The Hound of Rowan

by Henry H. Neff

  Rolf began to count; Max tensed his legs and braced himself for a leap. Before Rolf reached three, however, Max’s concentration was broken. Alex Muñoz and a half-dozen Second Years had wandered over.

  “Showing off, Max?” inquired Alex innocently.

  “Nobody asked you over here,” said Sarah.

  “You still have a crush on this kid?” Alex snickered incredulously. “Better get it out of your system before he packs it on like Daddy.”

  Alex smiled as Max turned red; he looked Max dead in the eye.

  “Anna thinks Daddy’s due for a heart attack within the year, but I’m giving him two,” said Alex. He puffed out his cheeks and patted his belly, mimicking Mr. McDaniels while Anna and Sasha giggled. Max’s hands started to shake.

  “Don’t,” whispered David.

  “Where is Daddy, anyway?” asked Alex, just as Mr. McDaniels’s booming laugh could be heard from the patisserie. “Oh my God!” he laughed. “He’s in there? He’s eating chocolate? That’s too perfect—guess Anna was right!”

  Anna and Alex snickered; Max felt David’s small hand holding his school sweater. Connor hopped off a branch and stepped between Max and Alex.

  “Just curious, Muñoz—what do you have against Max?” inquired Connor. “Is it that he bloodied you up last fall? Or maybe it was the way he ran circles around you in front of the alumni on Halloween? Is that it?”

  “Shut up, Lynch!” spat Alex.

  “Or maybe,” Connor continued, his finger wagging under Alex’s nose while his voice sank to a whisper, “it’s the fact that Max is going to break all the records next week while you’re not known for anything around here other than being a bloody jerk.”

  Alex stood silent for a moment, a murderous look on his face. His lip twitched; he seemed to be expending all of his energy in his effort not to reach out and throttle Connor. But then a chilling calm came over the Second Year’s features. He flashed a wicked smile over Connor’s shoulder, directly at Max.

  “Connor sure is a witty guy,” said Alex. “A guy like that should have his tongue cut out. Who knows? Maybe someday he will. Still, he has a point. Maybe I am jealous. Think you can get to that branch faster than I can?”

  Max glowered at him before glancing again at the branch.

  “It’s not even a question and you know it,” he said.

  “So, prove it to me,” chided Alex. “Put me in my place.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything, Max,” David breathed. “He’s planning something.”

  “Come on, Max,” Alex goaded. “You just said it’s not even a question. Prove it to me!”

  “Fine,” said Max. “When Sarah counts to three.”

  “Can she count that high?” Alex sneered, pushing past Connor and positioning himself next to Max at the tree’s base.

  Sarah ignored the insult, choosing instead to clear everyone a few feet away from the tree. Max’s adrenaline surged as Sarah began to count. When she reached “three,” Max crouched low to spring when Alex stepped suddenly on top of his foot, pinning it to the ground. Grabbing the back of Max’s head, Alex slammed Max’s face into the tree trunk and scrambled up his back to make a mad leap off of his shoulders.

  Max staggered backward, holding his hand against his forehead, which burned like fire. Alex was hanging from the branch by his fingertips, cackling maniacally and ignoring the furious shouts from the other children.

  “See?” he crowed. “I reached the branch first! Muñoz wins! Muñoz wins!”

  With a sudden convulsion, Max sprang up onto the branch. Before Alex could move, Max had seized him by the shirt and dangled him with one arm out over the ground. Alex strained and wriggled helplessly in his grip.

  “Boys!”

  The voice seemed distant and unimportant. Max focused his attention on the bully whom he held like a rag doll. Alex had stopped struggling and simply looked at Max with a mixture of shock and fear.

  “Boys!”

  It was Miss Boon screeching with hoarse rage from across the square. Their Mystics instructor was walking very quickly toward them, her face white with anger. The other children parted. Arriving at the base of the tree, the teacher folded her arms and glared up at them.

  “Max McDaniels! Pull Mr. Muñoz up to that branch. Then both of you climb down here this instant! This instant!”

  Reluctantly, Max pulled Alex back toward the tree, allowing the Second Year to grab hold of the trunk. Breathing heavily, Alex muttered “Freak” under his breath before scooting to a lower branch and hopping down. Max clambered down a moment later.

  Miss Boon stabbed a finger at the two boys. “Fighting? Flaunting your abilities off-campus? What on earth would possess you to act so stupidly? Do you know what could happen if you’d been seen? Did you even stop to think that you might be seen?”

  Miss Boon looked from face to face, her rage slowly subsiding to an icy calm.

  “He tried to kill me,” Alex accused. “You saw him, Miss Boon!”

  “Be still, Mr. Muñoz. I don’t require a crystal ball to see that your predicament had something to do with the bloody lump on Mr. McDaniels’s forehead. Do either of you have anything sensible to say in your defense?”

  “I’m sorry,” Max said quietly. He had never seen Miss Boon so angry.

  “‘Sorry’ isn’t good enough!” she snapped. “This is going to result in some serious punish—”

  Just then they heard a man’s frantic call for help. Miss Boon kept her eyes locked on the boys a moment longer before turning her head in the direction of the patisserie. Max’s father and Mr. Babel came barreling outside. A second later, a waist-high surge of melted chocolate oozed from the doorway and spilled out onto the sidewalk.

  “Help!” cried Mr. Babel again. Miss Boon and the children ran over just as the near-finished cathedral slid out the door and was swallowed up in a chocolate gurgle.

  “What happened?” exclaimed Miss Boon, checking the street for tourists. A number of older students and faculty hurried over from the coffee shop and pizza parlor, including Mr. Vincenti.

  “I don’t know!” panted Mr. Babel, slogging to the doorway and trying unsuccessfully to staunch the flow of chocolate with his body. He groaned as the white-chocolate saplings slid past his reach and also began to sink. “I don’t even know where all this chocolate came from!”

  “Is the coast clear, Joseph?” asked Miss Boon.

  “I think so, Hazel,” Mr. Vincenti panted, confiscating a coffee cup from a Third Year who was intently filling it with chocolate. He handed the cup to Mr. McDaniels, who looked carefully at its contents.

  Miss Boon took one last glance up the street before raising her hand and muttering a few words. The chocolate stopped pooling on the street; it hardened instantaneously. Great cracks, like fault lines, zigzagged across its surface as the mass solidified into a block. Mr. Vincenti leaned forward to help Mr. Babel free himself from the chocolate, knocking off a large chunk to reveal the submerged cathedral. Mr. Babel moaned at the sight of his ruined masterpiece.

  “Any idea what happened?” the advisor asked.

  “None,” wheezed Mr. Babel. “One minute I was cleaning the soda lines, the next I was waist-deep in chocolate. Could one of the students be behind this? You know—a spring prank?”

  “It’s possible one of the older students could have done this,” Mr. Vincenti mused.

  “Let’s not overlook the younger ones,” Miss Boon interjected, casting a smoldering glance at David. “After all, many of them were in the patisserie shortly before this happened.”

  “They couldn’t have done this, Hazel,” laughed Mr. Vincenti, helping himself to a small shaving of chocolate he had scraped off with his car keys.

  “You’re quite mistaken, Joseph,” Miss Boon growled. “In any event, it’s time Mr. Muñoz and Mr. McDaniels got their things and accompanied me back to campus.”

  Max’s cheeks burned as his father’s eyes fell on his bleeding forehead.

  Mr. McDa
niels frowned and put the cup of chocolate down on the sidewalk. He examined Max’s forehead.

  “What happened, son?” he asked.

  “He’s fine, Mr. McDaniels,” called Alex, smiling. “You just go ahead and enjoy that chocolate, sir.”

  “Alex!” hissed Miss Boon. She turned to Max’s father. “Scott, my apologies, but Max must return to campus immediately. His behavior today has been unacceptable. I won’t get into the details, but—”

  “You can call me ‘Mr. McDaniels,’ young lady,” said Max’s father.

  Miss Boon paused, momentarily speechless.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Max pleaded. “I’ll see you back on campus. Please stay here with Connor and David.”

  “Yeah,” said Connor quickly. “David and I got loads to show you, Mr. McDaniels.”

  Mr. McDaniels looked at Max once more before turning to Connor and nodding.

  Max and Alex slunk away from the crowd and walked over to the tree. As Max retrieved his bag, he noticed a folded slip of paper sticking out of a zippered pouch. He trailed a step behind Alex, who was dragging his feet toward Miss Boon, and unfolded the note.

  Nice jump. Get back to campus!

  Go to Rattlerafters ASAP.

  Be alone. Check your RCOKE.

  —Ronin

  Max whipped his head around, half expecting to see Ronin’s white eye locked on him from behind a tree or among the crowd. Crumpling the note, Max took one more look around before hurrying to where Miss Boon and Alex were waiting.

  17

  THE HOUND OF ULSTER

  It was well after dinner by the time Max was able to slip away from his classmates and make his way alone to Rattlerafters Library. His father had expressed his disappointment that Max was unable to avoid fights at yet another school. But for Max, the experience had more disturbing implications. He had not decided to leap after Alex and seize him, it had just happened—as swift and involuntary as a blink or a sneeze.

  Passing a trio of older students, Max climbed Old Tom’s stairs two at a time. He had never been up to Rattlerafters before, but he knew the library was shunned by most of Rowan’s students and faculty. Occupying the attic of Old Tom, the Rosetta Library owed its unpopularity and nickname to its location directly beneath Rowan’s chimes. Beams, books, and furniture were shaken up every hour on the hour. The long, low attic smelled of dust and book leather; to Max it resembled a book graveyard more than a working library. Near the entrance, a slender spiral staircase disappeared up into a dark room housing the building’s clockworks and chimes. Max moved quickly past it; Old Tom had always seemed to him a living thing, and something about the dark space above made him uneasy.

  Max settled himself into a rickety wooden chair at a long table. Flicking on a table lamp, he sneezed and brushed a layer of dust off the table. There was little doubt in Max’s mind that Ronin had caused the distraction at the patisserie to slip him the message. Ronin’s note had been brief but was relatively clear; “RCOKE” clearly stood for Max’s Rowan Compendium of Known Enemies. He opened his bag with uneasy anticipation, pulling out the heavy book and spying another folded letter between its pages. Max opened the letter and scanned its jittery script.

  Dear Max,

  I write in greatest urgency. The Enemy has begun a great work of which the missing Potentials are but a part. The Enemy believes Old Magic exists once again among our Order, and this signals an opportunity to recover Astaroth.

  Max, the Demon is not dead, but imprisoned in a painting! Furthermore, the Enemy believes it is already in possession of the accursed thing. Many works now hanging in museums are clever forgeries—the stolen paintings in the newspapers are merely to divert Rowan’s attention from other thefts that have gone undetected….

  There are whispers of a matchless child—a child whose arrival they have foreseen and whose help they require to free the Demon. Verifying the existence and identity of this child is of great interest to them.

  Max—your name is known and has been mentioned many times in their councils. Be on your guard! There is at least one traitor among you. Rowan is not safe. I am close and watching—look for me at Brigit’s Vigil. Incinerate this!

  Ronin

  Max scanned the letter several times, committing its details to memory. “Brigit’s Vigil” was a mystery, but much of the letter made grim and disturbing sense. He had to speak to David immediately. David was operating under the assumption that the four paintings he had identified still hung safely in their respective museums, now under careful watch. And David might well be the matchless child the Enemy was seeking. He crumpled the letter in his fist and reduced it to ashes with a blue flame.

  As Max’s eyes followed a drifting flake of ash, the room suddenly shook with the deafening sound of Old Tom’s chimes. Max clamped his hands over his ears and pitched forward in his chair, eyes screwed shut. His eardrums rattled and vibrated for what seemed an eternity until the bells finished striking eight o’clock.

  Opening his eyes, Max yelped as he realized he wasn’t alone in the old library. Miss Boon was standing some ten feet away.

  “I’m sorry to surprise you,” she said. “I gather this is your first visit to Rattlerafters?” She took a deep breath and looked around. “I used to come here, too, when I wanted to be alone.”

  Max nodded as the ringing subsided in his head.

  “Some students said they’d seen you come this way,” she explained, gesturing toward the stairwell. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Flustered, Max zipped his backpack and started to get up from the table.

  “No, but I already said I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  The corners of her mouth stiffened a moment before relaxing into an amused smile.

  “I’m not here to discuss your behavior this afternoon. Please have a seat—I’d like to talk to you.”

  Max casually swept the letter’s ashes off the table while Miss Boon took the chair opposite him. She reached into her bag and produced a thick book bound in worn green leather. Interlacing Celtic designs in faded gold ran along its borders. IRISH HEROES AND FOLKLORE was stamped on the front cover.

  “What’s this?” asked Max.

  “Interesting question,” mused Miss Boon. “I happen to think it may be you.”

  Max looked across the table. Miss Boon leaned forward, her mismatched eyes locking on his as she raised her hands and murmured a word of command. Instantly the book sprang open, its pages flipping past until they stopped at an illustration of a fierce-looking warrior standing in a chariot. His black hair was plaited and he clutched a barbed spear in his hands. Max read the chapter title aloud: “Cúchulain—The Hound of Ulster.” The name sent a tingle up his spine.

  “Not ‘koo-choo-lane,’” Miss Boon corrected, “koo-hull-in. Yes, Max, this is the very person I’d been hoping you’d research in an effort to better understand your vision. You have thus far refused to look for him, so he has come looking for you.”

  Max balked at her tone and eyed his watch.

  “Is everyone else doing research on their visions?” Max asked, trying to stall. “Because I’m having a hard enough time with classes as it is. I don’t think I should be taking on any more work.”

  Miss Boon glanced quickly at the stairwell and gave Max a guilty smile.

  “Fair enough. You see, Max, I’m really asking you for a favor. I want to understand more about your vision. I know it had something to do with the Cattle Raid of Cooley. But I need to know more—I need to know precisely what you saw.”

  Max’s stomach tightened up. There was something in her eagerness that reminded him of Mrs. Millen.

  “I’m not sure,” Max lied. “It’s kind of hard to remember. Why’s it so important?”

  “Most of the time, a vision is something pretty and without much meaning behind it,” she said. Max fidgeted uncomfortably; Mrs. Millen had wanted to know if his tapestry had been pretty. “But yours is a bit different. Your tapestry was of a very definite person.
From what little Nigel told me, your vision illustrated a very particular scene. If it’s true, that’s very rare. Almost unique, in fact. I’ve been doing a lot of independent research on visions, and I don’t know of one like that in over four hundred years. Since before Rowan was founded.”

  Max took a quivering breath; he already knew the answer to his next question.

  “Who had the last one?”

  “Elias Bram,” she said.

  Max thought of the last Ascendant’s apple floating in the Course’s trophy room.

  “You think he had the same vision I did?” Max asked.

  “No. His was very different. But, unlike all the others—and similar to yours—his was tied to history and myth. According to Bram’s letters, it was of the Norse god Tyr placing his hand in the mouth of the Fenris Wolf. Do you know the tale?”

  Miss Boon smiled at him; she always seemed pleased when she knew something that someone else did not.

  “The Fenris Wolf was a monstrosity,” she explained. “It was capable of wreaking unimaginable havoc unless it could be controlled. No chain could bind it, and so the gods, in secret, procured a cord wound with spells so as to be unbreakable. When they challenged the monster to test his strength against the cord, the wolf laughed but was suspicious of such a feeble-looking fetter. It agreed to be bound only if one of the gods would place a hand in its mouth as a gesture of good faith. Only Tyr stepped forward.”

  Max winced. “What happened?” he asked.

  “The Fenris Wolf could not break the magic binding,” she continued. “When it realized it had been caught, it bit off Tyr’s hand and swallowed it. Tyr had made a mighty sacrifice, but the monster was rendered harmless until Ragnarok—the End of Days—when it would burst its bonds.”

  “Didn’t Elias Bram sacrifice himself at Solas?” Max asked. “So others could flee?”

  “He did,” said Miss Boon, looking closely at Max. “I take it you can now imagine why I want to help you understand your vision.”