The Hound of Rowan

by Henry H. Neff

  “I understand that you are angry,” she said wearily. “If you wish to continue standing and yelling at me, you may do so. Or you may sit and receive answers to your questions.”

  Max heard footsteps behind him; Mr. Vincenti stepped into the room, his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m sorry, Gabrielle,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s all right, Joseph—I understand completely. Please have a seat and perhaps together we can convince Max to hear us.”

  Max glowered at the two of them, sitting so calm and composed. Taking a deep breath, he sat on the edge of a chair.

  “I have to go see my dad,” he pleaded. “He needs me.”

  “I wish you could go home,” said Ms. Richter softly. “That is the truth, Max. It breaks my heart to keep a child from their parent—holidays or otherwise. I regret that we could not tell you sooner, but the fact is that we were exploring options that might have made such a visit possible. I’m sorry to say those options do not exist.”

  “I’ll be just fine,” said Max. “You can have an Agent watch my house….”

  Ms. Richter shook her head.

  “I will speak plainly, Max, so you understand and we can put this matter behind us,” said the Director. Her face was grim and the softness in her voice had evaporated. “We have analyzed and discussed this situation thoroughly. You would not be fine. The Enemy would come for you, and not just ‘Mrs. Millen’ and whoever else was in your house that day. A tremendous allocation of resources would be required to ensure your safety, and I simply cannot spare them at this time. You would endanger yourself, your father, and potentially many others. It is an unpleasant decision I have to make, but I have made it.”

  Max listened carefully, weighing every word before he spoke.

  “My father would be in danger?” he asked.

  “Yes, Max. I am afraid he would be,” said Ms. Richter, her voice gentle once again.

  Max bowed his head; when he spoke, his voice was quiet and thick with tears.

  “So, I’m a prisoner,” he said. “I can’t even go home!”

  “Oh, Max,” said Mr. Vincenti, patting his shoulder. “It won’t be so bad! You’re not the only student spending the break here, and we all celebrate the Yuletide together in the Sanctuary.”

  Max ignored Mr. Vincenti and stared instead at a diploma over Ms. Richter’s shoulder. He kept his voice calm and even as he spoke.

  “What lie should I tell my father?”

  Ms. Richter sighed and placed her palms flat on her desk.

  “That you failed your final exam in Mathematics and need to redo several units if you wish to avoid spending the summer here,” she answered.

  Max bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. He wanted to shatter the arms of the slender chair as he got up to leave. He paused in the doorway.

  “But I’ll be spending the summer here anyway, won’t I?” he asked, staring down the long hallway toward the foyer.

  “I hope that will be your decision, Max. Not mine.”

  Mum and Bob were in the kitchens dicing vegetables for soup when Max came in to make his phone call. Mum hummed merrily to herself as she worked, but Bob’s somber frown suggested he knew why Max was there. Wiping his hands on his apron, the ogre whispered something to Mum and led her quietly out of the kitchen.

  Max’s father answered on the second ring. “Are you busy right now, Dad? I’m sorry to bug you at the office.”

  “No, no, no—I’m glad you called! In fact, your ears must be burning, because Mr. Lukens and I were just talking about you. I mentioned you were coming home from Rowan and he just about dropped his coffee mug!”

  “You’re kidding,” said Max, sliding down the wall to slump against a large sack of potatoes.

  “Nope,” his father said excitedly. “He was very impressed—said Rowan’s as exclusive as it gets and that he’s got a niece that might be interested in going. Isn’t that great?”

  “Super.”

  “Oh, and another thing,” said his father, lowering his voice. “He wants to talk to you about it at their Christmas party—only the bigwigs ever get invited to that shindig!”

  Max began thumping his head dully against the hard wall behind him; he wished the line would go dead. “Dad, I’ve got some bad news….”

  “What is it?” his father asked, the enthusiasm in his voice cooling. “Is everything okay?”

  “No,” said Max, dropping his head between his knees. “I bombed my math final—I’m failing Mathematics.”

  A relieved laugh burst through the receiver.

  “Oh my gosh! You about gave me a heart attack! Is that it? Max, I think I failed algebra twice before it made any sense….”

  “No, Dad—you don’t understand. I have to stay here over the break—otherwise I fail the class and have to stay here for summer school.”

  There was a long pause at the other end; Max braced himself.

  “What?” Scott McDaniels exclaimed. “Are you saying you’re not coming home for Christmas?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry—”

  “Put someone from that school on the phone.”

  Max flinched as the words spat rapid-fire out of the receiver. Reflexively, he craned his neck to see if any adults were present. He held his breath a moment, telling himself over and over again that he was keeping his father safe.

  “There’s nobody here right now, Dad,” he said quietly. “I can have somebody call you.”

  “I’ve never even heard of something like this! What kind of nerve does that place have? Keeping a kid away from his family because he can’t do a few word problems!”

  There was a long pause before his father’s voice became very calm.

  “Max, I want you to pack your things. I’ll be picking you up at the airport as arranged—”

  “No, Dad—” Max pleaded.

  “I’ll park the car and meet you—”

  “Dad, I’m not coming home!” snapped Max, his frustration and guilt boiling over.

  “Don’t you want to come home? Max, I’m your father…. I don’t care if you failed every stinking class they’ve got! I’m spending Christmas with my son! The Lukenses have invited us to their holiday party—”

  “Oh, well as long as it’s good for business!” Max snapped.

  “What are you talking about?” said his father, sounding hurt. “I’ve already put up the stockings and—”

  “Did you put up Mom’s stocking?” Max interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Did you put up Mom’s stocking again?”

  “Yes! I put up your mother’s stocking,” snapped his father defensively. “What’s that got to do with—”

  “She’s dead, Dad!” Max screamed. “Stop putting up her stocking! Stop putting lipsticks and chocolates and jewelry in that stupid stocking! Mom is DEAD!”

  Max heard his own words echo in the cavernous kitchen. Closing his eyes, he curled into a ball as shame consumed him. He braced himself for a torrent of angry words, but instead his father’s voice sounded chillingly calm.

  “You are my son, and I love you very much. Pack all your things. I’ll be there to get you by noon tomorrow. You tell that teacher or whoever is keeping you there that I’ll call the police if they try to interfere.”

  He heard his father’s phone rattle in its cradle before the line went dead. His mind and feelings numb, Max slowly got to his feet and hung up the phone.

  “Whew! Now those were some fireworks!” exclaimed Mum with an excited gleam in her eye. The hag peered from around the corner, where she had nibbled an unpeeled carrot down to a nub. “I thought me and my sis knocked heads, but that takes the cake.”

  Max said nothing but walked toward her like a zombie. Her crooked, panting grin wavered as he came closer. Stooping over Mum, Max hugged her tight, ignoring her lumpy back and sweaty blouse and hair that smelled of mop water. The hag stiffened while Max shook and pressed his cheek against her shoulder. Several moments later, Max felt her short, thick arms em
brace him.

  “Shhh…it’ll be all right, love,” said Mum.

  Max lifted his head and looked at the watery red eyes blinking back tears at him.

  “You haven’t lost a father, love,” she croaked. “You’ve gained a Mum!”

  The hag immediately began pinching Max’s arm and looking urgently around the kitchen.

  “We’ve got to feed you—that’s what we’ve got to do! That’s the trick—a full belly to chase the icky blahs away! Three hams and a cabbage and call Mum in the morning!”

  The hag squeezed Max’s hand and suddenly darted off to a meat locker, humming contentedly as she began launching hams out the door.

  Mr. Vincenti was waiting out in the dining hall when Max emerged.

  “My dad says he’s coming to get me tomorrow morning,” said Max, walking past the older man and trudging up the stairs. “He says he’ll call the police if there’s any problem. I’ll let you and Ms. Richter figure that one out…. I’m going to my room and I want to be left alone.”

  David was staring up at the stars beyond the glass, scribbling into a notebook, when Max came in and flopped into bed.

  “What’s the matter?” asked David. He walked around the balcony, weaving through books and astronomical models on the floor, and took a seat on a small rug next to Max’s bed. “Everything. Ms. Richter isn’t letting me go home for the break.”

  “Why not?” asked David. “Isn’t your dad expecting you?”

  Max hesitated. He had promised both Nigel and Ms. Richter that he wouldn’t tell anyone about his encounters with Mrs. Millen. But the image of his father standing before a fireplace with three empty stockings flashed through his head. Max sat up, his eyes flashing with anger.

  Over the next hour, he told David everything.

  The wonders and horrors spilled out of him like water from a broken faucet; he told of the tapestry and Ronin and Mrs. Millen and the conversation he overheard about missing Potentials and stolen paintings. David said very little while Max talked; he simply hugged his knees and listened intently until Max had finished.

  “Well, things make a lot more sense now,” said David finally. “Really big things are happening,” he said simply. “Or about to happen. It’s been written up there for a while.” He pointed up at the small constellations winking in and out of sight. “I’m sorry you’re not going home, but at least I get to have some company over the break.”

  Max stared at him.

  “Why aren’t you going home?”

  David’s face lost its little smile, and he walked downstairs to retrieve a small bundle of letters. Max recognized David’s handwriting on the envelopes. Each was stamped RETURN TO SENDER.

  David’s voice was quiet and calm. “My mom moved away.”

  “Well, where did she move?” asked Max.

  “I don’t know—she didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

  Max sat up as David began coughing.

  “I knew she would,” continued David when the coughing stopped. “I knew she’d leave once she was sure I’d found another home. It was just the two of us, and she really couldn’t take care of me…. She wasn’t well.”

  David wrapped the rubber band back around the letters, and Max stared at the little bundle of envelopes. His own sense of injustice and outrage began to diminish.

  “David, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” said David. “Ms. Richter told me to consider Rowan my home, but she didn’t need to. I already did. I’m sorry you can’t spend Christmas with your dad, but Ms. Richter’s actually right—you’re both probably safer if you stay here until they figure everything out.” He glanced back up at the glass dome. “There’s still some stuff I haven’t figured out, either.”

  “Like what?” asked Max, swinging his legs over the bed.

  “Everything you told me makes sense based on what I can see. But didn’t Ms. Richter say Astaroth was defeated?”

  “Yeah,” said Max uneasily. He stood and glanced up at the glass dome. He saw a moon, white dots, and pretty constellations. But David seemed to read them like a book—a very important book.

  “His symbol is all over the place,” David said quietly. “Astaroth might have been defeated, but I don’t think he was destroyed.”

  Mr. McDaniels did not arrive at Rowan the next day; no police came to restore Max to his father. Instead, Max received a phone call during which his cheerful father expressed sincere but supportive regret that Max needed to stay at Rowan over the holidays. Max was assured that his presents had been shipped express and that Mr. McDaniels would be thinking of him every minute.

  Late that morning, Max ran into Mr. Vincenti in the dining hall; his advisor was finishing a roll and perusing the newspaper. On the front page, Max saw that yet another painting had been stolen. “Did you speak to your father?” asked Mr. Vincenti.

  “Yeah,” said Max, still puzzling over the conversation. “Everything’s fine. What did you do?”

  Mr. Vincenti folded the newspaper and sighed.

  “We had to influence his memory and feelings a bit.” Seeing Max’s face, he added quickly, “Not his feelings about you—just his perspective about you staying here over the holidays. They were very strong. He loves you very much.”

  The strange conversation left Max feeling mixed. On the one hand he was relieved that his father did not seem to remember the awful things Max had said; on the other, it was disturbing that a seemingly minor intervention could alter his father’s memories and attitude. He tried to shake it off, running his hand up the banister wound with mistletoe and holly.

  David was upstairs in the foyer, tying his scarf.

  “Going to feed Maya,” he said. “Want to come?”

  Minutes later, the two were crunching through the snow on their way to the Sanctuary. It had snowed throughout the night, and everything was encased in a glistening white blanket.

  The Warming Lodge was very snug in the winter. Sunlight streamed in from windows high along the walls, and the building smelled of fresh hay and sanded wood. Nick was sound asleep, but Maya was not. Like a silver gazelle, she walked in graceful circles around her stall while David ordered a small box of food from the feeding bin. When David opened the door, Maya glided past him and came directly to Max. She rested her smooth silver head against his hip and craned her neck to look up at him with eyes like almonds cast of gold. Max felt his spirits lift; the weariness and sorrow drained away, and he was filled with a sense of peace and well-being.

  “What exactly is Maya again?” asked Max, quietly stroking her ears.

  “She’s an ulu,” said David, leading Max and Maya toward the door. “Her kind brings quiet and understanding. She might be the last one left, though—they almost went extinct in the nineteenth century all because their skins and horns are beautiful and their blood’s rumored to hold the secret to any language. Collectors and scholars and scientists wanted them.”

  Max was incredulous; he could not imagine anyone wanting to hunt or hurt or kill anything so graceful and giving. Maya shivered once as she stepped gingerly out onto the snow, before dipping her head into the little box of fruits and grasses.

  When Maya was finished, David and Max took her for a long walk in the Sanctuary, choosing paths that Max had never taken before. They climbed high in the woods, listening to drips of water and the strange calls of many birds. Suddenly, a large drift of snow came spilling down a slope.

  Max looked up and caught his breath.

  YaYa was sprawled above them, on a bluff overlooking their path. Her black lioness face was matted with blood and steam rose off her body; the hoof of a very large animal was visible beneath her in a trampled bed of pinkish snow. YaYa peered at them, sniffing the crisp air. Max saw his own reflection in her huge pearly eyes as she spoke in her strange voice that sounded of several women.

  “Solstice greetings to you, Maya. Greetings, children.”

  She dipped the broken horn atop her head in salute.

  “Hello, Y
aYa,” said David. “I was hoping to find you.”

  Max glanced at his roommate; David had mentioned nothing to him.

  “Were you, child? Let me come down.” The huge ki-rin stood and nuzzled her face clean in the snow before descending the slope. Max stood silent; encountering YaYa in the wild was a far different experience from passing by her as she snored beneath blankets in the Warming Lodge.

  “YaYa, was Astaroth destroyed?” asked David.

  YaYa stepped forward; her whiskered chin came to a stop right above Max’s head.

  “Why do you ask YaYa this?” chimed YaYa’s voices.

  “Because you are the Great Matriarch of Rowan. Only you remember Solas in its glory; only you remember the light that rose up against the darkness when Astaroth came.”

  The words flowed from David in a lilting cant that made Max feel sleepy. He stood quietly and stroked Maya’s silvery withers.

  YaYa crouched and settled her great bulk onto the path. “Did you know you are just like him?” she asked after a long silence. “The words and spirit of my master echo in your young voice.”

  “Who was your master?” asked David. “I did not know the Great Matriarch could have one.”

  “My master was the light that rose against Astaroth. I was with him when he threw the Enemy down. Elias Bram was my master. I tried to aid him, but the Enemy was too great. My horn broke against the Demon’s side, and I was cast far away before they brought down the high halls and the land was ruined beneath them.”

  “But was Astaroth destroyed?” David asked again.

  “It is beyond my understanding how to destroy something so aged and evil,” said YaYa quietly. “That is Old Magic and is woven into the heart and roots of this world. I have heard the Demon’s body was found, but I do not know what came of it. When her master fell, YaYa sailed west with the others and left those dark days behind….”

  The sounds of bells and laughter came up from the winding path behind them. YaYa turned and padded away farther up the path, disappearing around the bend. David led Maya to the side of the path, just as a bright red sleigh pulled by two great chestnut horses rounded the corner. Nolan was holding the reins, laughing with Mr. Morrow, Miss Boon, and two Sixth Years.