Danny's Mind: A Tale of Teenage Mysticism and Heavenly Power

 

  Danny’s Mind

  A Tale of Teenage Mysticism and Heavenly Power

   

  By: James Bailie

  Copyright © 2012 James Bailie

  [email protected]

   

  This is a work of fiction. Resemblances to persons living or dead, real events, locations or organizations are purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

   

   

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Commentary on Danny’s Spiritual Cosmology

   

  Prologue

   

   

  When I stepped out the doors of Peyton, Pennsylvania’s Juvenile Correction Center into the August afternoon, the last thing I expected to see was Steve Kinney waiting to pick me up.

  “Congratulations getting out, Joe,” Steve said.

  “Hey.”

  He was still a broad shouldered, medium height, well-muscled linebacker. His hair was yellower than I recalled but it might have been the bright sun. His smile seemed genuine, but I didn’t get why he was there, since we weren’t exactly friends. I’d allowed my memories to go hazy the last few months, but I had one vivid fragment from the last time I’d seen him—he was shouting my name…my hands ripping his shirt… pushing him…glass cracking…

  “We’ve been trying to call you the last few months.”

  “I guess I didn’t feel like talking.”

   “Yeah. That was a lot of bad stuff happened.” He paused. “We talked to your dad yesterday. Told him we’d pick you up for him.”

  “My dad was gonna pick me up?”

  “Ah—“

  “Forget it.”

   “Your getting out is a big deal, you know. Everyone’s talking. There’s a lot of people want to see you.” Ahead of us a small group of kids, maybe half-a-dozen fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years olds, stood around a green pickup truck. I didn't bother trying to remember names. Except for Sally. How could I forget that sparkplug with the red hair—who was eyeing me as we approached the pickup. There was an odd, eager feeling among them, which put me a little off-balance. Something else, too…though I couldn’t quite catch what it was.

  Steve said, “We've formed something like a little church group since you’ve been away. I have to admit we’re still trying to understand all the things he taught.”

  I didn’t respond because I finally realized what was odd. Everyone was wearing the same tee-shirt: sky-blue, with a headless stick figure on the front. In the head’s place were lines streaming outward like sunrays. Steve was wearing one, too.

  “Nice tee-shirts.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Sally designed them.”

  As we walked towards the truck, Steve said, “Joe, we came because we wanted to ask you to join the group. We’d like your help. You’re the one who really knew him. You were his friend.”

  I just nodded, and I remembered why I needed to apologize. “Steve, you know that day, what I did to you—the windshield?”

  He showed me his arm and traced a jagged brown seam. “One good scar, Joe, that was it. Forget about it. That was the worst day.”

  I started to feel a coldness growing in my gut.  “Yeah—is that my bike?”

  Steve pointed to the motorcycle in the back of the truck. “Yep. We got it from your house. Thought you might want to drive it. It’s gassed and ready to go.”

  “Nice.” I missed my bike.

  Steve’s voice lowered, “Joe, did you get the recorder? No one found it afterwards. There were rumors. It was supposed to have his secrets.”

  I pretended not to hear him, and we reached the truck.

  Steve spoke louder, for everyone’s benefit, “But really, Joe, we want to welcome you back and hopefully you can help us. I think you’ll like the way we celebrate him and the things he taught. We’ll show you our little church. It’s just an abandoned old shed at Highland Park, but we’ve made up a kind of a service. We have a big picture of him which we put up. It’s the real deal… Then we can get some tacos and talk.”

  Sally came over, her red hair shiny like an apple in the sun. “How you doin’ Joe? You look good.” She put a hand on mine. “Everyone’s been waiting for you.”

  The kids who had been hanging around the truck took turns shaking my hand and patting my back. One buddy-smacked me in the arm. I nodded at each. What do you say to a bunch of people welcoming you after eight months in juvie? Especially people who until now…probably were afraid of you.

  The last, a small brown-haired kid, said. “Can I ride with you?” He made it sound like it was a big thing.

  I said, “Thanks, guys. Bring the cycle down and I’ll follow. Alone though. It’s been a few months and I might be shaky. It’s not as easy to control with a passenger.” There were some understanding nods and smiles. Then three of them lowered the bike to me and I straddled it.

  Standing a few feet away, Sally leaned into Steve’s ear, then climbed into the passenger’s side. Everyone else piled in back. Steve appeared disappointed, like he was expecting a bigger show from me. But I just sat there. He shrugged and said, “Okay, Joe, we’ll see you there.” As he opened the driver’s door, I wondered what Sally meant when she whispered: “Did you see the bright-eyes?”

  An icy spike inside of me twisted out the terror from the past. I remembered where she’d said the words—the grassy hill with dozens of teenagers sitting on the ground, listening spellbound to a small boy with brilliant eyes.  For a moment, a new kind of hero.  A strange messenger with a strange new message that inspired so many…and frightened others.  A flash of unstoppable images—bodies hurtling through the air, a frenzied melee of angry faces, a gentle face gazing up from my arms…something nasty poking out of it.

  The engine of the truck started.  I winced and gripped the handles of my bike, and wished Steve had never shown up.