Steven’s snapping up breathless in bed, gaping at the wall paper rich with pink and yellow flowers. What was that! A mist? It’s so scary! And where’s the party – the noise and balloons for his eleventh birthday? Everyone was in his thin, pale mother’ s bedroom with hats and funny faces on before that mist came creeping around them. Steven’s searching for the door with trembling hands now, for the bureau, the pictures on the wall before suddenly sighing: Oh! it was just a dream! Though the windows are covered, he can tell it’s, yes, sunny then hears the bright sound of birds outside. Too bad he has to go to school on such a day. He hasn’t wanted to since they told him he’ll have to play an angel in next week’s fifth grade play and not a soldier. His fine silk pillow’s feeling cool now on his cheek. And he’s burying his face in it, wiping away the sweat, but keeping his eyes vigilant. No! He’s not gonna get lost in that scary mist again!

Mom usually wakes him. He’s waiting for her now, counting those flowers on the wall. The yellow ones are Royal Chinese troops, arraigning for a bloody battle – a surprise attack on rows and rows of doomed pink soldiers. Steven must, however, await a signal — one of the huge trucks roaring past from warehouses down the block. That’s the alarm. But … no trucks go shuttering by. And when the bells finally start ringing from St Francis Church nearby, Steven goes jumping to the window, flinging the drapes wide open. No one’s ambling down the block, though, and all the stores are dark, are closed. Is it “Sunday?” he cries, dancing back from the window. “It’s Sunday!”

II

Drawers are flung from the bureau. Ties, shorts, tee-shirts go spilling to the floor. And he simply can’t crawl into them soon enough. Only his secret Sunday adventures in a lush, solitary Ginko Grove across the park can get him though one dismal week after another. It’s gotten that bad. Sometimes it feels like that suffocating mist, closing in on him. No, he doesn’t want to be the class play’s angel. He wants to be a soldier with a swift, terrible sword.

“Sorry Steven,” his teacher, Mr. Sloan, tells him with a sad smile, “you’re too gentle for that.” And the boys in the back of the room snicker. It’s the same at football games. They never pick him. In the Ginko Grove that all changes. And he’s dying to get there, but he has to hurry first to the refrigerator in the kitchen without his mother finding out. Even the slightest sound would wake her. Then he might never get enough grapes or bread or raisins, especially with spring almost over and the birds so plentiful. The kitchen’s next to his mother’s room and Steven’s up on tip toes, holding his breath. Just one squeaky floorboard would alarm her. She’d been like that – drawn, always on edge — since his father died. He doesn’t quite remember how long ago that was but ever since dreads stormy nights, when the walls creak and lightening comes hissing through the house.

“Stevie! Stevie!” she’d call into the darkness as he’s crawling from his bed spooked by the shadows hovering in his room and along a long, lonely hallway. She’d always be waiting arms stretched toward him. He’d huddle against her, his legs wound in her long, silk gown. Sometimes he’d feel proud like a soldier, when he’d calm her down. And he’d remember his uncles, all strong men, admonishing him while standing by the graveside at his dad’s funeral:

“You watch over your mother now, Stevie!”

He’s been trying, but it’s getting harder. They’re giving her medicines now. “That’s cause your father died so young,” the doctor told him gravely. But the medicines aren’t working. And one horrible night, when his uncles didn’t know he was listening, he suddenly hears:

“Who c’n figure why the hell he killed himself!”

Steven’s never been the same. Only in the Ginko Grove is it different. And he’s feeling an easing in his heart as he’s reaching the sturdy tile floor in the kitchen then finally flinging open the refrigerator door thank God without a sound and sees the grapes lying cool and moist in the back, waiting for him. He’d begun bringing them to the park in awe after seeing shimmering, green Mallard ducks, skimming across the lake in front of the grove. And he’s stuffing grapes hurriedly now into one pocket, then bread and raisins into another. Too hurriedly, sending a can of peaches bouncing down onto the floor.

“Stevie, is that you?”

Oh, no!

How can he ever, ever explain it? Bringing food to flocks of birds at the Ginko Grove, after crawling over wet rocks and through rugged brush to a splendid clearing in the midst of a thicket of sheltering trees. “All that mud full of bugs and germs,” she’d say with worry, her eyes beseeching him to keep away from such roughness. And he’s standing motionless now barely breathing.

“Stevie,” she’s calling again with rising urgency.

“I’m in the kitchen, mama,” he says, reaching frantically for the can on the floor.

“You’re up so early, darling? Come in here.”

“I was eating grapes, mama,”

After sidling hesitantly into her bedroom, sure enough, he sees that worried look.

“You’ll get sick to your stomach, Stevie. Go back to bed and rest a while. But come give mommy a kiss first.”

Her long dark hair’s spilling over her shoulders as she is reaching for him, her lean white hands smelling of perfume. And though he’s turning away, she kisses him on the forehead, whisking away a shock of hair, spilling down into his eyes.

“You’ll have to get this cut. I can’t see those bright eyes of yours with hair in them all the time.”

Ach! The barber shop! How he hates going there with that man holding his scissors up, calling him a “sweet boy” and winking at him. He feels like dashing into the street every time his mother tells the man how wonderfully he’d cut the boy’s “silky brown” hair.

“Why you looking so unhappy, Stevie?” his mother’s asking. And she’s putting her hand to her cheek laughing. “My God! What kind of angel will you play if we can’t even see your forehead?

“A hairy one ….”

“Steven, please!”

He’s staring at the floor ready to stomp his feet in anger, crying leave me alone!
But knows better. Yet he’s seeing a way — though unpleasant — to get to the grove even quicker this morning.

“If we take early mass, mama, I’ll go to the barber with you tomorrow. Okay?”

And she murmurs, her hand still on her forehead:

“I’ve a little headache, darling, Why don’t we go later?”

He wants to shout No! Yet doesn’t. Usually he brings her some water and her bottle of aspirin. And he wants to. But that’ll only slow things down. Ever since the teacher told him he’d play an angel not a soldier, he can’t bear another morning roaming the house, waiting for her.

“Mama, I’ll get you some water. But please can’t we go to early mass? Can’t we?”

Rustling uneasily in her bed, she sighs annoyed:

“All right, Stevie — let me lie here a few minutes.”

III

During the priest’s sermon, Steven can smell a faint odor of grapes, worried his mother could smell them too. But she keeps staring up at the pulpit, eyes intense, mouth parted each time the old priest’s chanting, finger waving,

“We must turn away from foolishness, must turn back to God!” And when he’s demanding, face flushed, that we switch off the TV and other foolishness and embrace God instead. Steven can only laugh, thinking of Bugs Bunny and the Sunday cartoons, as the parishioner next to him start lowering his head in humility and his mother’s face darkens as the priest’s warning now of troubles, of dangers, of dying.

“No one,” he’s chanting “you can turn with your soul to no one but God. To God alone! Only to God. Amen.”

How glad hearing that strange word at last, leaving Steven squirming for a glimpse of park across the street as he’s begging his mother:

“Can’t we go now?”

“You’re in such a rush lately. Please!,” she scolds. “Why do you want to go? Wasn’t he marvelous, darling? Did you listen carefully to what he said?”

“Can’t I wait for you outside…?”

As these words are fleeing his mouth, Steven flinches, seeing her face tighten. She might not let him go to the park at all now.

“Never mind, mommy! Never mind,” he’s urging humbled and unnerved. “I’ll take communion today. Okay? I’ll stay!”

“That’s more like you, darling” she whispers, her fingers stroking gently through his hair. And he’s smiling, though longing to push them away, and only stops fidgeting when seeing the large, glorious painting of St. Francis, dominating the church, caught in a brilliant shaft of light, pouring all at once through its stained glass window. Steven’s moved instantly by this ineffable moment, seeing the birds fluttering so joyfully at the beloved Saint’s bare feet. And he promises fervidly, should he get to the grove early, he’ll take off his shoes too in reverence when he gets there.

“Alright, alright” his mother’s conceding, “if you insist on standing out there, go already during communion. But we’re coming home right after church. I hate all that roughness in the park!” Hard as he tries, there’s no holding back a rush of tears.

“Good heavens, Steven, don’t make a scene right here!” she’s pleading, peering anxiously at the people staring to them. Then she chides, shaking her head hopelessly, “So go already! Go! But don’t you come home with dirt under your nails again and your shirt and tie all wrinkled up.”

IV

The traffic’s light. But she’s still watching and he must stand impatient and restless until not one single car can be seen up or down the street. And when he at last steps from the curb, his legs go leaping like two desperate animals freed from a trap straight into the thick, welcoming grass of the park, stretching for miles and miles across Independence Boulevard. Though he’s racing at breakneck speed, aching for breath, it’s barely soon enough before he spies the first thrilling proof of his escapes, the old, Gold Domed boathouse, hugging the shore of a lake, speckled with rowboats and men casting at fish streaking through the water under the air thick with dragonflies. He always stops and watches them till he’s sure she gone before racing on free at last toward that magical grove, flourishing above the sand and rocks jutting from the water. Spotting those proud Ginkos, rising majestically now above the underbrush, he can almost hear a rapture of birds in his mind and envision them – his heart racing – fluttering happily at his feet, the sparrows closest, the robins further back, the squirrels edging ever nearer. He’d even knighted the boldest of them, Knights Of The Mighty Domain, his domain, Sir Steven’s Domain. It all began when he heard the old priest call St Francis a “soldier of God’s kindness”. Not three days later, Steven stumbles wondrously upon the grove in his sad wanderings. And his soul never ever leaves it.

Those rocks jutting from the water are thick with moss. And while struggling over them, hands sliding in the ooze, he’s reveling in the cool, liberating feeling streaming through his fingers. Dirt under the nails! To hell with that! He’s reveling now too in the embracing smells from old leaves and the pungent water deep down in the rocks, where the frogs hide, wondering again, what do they eat? And if he could lured them up to the clearing among the trees? A kid at school told him garter snakes live in the park too. Oh, there’s so much that could still be done! So much! And he’s scampering now higher and faster from rock to rock, though springtime underbrush thicker than ever, aching for the first blessed sight of the clearing and then seeing the first brave birds gliding to the ground, inching toward him as they always do. Others follow one by one until the air’s a glorious hum of beating wings with his heart beating just as gloriously. Regardless of the underbrush ridden with sharp, stinging nettles, he keeps pushing relentlessly on until he’s all at once crashing in one final liberating whirl into the open sunshine of the clearing. Dropping exhausted to the ground, he shouting up in bliss to the sky:

“I’m back! Sir Steven’s back.

Snapping up again to his feet in a surge of victory, he’s plunging his hands into his pockets, seizing fistfuls of bread instantly, which he can’t fling fast enough toward the tree tops, always bringing a swift harvest of birds, his loyal subjects, swooping down around him in love and excitement. His mouth open and eyes cast skyward, he begins scanning the treetops from one end of the grove to the other. Then waits. Then keeps waiting. Then waits some more. But only sunshine comes steaming down through the branches. His eyes go swinging unbelieving left and right. They always come soon as the food’s flying from his hand. Maybe, uh … the raisins ‘ll bring ‘em! And he starts throwing fistfuls into the air, not daring to stare up into the trees – no, not to see them bare again. Even the squirrels aren’t coming. Nor is a single pigeon waddling in from the bushes. If one only did, he’d never, never bar them again. Then clutching dizzily to a nearby tree, he begins begging whatever’s enchanting the grove to, “Make ‘em come back!” But nothing’s coming. And he’s grinding his knuckles mercilessly now into his eyes, chasing the tears away. There’re not allowed in the grove! Never! In an immediate, harsh command, he drives himself away from the tree — and head erect like a soldier’s – goes racing brutally around the clearing, his chest thrust out in defiance. Then swearing finally over and over to dare not shame Sir Steven, the grim battle ends abruptly — his eyes still dry.

But when he dares look up again into the trees, even the insects buzzing in the sunshine seem to be shying away too, which is more than he can bear. Yanking out nervously whatever’s left in his pockets, grapes and all, he begins flinging them wide around the clearing, hoping for a miracle? A miracle. Yes! And before he even knows it, he’s falling to his knees, eyes heavenward, hands pressing together in piety. You can turn to no one but God! To God alone. Then he wants to laugh. It’s so clear now, so easy, why the birds aren’t coming! He hasn’t taken his shoes off! Hasn’t even tried! With trembling hands — though swept with joy — he starts ripping them off his feet as he’d so solemnly promised the blessed Saint. Birds don’t just fly! Really? If I didn’t do this, they wouldn’t come! Can that really be? And he flings his shoes down into the grass then goes leaping across the clearing overwhelmed by the magic of it, his eyes fixed passionately on the treetops.

Huh … what the devil’s that? Whoa! Is that a stone! It’d come flying across the clearing, skirting across his bare feet. Now a volley of ‘em are bouncing furiously off the trees just inches away. Soon others are crashing through the leaves as he’s pulling his shoes back on, white with terror. But now a startling sound of cracking twigs, come moving up quickly from the water’s edge. Longing in fury to shout who are you? he goes striding to the center of the clearing instead, his jaw fierce, hoping the birds hiding in the trees see him standing tall and brave in the heart of their sacred grove –scared though he is. Sir Steven’s grove. Yes!

IV

The boy crawling from the bushes is smaller than Steven, but older. Maybe thirteen he figures. And just the type. Yeah, he could imagine him in his cheap, battered shoes always throwing rocks at little birds. But no more! In a rush of indignation, Steven heads straight toward him, waiting for his startled look. But he’s seeing no startled look as the boy snaps round, glaring at him through dark, narrowing eyes. Never, not once, has Steven ever seen such eyes. Everything’s urging him to run, simply race for the bushes. But the birds! They’re watching. Although obliterated with terror, Steven grasps for something to say. Anything! Maybe he could talk to the boy! They could be friends. Sure! He’d show him around the Grove, meet him there on Sundays. And Steven smiles. But the boys eyes just keep on burning into him.

“Hi. My name’s Steven. What’s yours?”

“Steven, eh…. Well, this here’s little Al Stomper t’ you.”

The boy then sticks two fingers in his mouth, splitting the air with a shattering whistle. And Steven goes twisting around, ready to bolt again for the trees. But the boy’s having none of it.

“Stick around!” he says slow and smirking. “Where ya goin’?”

“I gotta get home!”

“Nah, not so fast!”

The boy’s hunching closer, head lowered, arms stretched out until suddenly the bushes start parting all around. And what Steven’s seeing is beyond fear now, beyond anything. Tall, husky boys, their faces mean and twisted, are slouching across the clearing while dirtier, smaller ones, whooping and hollering, with sticks in their hands come following after, straight toward Little Al, still crouched low, blocking Steven cold. The taller ones just stand back watching as a blond, skinny boy with heavy shoes and a cigarette behind his ear comes moving in so close, Steven can feel his foul breath on his cheeks. But doesn’t dare move.

“Ya live in here, kid, eh?”

“No. No. I was just scouting around.”

“What kinda scoutin’?”

“Boy scoutin’,” one of the taller one says, grinning through thick lips and rotten teeth.

“Nah,” Little Al says, clutching hold of Steven collar, “this guy’s all sharped up.
Look! He even got a tie in his pocket. Them boy scouts wear only them short pants and a rag around their neck. This guy’s some other kinda scout.” And he winks.

Now all of them, seven maybe, maybe eight, all start laughing wildly, leaving Steven desperate to slap away Little Al’s fingers, wiggling like worms on his collar, and squash them into the dirt. When he tries swerving away, though, they grasps only harder till tears go stinging shamefully down his face. Then to his amazement, though, Steven watches that skinny boy in the thick shoes, taking Little Al’s hand from his neck with an earnest look:

“The poor kids cryin’. Come on!”

But the skinny boy then starts laughing even harder as taunts of, “Boo hoo! Look! He’s cryin’!” come flying at Steven from all sides.

“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” Little Al’s crooning, his face drooping with mock concern now too. “Did boy scout lose his marshmallows?”

“His teeny-weenie little marshmallows. Yeah!”

“And his girl scout cookies too.”

They’re all simply shaking, simply tottering with horse laughter.

“Ahh, leave him alone,” the skinny boy’s purring, his hand gently on Steven’s shoulder again. “Pretty boy’s no boy scout. Not him.”

“He ain’t one of them creeps. Nah.”

“That’s right!” Steven frantically cries out, knowing at last what to say, what not to be.

“They wanted me to join a troop at the church. I didn’t though. They’re …uhh … uhh creeps.”

But, uh-uh, no dice! All of ‘em are looking at him now through those narrow, unblinking eyes as one of the roughest starts coming straight at him.

“Look at this!” the tall boy with the teeth scoffs, yanking the tie from Steve’s pocket then waving it ruggedly in the air. “Pretty Boy’s all prepared. He’s a scout alright. A pussy-scout!”

“Whoa! Johnny! What are ya a crook?” the skinny boy’s chiding, his voice whining with pity. “Give him back his tie.” Then chortling merrily, he seizes Johnny’s hand. And they begin pulling and tugging till the tie’s ripped jaggedly in half.

“Don’t do that! No!” Steven wailing, grasping for what left of this rag, swirling in Johnny’s hand like a dead snake, crazily dancing before his tainted, misshapen teeth. “Ohh, come on” the skinny boy’s urging, “give it back to him,” though the other end of the tie’s jeeringly dangling by a thread from his limp fingers. Then pulling his cigarette casually from behind his ear, he asks, “Hey, any of ya delinquents got a match?”

“Sure,” Little Al says, snatching what’s left of the tie and darting away. “I got a match alright. Your face and my ass!” And bending down, his rump swinging grotesquely in the air, he begins shining his battered shoes with the slaughtered tie. And Steven’s sagging back thunderstruck, fighting a surge of nausea, churning through his stomach.

“Hey, that’s naughty Little Al. Stop that! Or I’ll put one of these clodhoppers up your ass.” The skinny boy’s eyes are once more flashing wide with sympathy. “Don’t make this kid cry again. Look! Look Al, Johnny look. Pretty boy’s gonna cry again.”

Voices are booming at Steven from everywhere, curses from one side, laughter another, insults from behind as he’s gaping, chest heaving, from one torturing face to another.

“Yo, pretty boy’s gonna cry again”

“Ohh, mommy, mommy, give ‘im his bottle.”

“She sucks!”

“Yeah, and pretty-boy eats it!”

“Come on. Leave Sweetie alone!”

“Uh huh, and who’s gonna stop me?”

“Nah, go on! Let him have it!”

“Yeah, Right in his chops!”

“But fellas, fellas – just because he likes a little …”

They’re stopping abruptly as Steven, almost pissing in his pants, sees Johnny slouching right toward him again.

“Hey, pretty boy,” he mutters, grabbing harshly at the bulge between his legs. “Come down on this marshmallow!” And he’s hissing his lips fierce and menacing.

“You’re a faggot scout!”

“That’s it. Yeah, a faggot scout!”

And they all keep singing it over and over, laughing, shouting, relishing it: “A fucken faggot! That’s what he is! A fucken faggot scout!”

It’s a deep, ominous growling, a sound without meaning, smashing though his nausea, through the terror binding his legs to the ground, his arms to his sides. And he goes plunging half crazy right at them, arms exploding, his fingers taring at their eyes, their ears, yanking at their hair until he’s clutching insanely up into the sunshine, clutching at empty air, desperate for freedom. Then though still thrashing in their grasping arms, he somehow goes leaping and spinning over a wall of their snapping hands and comes down bouncing, sliding, the grass in his mouth, the bushes just ahead.

“Where’d he go?”

“How do I know? In there!”

“You assholes!”

The voice is Johnny’s, chasing Steven down toward the rocks, driving him full force against the thorns, viciously slashing at him. But there’s no stopping, thorns or not.

“Hey! Hurry up! Let’s get him!”

VI

Though the sun glaring off the water’s searing his thorn scratched face, it’s making no difference as he goes galloping wild-eyes from the grove, not in fear but in nothing — too overwhelmed, too astonished at what Hell the world can be! Yet it’s not scaring him.

He just simply doesn’t know anymore who he is. What anything is. And though the day remains fully bright, everything inside him is shrouded like the suffocating mist haunting his dreams, which surely is showing stark on his face. Strollers on the beach are stopping in pity, staring at him. But he’s not looking behind, not once, to see if that horror from the grove’s still chasing after him. He’s desperate now only for a dark hole, a clump of trees, some dark corner to crawl into and disappear. Hunkering down at last in a damp, gloomy toilet stall in the Golden Dome boathouse, only then, does the shivering and weeping begin. Still, he doesn’t dare curse the blessed Saint as he vows in wrenching bitterness to never cross the street after church, to never be a “soldier of kindness” ever again. A sudden chill descends on him now like no other. And the weeping stops.

She never hears a word of it, doesn’t even try as he glowers at his mother every time she’s looking at him with even a hint of fear. It’s different this time. It’s beyond her and she knows it. And in a panic, she’s just leaving him alone in his room, asking nothing, refusing to believe what she’s seeing. For the rest of the day, she’s lying blankly in her bed with her bottle of aspirin unable to face him. Steven, his chest still heaving, doesn’t care whatever she’s thinking, whatever anyone’s thinking and is waiting in the strange hellish world taking hold of him only till deep evening darkness comes and he can slip down silent and furious to the basement and into his father’s musty, old workshop. Though shivering and unsteady, he knows precisely where and what he’s looking for – a jagged, menacing, pearl handled fish knife his father was so proud of whenever they’d gone fishing the lake together.

“This ‘ll be yours one day, Stevie. Don’t tell your mother I said that, though. Okay?” his dad had warned him more than once, always concerned with her fears. Later wide eyed in his bed, Steven’s concerned with nothing but honing that menacing blade over and over till it’s gleaming even in the dull light. The next day, he’s grinding it so keen, so frightening on a whetstone that that sudden strange chill’s seizing him again, only more terrifying. Now wherever he goes near or far, he’s feeling the deadly comfort of that mean, pearl handle under his shirt, pressing cold against his skin. It never leaves him, not for a minute, even on stage as lights are flashing now in his eyes while playing a gentle angel in a flowing gown. It’s there, Oh yes, even under the flowing, silk, angel gown.

“Steven, you were wonderful, darling. Just wonderful!” his mother’s later reveling.

“What is it, though? Please. You look so glum again.”

Casting his eyes from her then from the boys with the helmets and spears, he
feels that cold metal separating them, colder than ever.

VII

The priest the following Sunday is speaking this time of peace, love, charity. Steven no longer knows what that all means and doesn’t wanna know as he grasps that hard, pearl handle, trying not to glare into the large, warm eyes of St. Francis, looking down on him so kindly. No grapes are in his pockets now, no bread, no raisins. Yet he’s going to cross the street into park anyway. And all he needs is this furiously honed knife clutched in his sweaty hand. Though having no words for it, he knows he must do this or the Hell he’s in could turn even more horrible than after his dad’s horrible death. There has to be, there must be a Sir Steven.

No! He can’t die too!

She isn’t pleading with him on the church steps to come back home, nor asking again what’s wrong now, though her eyes are ablaze with worry.

“Watch for the cars, Stevie.”

He dashes straight through the traffic, though, without even looking. The men are still there casting from the dock and the dragonflies are thick in the air, but Steven isn’t stopping to watch and goes rushing toward the grove, though his heart’s beating ferociously and his shoulders slumping when he finally sees the rocks jutting low through the water below the Ginko trees. But despite the sweat pouring from him and everything screaming in him he race away, he doesn’t. This is crazy! Good God! More than crazy. There’re so many of them, so much stronger, so much meaner. But Steven’s crashing through the bushes anyhow, terrified at every move. Terror, though, doesn’t matter any more. Nothing does. I d-o-n-’t care! he’s cursing over and over. Seeing their faces twisting in sweet horror is all he wants.

Each creaking limb, each leaf moving in the wind could be one of them. Snatching a stout, rugged stick up from the underbrush, he goes swinging at every branch whipping out at him. The further he climbs, the more he’s slashing jagged lines through the leaves and into the bark on the trees. Though hanging back an instant before the clearing, he nonetheless continues pounding the bushes till twigs go flying and fresh sap’s running from the branches. Yet he continues pounding – pounding and pounding — making sure they hear him loud down in the rocks or on their bellies in the dirt in the underbrush.

Uh-uh, Sir Steven’s not home hiding, no! But right here, a knife, a stick flashing in his hand.

A quick flickering in the bush startles him. And he dives at it before crashing blinking into the sun-bright clearing just as something go streaking over his head, sending him wheeling back in wonder. Was … was that a robin, gliding down bright and free onto a nearby branch? Others soon are following, edging toward him through the grass. Even the flies seem thicker in the air. A squirrel starts slinking in from the brush now too. Then a pigeon comes waddling toward the others. Then more and more start hungrily gathering around in an excited, joyful, flapping circle. Steven’s devastated they know him still — know him so well — though he can’t do anything for them, nothing. After plunging his hands in despair into his empty pockets for a futile instant, he starts slashing at the trees again mercilessly, shouting furiously:

“Here I am! Look! I’m back! I’m ready! Come get me!”

But all he hears, echoing back through the trees, is his own fury mocking him. Then the squirrels suddenly are scattering and the birds anxiously start shying away too. All he can do is stare up desperately, frantic to call them back. But only more go soaring into the sky.

“Come out!” he’s snarling into the bushes in a frenzy — vile, burning images of Johnny’s rotten teeth, turning his stomach. “Where ya hiding? You dirty rotten cowards! Where! Where! Damn it, where!”

But the only response is a horrible, unending silence as he sinks to his knees, breathing slow – slow and brutal, the grove now desolate, forlorn forever. And paralyzed in this hopeless mocking silence eyes blinking in defeat, his Sir Steven pride goes crashing down in violent bitterness. And only when dark, menacing storm clouds start rushing across the sky does he finally manage to rise. But then an even more terrible storm starts shrieking through him. And he simply can’t stop himself – just can’t – from staring up savagely among the branches in blind, breathless, blood-frantic rage then hurling his fierce stick straight up at a gentle robin’s nest, knocking two terrified chicks bleeding to the ground. Smitten with instant loathing then even more pitiless regret, he goes slumping low through the bushes now to the water’s edge never, never, never looking back, a proud worrier of kindness no more.