He breathed a sigh of relief as he got to the end of the poorly maintained dirt road with its pandemic of pot holes and twisty ruts. His ancient Chevy's headlights goaded the muggy midsummer night's hoards of flying bugs into maniacal Kamikaze attacks on his rusting piebald vehicle.

The Glade
by Grover

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Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is unintentional. Transgender themes and other mature themes are included within. If you would be offended by these, please don’t continue! I, the author, reserve the right repost this work As always, I am very aware of the wonderful group of proofers that take my rough-hewn idea and sand it smooth, turning it into a readable story. Thank you Laika and Hope!

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He breathed a sigh of relief as he got to the end of the poorly maintained dirt road with its pandemic of pot holes and twisty ruts. His ancient Chevy's headlights goaded the muggy midsummer night's hoards of flying bugs into maniacal Kamikaze attacks on his rusting piebald vehicle.

With a rattle grasp the worn motor finally died after he'd reached the end of the road near his destination, the glade. He'd known it was the perfect spot after stumbling across it last year, and after months of waffling back and forth had finally decided it was time.

A generous application of Deep Woods Insect repellent kept his welcoming committee of the swamp's blood suckers from spilling too much of his bodily fluids. Grunting as he forced the banged up car door shut; he reached into the open passenger's side window for his old ruck. It had made many a journey with him and it was only fitting that it would make this one as well. Settling it on his back, he pushed pass the thick brush into the tree line.

The thick moist air was alive with the sounds of the summer night. Frogs and cicadas competed to out sing the other in volume and duration filling the forest with their songs. He could see clearly despite it being a hazy night because of the full wet Moon with its Witch's Halo glowing brightly overhead.

How fitting he thought picking his way to the the river bank. Like stepping though a portal into another world as he passed one last Spanish moss covered tree into the glade. A slight breeze coming off the slowly flowing river made the thick humid air bearable and gently chivvied the hungry multi-legged night denizens on their way somewhere else.

Stepping out onto the lush grass on the riverbank he took a deep breath. Indeed it was otherworldly bathed in the colorless soft light from the Moon and its Halo above. The gentle murmer of the river gave the glade a feeling of peace he'd never found anywhere else.

Sighing, he removed a blanket from his ruck and carefully removed his few treasures he had wrapped within. The cheap scuffed plastic knight had once held a poorly rendered halberd until in one of his many moves the top had broken off. He'd taken a hobby knife and carved it into the rough shape of a baseball bat. It'd been a Christmas gift from his brother who seeing his large collection of fantasy books had thought it would be perfect. The small plastic knight with his bat had faithfully stood guard over him and his belongings for many years. Now there was just one more duty for his faithful watchman.

Next his hands found the gleaming globe of his Fey. In actuality it was a Christmas snow globe but that was not why he had purchased it. Winding the music box key underneath the chimes of 'Greensleeves' joined the river's murmer. Within the globe was a small fantasy sculpture of a butterfly winged fairy with her basket gathering flowers. Listening to the Old English song as it played let a tear escape him sitting there on the grassy bank.

Wiping his tearing eyes with a corner of the blanket, he picked up the silky material the globe had been shrouded in. He had brought it while stationed in Korea. It had caught his eye, and he just couldn't resist its beauty. Despite the awkward questions he feared it would bring given the lack of privacy in the barracks, he just had to have it.

Bringing the incredibly soft silk black dress to his cheek it was like holding a small piece of the night as the Moon shone down upon him. With his eyes closed he fought the tears that welled up from inside his heart. Impossible dreams so long denied that they hurt so badly he knew they crippled him even if no one could see. Careful to avoid staining the wonderful dress with his tears he dabbed them dry with the blanket's edge again.

With a deep breath he reached into the ruck his fingers searching for the long hard shape. Even in the warm summer night the metal felt oddly cold. He'd brought it many years before for just one purpose. The Cold Steel tanto was forged of surgical grade tungsten steel patterned on the classical Japanese dagger design. Its keen edge was razor sharp.

Settling himself down cross legged on the blanket, he closed his eyes. He sought to breathe in all the life and beauty about him for one last time. Slowly he drew the dark blade from it's sheath. All he desired was the ever present pain to stop.

“Don't do it Girl.” a strong voice called out from the night.

His eyes snapped opened in fear looking into the darkness for who had discovered him. With his heart racing he tried to think of an excuse to explain why he was here.

Again the voice sounded clear across the moonlit glade, “Don't bother feeding me any line of BS Girl. It's clear to me what you're intending this night. You're not the only damned soul to have dealings with Old Scratch. What I want to know is why you're making it so easy for him to collect his payment?”

Peering into the dark he could see an old beat up flat bottom boat with a young black boy at the helm, but it was the silvered haired old man standing in the bow that drew the eye. Luna seem to shine upon him like a celestial spot light. Tall he stood undefeated by time or fate despite the scars he bore of their best efforts. Unbowed he stood, determined to have his answers.

“Pappy,” the boy's whisper carried across the water.

“Shhh! Boy,” the old man admonished, “You going to answer me Girl or you going to keep me and my grandson here all night?”

Finding his voice,”Old Scratch? You mean the Devil?”

“Who else Girl? I can see his black mark upon you plain,” was the old man's reply. “I know what you were about with that Jap knife in your hand. Are you another fool who brought into that damn fool death and honor crap?”

Urgently the boy's voice floated across the river, “Pappy!”

Sighing at the interruption, “What is it Boy?”

“Pappy that ain't no girl!” the boy blurted out.

The boat had come closer and the eerie Witch's Halo above made the old man's blind eyes shine like silver orbs.

Hanging his head the old man sighed, “Well, that explains it. What did you do Girl? Lay awake at night praying for the good Lord in Heaven to make you right? When that didn't work maybe asked Old Scratch didn't you Girl? Damn Fool!” The strong old man demanded and accused of him.

All he could do was sit on the riverbank and mutely nod with the tears trickling down his cheeks. He had pretended for so long being someone he wasn't. Confused he'd tried telling others, but either was ignored or ridiculed. He was born a boy, a man and that was that. Not knowing what else to do he'd prayed and begged Gawd to make things right the way it should've been. When no answer had come he'd had even asked the Devil for he had felt already damned and had nothing to lose.

The cold steel tanto in his hands had been brought for just one purpose. How could that old man know that it was a woman heart that beat within his male chest?

The boy confused at being ignored, “Pappy! I told you that ain't no girl. That be a man there!”

Annoyed the old man growled back, “Boy how many times do I have to tell you to use your heart and not your damn fool eyes. Use your heart and you'll see sure as I'm here in this boat that is a girl on the bank.”

Gathering his courage he asked, “Who are you?”

The boy piped up, “He be Papa Jon! Powerful ...”

“Shut up Boy! The good Lord don't care for braggarts!” Looking back the figure on the bank, “The question is who are you?”

His tongue froze. He couldn't tell them his name! Admit that he'd been weak enough to want to take his ...”

“No! Fool Girl! Not the name your parents gave to you! Whose heart beats in your chest? What is the name of the woman you've hidden from everyone?” The blind man demanded.

“I, I, I don't know,” he admitted softly hanging his head low in shame.

“If you stand any chance at all of saving your soul, that is a question you are going to have to answer.” The old man told him.

The boat drifted closer to him and let him see the boy's scrunched up face as he stared hard trying to see what few could.

“Old Scratch heard you alright and he put his mark upon you. I guarantee he took your deal laughing the whole way back to hell, fool Girl! You'll get your desire maybe for a handful of breaths. Trade your soul with some crack whore dying somewhere after you use that Jap thing. You'll be a woman for a few heartbeats. After that you won't care for your sweet soul for it will be his to twist as he pleases,” the old man with the blind eyes said.

It'd been a long time since he'd believed. Having his prayers from his heart unanswered as he suffered had badly shaken the belief he'd had as a child. Seemingly ignored by the Adversary as well had finished off his belief. There was still a agnostic like faith remaining within him, but his childlike trust had been broken, until tonight. Something in the old man's fierce voice echoing across the moonlit river refused to be taken lightly. It had a power ringing within it that demanded his attention.

Not sure what was going on and confused he asked, “What can I do?”

Papa Jon rubbed his silvered head in thought as the old boat bumped softly into the bank

The boy's young clear voice sang out, “Ole Nick can't make you into no girl if you already are one.”

“Boy, sometimes you talk fool.” the old man said, “but every now and then you do me proud. He's right, You steal Old Scratch's thunder, and become a woman before he can fulfill his end of the deal. Then he can't do nothing.”

Not knowing what to think, he was wondering if the boy had meant to say Papa Jon was a HooDoo Doctor. “You mean a potion or spell or something?” he asked with a small measure of hope.

“NO, fool Girl!” the old man snapped, “Haven't you learned anything? Making a deal with such as them always leaves you the poorer in the end. Go to the white man's medicine. See what they can do,” the old man said with his eyes reflecting the moonlight.

“U-U-you mean surgery?” he asked with a wavering voice.

Giving a cough, the old man accused him, “You afraid? You're the one with that be-damned Jap razor in your hand ready to carve yourself up.”

The boy's face screwed up as he figured out what they were talking about and his hands moved to protect the object in question.

“It's not only that is it? You're afraid what your parents and others will say and do,” the old man said softly.

Mutely, he could only nod.

Shaking his silvered head, “They will understand or they won't. The good book says to honor thy parents not kiss their butts. You can't live your life for them. If this was easy you wouldn't be up to your neck in this mess to start with. Can't say how you'll look girl. Doctors are only mortal in the end. I can see only the beauty in the soul but trust me Girl it is there for any who bothers to look with their heart. ”

He looked down at the bared tanto in his lap. Slowly but deliberately he sheathed the blade.

Nodding his approval the old man spoke, “Life has dealt you a hard hand Girl. It's not going to be easy, but you've already have come a fairways.”

Putting the sheathed tanto aside, he stood and walked to the river's edge, “What's next?”

The sounds of the night filled the silence as the denizens of the swamp sang as the river softly muttered.

“Come here Girl,” the old man beckoned.

The aged gnarled hand picked a violet off the bank and placed it in the girl's hair, “Just live, Girl. Live the best you can. Make your time here count for something. Most folks are like my grandson here. They see with their eyes and not their hearts. I see the girl within you and you must see her as well.”

With a shove the old boat drifted away from the bank back into the river's current. “Remember your salvation lies in being true to yourself. Putting your butt in a church pew won't hurt nothing Girl!”

As the two faded into the fog beginning to rise on the river, “Be well and may the good Lord watch over you,” the old man's words faded away into the night. The battered boat slowly moved into the gathering fog and faded out of sight.

Raising from within him a wave of tears left him shuddering on his knees as he cried. The tears wrenched themselves from her heart and seemed endless. Weak and sniffing from his crying he dried his face on his now damp blanket.

With care he placed his talismans back into his ruck and stumbled back to his old Chevy. Using a bottle of water he splashed his face to wash away his tears and calm himself so he could drive. He wasn't sure just what had happened tonight, but having a car accident wouldn't help. After a few tries he got the Chevy started and moving in the right direction. He shepherded it carefully out to the paved road. No sooner he'd breathed a sigh of relief at the easier ride when the low fuel light began its baneful warning.

Leaving the curse on his lips unsaid, it was his fault for not filling up, but he had expected this to be a one way trip. Remembering a small gas station he'd passed on the way in, he slowly made his way there. He relaxed a little when the sign advertising gas, cigarettes, and live bait came into sight. The low concrete block building had its peeling white paint covered by sun faded posters hocking drinks, tobacco, and other sundries.

Above the door hand painted in large letters was “Sarge's Gas and Bait.” Well the important thing was they did have gas and strangely enough he had enough cash to not have to worry about the price for once. He'd seen no sense on spending much on himself seeing what he had intended this night. Knowing his family would need the money he had left it unused for them.

A man appeared at the door and he waved pointing at the gas pump. He put in about a half tank from the ancient rattling machine and went inside to pay. Pushing aside the doors the sounds of crickets from the bait cage and the struggling air conditioner echoed inside the small store. A heavy set old man with his arms covered in old distorted and faded tattoos watched him from the corner of his eye as he watched a small TV on the counter.

Having used the only water he had to wash his face earlier, he went to the cooler to find something refreshing to drink. Walking to the counter to pay for his gas and drink, he hesitated for a moment. Handing the man at the counter the money, he asked, “Have you ever heard of a man called Papa Jon?”

Sarge flicked ash off the cigarette affixed to his lower lip while counting back the change, “Papa Jon? I know him. He has a taste for old fashioned root beer and moon pies. Always sending that young grandson of his in here for them. Some out in the backwoods call him a witch doctor or something.

Coughing, “Well use to anyways. Some years back when that big hurricane blew though here, he and that boy of his went out bringing out those couldn't make it on their own. Damn fool thing for him to do being blind and all.”

He stuttered back, “What do you mean use to?”

Sarge gave him an accusing eye, “Why do you want to know?”

“I've heard the name mentioned tonight. Is, is he dead...?” he stammered.

“That's what I said, dead. They went out and never came back. Wasn't the first and won't be the last. Those swamps aren't friendly places on the best of days. You want a bag for that” pointing at the drink.

“N, n, no, I'm fine,” he said in shock. Dead, he thought with the blood draining from his face.

Sarge sighed, “Son, I'm going to give you some advise. You best take that flower out of your hair. Not everyone around here is tolerant like me around here. Some might take it wrong if you get my meaning.”

He nearly ran to his car throwing himself inside. Yanking down the mirror, he'd forgotten about the violet, but it was just where Papa Jon had placed it. An old man he'd just been told was dead. Shivering in the sultry summer night he remembered how Papa Jon and his grandson had just faded away into the fog upon the river. With his drink forgotten he drove off into the night towards his future.

One year later...

She'd been nervous about stopping at the small store, but was determined to do this right. She was thankful when old, battered, tattooed Sarge didn't seemed to recognize her for she was still very self-conscious of her appearance. Swimsuit models would never envy her, but she did look better than she'd ever suspected she could. Making her purchases she headed out looking for that dirt road. The pot holes and ruts were worse than the year before, but she was resolute to complete her errand.

Taking a few minutes to get her Honda turned around, but it was much easier than her aged Chevy had been. With great care she pinned the only one of her treasures she had with her this time to her blouse. After making sure the pressed flower was securely placed, she put her purchases in her ruck. Once more she'd made her way to the glade by the river. The moon wasn't in the same phase and it was missing its halo this time. A few scattered clouds lessened the lunar light, but in most ways it was the same.

Strolling out to the center of the grassy glade with her heart beating hard unsure what might happen. For awhile she just waited but soon shook her head and began to speak. “Last Year you asked me who I was Papa Jon. I didn't know then. It has been a hard year, but somehow whenever I really needed the help it always was there.

My folks still don't know what to think of me, but my brother has stood by me. I had to move to be closer to my doctors, and have a new better job now. I've made new friends, and my old ones who stood by me have become even closer. I still worry about how I look but I've even been complimented on my appearance.

I wouldn't have any of this without your help that night last year,” she said fighting her tears. “I remember Sarge said you liked root beer and moon-pies so I got you and your grandson some.”

Taking the bag from her ruck, she placed it on the bank. Sniffing she wiped her eyes. “I'm Gwen. Thank you Papa Jon.”

She waited for a few minutes and turned to leave. Gwen hadn't gone more than a few steps when she heard something behind her. Should she go back and look she wondered? Thinking about it she knew in her heart what it was. Smiling she whispered, “You're welcome.” Reaching her car she drove off towards her future leaving the moonlit glade behind her.

In the river's gentle breeze the bag of wrappers and empty bottles chimed from the willow branch where it was fastened. If anyone were to listen it was almost like voices.

“Fool Girl!”

“Pappy!”

“Shut up Boy!”

Or maybe it was just the wind on a mid-summer's night.

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The End