Redemption

In the beginning ...

The dark suffocated me, the inky surroundings full of monsters I couldn't see, full of nightmares I didn't want to have. I was supposed to be sleeping but the downstairs television was too loud, and I tossed and turned instead. Mrs. Cavendish was a big fan of reality TV, and her appalling laughter infiltrated the house as I glanced at the heart-shaped clock next to my bed. The digital numbers stood out too bright in the pitch black room. Midnight. Shouldn't Mom and Dad be home already?

The bedroom door creaked, and I dove beneath the sheet.

"Dayton?" The fabric slipped through my fingers revealing my sister's silhouette framed against the open bedroom door. She took a hesitant step forward. "You okay?"

Tears pricked my eyes. Amber knew I didn't like the dark, but our sitter had a different opinion. "You're ten now, Dayton. There's nothing to be afraid of," Mrs. Cavendish said. She claimed my parents were discouraging my growth. I didn't care what she thought! I simply didn't like the dark.

"Dayton?"

"Will Mom and Dad be home soon?"

Sliding beneath the sheet next to me, she tugged it over our heads before switching on a small pink flashlight. "It won't be long, I bet." She flicked the light off and then on, watching the way our faces disappeared and reappeared over and over and over again.

The changing illumination made me dizzy. "They've been gone an awful long time," I murmured.

Clicking the light on, she left it that way, lying flat and still as we stared up at the cotton sheet above our heads. "I know," Amber replied. There was silence, a sigh, and then, "Why don't you tell a story? It'll pass the time."

My head lolled, my eyes meeting her worried gaze.

"Maybe the one about the girl and the mountain?" she whispered.

My gaze returned to the blanket. Making up stories was a hobby of mine, and Amber and I spent many nights with a flashlight on and a sheet over our heads. The thin coverlet was a blank canvas, the stories were the paint, and my mind was the paint brush. I was painting with words rather than color.

The television downstairs echoed, the sound of some misfortune caught on tape, and Mrs. Cavendish's laughter filled the room, trapping us in a cocoon of ribald amusement.

My intruding whisper seemed too loud in our sheet-tent, but it drowned out the worry. "There was once a little girl who couldn't sleep. Night after night, she remained awake. Nothing helped her rest, even counting sheep, and she was growing tired and discouraged. Then one morning she saw her mother rub her eyes while muttering, 'The Sand Man has been busy'."

"This intrigued the girl," Amber interrupted.

She slid the flashlight beam over the sheet, and I followed it with my finger, my voice rising to mingle with the shadows. "When the girl asked the mother who the Sand Man was, her mom described a magical being with a bag full of sand powerful enough to make people sleep. This confused the girl. 'What happens if the Sand Man doesn't come,' she asked her mother. 'You-"

"Have to go find him in a place far away called Sleepy Mountain," Amber cut in again. This was her favorite story, and she knew it as well as I did.

My voice joined hers. "If the Sand Man failed to show, then the girl would have to travel to his home on the mountain, but this had to be done before the sun rose over the horizon or the Sand Man wouldn't part with his sand. The girl thought about this. That night, when sleep eluded her, she decided to go in search of the Sand Man. Following her mother's instructions, she found herself at the bottom of the mountain. But when she looked up, she discovered it was so high, she couldn't see the top. This scared her. How could anyone climb such a mountain before morning? She wouldn't give up! She'd come this far and refused to turn back. Mustering up her courage, she began to climb."