“I will bring it back,” said Ealgar. “I will put it into your hand.”
Now the steps of the Lord Mondus and of Saphim the Cruel were close, and the only door that might hinder them had been shattered on the day that Brythelaf had been slain.
Young Waeglim spoke. “The days of the Valorim under the Twin Suns are over, and if a new world is to be made, then let it be by the Ethelim—by Ealgar the Bold, Ealgar of the Willing Heart. When you bring the Art of the Valorim back, wear it around your neck, upon your chest, and so will the Valorim be remembered, both for their terrible mistakes, and for their beauty.”
Then did Young Waeglim kiss Ealgar on the forehead, and Ealgar closed his eyes—and Young Waeglim, with the last of the Song left within him, in the heat of the Forge of the Valorim, did sing, and Ealgar was gone with the speed of Thought.
Young Waeglim watched from the top window of the Tower, and he saw the warm turning of the Twin Suns and felt their lovely light upon his skin. The sounds of the battle below fell from him, and he lifted his face to the sweet light. He drew his orlu, and turned.
Ealgar felt himself drawn softly from the Tower of the Reced, and when he opened his eyes, he was already looking down on his blue world, and passing by the first of the Twin Suns. He felt the heat of Hnaef, then that of Hengest. But hardly had he closed his eyes against their brightness than the Twin Suns were behind him, and the air cooled, and he looked, and saw the stars, so many stars, a greater host of stars than he imagined.
Ealgar reached up and touched the kiss of Young Waeglim upon his forehead, the kiss of the last of the Valorim. And then did his heart and his mind gladden, and he set his face toward the Art of the Valorim. He sped past the planets and stars whose ringing paths he had watched, and they fell behind him into the bright welter around his own now distant world. Then he saw stars and constellations he had never known, and so flew out of one galaxy, and ever more quickly, across long dark halls to the next, and then the next, speeding faster and faster and faster so that Ealgar could not count how many worlds and stars he passed.
Until, finally, he came to a small galaxy, and to a single small star at the edge of that galaxy, and to a small planet that rolled around it. He passed by its still moon and into its blue canopy, and he felt himself coming slower, and slower, and slower, and he passed through a mist of high white clouds and through their shadows and into the sunlight again, down through the air.
Slower, slower, and slower, until Ealgar felt himself stop, and he staggered upon the white shore of a blue sea—how strange to see it as blue as his own! He looked above him. A single sun that looked so lonely, trying to fill the whole sky with only its light. But the sound of the waves, and the feel of the sand beneath him, were as his own world—but cold.
And the kiss of the last of the Valorim was still on his forehead.
Ealgar wrapped his arms around himself for the chilled wind that blew from the water. Beside him, a field of tiny yellow pennants spread out, and beyond that, a small house.
Then he smelled the air—and the fah smell of the O’Mondim.
Ealgar took out the orlu of his father, and crouched. He looked up and down the beach, and then behind him, into the water. Nothing. But bitter was his mood, that the O’Mondim had found their fah way here before him. And bitter was the thought that already the Art of the Valorim might have been lost to him.
He stood and shivered again. What a cold world this was!
So Ealgar passed through the field of yellow pennants. He climbed up the broad steps of the sandy dune and to the door of the small house. He pushed it open. No sound from within. He walked inside. Then he saw the pale yellow wall and knew the work of the Art of the Valorim. He reached to touch it, but turned at a sound.
And looked into the faithless, shadowed eyes of Ouslim the Liar.
Ealgar raised his orlu.
EIGHTEEN
The O’Mondim
Tommy Pepper sat on the couch as one by one the policemen left, until Officer Goodspeed asked if he would like someone to stay outside and Tommy shook his head. “No.”
“Is there someone I can call?” said Officer Goodspeed.
“No,” said Tommy.
Officer Goodspeed said he’d be back in the morning. They’d find them. They’d already found the car by the Plymouth town offices. Officer Goodspeed was sure things would turn out all right.
Tommy said he’d be going up to bed now, and so Officer Goodspeed left.
Tommy was hungrier than he ever remembered being. He went into the kitchen and scrambled five eggs and brought them out on a plate and sat on the couch and watched the eggs until they got cold. Then he set the plate down on the floor.
Tommy went upstairs. He opened his window and leaned far out. He looked up and down the beach. Just in case.
Then he went to his bed, rolled his blankets tight around him, and cried until he was dark inside and out.
He cried for a long time, syn Githil aet Tinglaedu, nunc glaedre non, as if the sadness would never never never go away, but would stay, like Githil’s sadness, inside him forever.
Tommy Pepper sat up suddenly. It was almost as if he could hear Githil’s voice, crying out over the waves, as lonely as a single sun.
He rolled the blankets around him even more tightly.
It came again. Githil’s cry.
He unrolled the blankets, ran to his window, and opened it. The moon was behind clouds and the ocean rough. Dark waves shattered on the shoreline, even up to the thrygeth wall. Nothing moving but the water, the high grasses, the yellow flags, and...
Tommy ran down the stairs and pushed open the front door. Immediately the fah stink of rotting seaweed covered him like ink, and he held his hand up to his mouth. He sprinted down the railroad-tie steps and through the yellow flags, and when he reached the shore, the moon dropped beneath the clouds, and through the ice wall, Tommy read these words in the sand:
PEPPER GIVE US WHAT WE WANT
Beside the words, half sunk into the sand, tied up with rotten seaweed, was Patty’s pink backpack.
Tommy Pepper’s eyes turned hard and narrowed.
Elder Waeglim standing at Brogum Sorg Cynna.
He looked out to sea and he took off his shirt. The cold wind blew against him, but he did not feel it at all. The green and silver of the chain shone brightly, shining onto the waves in front of him, and illuminating his chest so deeply that even his heart felt its keen light.
He ran around the ice wall, picked up Patty’s backpack, and sprinted back up to the house.
He threw the backpack onto Patty’s bed. She’d want it when she got home.
Then he went downstairs, the light of his chain still so bright. By the cellar doors he sorted through the garden tools until he found what he needed: the hoe and the shears. He laid them one on top of the other, and then he took off his chain and wrapped it around them.
“Ferr orlu,” he whispered, and the chain grew brighter and brighter, until he could not see.
The first light of that cold morning saw policemen, phone calls, policemen, two reporters that the policemen hustled away, phone calls, policemen, more policemen at Tommy Pepper’s house. Tommy sat on the couch, looking out the windows at the waving yellow flags between his home and the ocean. The house was stuffed with policemen—policemen who asked questions, who wanted pictures, who wondered if they had any enemies—and when was the last time you saw Patty? and how long has it been since she’s talked? and have you seen anyone suspicious around the house? and has your father done anything like this before? and we’ll need to take your sister’s backpack to check for prints.
“No,” said Tommy.
“It’s routine,” said the policemen.
“Find Mr. PilgrimWay,” Tommy told them.
“Who?” they asked.
“Mr. PilgrimWay. Ask Mr. Zwerger.”
They called William Bradford Elementary School from Tommy’s kitchen. Did Mr. Zwerger know anything about a Mr. PilgrimWay?
“Who?” Mr. Zwerger told the policemen.
Tommy Pepper watched from his window as the policemen on the shore photographed the letters in the sand before the high tide came up to wipe them away.
As they finished, Officer Goodspeed drove up in his patrol car. He spoke to the policemen by the shore. They shook their heads and began to pack their equipment. Then Officer Goodspeed spoke to the policemen on the dune. They shook their heads too, and headed to their patrol cars. Then Officer Goodspeed came up to the house, called for the policemen inside, spoke to them. And they headed down to their patrol cars—sort of angry.
Then Officer Goodspeed came inside.
“Listen,” he said. “You’ve wasted a lot of people’s time on a hoax.”
“A hoax? My father and sister are missing.”
“I spoke with Mr. PilgrimWay and he explained everything. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the whole lot of you.”
“If you think—”
“He said he wouldn’t press charges if you returned what belongs to him.”
“And what’s that?”
“You are in a heap of trouble, so let’s not play games. Give me whatever it is that Mr. PilgrimWay wants and we’ll call it even—and that’s just because your father and I have been friends for so long. If it was anyone else...”
Tommy got up and looked out the windows. The policemen were almost all gone.
He went to the closet and slid out the wrapped canvas that Mrs. Lumpkin had brought back. He handed it to Officer Goodspeed. “Here,” he said.
“Is this it?”
“This is it.”
Officer Goodspeed took off the wrapping.
“He wanted a portrait of Mrs. Lumpkin?”
“Yup,” said Tommy.
Officer Goodspeed returned the wrappings. He held his finger up at Tommy. “You keep your nose clean,” he said. “I won’t be as forgiving next time.”
“I’ll keep my nose clean,” said Tommy.
When Officer Goodspeed got into his patrol car, Tommy reached under the couch and drew out his orlu. He balanced it lightly in his hand.
The policemen were all gone.
He was going to need some help.
He put the orlu back under the couch and headed to William Bradford Elementary School.
Tommy Pepper was not at his house when a brightness fell out of the sky and landed at the high-water mark by the shore.
On the morning after the Planning Commission meeting, Mr. PilgrimWay did not appear in Mr. Burroughs’s classroom, and Tommy Pepper was late—not only because he missed the bus, but because he had to go back around to the first grade door since the sixth grade door had a sheet of plywood nailed across its empty frame.
Mrs. MacReady was sitting with the class, even though, she said, this was not what she was paid to do. She suggested they all read quietly at their seats until a suitable substitute could be called in. They might choose any book they wished from the classroom library, and remember, reading is a Closed-Mouth Activity.
“Where is Mr. PilgrimWay?” said Alice Winslow.
“Where’s Mr. Burroughs?” said Tommy.
“Did you not hear me say ‘Closed-Mouth Activity’?” said Mrs. MacReady.
By ten o’clock, there was still no suitable substitute called in and Mr. Zwerger came to tell Mrs. MacReady she would have to stay with the class for a little longer.
Mrs. MacReady reminded them all that this was not what she was paid to do. So, she said, they should come up with a current event connected to the book they were reading and they should write a short essay that expressed how the book made them think differently about the current event and how this applied to their individual lives. They could take turns working at the computers, and those who were not working at the computers could compose rough drafts with pencil or pen. And writing, by the way, was also a Closed-Mouth Activity.
Alice Winslow held up her hand.
“What is it?” said Mrs. MacReady.
“Mr. Burroughs doesn’t believe in Closed-Mouth Activities,” she said.
Tommy looked at Alice Winslow and smiled. Maybe things could get back to normal.
Mrs. MacReady held the stack of white paper against herself. “Who?” she said.
“Our teacher, Mr. Burroughs,” said Patrick Belknap.
Mrs. MacReady put the paper down on the desk.
“Who?” she said again.
“Mr. Burroughs,” said James Sullivan. He shook his head and looked sort of surprised. “Mr. Burroughs is our teacher.”
“Right,” said Tommy.
“Mr. Burroughs,” said Alice Winslow. She said it slowly, as it seeped back into her.
Tommy stood and walked over to the bulletin board. He ripped off the pictures of imagined planets, and with a black marker he quickly sketched the face of Mr. Burroughs. “Remember?” said Tommy. He pushed at the drawing with his left hand and the face turned the other way and began to smile. “Remember?” he said.
“Where is Mr. Burroughs?” said Patrick Belknap.
Mrs. MacReady came over to the board and looked at it closely. “You drew on the classroom bulletin board,” said Mrs. MacReady. She took her glasses off and wiped at her eyes. “That looks like Mr. Burroughs,” she said. She put her glasses back on. “Is that permanent marker?”
By noon, Mrs. MacReady let it be known that she had her own work to do on top of being a substitute teacher and as far as she knew, no one was doing it for her. So she would have to go back and forth between the main office and this classroom for a couple of hours, and she expected perfect behavior when she had to step out. If you were finished with your book, you could continue your essay on the relevant current event. If not, you should keep reading attentively. Both of these were still Closed-Mouth Activities. She would be back in a few minutes.
As soon as Mrs. MacReady left and her footsteps were sounding from far enough away, James Sullivan put down his book and turned to Tommy. “What happened to Mr. Burroughs?”
“I’m glad you remember Mr. Burroughs,” said Tommy.
“How could I not remember Mr. Burroughs?”
“Good question. And he’s not the only one missing.”
He told them. He tried not to bawl like a first-grader.
“So Mr. Burroughs was the first one gone,” said Alice Winslow. “Maybe if we found out where Mr. Burroughs went, that might be a clue to where Patty is.”
“Thank you, Detective Winslow,” said Patrick Belknap. “Do you want me to get out the bloodhounds now or after school?”
“You know, Patrick, you can sometimes be—”
“A maeglia, I know,” said Tommy. “Listen, I think what we need to do is to arm ourselves.”
This took a moment to understand.
“Arm ourselves?” said Alice Winslow.
“Arm ourselves!” said James Sullivan.
Tommy nodded. “Arm ourselves,” he said again.
“Oh my goodness,” said Alice Winslow.
And suddenly it seemed as if everything in the room grew hushed, and serious, and important.
“How?” said Patrick Belknap.
Tommy stood up. “We have to go,” he said.
“MacReady will kill us if we’re not here when she gets back,” said Alice Winslow.
Tommy considered this for a moment. Then he looked at Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin. He walked over to her desk. “Cheryl Lynn,” he said.
Cheryl Lynn looked up from her book.
“We have to go. Can you cover for us?”
“What?” said Cheryl Lynn.
“We need you to cover for us. Say we’ve gone to the bathroom.”
“I’m not going to cover for you, jerk,” said Cheryl Lynn.
“Not just me. Alice and Sullivan and Belknap, too.”
“Really. All four of you. All gone to the bathroom. You expect me to tell MacReady that?”
“Not just that,” said Tommy.
Tommy looked around, then he went to Patrick Belknap
’s desk and picked up the accordion that Patrick was keeping by his feet.
“Hey,” said Patrick Belknap.
Tommy lugged the accordion to Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin’s desk. Then he reached beneath his shirt and pulled out his chain. He grabbed Cheryl Lynn’s hand—“What do you think you’re...?”—and he pressed the chain into her palm.
For a moment, it glowed sharply, then Tommy put it back under his shirt.
Cheryl Lynn looked down at the accordion case.
Patrick Belknap stood up.
“Belknap, it’s all right,” said Tommy.
Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin opened the accordion case. She grappled with the thing, and finally swung it out.
“I think I’d play something that sounded sort of Scottish,” said Tommy.
Cheryl Lynn began to squeeze.
“Time to go,” said Tommy, and—Patrick Belknap looking back—the four of them ran out of the classroom, and down the hall, and across to the first grade hall, and so outside.
Mrs. MacReady later said it was a song from her childhood. She couldn’t believe Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin was playing it. Neither could Cheryl Lynn.
It wasn’t long before Mrs. MacReady started to cry happily.
She never even knew they were gone. Most days, it took Tommy about thirty-two minutes to walk from William Bradford Elementary School to his house. At a run, pausing for breath, he could do it in twenty-four, or maybe twenty-three if he was headed from his house to William Bradford, since it’s mostly downhill that way.
They took about twenty-two. Who knew Alice Winslow could run so well?
Along the way, Tommy told them what they needed. He’d already made the orlu. Maybe another orlu for Sullivan. A halin for Alice. And a limnae for Belknap.
“How come I don’t get an orlu?” said Patrick Belknap. “And what is an orlu?”
Tommy said he didn’t know what exactly they were going to do, but somehow, somehow, he knew they’d have to wait for Mr. PilgrimWay to show up. And they’d be ready. “And whatever you do,” he said, “eteth threafta.”
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