The Turtle Boy

wanted to leave so bad it hurt. Timmy, still paralyzed by disbelief at where and how and possibly when he had found himself, felt a pang of sorrow for the boy and wished the stranger would leave him alone.

But the man stayed where he was and flipped a lock of chestnut-colored hair from the ghost of his eyes as his laugh grew hoarse, then died. “I knew a fairy boy like you once,” he said. A mouth appeared in the skin-mask as he attempted to blow a smoke ring but only managed a mangled S before the breeze snatched it away. “Couple of years ago back in college. He was like you, you know. Dressed real nice, spoke real good. Had no time for anyone he thought beneath him, if you’ll excuse the pun, which meant pretty much everybody was beneath the sonofabitch. That cocksucker didn’t get to me though. No sir. I fixed his goddamn wagon real good.”

“I’d better go. Can I have my book?” Darryl withdrew his foot from the water. He braced his hands beneath him to lever himself up and that’s when it happened.

Just as Darryl began to rise, the man, in one smoothly executed move, clenched the fist holding the cigarette and swept his arm hard beneath the boy’s hands, dropping him hard on his back. Timmy heard the whoosh of the boy’s breath as he lay confused and frightened. He saw the bobbing of the boy’s Adam’s apple as the fear registered. And then the man rose, his shadow once again draping itself over Darryl.

“Stop it! Leave him alone!” Timmy roared, but he felt as if he was locked inside a glass cage.

“Now why’d you have to go and get all impolite on me, huh? Weren’t we having a good little chat, just the two of us? No women, no bitching, no bills, no bullshit. Just you and me having a fine time.” His ‘face’ darkened. “What would your daddy think if he knew what you are? Or does he know? Are you queer because of him? Is that it? Shit, that’s terrible. I mean, I feel sorry for you, man. I really do. No kid should have to deal with that shit. I mean, my father got drunk one time and tried to—”

Darryl ran. It happened that fast. One minute he was on his back, trembling like an upturned crab, and the next he was on his feet and running toward the trees.

And the stranger fell on him. To Timmy it seemed as if the man had hardly moved and yet he was there, lying across the area of flattened grass Darryl had occupied only a moment before, both hands wrapped around the boy’s ankle, the cigarette forgotten and smoldering between them.

“Let me go!” Darryl cried and clawed at the grass. “Please, let me go!”

The stranger grunted and tugged the boy back toward him, flipped him over and struck him once across the face with his fist. It was enough. Darryl’s cries faded to a whine, tears streaming down his face and scissoring through the dirt smudged there.

The man shuffled forward and sat down on the boy’s legs, trapping him. Darryl regarded him with animal panic, subdued only by the threat of further violence.

“Aw Jesus,” the stranger said as twin trails of blood began to run from the boy’s nostrils. “Aw Jesus,” he repeated, grabbing fistfuls of his long hair and tugging hard. “Look what you did. Look what you did,” he said, over and over as if it was a spell to ward off consequences. “Look what you did. You’re bleeding. You’ll tell. You’ll run and tell and they’ll throw me in jail. All because you couldn’t just be polite and sit and listen. No, you tried to run. You tried to run away and look what you did!”

“Please,” Darryl sobbed beneath him.

A few feet away, Timmy wept too. He wanted to help, wanted to make this stop, somehow prevent what was going to happen because he knew, just knew in his heart and soul what was going to happen next.

He screamed then and looked away, knowing the scream wasn’t entirely his own, aware his own vocalized pain was drowning out the anguished cry of the boy on the bank. Timmy saw the man’s hands settling on both sides of the boy’s neck and looked away. He moaned and fell to his knees on the edges of a killer’s shadow as a sound like dry twigs snapping told him Darryl was dead.

An eternity passed before he looked up again. The killer stood there sobbing into his fist, but only for a moment. He quickly composed himself and set about tugging old rocks from where they had stood untouched for many years. He carried them to the inert body lying sprawled on the bank and stuffed the biggest ones under the boy’s shirt and down his trousers. After wrenching Darryl’s shirt into a crude knot to hold the rocks, he grabbed the boy’s legs around the ankles. Darryl’s head lolled sickeningly, the sightless eyes finding Timmy for the first time. Timmy felt sick, this new world of sunshine and murder seen through tears as he watched the killer step back into the water, the man’s face swirling. He dragged the boy’s body into the pond, held it in his arms for a moment, the water lapping at his waist, then let go and watched it sink, watched as bubbles broke the surface and the ripples fled.

Timmy wiped a sleeve across his eyes and sobbed, the tears hot with rage and horror. His temples throbbed. It hurt to think, to see, to bear witness to something so appallingly brutal. He knew he would never be the same again.

He looked up in time to see the stranger clambering onto the bank, his jeans darkened by the water, streams trickling from beneath the cuffs. He was weeping mud-colored tears, muttering beneath his breath, cussing and batting at the air over his head as he slipped and fell, then hurried to his feet. He almost forgot the book, but then turned and scooped it up and jammed it into his inside pocket. He looked around and, for one soul- freezing moment, his gaze found Timmy’s but then continued to scan the surrounding area for signs that he’d been seen or that someone had heard the boy. Satisfied that he was alone, he cast one final glance back at the water before heading back toward the rise, his head bowed.

After a moment, Timmy got to his feet and moved toward the bank. A dewdrop of blood glistened on the sun-baked grass. A hush fell over the pond, so noticeable that Timmy looked up at the sky. A raindrop smacked him on the forehead and he jumped, startled.

Something in the pond made a sucking sound and his gaze snapped down to where the surface of the water was starting to heave.

The air hummed. There came a noise like the sea heard in a conch shell and the hair rose on Timmy’s arms. Lightning fractured the sky and normality returned with a sound like heavy sheets of glass shattering. The boy staggered back a step. The rushing sound grew louder.

And then day exploded in one deafening scream into night. And rain.

Timmy tottered forward. The rain hammered against his skull, soaking him. He almost lost his footing. He regained his balance and squinted into the thick dark. In the distance, someone called his name. Lightning strobed again; the shadows crouched around the pond flinched. Another cry, from somewhere behind him.

He turned and a figure rose up in front of him. “It’s all your fault,” Mr. Marshall sobbed. He drew back his fist and a darkness darker than night itself swept itself on wings of sudden pain into Timmy’s eyes and he felt the ground pull away from him. A moment of nothingness in which he almost convinced himself he had dreamed it all, despite the stars that coruscated behind his eyelids, and then an immense cold shocked him back into reality. He thrashed his arms and felt them move far too slowly for the weight of his panic. An attempt to scream earned him nothing but a mouthful of choking water and he gagged, convulsed and tried to scream again. Oh God help me I can’t swim! His mind felt as if it too were filling with water and suddenly he ceased struggling, his throat closing, halting its fight against the dirty tide flowing through it. His heart thudded. One more breath. Water. Then a blanket of soothing whispers, a sheet of warmth draped over him and he no longer felt the pain of his lungs burning. It was as if he was feeling the pain in a separate body, a body he could ignore if he chose to.

And ignore it he did as he sank and drifted on waves of peace that carried him away. Until a sharp pain drove the resignation from his brain and his leg twitched, spasmed, and he was jerked from the panacea of death’s reverie. His eyes fluttered open. Darkness, but darkness he could feel between his fingers. Another bite and his heart kicked. Agony. Water. Something was gnawing on his foot. A self-preserving panic like liquid fire swelled in him and he kicked, struggled, pushed himself up to where the water moved with purpose and rhythm, shifting to the sound of the storm.

More pain, needling between his toes, and his head broke water, panic rattling his skull as he drew a breath and went under once more. He struggled against the heaving water, his tongue numb, cottoned by the acrid taste of the fetid depths. The water fell below his neck and he sucked greedily at the air, aware for the first time that the storm vied for dominance with the sounds of human violence. Men yelled, women screamed and someone called his name.

This time he stayed above water, his frantic paddling halting abruptly when his foot connected with