The Keepers (8 page)

“I think so,” Horace said, feeling lost.

“First: you should not open the box without reason.”

Horace started to ask what qualified as a
reason
, but instead only nodded.

“Second: you cannot keep anything inside the box.”

Horace looked down at the box, mystified but unsurprised. Somehow the idea of putting anything inside it had never even occurred to him. “Okay,” he said, and looked up at the sliver of sky far overhead. The world around him was shifting fast, to strange new places. “I don't really understand that, or any of this, but . . . it feels right.”

“Above all, remember this one firm patch of ground: the box belongs to you.”

Horace swallowed. “I guess I should thank you.”

“That remains to be seen. Let us not misunderstand the situation: in matters such as this, Mrs. Hapsteade and I do not do favors. We do what is best.”

Horace searched the old man's face. “Best how? Best for who? What's this even all about?”

Mr. Meister gazed up at the sun again. “I will never lie to you, Horace Andrews, and so I am inclined not to mislead you now. Your life is about to take a turn that you could never have foreseen, one you cannot undo. Are you prepared for such a turning?”

Horace wanted to say yes, and he wanted to say no. There was so much to take in, so much left unknown, so much still to process into a logical shape. He couldn't promise that he was prepared. Instead he said the simple truth: “I have no idea.”

Mr. Meister smiled. “And so with honesty we proceed. And indeed, the choice may already have been made. Who knows when the first turning has been taken?” With these words, he ushered Horace out into the sunlight, closing the door softly behind him.

H
ORACE SPENT THE AFTERNOON LYING ON HIS BED, HOLDING
the box and gazing at it, running his finger along the silver seam of the lid. He opened it a few times, looking up at the ceiling and around his room, noting again the strange mix of clarity and cloudiness that the box gave to familiar items.

He hadn't forgotten what Mr. Meister had said about not opening the box without reason, but it was hard to resist. The old man's other piece of advice, though, was easy to follow. Horace put nothing inside the box. The thought seemed ridiculous anyway—somehow he felt that the box was supposed to remain empty.

The pouch that held the box had a strap and a buckle on the back, presumably so it could be fastened to a belt loop and carried around. At first Horace couldn't get why someone would ever want to do that, but when his father called him
down for dinner, he suddenly understood. The thought of leaving the box behind, even for the short time dinner would take, was unbearable. And yet he had to keep it hidden. He didn't want anybody asking any questions. What to do? Experimentally, he buckled the pouch to a belt loop at his right hip. It peeked out from under his shirt—but just barely. He dug around in his dresser and found a few oversized shirts. He pulled one on, a hand-me-down from his father. It was a glaring yellow, featuring the logo of a restaurant called the Eleven Spot, someplace Horace had never been. But the hem came down below his hips, covering the box completely. Perfect. Now hidden, the box remained at his side all through dinner, and all through the evening. That night Horace fell asleep early and happily, with the box hidden beneath his pillow.

But the next day, Mother's Day, was miserable.

Horace awoke with the box in his hand and a troubled spiderweb of dream fragments clouding his head. He sat up, half remembering a dream in which the box was an unseen beacon over an endless landscape of green hills, calling out for Horace but never letting itself be found. “What do you want?” Horace said to the box now. “What am I supposed to do?” And through his bones and his flesh Horace felt—or thought he felt—something in return, as if the box were waiting for Horace to understand, to act. But Horace did not understand. He did not know what he was supposed to do. His uncertainty made the base of his skull ache, made his stomach heavy, turned his mood sour and surly. Nonetheless,
he kept the box at his side.

After a late breakfast, his mother opened her gifts. His father had gotten her a massive two-volume collection of Sherlock Holmes stories that she'd clearly expected to get, and a moonstone pendant that she clearly hadn't. Horace looked down at his thumbs while they hugged and smooched. Next she unwrapped the raven-and-turtle statue, and when she was done she turned and gave Horace such a frank look of surprise that for a moment Horace thought he'd done something wrong. He'd been so distracted by the box that he'd almost forgotten that the statue wasn't just a statue—but of course his mother didn't know that. She shook her head, her face seeming to flicker on the edge of a question before she broke into a smile. “I love it,” she said. “It's perfect.”

Horace, meanwhile, was feeling worse and worse. After presents, he excused himself and returned to his room, taking the box from its pouch. Later, when his parents wanted to go down to the lakeshore, Horace told them he felt sick, and this wasn't exactly a lie. The box seemed to burn in his hands, carving out a hollow space in Horace's gut that he had no idea how to fill.

The next several days passed like a fever dream. Horace felt more and more connected to the box, but that connection became more sickly, more tainted, as if Horace was searching for an answer to a question that hadn't been asked. He took the box with him everywhere, keeping it hidden. At school he kept one hand on the box at all times, protecting it from the
bumping and jostling in the halls between classes. He worried about the box almost constantly, struggling to pay attention in class. Ordinarily Horace loved school but now he found himself counting the hours until summer—only two weeks away now. It couldn't come soon enough. On Tuesday he realized he'd forgotten to do his project for social studies, a report about Wyoming. On Wednesday he even bombed one of Mr. Ludwig's pop quizzes.

“Troubles?” Mr. Ludwig said, smiling through his bushy beard as Horace slumped to the desk to turn the quiz in. Usually Horace was the first one done; today he was the last.

Horace shook his head.
Just one
, he thought.

And what a trouble it was, a trouble without a name. As the week wore on, Horace took the box out less and less, even in the privacy of his own room. Sometimes he opened the box and looked at his clock through it, noting how sharp and chiseled the numbers always looked. Sometimes he looked at the stars out his window—they too seemed to glow with extra precision. But mostly he kept it closed. He did manage to experiment with it a bit, cautiously.

He found that being separated from the box caused a painful, panicky sensation that became worse the farther he moved away, as if he were tied to the box by a great elastic cord anchored in his bones. He also learned that he was oriented to the box like a compass needle to north. He could point to the dead center of the box, even with his eyes closed, even through walls. But none of this could help him escape
the growing sensation that the box was . . .
disappointed
in him. That it regretted having been found by Horace, maybe—a sad and sickening thought. The only good news was that Dr. Jericho was nowhere to be seen. Maybe the leestone was working after all.

After school on Thursday, five days since encountering the box at the House of Answers, Horace arrived home and discovered that, once again, he couldn't find his key. He slouched on the porch, waiting, one hand clasping the box at his side, his thoughts curling around it. At 4:18, his mother came home.

“Lose your key again?”

“No.”

“Misplace it? Temporarily?”

“Maybe,” Horace said.

She sighed. “Horace, I love you, but you've got to meet us halfway on this stuff, okay?”

“I know, I know.”

Inside, Horace immediately closed himself in his room. He tried to force himself through his math homework, needing the distraction. But his brain wouldn't work right. After an hour of struggling, he gave up and got the box out. He lay on the floor, the box on his stomach, watching it roll with each breath he took—radiant and mysterious and maddening. Mr. Meister had warned him that the coming days would be difficult. And how true it was. Horace lay there letting the minutes flow by uncounted, trying to remember everything
the old man had told him, wondering if he ought to go back to the House of Answers. But he knew he couldn't. If there were any answers to be found, he had to find them on his own. Mr. Meister had basically said as much.

“But he told me something would
happen
,” he said to the
box. Horace had always been a watcher, a patient observer. Now, though, just when he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to be waiting for, he felt anything but patient.

Horace was still lying there at precisely six o'clock, when he heard a voice down in the hallway. Then footsteps on the stairs and a shout—his father, calling for him. “Coming,” Horace tried to shout back, his voice croaking, and he rolled awkwardly to his feet. Before he could slip the box beneath his covers, his father gave two quick knocks and walked in.

Horace froze, holding the box tight against his belly.

“I've been calling you,” his father said. “What are you doing?” His eyes dropped to the box. “What's that?”

Horace squeezed the box harder, trying to cover it completely. “Nothing.”

“It's clearly something.”

“It's just a thing.”

His father held out a hand. “Can I see it?”

“No,” said Horace.

His father's face crinkled in surprise. “What?”

Horace gathered his thoughts. He knew if he stood his ground, his father would probably let it go—but he also wouldn't forget. Better not to draw too much attention to the box. Horace forced his arms to unfold, holding out the box.

His father took hold of it. Immediately, a sharp spell of vertigo slammed Horace hard, as if the room had been violently twisted. Bile rose in his stomach. He stumbled and put a hand to his forehead.

“Where did you get this?” his father asked, oblivious.

There was nothing Horace could reasonably say right now that would not be a lie. “At a store.”

“You bought this? Looks expensive.” His father turned the box over and over in his hands. Horace swayed. “Is this one of those trick boxes? How do you open it?” He shook the box, listening.

“Don't shake it,” Horace said, gritting his teeth and reaching out. “Just please give it here, all right?”

His father plucked at the lid with his thumb. “Seriously, how do you open this thing?”

Before he could stop himself, Horace lunged forward and ripped the box from his father's hands. The moment Horace took hold of it again, a rush of warm relief surged up through his arms, so powerful that he thought he might collapse.

His father, meanwhile, just stood there, his face confused and thundery. “What is going on with you, Horace?”

Horace's heart pounded. He tried to catch his breath, shocked by himself. “I just—you have to be careful with it.”

“What have you got in there? Love notes?”

“No, no,” Horace said, blushing. “Nothing's in there.”

“Then let me see. Why are you being so weird?”

To open up the box in front of his father somehow seemed beyond indecent, but again Horace reasoned it out, convincing himself that less secrecy now meant more secrecy later. Slowly he held out the box, then swung the lid open with an easy twist of his thumb.

His father made a small noise of surprise, leaning over the box to peer inside. His eyes moved from the box to Horace and back again, his brow crinkling. Then he gave a little shake of his head. “There's nothing in here.”

“I told you.”

His father studied his face for a few moments more, then raised his eyebrows in surrender. “Well, that's just as well.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shining silver key. “This is the real reason I'm here. Your mother tells me you lost yet another house key. How this sad phenomenon continues to happen, I don't want to know.” He paused, as if waiting for an explanation, but Horace said nothing. “This'll be the fifth key we've given you this year, Horace. If you lose it, the next one's going to have to come out of your allowance.”

“That's fine,” Horace said, hardly listening.

“Does that sound fair?”

“Yes.” Charge him for a million keys, but stay away from the box.

“This weekend I want you to come up with a plan for how you're going to keep track of this key. But for now, let's keep it in your box here, since you don't seem to be using it for anything else.”

Before Horace could speak or even move, his father placed the key in the box. It scraped softly as he laid it down. Horace stood there, frozen. The box thrummed in his hands. He couldn't breathe.