CHAPTER 38
~T-minus 8 years~
The skies were clear and violet with the fading sunlight, with but a hint of dew and a trace of breeze to cool the summer air - a perfect evening by any standard, and an especially welcome one in Patmos. The normally sedate little burg swelled with activity as people poured in by the hundreds, converging on Kiyama Hill to partake in Main Event Patmos. What had once been a tiny local music festival had turned into a rite for area musicians, either as their formal premiere or as one last farewell before moving on to a grander stage in Chicago and beyond. The western field was filled with tents and vehicles, the temporary homes for people who either couldn't get a room or wanted to be as close to the stage as they could. Others sat on Kiyama Hill, watching the show from a comfortable height. The crowd had a decidedly strange character, a reflection of the eclectic acts that had become a mainstay for the event.
Then there was the pair perched at the very top of the hill, two normal boys standing out for the strange crowd that surrounded them. One was very young, not more than six and small even at that, carrying a little backpack, staring earthward with misty, red eyes. The other was in his teens, a portly, shaggy youth sifting through a sizable pile of band merchandise.
"How you liking the music, Sam?" said the older boy.
"It's okay, Will." Sam sat on the ground, staring sullenly over the merchandise.
"I went a little overboard with the swag, but you gotta support your locals. Real important." Will grabbed several large rolls of paper. "Check it out. I figure we get these posters signed after this thing's done, and then if any of these guys hit it big, they'll be worth hundreds of dollars. Maybe thousands. That would be cool, right?"
"Yeah."
"You okay, bro?"
"Yeah." Sam began to sob, his entire body quaking as his face turned red.
Will wrapped his arms around Sam, holding him tight. "It's all right, buddy. It's okay! We don't have to stay here. You want to go home? Let's go home." Will looked around the field. "Wait, I got a better idea. You have that notebook with you? The one the doctor told you to carry?"
Sam dug in his backpack, pulling out a spiral-bound notebook. "I don't want to write about it."
"Yeah, I get that. Who wants to write about his thoughts? Writing about thoughts is stupid. You gotta write about real things, right? Things you can see." Will lifted Sam onto his shoulders. "Hey, look at all those weirdos down there. We don't usually see people like that around Patmos, do we?"
Sam sniffed and wiped his eyes. "Yeah. They sure look strange."
"No kidding." Will pointed to someone in the crowd below them. "Look at all the piercings people have here. Hey, check that guy out, the one with all the stuff sticking out of his face. Man, that must have hurt. Hey, why do you think he did that to himself?"
"I don't know," said Sam. "He's a stranger."
"Well, make something up," said Will. "A story doesn't have to be all real, just a little."
"Maybe..." Sam studied the man, ideas bubbling in his mind. "Maybe it's armor."
"Yeah, that makes sense!" said Will with a broad grin. "I bet that guy gets punched in the face a whole lot. So he says 'Yeah, well now if you punch me, you'll get your hands all cut up.'"
Sam giggled in reply. "Yeah. I bet no one ever tried to kiss him, either."
"Yeah!" Will set Sam down on the ground and knelt next to him. "See? You can make up a story anytime, wherever you are. And if you're real good at it, you can become famous. You can be Sam the big-time storyteller."
"What about you?" said Sam.
"Oh, not me." Will tapped on the side of his head. "I don't got it in me. But maybe you do. Hey, will you do something for me? I want you to write a story about all these crazy people. Just tell a story from what you see."
"What if it's no good?"
"Don't worry! You're just writing it for me." Will put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Just jot something down, and after that, we can get ice cream. Come on, do this for me? As a favor?"
Sam inspected the notebook in his hands, lost for the moment in thoughts of possibility. The crowd was roaring around him as the next band took the stage, but he could barely hear the music and he saw only the faces of the crazy people beneath him. Taking a seat on the crest of the hill, Sam dug a pencil out of his bag, flipped open the notebook, and let his fingers fly.