The Drake
© Copyright 2004 J. Diamond Arnold

“Did you bring the Drake?” Daniel asked, wiggling the tip of his fingers wildly against the front of his baseball shirt.

“Of course I did,” Billy said jerking his head, nodding to the shrubs just below the ladder of our tree house. “I said I would bring it, and I did!”

Like a flock of curious lambs we followed Billy Bunk over to the base of the big oak tree. Uncertain about the pending discovery, I asked the obvious question, “The Drake?” We weren’t ready for this moment. Even years later we would never fully understand the impact it would have on our lives.

“Just shut up!” Daniel spread his arms out, backing us away from Bunky Boy. “Give the guy some space.”

Seemingly in slow motion, Billy kneeled, his knees sinking into the moist ground. Like a catholic schoolboy about to take his first communion, he leaned forward and brushed back a mound of sticks and wet soggy leaves—Fiat Lux!
We stood in a semi-circle, peering over Billy’s slumping shoulders at the ancient scroll. Tattered and soiled, the mysterious document was creased with white lines from a quick fold and snug fit into the back pocket of Bunk’s blue jeans. On the page, flowing flesh twisted like a soft pretzel without the salt as a burly beast wrestled with a petite angel—toes interlocked like the leather weaving in the web of a baseball glove. Oh that face, that angelic face—gnashing her teeth without weeping.

I could take no more! I turned away and bent to rub my eyes with one hand, while the other up wedged up against the cold steel of my belt buckle. The same feeling I had when I swallowed my first pinch of Skoal—half-sick, half-buzzed.
“The Drake!” Daniel cackled like a mad man, hands tight fisted, knuckles bled white. He spoke for all of us.

to be continued...