TONDER Chapter 4

“Wake, Chaser. Much to do. Can’t sleep long, day soon be gone. Much to do. Much to do.”

I sat up abruptly in my bed and struggled to find my composure. Sweat leaked from my pores and down the back of my neck, giving a chill to my spine as whispers of wind hurried through my open window and across the room. My sleep had not been pleasant in recent nights as I was haunted by a familiar voice that radiated from my dreams, coaxing me with instructions. My dreams had become troublesome and broken for these years since the incident in Emmett’s field. Fifteen years ago I tried to place the occurrence into the back of my mind, but recently it seems to be resurfacing. Moments such as this force me to push harder and harder to not remember, but familiarity rides the saddle of memory.

The room reeks of loneliness while I anxiously feel my way across the night table for the alarm clock. 9:37 a.m. It was the same last Saturday as I tried to gain much needed sleep from the Friday night late movie. Friday nights seem to be the only time that we have found to provide us with the private time that we have grown much fonder of since our little boy started school. For a five year old, he has developed an impenetrable force field that shields away sleep, allowing him to endure many hours past the nightly news. On Fridays, he and I watch the cartoon network until he eventually drifts off to sleep, cozy beside me on the couch, most times with popcorn still in hand. After carrying him to bed, my wife and I reclaim the sofa; cuddle, talk, and watch a movie until the early morning hours, and until she wakes me to go to bed for the night. Being an early riser, Lynn and our son Doyle wake at 8:00 a.m. and begin Saturday morning activities until I join them after arising at my leisure, or until I am awakened by the playful laughing from my wife Lynn and Doyle due to a zealous game of Ninjas in the yard beside our bedroom. We inherited several wooded acres upon my father’s death, but of the many possible play areas, Doyle and Lynn seem to find the most resource for enjoyment directly outside of my bedroom window.

On this morning I find their laughter comforting as my heart rate slows from the dream that has awakened me. This is the third instance in as many weeks that I have been awakened with the barely audible messages. Each instance has caused me to awaken and find the clock beside the bed displaying 9:37 a.m. Once again I battle within myself to tell Lynn what I am experiencing, but shudder at the thought of telling her of the event in that desolate field long ago. She is a strong willed and educated woman, so I know that she would sympathize; but, being the adoring wife and mother that she is, I feel that she would fear for me and become distracted by the facts. Now wide awake the voice seems distant and more of a figment of dream than reality so I relax my shoulders and exit my sweat soaked bed. The carpeted floor massages my feet as I make my way to the open window. Placing my hands on the sill, I see my wife and son chasing each other in a circle upon the thick green layer of grass of our yard. Their laughter intoxicates me and takes my worry away to a far off place beyond my reach. No more voices, no more 9:37 a.m., no more insecurity. Doyle notices me in the open window and becomes more excited.

“Hey Dad! I’m gonna get you with my super ninja sword!”

He points the plastic sword in my direction and makes whooshing sounds to signify that I have been once again destroyed by the wrath of the pre-school assassin. Clutching my hands over my heart I pretend to fall backwards and proclaim my defeat. I feel the joy of my wife and son as I shout from the window, participating in their game.

“You just wait until I get down there you scary ninja! I’ll get you good this time!”

I could hear his playful screams of excitement as my wife’s voice echoed my reinforced words of idle threat. I turned quickly and exited the bedroom in a hurry to join the fun, dressed only in my boxer shorts and t-shirt. I made my way through the house, passing the silver urn that contained my father’s ashes, proudly displayed on the mantle of our fireplace and overlooking our living room. As I approached the mantle my excitement ebbed. The picture beside the urn caused me to stop and lay my hands upon it and smile. I soaked in the colors of the photo of a grey haired man in his early fifties, next to my lanky frame of eighteen. The picture was taken at my high school graduation and my father stood swollen with pride as I held my rolled diploma in front of me. His arm tightly around my shoulder and draped down onto my chest, projected a cigarette book-ended by two loosely gripped fingers. He had a smile of confidence and certainty upon his face.

Memories of that day came flooding into my senses, resurrecting the smell, sound, and love of the moment. I remember so well that exact moment that my mother took the photo. Dressed in her flowered skirt and pink blouse; she radiated pride and smiled non-stop. My father was dressed in his best flannel button-down shirt and newest blue jeans with his steel toe work boots which had been recently wiped clean with a wash rag to take away all of the mud and dirt from the work he had done that morning putting up a new fence post for the back yard. It was the only social gathering that I could remember my father attending without complaint and he attended it the best way that he knew how; with cigarettes and beer. Actually he only drank two beers before driving us to the ceremony five miles from our house to take off the edge of being in the uncomfortable position of talking with people in public. My father was best suited for visitors at his house and found most enjoyment in being at home.

The smile upon his face was genuine and sincere without indication of worry or fear which seemed ever-present as he seemingly carried the weight of our worlds on his broad shoulders. He had always been my idol for being the man he was and not the man who others expected him to be. It was later that very evening when mom and I lost him to a heart attack. I always assumed that the cigarettes played a part in that although the man was constantly busy and seldom slowed to rest. I wish that I would have been with him instead of out celebrating my graduation with Ronnie and Craig.

When I received the news from Sheriff Mayes, I was an hour into the heaviest drunk of my young life. Sheriff Mayes found me at Ronnie’s farm and drove me to the hospital without saying anything about my condition. I arrived to find Mom sobbing in the chapel alone. I would choose stare down a thousand demons before I would want to relive the feeling of that day when dad passed. I felt a piece of me, something deep down, begin to fester and harden while I sat in that chapel. I questioned many parts of my life. I began to blame God for not only this, but also for the bad experiences in my life. Why me? I thought God loved me. I felt betrayed and all of my emotion began to rise to a slow boil. I put those feelings in a small pot, moved the dial to a low heat, and walked away. It was only this year that I have been able to feel accepting of the loss of my father. Since his death, my mother gave Lynn and I the house and property and she moved to grandmas in Florida. She only calls occasionally, and visits a few times a year to catch up with my family. My fingers dropped from the picture frame and rested on the mantle.

“I miss you, dad.”

Laughter distracted me back into the reality of the moment; there was a ninja waiting outside with a plastic sword that I needed to deal with. I turned and upon exiting the back door, the sweat aroma of family took over my senses and drew me into the moment of togetherness. My son and I played the day away in the usual manner that we have grown accustomed to doing with scary dragons, racecars, baseball, and the occasional boxing match. He is so much like me that I feel that I have deprived my wife of a child of her features. Lynn’s long blonde hair curls around her heart shaped face, and frames the high cheek bones that mantle her ocean-green eyes that pierce my heart when I look into them. Doyle’s features are closer to mine as his hair is black; his eyes are blue, and his complexion dark. Lynn seems to prefer my small twin as she claims that I am always with her even when we are apart.

The evening sun stretches our shadows into pencil figures as the grass of our yard becomes kissed with dew in the cold shadows. Lightning bugs begin their promenade about the already darkened trees as I sit and watch my son chase them in delight. With each one that he fails to catch his determination grows until he retreats to the kitchen to ask his mother for a jar; a temporary prison, for the lighted bugs. I sit alone in the backyard soaking in the beauty of the moment while I wait for his return. The day now passed, I am perched upon the wooden picnic table as I extract a single cigarette from a wrinkled pack of Marlboro Lights. Placing it upon my lips I strike my father’s Zippo and place the flame to the cigarette’s end. A slow inhale and I look up to the sky as I feel the nicotine embrace my mind and free my brow of any weight burdened upon it. I run my fingers through my hair and take another drag from the cigarette, finding the sun setting faster as I realize that this Saturday is nearly over.

“Wake, Chaser. Much to do. Can’t sleep long, day soon be gone. Much to do. Much to do.”

These words begin repeating themselves in my head causing a bitter taste on my tongue. I struggled with the meaning of the words and questioned why the delusions presented themselves in this frequency. My mind raced back to a fall day many years ago. The incident at Emmett’s clearing had been a few months past and although still shaken, my teenage mind had been finding other thoughts to occupy its hungry quest. I was sitting on this very picnic table while my father raised his tree trimmer into the air to prune the branches from our apple tree. I watched him lop the limbs while they fell to the ground in front of him; the rustling of leaves sang in harmony with the awakening crickets. I recall the opportunity to speak in private with my father while mom read her newspaper in the living room, far removed from our lowered voices.

“So, why do you call this force the Tonder?”

“It’s not the Tonder, it’s just Tonder.”

“O.k., so why do you call this thing Tonder?”

My father stopped his pruning, sat beside me on the picnic table, pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and casually lit the end. His manner appeared calm and knowing as he began to explain the details of his experience. I sat attentively and soaked in the information as he confessed his trials to my waiting ears.

“When I was about twenty years old I found myself in my second tour of Viet Nam. I was a salty Marine, full of piss and vinegar, and pretty seasoned for my age. My first tour aged me pretty good and I had had enough fightin’ and I wanted to go home as much as the rest of the guys did. We were dug-in outside a God-forsaken village within a few clicks of Da Nang when my C.O. called me in. He gave me some orders with three other Marines for a night mission to take out a transport bridge north of the village. We knew that there was some heavy protection around the area and were all plenty nervous about the whole thing. It was a suicide mission; Hell, we knew it. But, we are Marines. I waited for my orders to kick down the doors of Hell and pull out the devil’s throat. I could do that most ricky-tick-quick and in-a-hurry and not miss chow call. We started out that night just at dark and made our way to the bridge without resistance. I set up watch while the demolition guys did their thing. All hell broke loose and we encountered some pretty heavy opposition. We dug in under that bridge the best that we could but the situation was just too unstable. We lost our two demo boys right off of the bat, and me and a younger Marine started looking for a way out. He jumped and ran. They cut him down hard and I couldn’t see my exit. Somethin’ happened right then. I heard a voice chantin’ in my ears sayin ‘Not yet, ain’t your time, much to do.’ All of the noise just stopped and the world looked like it was in some kind of slow motion, but it looked different. Everything was real sharp and colorful and I felt real calm. Kinda like what happened in that field the other day. Somethin’ took over and I had no control of it. The voice kept talkin’ to me sayin’, ‘I am Tonder; the Maker, the Giver. You will live today.’ There was a blast of light that came from all around me and every one of them Viet Cong fell face down in the mud. Dead. Must have been twenty or tirty of them. The light went away and so did the voice. I wandered back to camp in a daze and my C.O. wanted a report immediately. When I told him that I didn’t blow the bridge he smacked me down right there. I never told him what happened except that we got in bad with some unfriendlies and we bit it pretty hard. I came to terms that only God could have got me out of that mess. Tonder: the Maker and the Giver. I didn’t question it. I just accepted it”

“Dad, you know it was God? How do you know it’s not something evil? God is the voice of truth, right? There shouldn’t be any doubt if it was Him, should there? And, why not just say He is God instead of a name we’ve never heard before?”

“I don’t have the answer to that. Just about every religion seems to have another name for God, but the bottom line is that it just has to be God; I just know it, Sutter. What else would have spared me from that mess! Besides, Tonder is using us to defeat evil. What more proof do you need? I’m putting my faith in that.”

The story that my father told made me feel comfortable that there is something larger watching out for us. At least until we fulfill our purpose whatever that may be. The backdoor closed with a slam as my son came running out with jar in hand and cheerfully exclaiming joy at the top of his lungs. My reality snapped back with a jerk, sharpening my sense of the present. I extinguished my cigarette before Doyle reached the picnic table and stood up to great him with a smile. His face seemed to glow with happiness and his energy rejuvenated me. We journeyed through the approaching darkness, catching lightning bugs, placing them into their glass prison, and then releasing them back to the night. As the stars began to fill the sky, he and I retired to the comfort of our living room to begin the night of cartoons that awaited us.