Six Points of Light:Hook's Origin

by Kalynn Bayron

  “You haven’t read it?” asked James.

  “Parts of it, I'm not very good at reading.”

  James felt the sharp pang of pity.

  “I know what my mother told me, and I know that she said everything I would ever need would be in this book. I need to know, James. Please.”

  James felt a strange and conflicting set of emotions wash over him. This boy who had created so much conflict in his time at St. Catherine’s, this child who seemed to run headlong away from responsibility and away from anyone who tried to help him, was now sitting there, asking for help. James ran his hands through his still-damp hair.

  Whatever Peter believed seemed to be rooted in something his mother had told him before she brought him to St. Catherine’s, and James was curious. Peter’s behavior was bizarre. He wondered what could drive a young boy to stand on a roof as if there were no danger in doing something so foolish. And then there was this business of flying, which James was sure was only the musing of a sad and lonely little boy. After considering all of this, his curiosity got the better of him.

  “I will read it to you, Peter,” James conceded. “On one condition.”

  “Name it!”

  “You must agree to stop causing so many problems for Sister Maddie. You must agree to at least pretend to do as she asks. No more running off and no more scaring Sister Gerty. Agreed?”

  “Agreed!” Peter leapt up and clapped his hands loudly. “It is settled, then. Let’s start now!”

  James stood up and peeked his head out of the moss-covered opening. It was still raining, and he had just begun to dry off.

  “Are you sure you want to start now?” He wanted to get back; he knew Sister Maddie would be worried about them if they didn’t turn up soon.

  “Yes! Right now!” squealed Peter. James looked at Peter, and Peter lowered his head. “Please?”

  “Fine. But just a few pages for now.” They sat down on the floor, and James opened the diary to its first entry.

  Dear Diary,

  I am going away, and I am never, never coming back. Father is making me go to the horrible place where I'm to learn how to be a proper young lady. I won’t go! I won’t do it! Why does Mother say the things she says? I told her about the little sprite I saw when Mammie took me to the gardens. She didn't believe me! I do hope I see that little sprite again. She was lovely.

  Abigail Houton, age 10

  James scanned the rest of the pages. There were many entries, and the handwriting seemed to change as the dates in the journal progressed. If this really was his mother’s journal, it appeared as though she had kept it for many years. He stopped on a page that didn’t have an entry but was covered by a beautiful drawing of a woman with long, braided hair; where her legs should have been, there was a tail like that of a fish. Peter snatched the book away from James, snapping the cover shut.

  “I didn’t say you could look at the pictures,” he said scowling.

  “You want me to read it to you but not look at it?” James was annoyed at Peter’s hot-and-cold personality. He wanted everything done his way and his way only.

  “Well, I guess not. Or not right now. I don’t know,” Peter stammered.

  James was confused. The doodlings of Peter’s mother didn’t seem like they needed to be guarded so carefully.

  “All right, Peter,” said James. “We should head back now.”

  Peter huffed. He wasn’t ready to leave, but James didn’t give him a choice. He stood up and walked out of the moss-covered door into the drizzling rain. Peter followed him, kicking up the damp earth as they made their way back to St. Catherine’s. No words were spoken, but James had the distinct feeling that Peter was hiding something, and despite Peter’s erratic and downright annoying behavior, James’s curiosity would not be quelled until he figured out what it was.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE FLUTE AND THE PACT

  The storm had died down and Sister Maddie contemplated contacting the local authorities to search for Peter and James. Or perhaps she would look for them herself. Yes, that would be the best choice. She went to her quarters to retrieve her most sturdy cloak, a woolen garment with a deep hood to ward off the chill. She flung the cloak over her arm and proceeded to the kitchen, where Sister Angelica was preparing dinner for the children.

  Sister Angelica greeted her with a scornful look. “Sister Maddie, please tell me that you are not planning to go out there in this weather. You'll catch your death from the cold!”

  “Sister Angelica, please. The storm has died down, and I'm perfectly capable of going after them. I do, however, need you to send word to the authorities, as I may need their help.” She was on the verge of tears and was trying desperately to keep them from spilling over. She wanted to stay focused on the task at hand.

  Sister Angelica crossed the room and put her arm around Sister Maddie. The tears fell freely and she batted at her eyes as Sister Angelica offered her a dry kerchief.

  “It's all my fault,” sobbed Sister Maddie, unable to hold back any longer. “I only wanted Peter to befriend James. James is such a good boy—it would be good for Peter to—”

  At that moment, a loud clang interrupted Sister Maddie. It was the sound of the large wooden doors in the entryway being opened. She rushed out with Sister Angelica following close behind, and they rounded the corner to see James and Peter standing there, damp and shivering but appearing no worse for the wear.

  “Oh, thank heavens!” Sister Maddie said through a loud sob. She rushed forward and embraced James. “You are soaked to the bone. You're going to catch a cold.”

  “I'm fine, too!” yelled Peter. His voice echoed off the high ceilings and took both Sister Maddie and James by surprise.

  “Well, of course you are, Peter,” said Sister Angelica as she stepped forward, placing a heavy blanket around his shoulders. He clutched the blanket and mumbled something under his breath.

  “What was that, Peter?” asked Sister Maddie.

  “Oh, nothing,” he said.

  Sister Maddie wiped the tears from her eyes as she looked over James. She brushed the hair out of his eyes and examined a small cut on his right cheek, relieved that he was okay. However, at that same moment, she became keenly aware of other feelings brewing inside of her. Anger and resentment—feelings that were rare for her—and they were directed squarely at Peter. She immediately chastised herself for being so angry. He was a child, after all.

  “I'm so thankful that you are both all right,” she said, as Sister Angelica led Peter off to find dry clothes. “Come with me,” she said to James, who followed her toward the library without question. “I shouldn’t have let you go after him in this storm. I’m so sorry, James.”

  “Sister Maddie, it’s fine. I knew the weather was bad. Peter shouldn’t have run off, but we’re okay now. That’s all that matters.”

  “Yes, and I appreciate you fetching him, James. I do. But I can’t allow anything to happen to you. Do you understand? I… can’t.” She stopped as her voice caught in her throat.

  She picked up a blanket and pulled it close around James, helping him to settle into a large chair in front of the fire. She was relieved that he was safe, but her feelings toward Peter were forever changed.

  ***

  James

  James fell into a chair by the freshly-stoked fire in the library, and his muscles began to unravel. He had been enjoying his bout of good health and had spent many hours walking the grounds, breathing the crisp clean air, but his body had some catching up to do. He was freezing, and the warmth of the fire felt like heaven.

  “Where did Peter take off to, James?” asked Sister Maddie.

  James hesitated.

  “He was just wandering,” he said. The lie sat on his tongue like a piece of spoiled meat. He didn’t like lying to anyone under any circumstances, and it bothered him that Peter could do it so easily.

  “Wandering about in the woods? During a storm, no less?” asked Sister Maddie. “Why in the world did
it take you so long to come back? I was worried.”

  James could tell that she’d been more than just worried. Her eyes were red, and he wondered how long she had been crying. “I thought it best to wait out the storm. The lightening was close, and I didn't want to chance getting caught out in the open.”

  A half-truth is still a lie, he thought.

  “Always thinking ahead, James. That's my boy.” She reached up and touched the side of his face. “I'm going to go check on Peter. Will you be all right if I leave you alone for just a moment?”

  “Yes.” James smiled at her.

  As Sister Maddie padded off down the hallway, James sat in the chair, wrapped in the warm blanket. Peter had proved to be unpredictable, dangerous even, so why then was James drawn to the boy?

  Perhaps, he thought, it is because he is so very different from myself. He is all the things I am not.

  James was not particularly adventurous, due in part to his recurrent illnesses. His adventures took place mostly in his head and in the pages of the hundreds of books he’d read. But in recent months, he’d felt a change come over him. His health had improved, and he’d found that he quite enjoyed the outdoors. He dreamed of a day when he might sail a ship, like so many of his literary heroes.

  Peter seemed to embody that spirit of adventure. More than that, Peter acted on those adventurous impulses. That was the answer. James coveted Peter’s ability to go out and do all the things he had in his head, however strange or risky those things were. He also realized that he felt a measure of pity, even sadness, for Peter.

  Peter was so brash, he often came across as rude, but in those woods, James had seen beneath the veil that Peter kept pulled so closely around him. Under all the outbursts and toothy smiles was a boy who was in pain. A tortured soul. He had a way of knowing when people weren't all they claimed to be.

  Peter had been abandoned at St. Catherine's. So had James, but James had no recollection of his mother, father, or anyone else. All James knew was Sister Maddie and St. Catherine's. He felt that Peter was lying about not remembering his mother but had decided not to pursue the subject at the moment. There were other, more pressing issues that James intended to get to the bottom of.

  Sister Maddie was right when she said that Peter needed someone to guide him. He already seemed so lost, but, in Peter's tree, they seemed to reach an understanding. Peter would curtail his antics in exchange for James’s promise to read the journal; maybe, in the process, he could keep his promise to Sister Maddie, as well.

  He heard Sister Maddie's footsteps approaching from the hallway.

  “James?”

  “I'm still here.”

  “I know it’s getting late, but Peter is asking for you. You don't have to see him if you're not up to it.”

  “No, it’s all right.” James stood up and made his way down the long corridor of the boys' wing. He had a place there, but Sister Maddie had fetched most of his belongings and brought them to the infirmary. He returned to sleep in the boys' wing only when one of the other children was too ill to share the hospital room.

  The lighting was dim; the sun had already dipped below the horizon. The red-orange glow of the sky burned through the small windows that lined the hallway. James was finally beginning to feel warm and clenched and unclenched his fists, hoping to push that warmth into the tips of his still-frozen fingers.

  In the boys’ wing, each child shared a small room with one or two other children who were around the same age. James had shared his room with many children over the years. A revolving door of new faces who always seemed to stay only a short while before a family found them and took them away forever. He felt a knot form in his throat. He was happy with Sister Maddie—that was all that mattered to him. He had no guarantee that a new family would treat him well or even truly love him the way she did. Grown-ups—no, parents—were a fickle lot, he thought. They got to choose the child, but the child had no say in who their new family would be. It seemed silly to James.

  As he approached Peter's room, the door was ajar, and as he raised his hand to give a knock, he paused. A sound, a lovely sound wafted from the room. It was a low, sorrowful melody. He moved closer to the door and peered through the crack, he saw Peter sitting on the edge of his bed. There were several boys sitting on the floor in front of him. Peter held an instrument to his mouth and, as he blew into it, the beautiful melody played again. He swayed from side to side as the notes ascended and descended. His eyes were closed, and not one of the boys watching him made a single sound; they barely moved. The song built to a feverish pitch, and James felt a shiver run up his back. The melody reached its crescendo and then drew back down into itself, becoming a whisper and then fading into nothingness.

  James stood transfixed. Peter's eyes fluttered open and met James’s with a genuine look of sadness.

  “Well... come in then,” said Peter flatly, a wide grin drawn across his lips. The mask, James thought.

  Peter laid the wooden instrument down and jumped up on top of his bed.

  “Everybody out,” he said in a squeaky voice. The boys did as they were told and scurried off. James took a few steps into Peter's room. He'd never been in his room before but it was the same as every other room at St. Catherine's: four brick walls and a small window dressed with a simple brown curtain. The large wooden door had a small opening in the shape of a cross, metal hinges, and a metal door knob.

  Peter hopped down and took his place again on the edge of the bed. Picking up the instrument, he turned it over in his hands.

  “I didn't know you played an instrument,” said James.

  “My mother gave it to me. Taught me to play too,” replied Peter.

  James hesitated. He wanted to question Peter about his mother but decided against it once again. “It makes a lovely sound. May I see it?”

  Peter held out the instrument and placed it into James’s open palm.

  “It’s called a Pan flute. People have been playing them for thousands of years,” said Peter, flashing a quick smile.

  The instrument was made of wood—bamboo, from what James could tell. There were twelve open pipes of varying lengths stacked six on top of six and bound with a colorful length of twine. It was a solid instrument, and he admired the craftsmanship before handing it back to Peter.

  “I suppose I never took you for an instrument-playing type of fellow,” said James.

  “No?” asked Peter. “I could fill a book with the things you don't know about me.”

  James studied Peter's face in the dim light. He didn’t feel as if Peter was trying to be rude, but that's how it sounded.

  “Sister Maddie said you wanted to see me,” James said in a cautious tone, reminding the boy that the reason he was there was because Peter had asked him to be.

  “Yes, I... Well...” Peter trailed off. “Well, I just… I just need to understand something.”

  “What is that?”

  “Why does Sister Maddie fancy you so much? She cares for you more than anyone else here. Why is that?” Peter seemed confused.

  “She raised me,” said James “Peter, didn’t we just talk about this?” James thought back to their conversation at Peter's hollow. Yes, we discussed it.

  “I know we did,” said Peter. “It’s just that I don’t understand. What is so special about you?”

  “You know, Peter,” said James, annoyed, “the way you speak to people is downright rude.”

  “Well, I'm not trying to be rude. I'm just being honest.” Peter shifted on the edge of his bed.

  “Honesty is all well and good, but it’s the way you say things... It's just... rude.”

  “Now it’s you who is being rude, James. Or is it honest?” Peter smiled.

  James sighed. He had a sense that Peter enjoyed these little battles. The push and pull between them was fun for him. James did not enjoy them, although he found himself impressed with Peter's quick wit.

  “Maddie cares about everyone, even you,” said James. “You've go
t the other children wrapped around your finger, Peter, and it worries her. She’s concerned for them and for you. They'd jump off a cliff, if you told them to.”

  “Maybe. Young people need a leader, right, James? Isn't that why you're here?”

  He has a point.

  “James, we need to make a plan. We need to head back out to the hollow to read the diary as soon as possible.”

  “I don’t know how easy it will be for us to slip away again. Especially now. Sister Maddie was worried sick and...”

  “Poor Sister Maddie!” Peter said sarcastically. “If you're not here, who will she dote on? Who will she worry over?”

  James bristled. Peter had shifted again and was now spewing insults the way a small child does when they’re upset.

  “So, we are done then? You don’t need my help?” James asked.

  Peter crossed his arms tightly against his chest and drew his mouth into a straight line.

  “I’m sorry, James. And I will apologize to Sister Maddie first thing in the morning.”

  “That's the most reasonable thing I've heard you say all day.” He wondered, though, if Peter was just telling him what he wanted to hear. James would not be baited into helping Peter; he would make sure Peter held up his end of the bargain. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes,” said Peter, still perched rigidly on his bed.

  “You have asked me to read you this book, and I will. But what if it doesn't give you the answers you’re looking for? What then?”

  “It will. I know it will.”

  James could see how much the contents of the little book meant to Peter and how much he believed in his mother, despite the fact that she had abandoned him. He put her up on the highest pedestal, and her journal was the word.

  “Make your apologies to Sister Maddie, and I will make sure we have time to ourselves,” said James.

  Peter's face lit up, and this time his smile was authentic. He thrust out his hand, and James reached out to grasp it. They shook hands, and James could not escape the feeling that this gesture was symbolic of much more than a promise to read a few words from a dusty old journal. A pact had been forged in the fires of adversity and in spite of the differences between them. They now seemed bound to each other, and James was unsure if that was a good thing or a terrible mistake.