The Last Stand of Daronwy

by Clint Talbert

  Father Pat took the boy’s hands in his own. “Did he take your gun or did you give it?”

  “He told me to give it to him and I did.”

  “Did—”

  “Hang on. There’s more.” Jeremy looked down, biting his lip. “I think it made God mad. Because after that, well before that actually, Travis got leukemia. But after that, he got really sick and he lost all his hair and he barely came back to school. And a couple of weeks ago, he asked me to play with him at recess—we were just kicking a ball—but we didn’t want him to play with us. He’d always been so mean to us—to me, I mean… well, to Daniel too—but I didn’t know it was going to make him die.”

  “Travis passed away?”

  Jeremy nodded. “It’s because I made God mad when I didn’t do anything about the turtle. If I had done the right thing, then none of this would have happened. Then God wouldn’t be mad at me. And I’m really worried, Father. I’m worried that if he is still mad at me, he’ll make you sick too. And I don’t want you to…” Jeremy put his head in his hands, crying. He felt the old hands on his head.

  “Jeremy, Jeremy m’lad, look up. Look at me.”

  Jeremy lifted his gaze and found those Irish eyes shimmering in pools of tears. Father Pat wiped his eyes and took a breath. “My child, Travis’ death is not ye fault. If I am to die, it is not ye fault. The Lord calls each of His children home according to His plan. According to His plan and His plan alone. It may not make any sense to us, but it is a part of His plan. Do you understand?”

  Jeremy nodded. “I still shoulda let him play with us. He isn’t coming back, Father Pat. He isn’t coming back.”

  “No, but he is in a better place now, in Heaven with the Lord. You must ask him for forgiveness and you must forgive him of all the times he was cruel to you. And you must ask for the forgiveness of the turtle. You are a special child, Jeremy. You know right from wrong. Next time, you must stand up for what is right, even if no one else will.” Father Pat coughed, massaging his throat with one hand. “Especially if no one else will. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The priest was silent for a long moment. Jeremy stared at the table, shoulders slumped forward. Pulling in a breath, he looked up and saw a single tear fall down Father Pat’s cheek in the shadows. “Father?”

  “Promise me—” Father Pat took a breath. “Promise me you will stand up for what is right next time.”

  “I promise.”

  “Let us say an Our Father together.”

  “Our Father,” he began. Jeremy joined him. “Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Please give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, and forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

  “Your penance is to forgive Travis. Forgive him, and offer it up as a prayer to him. And you must do what is right next time you have a choice.” Father Pat’s bony hands squeezed his own. “Go in peace, Jeremy. May the Lord be with you.”

  Jeremy nodded, pushing back slowly from the shelf until he was standing. “Thank you, Father.” His voice faltered as his heart plummeted like a star that lost its grip on the sky.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mira sat against the wall, unusually alone, thumbing through a magazine before class. Other kids passed through the halls or sat in small clumps, girls peering at binders of stickers, boys rifling through Garbage Pail Kid cards. Jeremy squatted down across from Mira.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  It had all been so clear in his mind, but now he didn’t know how to talk about anything. He had wanted to ask what she thought about Travis, but the words vanished. “Um… How are you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m okay.”

  “What do you think about… about Travis?”

  She didn’t respond. She blinked and looked down. Jeremy’s mouth filled with cotton, and he extended his awkward hands as though she were made of porcelain.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mira shook her head.

  “What are you doing?” A deep voice thundered over his shoulder.

  Jeremy half turned to see Josh towering over him.

  “You made her cry!”

  Jeremy scrambled to his feet, but Josh was still taller. “I didn’t. We were just talking. I didn’t make her—”

  The right hook magically appeared, catching Jeremy on the jaw and spinning him around twice before he hit the wall and slid down it. Mira ran for the girls’ bathroom. Josh hesitated a moment, looking from Jeremy to Mira. He hurried after Mira. The other kids turned to look at the commotion, but it was over as soon as it began.

  Daniel rushed to him. “What was that about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Jeremy rubbed his jaw. It was sore, but there was no blood. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You have to be careful. Josh and Mira are going together.”

  “They are?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  Jeremy sighed. “I thought everyone was talking about TV and—ow!” Daniel’s fingers clamped onto Jeremy’s shoulder, tugging him to his feet.

  “Get up, come on!”

  Daniel hauled him through the crowd and into the bathroom. Once inside, Daniel ran to the window.

  “Are you crazy? What are you doing?”

  “Josh is coming back!”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “He looked totally angry and we don’t want to get caught… Ugh.” Daniel stepped back from the window and then lunged at the rusted casement. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Help me… get this… window open.”

  Jeremy added his hands to the ancient frosted window. The rusted rails would not budge, even with their combined strength. Footsteps came toward the door. The footfalls echoed flatly off the urine-colored tile. Both boys turned to face the door and their inescapable fate. The sinks extended behind the door just slightly. Everyone stepped into the bathroom and continued straight, no one ever turned left toward the sinks. The outer door squeaked open.

  Jeremy grabbed a fist of Daniel’s shirt and vaulted him across the small room. He pressed his friend into the wall on the left of the door and they crouched beneath the towel dispenser. They held their breath as the inner door opened. It wasn’t Josh’s tennis shoes and jeans that came through the door; it was a pair of expensive loafers and pressed slacks. Mr. Boudreaux, the principal, crossed to a stall, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

  Jeremy and Daniel pulled the doors open, sacrificing the telltale squeak of the hinges for speed and toppled over each other into a deserted hall.

  “We’re late!” Jeremy hissed.

  “Come on!” Daniel was already running toward Mrs. Livingston’s room. She was writing on the board when they stole in through the open door. Since she sat them alphabetically, Daniel’s desk was near the front, in the middle of the room. Jeremy’s was toward the windows and the back. Halfway across the room, someone erupted into giggling at his overcautious sneaking.

  “Jeremy Trahan! What are you doing?”

  More giggling. His ears turned bright red. He glanced at Daniel, safely in his seat. “I was… uh… I was in the bathroom.”

  The entire class erupted into laughter.

  He stood there, crimson-faced, hands shaking. If he had his way, the school would be destroyed. Its tiles would be cracked, the rusted windows broken. He would read beneath a tree, and he would never have to set foot into a place like this again. He hated Mrs. Livingston, hated Josh, hated the cinderblock walls. He hated the laughing, the traffic light
, the rules, and the oppressive boredom. A spit wad hit his neck like a clumsy, wet mosquito.

  “Do you hear me?” Mrs. Livingston was saying.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What was I saying?”

  “I don’t know.” More laughter. He swallowed the bile creeping up his throat. If he were Eaglewing, he’d leap through those windows, sprint toward the forest across the backfield, and disappear. Disappear forever. There had to be a way out, out of this polluted, corrupted, horrible world. There absolutely had to be.

  “Get to your seat, Jeremy. Your name is going on the board.”

  As he took his seat, his stomach sank deeper as she scratched out each letter in his name on the chalkboard. Another spit ball hit him in the neck, and he glanced toward the back of the room at a glowering Josh. Jeremy turned back to the front and imagined the cinderblock wall crumbling, the roof peeled back like a tin can and open to the sky. One day, he would find the way out. It had to be in Helter Skelter. He would leave this world, leave it and never come back.

  The constant, invisible follower matched every soggy step Jeremy took into the shadow-shrouded depths of Helter Skelter. Jeremy set his face into a grim, determined line. Each hair that frightened into attention brought him closer. Each drop of clammy sweat that chilled his spine stirred the magic. This time, he was not running away. He marched into the fear. He marched into the tangled gray vines, hunting the secrets that pursued him in the shadows. A darker shadow loomed before him, as though the very forest lifted upwards. He angled toward the shadow, listening to the soft footfalls of his unseen pursuer. Even the pursuer seemed to hold back. Jeremy fought with the electric army of fireflies in his stomach that begged him to run. He made another step, settling his feet down, making no noise.

  The forest rose into a house-sized, vine-covered hill, much bigger than Twin Hills. Fenders, tires, and rusted barrels corroded on the steep, shadowed slopes. Young tallow trees grew along the disheveled edge; the summit disappeared into the matted canopy. His ears buzzed. This was it! He grabbed the nearest tallow, careful to hold only its base, lest the tree fall. Then, pulling on it, he grabbed the next, then the next, climbing the slippery mud. What was up here? Where had the hill come from?

  His foot slipped in the pine needle-covered muck. He fell flat and slid. His foot crashed into a fender with a bang that echoed through the forest. Nothing moved. Jeremy grabbed the nearest bush and pulled himself up. He could see the top now. Goose bumps pebbled his arms. His heart hammered in his ears. This was the moment. What would the doorway look like? Would it be black? Would it radiate? Would he be able to see through it, or would he have to cross through first? He wrapped a clutch of weeds around his hand and tugged himself onto the summit.

  The top of the hill looked no different than its slope. Ancient cans, old bottles, another barrel, and a stray tire were scattered among the thick vines. It was just more trash; not a gateway to another world. Jeremy collapsed into a ball, wrapping his arms around his knees, and pressed his back into a young tallow tree. “What have I done wrong?”

  The cold breath on the back of his neck vanished. The follower’s presence disappeared. Jeremy fought to keep his mind clear, to think of nothing but what was before him—the canopy of Helter Skelter. He stared at the tangled mass of vines as they grew together, undulating like seaweed in Jacques Cousteau’s shows.

  Birds fell silent. The wood waited. He reached out, looking for some signal, some trace of a world where the air did not smell like processed petroleum. The trees were there, on the edge of his mind, both asleep and awake, forever talking, forever listening on the wind. He tuned his ears for some semblance of the electricity that such a doorway must channel through both worlds. The wind would know. Eyes half-closed, he watched the vines blur together in an infinite knot.

  Chosen.

  He gasped, realizing he had forgotten to breathe. Where had that come from? He kept his breath shallow, his mind clear.

  Chosen.

  A crystalline, fragile voice that sounded like it would shatter with the slightest breeze was carried on the wind. Yet it held a muted power, a resonance that reverberated in his skull. A green dragonfly hovered, then alit on his hand. Six tiny legs pricked his palm.

  “Chosen for what?” he asked the dragonfly, the air, the wind. The dragonfly flexed its wings and compulsively washed its face using two front legs. No answer came. He tried forming the question as a thought, a thought as delicate as the dragonfly’s wings and as tough as a banana spider web. Still, no answer. The dragonfly buzzed away. A grackle screeched.

  His head ached. The shadows darkened. His jeans soaked up water from the ground, chafing his skin. He sighed. It was pointless. He slid to the bottom and walked around the base of the trash hill twice. The trail had disappeared. Perplexed and hopeful, Jeremy picked his way toward the fading light in the west. Had he crossed over? Was that what happened to the trail? Was he in some new world right now?

  Jeremy kept an eye out for anything unusual. The only thing he noticed was the one thing he couldn’t see—the follower was gone. The presence had disappeared, completely vanished. Could it mean something? Could he have crossed over?

  Voices echoed ahead of him. Crouching low like one of his fellow shadows, Jeremy stalked the voices. He pushed a bush aside, certain that he would find a new world, a pristine place bursting with adventure. He peered into the clearing beyond. Sy whizzed past on a bicycle, laughing and taunting some other boy in close pursuit behind him.

  Jeremy sighed. He crushed his way out of the thicket, breaking sticks and swatting branches. He stomped toward home, toward homework, toward school tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. Chosen, he thought. Yeah, right.

  The scent of cornbread filled the kitchen. His mom barely turned. “Jeremy, you’re just in time. Go take a shower before dinner. And put those clothes directly in the washing machine after you take them off.”

  “Can I have a Coke, please?”

  “Sure, there’s a Sprite in the fridge that your sister didn’t finish.” His mom dropped ground meat into the iron skillet, watching it sizzle. Jeremy poured himself the rest of the Sprite. “Did you have a good walk in the woods?”

  He shrugged. “Eh, it was okay.” Jeremy threw the Sprite can in the plastic garbage can that she kept in the center of the kitchen while she cooked.

  “Aren’t you going to recycle that?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  An oozing blackness covered Mayflure’s features, eclipsing her face. Eaglewing’s fingers raked at the stuff. With each desperate swipe he could see her, but after each swipe, the murk coalesced, subsuming all light, leaving him alone in an empty void. His aching hands clawed faster, shoulders burning with the effort. A lock of hair, a cheekbone, her face—all contorted in pain. Mayflure! The viscous blackness concealed her and began to pull him down. He tried to scream but the ooze filled his mouth. A heavy exhaustion saturated his bones. He should rest, rest and sink into the warm ooze.

  “Eaglewing!”

  A torturous light burned through the void, splitting his head apart. Eaglewing coughed and sputtered, trying to breathe. He looked for Mayflure, but all he could see was a blistering brilliance.

  “Eaglewing!”

  His spine arched backward as an electric spasm wrenched through his leg. He opened his eyes.

  “Eaglewing!” Lightningbolt torqued his wounded ankle again.

  “What… Augh! What are you doing? Stop that!” Eaglewing moaned.

  “Eaglewing, wake up!” Lightningbolt’s head dropped to his chest, sighing. When he raised it again, Eaglewing saw the dark circles beneath his brother’s eyes, the haggard lines on his face, and the dirt covering his clothes and body.

  Eaglewing massaged his aching foot. “By the Stones, I’m
awake now. Where is Mayflure? She was just here.”

  “She was?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lightningbolt swallowed. He looked at the rubble, sighed, and looked back at his brother. “You saw her? In your dream?”

  Eaglewing nodded, raising himself on his elbows. Pain throbbed through his leg.

  “You were being pulled into Kronshar’s darkness,” Lightningbolt said. “I have been looking for you for two days. He found you first.”

  “But he doesn’t share a link with us—none of the High Wizards can do that unless we allow them.”

  “Unless he has turned an adept to his side.”

  Eaglewing dropped back to the ground, covered his face with his hands. “Tell me it’s not like that.”

  “What was she doing?”

  “She was in pain.”

  “She was resisting Kronshar taking over her mind.”

  “By the Stones.” He remembered Mayflure flying across the writhing dragons, jamming her dagger into Kronshar’s shoulder, the blinding flash of light, and her fall. “Lightningbolt, I was going to ask her… ”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Can you heal my leg? It really hurts. Twisting my ankle didn’t help.”

  “I had to bring you back somehow. Here, lie back.” Lightningbolt crafted a spell.

  Nails drove through Eaglewing’s leg from his hip to his toes, pain ricocheting into his back and shoulders. “Augh!”

  “Sorry, I’m really tired. It took a lot to get you back.”

  “Next time, just kill me,” Eaglewing groaned, rolling onto his side and holding his leg.

  “You can walk now. I’ll have to finish the rest later. You really broke it good.”

  Lightningbolt helped Eaglewing stand. Rubble extended in every direction. Gray smoke still billowed from the smoldering ruins of the inner keep. “There’s nothing left.”