The River

By m maldonado

"Ya sure?" Don asked. He was 8.

"Yep." Jack, 13, nodded. "Tha’s how I got this." He handed something to Don.

"WOW." The boy gazed reverently into his cupped hands. "All that? WOW."

Jack smiled, adjusted the toothpick stuck between his teeth. "Wanna try it? ‘S not far from ‘ere."

Don’s eyes inflated. "Really? Sure!"

"SSH." Jack held a finger to his lips. He glanced around, then took Don’s hand and led him down the dirt path. "C’mon, then."

///

Laid out on their stomachs, both boys stared in awe at the bubbling brook before them. Birds chirped unashamedly from the branches above.

"Ya got yer money?"

"Yep!" Don held up a brown paper sack.

"All pennies?"

"Jus’ like you said, Jack!" He grinned and his eyes nearly disappeared. "How do we do it, again?"

Jack pointed at a spot about a foot above the brook. "Toss ‘em there. G’on, toss ‘em!"

"’kay!" Don took a penny from the sack and took careful aim, his tongue sticking out one side of his mouth, and threw.

The penny flipped in the air as it arced over the brook—

—seemed to disappear mid-flight—

—and a dime flew past Don’s ear and landed behind him.

"WOW," he repeated, and picked it up. "A WHOLE dime." He grinned at Jack. "Can we get some more?"

Jack shrugged. "I dunno. I only did it once." He took a penny, paused, and grinned at his friend. "We could get RICH offa this!" He flicked it across the brook with his thumb.

A second dime landed beside the first. Jack and Don grinned at each other and dug out a handful of pennies each.

"Pretty—" Third dime. "—soon—" Fourth. "—we’ll—" Fifth, sixth, seventh. "—have ten dollars!" Jack slid a single copper coin into his hand to toss.

"What if we just tossed all this at once?" Don asked, holding up his handful. "That way we don’t have to spend all mornin’ tossin coins."

"I don’t know-" But Don was way ahead of him: the handful of coins, maybe fifty cents or so, was airborne before Jack could finished objecting. Both boys watched, paralyzed, as they spread in the air, spinning, sunlight catching their faces to throw it back into their eyes.

They flew—

—seemed to hang—

—and disappeared entirely.

There was no hail of dimes, no rain of wealth pelting their heads.

Nothing.

"Hey! Give us our pennies back!" Don screamed. "Give ‘em back, NOW!"

"Shush, Don!" Jack said, trying to cover the boy’s mouth and getting a kick in the essentials for his trouble. "Dammit Don, shut up!"

"Nasty old river! Give ‘em BACK!" Don was jumping up and down now, both hands clenched into fists. "Those were mine! MINE! Give ‘em back-oof!" Don landed on his rear, having landed wrong on one of his jumps. "Ouch…" He glared back at the river. "Look what you made me do! You’re mean!"

Jack stared: his friend had gone insane. "We can get more pennies, Don."

"I don’t want more pennies, I want the ones it stole!" He got back on his feet, and now there was a rock in both hands. "Nasty river!" He drew his arm back. "Take this!" Fire one! "And this, you thief!" Fire two!, and Don didn’t even bother to watch their flight; he was already getting more rocks.

Jack, though, watched both rocks. Neither one hit the ground, but neither one gave anything in return. Unknowingly, he’d been backing up during his friend’s whole episode, and now his legs brushed up against something. Startled, he looked around, saw it was a log, and hid behind it.

"I Hate You!" Don roared, throwing handfuls of pebbles now. "Nasty nasty thief river! Give ‘em back!" Out of ammo, he heaved a hunk of granite from the forest floor, waddled over to the river, and dropped it in. "Take that, nasty thief! Naughty naughty naughty NAUGHTY!" He was panting, sweaty, limping, but still went for more stones. He bent down to pick a particularly big bunch of rocks at the base of a nearby oak—

—a stone click!ed off the tree, inches from Don’s cranium.

Jack’s eyes were riveted on the river, waiting, watching. What was happening now? Don, too, looked wary, all anger forgotten. He was still bent over, the rocks gripped tightly in has hands, but his eyes remained on the river.

Another rock flew from nowhere: it landed a few inches from Don, dust clouding the air around it. A barrage of pebbles came shortly after, striking like meteorites against Don’s face, raising bloody welts across his forehead and cheek.

"OWIE!" Don screamed, and that was when Jack realized something:

The birds aren’t singing, and the sun’s gone and everything’s dark o Lord am I about to die?

The scream echoed in the dark forest. Don, bleeding and hurt, took his rocks and raced across the riverbank, his face stretched taught with fury.

"Naughty!" he yelled—

—another rock flew—

—hit the ground—

—bounced—

—and hit Don’s ankle, tripping him.

"Don!" Jack cried, out of his hiding place and running, trying in vain to get there before—

—Don, his arms windmilling and eyes wide, fell over the brook and disappeared.

Jack stared at the spot above the river, as rocks clattered to the ground around his feet. He’d been too late, two seconds too late, and now his friend was gone.

What was he gonna do when he got home? What was he gonna tell his parents?

What about Don’s parents? He shut his eyes tightly, trying not to cry.

"What am I gonna-" Jack began, then stopped. Something didn’t feel right.

"Jack?" a tiny voice said.

Ohshit.

"Don?" Jack croaked. He opened an eye. "Where are you?"

"Behind you," the tiny voice replied. "I don’t feel too good, Jack."

Jack forced himself to turn around, and then to open both eyes.

…..no.

"Jack? What’s wrong? Why do I feel so sick?" Don groaned. "My head feels so light, Jack."

"…uh," Jack’s eyes were huge, his skin pale. "Um…"

"Can you help me up, Jack?" Don held up a hand.

Jack screamed and ran.

///

To hell with Don’s parents, Jack thought. To hell with mine, too.

///

Don watched gloomily as his friend fled as fast as his legs and the forest allowed.

"Jack…" he whispered, one hand—stripped to nothing but clean, white bone, like the rest of his body—reaching for him in vain. "Help…me…" He looked at himself, but saw what he wanted: a normal boy.

Jack, on the other hand, had seen a boy’s skeleton, wearing overalls and a hat. Dead Don.

Something clinked behind him, and he turned his head to look with empty sockets.

Another skeletal hand hung in the air above the brook, a pile of pennies sitting in it’s palm.

"Will you help me?" Don whispered, groping. "Please? Will you help me?"

Another hand appeared, and took Don’s outstretched hand.

"Thank you…" he breathed, and disappeared.