Suburban Youth
Chapter Four: Is foreshadowing called fore at noon?
The stump of brown grass cut through the green like a nasty scar from an amazing fight. It was ugly to look at and sometimes upset Mrs. Williams to the point of tears, but above all else, it had a story the men of the Williams family enjoyed telling. Since then, Ivan had earned the nickname “Fire Trip” and was commonly referred to as such by the other neighborhood children. Mr. and Mrs. Braginski took their son’s new nickname as a sign of endearment and were proud of him for making friends so quickly.
Speaking of the Braginski family, Old Man Johnson’s house became progressively with Russian goods and Russian music, which the entire neighborhood could hear trickling from the open garage. Mr. Braginski kept it open while he and and his children moved goods from the moving van to the crumbling home shrouded in as much mystery as weeds. Ivan, still wearing that ridiculous beige scarf, would wave to the Williams twins when they rode their bikes past the house. Alfred would nod, eyebrows creased while Matthew peaked into the garage like he was looking for someone. Arthur wouldn’t acknowledge the Braginskis, but that was to be expected from the socially awkward thirteen year old who had to be dragged kicking and screaming to go bike riding with his obnoxious American cousins.
The cousins turned the corner and, since their neighborhood was on the edge of town, they were in the wild and vast expanse of raw, undeveloped New York soil. Soft dirt sank under their tires, kicking up plumes of must like a ’73 Volkswagen beetle. Some pieces stuck to Alfred’s face, who was behind Matthew, making sure the grumbling British teenager didn’t ditch. The ground shifted into a steady decline. It was quiet, save for the chains crinkling around their bikes. Once in a while, a crow cawed. For the most part, it was the hum of grasshoppers and the silent beating of sun on the backs of children. Out here, grass became forest trees, twitching in breezes. Cotton weed billowed and dipped, with the occasional one floating into Arthur’s nose, resulting in a string of curses and berating and “why on bloody earth am I here with you of all people and when are we going to stop?”
When they finally stopped, partly to take a drink, mostly to shut Arthur up. Alfred tapped his kickstand and leaned over the bike’s handles. Matthew did the same, but plopped next to his bike. Arthur lie on his back and watched the marshmallow ornaments hang in the denim blue sky.
“Why are we out here?” Arthur asked again, seemingly for the thousandth time that afternoon.
“We’re taking you to the Tree Fort,” Matthew said, shucking his blue Landsport backpack and removing a broken NutriGrain bar. He shuffled the bits into his mouth.
“What’s so special about the Tree Fort?” Arthur asked. “I keep hearing about this amazing place and not a single person has explained to me why it’s so bloody important to you all.”
Arthur asked Matthew for a granola bar. Matthew tossed his cousin one, but with his increasingly worse depth perception, threw it a bit too hard, hitting Arthur square in the face. Arthur grumbled something while Matthew poured apologies and Alfred laughed. Arthur finally opened the bar, took a bite.
“It’s really, really, cool, Arthur,” Matthew said, flecks of granola bar flicking out. “We go out there all the time during the summer.”
“To add to that, my uncoordinated cousin,” Alfred said, popping the top back on his water bottle. Arthur sat up, leaning on his arms and Alfred plopped across from him. “The Tree Fort has been part of Hetalia Boulevard’s traditions since, I don’t know, forever.”
“I was under the impression that the European influence was a new coincidence.” Alfred shook his head.
“There’ve been immigrants on our street since like, the beginning of immigrants. I mean, Frankie’s family’s part of the first Hetalia Boulevard crew. Hey, Matt, you got any trail mix?”
“Yeah, here you go. And oh, oh, oh, Al! What about Old Man Johnson?” Alfred replaced his water bottle with a contented sigh and swung his leg over the bike’s seat. Matthew stood, brushed himself off, replaced his backpack and did the same. They placed their helmets on; Matthew clicked the chinstraps on while Alfred let them dangle.
“No ghost stories till we get to the Fort, Artie.”
“For the love of Christ, stop calling me that!” Arthur protested getting back on his borrowed bike. The rickety thing was Mr. Williams’ old mountain bike from a few years ago, too big for the vertically challenged British boy. Took him three tries to get up and over.
Alfred kicked up his kickstand and led the pack towards, what Arthur poetically deemed, a whole lot of bloody nothing.
As they rode through the flat, and occasionally tree peppered backcountry, Alfred and Matthew pointed out bits from Hetalia Boulevard folklore. The tree where Mrs. Ruiz, from Spain, hung her husband after an alleged cheating scandal in the 1800s. The place where Jaime O’Donnell, from Ireland proposed to his wife, Katherine Bodanski, from the Czech Republic (“or whatever it was called back then, Arthur, I’m not like you and know useless information about the world”), the first bi-ethnic family on Hetalia Boulevard.
The most curious piece of landform was a Stonehenge pile of cement blocks, grafitied and wind withered. Matthew said they tried to build a subway in this part of town, there’s a place like this in downtown Rochester too, but the state didn’t have enough money, so the project was scrapped. Since then, it’d been home to gangs and other seeds of mischief. Arthur wanted to check it out, but Alfred cut him off and continued to drag the passive aggressive teenager through the woods.
Through the ride, Arthur wasn’t paying attention, too lost in his thoughts (wonderful fantasies of beating Alfred with a solid hardback copy of War and Peace), and stopped only when his tire dipped off solid ground. His stomach fell to his toes and he gulped, a panic taking over his heart and hands, trembling like a mouse caught in a dryer. Instead of the gradual decline, Arthur stared at a fatal forty-five degree drop. Trees reached over the dirt path, like a tunnel of cheerleaders cheering on the football team before they charged on the field.
Arthur made notice of the temperature drop and the increasing darkness down the tree tunnel and the gnawing fact that he couldn’t see the end of the path.
Alfred skidded to a stop next to him. “What’re you waiting for, Artie?” Alfred asked, “This is the fun part!” Alfred beamed, gripping the handle breaks, inching closer to the decline. “Ok, ok, ok, Matt, I’m gonna go first. I wanna see Arthur’s face when he comes down. That and I think I can stop on my bike, and without running into the tree.”
“Tree?” Arthur asked. What little color he had in his face drained rather painfully.
“Oh, come on, Carlton,” Alfred in protest, patting his cousin on the shoulder causing him to jump a bit in seat, “don’t be a spilt hot coffee on jeans on an Atlanta summer day.”
He turned to Matthew, who’d been in the process of slamming his forehead in his palm. Alfred placed his hand on Matthew’s shoulders and gripped tightly. “Matt, if anything happens to me,” he started. Matthew looked up and caught his brother’s eye over the rim of his glasses. There was no emotion in his face, just the raw determination of a soldier about to go to war. “You’re still not getting my Pokémon decks or CDs.”
With that Alfred sped off, leaving nothing but a tuft of dirt. He sat up in his seat, catching the wind and adrenaline as he zipped away. With each pedal stroke, he gained more speed until he was sure to jump back in time or break the sound barrier. A grin caught his face, wide and wild. He’d never felt so awake, aware, alive and all those other clichés about soaring and living and whatever. He whooped the entire five second trip.
Matthew glanced at his watch, counting down from five while Arthur slowly retracted into his bike seat, burying his face into crossed arms, looking progressively greener.
“Three…two…one,” Matthew said.
There was a skid, an “oh no!” and the oof of a five-foot, one-hundred-fifteen pound boy careening to the earth at nine-point-eighty-one meters-per-second.
“And that happens all the time?” Arthur asked, peeking at his younger cousin from crossed arms.
“Yup. But that’s coz Al’s stupid and tries to take this hill at sixty-miles-an-hour,” Matthew said. He smiled, trying to reassure his cousin that travelling the slope wasn’t an automatic death certificate. “You’ll be fine. Just take it slow.”
“Ow-w-w-w-w-w,” Alfred moaned, voice muffled by distance and altitude drop. “Matt, did you bring a splint? I think I broke something.”
“Oh, stop whining, y’big baby,” Matthew said, rolling his eyes. “Arthur, I have to check on Al. Make sure he didn’t do any real damage.”
“You’re going to leave me?” Arthur asked, wool-like eyebrows perched high (didn’t his parents send the boy to get them trimmed two weeks ago?). “Alone?”
“Well, you’re not gonna be alone for long.”
“Matthew, I’m dying!” Alfred called. “Ah, it hurts so ba-a-a-d.”
“Coming!” Matthew cried. “You’ll do fine, I promise. And if not, we’ve got the hospital on speed dial.” With that, Matthew pushed his way through the tree tunnel, shouting to his little brother to stop complaining so much over a splinter.
Which left Arthur at the top of the hill.
Alone. He inched to the decline’s start and quickly wretched back. His heart clawed at his ribcage, demanding exit as if possessed by an ethereal demon. If he gripped the handle bars tighter, it would have turned to ash. He stared at the decline, rationalizing his decision to stay or go. To stay meant to miss out on this “Tree Fort” the neighborhood children had been chirping about since he’d arrived four months ago and summer started. To go meant risking his life in a neck-breaking free-fall defying all facets of physics and gravity. To stay-
A branch creaked under weight and snapped. Arthur jumped about twenty feet in the air and his bike passed the incline’s start and began a frightening and bumpy ride.
In later days, the sound that came from Arthur’s metal encrusted mouth would be described as a small female child between the ages of three and six, having both pigtails caught in a van’s door while her ankles were nipped by micro Chihuahuas.
Arthur’s bike slapped a large stump of a rock and suddenly he was staring at a sky of tree underbellies in a bed of leaves, sticks and dirt, breath coming in short quips, never fast enough.
“Whoa! Arthur! You flipped five times in the air!” Alfred said, jumping, excited. “That was so wickedly awesome! That was amazing! Do it again! Do it again! Ow! Matt, don’t hit the injured!”
“Arthur, are you ok? That’s two back injuries in a week! Can you move your hands? Blink if you can understand me! Oh, God, he’s dead!”
“I’m not dead,” Arthur wheezed. He managed to roll over on his side and due to improper weight distribution, landed face first into the leaf pile. He pushed himself off the ground, back spazzing, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to show that on his face. He stood and took a moment to get his balance and glared at Alfred.
Arthur lunged toward Alfred, screaming, “I’m going to kill you like I should have last week,” but was stopped by Matthew’s arm.
“Arthur, you can’t kill family!” he said.
“Yes I can when they’ve attempted murder twice now. Let go Matthew!”
“No!”
It was at this moment that Arthur took notice of his surroundings.
The tree path and hill had lead to an alternate world, one from childhood fairytales and legends of years ancient. Tall spruces sealed the area, large enough for two dozen people to reside comfortably, in a woodland bubble. The land continued pooled to the center, where an oak, thick as six children, sat royally, its branches arching in a protective sort of manner, shielding the spruce babies from onlookers and the sun. A crudely made wooden balcony hugged the trunk, wooden planks planted lackadaisically on the side. Looped wire and rope swings dangled from thicker, higher branches like Christmas tinsel.
It was darker here, sunlight only penetrating the ground every few steps, dust and dirt sparkling like magic dust. It was quiet. Not even the chirping of birds or grasshoppers or crickets.
“Wh-where are we, exactly?” Arthur asked, feeling his anger depleting.
“The Tree Fort, dummy,” Alfred said, leaning on a spruce, taking a swig of water. He grinned. “Told you it was awesome.”
“And this has been part of a Hetalia…tradition?” Arthur asked, eyebrows crossed.
“Yup.” Alfred trotted to the center oak and climbed up the plants, finding rest on one of the un-tinseled branches. He latched his legs around the branch and fell down, swinging like a piñata. “Every few years or so, new Hetalia Boulevard kids come and add new stuff to this place. Like this,” he pointed to the balcony, “Sadiq, G and Herakles made it before they started hating each other.”
“When did that start?” Arthur asked.
“I dunno,” Alfred said, shrugging his shoulders, shirt falling to his face. He swung around and straddled the branch. “Hey, Matt, can you break out the sodas and Pop Tarts?” Matthew did as he was asked while Arthur threaded through the area, taking in the scenery, trying to take as many mental pictures as possible.
Matthew scaled the tree and parked himself at the edge of the shoddily built ledge. He offered Arthur a Pop Tart, but was politely turned down. When offered a Sprite, he obliged.
It didn’t take long for Arthur to meet his American cousins on the tree, drinking soda, staring into a place he was sure divinity had touched.
“So, Old Man Johnson,” Alfred said. “Matt, you’re up. This is your story.” Arthur grumbled.
Matthew smirked, and placed his Dr. Pepper next to him. He cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, on a quiet block, far, far away from the main city, there lived a crumbly old man in a crumbly old house. His name was Leonard Johanisson, and had traveled to New York from his home country in Germany after the Great War in search of a better life. After crossing Elis Island, he changed his name to a more American sounding “Johnson,” but he was still rejected by his American neighbors. The children on the block began to call him Old Man Johnson, even though he was only thirty or so.
“Mr. Johnson was a soldier for the Kaiser, whatever the heck that was and way back then, they didn’t have things for people who freaked out after they went to war. In fact, going to a shrink was extremely looked down upon. So when he started hearing the gunshots of the trenches every day, he simply went mad.”
“This is the good part,” Alfred cut in.
“Sh-shut up,” Arthur said, devouring his Pop Tart, waving him away.
“A child on the block, known as the European Block before it was known as Hetalia Boulevard, went missing for three days. Immediately, the neighborhood pointed fingers at Mr. Johnson, but he insisted he had no idea where the boy was, that he didn’t even know the child’s name. A few months later, another boy went missing. Again and again, children were plucked from their parents’ holds. They said evil resided in that house and demanded to search, as if Mr. Johnson were some sort of Pied Piper, demanding charge for the adults’ terrible behavior to him.”
“Did they ever find the kids?” Arthur asked. Matthew grinned wider, seeing the fear etched into his cousin’s face.
“Mr. Johnson died shortly after the accusations of the sixth child was reported missing. They said he died with a smile on his face, as if to mock the parents of the lost children that they’d never find them.
“A few weeks later, someone was complaining of a nasty smell coming from the house. They called the cops, fearing what it could be. The team entered the house and examined it, attic to basement, searching for the source of the smell. When they got to the basement, the smell was the strongest. There were no electric lights in the house, so the room was brightened by flashlights and the few oil lamps they found mounted on the wall.
“Slowly, the room was filled with orange light. One by one, the police officer’s eyes adjusted to the weak light and sure enough there were limbs-” Matthew clawed his hands and jumped toward his cousin and younger twin. Arthur and Alfred yelped.
“-of children hanging from the ceiling, rotting and full of maggots as things of that nature should be. Some were stripped clean of meat and only splintered bones remained. The rumors of evil residing in the house were quickly stated as fact, because only a man possessed with the devil could commit such atrocities.
“For seven decades, no one lived in that house. It was quickly rumored, passed on by each Hetalia Boulevard member to the next that should anyone live there, the spirit of Old Man Johnson would be unleashed, bringing terrible things to the peaceful block. When Mom and Dad moved here, they got the same introduction and when we were little, Francis told us about it. Al didn’t believe him, but he only had the guts to touch the door. Since then, he’s believed.”
“And now the Braginskis have moved in to that house?” Arthur asked. “Is the spirit going to be unleashed and bring death upon the block?”
“Nope. Safe as a Puerto Rican in Manhattan,” Matthew said with a grin.
“Well, that’s what Matthew thinks. I’m pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before weird stuff starts happening.”
“You’re crazy,” Matthew said, rolling his eyes. Honestly, his brother could be such a dork sometimes.
“Well, how ’bout this, huh? What if Sadiq and Herakles start fighting again? That almost broke up like, four families. What if he kills Herakles because he’s possessed by Old Man Johnson?”
“Herakles and Sadiq haven’t fought for years. Not since we were in elementary school,” Matthew said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“We haven’t fought in a long time,” Alfred pointed. Matthew’s eyebrows creased and his gaze turned to his dangling feet, noting the careful stitching in his shoes. The temperature dropped something cold and frosted, like a mid-December snow. Matthew kept his eyes on his shoes and shifted slightly. Alfred coughed and quickly recovered. “N-not like last week anyway.”
Arthur wondered if now was the time to ask about last year, but quickly dismissed the notion.
“It would be rather peculiar and perhaps equivalent to spiritual intervention if Gilbert and Elizaveta started ‘going out,’ wouldn’t you say?” Arthur offered, trying to wield the conversation back to happier tones.
His cousins simply stared at him, blinking occasionally, letting him know they were still alive.
“What did he say?” Alfred asked Matthew in a hushed tone, as if Arthur couldn’t hear him.
“I don’t know. Something about Gil and Liz going out,” Matthew replied with the same hushed tone. Alfred stopped, let the statement simmer before he and Matthew threw their heads back and guffawed. Alfred nearly fell out of the tree, but quickly recovered, much to the annoyance of Arthur, who was now a lovely shade of three-hours-in-the-sun-pink.
“Good one, Artie. And here I thought couldn’t be funny.” He wiped a faux tear from the corner of his eye. Arthur opened his mouth, as if he were to say something, but was quickly silenced by Alfred’s interjection. “While we’re talkin’ ’bout this, you know what else would be weird?”
He never had an opportunity to further divulge because there was a snap of branches breaking under a heavy foot.
“What was that?” Arthur asked, scanning the Tree Fort’s area. His ears perked as he listened for the sound again (he’d heard it before today, he was sure). Alfred’s smile and happy demeanor Velcroed off with almost an audible scratch. Memories of Old Man Johnson’s wandering soul came to mind. Alfred Saran-wrapped to Matthew.
“It’s Old Man Johnson’s spirit come to kill us!” Alfred said, voice spiking at the end like a bath squeak toy.
“Urgh, Alfred, ge’off me,” Matthew protested, shoving his brother away. There was the snap again.
“Come on, we need to get out of here,” Arthur said, ushering his younger cousins down the tree. He waited on the ledge for the Williams twins to reach ground before he descended. Snap.
“Did that sound closer to you guys?” Alfred asked, panic wavering his voice.
“Yeah it did. Now go, go, go!” Matthew said, pushing his brother.
Arthur wasn’t sure where they were going through the rushed panic, leaving their backpack and helmets behind, only that they were going up a hill on the other side of the tree. It was steeper (if possible) than the Tunnel of Doom.
When they reached the top, the fairytale shattered and they were back in reality. They were back in suburbia, with the familiar houses and cars and the steady beat of a Russian rock song. Wait, they were back on Hetalia Boulevard?
“Alfred,” Arthur asked. “Where are we?”
“Oh, we’re back home. We took the short way.”
“Arthur you can’t kill your family members!”
“Like hell I can’t. Unhand me, Matthew!”
There was a crash of shattering glass in the house directly across them, the Karpusi home. The three stopped their brief moment of tomfoolery to observe the colonial home with green Exterra in the driveway. The front door opened and a seventeen year old boy flew out, landing on his side, skidding to a stop on the grass.
“Get out of my house, you dirty Turk!”
Portent
pôr'těnt' (n.)
1. An indication of something important or calamitous about to occur; an omen.
2. Prophetic or threatening significance: signs full of portent. 3. Something amazing or marvelous
3. A prodigy.
//Chapter Five//
I think the ending is a bit rushed, but hopefully it's sufficient to all of your wants. Sorry if it's kind of back-story heavy, but it's all pertinent and like the chapter so subtly informs you, foreshadowing.
Oh, and like 95% of this fic, this chapter was heavily inspired by my childhood neighborhood. Me and my friends had this spot we played at occasionally called the Tree Fort with this huge tree in the center. The first time I went out there, it took us three hours to get there, but soon we found out it was only two blocks away from our house. >__> childhood!fail.
I've got some pretty heavy stuff going on this week, so another update is forcasted in about two weeks. But don't worry, I don't plan on abandoning this project! If bad things happen or not, I still want to see this through.
The stump of brown grass cut through the green like a nasty scar from an amazing fight. It was ugly to look at and sometimes upset Mrs. Williams to the point of tears, but above all else, it had a story the men of the Williams family enjoyed telling. Since then, Ivan had earned the nickname “Fire Trip” and was commonly referred to as such by the other neighborhood children. Mr. and Mrs. Braginski took their son’s new nickname as a sign of endearment and were proud of him for making friends so quickly.
Speaking of the Braginski family, Old Man Johnson’s house became progressively with Russian goods and Russian music, which the entire neighborhood could hear trickling from the open garage. Mr. Braginski kept it open while he and and his children moved goods from the moving van to the crumbling home shrouded in as much mystery as weeds. Ivan, still wearing that ridiculous beige scarf, would wave to the Williams twins when they rode their bikes past the house. Alfred would nod, eyebrows creased while Matthew peaked into the garage like he was looking for someone. Arthur wouldn’t acknowledge the Braginskis, but that was to be expected from the socially awkward thirteen year old who had to be dragged kicking and screaming to go bike riding with his obnoxious American cousins.
The cousins turned the corner and, since their neighborhood was on the edge of town, they were in the wild and vast expanse of raw, undeveloped New York soil. Soft dirt sank under their tires, kicking up plumes of must like a ’73 Volkswagen beetle. Some pieces stuck to Alfred’s face, who was behind Matthew, making sure the grumbling British teenager didn’t ditch. The ground shifted into a steady decline. It was quiet, save for the chains crinkling around their bikes. Once in a while, a crow cawed. For the most part, it was the hum of grasshoppers and the silent beating of sun on the backs of children. Out here, grass became forest trees, twitching in breezes. Cotton weed billowed and dipped, with the occasional one floating into Arthur’s nose, resulting in a string of curses and berating and “why on bloody earth am I here with you of all people and when are we going to stop?”
When they finally stopped, partly to take a drink, mostly to shut Arthur up. Alfred tapped his kickstand and leaned over the bike’s handles. Matthew did the same, but plopped next to his bike. Arthur lie on his back and watched the marshmallow ornaments hang in the denim blue sky.
“Why are we out here?” Arthur asked again, seemingly for the thousandth time that afternoon.
“We’re taking you to the Tree Fort,” Matthew said, shucking his blue Landsport backpack and removing a broken NutriGrain bar. He shuffled the bits into his mouth.
“What’s so special about the Tree Fort?” Arthur asked. “I keep hearing about this amazing place and not a single person has explained to me why it’s so bloody important to you all.”
Arthur asked Matthew for a granola bar. Matthew tossed his cousin one, but with his increasingly worse depth perception, threw it a bit too hard, hitting Arthur square in the face. Arthur grumbled something while Matthew poured apologies and Alfred laughed. Arthur finally opened the bar, took a bite.
“It’s really, really, cool, Arthur,” Matthew said, flecks of granola bar flicking out. “We go out there all the time during the summer.”
“To add to that, my uncoordinated cousin,” Alfred said, popping the top back on his water bottle. Arthur sat up, leaning on his arms and Alfred plopped across from him. “The Tree Fort has been part of Hetalia Boulevard’s traditions since, I don’t know, forever.”
“I was under the impression that the European influence was a new coincidence.” Alfred shook his head.
“There’ve been immigrants on our street since like, the beginning of immigrants. I mean, Frankie’s family’s part of the first Hetalia Boulevard crew. Hey, Matt, you got any trail mix?”
“Yeah, here you go. And oh, oh, oh, Al! What about Old Man Johnson?” Alfred replaced his water bottle with a contented sigh and swung his leg over the bike’s seat. Matthew stood, brushed himself off, replaced his backpack and did the same. They placed their helmets on; Matthew clicked the chinstraps on while Alfred let them dangle.
“No ghost stories till we get to the Fort, Artie.”
“For the love of Christ, stop calling me that!” Arthur protested getting back on his borrowed bike. The rickety thing was Mr. Williams’ old mountain bike from a few years ago, too big for the vertically challenged British boy. Took him three tries to get up and over.
Alfred kicked up his kickstand and led the pack towards, what Arthur poetically deemed, a whole lot of bloody nothing.
As they rode through the flat, and occasionally tree peppered backcountry, Alfred and Matthew pointed out bits from Hetalia Boulevard folklore. The tree where Mrs. Ruiz, from Spain, hung her husband after an alleged cheating scandal in the 1800s. The place where Jaime O’Donnell, from Ireland proposed to his wife, Katherine Bodanski, from the Czech Republic (“or whatever it was called back then, Arthur, I’m not like you and know useless information about the world”), the first bi-ethnic family on Hetalia Boulevard.
The most curious piece of landform was a Stonehenge pile of cement blocks, grafitied and wind withered. Matthew said they tried to build a subway in this part of town, there’s a place like this in downtown Rochester too, but the state didn’t have enough money, so the project was scrapped. Since then, it’d been home to gangs and other seeds of mischief. Arthur wanted to check it out, but Alfred cut him off and continued to drag the passive aggressive teenager through the woods.
Through the ride, Arthur wasn’t paying attention, too lost in his thoughts (wonderful fantasies of beating Alfred with a solid hardback copy of War and Peace), and stopped only when his tire dipped off solid ground. His stomach fell to his toes and he gulped, a panic taking over his heart and hands, trembling like a mouse caught in a dryer. Instead of the gradual decline, Arthur stared at a fatal forty-five degree drop. Trees reached over the dirt path, like a tunnel of cheerleaders cheering on the football team before they charged on the field.
Arthur made notice of the temperature drop and the increasing darkness down the tree tunnel and the gnawing fact that he couldn’t see the end of the path.
Alfred skidded to a stop next to him. “What’re you waiting for, Artie?” Alfred asked, “This is the fun part!” Alfred beamed, gripping the handle breaks, inching closer to the decline. “Ok, ok, ok, Matt, I’m gonna go first. I wanna see Arthur’s face when he comes down. That and I think I can stop on my bike, and without running into the tree.”
“Tree?” Arthur asked. What little color he had in his face drained rather painfully.
“Oh, come on, Carlton,” Alfred in protest, patting his cousin on the shoulder causing him to jump a bit in seat, “don’t be a spilt hot coffee on jeans on an Atlanta summer day.”
He turned to Matthew, who’d been in the process of slamming his forehead in his palm. Alfred placed his hand on Matthew’s shoulders and gripped tightly. “Matt, if anything happens to me,” he started. Matthew looked up and caught his brother’s eye over the rim of his glasses. There was no emotion in his face, just the raw determination of a soldier about to go to war. “You’re still not getting my Pokémon decks or CDs.”
With that Alfred sped off, leaving nothing but a tuft of dirt. He sat up in his seat, catching the wind and adrenaline as he zipped away. With each pedal stroke, he gained more speed until he was sure to jump back in time or break the sound barrier. A grin caught his face, wide and wild. He’d never felt so awake, aware, alive and all those other clichés about soaring and living and whatever. He whooped the entire five second trip.
Matthew glanced at his watch, counting down from five while Arthur slowly retracted into his bike seat, burying his face into crossed arms, looking progressively greener.
“Three…two…one,” Matthew said.
There was a skid, an “oh no!” and the oof of a five-foot, one-hundred-fifteen pound boy careening to the earth at nine-point-eighty-one meters-per-second.
“And that happens all the time?” Arthur asked, peeking at his younger cousin from crossed arms.
“Yup. But that’s coz Al’s stupid and tries to take this hill at sixty-miles-an-hour,” Matthew said. He smiled, trying to reassure his cousin that travelling the slope wasn’t an automatic death certificate. “You’ll be fine. Just take it slow.”
“Ow-w-w-w-w-w,” Alfred moaned, voice muffled by distance and altitude drop. “Matt, did you bring a splint? I think I broke something.”
“Oh, stop whining, y’big baby,” Matthew said, rolling his eyes. “Arthur, I have to check on Al. Make sure he didn’t do any real damage.”
“You’re going to leave me?” Arthur asked, wool-like eyebrows perched high (didn’t his parents send the boy to get them trimmed two weeks ago?). “Alone?”
“Well, you’re not gonna be alone for long.”
“Matthew, I’m dying!” Alfred called. “Ah, it hurts so ba-a-a-d.”
“Coming!” Matthew cried. “You’ll do fine, I promise. And if not, we’ve got the hospital on speed dial.” With that, Matthew pushed his way through the tree tunnel, shouting to his little brother to stop complaining so much over a splinter.
Which left Arthur at the top of the hill.
Alone. He inched to the decline’s start and quickly wretched back. His heart clawed at his ribcage, demanding exit as if possessed by an ethereal demon. If he gripped the handle bars tighter, it would have turned to ash. He stared at the decline, rationalizing his decision to stay or go. To stay meant to miss out on this “Tree Fort” the neighborhood children had been chirping about since he’d arrived four months ago and summer started. To go meant risking his life in a neck-breaking free-fall defying all facets of physics and gravity. To stay-
A branch creaked under weight and snapped. Arthur jumped about twenty feet in the air and his bike passed the incline’s start and began a frightening and bumpy ride.
In later days, the sound that came from Arthur’s metal encrusted mouth would be described as a small female child between the ages of three and six, having both pigtails caught in a van’s door while her ankles were nipped by micro Chihuahuas.
Arthur’s bike slapped a large stump of a rock and suddenly he was staring at a sky of tree underbellies in a bed of leaves, sticks and dirt, breath coming in short quips, never fast enough.
“Whoa! Arthur! You flipped five times in the air!” Alfred said, jumping, excited. “That was so wickedly awesome! That was amazing! Do it again! Do it again! Ow! Matt, don’t hit the injured!”
“Arthur, are you ok? That’s two back injuries in a week! Can you move your hands? Blink if you can understand me! Oh, God, he’s dead!”
“I’m not dead,” Arthur wheezed. He managed to roll over on his side and due to improper weight distribution, landed face first into the leaf pile. He pushed himself off the ground, back spazzing, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to show that on his face. He stood and took a moment to get his balance and glared at Alfred.
Arthur lunged toward Alfred, screaming, “I’m going to kill you like I should have last week,” but was stopped by Matthew’s arm.
“Arthur, you can’t kill family!” he said.
“Yes I can when they’ve attempted murder twice now. Let go Matthew!”
“No!”
It was at this moment that Arthur took notice of his surroundings.
The tree path and hill had lead to an alternate world, one from childhood fairytales and legends of years ancient. Tall spruces sealed the area, large enough for two dozen people to reside comfortably, in a woodland bubble. The land continued pooled to the center, where an oak, thick as six children, sat royally, its branches arching in a protective sort of manner, shielding the spruce babies from onlookers and the sun. A crudely made wooden balcony hugged the trunk, wooden planks planted lackadaisically on the side. Looped wire and rope swings dangled from thicker, higher branches like Christmas tinsel.
It was darker here, sunlight only penetrating the ground every few steps, dust and dirt sparkling like magic dust. It was quiet. Not even the chirping of birds or grasshoppers or crickets.
“Wh-where are we, exactly?” Arthur asked, feeling his anger depleting.
“The Tree Fort, dummy,” Alfred said, leaning on a spruce, taking a swig of water. He grinned. “Told you it was awesome.”
“And this has been part of a Hetalia…tradition?” Arthur asked, eyebrows crossed.
“Yup.” Alfred trotted to the center oak and climbed up the plants, finding rest on one of the un-tinseled branches. He latched his legs around the branch and fell down, swinging like a piñata. “Every few years or so, new Hetalia Boulevard kids come and add new stuff to this place. Like this,” he pointed to the balcony, “Sadiq, G and Herakles made it before they started hating each other.”
“When did that start?” Arthur asked.
“I dunno,” Alfred said, shrugging his shoulders, shirt falling to his face. He swung around and straddled the branch. “Hey, Matt, can you break out the sodas and Pop Tarts?” Matthew did as he was asked while Arthur threaded through the area, taking in the scenery, trying to take as many mental pictures as possible.
Matthew scaled the tree and parked himself at the edge of the shoddily built ledge. He offered Arthur a Pop Tart, but was politely turned down. When offered a Sprite, he obliged.
It didn’t take long for Arthur to meet his American cousins on the tree, drinking soda, staring into a place he was sure divinity had touched.
“So, Old Man Johnson,” Alfred said. “Matt, you’re up. This is your story.” Arthur grumbled.
Matthew smirked, and placed his Dr. Pepper next to him. He cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, on a quiet block, far, far away from the main city, there lived a crumbly old man in a crumbly old house. His name was Leonard Johanisson, and had traveled to New York from his home country in Germany after the Great War in search of a better life. After crossing Elis Island, he changed his name to a more American sounding “Johnson,” but he was still rejected by his American neighbors. The children on the block began to call him Old Man Johnson, even though he was only thirty or so.
“Mr. Johnson was a soldier for the Kaiser, whatever the heck that was and way back then, they didn’t have things for people who freaked out after they went to war. In fact, going to a shrink was extremely looked down upon. So when he started hearing the gunshots of the trenches every day, he simply went mad.”
“This is the good part,” Alfred cut in.
“Sh-shut up,” Arthur said, devouring his Pop Tart, waving him away.
“A child on the block, known as the European Block before it was known as Hetalia Boulevard, went missing for three days. Immediately, the neighborhood pointed fingers at Mr. Johnson, but he insisted he had no idea where the boy was, that he didn’t even know the child’s name. A few months later, another boy went missing. Again and again, children were plucked from their parents’ holds. They said evil resided in that house and demanded to search, as if Mr. Johnson were some sort of Pied Piper, demanding charge for the adults’ terrible behavior to him.”
“Did they ever find the kids?” Arthur asked. Matthew grinned wider, seeing the fear etched into his cousin’s face.
“Mr. Johnson died shortly after the accusations of the sixth child was reported missing. They said he died with a smile on his face, as if to mock the parents of the lost children that they’d never find them.
“A few weeks later, someone was complaining of a nasty smell coming from the house. They called the cops, fearing what it could be. The team entered the house and examined it, attic to basement, searching for the source of the smell. When they got to the basement, the smell was the strongest. There were no electric lights in the house, so the room was brightened by flashlights and the few oil lamps they found mounted on the wall.
“Slowly, the room was filled with orange light. One by one, the police officer’s eyes adjusted to the weak light and sure enough there were limbs-” Matthew clawed his hands and jumped toward his cousin and younger twin. Arthur and Alfred yelped.
“-of children hanging from the ceiling, rotting and full of maggots as things of that nature should be. Some were stripped clean of meat and only splintered bones remained. The rumors of evil residing in the house were quickly stated as fact, because only a man possessed with the devil could commit such atrocities.
“For seven decades, no one lived in that house. It was quickly rumored, passed on by each Hetalia Boulevard member to the next that should anyone live there, the spirit of Old Man Johnson would be unleashed, bringing terrible things to the peaceful block. When Mom and Dad moved here, they got the same introduction and when we were little, Francis told us about it. Al didn’t believe him, but he only had the guts to touch the door. Since then, he’s believed.”
“And now the Braginskis have moved in to that house?” Arthur asked. “Is the spirit going to be unleashed and bring death upon the block?”
“Nope. Safe as a Puerto Rican in Manhattan,” Matthew said with a grin.
“Well, that’s what Matthew thinks. I’m pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before weird stuff starts happening.”
“You’re crazy,” Matthew said, rolling his eyes. Honestly, his brother could be such a dork sometimes.
“Well, how ’bout this, huh? What if Sadiq and Herakles start fighting again? That almost broke up like, four families. What if he kills Herakles because he’s possessed by Old Man Johnson?”
“Herakles and Sadiq haven’t fought for years. Not since we were in elementary school,” Matthew said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“We haven’t fought in a long time,” Alfred pointed. Matthew’s eyebrows creased and his gaze turned to his dangling feet, noting the careful stitching in his shoes. The temperature dropped something cold and frosted, like a mid-December snow. Matthew kept his eyes on his shoes and shifted slightly. Alfred coughed and quickly recovered. “N-not like last week anyway.”
Arthur wondered if now was the time to ask about last year, but quickly dismissed the notion.
“It would be rather peculiar and perhaps equivalent to spiritual intervention if Gilbert and Elizaveta started ‘going out,’ wouldn’t you say?” Arthur offered, trying to wield the conversation back to happier tones.
His cousins simply stared at him, blinking occasionally, letting him know they were still alive.
“What did he say?” Alfred asked Matthew in a hushed tone, as if Arthur couldn’t hear him.
“I don’t know. Something about Gil and Liz going out,” Matthew replied with the same hushed tone. Alfred stopped, let the statement simmer before he and Matthew threw their heads back and guffawed. Alfred nearly fell out of the tree, but quickly recovered, much to the annoyance of Arthur, who was now a lovely shade of three-hours-in-the-sun-pink.
“Good one, Artie. And here I thought couldn’t be funny.” He wiped a faux tear from the corner of his eye. Arthur opened his mouth, as if he were to say something, but was quickly silenced by Alfred’s interjection. “While we’re talkin’ ’bout this, you know what else would be weird?”
He never had an opportunity to further divulge because there was a snap of branches breaking under a heavy foot.
“What was that?” Arthur asked, scanning the Tree Fort’s area. His ears perked as he listened for the sound again (he’d heard it before today, he was sure). Alfred’s smile and happy demeanor Velcroed off with almost an audible scratch. Memories of Old Man Johnson’s wandering soul came to mind. Alfred Saran-wrapped to Matthew.
“It’s Old Man Johnson’s spirit come to kill us!” Alfred said, voice spiking at the end like a bath squeak toy.
“Urgh, Alfred, ge’off me,” Matthew protested, shoving his brother away. There was the snap again.
“Come on, we need to get out of here,” Arthur said, ushering his younger cousins down the tree. He waited on the ledge for the Williams twins to reach ground before he descended. Snap.
“Did that sound closer to you guys?” Alfred asked, panic wavering his voice.
“Yeah it did. Now go, go, go!” Matthew said, pushing his brother.
Arthur wasn’t sure where they were going through the rushed panic, leaving their backpack and helmets behind, only that they were going up a hill on the other side of the tree. It was steeper (if possible) than the Tunnel of Doom.
When they reached the top, the fairytale shattered and they were back in reality. They were back in suburbia, with the familiar houses and cars and the steady beat of a Russian rock song. Wait, they were back on Hetalia Boulevard?
“Alfred,” Arthur asked. “Where are we?”
“Oh, we’re back home. We took the short way.”
“Arthur you can’t kill your family members!”
“Like hell I can’t. Unhand me, Matthew!”
There was a crash of shattering glass in the house directly across them, the Karpusi home. The three stopped their brief moment of tomfoolery to observe the colonial home with green Exterra in the driveway. The front door opened and a seventeen year old boy flew out, landing on his side, skidding to a stop on the grass.
“Get out of my house, you dirty Turk!”
Portent
pôr'těnt' (n.)
1. An indication of something important or calamitous about to occur; an omen.
2. Prophetic or threatening significance: signs full of portent. 3. Something amazing or marvelous
3. A prodigy.
//Chapter Five//
I think the ending is a bit rushed, but hopefully it's sufficient to all of your wants. Sorry if it's kind of back-story heavy, but it's all pertinent and like the chapter so subtly informs you, foreshadowing.
Oh, and like 95% of this fic, this chapter was heavily inspired by my childhood neighborhood. Me and my friends had this spot we played at occasionally called the Tree Fort with this huge tree in the center. The first time I went out there, it took us three hours to get there, but soon we found out it was only two blocks away from our house. >__> childhood!fail.
I've got some pretty heavy stuff going on this week, so another update is forcasted in about two weeks. But don't worry, I don't plan on abandoning this project! If bad things happen or not, I still want to see this through.