Brush of Truth

You jump the waves as they crash into the beach, wading deeper into the surf. The undertow tugs at your feet, willing to pull you under, but you pull together all of the super strength you can muster into your 12-year-old body and resist.

Your sister, Erin, gets blindsided by a wall of water, and you laugh hysterically.

The sun is beginning to slide into the horizon, and the evening feels warm. Most of the sun-worshippers have headed back to their beachside condos, leaving the sand free of overweight tourists, their French fry-enhanced bellies spilling over their tiny suits.

The lifeguard walks over to the water’s edge, pulling up the orange cones that mark the safe zone leading up to his station. He stacks the cones as he walks and brings them inside the elevated lifeguard shack. He appears again, locks the door behind him, slings a towel over his shoulder and heads to the parking lot.

It is just you and your sister now, jumping the waves.

You stub your toe on something hard jutting out of the sand and wince in pain. You feel around with your foot and realize it’s not a seashell, it’s something….square. You reach down with your fingers and trace the edges of a wooden box. You tug until the box is free and pull it above the surface of the water. Dark clouds cluster in the sky, suddenly casting a gray pallor over the beach. Weird.

“What’s that?” Erin says, looking at the simply fashioned box.

“Nothing,” you say, turning your back, more of a reflex than a reply.

You stumble against the waves back to the shore, and when you make it to the sand, you trip and drop the box. As it hits the ground, it pops open. Inside is a crudely carved wooden paintbrush tapering to a silver haired brush.

Erin, who has followed you to the shore, grabs it from the box.

“Cool,” she says and kneels down in the sand, and begins to sketch with the paintbrush. She outlines the shape of a fish and then starts to draw a circle around some seashells.

You are about to turn and jump back in the surf, but something catches your eye.

The drawing of the fish begins to glow, giving off a soft golden light. Then, in the exact spot where the drawing once was, is a real fish, flapping in the sand. You blink and look at Erin.

“Where’d that come from?” she asks.

“Draw another one,” you say.

Erin leans over and quickly draws the shape of another fish, but smaller. The sketch glows softly, then in the place of the drawing, is a tiny fish.

“That’s just freaky,” Erin says.

You scoop up the box and begin to examine it. As you turn it over in your hands, your fingers feel a slight indent. When you press on it, a tiny drawer slides open. Inside, there is a scroll.

You unroll it, and read aloud:

From my hands, the mighty Sorcerer Hansfeld of the Kingdom of Chevalier
I give this to my children, son Iroc, and daughter, Fleur,
Born on the same day, to inherit my powers and carry them forward
Through this humble instrument, the Brush of Truth
Release my enchantments with each brushstroke
Draw, my children, and bring your wishes to life.

“What does that mean?” Erin says.

Stunned, you pause before you answer.

“I think we’ve found a magic paintbrush.”