The Good Beast
During
a visit to
my friends near Ottawa, Ontario, Andrew,
then
three years old,
told me that we just had to
visit the house under construction next door to check
out the echoes that lived in its empty rooms. In the dark basement, Andrew fixed
his deep blue eyes on the long, low room in the darkest corner.
“A beast lives in there, Uncla Dooonaldo,” he said.
“Oh, is that true?” I asked, “Is it a good beast or a bad beast?”
Some time passed as he turned the possibilities over in his mind. Then he said
decisively, “Oh, he's a good beast. He believes in Jesus and
likes people.”
That established, we went in to visit Mr. Beast. We passed the time of day,
exchanging pleasantries over an imaginary cup of mud tea, then took our leave
with a promise to come back soon.
I arranged to have his father in the unfinished basement a few hours later when
we did return. As we started to enter Mr. Beast's
cave, we were greeted by a
gentle, yet effective “hooooo.” Andrew, still clutching my hand, jumped backward
like a frog in reverse gear. Then, eyes wide with amazement, he announced, “Oh
Daddy, it's only you! You shouldn't do that, you know. You might scare Uncla
Dooonaldo!”
Later, while breathlessly retelling the experience to
his mother, he admitted that he really had been so scared that his heart
had
started to beat!