Avram’s Daughter

“That’s right, Daddy’s lost.” Arthur pushed Becca along in her stroller. “Lost.” He flapped his hands out to either side of his body as he repeated and emphasized the first consonant sound of the word “L-l-l-lost.”

“Where are we?” He crowed, then tickled his daughter’s nose, repeating his query twice, each time slowly speaking in a more elevated sing-song, “Where are we?”, “Where are weeee?”

The baby giggled and cooed. She answered with a long happy babble, even offering up a few rewarding “da-da”s.

Arthur smiled, paused, then sighed. He lifted his cup from the holder across the handles, sipped his coffee, placed it back, then returned to pushing the stroller farther along the path through the park.

Not just any park, but Moriah Park, the jewel in a crown of well-funded city parks. They purchased their new home two years ago just to be a few blocks away. Moriah Park was its own sort of city, all here in the center of the real city. Innumerable paved paths looped through the borders of several playgrounds, tennis courts, basketball courts, off-leash dog play areas, and community gardens. These pathways themselves were lined by a network of benches, picnic tables, barbecue pits, sculptures, water fountains, and bathrooms. Any unused land along the promenade was filled with lush manicured thickets and copses. Everything circled around a large central pond in the center of the park.

“So how can we be lost?” Arthur spoke aloud to himself this time, not to his baby. “I can understand getting lost during our first visit, even our fiftieth, but certainly not what must be our five hundredth or more.”

Arthur yawned. Isaac, Becca’s older brother, had crawled into the big bed last night. With Gwen away on business, it was just so warm and cuddly to have him there. He tried to shoo him away but his cuteness was irresistible. Isaac kicks in his sleep though, and so Arthur had slept poorly. His son ran out to play with his usual energy when Arthur dropped him off at preschool just an hour ago. As for Arthur, he yawned again.

“Sleep is for the weak…” He scolded himself, then laughed, “...and the childless.”

Arthur suspected that he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere near the north edge of the pond. He had not seen it, so much as felt it. The smooth paved path became bumpy gravel, then finally just dirt with a few stones and weeds.

He also had heard it, or rather had stopped hearing it. A sudden silence appeared where once was the din of babies crying, toddlers screaming, parents yelling, dogs barking, squirrels fighting, even birds tweeting. Arthur stopped and listened. Silence.

Then he stopped and looked.

He was on a dirt path along the edge of a meadow, surrounded on all sides by several rows of unusually tall trees. The trail followed straight along one edge of the field but also teed in the middle to the entrance of what appeared to be a very old tent. Near as Arthur could tell, the tent was made from a hemp canvas, a tan colored base material but patched with various random squares of blue and green. The shelter was held aloft as a triangle by one large wooden pole, several random stakes, and twine rope tied up to a few larger tree branches from above.

An old bald man in rags sat crisscrossed on the ground beside the tent, smoking a pipe, surrounded by open cans, broken bottles and empty cardboard boxes.

“Garbage, surrounded by litter.” Arthur mumbled, then whispered to himself, “Well this sucks. I hope he’s not violent.” He turned away, avoiding all eye contact, held his breath, and then pushed the stroller more rapidly.

Above the treetops, he could see the same blue sky and fluffy clouds of early spring as from earlier in their walk. But the meadow itself had suddenly become much darker and colder.

He was many yards past the old tent before he stopped to breathe. He inhaled and exhaled, deeply, then anxiously. He smelled the pleasant earthy wood scent of wet bark and the rich musk of moist soil. But then came the pungent odor of dried urine, unfiltered tobacco, cheap alcohol and woodsmoke - the stench of homelessness all too familiar to any city dweller.

Arthur winced and coughed.

Becca met his eyes, smiled, tensed her face and arched her back.

“Who’s making a poo-poo?” It was the usual face and usual posture. “Who has a poo-poo?” Arthur reached out with his index fingers as Becca grabbed them with each hand and pushed. There was a flatulent staccato, followed by the sweet rich cherry scent of baby poo. Becca giggled when she was finished, and then babbled a long complex set of unintelligible instructions for her father. She also started pointing to the center of the meadow.

Arthur turned and saw a large flat moss-covered boulder in the center of the field. “Yes, you’re right, we do need to change your poopy diaper.” He pushed the stroller off the path and onto the grass and walked towards the large rock. “Poo-poo-poopy diaper” He repeated and enunciated the first syllable in a silly sing-song pitch.

“Daddy’s not going to throw out his back again.” Arthur kissed Becca on her belly. “No he’s not. No he’s not. Especially with Mommy away on business.”

Becca squealed and giggled.

Arthur continued, “That’s right, m-m-m-mommy made p-p-p-partner!”

Becca returned to her long babbling speech. She stumbled upon some “m” sounds which Arthur exaggerated back to her. “Mmmm. Mmmm. That’s right. Can you say ma-ma? Mmmma mmmma??”

Arthur was proud of his wife and her accomplishments. Every day, he felt so lucky to have met her during that first week of college. They both majored in English Literature, both went on to law school, she finished, but he withdrew after the first year to complete an MFA instead.

He was the writer in the family - the struggling writer, and so had an obvious tolerance for boredom, repetition, procrastination, and, of course, sleep disruption. He could bounce the red ball for the baby and clap his hands with glee, both feigned and authentic, over and over and over again. Arthur was clearly the better parent.

But Gwen was clearly the better provider. In the end, it all just came down to the golden rule. He - or, in their case, she - who makes the gold, makes the rules. Gwen billed more in an hour than Arthur could make from selling a year’s worth of short stories. “And besides, who really pays anything for short stories, anymore, anyways.” Gwen had encouraged him as kindly and honestly as she could. Arthur was earning far less than the cost of any nanny, and so, after Isaac comes, why not just become the nanny himself? “You can always write later, but they are only cute and little for such a small bit of time.” He was great with little kids, a natural. Love your job and never work a day in your life. And thus, Arthur the author became Arthur the home-dad.

“And super-daddy is not just super-home-daddy this week, he’s super-solo-home-daddy.” Arthur raised his index fingers into the air as he exaggerated the syllables. “Solo, solo, so-lo. Soooo we need to take it easy Becca and play it safe, okay?” He looked again towards the boulder in the meadow. “You’re right - the flat top of that big stone over there will make a great changing table for you.”

He continued pushing the stroller towards the boulder, and also cautiously far away from that homeless man and his tent. Behind him, along the way, Arthur now heard the man alternately crying and yelling to himself. It was mostly incomprehensible, random gibberish, but with some fantastical repetitions about “serpent’s breath”, “death and life” and “omen of making.” Arthur did his best not to react, he looked away and pushed onwards across the field, towards the boulder in the center.

The large rock was about waist high above the ground, and indeed the top did have a flat surface about the size of a small changing table. Perfect.

He parked the stroller next to the boulder, reached for the diaper bag beneath and hung it over his shoulder. “Tut tut” He pursed his lips. “Now this won’t do This won’t do at all.” He spoke aloud to Becca as he noticed the glint of some sort of metal object sticking out from the center of the flat top.

He looked closer. It was a sort of upside-down metal tee pushed flush against the stone. A cross bar was parallel to the surface and consisted of a flat strip of white metal, about a foot in length, curled up in a decorative roll at each end. Another bar joined it perpendicular to the surface, it extended upwards and was about a foot in length as well. This bar was wrapped about with straps of untanned leather, all threaded through a metal loop at the top.

Arthur placed his hand around the leather straps and gripped tightly. The exposed metal handle here was part of a much longer piece, stuck into the bed of the boulder itself. Somebody must have hammered this weird handle into this stone. Maybe that crazy homeless guy . Arthur disliked himself whenever he perseverated on the homeless. It’s not enough that they squat, hog and desecrate our shared public spaces, they have to go and then vandalize everything around them. His thoughts were neither kind nor necessary, and nothing about them was useful at the moment.

Arthur pulled at the metal with one hand, balancing his diaper bag with the other. The metal stuck at first, then loosened, then slid out and up, quickly and effortlessly. He held the exposed metal above his head with one hand as the diaper bag dangled down from the other. The revealed metal was no piece of rebar, nor copper pipe, but rather, of all things, a sword. Arthur was astounded. He looked up at his hand holding aloft a large broadsword.

Fluffy white clouds parted above him in the blue sky and a thick beam of sunshine poured down from above to reflect off the shaft of the sword, bouncing brightly and remarkably in every direction all at once.

Arthur admired the mighty sword as he held it above his head, rotating it slowly. I can lift it easily, with just one hand, and it pulls out smoothly, even from somehow having been embedded in compact igneous rock. He stared at the white blade. It must be some kind of special metal.

Becca began to cry and the smell of her poop broke his trance. Another cloud drifted to block the sunbeam and the sword darkened. “Well, no, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.” The weapon seemed somehow rusty and worn to him now. Entirely purposeless. He tossed the old sword to the ground, then kicked it away with his feet.

Arthur placed his diaper bag upon the stone, opened it, and next removed the changing pad from inside. He unfolded it, flattening it down with both hands across the boulder’s now cleared top surface. He removed a pack of wet wipes, opened a tube of diaper cream, and unfolded a new clean disposable diaper.

”Alley-oop!” Arthur lifted Becca up from the stroller and lay her on her back atop the changing pad. He rolled her pants down and off, they were neither wet nor soiled, so there would be no need to change those too. He held his breath, and then, in one well practiced set of movements, he pulled open the velcro tabs of Becca’s present dirty diaper, unfolded it downward, lifted her legs upwards, wiped her clean from front to back, placed the soiled wet wipes on top of the brown poop in the diaper, folded up this dirty diaper into a tight ball, re-affixed it with the velcro tabs, lathered a dab of diaper cream into the folds of Becca’s buttocks, lifted her hips slightly, slid the new clean disposable diaper underneath her bottom, folded the front side up and over, finally fastening the tabs snuggly but not too tightly. Dirty diaper off, clean diaper on, Arthur exhaled, then rolled back up Becca’s elastic baby pants.

Becca gurgled and smiled. ”Alley-oop again!” Arthur lifted her up into the air and held her above him. Her shirt untucked and so Arthur tickled her belly with a big sloppy kiss. She giggled and squealed. He then lowered his daughter back into her stroller, tucked her shirt down beneath her pants, and re-strapped her into the seat.

He stood in place, then rotated just his torso from the stroller to the top of the boulder, where he folded the changing pad and repacked everything back into the diaper bag. He rotated back to place the diaper bag and the dirty diaper ball under the stroller.

Then he saw him.

Arthur’s heart raced. Directly facing both him and the stroller, there on the ground just a few feet forwards, the homeless old man posed rigidly in a long low bow. His head was bent down and his forehead was touching the ground. His arms stretched forward, cradling the old sword across them like an offering.

“He who draws the sword from the stone, he shall be king.” The voice was raspy, and had an English accent. “We are unworthy, the land bleeds, the people suffer, we have sinned. But you - you found the grace to draw the sword and be king.”

Arthur remained silent. The old man became silent. They stood there, still, until Becca dropped one of her lovies, a fluffy pink kitten, onto the ground between them. “Look, sir, please, you are blocking our way. Please let us move on.” Arthur kneeled down slowly and retrieved the stuffed animal.

“He who draws the sword from the stone, he shall be king.” The old man mumbled over and over again, several more times, still holding his pose.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it. I freed the sword because I needed the top of the stone to change my daughter’s diaper. Please forgive me.” Arthur stood up between his daughter’s stroller and the kneeling man.

The old man slowly turned up his head and met Arthur’s gaze. He was bald with a long gray beard. “But you drew the sword from the stone?” He wore one long tattered brown robe and bound his feet in open leather sandals. “The future has found root in the present. It is done, my lord. You - you are King.” The old man left the sword there at Arthur’s feet, then used the wooden staff by his side to slowly lift himself upwards into a standing position. He smiled and announced to the sky, “We have our king - you are our king - thanks be to God!”

Arthur froze and paused, “This is some sort of weird joke, right?” He then bent down slowly. “I was teased about this my whole childhood. I mean my first name is in fact Arthur.” He lifted the sword in his hand as much to keep it away from this crazy old homeless man as to inspect it for himself. “So I suppose this is Excalibur?” He slashed twice in the air and then pointed the blade tip at the old man, “And so then you must be Merlin?”

“Well yes, I am the Merlin.” The old man blinked his eyes and they turned from brown to blood red then back to brown again, startling Arthur. “Do not be afraid. I have been asleep for centuries. But your love, Arthur, your love awakened me.” He gently tapped the sword hilt with the tip of his wooden staff. “This gift is a blessing. Not just to you, but to all of us, to all peoples, to all lands. A blessing.”

“A blessing?” Arthur grabbed the hilt with both hands this time, then raised the weapon above his head again. He swung the weapon around his head, then his waist, in a wide circle. He placed his legs in a fighting stance and parried an imaginary opponent. Sunlight descended upon him then as he twirled and pirouetted in the meadow. Arthur felt young, and fit, and free.

The old man smiled. “You see, it is a blessing.”

Arthur heard a sudden crack, then felt a rip. “My back, my back.” He quickly dug the tip of the sword into the dirt path. He held himself aloft with one hand leaning on the hilt, while pressing his other hand against his back as he stooped over. “Shit, I think I pulled my back again.” He slowly pushed himself upright, then balanced both hands on the sword hilt to hold himself in place. His breathing quickened from the pain, it had at first been sharp, but now dissipated dully throughout his lower back.

Arthur frowned, “No, it is a curse.” He pointed the sword, then the old man, then scolded at both of them, “Where were you?!? Where have you been? What good is it to me that you’re both here now?” His eyes watered from his back pain. “Where were you twenty years ago?! Or even ten?!” He was crying now, and yelling. “Where were you when I was young and strong? When I was ready and willing, eager and free?” He continued bracing himself on the sword hilt with one hand while wagging the index finger on his other hand at the old man. “Where were you when I was brave, and begging for adventure!”

“Now I have a wife and two children, a mortgage and life insurance.” He removed a handkerchief with his free hand from his back pocket. “My life is insured! It must be kept safe and secure, and so it’s no longer really mine to give.” He dried his eyes and blew his nose, then pushed the handkerchief back. “My life, my LIFE,” he next pointed a finger to his own chest. “I would have given my life to this sword. How dare you come to me now, when I am this?” He lifted up the bottom of his stained sweatshirt and pinched the large folds of belly fat. “And this!” He took his free hand and flapped at the dangling fat of the second chin beneath his first.

Like most husbands, sharing meals with his wife, Arthur had gained weight with each of her pregnancies, almost twenty pounds each time, but unlike most wives, husbands have no ability to breastfeed and thus mitigate at least some of their weight gain. Then for Arthur, as a home-dad over the subsequent years, baby and toddler leftovers - mostly chicken nuggets, tater tots and crackers - these had become the staples of his meal plan.

“And this!” Arthur lastly moved his free hand to pull at the strands of thin gray hair on top of his head. “This was once brown and lush and beautiful!” His hair had thinned and grayed - from sleepless nights, from stressful days, from the endless labor of protecting two little human lives alternatively both helpless and defenseless and yet actively intent on trying to kill themselves in almost every moment... Arthur finished by pointing at his opponent, “How dare you - how dare you come now, with this. I wish you had never come.”

The old man gave a curt bow, then began a reply, “My king, please listen -”.

“No, you listen!” Arthur interrupted. “I know as much about the ‘Hero’s Journey’ as anyone, more even. For my MFA, I studied both the Hero with a Thousand Faces and the Universal Grammar of Story. This is my call to adventure, isn’t it? My Hero’s call.” Arthur stopped leaning on the sword, stood up, and pushed the sword back down to the ground between them. “Well--I don’t accept it. I reject it. I deny this story structure you are forcing upon me.”

The hilt fell onto softer dirt on the path, but the blade itself hit a rock on the path and so a loud clang rang out across the meadow.

“What’s this? What’s this! I never saw this!” The sword rested there now on the ground between them. “You can’t refuse!” The old man leaned on his staff and began a step forward.

“Stay back!” Arthur raised both his hands and folded the palms forwards. “I don’t want to be king. And I don’t have to wield that thing just because I drew it from the stone.” Arthur spoke loudly and boldly, but he was filled with a quiet uncertainty. It was unclear to him now who was more disoriented - he or the old homeless man - and who might be more violent. He needed to de-escalate the situation.

Arthur tried taking a step back. “My wife lives and breathes contract law, and I know my share too.” But both he and his daughter were pinned between the path, with the old man in front of them, and the boulder behind them. “This contract of yours, it’s what’s called ‘unenforceable’. I was never presented with your ‘terms’ before I acquired the ‘product’ - the sword - I just drew it from the stone because it was in my way, not because I wanted it.” Arthur emphasized his nervous legalese with finger air quotes. “A person can’t be ‘involuntarily bound’ to a contract.”

“But you misunderstand me, my King. The sword is not a contract, it is a gift.” Merlin, the Merlin, or was it the old homeless man - Arthur was confused - they tapped the sword hilt with the tip of their wooden staff.

Arthur replied softly and measuredly, “Gifts can be refused. I renounce it. I don’t want it. I can’t -”

Becca just then focused her quiet chirping and interrupted the argument with a loud repetitive “Ba ba, ba-ba, ba-ba…” She held her stuffed pink kitty tightly with her left arm, as she started tapping her right hand to her mouth, the thumb touching the tips of her forefingers. “Ba-ba, ba-ba, ba-ba…”

Bottle. Arthur hissed a bit from the remaining back pain, but then mechanically kneeled to the basket below the stroller to retrieve Becca’s baby bottle, loaded with formula powder, and a sealed water thermos. He poured the water into the bottle, shook it, then passed it to Becca. He pressed the nipple into her mouth as she balanced it by the base against her right arm. She kept her kitty held tightly in her left arm, and suckled, staring upwards at the clouds above

“Listen. I’m no hero, I’m just a dad.” Arthur kneeled down, grabbed the hilt of the sword with both hands, and retrieved the sword. “You’ve got the wrong Arthur. I’m just plain Arthur Avram. I can’t be your king, or even a knight. There’s nothing grand or heroic about me. I’m a pawn, and pawns get sacrificed.”

He placed the tip of the blade into the dirt path and leaned gently forward upon the hilt. “The world doesn’t need some immortal king, the world needs newness. New stories, not old legends. After my first child was born, I realized it was my job - no, not just my job, but also my duty - to grow old, and to die, to make way for the newness in the world.”

Arthur felt as if he were stuck in a dream arguing with himself. “I’m a home dad. We’re a different breed of man from any generation before us. I never saw my father change a diaper, or even hold a baby, let alone cook a meal, shop, or clean a dish. Men who change diapers change the world.” He rested both his hands on the back of Becca’s stroller. “Times are different now. I mean Hero's Journey my ass - Joseph Campbell clearly never changed a dirty diaper.”

As Becca finished her bottle, Arthur took it from her. He tossed it into the basket beneath the stroller, then removed a large burp rag which he placed like a breast plate over his chest and shoulders. “I don’t want to be king. Why would I want a kingdom when I have all the kingdom I need with what’s right here in my hands, and with her older brother too, and with their mommy, my wife.” Arthur lifted up Becca, chest to chest, and placed her head over his shoulder, then tapped her back softly to burp her. “She is my kingdom, right here, my ‘Becca’, my Ba-kol as my parents would say, it means my ‘everything’, literally.” Becca burped several times, then regurgitated some gooey white spit-up onto the rag. She closed her eyes and rested softly on Arthur’s shoulder. He kept tapping her back softly and slowly swayed his torso side to side. “She’s my princess, her older brother, my prince, and their mom, my queen.”

“And you, you are MY King. THE King.” Merlin stood tall, growing somehow taller. His last word echoed softly, then loudly, against the tall trees encircling the meadow. A murder of crows flocked upwards and squawked. Then silence.

Becca fell asleep and Arthur placed her gently back into the stroller. “Okay if I am King then I abdicate. A King can abdicate!” He rolled up the burp rag into a ball and placed it below.

“It’s not that sort of king.”

“What does it mean to be king then?”

“You will be the land and the land will be you.” As the Merlin spoke, Arthur noticed blue flowers, early for spring, somehow dotting the meadow. “If you fail, the land will perish. As you thrive, the land will blossom.”

“But Why?” Arthur also noticed the wizard coming closer, he kept one hand on the hilt of the sword, but now grabbed Becca’s stroller with the other.

“Because you are King!” The Merlin raised his staff with both hands above his hands. The sky above darkened, a sudden spring shower drizzled down, and Arthur heard a short roll of thunder in the distance.

Then the showers stopped and the sky cleared as suddenly as it had all begun.

“Well, frankly,” Arthur surprised himself by laughing, “that’s just stupid.” He giggled more, then placed both of his hands back onto the hilt of the sword. “The land, the world, it’s everybody’s, and we’ve got to protect it, not become it.” He moved in front of Becca’s stroller. “We live in a democracy and a republic, not a monarchy. Being king, any king, it would be wrong.”

The old man walked in a small circle, one hand holding his staff, the other now banging at the side of his head. “I am the Merlin. I have walked my way since the beginning of time. I thought to have seen it all with my sight. But truly, I could never have seen this!” He stopped and faced Arthur. “Look at the life of this ill old man before you, my host. He is homeless, unwanted, rejected by all family and friends. He is hungry, cold, wet, filthy and poor. He fills his body with drugs he shouldn’t use and scorns the medications that would heal his mind. He has been gentle and generous, but also violent and selfish.”

The Merlin had the old man roll up his sleeves to show several rows of track marks on his forearms. “What good has your democracy and your republic been to this man in front of you? It’s too much freedom - the freedom to harm. With a monarchy comes the true freedom, the freedom from harm.” The old man, now as Merlin, the Merlin, he stepped forward with his staff. “This land, these people, we bleed for lack of a king.” He banged his staff onto the ground before him. The sky above darkened. “We need a king. You are the king. You must be king.” There was thunder in the distance. Merlin moved a second step closer to Arthur, with Becca in her stroller behind him. His eyes turned from brown to red. “I can take the child. She is but one child, and only a girl at that. You are needed to redeem the billions of children here on earth. You must heal us, protect us, unite us, all with the power of this sword, and as King.” The Merlin moved a third and final step forwards, and bent down, reaching out his hands towards Becca asleep in her stroller. “Give me the child. I will be the mother and the father of the baby. I will take the child.”

“No. NEVER!” Arthur heard himself yell. He pushed Becca’s stroller away and swung the sword to protect her. The old man stepped back and Arthur missed him, but he could not stop his momentum, his back was too weak, Arthur’s body turned around fully and with the recoil from this second turn, his full weight fell into the sword hilt, forcing the sword blade to stab directly into the upper chest of the old man. The sword slid into the old man’s body as easily as it had slid out of the stone.

It was all such a horrible accident. Merlin fell to the ground before Arthur, with the Excalibur in his chest. There was so much blood, bright red and oozing from the wound. “Call 911” Arthur yelled, then heard his voice echo against the tall trees surrounding the meadow. He fumbled for his phone and dialed himself. “Shit, no service.” He cradled the old man’s head in his arms and kneeled beside him. “I don’t know what to do. Do you pull out an impaled object or leave it in?” Arthur did remember how to feel the old man’s pulse, with some relief.

The Merlin, still breathing, tilted his head back, gazed at the clouds above, and whispered, “...into the spine… of the dragon…” His eyes turned briefly red, back to brown, then fluttered and fixed upwards.

Arthur no longer felt a pulse at his neck. He slapped the old man’s face, no response, then he lowered his ear to the old man’s chest. “No heartbeat. Oh no, oh no, oh fuck no.”

The man’s chest no longer rose. He had stopped breathing. The Merlin, however, forced the old man’s mouth to speak one last whisper, “Anál nathrach, orth’ bháis’s bethad, do chél dénmha.”Becca awoke from her nap to somehow eerily repeat those exact same words, “Anál nathrach, orth’ bháis’s bethad, do chél dénmha.”Then Arthur heard the same words swirl in the winds around him, finally echoing out against the tall trees surrounding the meadow, then dissipating upwards into the sky.

Arthur’s heart was racing and his breath was sputtering. He smelled poop, but not the distinct odor of Becca’s. The old man lay before him dead, and he had shitted himself. Arthur's response was immediate and involuntary. He rolled over and vomited. My life is over. Gwen, Isaac, Becca, what will we do? He lay there for a silent moment, as blood, vomit and tears all soaked into his favorite large blue sweatshirt. It was already so stained with the many fluids of parenthood - blood, vomit, tears, also grass, snot, spit, and of course, feces - no one would notice these few more new stains, certainly not Arthur.

This is when the forgetting began.

Arthur rolled back and Merlin’s dead body had vanished. Or had it been an old homeless man? Or nobody at all? Or all three at once, as in a dream. Arthur was so confused.

The sword however still lay there upon the ground, surprisingly clean, shining beneath the sunlight, no blood upon it. Arthur lifted it with one hand as he slowly stood up. What was he holding? Was it a sword, a piece of rebar, a copper pipe? Or again, somehow all three at once…

Arthur was stunned, and the memory of what had just happened was somehow continuing to fade rapidly. He held the sword - or whatever it was - in one hand as he pushed Becca’s stroller with the other.

The dirt path along the side of the meadow led out from the circle of unusually tall trees, it connected to a gravel path which connected to an empty paved path along the north edge of the pond. Arthur stopped and listened. In the distance, he heard a small dog yapping and a parent yelling at her child. He lifted the sword above his head, loaded it behind his back, then flung it out into the pond water, finally forgetting the sword and most of his odd morning the moment it left his hand.

Arthur turned away immediately.

If he had turned back to see it, Arthur would have seen a lady’s arm rise from the lake to catch the sword he had thrown, then hold it briefly above the waters, before descending with it beneath the surface.

Arthur however had stayed turned away. He pushed Becca’s stroller now, with both hands, southward, as he regained his bearings. “You know Becca, I never realized it before, but it’s not really a big pond here in the center of our park, it’s more like a small lake.”

Arthur had found himself and knew where he was.

They neared their favorite set of baby swings. He stopped the stroller to take a long sip from his coffee cup.

“Lake. Lake.” He repeated the word to his daughter in a playful sing-song. “Lake. Can you say lake?” Then he emphasized the first consonant sound of the word “L-l-l-lake.”

He lifted Becca up with both arms and placed her into the swing.

THE END

Bio: Adam Strassberg...

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