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Lucas looked at Phoebe, her eyes as wide as they were the first time they’d come here as children years ago. He grabbed her hand, and she squeezed back. His heart soared.
“My first encounter was when I was a prisoner of the North Koreans. Yes, children, this eighty-six-year-old man was a soldier. I was a fighter pilot. During one intense aerial battle, my plane was hit and went down.” The sound of an explosion filled the air, more of Patrick’s new theatrics.
The crowd applauded their approval.
Patrick never broke character, but Lucas could see a twinkle in the man’s eyes. He descended down the stairs, hitting his staff on every step.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
“With blood in my eyes from the wound I’d received from the crash, I made my way through the darkness to the river I’d spotted when I was still in the air. But fate was a harsh mistress that night. Gunshots riddled the air around me.”
More sound effects amazed everyone. What a show.
“I took a hit to my leg, ending the trek to my escape.” Patrick lifted up his robe revealing the scar of his battle wound, something that had always been part of the speech.
The children gasped.
Continuing to hold his robe up, Patrick walked to the stand with the microphone. Clearly, he didn’t need it since he was wearing a wireless microphone. He’d likely kept the one on the stand so as not to ruin the surprise of the new sound effects.
“That’s real?” Juan asked, staring at Patrick’s scar.
“Shh,” Belle told the orphan, whom everyone knew she loved as if he were her own. The other five boys, early arrivals for the Stone Boys Ranch, sat with them on the floor.
“Belle, it’s fine,” Patrick said. “Come up here, lad.”
Juan leapt to his feet.
When he was right next to Patrick, the old wizard gestured to the wound. “Touch it.”
Juan’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
The boy brought his finger to the scar.
“Yes, it’s real, Juan,” Patrick said. “It still gives this old man trouble on wintery nights to this very day.” Letting go of his robe, he put his arm around the smiling kid. “A round of applause, please, for the very brave Mr. Juan Garcia.”
The crowd roared and Juan smiled from ear to ear. One thing about the O’Learys, they adored children.
Juan returned to the floor, next to Belle.
“Where was I?”
“The bad people were about to take you to the cell,” one little girl, who had clearly heard the story many times, yelled out.
He laughed, as did Phoebe and several other adults.
“That’s right, angel. War is a terrible thing. My enemy had no sympathy for me. I’d taken out many of their brothers, so I understood their cruelty. Several kicks came from their boots and left me broken and without recourse. They took me back to their encampment like a prize turkey for a Thanksgiving meal. Why they let me live, I still don’t know, but they did. I was their prisoner for two hundred and seven days.”
The sound of a grandfather clock striking filled the room.
Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong.
Patrick paused, allowing the effect of the passage of time to creep into everyone’s psyche before continuing on with the story.
“In time, I healed, though the food the enemy gave me wasn’t enough to nourish me back fully. Constant fevers consumed me night after night. I dreamed of escape, but sadly, I had no power to break the bars that held me.”
“Until the black dragon showed up,” the same little girl shouted out.
