When the batter was ready, the rest of the boys filtered in, and the terrible, horrible, clamorous breakfast began. Weylyn fidgeted in his chair as Clay and Micah flicked blueberries across the table at each other and Bill rattled on about the empires that mice have collapsed. Weylyn didn’t know what he wanted on his pancake, so I made a smiley face with chocolate chips and banana slices. When I sat it in front of him, he stared at it blankly, then ate one of the banana slice eyes warily. Minutes later, I heard him yell over my shoulder, “Banana-chocolate face!”
I smiled to myself and sliced up another banana.
* * *
That wasn’t the first time we’d had a power outage that year, or even that month. It was all over the news. POWER OUTAGES PLAGUE RURAL PENNSYLVANIA was the headline on just about every media outlet. The last four summers had been some of the hottest on record, and the severely outdated power grid couldn’t handle the additional demand. Sometimes we’d be in the dark for a week or more, but we usually read about it in the paper before it happened so we could prepare: COUNTY-WIDE OUTAGE EXPECTED WITH NEXT WEEK’S HEAT WAVE.
After two years of this, I offered up a portion of my land to the city to build a windmill. The project was barely under way when Councilman Marcus Beattie, whose father was CFO of Heartland Coal, filed an injunction on the basis of “unknown environmental and economic consequences” and stopped construction in its tracks. Three years and twenty-six blackouts later, no new energy projects had been entertained by the council, and we still had a partially built windmill on our property.
When I called Central Pennsylvania Power later that day, I expected to get the same automated message I usually did: Due to an energy shortage, service has been disabled for [insert number here] days. We appreciate your patience during this time. Instead, I got through to a customer service rep. “There was no scheduled blackout. Yours is the only home that’s out. The transformer at the bottom of your drive experienced a power surge.”
“What caused it?” I asked.
“You tell me, ma’am. It came from your house.”
* * *
Over the next few weeks, Weylyn began to open up. He wasn’t quite himself yet, but he ate all his meals with us, and even if he didn’t say much, I could tell he appreciated the company. Every morning he brought us honey—Rodger had only produced a jar a week—and soon we had so many jars that the pantry door wouldn’t close. I tried to use it up by making honey butter, muffins, cornbread, and cake. I put it in my tea and on my toast, but it still accumulated faster than it was consumed. I started giving it away to the neighbors I liked, then the neighbors I didn’t like just to get rid of the stuff, but it just kept coming.
Three extra pounds and a diabetes scare later, I asked Weylyn if there was some way he could slow the process down. He thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe I’m not right for this job.”
“No, no!” I quickly backpedaled. “The Honey Festival is coming up. I’ll just sell a bunch of it there.”
Despite his improvement, I could still sense something wasn’t quite right. One night, after I had sent the boys upstairs to bed, I found Weylyn on the front porch swing, watching fireflies play hide-and-seek in the grass, lost in his own thoughts. “Room for me out here?” I asked. He nodded and I sat down on the swing next to him. Wuthering Heights was open on his lap. “What do you think of it?” I gestured to the book.
“Oh, it’s theatrical nonsense, but it was on the library’s list of ‘One Hundred Books to Read Before You Die.’ It was listed last, probably because you get so fed up after reading it that you croak.”
I laughed. “Maybe you should stop before you get hurt.”
“Now you mention it, I have a bit of a headache.” He shut the book with a satisfying thwap! “Ridiculous love stories have that effect on me.”
“Wow. Who made you so bitter?”
Weylyn looked up at me hesitantly, unsure of whether to continue. “After my parents died, when I lived with my wolf family, I played this game where I’d pretend to have a problem and someone would fix it for me like … I would lose my favorite postcard and then some kind-faced couple would happen by and help me find it. You know, just simple stuff. I never fantasized that they wanted to adopt me and take me back to their horse ranch with a swimming pool and a trampoline or anything crazy like that. I was just so tired of having to figure everything out for myself that I wanted someone to help me, even if it was with some stupid, insignificant problem I was having.
“Then I met this … girl. She would sit with me and we’d talk, and she taught me how to read. I loved my wolf family, but she reminded me of how good it feels to connect with another human being.”
The fireflies had migrated from their hiding places among the grass to the flowerbed at the foot of the porch. Weylyn watched them while he gathered his thoughts, then continued, “I ran into her again, years later. I had a chance to have a real connection with another person, and not just any person, Mary. I must have known I was in love, but … well, I know it now.”
A firefly landed silently on Weylyn’s shoulder.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She got caught in a snowstorm that I started. She could have died. If Duane hadn’t found her…” He trailed off, then turned back to me, a grave expression on his face. “I’m dangerous, Lydia. Maybe not as much as I used to be, but still … I came here, anyway. What does that say about me?”
“It says you care. About people. About me.” I took his hands in mine and squeezed. “You have all this good inside you, but you give it all away. You don’t keep any for yourself. Why is that?”
The fireflies bobbed up the stairs and circled Weylyn in a beautiful, lilting halo. I gaped at them, astonished. Weylyn hardly seemed to notice. He squeezed my hands back. “Because it’s not safe with me. Nothing is.”
55
MICAH BARNES
Using a pair of binoculars my parents got me for my tenth birthday, I had been watching Weylyn from my bedroom window for three weeks without anything significant to report. I was beginning to think I had made a mistake. Maybe I had misheard him that day in the kitchen. Maybe he was just a regular guy who told weird stories.
I asked my mom what she thought about it. “Your uncle is just odd, that’s all,” she said dismissively. “And stop spying on him. He deserves a little privacy.”
So, I let it go. I was disappointed, of course. I had been looking forward to having a teacher so I could do real magic, not just pretend stuff. The binoculars went back in their case, and I concentrated on more realistic goals. Specifically, I wanted to win this year’s Honey Run.
The Honey Run is an event held the last weekend of every June at the Honey Festival. The runners have to slog through a fifty-meter trough filled with a honey-esque concoction of sugar, water, and gold food coloring that comes up to your knees. It is a relay, so the first team member has to run twenty-five meters, then pass the honey dipper to his partner so he can finish. The winning team of each age group receives a trophy, T-shirts, and their picture in the paper.
Clay and I had been a team for the last three years, and we won every year. Despite being bad at most sports, my size gave me an advantage in the Honey Run because it gave me momentum. As I plowed through the sticky goo, I’d look over and see my skinny competitors wriggling in place like bugs on flypaper. Clay was skinny, too, but he had the explosive thighs of a sprinter that allowed him to leap across the honey like a skipping stone. Those were the only trophies I’d ever earned, and I kept them on a special shelf in my bedroom.
I biked over to the fairgrounds the day before the festival and went to the sign-up tent. “Micah and Clay Barnes, returning champions,” I said proudly to the woman behind the table.
“I’m sorry, but it looks like there is already a Clay Barnes signed up for that event,” she said and held the roster out to me. Sure enough, Clay’s name was on the list next to his idiot friend Gunner. I felt tears coming on and turned to leave. “Do you
still want to sign up?” the woman called after me, but I was already on my bike, letting the air evaporate my tears and carry them into the clouds. If I was lucky, they’d fall with the rest of the rain at 2:00 P.M. the next day, canceling the Honey Run.
When I got home, Clay was sitting on the couch watching TV like nothing had happened. I thought about how great it would feel to throw my big, fat fist into his little bird face. How satisfying it would be to kick his feet out from under him and sit on his neck till he cried. Better yet, I’d cast a paralyzing spell so he couldn’t run or play soccer or even tie his shoes, but to do that, I’d need Weylyn’s help.
* * *
That night, I saw Weylyn sitting on the front porch alone. I was about to go out there and beg him to help me when my mom beat me to it. Instead of getting ready for bed like she had asked, I went up to my room and cracked the window so I could hear their conversation. I couldn’t make out most of what they were saying, but I did hear Weylyn mention a girl he loved named Mary, who he thought he had put in danger somehow.
An hour later, I woke with my face pressed up against the cool glass of my window. I sat up, leaving behind a greasy smudge the shape of my nose and cheek. It was nighttime, and the crickets and frogs were playing Marco Polo from their hiding places in the tall grasses. The moon was either a waxing crescent or a waning—I could never tell the difference—and the landscape was a collage of Rorschach inkblots, save one small patch of light.
It came from behind the thicket at the far end of the beeyard, a soft, pulsing, green-yellow glow. I grabbed my binoculars and suctioned them to my eyes to get a better look. I couldn’t see the origin of the light, just the leaves on the trees changing color—black, green, yellow, green, black. I watched and waited for a few minutes, then went in for a closer look.
When I crept downstairs, Mom and Dad were busy watching something on PBS with British people wearing pants that looked like they had been put on backward. Whatever it was, they were completely engrossed because they didn’t notice me slip out the back door.
The bees probably weren’t out at this time of night, but I figured I’d put on the beekeeper’s suit just to be safe. I opened the door to the gate slowly so it wouldn’t squeak, and I headed toward the light.
As I made my way across the yard, my mind flooded with things it could be: an alien spaceship, a luminescent specter, a radioactive cheeseburger ready to bestow superpowers on the first person to take a bite. I once learned in school that a mouse has a resting heart rate of up to seven hundred and fifty beats per minute. That’s what my heart felt like as I crept closer to the pulsing glow, trying to match the sound of my breathing with the air around it so I wouldn’t be noticed by whatever lay beyond those trees.
I stepped inside the tree line and held my wand out for protection. Even if I couldn’t do any magic with it yet, I could still use it the old-fashioned way. The light was coming from behind a cluster of walnut trees. I found a hiding spot among them and peered around their trunks.
I had to suppress a gasp when I saw it. The light was the work of thousands of fireflies, blinking gently like earthbound stars. Weylyn stood in the center of their galaxy, peering into a white bee box that glowed like pirates’ treasure. He gingerly reached into the box and pulled out a honeycomb file, its mesh dripping in a luminescent goo. Weylyn turned the file in his hands, admiring it, then held up a mason jar and tipped the file so the honey—or whatever it was—ran inside.
I leaned in to get a better look, lost my balance, and tumbled out from my hiding place in plain view of Weylyn. He looked at me casually as if he’d been expecting me. “I figured you’d eventually see the light,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
I scrambled to my feet, embarrassed by my performance. “You knew I’ve been watching you?”
“Of course. I can see your window from the beeyard.”
I felt like an idiot. I couldn’t even live up to my name, the Unseen, with a pair of damn binoculars! How was Weylyn ever going to take me seriously?
“I don’t blame you. I’d be curious, too, if I’d overheard what you did. Unfortunately, I’ve never eavesdropped on anything of much interest. Last week, I overheard a couple arguing in the grocery store over what jam to buy. I made the mistake of offering my opinion, and the man told me to go choke on a strawberry. He didn’t intimidate me so much as put me in the mood for strawberry jam.”
It was more words than I had heard him speak since he’d arrived. I gaped at him, not knowing how to respond. “While we’re on the subject”—he held out the jar with the bioluminescent honey—“would you like a taste? It basically tastes like sugar but with a slight electrical shock.” I shook my head, my tongue tingling just thinking about it.
“Suit yourself,” he said and screwed the cap on the jar. “It doesn’t stay in solid form for long. In a few minutes, it will be nothing but pure light. See?” He fetched a second jar that burned like a lightbulb.
“B-but … h-how?” I stuttered.
Weylyn shrugged. “You believe in magic, don’t you?”
I nodded emphatically.
“Of course you do. I read the list you gave me, but I’m not sure I can be of much help to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t do any of those things. Even this”—he pointed at the jar—“wasn’t my doing.”
“So, you’re not magic?”
“I can’t do magic. I’m not like those wizards in your books that can wave a wand and turn a turnip into a train car.”
“Can’t you do anything?” I’m sure I sounded rude, but I was fourteen. I hadn’t yet perfected the art of diplomacy.
Weylyn didn’t seem to take my tone personally. “I can’t deny that strange things seem to happen around me. Like that power outage a few weeks ago. I stubbed my toe really hard on the doorjamb and poof! No power. That’s enough to make any man reevaluate his perspective on the world.”
I was angry, angry that Weylyn could possess such awesome power and not only deny it but waste it on a stubbed toe! He didn’t have the discipline to train himself to control it. I had the discipline. I had the dedication. Weylyn just made jokes and put magic in a jar like it was some trinket at a gift shop. He couldn’t teach me anything because he wasn’t willing to learn. “Yeah, I guess you couldn’t be a real wizard because wizards train really hard to hone their powers,” I snapped.
Weylyn’s left hand flinched like he was swatting away a fly. “Some things are out of our control,” he said evenly, putting his left hand in his pants pocket.
Then I did something I’m not proud of. “What about Mary?”
Weylyn’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about her?”
“I heard you and my mom talking. You said she could have died. Was that because of you?”
He didn’t answer. I felt a drop of rain on my forehead and continued, “All I’m saying is that maybe if you had trained properly, that wouldn’t have happened.”
Weylyn gave me an icy stare, and for a moment, I was afraid. Then a sadness passed over him like a shadow, and the rain fell in a cold, wet sheet. I turned, too ashamed to look at him any longer, and ran back to the house.
The rain lasted into the next day, and the Honey Run was canceled. I couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t just my words that upset Weylyn but the fact that I was cruel enough to say them in the first place.
* * *
I tried my best to avoid Weylyn over the next few days. I pretended I was sick and ate meals in my room. I occasionally saw him out the window in the beeyard, but I left my binoculars in their case. On day four of this charade, my mom caught on that I wasn’t sick and insisted I leave my room. I went straight to the garage to get my bike and spent most of the day cycling in circles around the neighborhood. By the time I got home, I was dehydrated and sore, giving me a legitimate excuse to hide out in my room.
I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up to a knocking sound. “Micah?” said Weylyn from the othe
r side of the door. I contemplated crawling out the window onto the roof or hiding in the closet, but both options seemed so cowardly. I decided to face my problem head-on.
I opened the door. Weylyn was standing in the hall, waiting for me. He didn’t look mad like I thought he would. In fact, he was smiling. “Your mom asked me to come get you. Dinner’s ready.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said groggily. I was about to slide past him when he stopped me.
“I’d like to talk to you about something first, if that’s okay.”
I nodded, uncertain.
“I was thinking about what you said,” he began. “Even though I can’t teach you anything, maybe you could help me instead.”
“Help you with what?”
“I could use an assistant. I thought you might like to help me with the bees and”—he paused, deciding whether to continue—“I could use a training partner.”
“Really?” I nearly shouted.
Weylyn hushed me. “Yes, really. Your mom said it was okay as long as you were careful. With the bees, I mean. She doesn’t know about the second thing, and we probably shouldn’t mention it just yet.”
He didn’t have to ask me twice. I accepted my assignment and reported for duty the next day.
56
LYDIA KRAMER BARNES
Bill and I were the embarrassing parents. I found this out from Clay’s friend Gunner, the one with the gap teeth and the peanut allergy. I was asking Clay what snacks I should bring to his soccer tournament coming up, and the little twerp turned to me and said, “You know, Mrs. B., you and Mr. B. might want to cool it on the snacks and T-shirts and team spirit shit.” He actually said shit. “It’s embarrassing.” For the rest of the season, I brought peanut butter cookies so I could see the look of disappointment on his face when he couldn’t eat my “embarrassing” snacks.
Beasts of Extraordinary Circumstance Page 24