The Hound of Rowan

by Henry H. Neff

  David patiently closed his eyes as Miss Boon guided them through the process. She signaled for them to begin.

  There was a flash of light, followed by an explosion.

  Max found himself thrown backward, lying on the ground, shielding his eyes from the torrents of green and gold fire that roared from David’s fireplace. Burning logs and embers smoldered on the floor, blasted clear from the hearth. The nearest edge of the Persian rug began to smoke.

  David was the only student standing; the rest shrieked and scurried away as more sheets of green flame spilled out of the fireplace and swept above the mantel to singe the paneled wall above. Miss Boon’s voice rose above the fire’s roar.

  “Stay down.”

  Miss Boon strode forward and muttered a sharp word of command coupled with a decisive sweep of her arm.

  The fire did not subside.

  Narrowing her eyes, the instructor repeated her command.

  Max exhaled as the fire began to dim. It gathered reluctantly into small pools of green flames before winking out entirely. The stern expression on Miss Boon’s face softened.

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  Max and the others murmured “No” as they pushed up from the floor. The floor and walls surrounding David’s fireplace were badly charred and smoking.

  “If no one is hurt, please re-form your lines.”

  David coughed and opened his eyes, looking curiously behind him where the students were slowly reassembling. Ignoring Max’s stare, David merely walked to the end of the line. Miss Boon stepped back to her position, as though nothing unusual had happened. In a terse voice, she muttered, “Next, McDaniels and Boudreaux.”

  Max found it difficult to concentrate as Miss Boon led them through the steps. Although he tried to focus on his hearth, his mind kept returning to David’s disturbing display. After several minutes, exhausted from the effort, he opened his eyes. His hearth was smoking mightily, but no flame flickered within it. It was no different for the girl next to him or anyone else that followed.

  When the last pair had finished, Miss Boon bade them take their seats. Lucia spoke first.

  “Miss Boon?” she asked, uncharacteristically tentative. “What happened? What happened on David’s turn?”

  “He kindled a flame as instructed,” was the flat reply.

  “Yes, but, um, why did it explode?”

  “Apparently he has lots of ‘horsepower,’ Miss Cavallo.”

  After class, Max waited in the stairwell while David remained behind with Miss Boon. The windows in the hallway hummed as Old Tom chimed four o’clock and Max saw Ms. Richter climbing the stairs. She turned to him as she approached the Mystics classroom.

  “Why aren’t you in Etiquette, Mr. McDaniels?” asked the Director. “Oh. I’m waiting for David Menlo. He should be out any second.”

  “He will not be,” Ms. Richter replied, opening the door. “Go on to class, Max. Tell Sir Wesley that David will be arriving late. Oh, and be sure to get more ice for that eye.”

  Max stammered a good-bye; he had almost forgotten that his eye was swollen and bruised. He clambered up the stairs to the room for Etiquette. As soon as he entered, he heard a voice exclaim, “No, no, not at all. Did everybody see that?”

  Max stopped and saw a tall, tanned man with a shock of white hair and a cleft chin in a cream-colored suit. The man was flanked by Max’s classmates, and his bright blue eyes were studying him intently.

  “Is this David or Max?” asked Sir Alistair Wesley, suddenly plucking a silk pocket square from his breast pocket and polishing his glasses.

  “Uh, Max, sir,” he said. “Uh, David will be late—Ms. Richter told me to tell you.”

  “Uh, I see,” said Sir Wesley, conspicuously emphasizing the “uh” and refolding the pocket square. “As you are late and as your entrance is an example of everything not to do, we shall use you as an example. Please step back into the hallway.”

  Max hesitated before retreating several steps.

  “Please reenter the room.”

  Max took several halting steps. Connor looked ready to burst.

  “There!” exclaimed Sir Wesley. “Slumped shoulders, shifty gaze, shuffling feet. Hardly a projection of confidence, good breeding, or manners.”

  The rest of the class giggled; Max was incredulous.

  “We’ll try it again,” said Sir Wesley. “This time, Mr. McDaniels, I would like you to stand straight, lift up your chin, and stride confidently into the room. As you enter, I’d like you to give Sarah here a warm smile and walk over to make her acquaintance.”

  “But I already know Sarah,” Max muttered, his face burning.

  “Yes, I know you do. I want you to pretend that you do not. Sarah, I want you to pretend that you do not notice the rather prominent black eye exhibited by Mr. McDaniels.”

  Max bit his tongue and backtracked into the hall. When called, he stood up straight and walked back into the room. He saw Sarah and tried to concentrate on her, but it was difficult with Sir Wesley’s running commentary.

  “Good! No! No! Shoulders back—there, that’s it. Chin up! Don’t look so serious; you’re making a lovely young lady’s acquaintance, not battling gas!”

  The class burst into laughter and Max abandoned his effort.

  “All right, Mr. McDaniels, we’ll consider you a work in progress,” Sir Wesley said wearily, turning from Max to address the others. “Now, I know that today young people fancy themselves perpetually moody and angst-ridden, but let’s pretend we’re not, shall we? Any more volunteers for Scenario One: Winning Entry into an Occupied Room?”

  Connor’s hand shot in the air.

  “All right, Mr. Lynch. Have a go.”

  Connor disappeared out into the hall. When called, he sauntered in, pausing to lean against the doorway and raise an eyebrow as he surveyed the group with a rakish smirk. Pretending to catch an initial glimpse of Sarah, he strode toward her with slow majesty. Sarah burst into giggles; Omar buried his face in his hands. Stopping several feet away, Connor gave a low bow and raised his head to flash two rows of gleaming teeth.

  “Connor Lynch at your service.”

  “Bravo!” roared Sir Wesley, clapping with sincere enthusiasm.

  Everyone else groaned in disgust.

  Max could not wait to escape from Etiquette; it had leapfrogged Mathematics as his least favorite class. He was first out the door and jogging down the stairs toward the athletic fields for Games as Old Tom chimed. M. Renard was waiting, impatient as ever as he directed them to separate facilities where they could change. When they emerged from the lockers, their instructor was bouncing a soccer ball on his foot. He motioned them over.

  “First day of classes. The piggies are tired, I know. We end the day as we begin: a little hop, skip, and jump, eh? All of you know football? ‘Soccer’?” He scanned the faces as the children nodded; Max noticed David was still absent. “Good game for the legs. Builds speed, stamina, and body control. Apprentices play lots of football at Rowan, but here you will find the conditions slightly different. Here at Rowan, we play Euclidean soccer.”

  “What’s different?” asked Rolf.

  “You will see as you play,” M. Renard said, allowing a little smile. “You and Sarah will pick teams. Quick, quick.”

  Max was chosen first by Sarah despite warning her that he had never played organized soccer. As the game started, Sarah whizzed past Jesse with the ball, passing it deftly to another girl, who ran alongside her. Rolf crashed in and stole the ball, eluding Max and kicking a long pass downfield to Connor, who fired a hard shot toward the goal. Playing goalkeeper, Cynthia tipped the ball straight up into the air and caught it short of the net.

  “Nice save!” cheered Omar from midfield.

  Suddenly, the ground began to shift and bubble. Small hills and depressions started to form on the field; entire sections rose or lowered several feet to form ridges and plateaus. The children stopped and shot M. Renard a frightened look.

  “It is all ri
ght,” he assured them from the sideline. “Keep playing!”

  The game ended in a 0–0 tie. Rolf ’s team would have scored if a sizable mound, rising like a sudden blister, had not deflected the ball to the side just as Rolf split two defenders and aimed a shot. M. Renard blew a whistle, and the field promptly settled to a flat plane.

  “That game is impossible,” complained Rolf, dribbling the ball to the sideline. “We should have won.”

  “You will have to struggle, adjust, and adapt,” M. Renard said, shrugging. “That is the entire point. You played the game today on its lowest setting. Come see the older students play on a weekend; you will not think you have it so hard.”

  Back in the locker room, cupping cold water over his eye, Max’s spirits fell at the thought of all he had to do that evening. He had to feed Nick, study the Greek alphabet, draw a land map of Europe, and practice kindling small blazes in his hearth. His eye throbbed. Trudging toward the Manse, all he wanted was to crawl into bed, gaze at the constellations, and sleep for a week.

  9

  A GOLDEN APPLE IN THE ORCHARD

  Ten letters lay in a little pile on Max’s bed. They were from his father, and Max had read them several times. It was a late weekend morning in early October, and Max had been at Rowan over five weeks.

  Things at home sounded busy. Mr. McDaniels was traveling frequently on business, determined that his efforts would convince Mr. Lukens to assign him more accounts. Max was preparing to write a letter back when David came into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. “Hey,” he muttered, flopping onto his bed across the way and kicking his shoes off.

  “How was it?” asked Max without looking up.

  “Stunk. Miss Kraken yelled at me for not paying enough attention. Ms. Richter came in and watched for the last half. She never says anything, she just watches. It’s annoying.”

  After the first day, David had been removed from their Mystics class and was taking private lessons every day from Miss Kraken. The damage he had inflicted on the classroom had been repaired immediately.

  “Are you excited to go into town?” Max asked, beginning his letter. What he really wanted to know were further details of David’s lessons in Mystics, but David never shared them.

  “Yeah, I guess,” came David’s reply, muffled by the pillow he had pulled over his face.

  Max frowned as he wrote to his father; there were so many fascinating things about the new school and so little he could actually share. Practical considerations limited his letters to chronicling his academic struggles and assuring his father he was making new friends. Max made no mention of vegetarian ogres or talking geese.

  Mr. Vincenti, Miss Boon, and the other advisors were already waiting for the First Years by the fountain when Max and David walked out the Manse’s front door. Most students had abandoned their school uniforms in favor of blue jeans. Mr. Vincenti spoke up as they set out for the campus gate and the world outside.

  “Ha! Exciting stuff—first trip to town and a beautiful fall day to enjoy it! Did everyone bring some spending money and an appetite?” “Yes!” screamed the group, causing him to cover his ears and chuckle.

  “Good. Now listen up—we have reservations for dinner at the Grove at seven, and the food is excellent so don’t fill up on sweets! Make a point to introduce yourselves to the residents and shopkeepers. They’re well aware of what Rowan’s all about—in fact, many are former students or family of the faculty. Be on your best behavior and make Sir Wesley proud, eh?”

  The students cheered and Max hurried along with them as they crossed the lawns and entered the forest, which was ablaze with the brilliant colors of autumn. The breeze off the ocean was crisp, and Max rejoiced in the unprecedented sum of money in his pocket—his hoarded allowances for the past two months. He chatted with Rolf and Lucia as they walked the scenic, meandering mile to the gate.

  As the great gate closed behind them, Max and Connor dashed away with the others, arriving a few hundred yards later at the long stretch of quaint shops and businesses radiating from the village green. Older students milled about, ducking in and out of the nearby pizza parlor, café, and bookstore.

  “Where to?” asked Connor, hopping up and down and looking in all directions.

  “Let’s wait for David,” said Max, peering back down the road, where his roommate looked to be getting an earful from Miss Boon. Finally, David nodded and hurried toward them up the road, arriving in an annoyed fit of coughing.

  “What was that all about?” asked Connor.

  “Oh, nothing special. She wants me to ‘be careful’—she’s been on my case ever since Miss Kraken started teaching me Mystics. I don’t think she likes it.”

  “Why would she care?” asked Max.

  “She’s really young,” said David. “She’s only, like, twenty-five. I think she’s worried Miss Kraken doesn’t have confidence in her.”

  “Kraken thinks you’re going to blow up Boonie!” said Connor with a laugh.

  David started walking toward a patisserie, coughing hard into his jacket sleeve. As they got closer, they heard a chorus of excited voices. A few steps later, Max understood why.

  In the window, Max saw a marvelous seascape crafted entirely of sweets. There were sand castles of white chocolate, thick beds of licorice anemones, and brilliantly colored fish and sea creatures made of taffy, hard candies, and peppermints.

  “Come in! Come in!” said a friendly voice from inside.

  A stout man with a black beard and rosy cheeks was methodically braiding strands of bread dough. He stopped to greet them at the counter, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “You must be First Years. I’m Charlie Babel—I believe my wife is your Languages teacher.”

  Ten minutes later, having settled on some wedges of toffee and a handful of chocolate sand dollars, the three peered into the windows of a café and saw a number of older students having coffee and pastries inside. Jason Barrett was in a corner, flirting with a very pretty Fifth Year whom Max had once seen him kissing behind Old Tom. Jason saw them staring and waved them inside.

  In one swift motion, Connor mooned them.

  “Hope you brought your runners!” he yelled, pressing his bare bottom against the window a second time before dashing after Max and David.

  They ran for two blocks, finally coming to a sudden stop, where they gasped for breath and plundered Max’s sweets. David looked reborn; his cheeks flushed pink, and Max thought it was the first time he had ever seen David so happy.

  Glancing at the store window behind them, Max spied a small set of paints on display. It occurred to him that it had been some time since he’d had the chance to really draw or paint like he used to with his mother. He squinted at the price. They were expensive, but they were very nice; they looked like something a real artist would use.

  “We better go hide somewhere,” laughed David, rubbing his hands and glancing back up the street.

  “Yeah,” said Connor, looking about. “I don’t want my bum picked out of a lineup. They could do it, too—they got two good looks at it!”

  Connor and David dissolved into giggles again while Max tapped his finger thoughtfully against the store window, studying the set’s clean little tubes of color.

  “Hey, I’m going in here,” said Max. “I’ll catch up.”

  When the shopkeeper set the paints before him, Max began counting out his money almost immediately. The set had more colors than he’d ever used, and even its box was fancy with its delicate brass hinge. He sorted his bills and change on the counter but was two dollars short. The woman smiled and took his money, sliding the set into a small bag.

  “I can spare two dollars for a young man who wants them that badly. You go enjoy them—maybe bring me something that you paint!”

  “I will,” said Max, beaming as she pushed the bag into his hands.

  The trees were casting long shadows as Max, carrying his bags of sweets and paints, strolled toward the theater. Just as he passed L
uigi’s, the pizza parlor, he heard a voice call out behind him. Alex had emerged from Luigi’s, trailed by Sasha and Anna.

  “Hey, Max,” Alex called out in a friendly voice. “How you doing?”

  Max said nothing and watched them.

  “What’s the matter?” said Alex, walking toward him. “What do you have to worry about after you ran and cried to Jason Barrett?”

  “I didn’t tell Jason anything,” Max said, glowering, switching the bags from his right to his left hand.

  “Sure you didn’t,” Alex said sarcastically. “Just remember, Max. Jason graduates this year and I won’t forget.”

  Alex walked past him and swatted Max’s bags onto the street. The chocolates and toffees spilled out onto the pavement, but those weren’t what concerned him. The case for his paints had broken and the little tubes of paint littered the sidewalk.

  “Hey, I wanted that candy!” moaned Sasha, trotting after Alex.

  Max bent to gather his things when Anna walked slowly toward him, a thin smile on her face.

  “You know, that was a nice picture in the paper. You should have heard us laughing. I thought Julie Teller was going to pass out!”

  Her pretty features twisted into a tight little smirk as she walked methodically over the candy and paints, grinding them with her heel. Max’s heart sank as he looked at the resulting smears. Anna gave a satisfied smile and rejoined Alex and Sasha, who howled with laughter as the three continued down the sidewalk.

  Max watched them go and began to shake with rage. It took all his control to smother a predatory urge that rose up within him. He could not go after them; Mr. Vincenti had threatened grave consequences for Max if he got into another fight.

  He tried to clean up the mess, using the broken case to scoop up the crushed candies and splattered tubes of paint and throwing it all into a nearby wastebasket. Storming off to the theater, he had walked several blocks when he heard voices call out from above.