YEARNING FOR THE WHITE AVENGER

by CARL FREDERICK

* * * *

Illustration by Nicholas Jainschigg

* * * *

Some things are best done in stages...

* * * *

“You don’t like Brussels sprouts,” said the parrot.

Conradin gazed over at the perch in surprise, and also embarrassment. For the first time, he’d been invited to dinner by his best friend, Henry, and he wanted to make a good impression.

Henry laughed. “Mom trained her to say that.” He seemed pleased with himself. “Because of me.”

Mrs. Wolverton smiled. “It’s all right, Conradin,” she said. “Most eleven-year-old boys aren’t nuts about Brussels sprouts.” She threw a glance at her son. “Henry certainly isn’t.”

Conradin balled a fist with the hand on his lap. “But how—”

“I saw what you did,” said the parrot.

“What?” Conradin felt his face flush with guilt; when Mrs. Wolverton had gone out to bring in the dessert, he’d slid a Brussels sprout back into the serving bowl. And now the parrot was telling on him.

“You must have made a fist,” said Mrs. Wolverton. “Shadow’s trained to say that when she sees someone making a fist.”

Conradin stared at her and wrinkled his nose in puzzlement.

“It was for a crime show.”

“Oh,” said Conradin, still mystified.

“Mom trains animals for TV.” Henry wiggled a finger at Shadow. “African Grey parrots are smart.”

“I didn’t think they were that smart.” Conradin nodded over at the dog watching alertly from just outside the no-begging zone: a black and white Border collie with half-perked ears and dark brown eyes. “Anyway, I thought dogs were smarter than birds.”

“They are. Watch this!” Henry slid his chair back a few inches, then turned toward the dog. “Sniffles,” he said, “do you want some people food?”

Sniffles, whining, made twitching motions. In spite of the dog’s lack of speech, Conradin had no difficulty understanding him.

“Then bring over your bowl.”

Sniffles ran out of the dining room and a few seconds later, returned with a dog bowl in his teeth. He paused at the no-begging boundary and, after Henry nodded, raced up to the table. Henry put some lamb chop scraps in the bowl and told Sniffles to eat it in the kitchen. Sniffles, with the bowl in his teeth, dashed out of the dining room.

“Geez!” said Conradin.

“Where is Sniffles going?” said the parrot.

“Wow!” said Conradin. “These guys are smart as people.”

Mrs. Wolverton put down her fork. “It’s body language, mostly. Dogs and birds are sharp observers. We can train them so they seem very intelligent.”

“But Sniffles and Shadow are intelligent,” said Henry, glancing at the parrot. “African Greys are Einstein parrots and some Border Collies can understand over four hundred words. They can’t talk, but they’re super intelligent.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Mrs. Wolverton. “Intelligence is a word covering many meanings. There really should be a lot of different words.” She regarded the parrot. “But whether Shadow knows what she’s saying—probably not, but who knows?”

Just then, Sniffles padded back in.

“Good dog,” said Henry. “You can come up to the table now.”

Sniffles, tail wagging, darted up between Conradin and Henry. Conradin leaned over and patted the dog, closing his eyes when Sniffles licked his face.

“You really like dogs,” said Mrs. Wolverton.

“I love dogs.” Conradin chuckled. “How could you tell?”

“Body language.” She gave a warm, inclusive smile. “Maybe you can work on your father to get you a dog.”

“I’ve tried. He doesn’t want a dog around. Most of the time, he doesn’t even want me around.”

“Oh, don’t say that.”

Conradin cast his eyes down at his Brussels sprouts.

* * * *

In Henry’s room after dinner, Conradin pretended he was getting a dog. Prone on the floor with Sniffles between them, he and Henry leafed through a breed book. They started at Affenpinscher and had gotten most of the way through the letter K when Conradin stopped at a picture of a great white dog with thick unkempt fur, flop ears, and dark, intelligent eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” said Conradin. “Kuvasz, it says. A livestock protection dog.”

Henry leaned in to read the page. “Hey, look at this.” He pointed at the text. “The Kuvasz is so protective that parents can’t even scold their kids when the dog’s around.”

“That’s a really good dog,” said Conradin.

Sniffles gave a low woof.

Henry brushed his cheek against Sniffles’ muzzle. “You’re an even better dog.” He patted the dog between the ears. “He doesn’t herd sheep like you do, he only guards them.”

“Wow!” said Conradin, still engrossed in the book. “This dog weighs more than both of us together.” He slammed the volume closed and sprang to his feet. “This is my dog.” He turned to Henry, who had rolled over on his back. “Could you do me a favor? Could you go onto the net and find a picture of a Kuvasz and print it for me?”

“Sure.” Henry scrambled to his feet and went to the computer.

Conradin, standing behind as Henry worked the keys, envisioned the dog, his dog. The White Avenger! That’s what he’d name it. He imagined himself at home, sleeping, snuggled up to his dog, safe.

“How about this one?” said Henry, looking back over his shoulder.

“Great!” Conradin stared at the image on the screen: a great, proud, and confident dog standing in a heroic pose on a green meadow with a flock of sheep in the distance. “He’s terrific.”

“Protection from the bullies,” said Henry, as he sent the image to the color printer.

“Yeah, the bullies.”

Without turning around, Henry asked, “Is your dad still hitting you?”

Conradin didn’t answer.

After a moment, Henry swiveled the chair to face his friend. “Well, does he?”

“He says I deserve it.” Conradin looked down at his feet. “And I think maybe I do.”

“That’s crazy. No kid deserves to be beaten up all the time.”

“Yeah. You just try telling that to him.”

“Well, I think I should tell my mom.”

“No!” Conradin couldn’t bear the thought of his shame being exposed. “It’s a secret.”

“Why?”

“It just is. Promise not to tell.” Conradin’s eyes began to go moist. “Please.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Swear it.”

“All right.” Henry yanked the image from the printer. “I swear it. Here’s your dog.”

Conradin took the sheet as if it were a holy relic. The White Avenger.

There was a knock at the door. “Milk and cookies,” came Mrs. Wolverton’s voice.

Henry opened the door and took the tray. “Thanks, Mom.”

Conradin saw two glasses of milk, a dish of chocolate chip cookies, and a few loose dog treats.

“Your mom’s neat,” said Conradin when the door had closed.

“Yeah.” Henry set down the tray and dangled a dog treat in front of Sniffles. “Sniff. Want a snack?”

Sniffles, his eyes locked on the treat, made a singing rowf sound. Again, there was no mistaking the body language. Henry tossed the snack, and Sniffles caught it on the fly.

“Hey,” said Conradin, his eyes on Sniffles. “I’ve just gotten a really screwy idea.”

Henry gazed at him quizzically.

Conradin laughed. “You didn’t need to answer,” he said. “Your body language answered for you. That’s my idea.”

“O-kay.”

“Border Collies are smart,” said Conradin. “Right?”

“Yeah,” said Henry, cautiously.

“And they can understand about four hundred words.”

“I think Sniffles can.”

“And,” said Conradin, with the air of a trial lawyer making a telling argument, “Sniffles can talk back using body language.”

“Yeah. In a way.”

“And your mom trained Shadow to understand body language and to say what she understands.”

“Yeah, so?” said Henry with obvious impatience. “Just tell me your idea.”

“Okay, listen,” said Conradin, excitedly. “Why can’t we train Shadow to understand Sniffles’ body language?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Then we could talk to Sniffles, Sniffles would answer in body language, and Shadow would translate it to words. We’d have a talking dog!”

Henry cocked his head at an angle and gazed at his friend.

“Well?” said Conradin after a few moments.

“Yeah, it’s a screwy idea, all right.” Henry put his hands on his head and interlocked his fingers. He laughed. “But I like it.”

“Do you think we can get your mother to teach us how to train Shadow?”

“She’s already taught me.” Henry raised his arms like a prizefighter declaring victory. “And when Dad comes home, maybe we can really surprise him.” He headed for the door. “He’ll be away for almost a week.”

“I wish I were that lucky,” said Conradin under his breath.

“Come on,” said Henry from the doorway. “Let’s get Shadow. And we’ll need some parrot crackers—and some more dog treats.”

* * * *

After a few hours, they had gotten nowhere; they could understand when Sniffles said, “let’s play,” or “I like you,” or “may I have a dog snack,” but Shadow refused to translate.

Henry threw himself down on his bed and gazed at the ceiling. “This isn’t going to work. I’d forgotten how hard my Mom works to get Shadow to say new stuff.”

Conradin glared gloomily at the parrot.

“Hey,” said Henry after a few seconds. “I’ve got an idea.” He rolled to his feet. “Shadow already can say lots of stuff.” He darted to his computer and pulled up a document. “This is what Mom calls her Shadow Phrasebook.”

Conradin looked over Henry’s shoulder at the screen showing rows of phrases, each followed by a hand gesture, or sometimes gestures with both hands. Finger positions were emphasized with dark shadings.

“Here, watch this.” Henry first pointed to one of the entries, then turned toward Shadow and executed the gesture.

“You are a bad man,” said Shadow.

Conradin giggled.

“When we see Sniffles doing something we understand,” said Henry, “we can make the hand signals from the book and Shadow will say what Sniffles means. After a while, we can stop using the hand signals.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. African Greys are smart.” Henry pressed a few keys and pages began spewing out of the printer. “You’ll have to learn the signals too. Mom prints copies and give them to the actors.” He gathered together the pages and handed them to Conradin.

Conradin studied an entry and made the hand gesture. But Shadow didn’t say anything.

“It’s this little squiggle here.” Henry pointed to the page. “After you make the hand position, you have to curl your little finger. It takes a little getting used to.”

Conradin tried it and after the third attempt, Shadow said, “Anybody home?”

“You got it!” said Henry.

Just then, Mrs. Wolverton’s voice echoed up the stairs. “It’s getting late. It’s time for Conradin to go home now.”

Henry opened the door and called down, “Mom. Does he have to? It’s Friday. There’s no school tomorrow.”

“Yes, he has to. He does have a home, doesn’t he?”

“But, Mom...”

“Do you need me to come up and discuss the situation?”

“No.” Henry closed the door.

After they’d arranged to continue the training tomorrow, Conradin put the Kuvasz picture in the front of his school notebook, slipped the phrasebook into his pack, and made ready to leave.

Downstairs, he thanked Mrs. Wolverton for dinner, hoisted his school pack to his shoulders, and trudged to the door. It was hard leaving the friendly household. He felt more at home there than at his own house.

As he stepped outside, the darkness surprised him. He’d not realized it was this late. Setting off at a jog, he hoped that when he got home, his father wouldn’t make an issue of it. Conradin scrunched his shoulders. It didn’t take much to trigger his father’s rage—especially if he’d been drinking.

To save some time, he took the forbidden shortcut along the cliff edge. There, a grass-covered plateau, featureless save for a lone pin oak, ended abruptly at a three-hundred-foot drop. There was neither signboard nor guard rail to warn the unwary. At the base of the precipice, a tumble of rocks and boulders gave way to a narrow beach and then to the ocean.

Conradin paused to catch his breath. He felt an excitement being there, not only because it was out of bounds, but also because it was the one place he felt close to his mother. They’d often picnicked there—sitting with their backs against the oak, shaded by its leafy branches and whispering dreams as they gazed out over the infinite ocean. It had been their private place before she’d married again. That tree was sacred.

But six months ago, while he was at school, she had fallen off the edge and that changed his life out of all recognition. His new father used to be somewhat nice—except when he’d been drinking. And since Mom’s death, he drank just about all the time. Conradin looked over at the oak tree, leafless now in the late fall, and then looked quickly away.

At the cliff edge, buffeted by the breeze off the ocean, Conradin managed to lose himself in the distant roar of the breakers crashing to the rocks below. He gazed up at the stars, finding the Southern Cross and then Canis Major, the “greater dog.” The eye of the dog, Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, seemed like an old friend. He said its name aloud and then the names of the other bright stars in the constellation: Mirzam, Adhara, Wezen. Just saying the names gave him a feeling of power. Mentally, he traced out the familiar outline of the dog. Then he altered the outline, morphing it into the shape of his dream dog, a giant Kuvasz, his protector. He said its name aloud, “The White Avenger,” then stared at Sirius, “and the All-seeing Eye of Vengeance.”

Gazing at the constellation, he let himself become hypnotized by its power. Words came to his mind, a chant, an incantation. He spoke it to the sky.

“Please, White Avenger. Watch over me and protect me.

And let the All-seeing Eye of Vengeance strike down my enemies and hurt them bad.”

As he prayed to his dream dog, he suddenly smelled corruption on the clean, cool air—the all too familiar stench of alcohol.

He spun around and reflexively raised his arms to protect his head—but not fast enough. His father grabbed him by the front of his shirt and backhanded him across the face. Conradin yelped.

“What do I have to do to get you to listen to me?” said the man, his voice low and angry. “I told you never to come here. This cliff is dangerous.”

“Then what are you doing here?” As soon as he said the words, Conradin regretted them.

His father spun him around and bent him over. “I’ll teach you to mouth off,” he said as he began slapping the boy repeatedly on the bare skin just below the edge of his shorts. Conradin shrieked, both from the pain and also the certain knowledge that if he didn’t, his father would just hit him harder.

Despite the pain, Conradin knew he’d been comparatively lucky; if this had happened at home, his father would have taken off his belt.

After a torrent of excruciating, staccato strokes, his father pulled him roughly to his feet. “Go home and go to your room,” he said with menace in his voice. “And stay there.”

Sniffling, Conradin darted away. Soon though, overcome with the physical and mental exhaustion that always followed a beating, he had to stop. Looking over his shoulder, he let out a breath of relief. His father wasn’t following him and that meant he’d probably be able to make it to bed without getting another licking. He lifted his gaze to Sirius, the sparkling All-seeing Eye of Vengeance. And he made a wish on it—a dark wish, a fierce wish.

* * * *

Next morning in Henry’s room, the boys began to build their talking dog. They decided to start with the phrase “come and play.” Henry already knew how to say it in dog; you get down on all fours and bounce up and down with stiff, straight arms. Henry demonstrated. Sniffles answered with the same movements. “All dogs know this,” said Henry, from the floor. “Even wolves.” He scrambled to his feet. “Okay. Here’s what we do. You get on your knees and do ‘come and play.’ When Sniffles does it, I’ll make the hand sign for Shadow.”

“I can make the sign,” said Conradin. “I memorized the phrasebook last night.”

“Really? All of it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” said Henry. “I’d better make the signs. Shadow knows me better, and anyway, Mom taught me how to train her.”

They tried it; when Sniffles bounced on stiff legs, Henry made the sign, holding his hand in front of the dog.

“Let’s play,” said Shadow.

They did it over and over. Henry made the sign with ever-smaller motions. And each time, Shadow said the phrase in squawky English. Then, Henry didn’t make the sign, but just held his hand inertly in front of the dog. Again, Shadow uttered the phrase. Finally, with Henry standing out of the way, Conradin bounced “come and play.” Yet again, Shadow said it in English.

“Hurray, we did it!” said Henry.

“I didn’t think it would be this easy,” said Conradin.

Henry bit his lip. “Me neither.”

They moved on to “may I have a cookie.” Shadow picked it right up, but the boys weren’t sure if it was Sniffles “talking” or the parrot.

Then, in the midst of training “I like you,” Henry turned on Conradin. “Hey, you’re cheating. I saw your fingers twitch. You made the hand signal.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Conradin, wounded that his best friend would accuse him of being a cheat.

“I saw you.”

“I didn’t. Scout’s honor.”

“I’ll prove it,” said Henry. “Put your hands in your pockets and I’ll get Sniffles to say come and play.”

“Okay,” said Conradin. “You’ll see.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and Henry dropped to all fours.

Sniffles “said” come and play, but Shadow stayed silent on her perch.

“See!” Henry got to his feet and glowered at his friend.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“Accident,” said Henry in a voice filled with disbelief and scorn.

“Really!” said Conradin. “I didn’t know I was doing it. I stayed up late memorizing the phrasebook. I guess now I automatically make the hand sign whenever I hear the phrase.”

“Geez! Now we’ll have to start all over.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Okay, okay,” said Henry, looking not at Conradin, but at Sniffles. “Let’s go back to ‘come and play’—but keep your hands in your pockets.”

“I can’t keep my hands in my pockets all week.”

“Then chop them off.” Henry balled a fist.

“I saw what you did,” said Shadow.

* * * *

It took most of the day, but finally Shadow got it; whenever they persuaded Sniffles to say come and play, Shadow said. “Let’s play.”

“That was a simple phrase,” said Henry, his voice filled with discouragement despite their success. “I don’t think we’ll get Shadow to say more than five or six phrases—even if we work on it all week.”

“You don’t want to give up, do you?

“No!” said Henry.

By dinnertime—Conradin had been invited for dinner again—they’d made little if any more progress.

The boys tramped downstairs into the dining room.

“Conradin,” said Mrs. Wolverton. “Why are you wearing mittens?”

“They’re Henry’s. I forgot I was wearing them.”

Mrs. Wolverton looked as if she was about to say something. But she didn’t.

* * * *

On Sunday and after school on the days that followed, Conradin worked on the Sniffles project with Henry. Aside from when he was sleeping, he spent almost no time at home. That was a good thing as it lessened the chance of his falling victim to his father’s temper. There was an incident on Thursday night, though—minor, just a sharp slap on the face.

Each night, as he walked home, Conradin gazed at the All-seeing Eye and renewed his angry wish.

On Friday, a school holiday, Conradin went early to the Wolvertons’. While he looked forward to another whole day there, his mood was tinged with sadness; Henry’s father was due back that evening, which meant the Wolvertons would be complete again. The days of his being almost a part of the family would be over.

Conradin had pretended for the week that Mrs. Wolverton was his mother and Henry his brother. Actually, they were brothers of a sort; in a solemn ceremony months ago, they had used a pocketknife to become brothers in blood.

As Conradin jogged through the front door, Mrs. Wolverton looked up from her book. “Hello, Conradin.” She frowned. “That bruise on your cheek. Have those school ruffians been picking on you again?”

Conradin hung his head.

Mrs. Wolverton stood. “Tell me their names. I’m going to phone the school and put an end to it.” She shook her head. “It’s a wonder your father hasn’t done so,” she said under her breath.

Conradin stood mute.

Meanwhile, Henry had padded down the stairs, stopping a few steps from the bottom. Conradin felt himself flush under his friend’s accusatory gaze.

“I don’t understand it,” said Mrs. Wolverton, throwing up her hands. “This schoolboy code of silence of yours.”

“I’m sorry,” said Conradin in a small voice.

She looked at him for a few moments, smiled, then put an arm around him and gave him a hug. “It’s all right, Conradin.” She laughed, clearly trying to change the mood. “Henry says you’ve been spending so much time here this week, we should adopt you.”

“Yeah,” said Henry, leaning over the banister, “Sniffles already has.” He chuckled. “He probably thinks you’re a sheep.”

“Could you?” said Conradin, looking at Mrs. Wolverton. “That would be great.”

“Could I what?”

“Adopt me.”

Mrs. Wolverton gave him a long look, her face tinged with puzzlement and concern.

Henry ran the rest of the way down the stairs and pulled Conradin away. “Come on,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

* * * *

Conradin had eaten dinner at the Wolvertons’ for the seven previous days, and those dinners were the high points of his existence. It was not so much the food—which was fine—but the warmth and the relaxed routine: everyone helping to set and clear the table, the pleases and thank yous as plates of food were passed, the dinner conversation, and his being treated as if he mattered.

Today’s dinner was special—celebratory. Henry’s father hadn’t known exactly when he’d arrive and had asked that they not hold dinner. But still, a place setting was laid out for him.

As they sat around the table, just after Mrs. Wolverton had brought in dessert, the doorbell rang. Henry jumped up. “That must be Dad!”

Henry sprang toward the door, getting there just as it opened. “Hi, Dad!”

Mr. Wolverton stepped in. He threw his briefcase on the hall table, tousled Henry’s hair, and strode briskly into the dining room. Conradin stood as he entered.

Mr. Wolverton exchanged hugs with his wife and his son.

Conradin, watching, felt a pang of envy and a sense of loss.

“And this is my best friend, Conradin,” said Henry.

“Hi, Conradin,” said Mr. Wolverton with a smile, motioning for the boys to sit. “Henry’s talked a lot about you.” He stared at the bruise. “Have you been in a fight?”

“Sort of, sir,” said Conradin, shyly.

“It’s terrible,” said Mrs. Wolverton, pouring a cup of coffee for her husband. “He’s bullied mercilessly at school—and out of school, too.”

Just then, Sniffles padded in from the kitchen. Shadow fluttered in as well and alighted on her dining-room perch. Sniffles jumped up and pawed at Mr. Wolverton. “I like you,” said the dog via Shadow. “May I have a cookie?” he added, exhausting almost half of the Sniffles/Shadow vocabulary.

“What?” Mr. Wolverton laughed. “What’s going on here?”

“It was Conradin’s idea,” said Henry. “Shadow reads Sniffles’ body language and translates it to speech. We’ve worked on it all week.”

“Fantastic,” said Mr. Wolverton. “What a great idea.”

Conradin beamed.

“And it really works,” said Henry. “We can actually talk to Sniffles now. A little bit, anyway.”

Ignoring the no-begging zone, Sniffles came up to the table and sniffed at Mr. Wolverton’s pants.

“May I have a cookie?”

“For gosh sakes,” said Mr. Wolverton, a smile on his face, “won’t someone give that dog a cookie?”

Henry fished a dog treat from his pocket and tossed it to the dog.

Seated around the dining room table, the Wolvertons were a family. Even though he was included in the conversation, Conradin couldn’t help feeling like an outsider. It was even worse when they discussed their plans for Sunday: a family outing to visit Henry’s maternal grandparents. Conradin felt like crying. He had no real family—no mother, no grandparents, or even aunts and uncles, just a mean drunken father. It wasn’t fair. He started to clench his fists but he stopped in time—before drawing the attention of Shadow.

After dark but earlier than usual, Conradin said his goodbyes and started to leave. At the front door, Mrs. Wolverton stopped him.

“I’m worried about those bullies,” she said.

“I’ll be all right.”

“Maybe,” she said firmly. “But to be safe, I want you to take Sniffles with you. He’ll protect you.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Wolverton. I don’t—”

“No arguments, young man.” She called for Sniffles and the dog padded in. She bent to the dog and pointed to the door. “Sniffles. You go with Conradin. See that he’s safe.” Shadow flew in and perched on the hall table. “You’ll have to take Shadow also.” Mrs. Wolverton straightened to her full height and gazed down at him. “They’re pretty much a pair now. When you get home, just send them back. Okay?”

Conradin smiled. “Okay.” There was no arguing with Mrs. Wolverton.

Outside, as he walked diffidently toward home, he looked at the stars. “Please, White Avenger,” he said. “Watch over me and protect me—and do just one thing for me.”

Even though he was in no hurry, he took the shortcut by the cliff. Something drew him there. Maybe it was the closeness to his mother or maybe the solitude. And anyway, it was early. His father wouldn’t be prowling about.

At the promontory, Conradin sent Sniffles and Shadow home. As much as he loved the Border Collie, it wasn’t his dog. And he needed to be alone.

Again, he gazed at the stars. “Mom,” he shouted at the sky. “It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

Anger replacing sadness, he swiveled around and began to stalk toward home. He’d taken no more than a few steps when a motion caught his eye. Peering at the tree silhouetted against the star-pricked darkness, he saw a sitting figure turn away from gazing out over the dark ocean. The figure rose to his feet, and Conradin sucked in a breath as he recognized his father. They stared at each other for a moment. Then, in the eerie silence, Conradin watched his father rip free a slender rodlike branch from the tree—a smooth wand about as long as his arm. Conradin knew he was in for it, but he almost didn’t care. He was boiling angry and stood rooted to the spot; his father had defiled the sacred tree.

Slowly, his father walked toward him—but without a stagger. Maybe he wasn’t drunk this time. Maybe he could be reasoned with. But as he drew closer, Conradin smelled the telltale odor.

They stood glaring at each other for a moment. Then his father said in a surprisingly calm voice. “Lie on the ground.”

“Why?” Conradin knew it was a silly question; he was just trying to forestall the inevitable.

“On the ground. Now!” his father commanded. “I’m going to teach you once and for all to listen to me when I tell you something.”

“But—”

“Now!”

There was no sense in running away. He was trapped. Conradin complied.

“Roll over onto your stomach.”

Conradin rolled prone, closed his eyes, and clenched his teeth. Please, White Avenger. Watch over me and protect me. He felt his father roughly pull down his shorts and felt a knee in his back. He heard the wand swishing through the air. A moment later, he threw back his head and screamed.

Stripped of his dignity, the supple branch began to strip him of his dreams. There was no White Avenger, no All-seeing Eye of Vengeance—just pain. And he was alone—just a powerless, disobedient kid. His shrieks alternated with sobs.

But after seven strokes, the cadence of the blows ceased and Conradin felt the knee draw away from the small of his back. He sucked in a sob and then he heard the growl. The pain from the last stroke took hold and Conradin felt his fingers twitch.

“You are a bad man,” came a voice.

Conradin wiped his eyes and looked toward the sound—the tree. There, almost invisible on a limb, gray melding to black, he saw Shadow. And midway between the tree and his father, Sniffles crouched low, his teeth bared.

The man, wide-eyed, stared at the Border Collie. “This is nuts,” he said. “I must be hallucinating.”

Fur bristling, Sniffles inched forward. “You are a bad man.”

Conradin’s father took an unsteady step backward.

Feeling it was safe to do so now, Conradin pulled up his shorts. But he stayed lying on the ground as he’d been ordered.

Sniffles growled again and Conradin’s father made a fist.

“I saw what you did,” came the voice.

With a look of wide-eyed horror on his face, Conradin’s father stared at the dog. “No. You couldn’t have.”

Sniffles glanced over at Conradin and then back at the man. “You are a bad man.”

“This ... This can’t be happening,” said the man.

Conradin, smiling through his pain, thought about his wish. But then, seeing that his wish might possibly be fulfilled, he had second thoughts. Maybe he’d deserved the whipping. Maybe he did need to learn to listen to his father. Maybe his father wasn’t evil—or ... or maybe he was. Conradin couldn’t decide, but it was his concern for Sniffles that settled it; Sniffles was clean and pure, and Conradin didn’t want to get him in trouble. “No!” Conradin shouted. He began to get up but as pain lanced through his tightened muscles, he fell back, prone. “No,” he said again, but softly and with less conviction.

Sniffles seemed not to hear and continued inching forward.

The man threw a wild, accusatory glance at Conradin and then turned his attention back to the steadily advancing dog. He made a second fist.

“I saw what you did.”

“It was an accident,” said the man in a pleading tone. “Just an accident.”

Conradin didn’t quite understand what the man was talking about.

“She just fell,” said the man, his eyes on the dog. “I didn’t mean to do it.” He took another step backward. “I was drinking. It wasn’t my fault.”

Conradin felt bewilderment and then comprehension made distant by denial and disbelief. He lowered his head to the ground, smelling the cool soil. His father, stepfather, couldn’t have...

He heard Sniffles snarl and looked up.

His father, still holding the wand, waved it at the dog and then threw it at an angle over the edge of the cliff—inviting the dog to jump after it, to follow it into oblivion.

Conradin, aghast and frightened for the dog, held his breath and at the same time renewed his wish.

Sniffles ignored the stick and pressed slowly forward.

In a flash of understanding then, a vision came to Conradin of how his mother had really died. He screamed in horror.

His father favored him with a contemptuous glance. “It’s your fault,” he said. “We were arguing about you.”

“No! It’s not true!” Conradin wiped his eyes, but he couldn’t stanch his anguished tears. He buried his head in his hands.

A few seconds later, Conradin heard Sniffles’ deep-throated growl, and then a loud, horrific cry from his father. Opening his eyes he saw, as if in slow motion, the man trying to regain his footing at the cliff’s edge. His father, a dark blot against the stars, bent forward and his feet slipped from under him. He clawed at the dirt and gravel but could not check his fall. He screamed as he slid from view.

Then, over the roar of the ocean, Conradin heard a muffled cry. “Conradin! Conradin, help me!”

Struggling to regain his sense of self, Conradin willed himself to ignore the pain and move. He crawled on hands and knees to the cliff edge and cautiously peered down. Sniffles, beside him, also looked over the edge. “You are a bad man,” said the parrot.

Conradin’s father, perched on a precipitously narrow ledge some twelve feet down, held desperately to a rotting tree root. He looked up. “Go for help,” he shouted. “To the Wolvertons. Tell them to bring a rope.”

To Conradin, it was remote—a bad dream, a nightmare.

“Now!” his father shouted, his face contorted in anger. “Damn it, Conradin. Move!”

Cowering from the voice, Conradin crawled backward, away from the edge. Then he stood and ran. At first he knew his mission: to get help. But as he raced through the dark, rugged countryside, his overwhelming desire was to escape the horror. He ran not toward a destination but away from an unbearable existence. He imagined his mother screaming to her death and his vision blurred with tears. Furiously, he ran, his body seeming to propel itself without his volition. He gasped from the exertion, and the gasps turned to sobs, and then to shrieks and wails. His memory receded; there was only now; he knew only of running in the darkness.

At the Wolvertons’ house, Conradin pounded on the door, beating at the wood in mindless fury.

The door opened and there was Mrs. Wolverton and light and warmth radiating from the open doorway. Sobbing, Conradin threw himself at her and buried his head in her cardigan. Sniffles and Shadow jumped and fluttered, then disappeared inside.

“Conradin. What’s wrong?’

Conradin held her, tightly, struggling for breath between the sobs.

She put an arm around him. “Was it the bullies?”

Conradin, his face against the wool, made no answer.

Mr. Wolverton came up with Henry and Sniffles following.

“He seems traumatized,” said Mrs. Wolverton.

“What’s the matter?” said Sniffles, jumping up and down. “What’s the matter?”

“Henry,” said Mr. Wolverton. “Could you put Shadow in her cage? I don’t exactly need a talking dog right now.”

Henry urged Shadow to the kitchen while Mrs. Wolverton guided Conradin toward the living room couch. Sniffles, now mute, watched with alert eyes as she sat the boy down.

Conradin, uncomprehending, rolled onto his side and curled up in a fetal position. Mrs. Wolverton tucked a cushion under his head.

“I wonder what’s happened,” said Mr. Wolverton, softly.

“I don’t know. I feel so helpless. I don’t know what to do.”

They watched the boy in silence for a few moments. Then Mr. Wolverton said, “I’d better call his father. Do you have his number?”

“I have it,” said Henry, coming in from the kitchen. He and his father went off to make the call, leaving Mrs. Wolverton alone with Conradin.

She pulled a chair up to the sofa and sat. “Can you talk about it?” she said, gently. Getting no response, she stroked the boy’s hair—softly, as if he were a cat.

Mr. Wolverton and Henry returned. “No one home,” said Henry.

“I’m worried,” said Mr. Wolverton. “Maybe there’s been an accident. His father, maybe.” He nodded at Conradin. “Did you get anything out of him?”

“No. Nothing, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not surprised, considering the state he’s in. I don’t think he could tell us anything.” Mr. Wolverton sighed. “You know, I think I’ll have Sniffles backtrack his scent. We’ll find out where the boy’s been.”

“Can I come?” said Henry.

“No. You’d better stay here.”

“But he’s my best friend and—”

“It’s almost your bedtime. I’d like you to go up and get into your pajamas.”

“But, Dad, I want—”

“Go!”

“All right, all right.”

As if from a great distance, Conradin heard footsteps tromping up a staircase and then felt a dog sniffing him, his dog, the White Avenger. A few moments later, he heard the house door open and close. In the quiet that followed, Conradin glided into a half-awake, half-asleep state. While images of his mother blended with those of Mrs. Wolverton, and the White Avenger with Sniffles, Conradin descended into a troubled sleep.

* * * *

The sound of the door opening woke him. But, even though he didn’t know where he was, he kept his eyes shut; he was afraid to open them. When Sniffles jumped on the couch and snuggled against him, he knew he was at the Wolvertons’. But he couldn’t remember why.

“Any luck?” said Mrs. Wolverton in a whisper.

“No,” said Mr. Wolverton, quietly. He glanced at Conradin. “Sniffles led me inland, almost to the main road, nowhere near the boy’s house. And there was no sign of his father.” He paused. “Ran into the constable. Told him what happened.” Conradin heard the man sigh. “I’ll take Sniffles out to the kitchen.”

“No. Leave him. They look so sweet together.”

Just then the phone rang, sounding loud and raucous against the quiet whispering.

Conradin heard Mr. Wolverton mutter “Damn,” and then his footsteps as he rushed to the hall telephone.

Conradin felt his memory returning. Again, he felt the strokes of the oak wand and then, in his mind’s eye, he saw his father on the ledge. Conradin inwardly winced; he’d really get it when he got home. He continued to feign sleep; if they knew he was awake, they might send him home right now. Conradin contemplated his beating to come and forced himself to go cold, detached, uncaring.

Opening his eyes just enough to perceive his surroundings through the filter of his eyelashes, he felt removed from reality. He saw his friend, pajama-clad and barefoot, pad down the stairs.

“What’s going on?” said Henry.

His mother shushed him and pointed. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered. “And you should be in bed.” Henry didn’t move and his mother didn’t make an issue of it.

A minute or so later, Mr. Wolverton walked with heavy step back into the living room. It didn’t take a Shadow to interpret his body language.

“What’s wrong?” said Mrs. Wolverton.

Mr. Wolverton turned to Henry. “I think you’d better go back up to bed.”

“I want to know what happened.” Henry spoke in a loud whisper.

Mr. Wolverton nodded, slowly. “All right. I guess you’d find out soon enough. And you have a right to know.” Conradin snapped his eyes shut as Mr. Wolverton turned and looked his way. “It’s good he’s asleep.”

“Please tell me what’s happened,” Henry insisted.

“Conradin’s father is dead.”

Mrs. Wolverton stifled a gasp.

“That was the constable on the phone.” Mr. Wolverton stroked his forehead. “He said Conradin’s father fell off the cliff. He had a tree branch clutched in his hand—from the ledge near the summit. Apparently, he’d checked his fall and balanced on the ledge for who knows how long, and then plunged to the rocks at the bottom.”

“That’s horrible,” Mrs. Wolverton whispered.

Mr. Wolverton nodded. “Paul Whitten was night-fishing and heard a scream. It was he who found the...” Mr. Wolverton threw a glance at Conradin. “Paul phoned the constable.”

“Do you think Conradin knows?” said Mrs. Wolverton. “Is that why he’s in such a state?”

“About the plunge, no. I don’t think so. Conradin would already have been here when it happened.” Mr. Wolverton looked with a puzzled expression at Sniffles. “I might have saved him if Sniffles hadn’t led me in the exact opposite direction.”

“It is strange,” said Mrs. Wolverton. “I’ve never known Sniffles’ nose to lead you astray.”

“I wonder,” said Henry. “Maybe it was Sniffles and not his nose.”

“What do you mean?” said his father.

Henry hung his head. “Nothing.”

Mr. Wolverton shook his head in obvious frustration. “Let’s hear the dog’s story,” he said. “Where’s that parrot?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Wolverton.

Conradin, falling momentarily back into his semidream state, mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Did he say ‘thank you?’” said Henry.

“It sounded like it,” said Mrs. Wolverton. “The little angel. Polite, even in his dreams.”

“I don’t suppose,” said Mr. Wolverton, “that we should wake him.”

“No. We may as well let him sleep.”

“Can we adopt him now?” said Henry.

“Well, aren’t you the perfect little monster,” said Mr. Wolverton in a distant yet strangely sympathetic voice. “Your best friend’s father dies. I’d expect you to share his grief and not just toss aside his feelings for his dad.”

Conradin, peeking again through almost closed eyes, could see that Henry wanted mightily to tell the secret. It’s okay to tell it now. It’s a terrible secret. Telling it might make it go away.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” said Henry, his head cast down, “but I think Conradin would like it.”

His dad nodded. “The constable told me they couldn’t find any relatives—”

“He told me he doesn’t have any,” said Henry.

“And,” Mr. Wolverton went on, “I did tell the constable we’d look after him.”

“I rather like the idea,” said Mrs. Wolverton. “I’d hate to see the boy whisked off to some institution in the city.”

“Hmm.”

“Good. That’s settled, then.” Mrs. Wolverton looked over at Conradin. “But I dread the morning when ... when I’ll have to tell him about his father. It’ll break his little heart, poor lamb.” She ushered everyone out of the living room, snapping off the light as she left.

With his lips pressing a smile into Sniffles’ warm fur and dreaming a hymn of thanks to the White Avenger, Conradin drifted softly to sleep.