Beyond the Firefly Field (2 page)

“I can't. I'm still trying to say her name without slobbering all over myself.”

“There will be a lot of cute girls in school, so I think it's a little early to get hung up on just one,” Ron advised. “And I think Mike is already claiming Wendy.”

“What do you mean?” Clayton asked, sounding more desperate than he wanted.

“I've seen him a couple of times on his bike in front of her house, talking to her,” Ron clarified. “Apparently, he doesn't have a problem with slobber.”

“None of you big city Romeos do. Oh geez, I
am
going to be the village idiot,” Clayton moaned.

“You're going to have to get over your ‘countrybumpkinitis' and man up,” Brian retorted.

Even if he did “man up,” Clayton wondered how it would compare to a city kid “man up,” adding yet another new worry to his growing anxiety about the first day of school with so many new kids.

“Man, when
is
this show going to start? I don't see anything glowing. Maybe you are crazy,” Brian said, backing away from Ron as if insanity were contagious.

“No, dumbroid, it's not dark enough yet.”

Another glorious sunset beamed just as it had the night before, and Clayton looked at the disappearing sun before he turned to the fields.

“Just like I said. Sun spots,” he insisted.

“Stop looking at the sun,” Ron ordered.

“There's nothing to see,” Brian sighed a few minutes later, then added, “Let's go, it's a long walk home.”

“Five more minutes, just give me five more minutes,” Ron demanded.

“Okay, but that's all. I'm tired of this,” Brian relented, then joined Clayton in filling those minutes with jokes and exaggerations at Ron's expense.

“Look!” Ron suddenly interrupted, pointing in the direction of the far field.

For the next few minutes, the boys watched as the sky darkened and the field grew brighter, just as Ron said it had done the night before. It was over a mile away and looked like a dayglow dandelion blossoming.

“So, what is it?” Ron asked triumphantly.

“Well, it's not sun spots,” Clayton admitted.

“We're not hallucinating, and you're not crazy,” Brian added.

“It's not our imaginations, and it's not some stupid, yellow plants. It's a light of some kind, but I've never seen anything like that around here. It's not like a light shining down on the grass, but the field definitely has a bright, yellow glow. The binoculars don't help at all. Looks like Brian might be right about aliens,” Clayton admitted.

“Is it swamp gas?” Brian asked.

“It's a
field,
not a swamp,” Clayton retorted.

“So, is it field gas?” Ron asked.

“There's no such thing, unless you have it in big cities. Don't you city bumpkins know anything about the country?”

“Seriously? We have
no
idea what kind of weird stuff goes on in the country. Especially in
this
‘living like pioneers in the land that time forgot' place. You could have dinosaurs or dragons wandering around for all we know,” Brian said mockingly.

“There
are
old Native American legends about giant lizards and wood sprites that once roamed the area. There's even a prophecy about creatures that will someday plague humanity. So there, you're all filled in,” Clayton responded.

“Let's go there tomorrow! I want to find out what it is,” Ron said.

“You can't just
go
there. Don't you realize how far away that field is? It's a nasty trip. Dillon took me there a few years ago when we were looking for a launch site,” Clayton informed. “The part of the lake that touches our property is all mud and marsh, so we were looking for a better place to build and launch a raft. We went over by that field, and it looks closer than it is. We had to cross hills and ravines, muddy creeks and swamps, and thickets loaded with thorns. The bugs were really bad that year, and we had to turn back before we got to the lake. I was all bites, scratches, and torn, muddy clothes when I got home. Dillon got yelled at for taking me there.” Dread crept into Clayton's voice as he hoped to dissuade his friends.

“Well, the bugs aren't bad
this
summer because the drought dried up the creeks and swamps,” Ron countered.

“Erosion probably lowered the hills and filled in the ravines a little. And anyway, you're not eleven anymore,” Brian chimed in.

“Well, the only way we could make it is if we hacked a trail,” Clayton said, teased by the possibility of adventure and forcing forbidding thoughts from his mind.

“Then on our way back,
in the dark,
we wouldn't get lost, and we wouldn't trip over roots and logs, or get poked in the eye by branches. We'd need to bring flashlights and tools to cut the trail, along with food and lots of water. And it would take all day to do it,” Clayton concluded, sounding more enthused.

“What are we gonna do if it turns out to be aliens?” Ron asked.

“Well, let's see,” Brian started, “in the last alien movie I saw, they came out of the ground and started killing everybody. So I say we run and warn everybody, then go on TV and become rich and famous.”

“Aliens would explain the electromagnetic field,” Clayton noted. “They disrupt communications and spread out to dominate the world from here.”

“And what could possibly be a better place to start world domination than in the world capital of boredom,” Brian said. “Our teachers are probably aliens sent here to conquer and corrupt us.”

“I'm going to check under my bed at night for alien pods,” Ron said in a serious tone.

“How do we know all these country folk aren't already alien pod people? That would explain Karl. They're going to take us to the field and pod us!” Brian cried, backing away from Clayton.

“Meanwhile, back in reality land,” Clayton said, “if aliens really are here, they probably made a forced landing and are making repairs to their ship, hoping to get away unnoticed.”

“Then we should offer some help and accept advanced technology from them as gratitude.
Then
we go on TV and become rich and famous. I love a happy ending,” Brian concluded.

“Okay, when we meet here tomorrow, let's see how many of the others we can talk into joining us to make the trail work effort easier,” Ron said, already dismissing Clayton's objections. “Wow! Look how bright the field is now!”

“It's definitely weird,” Brian agreed. “Now that I've seen it, I think it really must be aliens. What else could it possibly be?”

Clayton looked to the lighted field and wondered if it was in some way connected to the ancient legends. A shadow of foreboding crossed his mind to be quickly dismissed.

The Firefly Field

T
he next morning, Clayton, Ron, and Brian gathered their friends together at the tree house and assured them that there was indeed a strange and mysterious glow coming from the far meadow after sunset. Ron wasn't crazy after all. They insisted the situation had to be investigated immediately, just in case aliens were involved. This suggestion was met with hoots and jeers, as the trio expected.

The hardest part was talking their friends into helping hack the trail to the far field that, in daylight, looked as boring and plain as all the others. Even the once-skeptical Clayton offered arguments to sway his friends to help, as he realized the alternative to taking action would be increased boredom. His original objections had grown into enthusiasm for the project.

“Come on, Karl, you love to explain mysteries. This is just your thing!” Clayton implored as all persuasions appeared to be failing.

As Karl adjusted his big, round glasses, Clayton noted that he did indeed look like a miniature German scientist, with his intense blue eyes and blond hair that seemed too big for his body. Karl was only twelve, but he had been skipped two grades, which was why he was in Clayton's classes.

“Come on!” Clayton insisted, grabbing Karl's book and holding it out the tree house window as leverage.

“Is that a dictionary he's reading? I thought it was a novel,” Brian cried. “You're just supposed to look up a word, not
read
the whole thing.”

“If you know all those words, how come you don't speak in ‘big word' talk?” Ron questioned.

“If I did, I'd have to say or explain everything twice to you guys. It's like knowing a foreign language and being the only foreigner,” Karl mocked.

“Don't even get him started on the ‘big word' crap. It took us long enough to get him to speak normal English,” Clayton said, shaking the book. “Geez, my arm's getting tired!”

“Okay, I'll do it, as long as the twins come along to do half the work,” Karl sighed.

“We're not doing half the work,” Phil insisted.

“We usually do,” Paul responded.

“We do not.”

“You just don't notice because
I
do half of your half of half the work.”

“You do not.”

“I do…”

Clayton quit listening as he watched the twins argue like they always did about everything. Though they were a year younger, they were taller and much stockier. Their round faces could hardly be more identical, but Phil usually smiled while Paul didn't. Clayton realized they probably
did
do over half of any work required.

“So, you're going?” Clayton interrupted.

“Yeah, we'll go, but we're not doing half the work,” Phil insisted a final time.

“Of course not,” Clayton agreed as he envisioned how their faces would look in a few hours after dirtying to match their sandy-blond hair, making their eyes stand out like big, blue marbles.

Whether or not the others believed the story about the strange light that glowed like gold, they were happy for something new to occupy their time, otherwise boredom would no doubt dominate the days of their remaining summer vacation. With growing enthusiasm, the friends made a list of the supplies and equipment they would need.

An hour before noon, Paul, Phil, and Karl took off across the oat field for home to load up with supplies. Ron and Brian had their day's supply of food and water already packed, so they followed Clayton to ask Dillon to join them on the adventure. Clayton was happy to find Wayne with his brother. The two were taking the old Mustang apart in the barn.

“Okay,” Wayne said after finally agreeing to go along. “We'll go, even though we know you're only inviting us because we'll be doing half the work,” he added with a grin.

“Well, you and Dillion are the biggest,” Brian said effusively. “So, with you doing half the trail work, and the twins doing the other half, that still leaves the
other,
other half for the rest of us.”

“Uh, yeah,” Clayton mumbled. “That must be big-city math.”

By noon, the sun was beating down as Dillon and Wayne climbed to the observation platform to search for possible problems and to plan their approach to the far meadow. Dillon announced a rough guess that the distance was about a mile and a half, but cautioned that it could easily be two miles after going up and down hills and around obstacles in their path.

Inside the lower tree house, Clayton was retelling Brian and Ron the story of his first trip to the far meadow. “I hadn't even thought about going back there until now,” he concluded as he heard the animated voices of Phil and Paul arguing about going back to get an extra gallon of water.

Once everyone was on the ground, they surveyed the pile of supplies and equipment. Despite what seemed to be an enormous quantity of food, the twins asked, “Is that going to be enough?” and then jointly complained, “We're gonna starve.”

“You should bring extra food with you when you go back to get the water,” Phil advised his brother.

“I'm not going back. You are.”

“Don't worry,” Brian assured them. “We're going to throw food at you every time you argue too much.”

“We don't argue too much,” Paul said in their defense.

“You do,” Phil said.

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Save it!” Dillon cut them off. “Let's see what we've got to cut the trail. We're going to have to go around anything we can't cut or smash with pruners or axes,” he said.

They also packed bandages and ointment, and all prudently wore long pants and long-sleeved shirts.

“Leave the supplies under the tree house in the shade,” Dillon commanded. “We have to build a bridge, and then come back here to rest.”

The seven boys followed him around the bushes at the clearing's edge.

“Let's leave these bushes alone so they'll hide where our trail begins,” Dillon suggested. “We need to cut a trail fifty yards long and four feet wide to reach the first creek that we'll have to bridge. There's a six-foot drop to a five-foot-wide creek. And there's three feet of muddy bank on either side.”

Dillon led the way, using large pruners to cut through saplings growing on the trail. Wayne and Brian followed, pruning back the branches that hung over the designated trail.

With only two working flashlights, they knew there would be more darkness than light as they strung out along the trail on the trek home. The others followed, cleaning the trail by removing dead, fallen branches and ripping out small plants as they slowly made progress. In case snakes were lying in wait, leaves were kicked off the trail, right down to the bare dirt. Their assembly-line formation brought them to the creek ravine in just ten minutes, but they were sweating and breathing hard as they put down their tools.

“At this rate, we'll be there in two hours,” Ron said.

“We won't continue at this rate,” Dillon warned, as he and the other boys looked up and down the creek. It was nestled in a small ravine six feet below the trail. The banks were sprinkled with boulders and logs sticking out of the mud.

Karl's eyes lit up. “This will be so easy! All we need are two eighteen-foot logs to span across the banks about three feet apart. They should be a foot thick to support our weight. Then we just place five-foot logs across them. Then we cover that with small branches, leaves, and dirt so the logs won't move, and we'll have ourselves a bridge!”

“That sounds like a ten-minute project,” Ron said with renewed hope.

Everyone spread out to find logs with the eagerness that always accompanied the beginning of a new project.

“This one's eighteen feet,” Phil said, lifting one end of a log after a short search.

“It is not,” Paul countered. “And it's too small around,” he added. “Now
this
is what we need,” he said, walking over to a larger log.

“That's way too big; we'll never lift it.”

“We can chop the end off.”

“That will take ten minutes, and it'll still be too heavy.”

“Will not.”

“Will too.”

“Does that count as one argument or two?” Wayne asked as he and Clayton walked away from the bickering twins.

“Just one. They often argue in a string of topics, and it continues until they can't remember what started the whole argument.”

After the ideal logs were found and placed in position, branches, leaves, and dirt were added to fill the gaps, and the ten-minute project ended up taking much longer.

“There you go, Ron,” Dillon said triumphantly as they jammed upright logs under the center of the bridge's span, marking its completion. “We just took over an hour to go eighteen feet, and at this rate, it will take us at least a week to get to the meadow.”

“Let's hope for a happy medium,” Wayne cheerfully offered.

The group needed to rest after their strenuous efforts. Twenty minutes later, they packed up and took the newly built trail across the bridge, hoping it was as sturdy as it looked.

Once on the other side, the boys became more proficient at assembly-line trail cutting, hacking roughly one hundred yards every fifteen minutes.

Dillon guided them up and down the gently rolling terrain. Trail dust mingled with sweat as they pressed toward their goal. Every now and then, they rested and looked back to admire their work. It was odd to see a four-foot-wide dirt “sidewalk” cut through a woods where every bit of ground had been covered with plants, leaves, and dead branches. Wherever they forged, a strange-looking scar was left in their wake.

Occasionally, they came upon an open meadow where the going was especially easy. Just walking through the long grass and wildflowers created an easy path.

In some open spaces, horseflies swarmed and bit the boys over and over, usually on their heads. No matter how much they frantically waved their arms and slapped their legs and heads to discourage the flies, the attacks persisted. Karl suggested that everyone cut branches from brush to swat the flies, rather than just using hands to do battle. This worked with great success, and soon the boys were on their way again.

Around seven that evening, they approached another meadow and stopped at the edge to eat the last of their sandwiches and energy bars. Everyone was tired and sore from the effort of the last six hours, and they were glad only one more small bridge had to be built. Even the twins barely had enough energy to argue over the last bite of food, but gave a half-hearted jab at bantering anyway. It was their twenty-first argument of the afternoon.

The boys had cut over a mile-and-a-half of trail and were sorely reminded of the one thing they'd forgotten to pack–canvas gloves. Everyone's hands were red, raw, and painfully blistered. Their supply of bandages wasn't enough to go around.

The sunny afternoon became increasingly cloudy, and soon a light sprinkle of rain showered down. Mercifully, the biting flies vanished as the temperature dropped to a more comfortable range.

They ate quietly, reflecting on the woods, meadows, brush, hills, and gullies they had conquered, and then recounted the blisters, scratches, bites, aches, and bruises collected as they dominated the woods.

“How much further do we have to go?” Ron whined.

“We just have to cross this meadow and hack a couple hundred yards through the woods. Don't worry, we're almost done,” Dillon replied.

“If I'd known it would be this much work, I wouldn't have suggested it,” Ron said, poking at the blisters on his hand. “It
better
be aliens, Brian.”

“Hey! This was
your
butt-wipe idea.”

“Well, we're almost there, so we shouldn't waste the blisters we earned,” Wayne said as he stood. “Come on, guys. Besides, who could possibly ask for a better trail?”

They marched across the meadow and into the last stretch of woods, hacking madly since the end was in sight. Rain drizzled off and on, but the boys didn't get wet under the heavy tree canopy. The thick leaves also buffered the last streams of daylight as the woods quickly darkened. With night falling fast, the boys finished the remaining distance with a flurry of activity, arriving at the clearing's edge with a unanimous cheer. They were sweating profusely and gasping for breath, finding that the skies were much lighter after they'd escaped the woods. The boys spread out along the field's edge. It was roughly seventy yards across, and stretched for a hundred yards on either side.

“See! There's the lake, so this has to be the last meadow,” Dillon said.

The boys were disappointed to see that this meadow looked like all the others. It was nothing special. Not even a crop circle. Before them stood waist-high grass, bunches of wildflowers, and an outcropping of small bushes. Surrounding the field sprung a line of bushy plants and saplings leading into the woods. Near the lake, cattails indicated a marsh was lurking.

After catching their breath, the boys took more notice of their surroundings. Crickets chirped. Birds settled in the trees, offering short songs of welcome. Fireflies sparkled here and there around the field. Leaves rustled in the woods behind them as raccoons searched for their evening meal. Ducks called to each other and splashed as they landed in the marsh. The boys silently watched as a herd of deer walked across the meadow to drink at the lake. It was a peaceful setting, but peaceful wasn't what the boys were looking for.