The Hound of Rowan (2 page)

         

The armor gallery was darker than the others, its artifacts glinting softly from behind clean glass. There were fewer people here, and Max was happy for the opportunity to sketch in relative peace and quiet. He strolled along a velvet rope, stopping to examine a crossbow here, a chalice there. The walls were arrayed with all manner of weapons: black iron maces, broad-bladed axes, and towering swords. He paused before a stand of ceremonial halberds before spying just the right subject to sketch.

The suit of armor was enormous. It dwarfed its neighbors on either side, gleaming bright silver inside its broad glass case. Max moved around to the other side, tilting his head up for a better view of the helmet. Several minutes later, he had roughed the basic figure onto the page.

As Max struggled to draw the elaborate breastplate, a commotion at the far end of the hall grabbed his attention. Max peered through the glass case and immediately caught his breath.

The man from the train was here.

Max lowered himself to a crouch and watched as the man towered over the guard at the gallery entrance. He made quick, chopping gestures with his hand. The motions became faster as the volume of his voice rose.

“This tall,” he spat in an Eastern European accent. He held his hand flat to approximate Max's height. “A black-haired boy about twelve, carrying a sketchbook.”

The guard was backed against the doorway, looking the man up and down. He began to reach for his radio. But then the strange man leaned in close and hissed something Max could not hear. Inexplicably, the guard nodded and hooked a fat thumb over his shoulder toward the suits of armor where Max was hiding.

Frantic, Max scanned his surroundings and noticed a dark doorway directly to his right. A velvet rope hung across it along with a sign that read
UNDER REPAIR: PLEASE KEEP OUT
.

Ignoring the sign, Max ducked beneath the rope and melted around the corner. He stood rigid against the wall and waited for his hiding place to be discovered. Nothing happened. It was several long seconds before Max realized that he had left his sketchbook in the other gallery. A wave of panic crashed over him; surely the man would see it and guess where Max had hidden.

A minute passed, followed by another, and another. Max heard the footsteps and casual conversation of people strolling past the doorway. He peered around the corner. The man was gone—along with Max's sketchbook. Sinking slowly to the floor, Max pictured his name and address penciled neatly on the inside cover. He lifted his head and cast a hopeless glance at the room that had hidden him.

It was surprisingly small for a gallery. The air was musty, and the room had a soft amber glow. The sole object within it was a ragged tapestry that hung on the opposite wall. Max blinked. As strange as it seemed, the dim light was radiating from the tapestry itself. He moved closer.

The tapestry was an ancient thing. Sun and centuries had sapped its color until all that remained were splotched and faded bands of ochre. As he got closer, however, Max noticed faint hints and undercurrents of color submerged beneath its dull, rough surface.

His stomach began to tingle as though he'd swallowed a handful of bees. The little hairs on his arm rose one by one, and Max stood still, breathing hard.

Twang!

A single thread burst into bright gold. Max yelped and jumped backward. The thread flashed like fire, as fine and delicate as spider silk. It vibrated like a harp string, issuing a single musical note that reverberated throughout the gallery before fading to silence. Max glanced back at the doorway. Patrons continued to stroll by, but they seemed far away and oblivious to the small gallery, its lone occupant, and the strange tapestry.

More threads came to life, plucked from their slumber in a rising chorus of light and music. Some arrived individually, in a sudden snap of light and sound; others emerged together in woven harmonies of silver, green, and gold. To Max, it seemed he had dusted off an alien instrument that now resumed a strange and forgotten song. The song became richer. When the last thread sang into being, Max gave a sudden gasp of pain. The pain was sharper than a stitch and was caused by something deep within him.

That something had been with Max ever since he could remember. It was a lurking presence, huge and wild, and Max was afraid of it. Throughout his life he had fought with great difficulty to keep it walled within him The struggles caused headaches, including unbearable stretches that lasted for days. Max knew those days were over as he felt the presence burst free. Unfettered at last, it glided slowly through his consciousness before sounding deep within his being to stir the silt.

The pain subsided. Max took a deep breath while tears ran free in warm little rivers down his face. He brushed the tapestry's woven surface with his fingers.

The light and colors shifted to form golden, interlacing patterns that framed three strange, glowing words near the top.

TÁIN BÓ CUAILNGE

Centered below these words was the beautifully woven image of a bull in a pasture surrounded by dozens of sleeping warriors. A host of armed men were approaching from the right; a trio of black birds wheeled in the sky above. Overlooking the scene from a nearby hill was the silhouette of a tall man clutching a spear.

Max's eyes swept over the picture, but they always returned to the dark figure on the hill. Slowly, the tapestry's light grew brighter; its images trembled and danced behind shimmering waves of heat. With a rising cacophony of sound, the tapestry erupted with radiance so hot and bright Max feared it would consume him.

“Max! Max McDaniels!”

The room was dark once again. The tapestry hung against the wall, dull and ugly and still. Max backed away, confused and frightened, and crossed the velvet rope into the medieval gallery.

He saw his father's hulking figure alongside two security guards at the far end of the gallery. Max called out. At the sound of Max's voice, Mr. McDaniels raced toward his son.

“Oh, thank God! Thank God!” Mr. McDaniels wiped away tears as he stooped to smother Max in the folds of his coat. “Max, where on
earth
have you been? I've been looking for you for the last two hours!”

“Dad, I'm sorry,” Max said, baffled. “I'm okay. I was just in that other room, but I haven't been gone more than twenty minutes.”

“What are you talking about? What other room?” Mr. McDaniels's voice quavered as he peered over Max's shoulder.

“The one that's under repair,” replied Max, turning to point out the sign. He stopped, began to speak, and stopped again. There was no doorway, no sign, and no velvet rope.

Mr. McDaniels turned to the two guards, offering each a firm handshake. As the guards moved beyond earshot, Mr. McDaniels kneeled to Max's height. His eyes were puffed and searching.

“Max, be honest with me. Where have you been for the last two hours?”

Max took a deep breath. “I was in a room off this gallery. Dad, I swear to you I didn't think I was in there very long.”

“Where was this room?” asked Mr. McDaniels as he unfolded the museum map.

Max felt sick.

The room with the tapestry was simply not on the map.

“Max…I'm going to ask you this one time and one time only. Are you lying to me?”

Max stared hard at his shoes. Raising his eyes to his father's, he heard his own voice, soft and trembling.

“No, Dad. I'm not lying to you.”

Before Max had finished the sentence, his father was pulling him briskly toward the exit. Several girls his age giggled and whispered as Max was dragged, feet shuffling and head bowed, out the museum entrance and down the steps.

The only sounds during the cab ride to the train station came from Mr. McDaniels thumbing rapidly through his pamphlets. Max noticed some were upside down or backward. The rain and wind were picking up again as the cab slowed to a halt near the train station.

“Make sure you've got your things,” sighed Mr. McDaniels, exiting the other side. He sounded tired and sad. Max drooped and thought better of sharing the fact that he had also lost his sketchbook.

Once on the train, the pair slid heavily into a padded booth. Mr. McDaniels handed his return ticket to the conductor, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The conductor turned to Max.

“Ticket, please.”

“Oh, I've got it right here,” Max muttered absentmindedly. He reached into his pocket, but procured a small envelope instead. The sight of his name scripted clearly on the envelope made him pause.

Confused, Max retrieved the ticket from his other pocket and gave it to the conductor. Glancing to confirm that his father was still resting, Max then looked over the envelope. In the warm yellow light it appeared buttery, its heavy paper folds converging to pleasing corners. He turned the envelope over and examined the silky navy script.

Mr. Max McDaniels

His father now breathing heavily, Max ran his finger along the envelope's flap. Inside was a folded letter.

Dear Mr. McDaniels,

Our records indicate that you registered as a Potential this afternoon at 3:37 p.m. CST, U.S. Congratulations, Mr. McDaniels—you must be a very remarkable young man, and we look forward to making your acquaintance. One of our regional representatives will be contacting you shortly. Until that time, we would appreciate your absolute silence and utmost discretion in this matter.

Best regards,
Gabrielle Richter
Executive Director

Max read the note several times before stowing it back in his pocket. He felt utterly drained. He could not guess how the letter had come to be in his possession, much less what a “Potential” was and what it all had to do with him. He
could
guess it had something to do with the hidden tapestry and the mysterious presence now roaming free within him. Max stared out the window. Brilliant shafts of sunlight chased wispy trails of storm clouds across the western sky. Exhausted, he leaned against his father and drifted off to sleep, his fingers closed tight around the mysterious envelope.

                  
2                  

T
HREE
S
OFT
K
NOCKS

T
he next morning, Max yawned as he watched his father toss a pair of black socks into an overnight bag. Zipping it closed, his father suddenly grunted and lumbered down the hallway. He returned a minute later with a handful of television cables and video-game controllers.

“Not that I don't trust you…”

The tangled mess was stuffed into the bag and zipped up tight.

“What am I supposed to do all day?” Max moaned.

“Being grounded is a punishment,” his father growled. “You're the one yawning—feel free to sleep the day away.”

Max had to admit that didn't sound half bad. He had spent much of the night peering out of his window. The idea that the dead-eyed man might have Max's name and address and could be coming at any moment had kept him occupied until dawn. By daylight, however, his fears seemed silly.

All the same, as a taxi honked outside, Max had a sudden urge to tell his father about the man at the museum. He swallowed his words. At this point, it would seem little better than a last gasp to avoid punishment.

“I'll only be gone a day,” his father sighed. Mr. Lukens had granted Mr. McDaniels the opportunity to pitch a new client, and he was off for an overnight trip to Kansas City. “The number for the Raleighs is on the fridge. They'll expect you for dinner by six, and you can sleep over there. Be good. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

With a peck on the head, Scott McDaniels was gone. Max locked the door, and curiosity led him back upstairs to examine his letter. Several readings later, it was still a mystery. He stood and looked out the window, listening to the wind as it shook the tall trees near the backyard fort he had built with his father. When his stomach began to growl, Max finally put the letter aside and went downstairs to make a sandwich.

He was descending the stairs when he saw a shadow moving beneath the front door. Max stopped as he heard three soft knocks. He remained still, poised between steps, when the knocks sounded again.

“Hello?” a lady called. “Anybody home?”

Max exhaled—it was not the man from the museum. Tiptoeing down to a side window, he glimpsed a plump, elderly woman holding a suitcase and glancing at her watch. Her cane was propped against the door. Catching sight of Max, she smiled brightly and waved.

“Hello. Are you Max McDaniels? I'm Mrs. Millen. I believe you received a letter that said I would be visiting you?”

Max smiled and waved back.

“Might I come in?” she asked sweetly, nodding toward the locked door.

He slid back the brass bolt and opened the door. Mrs. Millen stood on the doorstep, beaming and extending her hand.

“It's very nice to meet you, Max. I was hoping I could have a few words with you about the letter you received.”

“Sure. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Yes, well, can we sit down and have a chat?”

Max led Mrs. Millen to the dining room. She politely declined when he offered to carry her suitcase, leaning heavily on her cane as she swung it along. With a grateful sigh, she settled into a chair, sending up a waft of perfume. She smiled and removed her glasses to massage red, puffy eyes as Max took a seat across from her.

“Well, before we begin…might I have the pleasure of meeting your parents? Are they at home?”

“My dad's out on business.”

“I see,” she said. “And your mother?”

Max glanced at an old photo of the McDaniels family propped on the buffet.

“She's not home, either.”

“Well, that certainly makes my job a bit easier,” she said. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave Max a little wink.

“How do you mean?” Max frowned, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at her suitcase, puzzled by the long, shallow scratches that scored its side.

“Oh, well, parents are often very set in their ways. For example, most parents can't really understand strange events at the Art Institute, now, can they?”

Max smiled.

“You did have quite a day yesterday, didn't you, Max?”

“Yeah—I mean yes. Yes, I did.”

“And tell me, what was so special about it?”

“Well, I saw lots of weird things,” Max said with a shrug. “I found a room—a room I couldn't find again after I'd left it. While I was in the room, I saw a tapestry.”

Mrs. Millen nodded, tapping her finger against the table's smooth, shiny surface.

“Was it pretty?” she asked. “Was it a pretty tapestry?”

“Not at first.”

Her finger froze in mid-tap.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“It was ugly,” Max whispered. But then he paused. His experience now seemed very personal. He was hesitant to share it with her.

“Yes?” Mrs. Millen said. “It was ugly? An old, ratty tapestry? Go on, dear…. I know it seems secret and silly, but it's all right to share it with me. Believe me, Max, you'll feel better if you do.”

She smiled and leaned forward expectantly. Max suddenly felt sleepy.

“It started to glow,” Max said slowly, tracing the table's grain with his finger. “There were words and pictures and music.”

“And what were those words, Max? Tell me, what
pictures
did you see?”

She spoke in hushed, urgent tones. Max felt his neck begin to itch; he paused to look at her closely.

Her face was round and strangely taut. Although her smile stayed fixed, her pupils began to dilate. Max was fascinated by them as they grew. They reminded him of a polar bear he had once seen at the zoo. He had never forgotten the way its flat, black eyes had followed him hungrily from across the protective barrier.

Max blinked in alarm.

There was no barrier here.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he muttered.

“Yes, yes, certainly. But first, tell me what you saw in the tapestry!”

“Maybe we should talk when my dad gets home.”

Mrs. Millen's eyes widened with surprise. The chair creaked under her shifting weight, and she sniffed suddenly as though she had a cold. Several long seconds passed as they studied each other. Then a sly smile crept across her face as though they had just shared a secret.

“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” she chuckled. “You
are
a cautious one, Max! You are one cautious, bright little boy! You just might be the one we want.”

Sweat broke out on Max's forehead; his throat itched. He glanced at her cane, realizing he could run. No one had ever been able to catch him when he ran, and Mrs. Millen was old.

“I think you should go now,” he said. “I'm not feeling well.”

“Of course, my dear…”

The woman pushed back from the table.

“…but you're coming with me!”

The smile never left her lips as her hand shot across the table to seize Max's wrist. Max yelped and shot backward, squirming painfully out of her astonishingly strong grasp and falling off his chair. At the same time, Max heard something crash upstairs in his room. Heavy footsteps were coming down the stairs.

Someone else was in the house.

Max scrambled to his feet and bolted for the back door. With a dreadful shock, he realized that the old woman needed no cane as she rounded the table and raced after him.

Fleeing into the backyard, Max made for the big pine fort. He fumbled at the rusted latch, pushing the door open and hurrying inside. He tried to slam the door shut just as Mrs. Millen crouched to barrel in after him—but she managed to wedge her arm inside, twisting it wildly about.

Max gave the door a great push with his shoulder, and Mrs. Millen shrieked and withdrew her arm. He slammed the door shut and slid its crossbeam into place.

Leaning his back against the door, he waited.

“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” she cackled. “Not so wise and cautious after all! Our little one was quick, but he has made a poor choice, indeed….”

Max heard her nails dragging along the fort's walls as she slowly circled its perimeter. She paused to tap at its narrow windows. Max gulped down his fear and tried to think. He could yell for help, but his house was at the end of a quiet street, and his neighbors worked during the day. As he heard her near the fort's back wall, Max decided to make a run for it.

Just as he reached for the crossbeam, however, it dissolved into a pile of gray ash.

“Hoo-hoo-hoo!”

The door flew open, and Mrs. Millen snatched the front of Max's shirt. He gave a yell and jammed the heel of his hand into her nose. She cursed and recoiled, losing her grip on him. Backpedaling furiously, Max slammed into the opposite wall and started scrambling up the small ladder that led to the fort's roof. Max heard her muttering a few feet below him as he climbed. When he glanced down, he saw that she was standing on the lowest rung. Her ringed fingers clawed for his ankle.

“Stop right there, Max!
Astaroth!
”

At that moment, Max felt an icy numbness in his right leg. Straining, he climbed up and through the hatch and waited a moment, slamming the door down hard on the woman's head as she scrabbled up after him. His leg almost completely numb, Max dragged himself toward the roof 's edge. Glancing back, he saw Mrs. Millen emerge through the hatch. Squeezing her bulk through, she crawled after him on all fours like an animal.

Max shut his eyes and rolled over the edge.

He fell with a hard, wheezing thud onto the lawn. Stunned, he opened his eyes to see her peering down at him from the fort's roof ten feet above.

“Don't you touch him,” she panted, glaring in the direction of the house. “This little scrapper's mine!”

Max wildly scanned the house and yard but saw no one else. Then he realized Mrs. Millen's head had vanished. He heard the trapdoor clatter shut as she began her descent.

Moaning, Max struggled to his feet. His leg threatened to collapse beneath him as he rounded the side of the house, but he managed to limp up the driveway toward the street. Turning, he saw Mrs. Millen galloping after him.

Rounding the corner to the front yard, Max collided with a man, who let out a groan and dropped his briefcase. Max screamed, shut his eyes, and began fiercely pummeling him.

“Hey there! Ouch! Stop hitting me!” the man exclaimed, taking firm hold of Max's arms. Max whipped around, expecting Mrs. Millen to come barreling around the house. She did not.

“Are you all right, my boy?” the man asked in a subdued British accent.

Max felt the grip on his arms relax. He turned and looked up at the person before him. It was not the white-eyed stranger from the museum. Tall and impeccably dressed in a navy suit, this man had sandy hair, a high forehead, and wire glasses. He gave a nervous smile and eyed Max's hard, trembling fists.

“Was she talking to you?” Max demanded.

“Excuse me—
who?
”

Max collapsed before he could find the words.