The Hound of Rowan

by Henry H. Neff

  Bob started to speak until Mum shushed him with a furious waving of her hands.

  “You keep quiet!” she hissed. “Just you wait and see what I can hide in a grilled-cheese sandwich! Ooh! The soup will be even better!”

  Mum started giggling and seemed to forget the original purpose of her visit. Bob cleared his throat, causing her to blink several times. Suddenly, the hag launched into a dramatic curtsy.

  “Max McDaniels, we have come to nourish your body and provide an honor guard on this blessed day of greatest promise.”

  “Excuse me?” asked Max, raising his eyebrows.

  “Bob and Mum are here to walk you to your tests,” Bob translated.

  Mum glared at Bob for the intrusion.

  This was the morning that the First Years would be undergoing their monthly fitness measures—a series of events similar to a modified decathlon. The periodic tests were not normally a matter of great interest except that Max was now very close to breaking several records. He looked down the hallway to see several sleepy Second Years who had poked their heads out their doors, apparently roused from sleep by Mum’s shrill voice. Alex Muñoz’s brooding face was among them.

  “Thanks for the…escort!” said Max, ushering David out the door and shutting it behind them. “We’d better get going.”

  Mum took a slimy, possessive hold of his arm as the four walked down the hall. She insisted that David stay well ahead, so she could keep an eye on him. Several Second Years wished Max good luck as they passed; Alex merely closed his door. For the past week, the two of them had endured their daily punishment in relative peace, scraping and scrubbing the Kestrel’s hull in tense silence.

  As they reached the stairs, Mum fished a nutrition bar from her basket.

  “Eat this,” she whispered. There was a sly hint of conspiracy in her voice. “I got them special just for you. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you! They’re very modern!”

  Max was hungry and glanced down at the granola bar in its silver wrapper. He unwrapped it and took a bite, causing Mum to swoon with pleasure and flash her fierce crocodile smile.

  “Don’t tell anyone I gave you that,” she breathed quickly. “I’m not sure it’s legal.”

  “I won’t,” Max promised, ignoring David’s giggle and giving her a nod of reassurance.

  Despite the early promise of a clear day, wisps of cool, damp fog blew in off the ocean. David ran back to their room to grab sweatshirts, returning just as Old Tom rang eight o’clock. The four had to hurry toward the athletic fields, which shattered Mum’s hopes for a stately procession. She cursed the entire way.

  Seeing YaYa alerted Max that something was unusual. The ki-rin’s great head was visible near the bleachers. Max called ahead to David. “Is that YaYa? What’s she doing here?”

  David just turned and gave a little smile.

  They rounded the Field House to see the bleachers filled with several hundred students and faculty, who burst into a cheer as Max arrived. Nick raced toward Max, running tight little circles around him and shaking his tail with a metallic whir. Max bent down and scooped him into his arms. The lymrill promptly hooked his claws into Max’s sweatshirt and relaxed, becoming a considerable dead weight.

  Max turned and scanned the chattering crowd. Jason Barrett was there, hollering and clapping with most of the Sixth Years. Sitting on one of the lower seats was Julie, holding her camera and laughing at something said nearby. She snapped a quick photo of Max. Mr. McDaniels was there, too, waving wildly and sitting with Mr. Morrow, who puffed steadily on his pipe.

  Hearing a whistle, he turned to see M. Renard impatiently shooing away Hannah, who did not appear at all pleased about it. She waddled toward Max, the goslings in tow.

  “Hello, dear,” her honey voice cooed. “Good luck today. We’re all rooting for you. And I had a few words with that man to keep it fair.”

  “Thanks, Hannah,” Max said, taking another glance at the crowd, not at all sure he wanted an audience. The whistle blew again, and Max trotted to where M. Renard had gathered the class. The instructor had a cold and blew his nose into a handkerchief with a loud honk.

  “All right, my little sausages. Today you make me proud, yes?”

  The children nodded.

  “We will do the tests in alphabetical order, as always, except for the races, which will be paired by your most recent times. Ignore all these people—focus on each task and do your best. Does anyone have anything to say?”

  Connor raised his hand.

  “Yes, sir.” He leaned across the circle of classmates and jabbed a finger in Max’s chest. “We went through a lot of trouble to drum up this crowd, so don’t you screw it up!”

  Everyone burst into laughter; even M. Renard cracked a smile as he brought the whistle to his lips to signal the first task. Max shook his hands loose and took a long look at the stretch of track before him.

  An hour later, Max was consumed by assorted cheers, roars, honks, and shouts. Hoisted onto the shoulders of Jason and another Sixth Year, he caught his breath and looked far across the fields to where his javelin’s flag fluttered in victory. YaYa stood to her full height and bowed; David held Nick tightly to keep the lymrill from hurting himself. Mr. McDaniels almost trampled a row of students in his hurry to reach the field, while Mr. Morrow merely doffed his cap and waved from the stands, his expression strangely sad. The Humanities instructor raised a bottle of champagne to Max and took a sip before passing it back to Mr. Watanabe and Miss Boon, who followed suit. Max waved back, trying to ignore Mum’s nearby shrieks that he owed his triumph to her “miracle treats.”

  “That’s something, Max,” said Jason, raising Max higher. “Only thirteen and the best in Rowan’s history!” Jason hosted a celebration party in his room, a timbered Viking hall. Some forty students lounged about, playing cards and darts or simply content to sprawl about in small groups, listening to music or tiptoeing through a minefield of pizza boxes to scavenge for leftovers.

  Max was having the time of his life. After weeks of adhering to a strict diet, he now stuffed himself with pizza and sweets. Even better, he sat and talked with Julie, who seemed to have forgotten all about their awkward kiss during Kettlemouth’s song.

  In mid-afternoon, the party was interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the door. Max’s spirits sank as Jason opened the door and Miss Boon peered in at him, her face pinched and angry.

  “Max,” she called, “please get your things and come with me.”

  Max wiped his hands on a paper towel and stood.

  “Do I have to go today?” he pleaded. “I thought maybe—”

  “You thought what?” she interrupted. “That you’d attained some sort of carefree ‘celebrity’ status this morning? No, no, no. Need I remind you that both your party and punishment were well earned? Alex Muñoz has been down at the dock scrubbing that ship for the last hour. Now get your things.”

  Max’s face turned crimson; he bit his tongue. He murmured “Good-bye” and “Thank you” to everyone, avoiding Julie’s eyes in the process. Tugging on his sweatshirt, he followed Miss Boon down the hallway.

  Max swung his lantern in wide circles, periodically overcome with great surges of anger and embarrassment. The fog had become so thick that he found himself stumbling into hedges. Old Tom was a hulking block of flat gray; the gas lamps dotting the grounds sprang to life, their lights appearing as will-o’-the-wisps in the gloom.

  Storming past Maggie, Max heard the ponderous slap of heavy waves and the shrill cry of seagulls. As he descended the winding stairs to the beach, he began to make out the Kestrel hovering in the air above the dock, tethered by a dozen slender ropes. Miss Kraken had provided the enchanted ropes that had raised the heavy ship as if it were a helium balloon. Alex stood under the boat, scrubbing up at it halfheartedly with a stiff bristle brush. Clinging to the area of the hull that normally rested beneath the waterline were millions of barnacles whose hard shells made the task an arm-numbing chore. Alex and the miserable
weather promised to make it particularly unbearable.

  “Surprised you bothered to show up,” huffed Alex, scrubbing vigorously now that Max had arrived. “Must be nice to get away with whatever you want.”

  Setting his lantern down, Max said nothing and merely went to select one of the long-handled brushes lying next to a mop bucket. Alex snorted with contempt and turned his attention to the hull.

  Max took a long look at Brigit’s Vigil before setting to work. Its shape could hardly be seen through the fog, and Max wondered if Ronin was indeed there, as he suspected—nestled deep among the rocks and crabs and swirling brine. Despite Max’s now daily visits to Rattlerafters, Ronin had sent no word or signal since the day Max received his letter. And Max had not ventured out to Brigit’s Vigil, wary of the water since the campout on the Kestrel. Picking a spot away from Alex, he began scrubbing in a sudden fit of energy.

  They had worked in silence for almost an hour—Alex in disdainful stabs, Max in busy arcs—when Old Tom’s chimes sounded from over the ridge. Alex turned and tossed his brush past Max, where it clattered against the metal bucket.

  The Second Year hissed, “Keep scrubbing, Maxine—keep scrubbing or I’ll tell Miss Boon that Rowan’s little hero is neglecting his duties!”

  “Whatever, Muñoz,” Max snapped. “I probably got twice as much done in the last hour as you have all week.”

  Alex just smiled and shook his head incredulously.

  “You really are an idiot. Did you know that? An idiot,” he said again, stretching each syllable. “Our punishment isn’t about scrubbing the Kestrel clean! Hell, Miss Boon could do that in five minutes with a bit of Mystics. It’s about standing out here as punishment. Scrub till you break your back, Maxine. No one cares, you moron. Man, wait till Daddy’s blubber catches up with your brain—they probably won’t even admit you ever went here!”

  Max stopped scrubbing. His words were soft.

  “Don’t you say a thing about my father.”

  “I don’t have to.” Alex shrugged with a laugh. “You should hear what everyone says about him! You think it’s a coincidence he ‘helps out’ in the kitchens? I don’t. Personally, I think Daddy’s just trying to snag some extra meals…. No wonder I hear Mommy took a hike, huh?”

  The words slapped Max across the face. Alex suddenly became vividly clear despite the tatters of fog blowing across the dock. Max dropped his brush off to the side. Alex’s smile faltered a moment—a flicker of doubt—before he resumed.

  “What?” he asked. “You want to fight me? Aren’t you scared without Bob or Miss Boon? They’re not here to save you this time….”

  Max shook his head and took a step forward, grinding his toe into the dock to test his footing. A hoarse quake rose in his voice.

  “I’d worry about myself if I were you.”

  Alex frowned and took a small step backward. Suddenly, his face contorted with shame and disgust.

  “Fine!” he muttered as if to himself. “Fine. Let’s do this. One condition, though.”

  “Name ten,” whispered Max. “They won’t help you.”

  Alex’s eyes glittered as he smiled.

  “No watches,” he said. “I don’t want you crying for help in the middle of this!”

  Max glanced down at his security watch, its small screen fogged by mist. He had been explicitly warned never to remove it. But Alex slipped his own watch off and snickered at Max’s hesitation.

  Unclasping his watch, Max placed it on the dock.

  As he expected, Alex’s foot shot out just as Max stood back up. Stepping to the side, Max caught it and swept under the boy’s other leg, spilling him hard.

  Alex scowled and scrambled quickly to his feet; Max stood completely still, trying very hard to control the rage that flooded every inch of his being. Alex advanced at him, breathing heavily and circling around to try to position Max against a heavy wooden post. Feigning a rush, he suddenly stopped and raised his hands.

  The wet dock turned slick with ice beneath Max’s feet.

  Max tried to jump, but the lack of friction caused his feet to shoot out from under him. He fell heavily, hitting his head against the post. In a moment, Alex was on him, pinning an elbow against his throat and throwing wild punches.

  Anger erupted within Max. He seized Alex’s wrists, causing the older boy to gasp in pain. With a violent heave, Max flung Alex off of him.

  Max sprang up in a heartbeat. Alex was sprawled on the dock, and before he could even move, Max was upon him.

  “Let’s hear it, Muñoz,” Max panted. “Let’s hear everything you want to say. Let’s hear all about my family!”

  With a sharp crack, Max’s fist tore through the wooden plank immediately to the right of Alex’s head. Smoke rose from the deck. The Second Year shrieked and writhed in terror but could do nothing to break Max’s grip.

  Emotions flooded Max’s heart; he shook and tears streamed down his face.

  “I don’t hear anything. Is that even possible with you?”

  Crack!

  “All out of insults for my dad? Why don’t you tell me how stupid I am?”

  Crack!

  “No? Then tell me something about my mom! Why don’t you tell me where she went? Sounds like you might know! Go ahead and tell me!”

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  Three more holes were punched in the surrounding dock, which was now smoking heavily and hot to the touch. Max raised his bleeding hand again, and then froze. Alex had stopped struggling and lay very still, a cool drizzle falling on his blank face.

  For a moment, Max thought he had killed him, that he had throttled the boy to death in his rage. But then Alex suddenly focused his eyes and gave Max a look of mute horror. Max blinked. His anger dissipated into the fog. He released Alex and rose slowly to his feet.

  “You’re not worth it,” he sighed.

  Alex lay there for several moments, breathing heavily. He groped at his face, apparently feeling for any damage that might have been done. Blindly, he sought out the holes in the dock, tracing their splintered edges with his fingers. Climbing sluggishly to his feet, he coughed and stumbled past Max, who watched in confused silence. Alex became sick, throwing up over the side of the dock. Wiping his mouth and coughing again, Alex reached out with a trembling hand and flung Max’s watch far out into the gray swells. The Second Year watched it sink and stared at the water for several moments. When Alex at last turned around, he held a long, thin knife—the same ugly weapon Cooper often carried. He was crying.

  “Alex,” Max said with measured calm. “You’re not supposed to have those things outside the Training Rooms.”

  Alex said nothing; his face contorted in a silent scream of rage, fear, and humiliation. His shoulders shook as he switched the knife to his left hand.

  “Alex!” Max hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The answer was a murderous sweep with the knife, its tip swooshing past Max’s chest as the younger boy jumped backward, gaping in disbelief. Sobbing, Alex shifted the knife to his right hand and stabbed upward. Max leapt backward out of range, almost slipping off the pier and into the water.

  “Alex—stop it!” Max said. “The fight is over!”

  Then, over Alex’s shoulder and through the fog, Max caught sight of a figure approaching quickly from the beach.

  “Help!” Max shouted. “Miss Boon? Over here—help!”

  Alex stopped and turned, squinting into the fog. He bent down and let the knife slip through one of the jagged holes Max had made in the dock. He rose and stumbled toward the figure.

  “Miss Boon?” Alex called. “Thank God you’re here! McDaniels tried to kill me!”

  Max was about to raise his voice in protest when he froze; the approaching figure did not move like Miss Boon, and it was far too tall. Bile rose in Max’s mouth as he recognized what it was.

  “Alex!” Max cried. “Get away from it! That’s not Miss Boon!”

  A vye was loping up the dock.

 
; Alex’s hands fell limply to his sides, and in a flash, the vye swept the boy up and crushed him to its hip.

  “Let him go!” Max shrieked, running down the dock toward the creature.

  A deep-throated growl rumbled from the vye, ending in a high-pitched whine. It clutched Alex closer and stooped to seize Max. But Max was too fast, launching himself at the vye like a missile. The top of his head smashed into its snout. The vye gave a startled yelp and dropped Alex, giving Max time to land an off-balance kick that caused the bony leg to buckle.

  Alex was unconscious. The vye was between them and the beach. While the older boy’s watch was only some twenty feet away, Max could not get it without momentarily abandoning him. Seizing Alex’s limp hand, Max dragged him backward away from the vye, which now scrambled after them on all fours.

  The shock and horror of his sudden realization almost made Max laugh: Nigel’s voice practically screamed inside his head.

  “Always look for the second vye, Max. Always!”

  The blow to the back of his skull was so hard that Max was unconscious before he could feel the taloned hands take hold of him.

  Max groaned and forced open his eyes. It was dark. His neck was clammy, and his joints ached as a fever coursed through his body. Some sort of fur was piled on him, and it stank—a nauseating reek of animal fat and musky hair. He gagged and retched only to find that his limbs were bound tightly to a hard surface. Tossing his head from side to side, he tried to nuzzle the revolting fur away from his face, knocking over several glass objects in the process. His body rose and fell in a smooth roll that made his stomach queasy. Timbers creaked and strained nearby.

  I’m on a ship, he realized. He heard footsteps above; a doorway clattered open, and a shaft of moonlight streamed into the room at an angle.

  “I think one is awake,” said a man’s voice. Tentative. Older.

  “Which one?” came the familiar voice of a woman. Max squirmed and felt the sweat roll off him in smooth little beads.