Free The Last Stand of Daronwy by Clint Talbert

the wick. He fell forward. Twisting to miss the candleholder, he reached his left hand toward the altar, hoping to break his fall.
    Strong hands caught him under his arms, sweeping him into the air. Jeremy gasped. The lighter slipped out of his right hand but he caught it with his left.
    â€œLight it,” whispered Father.
    Jeremy did.
    They walked to the second candle and Father picked him up again. Father walked behind the altar to begin the Blessing of the Gifts and the Petition. How did Father pick him up? He was old. Jeremy realized he was staring at the priest, shook his head, and fell into the rhythm of the Mass, quickly fetching the carafe of wine, the chalice, and the bowl of water. He was too shocked to thank him.
    Mass plodded on as though nothing had happened. The gifts were blessed, Communion served. During Communion, Jeremy knelt on the altar steps and stared at the dancing flames of the candles. How had Father lifted him? He was an old man, certainly older than Pawpaw. He reminded himself to say some prayers and did so, asking God to help him become a better person, and asking God to help him find a way out of the world and into some place better with adventure, some place where he would not be too small to make a difference.
    Back in the sacristy, Jeremy laid the Bible on its stand. “Thank you, Father Pat. I couldn’t reach those candles.”
    He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Thank you , my child.”
    Someone stepped in to talk to Father and Jeremy slipped out to the cloakroom where he could hang his robe and wooden cross for the next acolyte. He found his family waiting for him. As they left the church, his mom grabbed his arm and leaned down, whispering into his ear, “Why did you make Father Pat pick you up? You’re too heavy for him.”
    â€œMom, I didn’t ask him to. He just did.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have done it. You should have just left the candles unlit.”
    Jeremy sighed. Looking toward the eastern edge of Twin Hills, he could see the dark line of the trees that started just on the other side of the baseball fields across the street from the church. He said nothing else, though his mom and dad kept talking. He climbed into the car and wished hard that he could find a way into the heart of the woods, into the skin-prickling darkness that lit his nerves on fire. There was a doorway there. He knew it. If he could find it, he could leave the world behind like the children in The Chronicles of Narnia books, only he would never come back.
    Jeremy suffered through lunch, counting the seconds until he could switch his stiff slacks and starched shirt for stained jeans and a T-shirt. Once he was excused, Jeremy took his air rifle and marched across the street into Twin Hills. What else could he have done? The candles had to be lit, and Father Pat didn’t seem to be hurt from picking him up. Why were his parents angry about it? Why was everyone always so angry? But the moment his feet left the pavement of Nevada Street, a silken peacefulness settled on his shoulders and he forgot about the incident.

    Daronwy created a path of energy, knowing Jeremiah’s heart would lead him toward it, communicating in a language unconscious to the boy’s mind. The gun hung in his right hand, carried like an afterthought, not a weapon. Jeremiah ducked through the small trail that led from the pond to the clearing and stood at the upheaval of Daronwy’s roots. He always did this, stopped and stood, as though listening for the invitation that he could not possibly hear nor suspect. Daronwy bent energy, creating a rift, and the boy flowed into it the way water flows between rocks, choosing the path that has been made for it. He climbed onto Daronwy’s trunk, bent forward and walking with a careful hand against the old bark. Near the top, where branches still stretched for the sun, Jeremiah sat, putting his back against them so that he could turn his