Legendary

by Amelia Kibbie

  “Arthur and I?” James straightened his back to look Lance in the face. His friend’s usual bright humor had melted away, and Lance pensively picked at the lint on the arm of the chair. “Well, yes. Of course. We haven’t had a secret from one another since we were children.” He paused to ensure the desk clerk was as deeply asleep as he seemed. The drool and slackened jaw made a safe bet. “Isn’t that true for couples?”

  “Not my mum and dad.” Lance did not meet James' glance. “They lie to each other all the time. I used to call them out as a child, but they'd be angry with me. Both of them can dish out a real ear bashing. You see, well, it’s like, Papa doesn’t know Mum spends money on snake oil products to make her look younger. He thinks that money’s going in the collection plate on Sundays. Or my dad will say he has to go in to work on paperwork at the station, and then go off for a pint with the lads.” He shook his head. “I suppose I consider all that normal. But you and Arthur... never tell a lie? Never even a little fib?”

  “Well,” James spread his hands. “I’ll admit that once he bought me a jumper for Christmas that I wasn’t... overly fond of. But of course, I didn’t let him know that. Oh, and once he got a haircut — tried a new barber, you see — and well, the lad was just starting out, and it was... lopsided. But we both pretended that it wasn’t.”

  Lance pshawed, and hiked up his heel to rest it on the cushion of the chair, wrapping his arms around his leg. “That’s nothing. Are you barmy?” They laughed. “No, what it sounds like to me... is that you and Arthur, well... it’s special.”

  A string inside of James, already taut, felt plucked. His cheeks were hot. “It is,” he said, averting his eyes from his friend’s steady gray gaze.

  “Now, I see why it would bother you that Arthur didn’t say anything about chasing a man in an old coat.” Lance dropped his leg down again and scooted their chairs closer together. “Besides, I know the two of you have to be... careful about drawing attention.”

  “Look, I don’t want you to... well, I mean, it’s not like we aren’t argy-bargy once in awhile.” James traced his finger around the rim of the glass. They listened to the faint sound and slipped into separate thoughts.

  Around the corner from the front desk was a grandfather clock, and it suddenly struck midnight, giving them both a start. “It’s so late,” said James, rising. “Don’t you think we ought to try and sleep?”

  “Think you can?” Lance flipped his wrist to look at his watch.

  “In all honesty, no.” James cracked his back on one side, and then the other. “But I can lie there in the dark. Count my blessings, as my mother always says. You should get some rest.”

  “I’ll be lying there staring at the ceiling, too.” Lance reached out and snagged the sleeve of James' suit jacket, and tugged gently until he sat down again. “After that stunning feat of athletics, it’ll be hours before I’m tired again.”

  James' lips curved up in the hint of a smile. Lance winked at him and he laughed. “All right. So, here we are, serenaded by snoring — shall we play cards? There’s a deck in Vi’s purse, I promise you that.”

  Lance laughed, but shook his head. “I had something else in mind. If it’s all right with you.”

  James' stomach bounced in a trampoline-like jerk. “W-what did you have in mind?”

  “I was eleven or twelve when my granddad started to tell me about the two of you and Pied Piper.” Lance absently smoothed his hair. “But he only told me little bits at a time. Eventually I think I pieced together the whole story, but one thing I’ve been dying to know — well, what I want is to hear the... well, the whole thing, I guess. From start to finish. From you. Because I’ve only heard it from Grandad’s view, what he saw, what he thought. I never thought I’d have the chance to actually meet you, to be mates, to hear it all.” He looked at his watch. “I mean, I’m so dreadfully awake. Would you...”

  “Tell you?” James blinked rapidly and leaned back, as his mouth scrambled for the words. “Well... I — well, I suppose I could do that, yes. I mean, Arthur and I have talked about it over the years, told our side of things to one another. If you’re sure you really want to hear it. Of course, I think it’s incredible because it happened to me, but I’m afraid I’d bore you, Lance.”

  “You won’t,” he insisted. He must have caught James’ glance at the clerk, for he said, “He’s dead to the world. This whole place is asleep. I think we’re safe. Please, say you’ll tell it.”

  James took a drink of water. “Well, I hope I can tell it properly.”

  Chapter 9

  James glanced at his mother every few moments as they walked briskly towards the train station. Her expression was blank, though she raised her lace-trimmed handkerchief to the corners of her eyes from time to time. Once, she caught him looking, just as another family with their children trotted past, toting small luggage. The two young girls wailed openly and their mother streamed silent tears in a continuous torrent.

  “Come along,” James' mother said as the suffering family passed. “We don’t want you to miss the train.”

  The station teemed with children and parents. Siblings clasped hands in iron, unbreakable grips; mothers wept and smashed their babies into one final embrace before releasing them to the school teachers that would accompany their children on the journey. James and his mother found Mrs. Balin at the prearranged place on the platform. A young woman in a pale dress stood at her side. Her long, giraffe-like body towered over his teacher’s pinched old frame. Several of James' classmates had already arrived, and stood in proper lines, arranged alphabetically by last name. The girls cried and the boys joked about, buffeting each other with their luggage.

  “Morgan, I told you to stop that at once!” Mrs. Balin scolded before turning back to James and his mother as they approached.

  “James Wilde,” she said to the young woman, who crossed James' name off of a list affixed to a clipboard.

  “Hello James, a pleasure to meet you,” the young lady said. She had a warm smile that made her plain features glow with the subtle tint of hidden beauty, like a flower growing through a crack in the pavement. “I’m Miss Pelles. Here’s your identification card.” She knelt and pinned it to his jacket lapel. “And your gas mask.” Miss Pelles lifted a cardboard box on a string over his head and let it swing around his neck like a grim pendulum. “Go ahead and say any goodbyes you need, ma’am,” she said to James' mother. “We’re still waiting on a few before we board.”

  “Thank you.”

  James turned to his mother. He felt Morgan’s cruel eyes climb over him and search for a way to ridicule his behavior.

  “Behave yourself.” She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed with gentle pressure. “You know I love you very much, dear. Do your best to stay out of trouble, now, promise Mummy you will.”

  “I promise,” James said. He cast his green eyes down and to the side, worried that if he caught her gaze he might cry. It would be hideous if he cried. He could already hear Morgan and his friends snickering behind his back.

  “I know you don’t want to leave,” she went on, though he prayed she would be gone already. The cry of a train whistle muffled some of her words, God be praised. “But perhaps this is a chance for you to make better friends with some of the boys, you know? You’ll have lots of time to play together and really get to know one another.”

  James' heart clenched and he swallowed the bile that threatened the back of his throat. Trapped on a train with Morgan and the boys. Trapped at some country house in the middle of nowhere with Morgan and the boys. A wave of nausea crashed against the shoreline inside of him.

  He managed to nod. His mother smiled and squeezed both of his shoulders. “It’s for the best,” she went on. “It’s not safe here, you know that. The Germans could attack any day now. It’s only a matter of time. I’d come with you, but I must stay and protect the house and keep working as long as I can. You understand, don’t you?”

  He nodded again, reached up, and
removed her hands from his shoulders.

  An errant shadow crossed her features, or perhaps it was a flicker of pain. “Goodbye, darling.” She turned and marched away down the platform. James' mother looked back once to wave, and it struck him, how her shoulders and facial features relaxed in relief, now that he had been deposited with Mrs. Balin. Relieved he would be safe, away from danger. Or, he thought, she’s glad to be rid of me. She’s ashamed.

  As soon as he fell in line with the other boys, the taunts began. “Is your father coming to see you off, fairy-boy?” Tommy chuckled, bumped Morgan with his elbow, invited him to laugh as well.

  Morgan pushed his reddish curls under his cap and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Can’t be,” he sneered, “hasn’t got one, has he?”

  Kenneth, moving quickly despite his girth, snatched James' suitcase and undid the clasps to spill the contents. Books and clothing scattered over the platform’s grimy floor.

  “Oy, don’t do that!” Miss Pelles cried from her post. She handed Mrs. Balin the clipboard and rushed to catch some of James' sketches before they blew away in the warm September breeze.

  Together, they stuffed everything back into the case and snapped it shut. “Keep your hands on your own things,” she scolded Kenneth. “He started it!” Kenneth lied, pointing at James. “He touched mine first. He’s trying to steal from me.”

  “I saw it,” Morgan verified.

  “Nobody is touching anyone else’s luggage.” Mrs. Balin thundered from the head of the line. “Now stand up straight and be quiet.”

  The children obeyed. Just as the hubbub died down, their final classmate arrived.

  “Lord, his mum’s as big as a cow.” Morgan stage-whispered to the rest of the boys. “How is she getting so many rations, I wonder?” Mean-spirited snickers rippled through the crowd.

  Arthur was the biggest boy in the class, by far. He was twelve, like the rest of them, but could have passed for fifteen, or perhaps even older. His massive shoulders gave his body the shape of an upper-case T, if he ever stood up straight. Most of the time he stood hunched, deflated, almost, as though his body wished it was a normal size. His mother was a hefty woman to be sure, but handsome, with jet-black curls and pale green eyes just like her son. Her face was red and blotchy, her cheeks still damp with tears.

  “Gather your things, children.” Mrs. Balin shouted over the din of a passing train. “It’s time to board.”

  Arthur’s giantess mother crushed him into a long hug. “I love you so much. Your papa loves you so much, sweetheart,” she blubbered. “Do be careful. Listen to everything your teacher says and you’ll be all right. Pray every night, and write as soon as you get there.”

  Arthur nodded, patted his mother on the back before she broke their embrace. She whipped a handkerchief from her cavernous frock’s pocket and mopped her face with it.

  “I didn’t know the hulking idiot could write,” Morgan snarked to his friends. They laughed under their breaths.

  Mrs. Balin and Miss Pelles ushered the children down the platform and onto the train. Arthur’s mother waited until the locomotive lurched away, waving her handkerchief madly until they were out of sight.

  “Children, file into these cabins here,” Mrs. Balin ordered, indicating the train car compartments. “No jostling, no pushing. Simply file in and fill the seats as you go. Do not leave this car.”

  Despite her warning, the class immediately split into cliques and piled into seating compartments with their friends. Arthur lumbered into one of the half-full compartments with a few of the unpopular girls (Mary with the buck teeth and glasses, and her only friend, the unwashed Patricia). Mrs. Balin heaved a sigh and pushed open the door to where she and Miss Pelles intended to sit. The compartment was partially occupied with other adults cowering at the sight of so many energetic school children. “You’d best sit with us,” she said to James. “It will prevent problems.”

  James had no way to refuse, so he put his little suitcase on the luggage rack and settled into his seat, farthest from the window, with his book. Some of the adults shared glances. “The others pick on him so relentlessly,” Mrs. Balin explained as though James were deaf, or as invisible as a vacated spirit. “It’s better to keep him close so they don’t whip themselves into a frenzy, you know.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Miss Pelles in a murmured tone of sympathy. She plopped down next to James, removed her hair combs, and ruffled her maple locks. As she gracefully replaced the combs, she said, “Don’t worry about a thing, James. We’re going to take wonderful care of all of you. Did you know we’re going to Lincolnshire? It’s absolutely beautiful, stunning, really. And this weather! Just grand. It’ll be like a holiday, you’ll see.”

  James wanted to like Miss Pelles. But once she heard him speak, saw the way he walked, she’d hate him, just like everyone else. Oh, she wouldn’t be openly cruel like Morgan and the rest, but she’d avoid him, only speak to him when necessary, and blame him for the way he was bullied. It was better to kill hope in the womb. “Yes, miss,” was all he said, and turned his attention back to his book, back to escape, to pirate adventures on the high seas.

  “Treasure Island.” Miss Pelles admired, nodding. “Well, if it’s adventure you love, then think of this as a grand adventure.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Mrs. Balin clucked and drew Miss Pelles away from James into adult conversation, which, of course, centered on the fighting in Norway.

  A few hours passed. Every now and then, James leaned forward and stole a glance out of the window. The dreary city had transformed into lush countryside; the train barreled through field after field of magnificent green, dotted with unconcerned cows and the silhouettes of distant farm houses. Once in awhile, they passed a herd of sheep blanketing the greenery like clouds come to earth. In the golden light of early autumn, James couldn’t help but notice the scenery, and had to admit it was beautiful.

  An old man with a pipe grunted and rustled his newspaper. “Fancy a sit by the window, sonny?” he called across several laps.

  “The boy is fine where he is. Aren’t you, James?” Mrs. Balin barked.

  “Yes ma’am,” James murmured. Then, “Mrs. Balin? I need to...” he indicated the door.

  “Go ahead,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand.

  James put his book and his gas mask on his seat and let himself into the hallway. He stole along the corridor to the loo, hoping Morgan and his friends wouldn’t catch sight of him. As he passed their compartment, he snuck a glance through the window. Morgan’s gang was asleep with biscuit crumbs on their faces. Good. As he passed the next compartment, he caught Arthur looking at him with a fixed, unbroken stare. Usually, the mammoth boy kept his eyes to the ground, but they inexplicably caught James' gaze, green to green.

  James broke the connection and trotted along to the end of the car. He stole glances over his shoulder as he went.

  After finishing, he adjusted his cap over his auburn hair, and brushed the strands to the side so they would lay over his forehead the way he liked. He took a breath, tiptoed out into the corridor and concentrated on slipping back to the adults’ car like a willowy shadow.

  Without warning, the door to Morgan’s compartment shot open, and the bully leapt out with a roar, his gas mask pulled over his face, alien and insect-like. The mask-muffled shout shattered the calm quiet of the train’s berth. James gasped and a hand flew up to his throat. He fell back against the wall and clutched the railing in surprise.

  Morgan ripped off the gas mask with a howl of laughter. His friends piled out into the corridor. They brayed like donkeys, slapped their knees, cheeks red with mirth. “Look at the chinless wonder, boys!” Morgan roared, throwing his arm around Tommy. “Have you ever seen a poof scream like that?”

  James took a breath and steadied himself, and then attempted to slide around the gaggle of guffawing boys.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Kenneth hooked an arm around James' slender neck and doubled
him over, then drove his fist into James' gut. The air wooshed out from between James' lips and he fell to his knees, clutching his midsection.

  At last, the ruckus in the corridor alerted Mrs. Balin, who threw open the door to her compartment. “Boys.” she shrilled. “Get back to your seats.”

  Morgan and his henchmen leapt away from James and scurried to comply. They banged the door shut behind them, and left their prey in a ball on the ground. “Come along, Wilde, don’t dally,” Mrs. Balin scolded.

  James, using the corridor railing for leverage, hauled himself to his feet. Arthur stood at the door of his compartment, his bulk filled the small space and cast a bold shadow against the sunlit windows. He watched James get up, and did not look away until he’d disappeared into the compartment in a storm of Mrs. Balin’s sharp words.

  Chapter 10

  Arthur had never imagined a house like the one he and his classmates shuffled toward. They lugged their suitcases and rations down the gravel drive. He had never seen warm gray stone before, but that was what the place seemed to be made of. Aside from the color, the rest of the structure was imposing: rectangular windows all in perfect, symmetrical order, blank and gaping, a sharp and depressing slate-colored roof, and a portico adorned with impressive columns at the top of a sharp stair. Even against the sweet September evening sky, it seemed lonesome and haunted with overgrown gardens and lawns and a courtyard scattered with last winter’s leaves.

  “There it is, children.” Miss Pelles chirped, her hands full with the timid digits of two particularly homesick girls. She seemed to think that taking the same tone used to entice five-year-olds would work with young people who were nearly thirteen. “Look at it, isn’t it beautiful? Carolean architecture, I believe. Late 1600s. Wasn’t that a long time ago? It has an Italian garden and a fountain out back and loads of space for you all to play and bask in the sun and fresh air. So much better than the drab city, isn’t it?”