The Storyteller (13 page)

Luna spent most of her time in the barn, where there were stacks of cardboard boxes full of old letters and magazines. At first, she only liked looking at the colorful pictures, but eventually she was drawn to the black lines that covered most of the pages.

These, she would one day learn, were called letters. She tried to reproduce them by moving stalks of straw with her mouth and dropping them on the floor of the barn. Before long, she could do the entire alphabet. Then she moved on to words. Order didn't matter to her at first.
ART
was the same as
TAR
was the same as
RAT
. These, she would one day learn, were called anagrams. They had different meanings, but she didn't know that quite yet.

While Luna was learning to read and write, Hamish rarely came into the barn. The glow was too much, even for him. He would hover near the door, at the edge of the ever-expanding glow, and he would lob fruit, turkey legs, and cheese balls to Luna.

For a time, Hamish read her bedtime stories, but as the glow expanded, the distance between the two increased. It became too much of a strain to shout such long tales, so Hamish would simply stand on the edge of the glow and holler the same good-night message.

“Miss you, little girl. Be good now.”

Luna missed Hamish as well, but being the polite wombat that she was, she stayed away from the house. She knew her presence was far too distracting. Even when she tried to blot out the light—by rolling in mud or covering herself in a ratty old horse blanket—it always found its way through.

*   *   *

It was high noon the day a blindfolded Hamish came for Luna. It had been years since Hamish had even picked her up, since he'd scratched her ear, since he'd given her a shower. It had been nearly as long since Luna had seen Hamish up close. Hamish was old. His skin was painted with brown and purple splotches. His posture was bad.

“Come into my arms, old pal,” he said.

Luna did as asked. It felt different from before. Hamish was weaker, but it was more than that. Hamish held on to her as if he never wanted to let her go.

“Lead me to the car,” Hamish said, because he knew that Luna understood at least a few things. “Nibble once if I should move left and nibble twice for right. Nuzzle once for forward and nuzzle twice for backward. Can you do that?”

Luna nuzzled once and Hamish was off. She nibbled and nuzzled as the two made their way out of the barn. “Faster, buddy,” Hamish said. “The blindfold is hardly working. My eyes won't be able to take it much longer.”

So Luna sped up her nibbles and nuzzles as best she could and led Hamish to that tiny old red sports car that sat in the dirt driveway. Its skin was like Hamish's skin, but the blotches were rust.

As Hamish lowered Luna into the trunk, he told her, “We've managed to keep the government at bay, and perhaps they've forgotten about you, but I can only imagine what they'd think of you now that you're so bright. I've done my best to hide you, but you're bound to be detected here. We'll get you somewhere safer, old friend.”

The car rumbled down the country road, and Luna tried to imagine what the landscape outside of the trunk looked like. She tried to conjure memories of sitting in the bike basket. And as she was lost in thought, she felt the ground drop out beneath them and the car take a plunge.

For years, she would think about what caused it. Had her glow penetrated the trunk and filled the car with a blinding light? Had Hamish's eyes given out? Had Hamish himself given out and decided to let go of the wheel?

When all was said and done, though, it didn't really matter. What mattered is the car fell hundreds of feet, tumbled like a toy into a deep ravine, tore apart, caught flame, and killed Hamish in an instant, crushed him, burned him, and made him unrecognizable.

But it didn't do a thing, not a single thing, to hurt Luna.

TO BE CONTINUED …

 

W
EDNESDAY
, 12/13/1989 … C
ONTINUED

NIGHT

I know, Stella. Not a word about a waterfall in there. Not a word about Banar. Calm down. They're coming. And that's what's freaking me out. A lucky guess? Can't be. The waterfall was strange enough. But Banar?

“What does Banar mean to you?” is what Alistair asked me earlier.

Well, the Spanish student in me knows it means
to bathe
. But the writer in me knows it as a name. The name of a character that will appear later in Luna's story. A bush baby named Banar who has secrets to tell. Powerful secrets.

You don't just guess a name like that out of thin air. Or maybe you do. Because that's where I got it. Well, out of
wet air
, I guess.

It was on Sunday, when I was with Glen and Mandy, walking to Hanlon Park in the misting rain. I was thinking about Luna's story and wondering if I should change it, edit it so that she wasn't a wombat anymore. If I ever wanted people to read the story, would it make more sense if the main character were an animal that everyone could relate to more? Like a chimp or a dog? Or should I go even wilder than a wombat? Something totally original. A tapir? A coatimundi? A capybara?

I couldn't decide, but the name
Banar
plopped into my head like a lump of clay tossed down on a table by an art teacher.
Make something out of this
was the message, but it wasn't until later that I decided what to make. It was when Mandy mentioned that one of the names Dorian Loomis used on the CB radio was Bush Baby.

Banar the bush baby,
I thought.
He should be a character in Luna's story.
He wouldn't replace her, but he would represent the turning point, the moment when Luna's life would truly change.

I haven't written a word about Banar, so for Alistair to know that name is … disturbing. So disturbing that it makes me seem crazy too. I'm not crazy, though. You'd tell me if I were crazy, right, Stella?

Mom and Dad came home about ten minutes after Alistair mentioned Banar. Ten minutes earlier and I would have told them everything. So much more than I said to Dad during yesterday's walk to school. I would have told them what I knew about Aquavania, the creepy things Alistair was saying about Fiona's and Charlie's souls. I would have told them about Jenny Colvin, the Littlest Knight, and the Mandrake. I would have urged them to stop trying to find “the right fit” and just get the boy some help already. Not tomorrow, but right that very second.

Banar changed things. I was stunned into silence.

“I'm glad you're home,” is all I told them.

And Mom said, “We all need to have a little chat.”

We all sat in the kitchen, and Mom poured glasses of milk and laid out some cookies, while Dad leaned against the refrigerator, looked at Alistair, and said, “First thing we're going to tell you is that they haven't identified any bodies.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“They've made an arrest,” Mom said. “They think the person might be involved in both Charlie's and Fiona's disappearances.”

If Alistair's eyes could have gotten wider, then they would have wrapped around his face. “Seriously,” he said. “Who?”

“His name is Milo Drake.”

THE CONFESSION OF MILO DRAKE

Many will question why I am doing this. Even I am having second thoughts. I know how the system works, however. The state will assign a lawyer to defend me and that lawyer will tell me to keep my fool mouth shut. After all these years, I cannot do that.

My brother, Luke, fell into the Oriskanny ten years ago, and we never saw him again. Most people around here remember when that happened, but they do not think about it every day. I do. My parents do. I have tried to push the details into the back of my brain, like locking a dog in the basement, and while I still hear the barking, I had begun to forget what the dog looked like.

A few days ago, that all changed. That is when I saw things clearly again. Police officers arrived at my door with new information about Luke. I will avoid details about what they told me, because it concerns innocent people dealing with their own pain, but I will tell you that it brought back disturbing thoughts. There are things I cannot lock away anymore.

People remember me as a boy, so they think of me as a boy. I am no longer a boy, but I am not sure what kind of man I am. As soon as I deliver this confession to the various news outlets, I will turn myself in to the police. Because I am the one they are looking for.

I am the reason Fiona Loomis is missing. I am the reason Charlie Dwyer is missing. I am not going to use this as a forum to explain myself, because I do not think I can ever do that. I am going to use this as a way to provide closure to families that need closure.

Look no further. Because I did this.

I do not want to cause any additional pain.

I am sorry.

 

T
HURSDAY
, 12/14/1989

AFTERNOON

They found bones. Lots and lots of bones. The police and FBI have been digging in Milo Drake's yard all night and all morning, and the local news is keeping us up-to-date.

“Another set of bones,” the TV reporters keep saying as they stand on the street next to the police tape. “That's all we can confirm at this point.”

Milo Drake lives in some broken-down house in some tiny town I've never heard of, though apparently it's only twenty miles or so from Thessaly. A place called Oran. From the pictures they've been showing on the news, his backyard isn't that big, the size of a couple of driveways maybe.

The bones keep coming up, though.

I don't know tons about biology, but I know that Charlie wouldn't be a skeleton already, especially if you buried him. Neither would Fiona. Too cold and not enough time for decomposition. So everyone is holding out hope. But things are not looking good.

I agreed to talk to Glen on the walkie-talkies in study hall again because I needed to talk to someone.

“Whatta sicko that guy is,” was the first thing Glen said as soon as we were connected.

“How are you today?” I responded, hoping he'd get the hint that this is how you start a proper conversation.

His hint-taking could use a bit of work, because all he said was, “I wish they'd show TV in class.”

“It's too morbid,” I said. “I don't know why we have to hear every detail. Find out the facts first, then report it. The
Sutton Bulletin
should never have published that confession. Not without corroboration. That's what my dad says, anyhow.”

“Well,
my
dad says it's essentially an op-ed, and op-eds have different rules,” Glen responded.

Awesome,
I thought.
Is this going to turn into one of those my-dad-can-beat-up-your-dad situations?
Since Glen's dad manages the company that sells many of the local newspapers their rolls of newsprint, Glen figures his views on the media are beyond question. Arguing with him wasn't worth the effort.

“I'm sad for all the families,” I said. “Including Mr. Drake's. Haven't they already had enough pain?”

“Maybe,” Glen said. “But come on, if this man Drake has done half the things they think he's done, then he isn't getting my sympathy.”

“What?” I said, cupping my hands over the headphones. There was some noise in study hall, kids chatting, probably about the same thing we were chatting about, so I wasn't sure if I'd heard Glen right.

“He should burn in hell,” Glen said.

“Did you call him the Mandrake?” I asked.

“Well, his name is Drake. And he's a man. Though have you seen his hair? He might be part porcupine. That stuff is a mess. I bet he hardly bathes.”

“I've gotta go,” I said. “Mr. Gregson is motioning for me to talk to him.”

“Crap,” Glen said. “Okay. No detention for you, because I want to walk you home and maybe we can watch the news together. Over and out.”

Another lie. Mr. Gregson didn't motion to me. I actually don't think he even cared that I was wearing a walkie-talkie. He was too wrapped up in the
Sutton Bulletin
. Probably analyzing Milo Drake's confession like everyone else.

I wanted to snatch the newspaper out of his hands and look at it again. I had pasted the clipping on one of your pages, Stella, but you were all the way in my locker, and I needed to see immediately if there was anything to indicate that the Littlest Knight was connected to this.

Weird. So freaking weird.

A dead kid in armor halfway across the world. A man with a backyard full of bones a few towns away. My brother has made a connection between the two.
I let a monster called the Mandrake get to him,
Alistair had said yesterday, before Mom and Dad had even come home and mentioned Milo. The man, Drake.

How could that possibly be another coincidence?

EVENING

Alistair is focused. He didn't even come to dinner tonight. Mom fixed him a plate and he ate in his room. His excuse is homework. Since he's missed so much school, the teachers have sent catch-up assignments and reading for him to do. It's a lot of stuff, but it's not like he can't join us for a meal or two.

At the table, all I wanted to talk about was Milo Drake, because really, how could we talk about anything else? Mom and Dad weren't thrilled about it. That confession seemed like a revelation last night, but as more and more bones are being unearthed, more and more hopes are being buried. Still, there were—there are!—so many unanswered questions.

“A couple of weeks ago, you asked something about Luke Drake,” I said to Mom as soon as she sat down. “You said Alistair had seen something, right?”

“I did,” Mom replied, and she spooned another scoop of scalloped potatoes onto my plate, the international gesture for
Fill that mouth with taters and not questions, my dear
.