Thomas Pierce - Hall of Small Mammals - Stories

“My boy has no idea,” the man says, grinning.

“This is the last stage,” Tierney says. “Once you get both Truth Beads, you’re a Grasshopper King. A very high honor. How’s your boy doing, Flynn? He enjoying himself?”

Flynn says that Ryan has made some good friends. That he’s loving it here.

“They always do,” the camp director says. “My son’s too old to come back now, but I remember the night he got his Second Truth Bead. We were so proud.”

“Flynn, your son’s starting a little later than most,” Tierney says, “but if he works hard, he might be able to finish.”

“How old’s your kid?” the director asks.

“Nine,” Flynn says.

“Oh,” Tierney says. “For some reason I had it in my head he was seven or eight. Statistically speaking, he may not have enough time to be a King. Not that he should give up. It’s not all about becoming a Grasshopper King.”

“I’d love to see Ryan get there.”

“Of course,” Tierney says, grinning. “Anything is possible, I guess.”

They swirl the ice in their liquor drinks.

“Hey, now,” the director says to Flynn. “You the one who passed out in the sweat lodge yesterday?”

Flynn turns red. “That was me.”

They all take long sips, smiling into their ice cubes. An old Willie Nelson record plays from a speaker propped up in the screen window. Then Bill Tierney turns to the others and says, “All right, fellas, should we get started? You’ll have to forgive us, Flynn, but we have some planning to do for tonight. Logistics and whatnot. We’ll see you there, right?”

“You will.” He leaves them on the deck and sets off for the dining hall. Inside every group, he decides, there are more groups. Circles within circles, and inside of those, more circles still, all of them infinitely divisible. You could spend your whole life wondering which ones you’re in and which ones you’re not and which ones really want you and which ones are holes that have no bottom.

• • •

The bonfire is built in the outdoor amphitheater at the edge of the lake. The logs are stacked two across two, up and up, the kindling stuffed inside the column and doused with kerosene. The fathers cross their legs and swat mosquitoes. The boys fidget and squirm. John Price is there with his son. The camp director stands to the side with Henri, who’s wearing overalls now, his drum put away. The sun sinks behind the pine trees on the opposite bank.

The ceremony begins with a procession of boys, most of them probably twelve or thirteen years old, gawky and pimpled, moving down the center row, some goofy and others somber. The one in front carries a long torch, rolls of toilet paper jammed on the end of a stick. Another torchbearer approaches in a canoe on the lake, a starlike light and its rippled reflection moving through the darkness toward the assembled. Flynn is reminded of the First Truth. Let the dark burn bright. The boys are forming a semicircle around the unlit bonfire, waiting for the second torchbearer to reach the shore. They all have one Truth Bead on their uniform. Are they thinking about the First Truth too? Is this ceremony designed to invoke it?

The torches meet at the logs, and the entire structure, almost ten feet tall, bursts into flames, red and blue and yellow. Flynn is five rows back and can feel the blaze. Next to him, his son’s face shines too. But he’s not looking at the flames. He’s looking up at Flynn.

“Can you see okay? What do you think?”

The boy says it’s interesting.

The camp director opens a notebook. He tosses some grass into the fire, and the smoke curls around him. His voice is hoarse and thin.

“Grasshoppers feast on the grass,” he reads, “and so do the flames. Grasshoppers are virtuous and vibrant, resourceful and resilient, patient and peaceful, creative and kind. These are the qualities we, this community, value most. When the first grasshopper molted and shook the morning dew from his new wings, the world marveled at this development. The world took notice. Tonight, some of you have sprouted wings, and we are here to marvel at your achievements, to take notice, to bask in your light. Tonight, we are awarding ten boys with their Second Truth Bead.”

One by one, the director names the boys in the semicircle around the bonfire, and, one by one, those boys step forward with unusually good posture. A red bead is placed in ten sweaty palms. The boys are all smiles as they’re led to the other side of the fire, away from the audience, and the director whispers something in each of their ears, one by one.

“They’re learning the Second Truth,” Flynn tells Ryan.

“What’s the Second Truth?”

“Only Grasshopper Kings are supposed to know,” Flynn says. He puts his arm around his son, who will never be a Grasshopper King. One day he’ll have to explain to his son how most games are rigged, and how sometimes it’s best not to play at all.

After the ceremony, Trevor comes over with a Ziploc bag full of marshmallows and a coat hanger for Ryan. Flynn overhears Trevor telling Ryan how his uncle once branded himself with a red-hot hanger.

“Then your uncle’s an idiot,” Flynn interrupts.

“My uncle is a military general,” Trevor says.

Flynn grabs their coat hangers and then rummages in the brush for two sticks. He gives those to the boys, and they run off to the fire. Flynn walks over to John Price, who stands next to his son. The son has a chin like his father’s, one that slopes down to his chest in a gentle, fleshy curve.

“He did it,” John Price reports. “He got that Second Truth.”

“Congratulations,” Flynn says. “You must be proud.”

“Oh, of course. And maybe now I can get that next Truth out of him. I’ll let you know what I find out. Say, you feeling better after the sweat lodge? I heard you passed out? That true?”

“Didn’t drink enough beforehand,” Flynn says.

“Yep, number-one hippie rule. Hydrate before going on your vision quest. Listen, you’ll have to excuse me, Flynn. Apparently, all the Grasshopper Kings and their dads are supposed to go to some kind of function now at the director’s cabin. Probably a cake-and-punch thing.”

Circles within circles, Flynn thinks. He finds his son by the fire.

“You ready to call it a night?”

“Okay,” he says, and tosses his marshmallow stick into the bonfire.

They leave the light of the ceremony. Their eyes slowly adjust to the darkness of the field. Ryan is swinging his arms and looking up to the stars. Flynn wants his boy to be happy.

“What are you thinking about?” Flynn asks.

“Nothing.”

“What else are you thinking about?”

“I don’t like this uniform,” he says.

“That’s okay.”

“I hate it. It makes my armpits itch.”

“You don’t have to wear it again,” Flynn says. “If you don’t want.”

They’re following the edge of the lake now. A cool breeze twists the leaves in the trees. Flynn is still thinking about circles within circles. Also, he’s thinking about snakes curled into circles by the water.

They reach the tent and climb inside. They stretch out on the sleeping bags and lie awake, side by side. The cell phone dings, its screen glowing blue inside his son’s sleeping bag.

“She wants to know if I’m ready to come home,” Ryan says. “I can talk to her tomorrow.”

Flynn burrows into his bag and takes off his socks, trying to get comfortable. They’re still not asleep when the thunderstorm starts an hour later. The thought of all those Grasshopper Kings caught in the downpour brings a smile to Flynn’s face. The tent shakes in the wind, the rain loud as bullets on the canvas. Everything is dark, but they can feel water dripping from the seams. The water bubbles up from below too. Tonight they will get very wet. Tonight they may get washed away. Even Mookie the bear on his T-shirt throne will not be spared. The water will cover all. Soon, nothing will ever burn again.