Terrible thoughts kept circling in his head, but he never did scream for help, not once. "What was that...?" He quickly turned thinking he saw a shadow run through the forest. Half an hour led to one hour, then to two; or at least it felt like it. After the sun diminished over the horizon, he saw a flashlight in the distance, then the sound of leaves crunching under footsteps. "Hey, kid, are you still there? Hey, kid…"

  "Get away from me… just get away…" He stood there like a lump of wet clay, hungry, parched, and exhausted.

  "I'm not going to hurt you, kid, I promise." The figure shone the light in his own face; it was one of the teenagers from earlier, good ol' Doritos Breath. "Look, man, I'm sorry for what happened to you. I told them to leave you alone, but they're the leaders of our gang, and I had to go along with it. Kind of my initiation, you know?"

  Nathaniel wanted to shout, And does it make you proud to pick on a smaller kid? Does it make you feel tough? But instead he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, "Please just cut me loose and let me go."

  "I'm not even supposed to be out here. We weren’t even supposed to mess with you, only your fort. But our leader wanted to tie you up and leave you here until…"

  "…Until what? Until I'm dead?"

  "No. No! Just for a little while – you know, until the sun went down. Come on, man, it's just a prank. You're gonna do the same kind of thing when you're older, you watch."

  Like heck, Nathaniel thought.

  The older boy untied Nathaniel and walked him through the woods telling him that he really would be better in the long run for this experience, and it would make him a lot tougher. As soon as Nathaniel found a clearing he recognized, he ran all the way home and didn't look back.

  Nathaniel's mom was outraged when he walked in way after dark. He took his punishment with dignity, not wanting to tell her what really happened. That would just cause her to worry, and she would never let him go into the woods again. "No video games for one week! Now go wash up for supper, I’ll warm your dinner for you. You make me so mad sometimes!"

  He'd realized that the older boys in his suburb of Boston were tough and edgy, and if he expected to survive, he too had to become tough. After dinner and a little more yelling, when the house became quiet again, he went upstairs with a cup of hot cocoa and read his great-grandfather's letter.

  My Dearest Nathaniel,

  I know you are about to turn thirteen, and I couldn’t wait for another eight months until Christmas. You have always had a wonderful imagination, but have you ever thought about putting that to use in the form of art — say, pen and ink? Enclosed is your first high-quality pen and drawing pad. I hope you like them.

  This pen will prepare you for another one to come. Yes, Son, much preparation has been made, but much preparation is still needed... but we will talk about that when you arrive for the holidays. I am looking forward to Christmas this year; your face always brings joy to my heart.

  Love, PaPa

  Nathaniel sighed. PaPa was right; he'd loved the gifts, what little he'd seen of them. If only he'd had the opportunity to use them in a greater way. A map of his kingdom was a pretty good start, but unfortunately that went up in flames along with his warrior elves. He did love to draw...

  But what did PaPa mean when he wrote, "much preparation is still needed"? That sure was mysterious. Thoughts of PaPa's estate came rushing into his head: the big house, the warm fire, the broad meadows. It was likely that he’d inherited his imagination from his great-grandfather, who lived in England and always told Nathaniel stories of far-off places filled with deep forests, rapid rivers, and magical waterfalls during their Christmas visits together. Once, he even told Nathaniel of a lady oracle who lived in the mountainside behind a waterfall — a vivid tale indeed. Nathaniel only wished that he had a waterfall, or something like one, within his own kingdom; but his creeks were mostly little babbling brooks.

  As he lay there, his thoughts turned toward the dark forest where he'd been tied up. Dang it. How could he ever tell his PaPa what had happened to his birthday present? He hit his bed, repositioned his head, and turned toward the wall. I'll show those guys. You watch…

  Those thoughts soon faded into a dark sleep, with shadows weaving in and out of the trees until they all made their way to the clearing. That clearing gave way to prisons where he heard the scariest and the most heart-wrenching screams. Monsters appeared before Nathaniel as real figures with horrible shapes and evil eyes and bat-like wings, pen-and-ink drawings come to life, surrounding him in numbers beyond counting. They were hungry for revenge and retribution, and with loud cries and high-pitched shrieks, they shouted, "Wake up… wake up… wake up…!"

  Poof, they were gone — and Nathaniel instantly sat up in bed, shaking and sweating all over. He briefly saw his dad outside his bedroom door. "I said wake up, Son. I'm not going to tell you again." His father stepped out of sight.

  "Oh my God, that dream was so real." Nathaniel stretched his arms and legs and shook his head in disbelief. "I better get up," he muttered, scratching his neck and ears and eyes.

  His dad struck up a conversation with Nathaniel at the breakfast table, asking, "Why are your neck and face and arms so red? And look… look at all those little blisters!" peering in to get a closer view.

  "I know. I’m itching all over. It burns whenever I scratch it."

  "What in the heck did you do, play in a poison ivy patch?"

  "I’m not sure. I don’t even know what poison ivy looks like."

  His dad pulled out his phone and showed him some images.

  "Maybe. The sun was going down, so it was kind of hard to tell."

  "Well, if you had been home on time, that wouldn’t have happened."

  "Yeah, but, my fort in the woods — I was… I was… oh, never mind, it’s not important."

  "Sure it is. Your fort in the woods… go on."

  Tears began to surface. "It’s just hard being the king sometimes. Every king has to fight off intruders."

  "Did you get into a fight?"

  "I said I don’t want to talk about it."

  His dad placed his hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, "So… my son got into his first fight. Well, you’re alive, and it looks like the only damage done is that you made your mom very mad as you wrestled someone in a poison ivy patch. Next time you get into a fight, make sure it’s in a more open field." He got up and put the milk in the refrigerator.

  "Yessir." Not exactly how it happened, but that’s fine, he doesn’t need to know the truth.

  They continued talking until Nathaniel finished eating his cereal, then blasted his way out of the house and hurried to his outpost, quickly cleaning it up. He began repairing the walls before school, and he even did it while scratching the blisters the poison ivy left on his neck and arms; and by the looks of it, it was in fact poison ivy that he'd hidden in. I'm not telling anyone what happened yesterday… ever.

  It took him a few weeks to finish rebuilding the fort to his satisfaction, partly because he added a small lookout tower a little ways off, clear of any more poison ivy patches. He also staked another large sign in the ground:

  For the remaining weeks of the schoolyear before summer break, he went on to fight the goblins and the orcs of his imagination, but sometimes he had to defend his kingdom from real intruders, like the time John O'Leary and Dutch Flannigan showed up unannounced. They were a grade higher and a bit bigger than Nathaniel, and were known around school as a couple of tough guys. They were the kind of kids that cut in the cafeteria line and would worm their way into the best places on the school campus. When Nathaniel approached his outpost afterschool, he saw them moving around through the trees. They tore the sign in two and threw it ten feet away. They looked like they'd made his fort their fort.

  Nathaniel turned and started heading home, head hanging low, humbled and heartsick. He stopped, looked back, and clenched his fists; not this time. He marched up to the fort and shouted, "Hey you guys, didn't you read my sign?"

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  "Check it out, it's Nathaniel Hancock," John said. "Guess he's King Nathaniel."

  "Oh yeah, I know him. This is gonna be easy," Dutch said.

  "Wait, didn't he beat up Tony Lupe last week?"

  "Who cares? There's one of him and two of us."

  That evening Nathaniel went home with a welt around his eye— but not before he bloodied Dutch's nose and John ran away crying after a few punches to the stomach. So much for ganging up on me. Nathaniel also went home with a sore hand, feeling dejected about the whole mess, to a mom who wasn't happy at all. She grounded him for a week, and told him to apologize to John.

  "He's the one who trespassed! He should have read the sign… besides, there were two of them and only one of me. How is that fair?"

  "That doesn't give you a reason to fight, Nathaniel. That's four times in the last several weeks that you've gotten into a fight."

  "I never start them." He turned away, smiled, and whispered, "But I finish them."

  "Maybe you don't start them," she scolded, "but you're not one to keep your mouth shut, either. That mouth of yours is going to get you in more trouble if you don't learn to put a button on it from time to time."

  "I really shouldn't have to, Mom. I think it's better to voice my opinion than to keep my mouth shut when someone's doing or saying something unfair."

  His mother exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "It's fine if you want to voice your opinion Nathaniel, but you take things too far sometimes! Now, that's the end of it. I have dinner to cook. Go clean up."

  He grabbed some peanuts as he walked out of the kitchen. "If you would’ve let me play in the All-Star League, maybe none of this would be happening." he muttered under his breath as he went up the stairs to change his clothes. "I could have been the starting pitcher on that mound."

  Conversations like that became all too common in the Hancock home, and with the sudden increase in calls from parents, he was grounded altogether from the fort. With no more outposts to defend, Nathaniel spent most of his spare time imagining he was in PaPa's faraway lands. He imagined what it would be like to be anyplace except Boston.

  It wasn’t too long until he stopped sneaking off to the fortress, and soon the old factory was torn down and replaced by duplexes, in the same way that Nathaniel’s childhood was being replaced by adolescence. He ended upturning his imagination towards drawing, just as his PaPa had suggested; and before long, he was well on his way to becoming a great artist. He trained himself with chalk, with graphite, with pastels, with watercolors, with pen and ink. He entered several school art contests after summer vacation, and even won a few. He became one of the most notable young artists in the community, with his pictures displayed in the local library and grocery store.

  A month before Christmas, a letter arrived from his PaPa. He opened it in the attic of his house this time, a little disappointed there wasn't a present with it.

  My Dearest Nathaniel,

  You are probably wondering why there is no pen and pad with this letter. I have something better for you when you arrive for the Christmas holidays. I think you are finally old enough to receive what I have wanted to give you for a long, long time. Bring an extra sketchpad this year. I cannot wait to see you.

  Love, PaPa

  When the time came to pack their bags and head across the Atlantic to England for their annual Christmas vacation, Nathaniel came alive, eager to show his great-grandfather his prize drawings.

  Edwin Hancock, Nathaniel's great-grandfather — whom the entire family called PaPa — had settled in the country close to the town of Yeovil many years ago, after a life spent in business. Edwin, a native of England, sent for his children, grandchildren, and all their families every year for the Christmas holidays. They came in from London, Birmingham, Boston, and Connecticut to share what always proved to be a time of great fun and relaxation.

  PaPa's estate sprawled across thirty acres, with trees and grass as far as the eye could see. Large cherry trees lined the long cobblestone driveway, which ended at the front entrance in a circle with a magnificent fountain in the center. Vines grew on much of the stone work, and with the stone-gabled roofs, it looked like something right out of the Middle Ages. Two grand vases overflowing with winter flowers welcomed guests at a gigantic iron-bound oak door with an old, rustic nameplate that read:

  The manor had many rooms connected by vast halls, and numerous staircases stretching up to bedrooms and down to living spaces. Secret rooms and hidden passageways behind the back walls and closets provided even more adventure. Exploring was an essential activity for the younger children during their visits. As big as the place was, Nathaniel knew it like the back of his hand. He looked forward to the Christmas season more than any other.

  One evening, after the women had retired and the youngest children had gone to bed, the boys and men relaxed together downstairs. They conversed lightly among themselves as they spread out into various parts of the kitchen, the den, and the family room. The smell of warm apple cider drifted from the kitchen stove, and a few cherry and apple pies were warming in the oven. A fire ablaze in the great marble fireplace permeated the family room with warmth and comfort. It had been going all day by then, so the bed of coals radiated yellow heat. This contrasted greatly with the snowy air in southwestern England that December, which was unusually cold for Somerset.

  The room was dimly lit, with only a few Valencia candles and table lamps banishing the dark. Bookshelves and family portraits lined the walls. An older cousin and uncle played at a chess table that butted up to the corner. Nathaniel’s cousin Tommy, who was about the same age as him, relaxed on a couch with his head buried in one of his mystery novels. He always brought four or five for the holidays. The sound of him crunching on some toffee could be heard from across the room, where Nathaniel sat in a leather armchair, sketching.

  This was Boy's Night — a kind of rite of passage, a tradition they'd upheld for years. The third night of each fourteen-day holiday was dedicated to the men and older boys downstairs, with the ladies gathering in another part of the house along with the younger children. PaPa would have private conversations by the fire when each boy turned thirteen. He had started this tradition with his son, Edwin II, and continued right down through to Nathaniel and Tommy.

  Nathaniel loved listening to PaPa tell about how his family had come to own such an estate. PaPa had inherited the place from his dad, Martin, another artist in the family; but it was purchased long before that with money his great-grandfather had made selling Patek Philippe watches to the tycoons in America during the Industrial Revolution.

  Everyone knew that PaPa was loaded to the gills with money. What Nathaniel enjoyed most, though, was the way his PaPa made everyone feel special — himself in particular. And he loved PaPa's stories of far-off places, fantasy realms that had always felt so real to him. Other family members chalked this up as the dying remnants of an old oral tradition, but Nathaniel felt it was something more. His dad seemed to be interested in these stories too, and Nathaniel would often secretly watch him as the stories were being told. His dad’s face revealed that he had traveled to those far-off places as well, at least in his imagination.

  When PaPa finished his yearly speech on the State of the Family, which they all listened to attentively, he sat back in his oversized leather chair by the fire. He began smoking his pipe in silence as he proudly watched his family interact. After a few puffs he called out, "Nathaniel. Come here, my boy."

  A little startled, Nathaniel rose and went curiously to his side. He held his sketchpad under his arm, his fingertips stained with charcoal. "Well, your mum tells me that you've become quite the artist now," PaPa said.

  "Yessir. I've been doing a lot of sketching this year, more than ever." He handed the sketchpad to his great-grandfather, who opened it to a loose page thrust into the center.

  "So, tell me about this drawing, Nathaniel," peering at it closely. "Why are the eyes spread so far apart, and why does the nose look too big for the face, and…"

  Not remembering his manners, Nathaniel interrupted, "Oh, this is an abstract piece. I'm not really much of an abstract artist, but we had to draw this for a school contest, and… well… what do you know, I won first place."

  PaPa smiled as he looked at Nathaniel's fingers. "Do you like pen and ink, Nathaniel, or are you more of a chalk and graphite artist?"

  "Pen and ink all the way, sir. See? Checkout some of these drawings." Nathaniel passionately flipped through his sketchpad, showing PaPa drawings of elves, warriors, mercenaries, mountains and forests.

  His PaPa looked on, impressed. "Well, what do you say? If I asked you to draw me a large picture, do you think you could do that for me? A Masterpiece, if you will; a drawing that you could put your whole heart into."

  "I don't know about a Masterpiece, sir. I mean, I just turned thirteen, and I have along way to go."

  Nathaniel saw his dad watching out of the corner of his eye as the conversation he and PaPa were having turned into a deeper, more important matter .John Martin Hancock looked back down and continued reading one of his engineering books that he’d brought to the estate.

  PaPa looked his great-grandson up and down as he puffed on his pipe. His eyes gazed into the boy's soul, and Nathaniel became a little uncomfortable, as if PaPa were mining his secrets, looking at him as if they both knew the same thing at the same time. PaPa turned his attention to the great fireplace. He pointed toward the fire with the end of his pipe. "Nathaniel, do you see how the fire takes on a life of its own? Do you see how it dances, and makes its own little melody?"

  The fire snapped and crackled as tiny flames flickered upwards before disappearing into the shaft of the chimney. "Seems alive, doesn't it? Yes, it seems very alive. All this comes from a little match and a few logs," the old man continued. "From one small spark, it builds and builds. What was once an insignificant flame is now this grand fire. It has its own life, its own rhythm; its own purpose."

  He drew Nathaniel in close, and they stared at the fire. His voice changed, becoming serious, respectful — and perhaps even a bit fearful. Nathaniel saw flames reflecting in PaPa's deep blue eyes as he pulled a pen out of an inner pocket of his cardigan and held it close to Nathaniel's face, twirling it in his fingers. Their eyes met, and with deep conviction, PaPa said, "This pen is like that match, Son. This is the pen I want you to use when you draw my Masterpiece. Be careful what you draw with it, as its creations have a way of taking on lives and stories of their own. Don't misuse it, don’t lose it, and never, ever loan it to anyone. Its power and magic are not fully understood."

  Eyes wide, Nathaniel breathed, "Okay, PaPa."

  The old man squeezed Nathaniel's arm. "Now, listen to me, lad. You have a great gift. You're the most talented artist I've seen in this family since my father. This pen will help you realize your dreams. Remember what I said, and take it to heart."

  "Yessir. I'll be careful."

  PaPa leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs with contentment. After puffing on his pipe, he motioned with his arms. "Now, what do you say… by this time next year, I can expect to have my Masterpiece? Be sure to seal it immediately after you are finished. The ink that is in the pen is a special blend found only in England and Spain, and you don’t want to risk anything happening to it."

  Puzzled and amazed, and still confused about the whole thing, Nathaniel simply said, "Sure, PaPa, I'll draw you something great by next Christmas. I promise." How else could he reply? PaPa was the only person who ever bought him pens and paper.

  Nathaniel’s dad looked on smiling, with his legs folded over each other while he continued reading his book.

  "Very well, then. I'll be looking forward to it." Having settled the matter, PaPa stood up creakily and walked over to the chess game. "So, who's winning?" They looked at him awkwardly as he smiled. Nathaniel saw PaPa motioning to Tommy to sit by the fire. He pulled a book from a shelf near the fireplace. I wonder what they’re going to talk about…?