The Owl Keeper

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  "She sounds like one smart granny." Rose glanced over at the

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  silver owl. "That's one smart owl, too. She understands everything we say, doesn't she?"

  "Yeah, she does. And sometimes I understand her, too!" said Max enthusiastically. "I'd give anything to speak owl language." Gran once said that, long ago, people called Night Seers knew how to converse in the language of owls. What a remarkable talent, he thought dreamily, wishing he'd lived back then.

  The owl was quiet, fixing them in her silver gaze. Maybe I should listen more closely to my owl, Max told himself. I think she wants me to like Rose, even though she's kind of bossy.

  Then again, he thought, should he trust this odd and unpredictable girl?

  "I found a message in her beak!" he blurted out, surprising himself, because he hadn't meant to say it. "It was folded up and wet with snow, but she let me take it and I hid it in my room. I think she was headed for the coast, because the message talks about ships and silver treasure. But she never made it to the sea because she was attacked, and whoever did it broke one of her wings."

  "A secret message?" breathed Rose, and for a moment Max regretted telling her. What if she couldn't keep quiet about it?

  "Hey, maybe it was meant for pirates!" Rose went on, waving her arms around. "Or diamond smugglers! Black-market gangsters! Who knows?" She reached out and patted the owl's head. "I think this owl has lots of secrets." Max watched her finger slide down the curve of the owl's beak. "And I think you do too, Maxwell Unger."

  Her eyes flicked over to him and he looked away. A shiver of anticipation slid down his back. This girl was complicated, he

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  thought, but in a good way. Suddenly he saw in Rose a kindred spirit.

  Something shifted deep inside him, like the snick of a key, springing open a door. Out tumbled thoughts, ideas, emotions and dreams that had been locked away for five long years.

  "My mom and dad don't even know I come here!" he told her. "They think I'm in my room at night doing homework; they don't know I sneak outside after they go to bed. I think Mrs. Crumlin suspects, but she never says anything. I get restless and bored being indoors all day. That's why I come here in the night--I have to be in the dark!"

  Rose's eyes went wide. "Why don't you go outside in the daytime?"

  "I can only leave my house when the sun goes down," he confided. Then, before he could stop himself, the words were spilling out. "I'm allergic to sun particles! If I stay one minute in the sunlight, I get seriously ill! If sun particles touch my skin, I'll burn up! I could die, that's how bad it is."

  Rose's eyes grew even bigger. "Would your eyeballs sizzle in their sockets?"

  "Sure they would! My hair would catch fire and my skin would bubble up like fried chicken!" Max pulled his cap down over his ears. Mrs. Crumlin and Dr. Tredegar had explained the worst-case scenario in excruciating detail. "I developed the condition when I was seven, and now the dark is the only place I can be. It's a disease and it won't ever go away. I take medicine to keep it under control."

  Had he said too much? he wondered.

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  Rose didn't say a word. But she didn't laugh, either, the way he feared she might.

  "I hope I don't catch what you've got," she said at last.

  "You won't," said Max. "Dr. Tredegar says it's in my genes. That means I was born with it."

  Rose stared at him with that solemn, haughty gaze. Any minute now, he thought, she's going to take off into the night and never come back. He couldn't blame her. Why would she want to be friends with a pale sickly kid who was deathly afraid of the sun?

  But Rose didn't go anywhere.

  "Look," she said, pointing to the tree. "That silver owl is getting ready to fly."

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  CHAPTER FOUR

  [Image: Mrs. Crumlin.]

  Seated at the kitchen table with Mrs. Crumlin, Max yawned through an hour-long game of Dark Hearts and Winding Shrouds. Mrs. Crumlin was winning as usual, cackling with glee each time she captured one of his pawns.

  Mrs. Crumlin was manic about board games--Echo Magicians, Dome Delirium, Skeletons in the Cupboard, you name it. She was a big fan of jigsaw puzzles too. For months she had been constructing a 1,001-piece puzzle in the parlor.

  As the game wound down, Mrs. Crumlin turned up the radio and Max heard a voice warble:

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  Through the haunted forest, beyond the aching hills,

  Darker grows the eventide, deeper grows the chill.

  No longer fear the darkness, build your shining

  domes,

  You'll be warm and safe there, in your perfect

  homes.

  "Eerie, those beginning lines. They take me to another place altogether." Mrs. Crumlin tapped the game board with a pencil. "What do you make of them?"

  "Weird," answered Max with a shrug.

  "I do wish you wouldn't talk in monosyllables, Maxwell. Try to exercise your vocal cords a bit more."

  He sighed. She was always trying to weasel information out of him: details of his dreams, opinions on songs. But Max never gave straight answers; he liked to keep her guessing.

  According to his grandmother, the High Echelon had purposely trivialized the Silver Prophecies, reducing them to mindless jingles, songs and nursery rhymes, distorting the ancient words beyond recognition. The reason they did this, she said, was to make people forget the true Prophecies and discredit the Sages who had written them.

  "And this reminder from your friendly High Echelon, here to serve your every need!" barked the radio announcer, breaking into the end of the song. "Remember to report any treasonous statements or suspicious actions by fellow citizens, no matter how insignificant they may seem, to your local Dark Brigade. Failure to report may result in a lengthy prison sentence--so don't delay!"

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  Max stared down at the game board, wondering what kind of suspicious actions the announcer was talking about.

  "Game's over, I won!" crowed Mrs. Crumlin.

  "Here's a bright spot on the horizon," the announcer continued. "The newly constructed Children's Prison will open its doors in the Eynhallow Hills tomorrow at twelve noon--"

  Max sat rigid in his chair, shocked by the announcement. Mrs. Crumlin leaned over and clicked off the radio.

  "What did he say?" asked Max. "A prison for kids'?"

  "Yes, of course," snapped Mrs. Crumlin. "Haven't I always said the High Echelon believes in punishment for all ages?"

  There was a knock at the front door and Max jumped up, knocking his game pieces onto the floor. For a split second he imagined Rose standing on the porch in her muddied coat, hair sticking out every which way. He glanced at the clock: seven minutes past three. Of course it wasn't Rose. A classmate named Einstein Tredegar stopped by this time every afternoon to deliver his homework.

  Mrs. Crumlin threw Max a stern look and lumbered to her feet. "Stay in the kitchen, Maxwell, you could get a chill! I'd never forgive myself if you were poorly again, the way you were last winter, inhaling vapors for weeks on end. Remember?"

  Max remembered, all right: he had been stuck in bed for a month drinking her disgusting oxtail soup.

  She shambled across the linoleum and out of the kitchen. Max curled around the doorframe, peering down the hallway as Mrs. Crumlin opened the door. Einstein stumbled into the house, folders and books flying out of his red and yellow book bag.

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  "Oops, sorry," he said, unzipping his red bomber jacket. "Hallo, Max!" he shouted.

  Max hurried down the hall to greet him. Above the jacket's sun logo, Einstein sported badges that read domed cities-- coming your way! and your friendly high echelon: building a brighter future. They were illustrated with the face of a cartoon hero, Dudley Dome.

  Max always looked forward to hearing Einstein's stories about the dour, prune-faced teachers; the brutal fistfights on the playground; the global emergency drills where students crawled under their desks while sirens waile
d. Einstein was his sole link to the outside world, since none of the other kids in Cavernstone Grey bothered with Max.

  "Making headway with that puzzle of yours, Mrs. Crumlin?" asked Einstein. Max noticed that Einstein was always extra-polite and attentive to Mrs. Crumlin, probably because she was friends with his uncle, Dr. Phineas Tredegar.

  "Oooh, coming along nicely, thank you! I'm three-quarters finished."

  Einstein gave a low whistle, as if he were truly impressed. Max knew it was an act, but he had to admire Einstein's talent for flattery.

  "It's a lovely picture of a dome, you'll be pleased to know." Mrs. Crumlin glanced at her wristwatch. "Goodness, time for Flamingo Valley!" She bustled across the hall and into the parlor.

  Some days Max would give Einstein a rundown on what he'd learned from Professor LaMothe, but the lessons rarely amounted to much. Although the two boys never officially

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  hung out together, they had formed an easy friendship over the years.

  "Where have you been?" Max wanted to know. "I haven't seen you since last week!"

  "Sorry about that," said Einstein, removing his red and yellow gloves with the fingertips cut off. "I caught the flu and missed a week of school. Now I'm playing catch-up."

  Max took a step back. The last thing he wanted was Einstein's germs. Germs were his worst enemy, the doctor had warned, and a fever could land him in bed for weeks on end.

  "Wasn't too bad," said Einstein with a grin. "I got to eat stewed cusklets in bed and listen to dome jingles all day. That kept my spirits up."

  Max grinned back, though secretly he felt sorry for Einstein. His relatives were gung-ho High Echelon supporters, and Einstein had been exposed to their fanatical hype since infancy. Max sometimes suspected that they'd scrambled Einstein's brains.

  "Guess what, our school's having a jingle contest to name Cavernstone Grey's new dome!" said Einstein excitedly.

  Max stifled a yawn.

  "The dome will be ready in a few weeks! Is that exciting or what? Here, have a look." Einstein snatched one of the books he'd dropped on the floor. Holding it under the flare lamp, he thumbed through the pages, flipping to sketches of domed cities and diagrams on how to build them.

  Einstein's obsessive chatter about dome construction unnerved Max. What was so wonderful about domes anyway? he asked himself. Why didn't their textbooks discuss weightier issues, like

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  how the High Echelon had overthrown the peaceful government of Simone de Kafka in a violent coup? Not one history book dared to explain how the High Echelon's secret weather experiments had caused the Great Destruction of 2066. Instead, everyone was taught that de Kafka's government was responsible for the catastrophe.

  Now it seemed things were going from bad to worse, thought Max: an edict against silver owls, the borders closing overnight and a prison for kids. He'd listened through his parents' bedroom wall and heard them talking about people disappearing and not being seen again. But he was too timid to voice any of these concerns. He knew there was a chance that Einstein might report him.

  "Look, Max, this one's got a fake beach with waterslides and an imitation volcano!" Einstein held up a sketch of a bubble-shaped structure with LEISURE DOME written under it. "This is our future!"

  Not wanting to hurt his friend's feelings, Max managed a weak smile. "Fantastic."

  "I really want to design domes." Einstein closed the book, staring at it with an expression of reverence. "That's my big dream, to be chosen for an engineering apprenticeship. Think of it, Max, we'll have light twenty-four hours a day and perfect temperatures all year round!"

  Max frowned. He didn't want to think about a world without darkness, a world where there was no chance that silver owls and kids like him could survive.

  "Guess I'll have to find an underground bomb shelter to live in," he said, feeling gloomier by the minute.

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  What was going to happen to him when everyone moved to the domes? What would happen to his owl? He could never live in a dome because they relied on solar power to generate artificial light--and that meant sun particles. His parents always sidestepped his questions when he asked about his future, but he could tell they were as worried as he was.

  "I could build a yurt," he joked, "and set it up inside a cave."

  "A yurt?" Einstein threw him a quizzical look. "What's that?"

  "Ah, um ... nothing." Max stared at the floor. "I made it up." He shouldn't have mentioned it. Yurts were probably on the Banned Cultural References list. He'd read about yurts in one of Gran's books: they were tents used by nomadic peoples in a place called central Asia.

  "What else is new at school?" he asked, anxious to change the subject.

  "Except for the jingle contest, it's the usual mind-numbing stuff." Einstein crammed more books into his book bag. "Oh, we've got a new kid in our class."

  Without thinking, Max blurted out, "Is she tall and skinny, with red hair sticking out every which way? Beaky nose? And real bossy, right?"

  "His name's Harvey. He's got yellow hair and a busted front tooth." Einstein scratched his head. "I don't know about any new girls. What's her name?"

  Max caught a whiff of pickling spices and turned to see Mrs. Crumlin peeking through the parlor door. She'd make a pathetic spy, he mused.

  "What am I thinking?" Max smacked his forehead with the

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  palm of his hand. "That was something I dreamed!" He gave a strangled laugh. "Happens all the time when I get a fever." He faked a cough.

  Einstein stared at him. "You okay, Max?"

  "Bad throat," he rasped. "I'm fighting off germs and the midwinter blahs. Happens every year."

  "Maxwell Unger!" bellowed Mrs. Crumlin. "What's this talk about germs and fevers?"

  Max hung his head. He hated Mrs. Crumlin talking to him that way in front of Einstein.

  "Got ears like a bat, don't she?" whispered Einstein, a clownish grin spreading across his face. "No worries, Mrs. Crumlin. Max is telling me about his weird dreams."

  "I know about the dreams," snapped Mrs. Crumlin, her tone frosty. "It's the fevers I worry about. What with the mold and rising damp, one can never be too cautious."

  "You're absolutely right, Mrs. Crumlin--it's a scary world out there!" said Einstein with a wink at Max. He hoisted his bag over one shoulder. "See you, Max."

  "So long," murmured Max, feeling a bit dejected to see Einstein go. It was always a letdown when he found himself alone again with Mrs. Crumlin.

  He headed up to his room, trying to imagine, as he often did, life at Cavernstone Grey School. Rows of wooden desks, a red and yellow flag draped over the blackboard, pupils with heads bowed copying down slogans or writing essays on "Why I Admire the High Echelon." He imagined kids in the bleachers waving banners with government mottos, throwing straws and

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  apple cores in the lunchroom, being locked inside the coat closet as punishment for bad behavior.

  Somehow he couldn't picture himself in such an absurd setting. He couldn't imagine his silver owl there, either, and certainly not Rose.

  Mrs. Crumlin's no-nonsense voice floated up: "I'll bring you a hot-water bottle soon and, oh yes, your cough medicine!"

  Max flung himself onto the bed. What an idiot he'd been. He'd almost told Einstein about Rose! And that silly excuse about fighting off a fever. Now he'd have to suffer through Mrs. Crumlin's nauseating home remedies.

  He told himself he didn't care about hanging out with Einstein and the other kids. He was no good at cracking jokes. Playing sports made him dizzy and out of breath. And, judging from what Einstein wore, Max's clothes were ridiculously out of date--not surprising, since they were all made on Mrs. Crumlin's antiquated sewing machine.

  At Cavernstone Grey School, kids who were a bit different were always laughed at, and considered outsiders. Max knew that the students made fun of weaklings and worrywarts. And, unfortunately, he fitted perfectly into both those categories.


  Early the next morning Dr. Tredegar buzzed the front doorbell. Mrs. Crumlin called Max down to the parlor in a cheery voice, as if his weekly injection were the most fun-filled event in the world.

  "Be down in five minutes!" shouted Max.

  As always, Mrs. Crumlin instructed the doctor to tie his

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  shaggy black hound to the porch rail because she worried that it would set off Max's allergies. Max never said anything, but he was afraid of dogs, especially big ones.

  "That creature is far too skittish," Mrs. Crumlin always complained. "I can tell by looking that it's a biter."

  Although there was a government ban on owning pets, wealthy people were allowed guard dogs, and doctors could own rescue dogs--not that Dr. Tredegar's high-strung hound was capable of rescuing anything, thought Max, leaning over the rail to eavesdrop.

  "Anything to report on the dreams?" asked the doctor in a low tone.

  Mrs. Crumlin shook her head and mumbled something Max couldn't hear.

  "What about his memory? Do you think he's more confused about the past, forgetting more details?"

  "Definitely," came the reply. "He--" Mrs. Crumlin's head whipped sharply around and she stared straight at Max. "What do you think you're doing?" she snapped. "Snooping, are you?"

  "Good day to you, Maxwell!" Always pleasant, Dr. Tredegar flashed his toothy smile. "Come on down then. Time for your injection." Max could see a red leather medicine bag embossed with the High Echelon's yellow sun hanging from the doctor's arm. The bag's official colors and logo meant that Dr. Tredegar was a high-up government employee.

  Max shuffled downstairs, trying to work out the conversation he'd overheard. Why was the doctor so interested in his dreams and memories? In recent months Max had been having problems remembering things--especially his early memories of Gran. It