If We'd All

The Degrays

"The time!" Lucca's eyes flitted from his watch to the direction of the house.

The last minute at the pond became a blur of damp shoes and searching for lost socks. 

We ran in a huddle back home, shivering as the last light faded from the earth.

Upon arriving home, we all noticed the glimmering punchbuggy in our driveway, and bursted into "punchbuggy no punchback!"s as we lightly fisted each others shoulders.

"Mum said we had company tonight." I said to no one in particular.

"Who?" Tapio asked.

"Dunno."

"Did you ever set that table?" Lucca half-smiled like the moon.

"No..."

We piled into the house and warm yellow light poured out into the still night, alive with crickets.

Tumbling as quietly as we could up the stairs, we readied ourselves for the company that was already downstairs.

Mud was rinsed from bleeding legs, teeth were brushed, hair was combed, faces were washed, and evening clothes were pulled on.

The hypnotic quality of the moon blazed through the lace curtains in my bedroom. The girl in my mirror was clean, combed, and dolled up in a pretty red dress, relatively new.

I was the last one downstairs, and my siblings were already seated. The company was already babying Oscar, who still clutched the toy bear, who was now drying. Our parents were wondering where it had come from, and I giggled to myself.

"What a fine young lady!" an old woman stood up and waddled over to me, planting red marks on both cheeks.

I smiled reluctantly and eyed my parents, who it appeared, had set the table themselves. As soon as I thought the lady wasn't looking, I attempted to rub the stains out of my cheeks, but my hand dropped into my lap when my mothers warning glance came my direction.

"This is Mrs. and Mr.Degray," my father started. "They've offered me business, and I wanted to invite them over for a feast!" He grinned and his hands spread over the tablecloth covered in trays, dishes, platters, and plates. Tapio licked his lips.

My father is a writer. He writes articles about places like unknown islands and un-been-to mountain peaks and travel. His work is very interesting, and he sometimes gets to go to places he writes about. My father is fascinated with unknown things. Places, especially.

Mrs.Degray spoke. "We've asked your father to write about a few places, and, compliments of us, (she looked to her so-far-silent husband) travel to his favorite of the three, perhaps with the family." She winked. "What do you think?"

I liked Mrs.Degray. I grinnned. "What are the places?"

Her eyes lit up and said, "Oh! My personal favorite is the mystical Halle's Forest, in Belgium. The trees are tall and green, and the ground is carpeted in bluebell flowers." Her eyes narrowed. "You know the story of the bluebell faery, don't you?"

Tapio's eyes widened.

"If you see her, you'll hear bluebells ringing. The bluebell ringing is a sign that you die." I grew hushed, recalling memories of being a child, being terrified of that tale.

Mrs.Degray smiled. "Yes. Beautiful but deadly."

"Tall tales!" Mr.Degray rolled his eyes, finally speaking up. All eyes went to him, surprised at his sudden interjection. "My personal favorite has nothing to do with fantasy."  He spit the word. "I am fascinated with Antelope Canyon, here in the USA. Its smooth walls were formed over many years by erosion of Navajo Sandstone, through rainwater in monsoon season and flash flooding." Mr.Degray looked pleased with himself. And the last place is--"

"Starry Beach, Maldives." My father finished. "Amazing. Spectacular. A true wonder. It's a beach with a natural phenomenon in which bio-luminescent phytoplankton, glowing organisms, wash up to shore, making the water look like there are millions of little blue stars glowing in the water." I thought back to the stars reflected in the pond. "Gorgeous." You could almost make out the glowing blue spots in my fathers wondering eyes.

The table was silent for a moment, until my mother stood up and whipped her napkin off her plate, using it to lift the top off a steaming plate, revealing a beautifully roasted bird. The delicious smell reached all around the table and filled up the room.

"Bon Appetit !" My mother sang.

Plates began to fill, and the topic of unworldly places was forgotten.