Bygone Friend

Bygone Friend

Let me relate to you, dear readers, a tale of boyhood friendship. Now, let me assure you all, that the two which inspire this story are alive and well, both having grown into strong young men by now. This is so to the best of this author’s knowledge. Indeed, our story is in part, fiction. That is, the events herein are not perfect by my recital. The boys you will soon meet, however, were quite real.

Our first protagonist will be known, henceforth, as little Steven. Steven was a lad of no more than seven years at the unfolding of these events. Frail but full of life, timid but rash, this ashen little boy with shining blonde hair was an adventurer if he was anything at all. He loved nothing more than exploring the unfamiliar, whether it was far from home or in his very own back yard.

Our second hero in this epic shall be known as Tyrone, after all such was his name. Tyrone couldn’t have been more different from little Steven. His dark skin was the color of chocolate and his hair was not blonde at all. No, Tyrone’s head was adorned with the dark, brown hair of what, at the time of these events, might have been called an Afro. Tyrone, you see was black, which was the polite term during the late seventies used in reference to a person of African American heritage. Nonetheless, Tyrone was to Steven what any big brother would be to an adoring young sibling. Godlike in his bigness and in his oldness, Tyrone was guardian and friend, counselor and captain, and sometimes even savior. Tyrone was not truly Steven’s brother though, you see. Tyrone, being a child himself, was barely nine, and while his own parents toiled at their professions, the specifics of which are unimportant to our story, Tyrone spent the day at a house belonging to Steven’s aunt. There, she regularly babysat Tyrone; and on very special occasions, at least little Steven thought so, she also took charge of Steven so that the two friends could play together.

Now one day when one of these very special occasions was upon them, little Steven and his good friend Tyrone found themselves picnicking together with Steven’s aunt. They had the pleasure of visiting a very large, nearby park. Days earlier this visit would have been quite impossible due to the previous week’s consistent and heavy rainfall. Nevertheless, this was a fine park thought little Steven. It was full of woods and trails and creeks and ponds. Oh, how little Steven looked forward to exploring this vast wilderness with his friend. He couldn’t fathom that this woodland paradise could have a beginning or an end. Endless places waited for Steven to explore, and he would explore them with brave, strong Tyrone.

At this time in our story Steven hadn’t been excused yet to leave his aunt’s sight as she was preparing lunch for herself and her two young charges. Steven contented himself to stand nearby playing with a small, red ball hoping to tempt Tyrone into playing some silly game with him. Tyrone, however, was far more fixated upon the small sandwiches Steven’s aunt was preparing.

“Go on and play for a while, boys,” said she as she painted a layer of mayonnaise onto one of the delicious looking sandwiches. “I’ll call you when lunch is ready.” Now, Steven’s aunt was a very good aunt, as aunts go. She always kept a close eye on the curious little boy, but today she had Tyrone to rely upon. Tyrone would keep watch over Steven, being careful that the younger of the two didn’t find his way into more trouble than he might be apt to escape.

Little Steven understood clearly that there was time to play before lunch. Though, he neither knew nor cared how much. To Steven it was an eternity to play with his cherished friend. Steven knew just how to get the show underway too. He took his red ball and kicked it with all of his might. Expecting it to soar nearly into the tree tops, Steven looked on disappointedly as the little ball ricocheted off the side of his foot and rolled up to the trunk of a nearby pine tree. Hoping that Tyrone did not see, Steven again raised the ball and again dropped it down, connecting this time with a mighty kick. It was mighty by Steven’s estimation anyway. The ball shot from his foot into the air and traveled an amazing twenty feet or so before rolling to a stop at the crest of a nearby slope.

Tyrone seemed to sense what Steven might do next. Not wanting him to kick the ball down the hill, he called to Steven, but little Steven was in no mood to comply with Tyrone’s protective admonishments. He kicked the ball again with all the strength his tiny body could muster. Again the toy rocketed away. “Steven!” called Tyrone more sternly, but Steven simply giggled and ran after the ball.

Steven ran after the little, red ball as fast as his small legs would carry him, faster even one might say. You see the hill was much steeper than Steven had guessed it to be, and he found himself taking unnaturally long strides at a frequency he was not accustomed to. He heard Tyrone calling after him from somewhere behind, but Steven was barely keeping his feet under him. It was all he could do not to fall as he rocketed down the hillside, much less turn to acknowledge his friend.

Steven would surely have fallen and would surely have suffered great harm but for the fact that he arrived at the bottom of the hill just in time to prevent just such a disaster. Little Steven now clearly heard the shouting of his friend descending the hill behind him as he had stopped for a moment and could not help but hear. The fact was, however, that Steven had only halted to regain the breath that had been all but robbed from him during his wild charge down the great mountainside. He leaned onto his knees and breathed great breaths as Tyrone closed the distance.

Tyrone was nearly halfway down the hill by this time. The older of the two boys, although quite the faster, was making much slower progress in his descent. This was because he had seen his quarry stop to rest and was quite a bit more adept in terms of controlling his plummet toward the base. He might have hastened his pace had he known what Steven might do next.

Seeing his most admired friend charging towards him, Steven resolved not to let his fun end here. Scanning frantically about the area, he quickly located his lost, red ball. It had come to rest not twenty paces from a creek’s bank. Steven could hear but not see the raging water coursing through the stream from the rain of days past. He was daring but not quite brave and decided he should keep his distance from the edge. The ball, however, was not quite upon the edge so Steven launched his small body toward the toy.

“Steven! Stop!” Tyrone’s cries went unheeded as if unheard as the little boy drew nearer to his ball. Steven slowed as he neared his destination and took in a much unexpected sight. The creek was louder now but the sound came from the general direction of his red ball. Puzzled by this peculiarity, he drew closer still. That was when he saw what accounted for the sound.

Mere inches beyond the ball lay a gaping hole, a washout if you will. The earth between the hole and the creek bank had not yet succumbed to the eventual exaction of erosion. It was just a hole, albeit a massive one. The hole was deep and wide, and through it Steven could clearly see the rushing water of the stream passing under at the holes distant bottom. Bits and pieces of dirt and clay fell away from moment to moment, tumbling to the water and taking more and more material with it as it crashed along the sides.

“Steven!” Tyrone’s voice startled Steven back to the here and now, or rather the there and then, as it were. Steven turned and pointed into the hole. He opened his mouth to declare his fine discovery when the most unthinkable thing happened next. The earth beneath Steven, all that was holding his small body up, broke away at once. Sensing his body move without his having commanding it to, Steven looked down in time to see a fissure open up in the soil around him. Oddly enough, in this horrible moment, as Steven will attest that he still remembers to this day, he noticed the fissure to be nearly a perfect semi-circle. That moment of realization passed quickly as Steven and the ground beneath him disappeared into the considerable hole.

All sense of adventure, all drive at defiance left Steven in an instant. “Tyrone!” he cried. Time seemed in slow motion as his body slowly crept down in this avalanche of sluggishly soil. Nothing he did seemed to stop his plunge and everything he did seemed to hasten it. Overcome by fear and nearly petrified, little Steven dared to glance up. He saw two thing of contradicting natures. One was the unbelievable distance between himself and the top of the hole. It was his impression that he had fallen farther than he had believed the hole deep. The second sight was the face of Tyrone looking down at his young friend, his face wrought with a very similar fear to what Steven was feeling.

Without a word, without a thought, Tyrone was over the side and clambering toward little Steven. “Please! I want out!” he pled. When Steven felt Tyrone grip his arm the sensation of sliding was immediately arrested. Tyrone also had a firm grip on what was surely the only root protruding from the eroded wall. Using the root as an anchor and with his other arm Tyrone lifted Steven with all his considerable might, considerable by Steven’s standards. Steven neared the top and with freedom nearly realized he began kicking his arms and legs scrambling for purchase. With each unsuccessful grasp the cleanly cleaved edge broke away. In one unexpectedly successful moment of succor, Steven was launched from Tyrone’s strong arm and scurried out of the hole to relative safety.

Panting and sobbing Steven’s thoughts darted from images of his lost ball to those of the nightmarish hole. He began to cry freely and was growing ever angrier that Tyrone was not yet consoling him. He pointedly cried louder so that his friend would hear. When that did not draw his friend’s attention, little Steven put on an angry face in spite of his tears and inched his way toward the hole.

Still wary of the trap, Steven cautiously moved forward. Inch after inch revealed more of the hole’s depths until finally, Steven could see Tyrone. He was in the very same place he had been when he boosted Steven out. The older boy looked up at his friend, “Steven! Get back!” But Steven did not move. He watched Tyrone struggle for traction, each attempt dislodging more and more earth around him. Were it not for the root, his friend would have surely fallen.

“Steven! Go get…” Tyrone never finished his plea. The precious root popped from the side of the wall as little Steven watched, helpless. The older boy’s face showed none of the strength, none of the bravery that had saved Steven just minutes ago. In Tyrone’s face, Steven saw only another frightened little boy, filled with horror and a terrible dread that no nine year old ought ever to endure. Steven screamed his friend’s name, but it was as you may have guessed. Brave Tyrone was gone.

Ω

These events are fictitious, but Tyrone and Steven were real little boys. The fiction is tragic, I know, but it is merely a representation of the loss of Tyrone as my childhood friend. Perhaps he just moved or his parents no longer needed a sitter. I was too young to remember. Someday I shall inquire with my cousin about this. It was my cousin, not my aunt, who watched after Tyrone back then, but a cousin, though older than I at the time, did not fit as well as an aunt in my story.

There was a ball. I do not recall its color, but I did kick it down a hill. The ball nearly went into the pond which would surely have been the end of my world had Tyrone not intercepted the errant roll and returned my ball to me. Therein lies the seed from which this story grew.

Tyrone,

I hope you are well and wish you and your family the very best, wherever you are.

Your friend,
Steven