Ken Douglas - Nightwitch

“ Jerk face,” Carolina said, with her arms protectively wrapped around the backpack.

“ You can say that, but who’s on the floor?” Brad said with a self-satisfied sneer.

“ You are!” Arty screamed, swinging his backpack toward Brad’s face. The combined weight of his and Carolina’s books made a solid thunking sound when they connected with the side of Brad’s head, and Arty’s scream, the only thing he’d learned in his one karate lesson, filled the hall and quieted the kids from the first grade side of the hall to the sixth.

Brad turned toward Arty, a bully enraged, and most of the observers thought he was going to jump Arty and beat him senseless right inside the school, but Brad was stunned by the blow and waited before attacking.

Arty, however, didn’t wait. He kicked Brad in the crotch with all the force he could muster from his heavy body and Brad doubled over with a kind of little girl scream.

“ No fair,” Ray Harpine said, as Arty slammed the backpack into Brad’s head again.

“ Get him,” a voice out of the crowd begged, and Arty hit him again with the backpack, and Brad finally went down with a thud, holding onto his crotch and rolling on the floor. Arty stepped back.

“ You little shit. You didn’t fight fair,” Ray Harpine said, an instant before his fist connected with Arty’s chin.

Arty, surprised, turned toward his new attacker, but before he could think about defending himself a ball of white flew out of Carolina’s backpack and landed on Ray’s shoulders.

“ Get it off me,” Ray wailed. He tried to grab it, but the ferret was too fast, leaping to the ground, as Carolina replaced it, jumping on Ray’s back and scratching both sides of his face with her sharp fingernails.

Arty turned without thinking, wielding his backpack like a mace. He smashed it into the face of the watching Steve Kerr, breaking his nose and filling his face with blood. Steve was out of the fight before he had a chance to get in it.

“ Get her off me,” Ray wailed, even louder than before, and with one opponent on the floor, another holding his face and out of action, Arty turned toward Ray Harpine. The boy had both his hands over his shoulders, clutching Carolina, trying to pull her off. Arty kicked him in the balls. It was easy. Carolina jumped off and the boy doubled over crying, like he’d just been spanked.

“ You little punk,” Brad Peters said, in a low throaty voice that caused Arty to turn. Brad was pushing himself up from the freshly waxed floor, and Arty knew if he allowed the bully to stand, he would be in trouble, so once again he swung the book laden backpack. It caught Brad on the side of the head again, and he went down again, and he didn’t get back up.

“ Come on, let’s go,” Arty said to Carolina.

Carolina took off her backpack, held it open by the floor and the ferret hustled into it. Then she slung it over her shoulder and took Arty by the hand. They left the building, with a gang of kids looking on in amazement. Brad and the shadows were on the floor, and Arty wanted to be out of there before they got up.

“ You clobbered them. Boy, oh boy. Just think how tough you’re going to be after a few karate lessons.” Carolina was bubbling with excitement.

“ Yeah, but right now we gotta hurry, ’cuz Brad’s gonna be up in a minute and he’s gonna be after us. We won’t be so lucky next time.”

“ Yeah.” Carolina picked up her pace to match his, but they didn’t have far to walk, because the milk truck cut them off as they were crossing the street.

“ Get in,” Harry Lightfoot said, and they did, both children standing and holding the rail by the door, because the truck only had a driver’s seat.

“ You can sit on the crates in the back,” Harry said.

“ That’s okay,” Arty said, “we’ll stand.”

“ It’s better for all of us, if a certain old woman doesn’t see you riding around with me,” Harry said.

“ Gotcha,” Arty said, and they moved to the back of the truck to sit on the milk crates.

Ten minutes later they were in Harry’s den, with a fire roaring in the fireplace. Harry sat in an easy chair and the children sat on a small sofa. Arty had lounged there many times in the past, leaning back with his feet on the coffee table, but this time he was sitting up straight, like Carolina, and they were both glued on to Harry’s wise brown eyes as he talked.

“ Did you ever wonder where the stories of werewolves and vampires got started? I did. When I was young, like you, my grandfather told me stories about shape changers. When I got older, I grew interested in the shape changers that roamed around Europe. They were more interesting than the Indian variety, especially the ones that dressed in evening clothes during the night and slept in coffins during the day. The vampires.

“ Where did the stories come from? Were they true? Probably not, but they say that anything man can imagine, one day he can accomplish, and that every idea has its roots in the past. And our past takes many twists and turns and the shape changers are always there.

“ But what is real, and what is imagined? Did vampires ever stalk young women? Were young men ever turned into the wolf during the full moon? Along the course of my life I have met many who believe, but I always doubted. Then I went to Trinidad.

“ I was walking back to the dock to get on my ship one night during the rainy season. I had a little to drink, so the light rain felt good on my face. I was thinking about one more drink on board, before going to sleep, when the electricity went out and Port of Spain was covered in darkness. The rain clouds covered the sky, shutting out the moonlight.”

He paused for breath, then he got up and went into the kitchen. He came back with a quart of cold chocolate milk and three glasses.

“ What happened?” Carolina asked as he poured the milk.

“ Yeah, tell us,” Arty said.

Harry Lightfoot poured the milk and set the bottle down. He picked up his glass and raised it.

“ One for all,” he said.

“ And all for one,” Arty said, raising his glass and clinking it with Harry’s.

“ And all for one,” Carolina said, clinking her glass with theirs.

“ No matter what happens, we have to trust each other,” Harry said. “No matter how bad it gets, we can’t ask for help, because no one is going to believe us. I’m just a crazy old man and you’re both children with wild imaginations. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

They nodded their heads.

“ Okay, back to my story,” he said, but he took a drink of the milk and let the silence rule the room for a few seconds before continuing.

“ I was walking down a quiet street, when I heard a woman scream, and it was at that instant that the power went back on, and what I saw would be enough to chill any man’s soul.

“ A young woman was laid out on the sidewalk in front of me. Dead. And a wolf was chewing on her neck, sucking out her blood. So, quiet as I could, I moved behind a parked car and hid, and watched.”

“ You didn’t try to help the lady?” Carolina asked.

“ No.”

“ Why not?”

“ She was already dead and I knew it was no ordinary wolf.”

“ How?” Arty asked.

“ Because there are no wolves in Trinidad.”

“ How do you know it was a wolf and not a big dog?” Carolina asked.

“ I’m an Indian. I know.”

Again the room was silent, lit only by the fire coming from Harry’s fireplace. Arty felt a tingling sensation, like static electricity, running up and down the hairs on his arms, and, when he looked over at Carolina, she was biting her lower lip. She looked scared.

“ After the wolf drained all of the woman’s blood, it raised its head and howled into the night and then, right before my eyes, it turned into a ball of fire and shot up through the clouds.”