by Troy Hooker
Principal Curtis hoisted himself up to full height.
“We have zero tolerance in this school, Sarah, and both of them will serve a suspension, so it really doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Yes it does, Tom. You know that zero tolerance thing is just a bureaucratic ploy. A bunch of suits sitting around making up tough-sounding rules. We can’t expect these kids to go around defenseless.”
Principal Curtis shrugged as he wiped his glasses with his napkin. “Well … we have no way of telling who started it, so it is what it is.” Then he turned toward the door, placing his glasses back up on his nose, and walked briskly out of the room.
Sam could tell that both the nurse and Miss Karpatch were fuming as they all watched him walk out of the clinic. He was glad someone was on his side.
“Don’t worry about him,” Miss Karpatch said quietly. Her voice showed compassion. “I will take care of the suspension, and you can forget what I said about reporting you. Just make sure you at least try to diffuse the situation next time instead of making it worse.”
Then she patted him on the shoulder and turned to walk out the door, but stopped momentarily.
“Sam, bullies are kind of like politicians in a way—the more their egos are fed the less violent they become.”
“Thanks,” he told her through the blood dripping down his nose.
Fortunately, the nurse let Sam stay in the room until after the last period of the day. She dabbed the small cut above his eye and applied a bandage to stop the bleeding, then gave him an ice pack for the large bump on the back of his head. He promised her he would go to the doctor to get checked out, but the moment he was out the door he tossed away the note she had given him to give to his grandfather. He could take care of himself.
Chapter Four
wollemia nobilia
Sam watched the soft amber and yellow festival lights glow over the treetops as he walked toward downtown White Pine. Even after five o’clock, the fall sun still bore down on the streets. It was going to be an unusually hot, muggy evening, and the fuzzy ring around the sun promised of rain in the near future.
He hadn’t been much of anywhere since the Bush incident—partially to avoid him, and partially because he didn’t care to see anyone else. If it had been up to him, he would have barricaded himself up in his room for the rest of the school year, not out of fear, but anger—not toward anyone in particular. Maybe he could try independent study, or even an online school.
It was only curiosity that drew him out tonight, and the promise of finding out what the “club” was all about. Or perhaps it was partly to see Emma once again.
Thankfully, Bush had been suspended from school for two weeks, and thanks to Miss Karpatch, Sam was only on probation. Even better, since Sam was not the only one bullied by Bush in the school, no one else really missed his cotton-head walking through the corridors either. Sam even noticed he commanded a little more respect for the incident. Not that he cared much for the attention, but nearly everyone in his classes would greet him when he walked in. Apparently he was the only one to stand up to Bush in quite a while.
But tonight being the kickoff to a large week-long festival of White Pine, cotton-head was certain to be there, strutting his elephant-sized haunches through the middle of Main Street. There was no telling what would happen if he caught Sam at the festival, and there was no amount of deep-fried cheesecake that would pacify him.
Sam knew he may end the night stuffed in a trashcan with another blood plastering, but he was going to brave it anyway.
He let the slip of paper fall through his fingers back to the confines of his pocket. He was almost there. Time to figure out what this was about …
As he approached town, Sam glanced behind him at the skyline. A line of clouds was beginning to thicken into giant chocolate marshmallow-like puffs just over the horizon as the sun dipped behind the trees. The massive front seemed to extend on forever like a huge advancing army, and Sam wondered if the evening was going to be cut short due to weather.
Crossing Main Street, he entered the throng of people that made up the festival goers. He was amazed at how many people were packed into the narrow streets, standing in lines for rides, eating from the numerous food vendors that laced the street, and playing carnival games.
Folk and Bluegrass music played loudly from the stage in the center of Main Street, and there was even a small Ferris wheel in front of Carter’s Hardware Store.
He was stunned. What was once just a few old brick buildings and a marble bank in the center of town the day before was now a thriving center of lights, music, and nightlife.
He walked past the street vendors who were cooking furiously on their grills, and the smell of grilled steak and deep-fried goodies filled his nostrils, reminding his protesting stomach he hadn’t eaten dinner yet.
He watched the pastry vendors wrapping up as many meat pies as they could in foil, but still lines seemed like they were growing outside the little tents and booths.
I should have brought some money, he thought, doing his best to hold back the hunger pains.
Sam stared at all of the shops lining Main Street selling shoes, jewelry, and homemade pottery. He hadn’t noticed until now, but most of the vendors and shopkeepers were dressed in old, colorfully stitched clothing, as though they were handmade from the renaissance era. The outfits seemed to mimic the general mood of the entire festival, with many of the younger festival-goers dressed the same way but not quite as authentic—wearing faux leather boots and colorful robes that billowed as they dragged their parents from attraction to attraction. To Sam, it looked like the beginnings of a medieval circus.
Mr. Partich stood at a little table outside his wood carvings shop, Partrich’s Collectibles, in a red and green quilted shirt, tweed pants and a multi-colored hat, and old lady Cataran of Odds and Ends Antique Store was peddling a table of strange rusted metal statues wearing what looked like a long quilt-like dress made with every color and pattern of the rainbow.
The inside of Chivler’s looked dark from the window, but at second glance, Sam caught a glimpse of two older men arguing at the front register. As he approached the glass storefront, the old man in front of the counter snatched his hood over his head and rushed out the front door, looking very determined to leave without being seen.
As he pushed past Sam, he thought he recognized the man from around town—of what he could see of him under the hood. He watched the man disappear down the street away from town, careful to avoid groups of people as they made their way toward the festival.
It’s five-fifteen, I’m still early. He glanced at the sterling silver watch his foster mother Sylvia had given him. Normally, his foster mother only gave gifts that somehow made her look good as well, and the watch was no exception. But this watch, for some reason, Sam had become attached to since leaving the City. Perhaps it was because it was one of the last mementos to remind him of where he came from. Even if his life growing up wasn’t that happy, it was still considered home, and Sylvia was the only mother he knew.
There was no sign of Emma or the old store owner behind the counter as he entered the dimly lit building. If she or whoever else from the “secret” group was in there, they were waiting for him. If he was going to find out what it was all about, the time was now.
***********************
Chivler’s was an old, dusty bookshop that Sam was surprised was still around, given the size of the once-thriving town. The only time he had been in the store was with Amos to donate some books, but even then it had given him the creeps from the moment he walked in the door.
The store owner, Fenton Chivler, was most likely in his seventies, but was still spry for an old man. He had a long, bushy mustache that extended downward to his mouth, and small spectacles that hung on the tip of his abnormally large nose.
The store hadn’t changed much in the few m
onths that Sam had been in White Pine, and with the exception of the small display with copies of the semi-latest best sellers, the store was full of old dusty books. There were stacks of every type of book lining the walls and throughout the middle of the store, and from what Sam could see, they were titles of which most people weren’t aware.
He wandered down the aisle labeled Ancient History, looking at the titles in various languages, the smell of old pages and dust making him fight back a monstrous sneeze.
The old wood floor creaked and groaned as Sam walked carefully toward the center of the aisle, his eyes drifting to the old bookshelves themselves. Carved on the front of the ornate shelf was a flying creature clutching what looked like a snake with a bird’s head in its claws. The creature looked as though it were about to eat its prey. Another carving held a creature that looked somewhat human, but then again birdlike as well, with its wings spread out to its sides as if embracing whomever walked through the aisles.
Sam walked through the tight rows of two-story shelves that extended almost to the ceiling, glancing at the strange worn titles as he passed. Curse of Leviathan was one that caught his eye, and he paused briefly to run his fingers over the embossed serpent on the binding.
“One can bring harm to himself by holding sneezes back, m’ lad,” said a voice directly behind and to the left of him. It startled Sam so badly that it made him swallow another sneeze entirely.
“How may I aid you, good sir? Or were you just aiming to spew mucus on my antiquated collection of medieval writings?”
The old man stepped out from the shelves carrying an oversized brown hardcover book covered with dust and wearing a dark tweed sport jacket and light colored khakis that looked as dusty as the shelves around them.
Did I just step into sixteenth century England? Sam chuckled to himself.
“I—ah, well, I was just looking around,” Sam tried to act like he was browsing the vast bookcases casually.
“Is there anything in particular that I can help you find?” Chivler said. His gray hair and mustache made him resemble a slightly less insane Albert Einstein.
Truthfully, this was the first time that Sam had actually met Chivler, having only seen him from afar, but his personality fit perfectly with Sam’s perceptions.
Glancing quickly at his watch, he noticed the time was nearing 5:30, but there were no signs Emma had even entered the store yet. Perhaps she and the chunky boy were going to pop out of an old trap door somewhere and drag him to the basement. Maybe Chivler was involved in it and was distracting him until the right moment.
“Uh—actually, sir, I was wondering if you had any books about this area … maybe something older, like a historical reference?” he said at last, thinking quickly about a book report that was due in Mr. Wilson’s class the Tuesday following the week of the Light Festival.
Chivler turned and set the huge dusty volume down on an old wooden chair behind him.
“Hmmm …” he stroked his mustache, which after a moment curved into a modest smile. “I may have something that would suit your needs,” and he motioned for Sam to follow him.
Chivler led the way halfway down the middle aisle of the stacks, turning back every so often to make sure Sam was following. As they moved deeper into the store, again he felt another sneeze coming on. Sam plugged his nose and swallowed.
“Let it out, lad. We don’t want to have an accident right here in the middle of the aisle,” he laughed oddly, making Sam cringe a bit. He has good hearing for an old guy, he thought.
Suddenly, the shopkeeper halted in front of a section of particularly large books, and shielding his eyes from the yellowish lanterns above him, seemed to take abnormally long to search for a specific title.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Go get me the ladder, lad.”
Sam obeyed, and soon Chivler was huffing up the wooden rungs, stopping every other rung to catch his breath. When he was near the top, he immediately pulled out a small soft cover book curiously hidden between the large hard covers. With the book came a cloud of dust that descended upon Sam, sending him into an uncontrolled sneezing fit at the foot of the ladder, which was only quelled when the dust began to settle and the bookkeeper was down the ladder once again.
“Here it is, here it is.” The old man handed Sam the dust-covered book. It was dark red leather and had a soft binding, making it look more like a journal than a book.
“You would be right if you were thinking this isn’t a book.” The shopkeeper seemed to hear his thoughts again. “This would be a historical account of White Pine and its development,” he said.
Sam flipped through the fragile pages carefully. The paper was brittle and discolored, obviously printed many years ago. There were diagrams, handwritten notes, and strange blots throughout, as if the author wasn’t careful with his ink. Why would Chivler entrust him with such a treasure? Regardless of the contents, it was no doubt rare and very valuable.
“How old is it?” Sam asked, noticing that some of the pages from the middle of the journal had been carefully removed. He thumbed the remnants of the missing pages, noting the almost perfect incision in the paper. Someone didn’t want those pages to be seen.
“I cannot give you an exact date, I am afraid,” the shopkeeper frowned. “What I can tell you is that I know it was written sometime after the town was established in eighteen sixty-two—before a fire destroyed the town, killing many of the townspeople.”
“How much is the book, sir?” Sam asked. He had no money on him then, but he still had a few hundred dollars that was left over from what Phillip and Sylvia had given him.
The bookkeeper looked sideways at Sam.
“It is priceless, m’ lad, and to sell it would be an act of dishonor to this town … considering its historical value.”
He wondered what Chivler’s intention was—did he want him to take the book or just look at it?
Chivler leveled his eyes, his voice lower and showing urgency as he motioned toward the door.
“Take it boy. You are a man of history, are you not? Return it when you are finished. Now I have things to do, lad, so why don’t you go meet up with your friends?”
Friends? What friends? Who was he talking about? Sam glanced toward the door, then back at Chivler. This was beginning to become a wild goose chase. Where was Emma?
“Thank you sir,” Sam said frowning, carefully putting the book in his backpack and hurrying toward the door. Then he stopped and turned back toward the bookkeeper.
“How did you know my friends were waiting for me?”
The old bookkeeper smiled, his thick mustache only allowing his bottom teeth to show.
“I suppose there could be another reason three powdered sugar-covered young people would be peering in the window at you, but something tells me otherwise …”
Sam turned to see Emma, Gus Ablesworth, and a girl of Asian descent holding an array of fried foods and juggling drinks outside of the front window. Emma’s eyes lit up when Sam looked at her.
“Those look healthy,” Sam smirked as he joined them on the sidewalk. The air seemed more humid than it did earlier, making him wish he had chosen the t-shirt over the long-sleeves.
“What makes you think that?” she mimicked his sarcasm and handed him a pastry. “These babies are absolutely nutritious—no fat or cholesterol, only vitamins. Plus, I know you are hungry. I could hear your stomach rumbling from outside the window.”
“Well thanks,” he said, taking a big bite of the warm pie. White Pine was known for some of the best pastries in the North, and had won many county bakery contests over the years. Some people said that the secret ingredient was the copper that still ran through the water. Tonight, it was especially tasty, or he was exceptionally hungry.
“So, are you going to introduce us, or are we just going to watch Gus eat pie all night?” the Asian girl snickered.
Emma nearly choked on her bite. “Oh! I’m sorry! Sam, this is Gustavo Abelsworth and Lillia Farmer. Guys, this is Sam Forrester—who you—already know.”
“Hi Sam, it is good to finally meet you in person,” the large boy said as he stuck out his thick hand. He had short spiky brown hair and wore tan shorts with a belt and a blue polo shirt with an alligator in the right corner. He was cordial and spoke like a refined Englishman from the old world, very much like his father. He sort of reminded Sam of what Teddy Roosevelt would have looked like in his younger years.
Lillia, on the other hand, Sam could tell had an attitude to go with her black hair and dark clothing. She was light skinned and pretty, with a small doll-like nose and thin lips. When he looked at her, she merely squinted at him like he had fangs.
“Nice shiner, pretty boy,” she snickered and gestured toward the remnants of the black eye that Bush had so generously given to him.
“Thanks,” he said sarcastically. “I suppose you were the ones that dragged me down to the nurse?” he gestured in toward them.
Gus and Emma looked sheepishly at each other.
“I’m sorry! We got to you too late! We were watching so close but then Bush disappeared right past us in the gym and oh—I’m truly sorry!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam shook his head. But truly he was appreciative. “But thank you for helping me anyway.”
Emma looked at him like she had never before—with concern, even pain in her eyes. They were mesmerizing—her turquoise eyes, like giant shining jewels against the bright festival backdrop.
So they had all been watching him. Who knew how long or when, but obviously it was important enough to them—and to the club.
“So this is the club,” Sam said lightly, attempting to keep the focus off of him.
Emma only smiled, half ignoring him.
“Hey, we should check out Middle Night. I heard they are a pretty good band.” Gus sipped his large plastic cup with the words “White Pine Festival” on the side.