To Curious Heights

by Sean McGowan

Chapter 3:

  Byron’s Old Gang

  “Don’t let the flashy imagery mislead you,” said Lorne of the hooded revelry that filled the room. “The Order of the Bull is just a club.”

  “An exclusive club,” added Magnus.

  Harold followed his three companions down the small set of stairs that led into the room.

  Lorne pulled up a seat at a nearby round, wooden table. “Have a seat, Harold.”

  Harold sat down, with Magnus and Sprocket following on the sides and Lorne sitting at his opposite. Harold noticed a large table nearby, which held a number of expensive looking items such as a flat screen TV, a laptop computer, and a golden statue of a young cow. “What’s all that stuff?” he asked, pointing at the table.

  “That’s our haul for the month,” said Lorne. He looked at the table with his mouth slightly open for a few seconds as if he wanted to say more, but then turned back to Harold. “I’ll explain that later.”

  Harold observed the masked individuals carousing about. “Who are all these people?”

  “Other campers,” said Magnus.

  “Other male campers,” said Lorne. “Some your age. Some younger. Most are from Curious Heights, but we’re expanding. Their identities will remain secret for now.”

  Despite their unusual costumes and location, the boys in the room all appeared quite casual and relaxed, which made the environment seem almost normal. As Harold continued to take in the scene, a cloaked boy dropped off four large mugs at the table and filled them with liquid from a bottle. Even though he had an image on his mask which looked like the face of a screaming monster, the kid seemed friendly.

  Lorne tipped his hat at the waiter-boy. “Thank you, sir.” The boy took the bottle and walked back to the bar.

  Harold stared at his mug while the others all took swigs.

  Magnus looked over his mug at Harold. “It’s just root beer.”

  Harold took a sip. It tasted more like ginger beer to him, but Magnus was close enough.

  “Don’t be so nervous.” Lorne noticed Harold staring at all of the masks. “The costumes are just a fun thing we do for special occasions—this one being a regional meeting.”

  “So do you want me to...“ Harold scanned the room again. “Join this club?”

  “We’d like—“ Lorne noticed Sprocket giving him a dirty look. “I’d like you to consider it, but I know you’ll need a bit more information.”

  Harold shrugged. “I’m all ears.”

  Lorne took a sip and sat up straight. “About six years ago, my brother Byron had just finished his freshman year of high school and found himself dismayed by the social structures set by his peers, as well as the limits placed on him by the adults in authority. Always a man to push back against his limitations, he decided to start a club that would run the way he thought things should.” Lorne waved his hand at his surroundings. “Thus, The Order of the Bull.”

  “Where’d the name come from?” asked Harold.

  “Great question,” said Lorne. “Byron was looking for a unique way to mark the club’s members. One day, he was doing some work on our uncle’s farm when he noticed symbols branded on the bulls. The name and logo instantly came to him.” Lorne pointed to a sign with the logo on it hanging over the bar. It was a circle with a front-on silhouette of a bull’s head inside.

  Harold’s brow furrowed. “So are you saying you all have that logo burned on your skin with a branding iron?” This would have been a deal-breaker for him.

  Lorne laughed. “No, that’s what Bryon did. The Order isn’t anywhere near as radical now.”

  “How radical did it used to be?” asked Harold.

  “Well, they originally split up because they got busted by the cops for trying to burn down the high school,” said Lorne.

  Harold’s eyes widened.

  “Byron was never quite able to find himself after The Order was done.” Lorne looked down at his mug. “He really struggled that last year before he died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Harold. He vaguely remembered that Lorne’s brother had died somehow, but he had forgotten about it until now, since he didn’t really know Lorne when it happened.

  “When Byron was gone, I wanted to rebuild The Order of the Bull in his honor.” Lorne looked up again. “But I wanted to get rid of the excesses while keeping the essence of what made it good. Bryon meant well—he just got a little lost.”

  “Well what’s it like now?” asked Harold.

  Lorne took another sip while Magnus and Sprocket sat twiddling their thumbs. “Our purpose is twofold. First, we make sure that everyone in our schools are on an even playing field by making sure that social cliques don’t get too big.”

  Harold raised an eyebrow. “And how do you do that?”

  “By inviting guys into our clique,” Sprocket finally spoke up.

  “What about the girls?” asked Harold.

  “We don’t worry about them,” said Lorne. “When the guys’ bigger cliques dwindle, it sets a social pattern that the girls follow.”

  Harold wondered if this wasn’t a little sexist, but he took Lorne’s word for it.

  “We also make sure that all schools with bulls in them remain bully-free,” said Magnus.

  “Then I guess you didn’t have anyone in my school when Hank Johnson went on his head-in-the-toilet shoving spree,” said Harold.

  “Do you recall how that spree ended?” asked Sprocket with a smile.

  Harold scratched his chin as he tried to remember. “Well, after he got me, he dunked a couple more people, then he... just stopped all of a sudden.”

  “We were initiating our first members from Aaron Burr Elementary when that was going on,” said Lorne. “As soon as our guys were in, they put a stop to it.”

  This intrigued Harold. “So what’s the other part of your purpose?”

  Lorne leaned forward. “To have a dang good time! There are tons of perks to being a member, not the least of which are the trips we get to go on.”

  Magnus tipped his mug towards Harold. “We’ve been able to send some guys overseas.”

  “No way!” Instead of questioning the authenticity of this claim, Harold wondered—much more seriously than he should have—if they could send anyone as far as Nepal.

  “Every year we have two big retreats,” said Lorne. “Our next retreat is going to be right after camp at Paradise Gate.” Paradise Gate was an enormous ski resort which sat on the shore of Lake Ignotus halfway between the camp and Curious Heights.

  “Is that during the summer festival?” asked Harold.

  “Sure is.” Lorne nodded. “The Synth Sages are headlining this year—if you’re into them.”

  “Yeah, they’re not bad,” said Harold.

  Magnus smiled. “We’re all staying in the best hotel, too.”

  “That’s cool.” Harold had just learned a lot, but he still wanted to know more. “So where’s the money come from?”

  “If I were my brother,” said Lorne, “we’d steal it from people who we thought didn’t deserve it.” He took another sip and adjusted his cap. “But we actually earn our funds.”

  Harold pulled his head back. “How do a bunch of kids earn enough to—“

  “You’d be amazed what you can do at your age that our culture says you can’t,” said Lorne.

  Harold nodded. He was so taken by this statement, which jived with some of his recent philosophical ponderings, that he forgot his question wasn’t answered. He moved on to his final query.

  “Guys, this thing sounds really great and all, but—“

  “Why do we want you?” Lorne shrugged. “What can I say? You’re a bright guy, and pretty athletic. Very well-rounded.”

  “A renaissance man!” cried Magnus as Sprocket rolled his eyes.

  Lorne patted Harold’s shoulder. “Plus, I’ve always liked you.”

  “Wayne really likes the Synth Sages,” said Harold. “Do you think he’d—“

  “That guy?” Lorne began to l
augh, but quickly stopped himself. “Never say never, but we’re just interested in you at the moment.”

  Harold looked at the far wall where a few spookily garbed boys played darts. He’d always enjoyed darts. “Well it certainly sounds good from what you’ve told me...”

  “It’s very good.” Lorne looked over at a boy who wore a mask with a face that looked like a crying bird. “Right, Marco?”

  Marco put his thumb up.

  Lorne looked back at Harold. “You don’t need to decide right now. We just wanted to get you acquainted with the idea. We’ll ask you again when camp is over.”

  Sprocket looked down at his empty mug and stood up.

  “Sprocket...” Lorne threw him a stern look.

  Sprocket started to walk towards the bar, but stopped by Harold and firmly grabbed his shoulder. “It’ll be great having you.” He then continued on his way.

  Harold shrugged. “Alright.”

  “Great!” Lorne clapped his hands together. “Like I said, there’s a lot more to learn, but we can save that for when you join. Any last questions?”

  “Yeah, well this is somewhat off topic, but...” Harold’s curiosity got the better of him. “If you don’t mind me asking, I don’t think I ever heard how Byron—“

  Lorne went pale and looked at the floor. “It was a motorcycle accident...”

  Harold realized he shouldn’t have touched the subject. “I’m sorry...”

  Silence hung in the air for several seconds before Magnus cut through it. “I think it’s about time we got you back to camp.”

  Lorne quickly regained his cheery demeanor. “Yeah, let’s get you back to camp!”

  It wasn’t long before Harold, Magnus, and Lorne found themselves standing back outside the well.

  “Okay, same rule applies going back,” said Lorne.

  Magnus tied the blindfold around Harold’s eyes, returning him to the land of darkness. They began to walk.

  “Now make sure you don’t tell anyone about this. Not even your best friends,” said Lorne.

  Harold agreed.

  “We like to keep these things under wraps—kind of like your eyes,” said Magnus. “Not so much for us, but for the other guys in The Order. We respect their privacy.”

  “I can keep a secret,” said Harold.

  “Good man. Good man.” Lorne patted Harold on the shoulder. “Well, we’re back.”

  Magnus ripped the blindfold off Harold, revealing the gazebo in front of him.

  “Okie doke,” said Harold. He turned and looked behind him. Magnus and Lorne were nowhere to be seen.

  A short time later, Harold returned to his cabin, where his friends all lounged about. It was a large room with five single beds. Doug lay on his bed reading a book, Winston sat on his playing the Gamebu, while Wayne and Samson played chess on Wayne’s bed. The match had not gone on long and it was now Wayne’s turn.

  “Aha! You’re finished now.” Wayne reached across the board and snatched Samson’s king.

  “What are you doing?!” Samson’s tiny body shook with rage. “That’s against the rules!”

  “I know.” Wayne put his hands up. “It was just a joke.”

  “Put it back!”

  “Alright. Yeesh.” Wayne put the king back in its place and moved a pawn.

  Samson followed with a move that put Wayne in checkmate. He jittered with joy. “Checkmate!”

  “Aw man.” Wayne’s face sagged. “How come I can never get more than five moves on you?”

  Harold sat down on the empty bed next to them.

  “Hey, how was your walk?” asked Wayne

  “Oh...” Harold took a moment to decide how to respond. “It was a smash.”

  While Samson took his chessboard and returned to his bed, Harold reached into his backpack and pulled out his fifth grade yearbook. He leaned back against the wall and began to page through.

  “Is that your yearbook?” asked Wayne.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “What did you bring that for?”

  Harold looked down at the picture of Sally Livingstone. “I never really got around to looking through it.”

  Wayne pulled a laptop out from one of his bags and began to mess around with it.

  “Hey, that’s not Colonel Seward’s laptop, is it?” asked Harold, sarcastically.

  “No. His has an apple on it,” said Wayne.

  “Didn’t realize you were such an expert on the subject,” said Harold.

  “And it’s kind of scratched up on the corner,” Wayne added.

  “Is he still talking about that stolen computer?” asked Doug.

  “Yes, because it still hasn’t been found,” said Wayne.

  Doug shrugged. “So what?”

  Winston jumped in. “This matters, Doug, because the Colonel had information on his laptop that just happened to be the key to ending their long war with the Prodders gang. But it also just happens to have info on it that could do a number on the state police if the Prodders got it. But the Prodders probably already have it and our butts are all toast.”

  “I hope my butt’s jelly toast,” said Samson.

  “Well that’s pretty much what most people think,” said Wayne.

  “That’s what the grandmasters of rumors think,” Winston shot back.

  Samson scowled. “I hate those guys.”

  “Huh?” Wayne shook his head.

  “Wayne, don’t dwell on this stuff so much,” said Harold. “It doesn’t do you any good.”

  “You brought it up!”

  “Hey, speaking of wars,” said Doug, “are you guys gonna start practicing for the balloon tag tourney soon?”

  “That’s not till the last day of camp,” said Harold. “That’s like two months away.”

  “Two months isn’t that long,” said Doug.

  Harold looked down at the yearbook. “It feels like it...” He reached into his backpack, pulled out a daily calendar, and placed on the dresser next to his bed.

  “Trust me,” said Doug. “You’re gonna find yourself standing in the middle of a match, wondering where all that time went.”

  “I’m sure...” Harold reached over to pull the previous day’s page off the top of the calendar and Doug was quickly proven right as the next two months worth of pages flew off right behind it. Days of hiking, fishing, and treasure hunting, days of bonfires and bonding among campers, days where Winston and Samson were almost kicked out of camp for constant skinny dipping, were gone in a flurry and Harold suddenly found himself standing in the middle of the forest as the sun went down. Of course, this isn’t quite how it really happened, but it’s how Harold would always remember it.

  Like Doug said, Harold wondered what had become of the last two months, but his introspection was cut short when a balloon flew past his head and splattered on a tree behind him, covering it in red paint. Harold shook back to life and ran as fast as he could in an attempt to avoid the fate of the tree.