The Hound of Rowan (15 page)

         

Welcome to Languages.

My name is Celia Babel.

         

She turned and beamed at them, then motioned for Connor to introduce himself. He did so, followed by the others. Next she motioned for them to read their handouts. Puzzled that the woman had not yet spoken a word, Max read a passage that was printed in several different languages.

Please pick up the headset on your desk. It is a translator and it is already turned on. On the screen labeled
AUDIBLE
, use the arrows and scroll to Greek. On the screen labeled
SUB
, please scroll to your native language and put on the headset. Further instructions will follow.

Mrs. Babel waited patiently for the class to follow the instructions before she spoke for the first time. Her voice was high-pitched and a bit nasal, and the words were completely foreign—unfamiliar and spoken with a strange rhythm. Yet, to his utter shock, Max found he could understand them.

“Hello, students,” the instructor said. “I'm pleased to have you in my Languages class. At the moment, you are hearing the Greek language—a language with which all of you are unfamiliar. You are
simultaneously
hearing, in your subconscious brain, these words and phrases translated into your native tongue. How many of you have difficulty understanding English?”

Max saw over a dozen hands rise high into the air. Mrs. Babel smiled at them.

“You may keep these devices for use in your other classes. Your English will improve very quickly as your brain begins to correlate it with your native language.”

Everyone laughed as a Portuguese girl cheered gratefully.

“Regardless of what language we are speaking,” Mrs. Babel continued, “it's a good idea to have these devices handy when speaking with me. Please shut them off and I'll demonstrate why.”

Mrs. Babel removed her coppery necklace as Max flicked off his device's switch. He was suddenly assailed by a bewildering cacophony of voices. Mrs. Babel was evidently speaking—her mouth was moving—but the sound that issued forth was an unintelligible mixture of words, shrieks, grunts, and clicks. She shrugged her shoulders with a helpless smile and replaced her necklace, inviting them to don their devices once more.

“Years ago, I was stationed at a field office in Ghana. One of our informants accused me of double talk and cursed me to speak all languages simultaneously. Mr. Vincenti had this necklace developed for me as a project for the Sixth Years—it filters all the languages I'm speaking down to Greek. A bit limiting for a language teacher, but a minor inconvenience in the big scheme of things.”

Sarah Amankwe raised her hand.

“I don't want to be rude,” she said, “but if this device can help us to learn any language, why do we need a language class?”

“That would certainly help you to understand the spoken language and eventually speak it yourself,” replied the instructor. “You'll see many older students around campus doing just that. It would not, however, help you read or write that language, to say nothing of absorbing the culture's traditions or way of life. Understanding a person's words and understanding the person is not always the same thing. In this class, we strive for cultural immersion….”

The rest of the class was spent on the Greek alphabet. As Mrs. Babel spoke, labeled pictures of the Greek landscape, mythic figures, leaders, and philosophers appeared on the walls and ceiling. Max worked hard to keep up, scribbling the strange symbols in his notebook as quickly as he could.

         

After Languages, Max's section of First Years grabbed sandwiches and fruit from the dining hall and sat outside near their Class Tree. Hannah and her brood waddled by.

Max collapsed onto the grass, his exhaustion washing over him. He listened to the others' conversations as the sun warmed his face. But it wasn't long before a familiar voice broke in.

“Hey! It's the tadpoles!”

Max cracked an eye as Alex, Sasha, and Anna wandered over with some other Second Years.

“Hmmm,” said Alex, coming to a sudden halt and sniffing the air. “Why would tadpoles smell like horse manure?”

“I dunno. But it sure does stink!” said Sasha, waving a hand under his nose.

Connor held his nose and squinted up at the older students. “We stink because we cleaned the stables. What's
your
excuse, Muñoz?” replied Connor. Almost everyone laughed, including some of the Second Years. Alex simply smiled grimly and nodded his head, moving closer to Connor.

“You know,” said Sarah, rising angrily and stabbing a finger at Alex, “that wasn't funny the other night. I can't swim. Someone could have hit their head and drowned. Whatever was in the water could have hurt us!”

Alex clapped his hands to his cheeks and turned to the others, imitating Sarah. Anna laughed, but some of the Second Years fidgeted uncomfortably and looked away.

“Ignore them, Sarah,” muttered Jesse, stacking paper plates and brushing crumbs off his legs. Suddenly, his soda toppled over. Jesse leapt to his feet, a large wet stain spreading across his navy pants.

Alex doubled up with laughter.

“Hey, check it out—he wet his pants!” the older boy shouted.

Jesse reddened. “You
made
that cup fall over.”

“Sure. You wet your pants and try and blame someone else. Nice!” exclaimed Alex sarcastically, turning to the others.

Jesse suddenly stepped forward to push Alex. Alex laughed incredulously and stepped to the side, locking one of Jesse's arms straight and tossing him hard to the ground.

Max sat up completely as there were several shouts of protest. Jesse lay curled up on the grass, holding his elbow. Connor jumped to his feet.

“You're a bloody jerk, Muñoz!”

Connor launched himself at Alex to grab hold of his shirt. Again, Alex stepped to the side. He punched Connor hard below the sternum. Connor dropped to one knee and doubled over.

“C'mon, Lynch,” said Alex with a laugh, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Don't you have a witty comeback? Let's hear it, or can't you talk?”

Anna started to giggle. Lucia reached out to touch Connor's shoulder, but he brushed her hand away and stared at the grass. Rolf stood up and stepped over to Alex, who was relaxed and grinning.

“Why don't you leave us alone?” Rolf said. “What do you think you're proving?”

“He's right, Alex,” said one of the Second Year girls. “What
do
you think you're proving?”

“Me? I'm just welcoming the tadpoles to Rowan! You tadpoles are taking it all wrong. C'mon and shake my hand.” Alex grinned maliciously and stepped forward to extend his hand to Rolf, who looked suddenly uneasy.

Max stepped in front of Rolf and swatted Alex's hand aside.

“Leave us alone,” Max said.

For a moment, Alex looked shocked; he glanced at Sasha, who merely laughed and shook his head.

“Are you kidding me?” scoffed Alex.

Max ignored Alex's words as the older boy ridiculed him. He watched his hands instead. Max had learned that bullies always had a great deal to say before they ever did anything, and he suspected that Alex was no different.

Max was right. When the boy's hands moved up to push him, Max threw a hard, straight jab that smacked square into Alex's cheek. The punch landed so fast and hard that Alex merely blinked in shock and took a tottering step backward.

“Whoa,” cried Connor, sitting up, as other students ran over at the commotion.

Someone yelled behind Max.

Max realized he'd made a mistake even before he had turned. He felt a flash of pain in his eye as Alex punched him hard from the side. The two fell onto the ground in a rolling tangle of curses and punches and groans.

Just as Max gained the upper hand, something immensely strong took hold of him, and he was pulled firmly up and away. Several Second Years hurried in to restrain Alex. As Alex screamed to be let go, Max whirled around to see who had hold of him.

It was Bob.

There was a stern, sad expression on the ogre's sunken features as he towered over Max. Setting Max's feet back on the ground, he stepped in between the two combatants. “No fighting,” rumbled Bob, wagging a giant finger. “Only first day of school!”

Alex pressed his torn shirt to his bleeding mouth. With a furious scowl, he brushed off Sasha.

“We can handle it ourselves,” hissed Alex. “Get back in the kitchen, you oaf!”

“Alex!” one of the Second Years warned. “Watch it!”

“Whatever.” Alex seethed, fixing Max with a furious stare before composing his features into a crooked, bloody smile. “I can't even tell you how sorry you're going to be.”

Still grinning, Alex spat, turned, and walked back into the Manse with Sasha and Anna trailing behind. Max put his hand over his throbbing eye. Bob sighed and motioned for Max to follow, leading him into the kitchen, where he scooped a handful of ice into a large yellow dishtowel.

         

“Come in, come in,” intoned Mr. Watanabe as the class arrived on the second floor of Old Tom for Strategy. The instructor was a trim Japanese man in his fifties. He strolled around the room's large tables as the students took their seats. When he reached Max, he stopped.

“What happened to you?”

“Oh,” said Max hastily. “Nothing. I fell and hurt my eye.”

Mr. Watanabe raised a skeptical eyebrow and continued, glancing at Max's knuckles and those of his classmates.

“Welcome to your first year of Strategy and Tactics.” He bowed to the class. “My name is Omi Watanabe, and I will be your instructor. So who can define strategy for me? Let's discuss what it means to think ‘strategically.'”

Max tried to listen to Sarah's response, but it was hard. His eye hurt and he was still angry from the fight. Several times, Mr. Watanabe singled him out to make sure he was paying attention. By the end of class, all he could remember was that the course would be divided into Strategy and Tactics. Max thought Strategy sounded boring—lots of principles and dry theories. Tactics assignments would be taken from the
Rowan Compendium of Known Enemies, Volume One
and sounded much more interesting.

As anxious as he was for the end of class, Max knew he wasn't the only one to feel that way. Their section had Mystics next, and everyone seemed eager to see what it was all about. When the chimes finally sounded, the students hurried out in a chorus of excited chatter.

“I think Mystics will be my favorite,” commented Lucia. “I put out my fire in under a minute. The Recruiter said it was very good.”

Max nodded, impressed, while David gazed out a window on the stairwell, his backpack slung loosely over his shoulder. He began coughing as everyone clambered up to the second floor. Max put a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” wheezed David, wiping his nose with a tissue. “Just taking it all in. Lots of stuff, you know.”

“No kidding,” muttered Max, floored by the accumulating homework. “I guess we'll watch Lucia extinguish fires all period. She did it twice as fast as I did. How long did it take you?”

“I'm not sure,” said David. “I don't remember.”

“What do you mean, you don't remember? How can you forget something like that?”

“My memory's pretty bad sometimes. It's got holes in it, I guess,” said David, walking on ahead. Max was following when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Jason Barrett bounding up the stairs.

“Hey, bud,” he called. “I heard about your—whoa! That's a serious shiner!”

The Sixth Year boy stopped dead in his tracks to examine Max's eye.

“Yeah, I shouldn't have turned my back on him,” said Max, feeling his ears burn. “I was stupid.”

Jason dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand.

“Whatever,” he said. “That shiner's a badge of honor! Heard you gave Muñoz a whupping that he had coming! Everyone's heard, I think!”

Max was mortified; the same thing had happened at his last school after several bullies began teasing him after his mother's disappearance. Max had beaten them badly and had nearly been expelled. He studied the white scars that dotted his small, hard knuckles.

“Can you please not talk about it?” he asked quietly.

“What?” said Jason, his smile disappearing. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, but do you want me to say something to Muñoz? It's not fair for him to be picking on First Years. He's had a whole year of training, and you guys just got here.”

“No—it's okay,” said Max. “I can handle it.”

Jason took a step back and looked hard at Max.

“My kind of guy.” He grinned again, continuing up the stairs. “Keep ice on it!”

Max waved good-bye and poked his head into a classroom that made him forget all about his fight and Alex Muñoz.

Hazel Boon stood in the middle of what appeared to be a large forest. She spoke to a silver-haired woman wearing a gray shawl while Max's classmates wandered wide-eyed among the towering trees, exchanging whispers.

Looking closer, Max discovered that the room was not in fact a forest; its floor was of gray-green hardwood polished to a gleaming finish. With the exception of the doorway, each of the room's eight walls was set with a carved stone fireplace. A number of large live trees were embedded in the floor at random intervals, their branches rising high toward a pitched ceiling supported by many beams. The walls were of the same gray-green wood as the floor and inlaid with a variety of silver markings and symbols.

Miss Boon caught Max lingering near the doorway and beckoned him farther in with an impatient gesture. Max joined his classmates as they took seats in wooden chairs on an enormous Persian rug at the room's center.

“All right, students,” said Miss Boon, “before we begin, I want to introduce a very special guest. This is Annika Kraken, Chair of the Mystics Department.”