The Gravity Keeper (3 page)

The Order was still murmuring in confusion when a very tall member on a back-row stump leapt to his feet. Mermon Veenie.

Mermon's dark hair was slicked back, framing a wide forehead and sharply angled eyebrows. Beneath those were teeny-tiny eyes that looked like black dots drawn in with a Magic Marker rather than things that could be used for seeing. But Mermon seemed to have no trouble glaring at Ralfagon.

He spoke in a loud, growling voice that made you think he might go for your throat after he finished speaking. Or, if he was in a bad mood, while he was midsentence. “Old man, what are you talking about?” he snarled.

Most of the Order members frowned at Mermon's disrespect; Ralfagon merely raised a finger. “Please sit down, Mermon,” he said calmly, “and I'll explain.”

“Maybe
you
shouldn't be leading this group!” Mermon growled. “I, for one, am tired of your nonsense; maybe it's time
I
did something about it!” As he spoke Mermon shook a fist at his leader; sparks literally jumped from his knuckles. The Order members seated around him leaned away on their stumps.

Ralfagon's placid expression changed to a grimace, and though he barely moved, he no longer seemed as stooped and frail. The corner of a thick blue Book peeked out from his overcoat, and the woods crackled with power.

Ralfagon said a series of unintelligible words that sounded like he was speaking backward and forward at the same time while chewing peanut butter. There was nothing peanut buttery involved, however; no, Ralfagon was invoking a formula—he was controlling a law of physics.

Mermon tried to respond but could only flap his mouth uselessly: Ralfagon had taken away his ability to make sound. The Order members all gasped loudly (except for Mermon, who couldn't).

Next, Ralfagon quickly spoke several other formulas and gestured with his finger. Mermon was flung back ten feet from the group and launched high in the air with the speed of a cannonball. He jolted to a halt far above the clearing and hung there, waving his hands helplessly. He was then spun around and around like a Mermon-shaped top. He stopped abruptly and plummeted even faster than he'd risen; he screamed silently and flailed his limbs all the way down.

Ralfagon snapped his fingers and Mermon stopped instantly, all his momentum gone. He was stretched out so close to the dirt that a passing ant's antennae brushed against his nose. (The ant just kept on walking; like most creatures in the woods, it had learned to ignore the Order's activities.) Ralfagon wiggled his finger, and Mermon returned to his feet in the exact position he'd been in before. His once-neat black hair was sticking straight up, and his wide mouth quivered as if he was unsure whether to throw up, burst out crying, or do both at once.

“I have told you before, Mermon,” Ralfagon said quietly but sternly, “I will not tolerate threats to myself or any other Order member. Now, take your seat and behave yourself.”

Mermon dropped down onto his stump and lowered his head in penitence.

Ralfagon spoke his first formula in reverse, returning Mermon's ability to speak. He then relaxed back into his usual slouch. “As I was saying, we will be stopping our meetings. For a time. This is not
my
decision. The Council of Sciences had our weekly meeting earlier today; we had a special visitor.” He frowned. “An official from the Board of Administration came with complaints, several aimed at our Order. We were congratulated on our fix of the Bermuda Triangle, but he raised other issues, such as the Atlantis fiasco. The yeti. Forty-two separate incidences of Slinkys not making it all the way down sets of stairs.”

Willoughby Wanderby raised his hand and, at Ralfagon's nod, said, “I'm confused. Atlantis sank many centuries ago; surely that's not relevant now? And the yeti…you mean Abominable Snowmen? If anything, those beasts are the Order of Biology's mix-up.”

Ralfagon sighed. “Nobody's forgotten Atlantis. I keep getting Time-Life books about it; the shipping and handling alone is outrageous. As for the yeti, Biology's Keeper, Gilio Skidowsa, claims they're due to the electromagnetic flux of the northern lights. I just see it as a marketing problem; what do you expect when you call something
Abominable
?” He sighed again. “The Board official suspended all Science Order activities until a plan can be made to fix things.”

One of the younger Order members, a pretty woman with red hair, shook her head. “Bureaucratic nonsense. Does that mean we can't do any work today?”

Ralfagon scratched his wrinkled chin. “No, Loisana, I think we can have one last session. Something quick and easy. Let's boost mobile phone radiation. We all could use the better phone reception, and it'll certainly cheer up the Outsiders.”

Ralfagon leaned his cane against his stump and gestured, triggering the same powers he'd used to send Mermon hurtling through the air. Now, however, Ralfagon levitated gently until he was standing atop his stump. The other Order members rose from their seats and linked their hands in a circle around him.

Ralfagon raised his hands in the air and wiggled his fingers. The blue Book slid out of his coat, but instead of falling to the ground as any self-respecting, ordinary book would do, it floated to just above Ralfagon's fingertips.

The others each spoke their own formulas, activating the various laws of physics they commanded. Rather than use this control, they simply combined their energy and willpower with Ralfagon's. Their circle glowed blue, and under Ralfagon's guidance, their influence spread quickly across the globe and strengthened mobile phones' signal strength.

All the Order members' eyes were closed, so they couldn't see what I saw: a figure, walking just outside their circle, outlined in the blue light. His coat had an oversize hood that hid his face entirely as he moved toward Ralfagon. He came too close as he passed behind a burly man with dark brown skin and thick eyeglasses; a ripple formed in the blue glow between them.

That ripple disrupted the bespectacled man's concentration and triggered his formula: a fierce rumble rolled out from behind him as the ground shook. Everyone dropped their hands and opened their eyes, but when the blue glow faded, the hooded figure mysteriously vanished. I was the only one who'd seen him.

The Book dropped into Ralfagon's fingers. “Robertitus?”

Robertitus Charlsus groaned and adjusted his glasses. “I'm sorry, Ralfagon. I couldn't help myself.”

“It's not your fault,” Ralfagon said. “Something disrupted our circle.”

Everyone looked at Mermon Veenie, who shook his head. “I didn't do anything! I swear!”

Loisana pointed into the distance. “Look at the path!”

There was a jagged tear across the trail a few hundred yards from the clearing; the chasm was at least forty feet across.

“It's fine,” Ralfagon said, but he frowned. “We never enter on that side of the clearing. Besides, Dunkerhook Woods takes care of itself. By the time we resume our meetings, the damage will probably be gone.”

The Order members milled about; they discussed possible vacation plans and bemoaned now-useless supplies of cotton swabs. They all lived in town, so they'd see plenty of one another, but there was still an air of sadness.

Mermon stood apart. He glowered briefly at Ralfagon and then stared off into the clearing, as if searching for something…or someone.

Eventually, the Order members zipped up their raincoats, tugged on their hoods, and marched down the trail toward the border of Van Silas Way. Ralfagon was still frowning and looking vaguely puzzled. The rain started again on the street, the Gateway reappeared, and one by one, the Order members filed through and went on home.

Nobody noticed that Mermon Veenie lingered in the woods, standing off to the side behind a tree. “Sir? Are you there?” he said once the others had left.

“Veenie, you moron.”
A toneless, echoing voice boomed out of the empty air, as if somebody was shouting into a large, invisible bucket.
“What if they notice you didn't leave? If one of them came back, they'd hear and thus be able to see me.”

As the words rang out, the speaker became visible—it was the hooded figure. He was completely covered by a black coat; his hood covered his head like a huge, shadowed cave. There was no sign of a face.

For the second time that day, Mermon had to apologize. “I'm sorry, sir. I was worried. Won't the Order disbanding ruin our plans?”

The hooded head shook from side to side.
“Exactly the opposite. This is all part of
my
plan. In a few more days, we will strike. Then we will have the power, and I will have my revenge. But no more nonsense like threatening Ralfagon. Control your bad judgment from now on and await my signal. Now go.”

Mermon Veenie nodded and left through the waiting Gateway. The hooded figure disappeared. Soon after, the Gateway vanished, the rain stopped, and all was quiet in the woods once again.

The next day was Monday, and that meant school for Simon. He daydreamed as he walked the few blocks between home and Martin Van Buren Elementary, heading for the back entrance. He passed through the school's large, fenced-in playground where children in the lower grades frolicked.

He paid little mind to the joyous screams and laughs made by younger kids climbing on the large metal jungle gym or playing with the swings, seesaws, and rings. He glanced at the rings: those five-foot-high, four-foot-wide concrete tubes always made Simon think of giant toilet paper rolls turned on their sides, except these were concrete, embedded in the ground, and had no toilet paper on them.

Simon went through the double doors and into the hallway, noting the change in sound. While the playground was alive with squeals of childish pleasure, the school halls were filled with a steady beat of noise. The boys were mostly roughhousing or shouting to one another while many of the girls stood around in clumps, chatting about clothes, television shows, and even boys.

Simon concentrated on shutting himself off from all that activity, tuning out the sights and sounds. He pressed through the mass of moving kids and squeezed free to his locker, where he started absently emptying his backpack into his locker. A tap on the shoulder startled him.

“You dropped this.”

Simon was jolted back to the world around him. He turned and saw Alysha Davis, whose locker was next to his. She had coffee-and-cream-colored skin and long, wavy brown hair tied back in a ponytail. As he looked up (she was taller than he), all he could think to say was, “Huh?”

Alysha gestured with a paperback book in one hand. “This fell out of your backpack. You feeling okay?”

Simon saw what was in her hand:
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
. He'd mistakenly packed it with his schoolbooks. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Alysha handed it to him. “Wasn't that a movie?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over a scratchy, almost incomprehensible announcement coming from the PA system. Simon nodded. She pointed to the words on the cover. “‘Don't panic'? What does
that
mean?”

Simon was suddenly embarrassed, wondering what she would think of the stuff he read. He mustered a half smile and shrugged. “It means ‘don't panic.'” He turned and stuffed the book into his locker.

He could feel Alysha looking at him, but he didn't turn around. What else was he supposed to say? They'd been friends years ago, but now she was popular and hung out with kids who wouldn't even look at him. Fashion had somehow become a big thing for her; her new friends judged one another—and everyone else—by the clothes they wore and how they looked in them. It was a world Simon didn't understand or want to enter.

Simon was saved, in a way, by a bump from behind. He almost fell into his locker as Marcus Van Ny brushed past him to talk to Alysha.

“'Scuse me, Sam, didn't see you there,” Marcus said without looking at him. “Hey, Allie, you going to Nezzo's after school today?”

Simon hurried to get his books and go; he didn't want to risk making Marcus angry. Tall and athletic Marcus Van Ny was one of the most popular kids in the sixth grade; even the teachers loved him. They saw his wide, gleaming smile, his glossy black hair, and his perfect grades and thought he was an angel.

In truth, Marcus was feared by most sixth graders. He'd never lost a fight, but he mostly left the rough stuff to his best friend, Barry Stern. Barry wasn't as smart or handsome as Marcus, but he was so big he could have passed for a ninth grader. Plus, he was fiercely loyal to Marcus. Marcus gave him desserts at lunchtime, fed him answers in class, and brought him along to parties. In return, Barry pummeled anyone that Marcus didn't want to be bothered with.

Simon closed his locker and quickly slipped away, merging into the hallway traffic. He rushed into the classroom, noting that he was the first student there: the other kids were out in the halls with their friends. The teacher wasn't there, either. She must have just stepped out: a mug of coffee steamed on her desk and bits of chalk dust still floated in the air from a message on the board: T
AKE
Y
OUR
S
EATS
.

Simon sat down at his desk in the back of the classroom, far from the clatter outside. He looked up at the ceiling and let his mind wander off; he was imagining a tiny race of people living in the glass-covered space around the fluorescent lights when a loud clacking jarred him from his thoughts. Class was already under way and his teacher, Mrs. Desmond, was smacking her wooden pointer against the blackboard to get everybody's attention.

Simon looked next to his short, wrinkled teacher and saw a giant.

Okay, not a giant. She was just under six feet tall in her heeled shoes, but her hair made her seem much taller. From the scalp down, she wasn't that unusual—she had a pleasant face; a small but comforting smile; thick, black-framed glasses; and a simple beige pantsuit. She held a slim leather briefcase. Perfectly normal.

The top of her head was a different story. She had the most amazing stack of jet-black hair that extended over two feet straight up. Remarkably, this tower didn't jiggle when she moved her head. It was like stone. Simon didn't know much about hair spray, but he wondered how so much hair could possibly keep from wobbling.

As he stared at it, the upper few inches of the hair bent forward.

Simon held back a gasp as that topmost portion practically folded over and, it seemed, started to swivel around. He supposed her hair spray had given out or something.

“Class, this is our new principal,” Mrs. Desmond said. “Miss…Fanstrom, is it?”

Miss Fanstrom nodded, and aside from that moving top part, her hair still didn't wiggle. Suddenly, that top section stopped, angled at one spot, as if pointing. It was aimed right at Simon.

Mrs. Desmond continued, “Mr. Shimshamp was suddenly called away for, er, how long, Miss Fanstrom?”

Miss Fanstrom smiled. “Indefinitely, it seems.” She had a crisp English accent that, Simon thought, made her sound very sophisticated. “I'm afraid you're stuck with me for quite a while,” she said with a slight smile. “I'm told he was offered a top position in a distant college's history department. Apparently they made him an offer he couldn't refuse.”

Mrs. Desmond's forehead scrunched in confusion. “Oh. I see. This happened on a Sunday?” she asked Miss Fanstrom. “With less than a month left in the school year? And…the school board was able to find you on such short notice?”

Miss Fanstrom turned to face the teacher directly, but that top part of her hair flopped over so it seemed to keep pointing at Simon. “Fortunate, isn't it? In my line of work, it is best to be ready for emergencies.” She again gave a small smile and cleared her throat, bringing the teacher out of her surprised state. “Mrs. Desmond,” she whispered, “the class? My guide?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Desmond said, giving a long look at Miss Fanstrom's hair before turning back to the class. “As I was saying, Miss Fanstrom is your new principal. I expect there'll be a school-wide assembly later so she can officially introduce herself, but right now…” She glanced back at Miss Fanstrom, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Right now she'd like one of you to show her around the school.”

Miss Fanstrom turned to face the sixth graders and smiled. “Yes. My office is being fixed up by some workmen. Minor adjustments here and there. A perfect time for one of you to give me a tour; I'd hate to get lost on my first day.”

Mrs. Desmond beamed as she gestured toward Marcus in the back row; he was the one student whose gaze wasn't locked on Miss Fanstrom's column of hair. He was looking at Alysha, who sat a few rows ahead of him. When he noticed Mrs. Desmond looking his way, he snapped to attention and flashed his patented grin.

“May I suggest Marcus Van Ny,” the teacher said. “He's our top student and a fine athlete, so he should be—”

Miss Fanstrom's voice didn't waver, but her smile slipped a bit when she heard Marcus's name. She cut Mrs. Desmond off with a quick slash of her hand. “No, thank you. I'm sure Mr. Van Ny is quite capable, but I was thinking of someone else. Perhaps…” She made a show of turning her head from side to side, as if searching the room, but Simon noted that her eyes (and the top of her hair) never left him. “That young man.”

Mrs. Desmond squinted to follow Miss Fanstrom's pointed finger. “Him? Er, Stanley? No, my mistake, Simon. Simon Bloom. But he—” She stopped herself. “Of course, Miss Fanstrom. Simon, would you mind?”

Simon rose from his seat, his mind bubbling with questions, but he just nodded and followed Miss Fanstrom—and her strange hairdo—out the door.