. My head was still attached to my shoulders. At least there was that.