He could hardly manage English, much less the poetic language of a king.
But he could make stuff. They dragged boards and other materials down from the scrap heap by Miss Bessie's pasture
and built their castle stronghold in the place they had found in the woods.
Leslie filled a three-pound coffee can with crackers and dried fruit and a one-pound can with strings and nails.
They found five old Pepsi bottles which they washed and filled with water, in case, as Leslie said, “of siege.”
Like God in the Bible, they looked at what they had made and found it very good.
“You should draw a picture of Terabithia for us to hang in the castle,” Leslie said.
“I can't.” How could he explain it in a way Leslie would understand, how he yearned to reach out and capture the quivering life about him
and how when he tried, it slipped past his fingertips, leaving a dry fossil upon the page?
“I just can't get the poetry of the trees,” he said. She nodded.
“Don't worry,” she said. “You will someday.” He believed her because there in the shadowy light of the stronghold everything seemed possible.
Between the two of them they owned the world and no enemy, Gary Fulcher, Wanda Kay Moore, Janice Avery,
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