Phoenix Island (22 page)

“Since you’re polite enough to lie, I’ll be polite enough to pretend I believe you.”

Carl laughed. “No, I mean it. It’s nice.”

Stark was quiet for a moment, seeming to think, then said, “I lead a very simple life, Carl, what you might call a Spartan existence. You know the Spartans?”

Carl said he’d seen
300
.

“Ah, yes, the brave Three Hundred at Thermopylae. A timeless story and an important bit of history. It’s long been a favorite of US special ops: the SEALs, Berets, Rangers, Recon, Delta. It’s a story we can all relate to: a small force of well-trained warriors, vastly outnumbered, waiting for reinforcements that never arrived.” A fierce smile came onto his face. “But kicking a lot of butt while they waited.”

Carl nodded, shoveling another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Stark said, “To Spartans, only warfare mattered. Everything else—money, jewelry, decoration of any kind—meant nothing. Their simple lifestyle suits me. I have no desire for fine things: flashy cars, expensive homes, big-screen TVs. None of it. You get a few things like that, you know what happens?”

Carl shook his head. “I’ve never owned much.”

Stark put down his silverware and tented his fingers. “I’ll tell you, then. You get a few things, you want more. And more. And more. For
the common person, owning nice things provides the only sense of power they’ll ever know. Ownership is poisonous, Carl. Never accumulate things for the sake of having them, and never confuse possessions with power.”

Carl nodded. It made sense.

Stark asked, “Are you familiar with Greek mythology?”

Carl shrugged.

“Zeus?”

Carl swallowed a particularly delicious bite of steak. “He was king of the gods, right?”

This earned a smile. “Correct. He lived atop Mount Olympus, where he could look down on the world of his worshippers, the humans. Do you know the story of Prometheus?”

Carl shook his head.

“When the world was young,” Stark said, “mankind dwelled in caves and lived simple, happy lives, existing only to worship the gods.”

“Like Adam and Eve?”

Stark smiled again. “Yes, and ancient Greece was these worshippers’ Garden of Eden until someone—not a serpent but a titan named Prometheus—destroyed paradise . . . with a gift.”

Carl thought for a second. “An apple?”

Stark shook his head. “Fire. Prometheus stole fire from the gods, carried it down Mount Olympus, and shared it with mankind. At first they feared the flames, but when Prometheus showed people how they could cook their meat, brighten darkness, and make themselves warm and dry on even the coldest, wettest nights, fire seemed a great blessing.”

“But it was really a curse?”

“It was both.” Stark leaned back in his chair. “Before this, Zeus had paid little attention to his primitive worshippers. To him, their lives were as brief and predictable as the lives of houseflies are to us. But he woke one morning, looked down from Olympus, and saw a changed world. Mankind had abandoned their caves and moved into houses, towns, cities—some with castles at the center. Women wore fine clothes and jewelry and played harps of exquisite design. Men
brandished swords and spears and wore shining armor and helmets. A few even wore
crowns
.”

“Zeus was pissed?”

Stark nodded. “He unleashed three punishments. One for Prometheus, which we won’t discuss while you’re eating. Here, have some more.” He pushed more steak onto Carl’s plate.

Carl grinned. “Thanks.” Everything was so great. The food was awesome, and there was plenty of it. No rush, no one glaring at him while he ate. It was so nice to just relax and talk, and not about how everything sucked or about bad stuff that might happen. Stark was interesting. Out of nowhere, Carl realized he’d like to look into this stuff, maybe even read a book about the Greek myths.

“The second punishment,” Stark said, “came in the form of a beautiful woman and a golden box. We’ll save this one for later, too.”

Carl shrugged, chewing.

Stark said, “The final punishment was mercy.”

Carl slowed his chewing, tilting his head and narrowing one eye. He swallowed. “How can mercy be a punishment?”

“Zeus knew that, left on its own, mankind would punish itself—would eventually destroy itself—with the offending gift. Fire had given them not only light and heat but also ambition, imagination, and invention. You see, fire begat technology, which remains both a blessing and a curse—and with which we still play gods . . . and punish ourselves. Do you understand?”

Carl nodded. “I think so.”

“I feel for the children of today,” Stark said. “Pampered like little godlings, they are weak and unhappy, with nothing to hold on to, nothing to worship but their own desires. Nothing is honored. Nothing is sacred. In a world where nothing matters, they are overfed and put to pasture. Is this how we’re meant to live? No, it’s how sheep are meant to live. That’s what most children are today—fat little sheep, content in their electronic pasture fields. They spend their lives staring at television screens and blabbing on cell phones, escaping into video games, and talking for hours on end about nothing on the internet.”

It was a lot to take in. What Stark was saying seemed true enough,
but before Carl could really think it through, Stark spoke again.

“But,” Stark said, and raised a finger, “what happens when one child isn’t a sheep? What happens when he disrupts the flock? They punish him. If that doesn’t work, they medicate him. If that doesn’t work, they cage him. And if that doesn’t work, they send him to me.”

“What if that doesn’t work?” Carl asked.

“It always works.”

They were silent for a time. Stark ladled more potatoes onto Carl’s plate. Carl thanked him and went to work on the potatoes, wondering exactly what Stark had meant by
it always works
. Certainly Phoenix Island didn’t work for some kids. Sure, he had probably seen only the worst of it, and a lot of them would adapt, but what about a kid like Medicaid? What happened to someone like him?

“I was thinking of ancient Greece and the Spartans when I designed this place,” Stark said. “At the age of seven, Spartan boys left their families and entered military training they called the
agoge
. Training was intense, even brutal. Boys learned to fight and steal to survive. Childhoods were destroyed, but survivors emerged as respected men and fearsome warriors.”

Carl remembered the movie
300
, the part with the little kids fighting, the main character kneeling on top of some other kid, beating him. Then he pictured Medicaid again. Never in a thousand years would Medicaid be the kid on top. . . .

Stark said, “Phoenix Island is the
agoge
for the twenty-first century. I take orphans discarded by society and offer them meaningful lives. The ancient Greek historian Herodotus wrote about the Spartans, including your Three Hundred. He also wrote about the phoenix, a bird like an eagle that had the ability to burst into flames, die, and come to life again, reborn from the ashes. During your time in the sweatbox, it must have felt like you were about to burst into flames, eh? But look at you now: reborn.”

Carl nodded, but Stark’s mention of the sweatbox stunned Carl’s appetite. Yes, this experience was like being reborn, but Ross and Octavia were still back there, suffering under Parker. If only he could get them here, with Stark, where everything was so different. They wouldn’t just
be safe. They would be happy. Then he thought of Campbell, who was headed home with a promise to expose Phoenix Island.

And what if he did? What if the authorities showed up, asking for Carl?

Watching Stark finish his meal, Carl sagged with guilt. Stark had been kind. Stark believed in him. In a flash, Carl saw all of the adults who had looked down on him, punished him, misunderstood him. Then Stark. And Stark was so much more impressive than the others. Smarter, stronger, more experienced. Was it all true, what he’d said on the walk? Had Carl’s strengths caused all the problems that brought him here? Was Parker the only real problem here, a mean dog Stark had since muzzled? Could it be possible that Phoenix Island really was the best place for Carl, the only place that would recognize his strengths and help him make the most of them? And if so, how would Stark react when the authorities showed up, shutting down the place and blaming it all on Carl?

Watching Stark chew his last piece of steak, Carl felt like the biggest punk in the world. In this moment, rescue seemed a horrible idea. He would never be able to face Stark again. The betrayal . . .

And as Carl tried to imagine the consequences, Stark rose from the modest table and went to the sink, where he stood, a giant of man with rippling muscles in his back and neck and arms, and washed blood from his plate and knife.

C
ARL FREEMAN,” STARK SAID,
leading Carl through the curtain into the main hangar later that evening, “meet the dojo.”

Carl beamed. The dojo was huge. An elevated boxing ring sat at the far end. Along the walls Carl saw speed bags, heavy bags, double-end bags, and all kinds of training equipment: jump ropes, headgear, and laced gloves hanging from hooks; stacks of medicine balls, kicking shields, and punch mitts; and racks of what looked like wooden swords.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you really smile,” Stark said.

“What? Oh . . .” Carl walked a few steps deeper into the room, taking it in.

Stark said, “The ring must seem like an old friend.”

“It sure does,” Carl said. Even with everything that had happened, it was a rush being in a gym again, and nothing brought it home more than the sight of the elevated ring and its red, white, and blue ropes.

“Go ahead. Climb up and check it out.”

Carl thanked him, crossed the room, and ascended the short steps to the ring apron. He slipped through the ropes and into the ring, and his whole body thrilled to feel it surround him—the turnbuckles, the taut ropes, the subtle give of the flooring—as if the ring had scooped him into an embrace.

He shook out his arms, did a couple of deep knee bends, and then started circling. The padding was good, soft beneath his feet but not too soft, and the floorboards greeted him with familiar creaking and thumping
as he glided over them. He tested the ropes on all four sides. They were a bit tighter than he preferred. You put a guy on tight ropes like these, a good counterpuncher could use that extra bounce, really crack you if you weren’t careful.

“You like?” Stark stood on the floor beside the ring, looking like a professional wrestler ready to come through the ropes.

“It’s perfect,” Carl said, and he shuffled toward the center of the ring, where he picked up his traditional rocking motion—forward and back, forward and back, side to side—flicked out a light six-punch combination, and quarter-pivoted. Out of the pivot, he bobbed into a squat, launched a stronger combination, and pivoted again.

It was amazing. There was no pain. Stark was right about Vispera. Psycho or not, the guy was a miracle worker.

After a minute of shadowboxing, he could feel his new muscles cooperating and knew with a little practice he’d have all his speed back and a lot more power. He shoe-shined a flurry of light, fast uppercuts, shook out his arms, and came to the ropes near Stark. “Thanks for this. I mean, it feels awesome to be back in the ring again.”

“It’s my pleasure. I respect skill, and I have a deep interest in combat. It seems like you’ve recovered pretty well from your injuries.”

Carl laughed. It felt great, being well again, moving in the ring, no one making fun of him, egging him on. He wondered when he would have to go back to camp and face Parker. Then he pushed that thought away. Parker had already done enough to make his life miserable; he wasn’t going to allow him to ruin this perfect moment, too. “My punches are rusty, and my footwork’s off, but I feel like I could spar ten rounds.”

“And perhaps you could. But we won’t start with sparring. We’ll stretch and do some circuit training, work off that rust and try out your new muscles.”

“What . . . now?”

“The great samurai Musashi said that if we are to learn the way, we must train morning and night. It’s night.”

While they stretched, Stark asked Carl about his boxing experiences. Carl started with the end—winning the national championships—then
worked his way back, telling how it was, going from gym to gym in Philly and sparring against pros, grown men who outweighed him by five, ten, even fifteen pounds. Stark asked if it was true, what everyone said about Philadelphia gym wars, and Carl smiled, telling him it was. In Philly, fighters go at it harder than anywhere else. There was even an old saying used all over the world: “Sure, the kid is good, but how long would he last in a Philly gym?”

“Did your father teach you?” Stark asked.

“No,” Carl said. “I got into trouble, and the judge made me try boxing.”

Stark laughed. “Smart judge.”

“Yeah, right?” Carl said. “That’s where I met my trainer, Arthur James. He was awesome.”

“Tell me about it,” Stark said, and made a broad sweep with his arm. “All of it. Everything.”