The Owl Keeper

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  Two will make the journey, old one gone before,

  To the icebound tower, through the crumbling door.

  Silver and ice, silver and ice,

  Silver owl will guide you, with its golden eyes."

  He frowned. "I can't remember the other verses. I get them mixed up."

  "That was fantastic." Rose fluttered her lashes and looked straight at him. "It sounded kind of otherworldly."

  Max felt the tops of his ears go red. Nobody had ever called his singing otherworldly before. Mrs. Crumlin always said he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

  Rose smiled. "It's a song about your owl, too!"

  Max smiled back. Rose had called the silver owl his owl! He pointed to the owl, sleeping peacefully on a branch. "See the light from her feathers? It's ethereal, like the light from the moons."

  "That's called an aura," said Rose knowingly. "Your owl's got an aura."

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  CHAPTER SIX

  [Image: Cocoa.]

  Max sat at the kitchen table, looking dubiously at a cake sprinkled with coconut flakes, leaning to one side. Today was Tuesday, Mrs. Crumlin's day for baking cakes. He groaned inwardly. This was no doubt one more of her over-the-top, sickly sweet creations.

  "Good timing," she twittered. "I've just popped this lava cake out of the oven. What do you think of the icing? Maxwell, you're mouth-breathing again."

  Max closed his mouth. Why did she have to criticize every little thing? A tinny voice was singing on the radio and Mrs. Crumlin hummed along:

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  "Flee the icebound mountain, flee the fortress old,

  Flee the deadly Frozen Zone and its killing cold.

  Journey to the city domes and their perfect light,

  Never fear the dark again, never fear the night."

  Max watched her lumber about, boiling up fava beans for the evening meal. Her bulky shape seemed to fill the kitchen. She reminded him of an extinct animal--a whale, maybe, or an elephant--Max had seen pictures of both in Gran's books.

  When Max was small, his favorite book was the story of an elephant king. He never tired of hearing Gran read it aloud. Snuggled on her lap, he would breathe in the musty pages. The heady scent of old books was his favorite smell in the world.

  A few days after Gran died, Mrs. Crumlin had arrived at the front door clutching a tapestry duffel bag and promising to set the house in order. When she discovered the books in Max's toy chest and under the bed, she had dumped them into her bag, exclaiming, "What on earth was your grandmother thinking? These are banned books! They go against all the rules!"

  It had been a shattering experience, seeing those books disappear. Mrs. Crumlin swore she'd never set eyes on his toy owl, but Max knew she'd taken it. He had cried for weeks afterward. She offhandedly dismissed his tears, saying books could be dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands. Max had never really forgiven her.

  Only Owls of the Wild had survived, because he had hidden the book under a closet floorboard, next to a small seashell. The book and shell were all he had left from his grandmother.

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  "You're daydreaming, Maxwell." Mrs. Crumlin slammed down a slice of cake on a chipped plate.

  He felt his stomach seize up. He could see that the cake was runny in the middle, with crunchy bits all through it. Why didn't she stick to simple things like instant pudding?

  She sat down opposite him at the table, waiting for him to take a bite. "I heard the recipe on a radio cook show." Her sausage-shaped fingers rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. "Always fun to try something new."

  "Breaking news!" barked the radio announcer before the song had finished. "Six citizens, believed to be members of the radical organization Silver Sages, were captured outside Barleygate Headlands Lighthouse and taken into custody by the Dark Brigade! As of midnight last night all Sages have been declared enemies of the state."

  "Enemies of the state?" echoed Max, a cold hand closing around his heart. He turned to Mrs. Crumlin with a puzzled look. "The Sages? But what did they do wrong?"

  "If you slept less and listened to the radio more you would know!" she snapped. "The No Tolerance for Dissenters Edict went into effect overnight. Sages have been stirring up trouble for years. They're radicals, disloyal to the government! The High Echelon has taken a stand against them--and not a minute too soon, I might add."

  "But my--" Max was about to say his grandmother had been a Sage, but quickly thought better of it.

  Mrs. Crumlin's gloating expression unnerved him. Hadn't the

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  Sages belonged to a circle of wise scholars who fought for peace and equality?

  "Eat up, Maxwell." Mrs. Crumlin pointed to the cake.

  He took a forkful and nibbled at it. The runny part was loaded with sugar and the crunchy bits had a tart flavor that made his lips pucker. But he knew if he didn't eat the cake she would be insulted.

  "Tasty, isn't it?" she asked.

  "Mmmm," he replied. He could never figure out why her desserts always smelled so delicious but never tasted quite right. "Why don't you try a piece?" Max had noticed that Mrs. Crumlin never went near her own desserts.

  "Dear me no, not at my age! Now then, you haven't seen a pair of boots anywhere?" She scratched the scalp beneath her thinning hair. In times of stress, Max knew, she suffered from rashes and dry skin. "Green rubber boots, brand-spanking-new, from the same mail-order house as your boots. I left them on the porch, but last evening I went to fetch them and they were gone. Strange, isn't it?"

  The cake lodged halfway down Max's throat. His face burned as he pictured Rose in those huge green boots.

  "I didn't see any boots," he lied, hoping Mrs. Crumlin didn't notice his ears go red. He crammed a piece of cake into his mouth, trying to keep his face blank and his brain neutral. Sometimes he suspected that she could read his mind.

  "Goodness, this vinyl needs sponging." Mrs. Crumlin smoothed the tablecloth with her beefy hands, then jumped to

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  the next topic of importance. "Shall we have cusklet loaf tonight, or fava bean soufflé? What's your preference?"

  These were the kinds of inane questions she asked day after day, with such intensity one would think the fate of the world hung in the balance. Max could only take so much of her mindless chitchat.

  He pushed away his plate, feeling bloated and ill. Everything Mrs. Crumlin cooked ended up charred to a crisp, so the menu didn't really matter.

  "Either's fine," he told her. Then, without thinking, he blurted out: "Do you think the High Echelon plans to make me a special agent? I could deliver secret messages and stuff like that!" Oh no, he thought, why do I always say things that could get me into trouble?

  A bristly eyebrow shot up. "You? A special agent?" Mrs. Crumlin sounded out the words as if speaking a foreign language. "Heavens no, Maxwell, you're far too frail for that sort of work." She marched over to the sink and turned on the tap.

  Max clenched his jaw. He detested her belittling tone. "But if they trained me to be a spy, I could sneak around in the night," he argued. "It would suit me, because of my condition and everything." It would also mean he could take his little owl with him. Maybe he'd keep her hidden inside his secret-agent briefcase.

  "Patience, Maxwell, the High Echelon is aware of your condition. It will decide on an appropriate career." She emptied half a box of soap flakes into the water. "Hmmm. Perhaps I should contact the police about those missing boots. I'd hate to think we

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  have thieves lurking in our woods--or worse." She plunged her arms into the dishwater. "It's disturbing to think the Misshapens are growing bolder. Perhaps they're venturing farther afield."

  "They'd never do that," said Max. "They hate open spaces." He remembered Gran telling him the Misshapens were bound to the forest--something to do with their inner wiring--and could never go beyond its natural boundaries. Anxious to change the subject, he asked, "Have you ever been to The Ruins, Mrs. Crumlin? What's inside them?"<
br />
  "You mean that heap of derelict buildings on the other side of town? They're empty as old eggshells." She stood scrubbing a pot as if her life depended on it. Max noticed that her voice had a nervous edge, and she was talking faster than usual. "The High Echelon boarded up The Ruins ages ago, for safety reasons. They could collapse at any moment."

  Max sat, chin in hands, wondering what Mrs. Crumlin was hiding. "What are The Ruins, anyway?" he asked. "Did the tremors knock them down?"

  Mrs. Crumlin ignored him--her way of putting an end to the conversation. No surprise there, since she always kept to safe topics like recipes and radio song lyrics. He was tempted to ask more about the Sages, but he'd probably be skating on thin ice, as his father liked to say. His parents had cautioned him never to question Mrs. Crumlin about politics or her personal life.

  "Time to fix you a mug of hot cocoa, young man," she said, her voice husky. "We don't want any tummy upsets or congested noses."

  She retrieved a yellow box from the cupboard, the same one

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  she pulled out every day. Printed on the box was the motto cavernstone grey hot cocoa--just like gramma used to make, and below that was an illustration of a refined-looking lady with half-moon glasses and wavy gray hair. Wavy Gray was Max's secret name for her. He often wished Wavy Gray could be his guardian, instead of fussy old Mrs. Crumlin.

  Max hated being sickly. Mrs. Crumlin put it down to bad luck, saying he'd inherited his timid nature as well as weak genes for extra-soft teeth and limp hair. "Such a frail, uncertain child," she would remark to Dr. Tredegar, "and dull as foggy weather." But why did he catch fevers and colds so easily? Why couldn't he fight off germs like ordinary kids did?

  Then there were the terrifying dreams, jolting him awake in the middle of the night. What were the grotesque creatures that flew in and out of The Ruins--hairless and jellyish, with half-formed faces? Why did he fly with them and hunt down his silver owl?

  Did these things really exist, he wondered, or had he unconsciously invented them? It rattled him to think his mind had made up such disgusting creatures. Maybe, he told himself, they were half-digested memories from scary books he'd read, or illustrations from one of Gran's medical texts.

  Steam rose from the mug, warming his face, blotting out Mrs. Crumlin, who was nattering about the latest knitting patterns. Her empty words floated through his head, light as cotton candy.

  "Citizens will be pleased to hear that the Citizens' Dome Construction Scheme remains on schedule," announced the news

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  reporter. "The target date is July seventh, the day citizens will be transported from their local cities and towns to the government's all-modern, temperature-regulated, darkness-free domes!"

  "Fancy that, Maxwell, the domes are opening the same day as your birthday," said Mrs. Crumlin, clucking her tongue.

  Ignoring her, Max glugged down the hot cocoa. He didn't want to think about the domes, or what it would mean to turn twelve. The drink was chalky as usual, with a bitter aftertaste. Hot cocoa always made him feel groggy, disembodied, as if the world around him were slowly slipping away.

  Don't worry, he told himself, Mrs. Crumlin is at the helm. All you have to do is obey. Forget the High Echelon and the domes and Gran's lost books, forget the stolen boots and the silver owls. Forget the Owl Keeper and Sages and the myths surrounding them. Forget Rose's father, exterminating people with his creepy toxic plants.

  "Try Cavernstone Grey Premium Gold-Foil Truffles!" came the soothing voice of a female announcer. "You can rely on Cavernstone Grey: the finest chocolates in the country!"

  Little by little, Max's stomach stopped its relentless churning. He closed his eyes, thinking how the cocoa never failed to comfort him, damping down all those unsettling thoughts, wrapping him inside a pleasant, airtight cocoon.

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  CHAPTER SEVEN

  [Image: The owl tree.]

  Max took one bite of Mrs. Crumlin's singed fava bean soufflé and reached for the sliced bread. In the flickering candlelight, he noticed his parents looked pale and sleep-deprived. They had arrived home late from work, so Mrs. Crumlin had stayed longer than usual, coaxing Max into a tedious session of Skeletons in the Cupboard. She'd left the moment his parents walked through the door, anxious as always to be home before the sun went down.

  Max watched shadows move across the geometric patterns of the wallpaper. Outside the shuttered windows of the dining

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  room a northerly wind was howling. It was, he reflected, the kind of wind that Gran used to say set her pulse racing.

  "Well, well, Mrs. Crumlin has done it again." Mr. Unger leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach. "A thoroughly delicious meal."

  "Why do you always say that, Dad?" said Max, annoyed. "That burnt bean dish is totally disgusting. Mrs. Crumlin is the worst cook in the world!"

  "The old dear tries hard," murmured Mrs. Unger, pushing her food around with her fork. Max noticed her hand trembling slightly. "Put yourself in her shoes, Max. Day in, day out, she's baking, cleaning, knitting, keeping the house dark, protecting you from germs."

  "Yeah, but what about you and Dad? You work way harder than she does!" Max looked at the two of them, noticing the deep circles beneath their eyes. "Why were you late tonight?"

  His parents exchanged a look. As usual, he found it impossible to read their veiled expressions.

  "They announced an important meeting after work." His father's voice was curt. "Attendance was mandatory."

  Max sometimes wished his mother and father weren't so secretive and aloof, discussing dull subjects like the weather or the rising cost of food. It dismayed him, the way they always avoided unpleasant subjects.

  If only he could confide in his parents about the nightmares. What would they say about the hissing creatures that flapped beside him in his dreams, demented things with sunken eyes? Lately he suspected they weren't birds at all, but something much

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  more sinister. Maybe, he thought, these creatures really did exist, in some treacherous swamp or some hidden jungle.

  "How's work these days, Dad?" he asked, knowing exactly what the answer would be.

  "Excellent." Max watched his father loosen his tie. Workers at Cavernstone Hall were required to wear formal attire. "No complaints there." It was the same response he always gave.

  "Mrs. Crumlin is a real pain," said Max. "She's always sticking her nose into other people's business."

  "Now, Max." His mother's pale eyes swam behind her bifocals. She looked even more tired than usual, he thought. "Mrs. Crumlin has your best interests at heart, and that's what counts. What would we do without her?" She threw Max a wavering smile. "The old dear made a lovely lava cake for dessert. I'll bring it out, shall I?"

  Max had so many questions--about the Great Destruction and the rise of the High Echelon, the book burnings, the new edict against the Sages--but he never managed to ask any of them. He knew those kinds of topics would be too upsetting for his parents.

  The Great Destruction of 2066 had happened when Nora and Ewan Unger were his age, both growing up in Cavernstone Grey. They never mentioned it to Max. Once his father remarked that the High Echelon expected people to soldier on, work hard and forget all that had happened before. Max had gotten a lump in his throat, hearing him talk that way. How could they forget when the High Echelon had totally wrecked their lives, crushing their hopes and cheating them out of their youth?

  Max turned to his mother. He could see she'd forgotten about the cake. Fork in hand, she was drawing invisible patterns on the

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  tablecloth, as if working out a complex equation that required every ounce of her attention.

  Max took a deep breath. "What exactly do you do at Cavernstone Hall, Mom? I mean, what's your job title and all?"

  She looked up, startled. "Job title? Well--"

  "Nora," interrupted Max's father, "you were about to go get us some cake."

  "Oh. I wa
s, wasn't I?" Mrs. Unger rose to her feet and walked unsteadily toward the kitchen. Max wondered what kind of medicine Dr. Tredegar was prescribing for her.

  "Now, Max, haven't I explained all this a hundred times?" His father gave an irritable sigh. "It's quite simple. They ship us the unrefined cocoa from the landholders' factories by train. Once here, the cocoa goes through phases--the combining of sugar and preservatives, the packaging and so forth--and the final product is shipped all over the country. Cavernstone Grey Hot Cocoa is hugely popular, as are our Premium Gold-Foil Truffles. 'The finest chocolates in the country,' as they say, heh heh."

  "But what do you do specifically?" Max persisted, secretly wishing his father were a spy instead of a factory worker. "You have an important job, right?"

  Mr. Unger fiddled with his tie. "Of course it's important. Last year I never missed a day's work." He nodded toward the framed certificate on the wall--a watercolor sketch of Cavernstone Hall--his award for perfect attendance.

  "I know, Dad," said Max. "It looks like an awesome place. When do I get to see it?" His father had long ago promised him a tour of the factory, but so far it hadn't happened.

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  "As soon as I can arrange it, Max," came the reply. It was the answer his father always gave.

  Max's mother returned with the lava cake. "Enjoy, you two," she said, setting it down in front of Max. One whole side had caved in completely. Seeing it made his stomach roil.

  "I'm going up to bed now. It's been a long day and I'm feeling rather fragile." Nora Unger kissed her husband on his forehead.

  "Good night, dear Max, I'll see you tomorrow." Her lips grazed Max's head, soft as moth wings. The gesture nearly broke his heart.

  As she drifted out of the room, a memory came back to him. He was five or six, running with his mother and Gran through a field of poppies and tiny blue flowers, sunlight streaming down, leaves tumbling around them, all three laughing uproariously. He struggled to hold on to the memory, to savor it. But moments later the colors blurred and the details slipped away, leaving him with a blank space inside his head.