"Oh, here he is, sitting on the living room floor, mother! Are you alright? Did you crawl here, or walk?"
She races over to pick him up.
"I walked here," Lanker replies.
"You walked? Well do bless your young heart, son. I know you surely must have struggled in this walk."
"It hurts, very much," Lanker replies.
"Well, how did you make it here, then son?" his mother asks.
She holds him up, kissing his face as she asks him the question.
"Had a little help from my friends," he replies.
"Oh, your friends?" his mother gasps. "What friends? I don't see anybody!"
"Well, there's Captain Whiskers, and his wife Mrs. Tassels, then there is Lanky Swanky Jane. You know her, don't you Mama?"
"I think I might know her, but where on earth did you meet her, son?"
Lanker remains quiet, saying nothing, since he does not want to reveal her hiding place.
"Oh, my dear son, you have such an overactive imagination, but I'm happy that you do."
She continues to kiss him upon his cheek.
"Is everything alright?" yells his grandmother. "Did you find him?"
"Yes, everything is alright. The baby is doing just fine," returns his mother. She bends down yet holds a firm grip on the child by the arms and his small body. "Come along and let's get some breakfast. You already know it will be good."
"No, Mama, please let me walk on my own," he says to her.
He sags to the floor as his mother continues holding his wrists. In great agony he arises to his feet, slowly taking a single step forward on his new rubber stoppers, towards the kitchen area.
"Get ready mother, he's walking toward the kitchen now," announces his mother.
As he crosses the threshold of the kitchen door, there stands his overweight grandmother in her best morning gown and white cloth apron. She smiles warmly as she turns up her nose, saying as Lanker entered.
"Great grannies, just look at him as he walks there! Just think, they all said he never would. Such a thing goes to show that doctors don't know everything! Too bad that Grand-Pap and your father are not here to see this."
"Well, somebody must do the work when it needs getting done around here and hold a job. That's where Hendrick is, at the job right now," fires Lanker's mother.
"Where is granddaddy?" asks Lanker.
"Oh, he's over in Slow-Man's Swamp, cutting firewood," his grandmother spouts. "He'll be back directly."
"Why is he cutting wood?" asked Lanker.
"We need wood to keep that fire going in the fireplace, a warming you so over yonder in the living room. We need wood for the stove here. Somebody must go outside and gather it. Us women and you children, simply cannot accomplish such a tremendous feat," replies his grandmother as she snickers.
"I wish I could go with him. I could do all of it right by myself!" brazenly announces Lanker, with a certain bravado all his own.
"I bet you really could," interjects his mother.
"You know what else I want to do?" says Lanker, with a certain air of great anticipation on his face.
"No, what?" asks his mother and grandmother.
"I want to go dragon hunting with grandpa and daddy, on the next night they go!"
"Well, you're way too little for that right now," states his grandmother who pauses before speaking more, "that ole dragon might get you, little as you are. And if he doesn't, then that great big ugly Ya-Who ole Shylock Knurled-Beak himself, Lord Supreme of Bath Province here, hired on to be his specially appointed night prowler, just might."
"And what'll he do to me, if he catches me?" asks Lanker.
"Oh?" speaks the voice of his grandmother in haunting, mysterious tones, glancing timidly around as she does so. "I have heard many a story from those who have been caught, son. They were lucky to have lived through it, I tell you."
"Why does it matter?" asks Lanker.
"You see, son," speaks his mother hesitatingly, with a deep sigh, "old Shylock owns all of the wooded land throughout Ye Old Bath Province here. The people own only tiny parcels, for which they are required to mortgage out their lives to Lord Shylock, and the banking enterprise he owns. Those who can't pay up, have really bad things happen to 'em, and even their families."
"Like what?" asks the ever-curious Lanker. "What kinds of things?"
"Their homes and barns mysteriously catch on fire," his grandmother interjects, timidly glancing out the window beside where she sits, and all around. "Many of them wind up being beaten badly in the middle of the night, by men dressed in black robes with hoods, wearing frightful masks of demon faces. Sometimes these unfortunates are discovered laying on some wooded path outside of town, with both arms and legs broken into pieces. Situations can get really terrible when some greedy miser somewhere cares for nothing, but money, I tell you."
"Worse than that," interjects his mother suddenly, "people's children can suddenly go missing if ole Shylock is offended in any way. I would prefer it if his gruesome name is not even mentioned outside the walls of this home. All anybody around here needs to do is make a simple claim, and the entire matter is assumed at face value."
"How long do the children go missing?" asks Lanker.
"Why, until all the money is paid." snaps his grandmother.
"What if the money doesn't get paid?" asks Lanker.
"Children have gone missing for years. When they finally return, they spin tales of laboring on distant backwoods farms in chains for twelve-hour days, six days a week," his grandmother informs him. "If one pauses even to catch his breath, then he feels the foreman's Cat O' Nine Tails lash mercilessly across his bare, sun cooked back, they say."
"Some poor children can't take it, 'n never come back home," his mother sighs with a rather distressed look on her face.
"Where do they go, then?"
"Nobody knows," interjects his grandmother, "these children are then transported to another facility, according to those who do make it back."
"But still, though Granny, why would he care about people hunting dragons? I don't get it!"
His mother sighs deeply again, hesitating to give the child an answer.
"I would rather us not speak any more in regard to this matter. To tell the blunt truth, it's all about money."
"I don't understand.," snaps Lanker, with an appearance of great puzzlement on his face.
His mother hesitates for a moment, then continues on in her story with a heavy sigh of reluctance.
"Shylock allows his wealthy associations, in company with their friends and family, to hunt dragons for a phenomenal fee, far beyond what any ordinary person could ever hope to pay. These people have a special permit, for which they casually hand over a common man's great fortune. These dragons haunt the woods all around us and are very good to eat. So those who know the woods, and how to move around without using any established trails, roads, or public access areas, can take these massive beasts when darkness falls; in spite of Lord Shylock's night prowlers continuously being on the hunt for them.
"Doing so is very risky business, though son. Your grandfather and father both worry continuously in regard to this negative possibility. They both have had to run for their very lives on a couple of occasions already this fall. Those wicked Ya-Who night prowlers are known to set death traps for common people, who are willing to risk all in pursuit of game.
"The common people's dragon-slayers have no friends, I tell you. They can trust no person, not even their own families; so keep every spoken word in regard to this matter behind closed doors here. What is said or goes on within these four walls, stays right here. This statement must stand eternally as rule number one."
His mother hangs her head as she tells her son the true story of the place all around them.
"Wow!" snaps little Lanker with twinkling eyes. "One day I am going to be the greatest woodsman around. I am not afraid of any Ya-Who night prowler. They won't be able to catch me!"
"If you'll get your education, son, you won't have to hunt dragons, trap Hoover hogs, midnight silver thieves, or log chompers for a living. You can buy good things to eat without having to take such audacious risks," says his mother in low tones. "Why, your father and grandfather have even had to risk their very lives pulling poisonous whisker thorns from the waters, much larger than themselves, just so all of us would have meat on the table; since wages are so ridiculously low for hundreds of miles around, that is, if one is even lucky enough to receive any at all.
"I am a telling ya now., had we not known how to plant, blacksmith, cut wood, repair wagons or horseless chariots, find fossils or antique battlefield relics, and were not hard workers in general; our destiny here inside Ye Old Bath Province would have been very grim indeed," interjects his grandmother in a muffled timid voice. "Who could ever afford any type of fish or meat, in the single county wide food market, owned and operated by none other than old King Miser, himself?
"Those who cannot hunt, perform skilled labor for trade, or plant; are compelled by absolute necessity to crawl into the local depository, Skylock & Hockstapel, right there in Bum-lick Town, where the palace of ole Shylock, himself, sits high up on the hill, just outside of the famous Captain Horatio Torello's Headache Hole, and beg for weekly loans only to buy food with. When after much bitter wrangling these poor saps finally get these terrible loans, it will only be a matter of time before they lose everything they own. Many then pander even their young sons and daughters off to Shylock's drooling cooperatives, only if they are lucky to have any who are attractive, healthy, and strong; and are themselves eventually shipped off to the labor farms, regardless of what they do when they fail to pay off their high interest loans," interjects his Grandmother, as his mother glares in her direction while she speaks, with a somewhat disturbed appearance on her face.
"The Headache Hole? Why is it called that? What is it?" asks Lanker.
His Grandmother begins to chuckle, then takes a deep breath, as she labors dutifully before the wood stove.
"Well son, it was many a long year ago, before even any of us were born, that the famous battle hero, Horatio Torello, owned a large warehouse there in the only complete town located in all of Bath Province, then and now; the one and only Bum-lick town. From the backside of his warehouse, all the way down to the very edge of the Bitter End River behind it, he constructed a somewhat large tunnel of bricks, giving shelter to struggling workers carrying merchandise from the cypress loading dock by the riverside, back up into Torello's warehouse.
"Mr. Torello's mercantile warehouse was a successful enterprise, making him very wealthy by selling his tough to acquire wares to the famished locals, and other surrounding businesses, at exorbitant prices. He used a number of wealth accumulation tactics still employed by ole Shylock in our own day. It has been said that Shylock was related to Torello somehow, but no person could ever figure out where the blood connections lay. Torello garnished most of his money in exorbitant interest payments from land loans, and cash payouts to individual people.
"Lord Hilton, the wicked warlock king of Clarendon County, right there on the beach just north of Booger Woods, heard about this growing wealth, and became very envious. Hilton recruited an army of woods demons and the all-cooperating shadow maroons, then designed a nighttime attack on the town by entering in at midnight, from the river up the brick tunnel. An inside maid and traveling teacher informant from here, Lady Richardson, tipped Captain Torello off, informing him the attack would occur on the twelfth-striking, up the unguarded tunnel, some eighteen days from the time the note was written."
His grandmother pauses in her story as she continues to labor in front of the stove.
"So, the wise Captain Torello rigs the tunnel in a way so it would collapse when nine or more men entered therein, approximately halfway up the tunnel length. He used a pivoting board in the floor, tied to a large hemp pull string hidden along the walls, releasing a loosened brick mass weight near the roof, which when fell, pulled two iron pins near the roof by either wall, effectively collapsing the entire roof of the tunnel, from the river all the way back up to the store.
"When the roof suddenly caved in on that moonlit night, more than fifty wood demons and their infra-human companions were slain by the falling bricks, and the few survivors were easily captured without resistance. Thus, the famous general won the battle for liberty without ever firing a single shot, so the time worn story goes. This event is known to history as the Battle of Bum-lick Town. You'll probably study about it in your school lessons when you soon start."
There is a pause in the conversation as his grandmother continues laboring diligently by the wood stove. The air is soon filled by deep sighs.
"Yes, it is tough to believe places such as Ye Old Bath Province here, really do exist in present day America; but we cannot dwell on this fact, son. All we can do is to simply accept whatever it is they command for us to, and somehow learn to live in it, unfortunately," sighs his mother as she sways back and forth in a handmade tied bottom rocking chair by the wood stove; while her rather fluffy mother, Nether-land Nannie, spoons out the breakfast as she sets up the plates on a simple folding table, right there beneath the cupboard inside the kitchen by the door-less entryway, to the left when coming inside from the dining area.
"But trapping and hunting would be such" announces little Lanker, with his twinkling eyes widened in excitement. "Danger being part of it, just adds to the fun. I can't wait!"
"Oh yeah, well..., you just remember what we told ya, boy," snaps his dutiful grandmother, with nary a smile as she labors on. "When you get caught, then don't dare say you were never told."
Little Lanker gazes off into space for a moment, then asks, shattering the silence.
"So just what does ole Shylock look like anyway?"
His grandmother snickers at the question, as she begins shaking her head from side to side.
"Your grandfather is one of only a few common men who ever laid eyes on him, that anybody all around knows of. Most of the time Shylock uses a designated person alone to do his speaking for him, should he need to address any commoner. Once upon a time Shylock hired your grandfather many years ago, to do a job for him over at his palace mansion there, high up on the hill.
"Your grandfather described him as a man of average height, who was living at an extraordinarily advanced age. He is in possession of the wealth to acquire daily doses of nectar water, taken from the long-fabled Wellspring of Innocence said to be found at the head of Raven River, running past the planter's mansion estate of old man, Baron Moore's, widow, needed to extend his life into a virtual infinity, you know.
"The hospitals around here only allow us average people to die, after they extort what little we possess from us that we have managed to accumulate, over our austere, often bitter lifetimes. Most of the time common folk have nothing, so healthy relatives are compelled by necessity to crawl back into Skylock & Hockstapel for medical loans, which the surgeons and doctors callously receive, while still yet allowing our sick to slowly waste away.
"So now you can see, son, it really is a vicious cycle of perpetuating modern-day servitude we are dealing with here. Nobody anywhere ever does anything about it. Politicians only live to say they will, make grand promises, but never do. The responsibility for positive change rests with the people, but the fortitude and intelligence to do so, has been somehow taken away over time.
"His complexion is described as being somewhat saffron in general tint, his face having the narrowing, dark eyes of a soulless beast on the prowl, with his well-groomed, snow-white hair hanging at shoulder length. The style of his hat varies from a Tricorn hat with golden trimmings and peacock feathers, all the way to a black top hat type worn by an 18th century judge. He always wears a snarl on his face, and is said to never laugh, except when he is engaging in some sort of perverse debauchery with a victim caught up in his loan extortion, of which I shall never speak; or heisting some poor unfortunate out of a potential fortune, all according to the latest rumor from one who survived the experience. Please don't you dare to bother asking me names, son, because I will never tell."
There is a pause as his grandmother continues ladling out food and moving around in the kitchen.
"He wore a knee length brown cotton coat. What was most amusing inside this account, is when he was described as wearing shorts, knickers, and a stove pipe hat! His shoes were newly crafted from exotic leather, such as crocodile, anaconda, and kangaroo, with huge gold and silver buckles in the center, in likeness to those worn by banking dynasty families so I am told, as are his other clothes I described. He gazes at the world through round, peach colored spectacles, with lenses thick as the bottoms on brandy bottles.
"When a common man stands near him, he always rears his head backwards, with a rather sinister sneer on his upper lip. Should the man attempt to speak with him, the only reply he will receive is poppycock! Oh hogwash! Or great penny-guinea, please cork thy crock-crater! Your grandfather barely could negotiate his pay for the job he performed. In spite of Shylock's crass indignity, he wound up with a deal that simply could not have been beaten anywhere else. Such be the benefits of a well-controlled temper."
"Who is the night prowler hired by Shylock around here? You mentioned a Ya-Who being hired to be one," asks Lanker.
"Oh yes indeed, there was one hired here alright," continues his grandmother as she becomes seated by the table side. "It seems to be that one Ya-Who was hired on, and his complete family are soon incorporated as lower ranking assistants.
"Even a disgusting ogre needs an income, I would suppose," signs his mother as she interrupts. "I don't like speaking of him, though son."
"Well, who is he?" inquires little Lanker, with his eyes widened in excitement.
"His name is Grinch Oat Fish. He lives over on the backside of Baron Bryant's boundless cypress swamp. Some say his home is a hutch, which he relocates all across this massive territory he imagines is all his own. Indeed, I shall say, Lord Shylock himself, signed over exclusive patrolling rights to him, instructing him to use it as his own. He is supposed to allow only the families and guests of Shylock, and his haughty associates, sole access to these woodlands and its products.
"So, it has been said, Grinch was instructed to make use of any means necessary to secure this territory against any intrusion by commoners, of any stripe. This allowance, hailing from the supreme landlord himself, is how Grinch gets away with his horrible crimes committed against the common people, who are unfortunate enough to fall into his clutch."
Lanker's eyes continue to widen with great excitement and enthusiasm at every spoken word. His jaw drops as he gasps.
"What does Grinch look like? What is he like?"
"People don't like to speak his name, son," his mother continues on. "Most refer to him and his associates as the old Huffy Scruffy, simply to avoid speaking his, or the names of any such kinds, since these names are so hated by common people hereabouts. He, his family and their associations run this whole area around here, at their own liberty."
"What does he look like? What is he like, so that I'll know him should I ever have a chance to meet him?" spouts Lanker.
"Oooh dear son!" interjects his grandmother, "you'll know him if you ever have the misfortune to ever meet him. By golly, I can assure you that much. Some simply call him The Beast, mainly because that is what he is, a beast with a body like a man. In all honesty, he is only one of many Ya-WHO's, so commonplace around here."
"What does he look like? What is he like? Tell me more, Granny. Tell me more, please!" shouts Lanker with great excitement in his voice.
"Well, he is big," continues his grandmother with a chuckle, "some say nine feet tall. He walks around barefooted, having six fingers and toes. He is covered in a thick brown color of hair, with a mangy flesh peeking through every now and then, the sick color of a snake's belly. His teeth have half fallen out from his lack of hygiene. It has been said that usually his repulsive smell precedes him, before he reveals his presence.
"He loves to hide and watch us humans, since his hair makes him nearly invisible in the woods, son. He slinks around through the forest, then peeks in through the windows of people's homes at night, silently hoping to catch a glimpse of us humans while we are in our most private moments. We even heard a noise out here one night, and I could hear the sound of heavy breathing; like that of a man, or a manlike creature, lurking about in the stillness of midnight, especially when the moon was half full, or full," his grandmother says in her low, haunting tone of voice.
"I would have sneaked out and shot him! ", spouts Lanker with excitement.
Lanker's grandmother continues speaking in low fearful tones.
"Well, your granddaddy did get up, and ease out the door to see what was lurking around nearby. The first time out he carried the old double-barreled shotgun with the two ears back there, laying propped in the corner by the bedside, but found nothing. The next morning at daybreak, however, he saw it."
"Saw what?" screams Lanker in wide eyed excitement. "Saw what?"
"That massive six toed footprint by our bedroom window. It looked just like we were informed it would. As far as we could tell, old Huffy Scruffy was nowhere to be found. Your grandfather showed the print to me, that's how I know what I am speaking of here."
"Did the Huffy Scruffy stop coming around then Granny?" asks Lanker.
"No, he didn't,'' his grandmother proceeded to inform him. "The next night, the same thing happened. Your grandfather decided if he was to shoot with the shotgun, it would make too big a racket. So, for that reason he carried out his bamboo crossbow, and the arrows were poisoned with the juice of Wolfsbane. With this he could shoot The Beast, and this thing would not get very far carrying a poisoned arrow stuck halfway into his torso, he reasoned; with nobody around ever being the wiser, if indeed, anybody was around. When your grandfather made it outside, The Beast had vanished into thin air, so it seemed to him."
"What was The Beast hoping to see when he kept looking in?" asks Lanker, with a puzzled look on his face.
"He was looking in at me, hoping to see me in my nightgown, or me sitting in the bathtub. The Beast, his Ya-Who family, and their associates, are well known for this type of thing. They love looking in at young humans and grown females, even us old females. If any of them should ever catch a secret glimpse at night, they are said to drool heavily, and sweat profusely. Sometimes their sweat turns to a white slime like substance found on all of the outside house walls; and the area in which they stood is all wet, smelling heavily with this musky, stomach churning scent emitting from his body."
"Tell me more, grandmother!" Lanker said with great excitement in his voice. "Tell me more, please! What does his house look like?"