Nobody Can Say It's You

56

Dougal Orner was sitting in a rough shed he'd built in the woods, wondering if one last shot of his herbal potion might be enough. Dougal possessed the recipe for the flying ointment. 

His mother had warned him many times not to use it, but he had tried it a couple of times. He felt like crap when he came down from his trip, but that was only a minor inconvenience.

Some of the Ancients used this stuff, too. Dougal had run into a couple of them in the middle of the night when he was soaring over the trees and mountain tops. He was lucky they hadn't seen him. Or if they had, they realized he was too much of a novice to bother shooting down from the night sky.

Those old prunes were real territorial when it came to their airspace. Dougal still felt that deathly chill right in the center of his heart whenever he thought about those nights. There was no Southern hospitality in their feelings about having an intruder over their mountains, but they had more important things to attend to than Dougal Orner.

He would have to be very careful. Those old ones had powers he could only dream about. It came from being around so long, he guessed. Maybe, someday, he'd take them all on - if he lived long enough.

***

Dougal's favorite role model was James Dean. Rebel. Devil-may-care attitude. It was a crying shame that Jimmy went out so soon, but still, he did it in a blaze of glory. If Dougal had to go out, that wasn't a bad way to go, he decided. In a fancy sports car going about 250 miles an hour. Yes, sir. Jimmy was on to something, Dougal decided.

***

Should he use it or not.

The ointment was hard to dose. Even harder to try figure out how it would affect you. The first time had been pretty good. Even the bad trip back down later wasn't really that bad. But the second time was that a nightmare. Dougal walked around in a daze for several days. It was hard to tell what was real and what was a figment of his messed-up imagination.

What would the third time be like? Nirvana or hell?

Dougal sat on the three-legged stool and stared out the door of the shed. The night air was keen, but he'd layered up with plenty of clothing. What did he care about a little cold air?

Use it or not? That is the question.

Dougal felt very Shakespearean. How he hated those lessons in school. But he did have to admit, the parts about the witches and what not that Shakespeare guy wrote about was pretty cool. Even if he didn't understand nine-tenths of what that old guy was saying.

Use it or not?

Dougal sat very still in the old shed trying to make up his mind if the risk was worth it. The sun dropped over the ridge and dusk was creeping into night.

Dougal would have to make up his mind soon. It was a long, cold walk home in the dark.