Jackson Jones, Book 1_ The Tale of a Boy, an Elf, and a Very Stinky Fish - Jenn L. Kelly [33]
Meeka twittered behind them and Josh smiled at her. Jackson stopped walking.
They had come to a river.
The river was calm as the water slowly trickled by. It looked cool and refreshing. It was the kind of river that made you desperately thirsty just looking at it. Weeping willows stretched their long branches over the water, their tips dangling like lazy fingers, drawing enigmatic circles in its current. You could imagine yourself leaning against those glorious willows, their long branches hiding you in your own private shady oasis. You could lay there for hours, throwing duck feed at ducks, twiddling cattails in your fingers and daydreaming about absolutely nothing. Jackson could hear the calls of the birds hidden in the limbs. A chirping frog called its mate.
“The Author created every one of us, which makes us the same. No one is more important than another, or less important. We are all equal. The thing that separates everyone, that makes each person special, is the story he created for each of us. And each story is full of excitement and adventure, sadness and joy. And each story, your story, my story, Meeka’s story—they all intertwine, like rope.”
“Or like hair?” Jackson mused aloud.
Josh laughed. “Yeah, like hair.”
Josh bent down and picked up a pine needle. He twirled it gently between his fingers as he kept talking. “But people have a choice. They can be the hero in their own story and succeed, or they can try to be the hero in someone else’s story and fail.”
“What do you mean?”
Josh’s serene voice continued. “Let’s say someone was born to play the piano. His purpose, the story of his life, was to make beautiful music. And the people who listened to his music, they would have felt his happiness, the joy that comes from doing what the Author wanted him to do. But let’s say this same man decided to listen to what the world told him. And in this case, the world told him to be a successful businessman. So he worked very hard at learning the numbers and the ways of business. But as he got older, he strayed further and further away from his story, and soon he forgot he had one. He was secretly unhappy and had no idea why. But it was because it wasn’t his story he was living out; it was someone else’s. His story was to become a pianist. It was ingrained into his soul by the Author, and he chose to ignore that desire.”
Jackson thought very hard about this. Josh smiled and continued. “My job, as an apprentice,” he said, “is to help people remember that they have a story.” The pine needle in Josh’s hand twirled faster. He looked at Jackson. “That’s my story.” Josh looked intently at the pine needle in his fingers. “I have the same story my mom did,” Josh murmured.
“Where’s your mom now?”
“She’s doing her own job of helping people.” Josh paused, staring at the river. “Ever since I was little boy, I’ve wanted to do what she does. She’s on the other side, so I haven’t seen her in a very long time.” He cleared his throat and smiled lightly at Jackson. “So now I’m apprenticing, learning how to be a part of the Dreamgivers. It’s not easy, and there’s a lot of studying, but it’s worth every second.”
Jackson watched the trees sway gently, and he thought about what Josh said.
He thought about how he always wanted to be a writer. He had millions of story ideas, and it was just a matter of time before he wrote them all out. He knew they were good ideas, and of course they needed a lot of work. But he was only ten and a half, for goodness’ sakes. He thought about how he wanted to play ball professionally. To feel the hot sun on his head as he squinted at the catcher, the tension on the field as he prepared for the windup, the snap as he let go of that perfect pitch, and the screaming fans.
Jackson’s chest tightened. He felt like crying. Not because he was sad, but because, well, his heart was full. You know that feeling when you’re reflecting