Parhelion, Hurrah! by Travis Flatt

Three knocks at the gate. I look at my son, Tristan, and whisper, “Think it’s safe?”

“That’s the signal,” he says.

“Then see who it is.”

He slides the couch cushion open, allowing in some living room light and releasing some morning breath from our fort—our “burh”—and says, “Password.”

“Purple mittens,” comes a squeaky voice outside: my daughter, Lindsay. She knows the password’s permitte mihi, but she’s being a turd.

Tristan yanks the pillow closed, says, “The enemy.”

“Dang. What should we do?”

“Sound the horn.”

Tristan’s thing this month is Medieval Europe. Specifically, 9th century Anglo-Saxon empire, or more specifically West Anglia, or more specifically, burhs and warfare, hence my suggesting this. To educate me.

“Or,” I add, “Let them in, but torture them for information. How many’s out there?”

“Just one. Fine.” He slides the gate back, but Lindsay’s gone. From somewhere in the region of Northumbria (the stairs) she calls, “I’m laying down. This is dumb,” and tromps up.

“Put ice cubes in the toilet,” Tristan shouts. (This prevents snow from melting. According to experts like Tristan. Experts at hating school.) This morning, school was delayed until eleven for snow—a dusting, but Middle Tennesseans are as terrified of snow as Anglo-Saxons are of Vikings. We’re in a queasy liminal space where they could still cancel. I’m home with the kids—suspended from the university for reposting a political meme—and my duty, by decree (text) from Pope Leo III (my wife), is to keep them engaged and off screens.

“I hear there’s a shipment of apples and oats from Kent, want to check that out?” I’m starving. Tristan only eats oatmeal right now, a texture thing. It’s quiet. I realize he’s nodding. “Well, lead the way, commander.”

“Banneret.”

“Banneret.”

He opens the gate and we’re up squinting, headed for Kent (the kitchen). I pantomime riding a horse, a la Monty Python. Tristan isn’t amused.

Once in Kent, I tear open four packets of oatmeal—two for each of us. My phone dings.

Lindsay walks in, says, “No screens,” and pours herself some Raisin Bran. Lindsay’s ten, makes her own meals, makes A’s, is captain of her soccer team—despite being small for her age—and spoke in full sentences when she was just shy of two.

            Tristan is twelve, does not, doesn’t, dislikes sports, is big, and began speaking complete sentences when he was five, after working with specialists.

            I’ve got a text from the school system—“Screens,” Lindsay scolds—confirming that school is definitely on.

            “Bad news, folks.”

            Lindsay curses, walks to the window, curses again. Tristan clutches his hands, begins rocking in his seat at the table. I get that “in over my head” tightness in my chest. My wife gives me books—books on how to talk to him.

            “Ah, Bud,” I say.

So it’s back to school just in time for cafeteria lunch. Where they throw things at him. Last year, it was a shoulder or two in the hall. 

            “Bud?” I say, sitting down. “Did you talk to the principals?”

“It’s fine,” Tristan says. He goes to the window, nudges Lindsay over, stares out, then says, “The enemy.”

“What, bud?”

“We shouldn’t go outside.” He’s got a sad grin, assessing our snowless backyard. “It’s Charlemagne, the Emperor. He used Joyeuse, the sword of the sun, to melt the snow.” 

I wedge between them, look out, and see it: a faint ring around the sun, like a halo. “Parhelion,” I say.

“A bad omen for battle,” Tristan says. He’s already dressed because he doesn’t do pajamas. He goes to the spot by the pantry, his backpack spot, stoops—we’ve been wearing Burger King crowns for helmets; he bats his off—and picks up the pack.

 Lindsay pads away to change.

“That one I know,” I say. “And you’re wrong. It’s an auspicious omen. The sun dog means the British will win. That’s in Shakespeare. I know that one.”

Tristan smiles, unslumps a little. “Then we fight.”

And, my dad would have said to fight. Stand up for myself. Although, I was a clown, the jester: I was the one throwing stuff. Or egging it on.      

I sit and pat a place at the table. “No. You sound the horn.”

He clutches his hands, rocks.

            I get his crown. “They’re barbarians. And you’re smarter. Isn’t that the point of reinforcements? Sound the horn.” I put the crown on him; he bristles, annoyed, but smiles.

            He replies in the same non-committal tone he uses when we remind him to turn in homework. The tone that means he might. “Fine.”

Lindsay returns, looks impatient. “C’mon.”

            My phone buzzes. It’s school again with another just kidding. Roads are too slick on the mountain.

            “School’s canceled, folks.”

            Lindsay side hugs Tristan then dashes off.

            “Parhelion!” I say, “Hurrah!”

            “Hurrah!” shouts Lindsay from off somewhere. The living room TV turns on.

Tristan laughs a rare laugh, nods, says, “Parhelion, hurrah.”

---

TRAVIS FLATT — Travis (he/him) is an epileptic teacher and actor living in Cookeville, Tennessee. His stories appear or are forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Sundog Lit, Necessary Fiction, Iron Horse Review, and elsewhere. His first chabook, Five Stories (Sand & Gravel), saw print in 2025. He is a 2026 Smokelong Emerging Writer Fellow. 

Art by AARON BURCH — Aaron is the author of Tacoma, as well as the essay collection, A Kind of In-Between, and a novel, Year of the Buffalo, among others. He edits the literary journals Short Story, Long and HAD.