The Hound of Rowan

by Henry H. Neff

  Mr. Morrow let out a surprised grunt as Max wandered over to examine a framed photograph on the wall. The image was a younger likeness of Mr. Morrow in a fedora posing in front of the Eiffel Tower with an elegant young woman. Max thought suddenly of the carving he had seen on a tree in town: “Byron loves Elaine ’46.”

  “Ahhh, Mr. McDaniels. Are you admiring my pretty lady?” asked Mr. Morrow.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s my wife, Elaine. Cancer got her.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Max awkwardly.

  Mr. Morrow shook his head impatiently and cleared his throat.

  “Don’t be. It was her time. Everyone should be so lucky as to find his matched pair in this world. I’m grateful for the years we had.”

  Cynthia stepped over to the photograph.

  “Mr. Morrow!” she said. “You were a handsome devil! Look at you in that suit!”

  “Very handsome,” intoned Bob in agreement, stooping lower to examine the photo over their shoulders.

  “Oh, stop it!” Mr. Morrow chuckled. “You’ll make this fat old thing too vain for his own good. That photograph should be in the Smithsonian!” He looked into the fire, but Max saw that he was pleased.

  “Who’s this?” asked David, picking up a frame perched on a pile of books. In it was a yellowed photograph of a young man in a military uniform.

  “Oh, that’s my son. Arthur,” said Mr. Morrow quietly. “That’s him right after he joined the Marines. Lost him, too—his entire platoon, as a matter of fact.”

  Cynthia made a furious gesture at David to put the photograph down.

  “It’s all right, Cynthia,” said Mr. Morrow with an understanding smile. “I’m flattered that you children take an interest in my family.” He motioned for David to hand him the photograph.

  “The politicians chose war and he chose it, too,” said Mr. Morrow, studying the photo. “I didn’t understand. It’s strange, really. My whole life has been consumed with the study of war—of kingdoms that rise and fall with fire and sword. It all seems very glorious until it swallows up someone you love. Life is too precious a thing to throw away on orders and absurd chains of command.”

  He put aside the picture and turned back to his soup, spilling a bit onto his robe. David looked depressed. Bob made a steadying gesture with his hand, cleaning up the used tissues that lay in little piles around the chair. Mr. Morrow looked up once more.

  “Come now—if I’m to suffer visitors, then the least they can do is offer news! What are the happenings on campus? How’s Hazel managing with my classes? Have they found those stolen children yet? Missing Potentials is serious business—”

  “Instructor,” warned Bob, dropping a porcelain cup he’d been washing. “They are not supposed to—”

  “Not supposed to know?” exclaimed Mr. Morrow. “You mean Gabrielle still hasn’t told them the dangers despite all her promises? That’s outrageous! It’s—it’s unconscionable!”

  “What are you talking about?” Cynthia asked quietly. “What ‘stolen children’?”

  “We should be going,” said Bob, reaching for his coat and motioning to the others. “We will visit again soon.”

  “No, Bob,” said Cynthia. “I want to hear this.”

  “You must hear this,” growled Mr. Morrow, sitting up in his chair with a fierce look. The ogre sighed and peered out the window. “It’s your right and responsibility to know the dangers you face. Do any of you know anything about this?”

  Max and David glanced at each other. The wind raged outside the cottage; drafts scurried through cracks, causing the candles to flicker. Ignoring David’s little shake of the head, Max spoke up.

  “I do.”

  “What do you know, my boy?” grumbled Mr. Morrow, giving Max his full attention.

  “I know that some children—Potentials—have been taken by the Enemy all over the world,” said Max, speaking carefully. “I know another kid, someone named Mickey Lees, was supposed to be in our class. I guess he was last seen with Miss May, who…who died.”

  The room was very still; Mr. Morrow looked tired and sad.

  “And how do you know this, Max?” asked Mr. Morrow.

  “I overheard Ms. Richter talking about it in the Sanctuary. And because the Enemy tried to take me, too.”

  Cynthia and Connor gasped; David looked irritated and stared into the fire. Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Morrow jabbed an authoritative finger at Max.

  “You tell me everything, McDaniels.”

  For the next ten minutes, he related his encounter with Mrs. Millen. Mr. Morrow puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, shushing the others when they tried to ask questions. Max glanced at Bob, but the ogre appeared lost in his own thoughts. When Max had finished, Mr. Morrow fixed him with a frank look.

  “You’re lucky to be alive. Your ‘Mrs. Millen’ was almost certainly a vye.”

  Max’s stomach contracted into an icy clump.

  “What’s a vye?” he asked.

  “A shape-shifter,” explained Mr. Morrow. “Very crafty. Tough to detect and, according to our Agents in the field, appearing in greater numbers. Their real form is terrifying.”

  “Does a vye look like a werewolf?” Connor piped from near the fire. His face looked drawn and frightened.

  Mr. Morrow fixed him with a peculiar, penetrating glance.

  “Yes, Mr. Lynch, it might look like a werewolf to you,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “Bear in mind, however, that a vye is not a werewolf. The vye is larger, with a more distorted and hideous face—part wolf, part jackal, part human, with squinty eyes and a twisted snout. In human form, however, they can be most convincing. You must never speak to a vye, children! They are clever in their deceits, and their voices are wound with spells to ensnare you.”

  “How would you even know if you’re speaking to one?” whispered Cynthia, shivering and scooting closer to the fire.

  “There are all kinds of tricks to uncover one, but I’m a strong believer in the gut. If a vye approaches you, Miss Gilley, something will feel very, very wrong in your belly or down the spine. As they prefer to attack when your guard is down, a vye will often seek to gain your confidence first. This may give you an opportunity to identify it before…before it has you.”

  A sudden cry pierced the room.

  “I remember now!” exclaimed David. “I’ve seen vyes before!”

  “We all did, David,” said Connor reassuringly, “from the hallway window last semester. That must have been a vye….”

  “No,” said David, shaking his head. “Back in Colorado, before I came to Rowan. I was walking home through the woods when I saw someone off the path watching me. Something about him scared me and I walked faster. He started to follow and I ran as fast as I could. He started laughing; he was making fun of me for running slow.” David began coughing, and it was several seconds before he could continue. “I turned around and he was coming after me on all fours. Changing shape, catching up, and laughing the whole time.”

  Max had never seen David like this before. His voice was so faint and small; he looked and sounded traumatized.

  “I tripped,” he continued. “I saw another one coming at me through the woods…. I think I screamed and fainted. When I woke up, they were gone. So were the trees around me…. Everything was burned. I know it sounds crazy, but I think that it all happened.”

  “I believe you,” rumbled Mr. Morrow, patting David’s shoulder. The instructor convulsed with a sudden fit of wheezing laughter. “Imagine those poor vyes’ shock when they realized—pardon the expression—that they’d bitten off more than they could chew! Thinking they’re toying with a poor helpless boy only to encounter him instead!” His laughter sputtered into hacking coughs.

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Morrow?” huffed Cynthia. “David could have been killed!”

  “No, Miss Gilley,” said Mr. Morrow, rubbing his hand over his white stubble. “I do not think two vyes are likely to be the downfall of our Mr. Menlo. A
nd in any case, I do not believe the Enemy is merely out to take the lives of our unsuspecting young ones. I fear a darker purpose is at work.”

  “Like what? What would the Enemy want with Potentials?” asked Connor.

  Max and David glanced at each other again. Although David had deciphered the reasons behind the stolen paintings, the stolen Potentials remained a mystery.

  “Our Potentials are our lifeblood,” rumbled Mr. Morrow. “If the Enemy saps our youth, our future withers. It would be devastating to kill off our Potentials, but it would be much worse should they become corrupted to the Enemy’s will. Our ranks would dwindle while theirs grew stronger. The key question is how? How are they managing to reach our Potentials before we do? For that I have no answer, but I fear the worst….”

  “And what’s that?” ventured Cynthia weakly.

  “Treachery!” boomed Mr. Morrow, pounding his fist into his hand. “Betrayal! Treason against humanity by one of our own! Some here scoff at the notion, but these same people can’t tell me how our Potentials are being snatched away. And they have no answers for the breach we suffered last autumn.”

  “But why would Ms. Richter want to keep all of this a secret?” asked Max.

  Mr. Morrow was silent; his rheumy eyes shot quickly from face to face. Suddenly, his features darkened and his jaw quivered.

  “Because Richter’s nothing but a bureaucrat! A war is beginning, children! The Enemy is on the move. Only a fool wouldn’t see this rash of vyes for what they are—scouts to test our strength and will. Nothing less.”

  The words came quickly; he clawed at his chair with his fingers.

  “War is coming, and our Director clings to process and procedure like every lousy bureaucrat before her…. And it’s because of fear, I tell you! She’s paralyzed by the thought of a mistake—that her competency will be questioned and someone will challenge her for—”

  “That is enough!”

  Bob’s voice shook the cottage; the windows hummed. Max had never seen Bob raise his voice in anger. It was terrifying.

  Mr. Morrow did not appear terrified, however. He appeared capable of violence. Slowly, however, the old man’s silent fury subsided to anger and then to a weary, defeated look. He nodded at Bob, coughing hard into a fistful of blanket. He gave the children an apologetic wave of his hand.

  “You’re right, you’re right. You bring me soup, and I go ahead and frighten you! It’s this horrible flu talking—making me cranky—eh, Bob?”

  Bob said nothing. He pulled on his coat and opened the door a crack. A gust of wind upset some papers on a nearby shelf. He watched them settle to the ground in slow spirals.

  “We must go. Children, come along with Bob.”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Mr. Morrow. “You’re all very kind for looking after me. Ah! But before you leave, we should have a quick lesson.”

  Mr. Morrow put down his pipe and leaned forward in his chair.

  “I can’t frighten you all about vyes without giving you a bit of defense, can I? Vyes hate bright light—causes them to lose their senses for a moment. It’s a simple enough trick, but I know they don’t get to it until later. You should be able to do it with the energy already in you—no need to tap other sources or gather any.”

  Mr. Morrow balled his hand and then spread his fingers, hissing, “Solas.” The room was filled with a bright burst of light, like a massive flashbulb. Little shapes swam before Max’s eyes. A moment later, the room was dim again, lit only by the fire and candles.

  “You all try it. It’s a simple thing, really.”

  Connor stepped forward, his hand in a tight fist.

  “Solas!”

  The room flickered with a bright golden light.

  Mr. Morrow nodded and turned next to Cynthia, who looked doubtfully at her hand.

  “Solas!”

  The room filled momentarily with warm light. Connor and Cynthia seemed delighted with their new skill.

  “And you, Mr. McDaniels,” murmured Mr. Morrow, dabbing at his nose.

  As soon as the word left Max’s lips, the room erupted in brilliant light that subsided just as quickly.

  “Last but not least, Mr. Menlo.”

  David shook his head and stepped to the door.

  “I can do it,” said David simply. “I hope you feel better, Mr. Morrow. I’ll visit again soon.”

  Mr. Morrow nodded and offered a small, sad smile.

  “I hope so, Mr. Menlo,” he said softly. “And many thanks to all of you for looking in on a poor sick thing! Forgive me if I lost my head.”

  The children waved good-bye. Mr. Morrow waved back, looking very small and old. He reached for a nearby photo album.

  Outside, Bob took long strides to the top of the first dune. He motioned for them to come quickly before disappearing over the crest. Max started to trot ahead but hung back when he heard Connor chiding David.

  “Oh, come on, David. We all did it.” “I already know I can,” muttered David, zipping his jacket and pulling on his gloves with his teeth.

  “I know you can, too,” said Connor, laughing, “but I want to see for myself, Mr. Magic Man!”

  “Me too!” added Cynthia.

  “Yeah,” said Max, feeling a swell of envy. After all, Mr. Morrow said Max was lucky to have survived Mrs. Millen while David had had nothing to fear from the vyes that chased him in the woods. “It’s not fair for you to just watch all the time.”

  At Max’s words, David stopped pulling on his glove. The smile melted from Max’s face. David looked at him impassively for several seconds. With a sudden nod of his head, David flexed his hand.

  “Solas,” he whispered.

  Max gave a yelp and fell backward in the snow as the entire sky erupted in light, illuminating the countryside for miles as though a hundred bolts of lightning had flashed at once. Max’s eyes stung from the sudden exposure. Connor and Cynthia were doubled over, shielding their faces, while Bob fumbled blindly for the lantern he had dropped. When Max regained focus, he saw David standing over him, extending his hand.

  “Don’t ask me to do that again,” he whispered, helping Max to his feet. Max nodded, his cheeks flushing in shame. Ascending the dune, David carefully placed the lantern in Bob’s groping hand. With a moan, Bob lurched to his feet and placed a hand to his knotty forehead.

  “Bob will be fired….”

  The trek back was quiet, broken only occasionally by Bob’s faint and angry muttering in Russian. Max’s spirits were finally lifted by the happy sounds of Nolan’s fiddle, which turned his thoughts away from wild charges, lurking vyes, and missing children.

  Bob turned to face them. “Bob goes ahead. Dinner soon. Say nothing of the light,” he warned, wagging a finger at them, lingering a moment on Connor’s ruddy face. “If you do, Bob gets false teeth. Then Bob finds you!” The ogre’s features twisted into a hideous, sunken smile, and he pulled the lantern close to cast an eerie glow across his face. Connor whimpered and took a backward step. With a satisfied chuckle, Bob smiled and walked on ahead, taking six feet at a stride.

  “He’s kidding, right?” Connor said with a weak laugh.

  “Of course he is,” said Cynthia, sneezing into her sleeve.

  As Max and the others approached the Warming Lodge, they saw that the bonfire was still burning brightly, and a dozen students lounged on bales of hay. Nolan was putting his fiddle in its case. Julie was busy aiming her camera at Lucia, who had fallen asleep with Kettlemouth held tightly in her arms. Other students began to stir, standing up and stamping their feet to get the feeling back in their toes.

  “Hey there!” drawled Nolan. “Y’all missed the music, but you’re in time for dinner. Good timing either way you look at it!”

  “Oh, stop it, Nolan,” Cynthia blushed. “The music sounded wonderful!”

  Max and Connor shot each other a look. Even David smiled.

  “Thank you, Cynthia,” said Nolan. “Did you catch a glimpse of that light?”

  Max shut his eyes as h
e and Connor blurted, “No,” while Cynthia and David simultaneously exclaimed, “Yes.” Nolan raised an eyebrow.

  “Never seen anything like it before,” he continued. “Lit up the whole Sanctuary—”

  “Oh, Nolan,” Cynthia interrupted, “couldn’t we hear just one more song—a quick one? Old Tom hasn’t chimed the dinner bell just yet.”

  Nolan hesitated.

  “Pleeeaaaaase?” begged Cynthia, tugging on his arm. Connor rolled his eyes and coughed loudly.

  “Okay,” said Nolan, looking flattered. “A quick one, then. ‘Daisy Bell,’ to get us thinking of spring around the corner.”

  Max stopped politely as Nolan began to play. He was anxious to get back to the Manse for dinner. His stomach, his bladder, and the fact that Julie made him queasy led him to look longingly toward the hedge tunnel.

  Suddenly, an impossibly magnetic voice, rich and deep, began to sing.

  Daisy, Daisy,

  Give me your answer, do,

  I’m half crazy,

  All for the love of you.

  It won’t be a stylish marriage,

  I can’t afford a carriage,

  But you’ll look sweet,

  Upon the seat

  Of a bicycle built for two.

  Max stood rooted to the spot as the words washed over him. Kettlemouth had hopped away from Lucia and now sat alone on a bale of hay. His blood-red throat was puffed out like a balloon; his head pumped up and down in rhythm to the music. Kettlemouth was singing.

  Nolan got a funny look on his face and picked up the tempo. He struck up the tune again, and Kettlemouth’s voice filled the clearing. Cynthia started jumping up and down, clapping her hands in wild applause.

  “Oh, Nolan,” she gushed, “it’s beautiful! You’re so very talented, Nolan! Really, I mean it. And you have such a rugged way about you!”

  Max’s whole body began to tingle with warmth. He watched as David, with a wry smile, plucked Julie’s camera from a nearby chair.

  Hoarse barking suddenly filled the air. Frigga and Helga, the Scandinavian selkies, were lumbering toward them from the lagoon in ground-shaking ripples as steam rose off their thick blubber. Coming to a skidding stop, the selkies began to bump each other aside in an effort to gain position next to a handsome Fourth Year boy, who was now in a passionate embrace with a redheaded classmate.