Shimmerbugs - For Writer's Post prompt #9

Every minute took an eternity to pass. At least it seemed so whilst Jake lay atop his blankets, hot, sweaty and impatient. The night was too muggy for sleep. His sheet stuck to him, there wasn't a cool spot to be found, and he'd turned his pillow to the chill side so many times he felt dizzy. He knew there was a single answer, the idea nascent in his overheated brain, and he also knew how much trouble he'd be in if he was caught.

Unable to wait longer, he slid from the bed, padding across the floor to the window, avoiding creaking boards with the sure-footed ease of illicit practice. The sash window resisted, but not for long. The frame was dry, shrivelled into itself as moisture was leached from the wood, sucked up by the greedy, insatiable heat. With a final, uneasy look to his bedroom door, half expecting his mother to be standing there with the 'Look' on her face, the one that spoke volumes about her disappointment, he hopped over the sill, grabbed the branch which occasionally kept him awake nights, tappity-tapping at his window for admittance, and scooted down to the ground.

The pebbled path bit into his bare feet, every stone a smooth sphere of heat. He wondered if that was how it felt if you walked across fire, like he'd seen them do on the TV. The back gate gave easily under his fingers, and that stopped him for a moment. He again looked back to the house, wondering where the lock was, why it wasn't secured as usual. Maybe one of his parents had joined him, had the same idea and gone for a walk to the beach...

The thought tore him in two. He could chance it, race down to the shore, feel the cool water lap at his legs, risk bumping into a parent, or he could return to his sweat-soaked, rumpled bed and wait it out until morning. It wasn't much of a choice. The overwhelming heat made the decision, pushing him through the gate and onto the sand beach beyond.

It was one of his favourite things about their holiday home. The single gate, all that separated him from the wonders of the beach on his doorstep. By nature a solitary child, Jake loved to spend each perfect day exploring. There were rockpools filled with weird and wonderful creatures, including the occasional crab to nip at his naked toes. The sea, ebbing and flowing in daily rhythms Jake could feel deep in his blood, gave up treasures, bottles, wood, all manner of detritus. He liked to imagine the sea's gifts having fallen from romantic, billow-sailed ships far out on unknown oceans, dream himself captain of such adventures.

The sand fascinated. Even now, deep into the night, beyond the midnight hour, it was warm under his scrunching toes. Dig but a little and it became cool. Dig further and it was damp, soon wet, leaking sea into an isolated oasis created by his hand, a childish play at God. He built structures, complex and marvellous, unaware of his innate skill, the possibilities he could one day bring to the world of architecture. Bored with them, either imperfect to his eyes, or with nothing left to add, he would sit back and watch the sea take his blueprint, fantasising some shadow of his idea would reach an undersea world and become the latest craze.

Jake was halted in his idle thoughts by a cracked voice, dry, ancient. He looked about, the moonlight enough to let him see a hunched figure sitting in the shadow of a sand dune. He was no fool, knew better than to approach. Most of the hobos were harmless enough, didn't bother anyone, but there was always the odd one, the ones who jittered and danced behind hooded eyes. Jake kept walking, beginning to describe a curve to give wide berth to the unknown man. But the voice came again, a little louder, a little clearer.

“I wouldn't, kiddo.”

Something in the voice made Jake pause, a familiarity he couldn't place.

“I'm not going in” Why he felt the need to reassure was beyond him, but too late now. He'd spoken, “Just gonna splash a bit at the edge.”

“Don't. Stop. Go back.”

Jake placed the voice. Not actually the voice, but something in the voice, some tone which resonated in his memory. An old movie his mum had made him watch as she revelled in childhood reminiscence. Willy Wonka, that's who the voice reminded him of, when he'd been telling one of the kids not to do something. Jake wasn't old enough, sophisticated enough in his language to understand the tone. All he knew was another adult was trying to stop him doing what he wanted, needed to do. He couldn't get the nuance which spoke of tired acceptance, a voice used to being ignored, saddened by it, but unable to change it.

Jake ran on, choosing not to speak further. His instinct told him the guy was no threat, but better to put some distance between them. The sea was far out, the beach seemingly endless, but Jake knew exactly where he was going. He hesitated here and there, distracted by stranded seaweed, a bleached branch which reminded him of antlers, a smooth stone, perfect for skipping, slipped into his pocket almost unnoticed, joining objects common to the pockets of all young boys. The moon sailed high and clear, no clouds to obscure her watchful face, limning Jake's face, softening his outline, making him a wild child, a moon dweller, silver-haired and ethereal.

She lit up Jake's destination. It glimmered, shone, sparkled and illuminated a deep band which ran the length of the beach. Only visible when the tide went out to play with the ocean, the shell stripe belted the beach, marking the end of soft sand and beginning of sharp stones. Jake reached it and took a surreptitious glance up and down, back and front. Certain the beach was empty, even the hobo seemingly gone to find more sociable company, Jake began his moves.

It had taken him hours of practice, time available only when the band was exposed, but he danced now, moving with the effortless ease of a ballerina, never giving away how hard he was working, muscles screaming as he forced his feet to balance, his toes to avoid. Jake danced between the tightly packed shells, unerring, determined to never crack a single iridescent creation. He spun, tip-toed, whirled, leapt, lost in his concentration.

He didn't see them, not at first. Slowly, elegantly, twining up to join him, as if lifted on currents of air, the shells danced with Jake. Each one was a double, shell butterflies in pinks, blues, yellows and deepest black. They fluttered around him, almost causing him to falter, but wonder took him. He danced on, never missing a step, watching. He christened them, eerily beautiful creatures of the night beach, Shimmerbugs. They danced faster, seeming to react to his naming, his owning of them.

The dancing went on, Jake surrounded by thousands of fluttering, clicking wings, sharp little sounds like nipping teeth. It took him long moments to realise his feet were no longer on the ground. The shimmerbugs had formed long spirals, spiralling up into the air, broad, smooth paths up which Jake danced. Further, higher, further yet.

“Let me touch the moon” he whispered and the shimmerbugs lifted him, wove his path into the night air. High above the beach, in the grip of the dance, Jake wished. He wished for wings to help him dance, to reach the beautiful face that shone above him.

The shimmerbugs closed about him. Many nipped the back of his t-shirt. More nipped, gripped the shell before them, held and slowly, delicately, wings formed at Jake's shoulders. Exultant, crying out his joy, Jake winged, whirled and wandered high, higher, highest. In the path of a moonbeam, Jake was gone. A vivid, vibrant, vivacious blue shimmerbug joined the rest, happily whirling until the moon left for other shores. The shimmerbugs floated down, gently settling back into the band as the tide returned from her night's dance. Space was made, a minute shuffling, and the blue shimmerbug slept with his new friends.

The hobo wandered down to the shore. He bent at the edge of the shell belt, picked up a smooth stone, perfect for skimming. The sort of stone which might have graced the pocket of any young boy intent on playing by the sea.