The Hound of Rowan (33 page)

“As you know, Bram was never seen again after Solas fell. After the survivors reached these shores and this school was built, Brigit spent her days wading in the surf, looking east in hope of her husband's return. He never came. The legend says that one day Brigit disappeared and that rock emerged offshore in her stead. Some people—like Mr. Morrow, I'd imagine—insist the rock resembles a woman, dressed in a nightgown and staring out to sea.”

Max pressed his nose against the window and squinted. It was too dark to see the rock in any detail.

“Try as I might, I don't see it—not even by daylight.” Miss Boon sighed. “Tell me later if you can. I think you'll get very familiar with Brigit's Vigil while you and Alex are scrubbing the
Kestrel
. Good night, Max.”

Max watched her go in a series of brisk, efficient steps across the room and down the stairs. He checked his security watch. He still had forty-five minutes before the chimes would sound again.

As Max smoothed down the book's pages, his fingers seemed to crackle with electricity. The Hound of Ulster stared back at him from the book, his handsome face brimming with youth and purpose. Max leaned back to read, setting his watch to beep several minutes before the chimes.

Cúchulain's tale takes place in Ireland at a time when that country was not united but divided into four great kingdoms. Like many heroes, Cúchulain was the son of a god: the sun deity, Lugh, who took the form of a mayfly and flew into the wine cup of a noblewoman on her wedding day. After drinking the wine, she was spirited away with her maidens to the Sidh—the Land of Faerie—as a flock of swans.

This noblewoman was sister to the king of Ulster, northernmost of Ireland's four kingdoms, and thus many warriors searched for her throughout the land. A year later, the king himself came upon a house where his sister was found with a small child. The baby's name was Setanta. It was decided that he should come to live with the king when he had reached boyhood.

Some years later, as the noble children of Ulster played on the field, a youth appeared and stole away their hurling ball to score a goal. As the boy was unknown and uninvited, the other children turned on him. Instead of fleeing, the youth ran wild among them, making each give way before his fierceness. The boy announced that he was Setanta, bidden by his mother to seek the king.

At the king's court, Setanta was prized above all other youth. Thus one day he was invited to join the king's company for a feast at the home of the blacksmith, Culann. In these days, smiths were vital to a kingdom, and Culann's stature rivaled even that of the king. The king's company had departed for the smith's home before Setanta had left the playing fields, and the boy was left to travel alone across the countryside.

It was dark when Setanta approached the smith's house, which was filled with light and the sounds of laughter. It was then that Setanta heard the growl of the smith's hound, which had been loosed to protect his lands at nightfall. As the great wolfhound crouched to spring, Setanta hurled his ball with all his strength down the beast's gullet, nearly splitting the creature in two. While the animal howled, the boy took hold and dashed its body against a stone until it was torn to pieces.

Max stopped breathing and read the paragraph again. It was horribly familiar. This was the very dream that had haunted him ever since he had seen the tapestry. He thought of the monstrous hound with its shifting face.
“What are you about?”
it always demanded of him.
“Answer quick or I'll gobble you up!”
Max covered his mouth and glanced at his watch. He knew he needed to speak to David and that Nick would be getting hungry, but both would have to wait.

When Setanta looked up from the hound's body, he saw that the king's men had assembled around him. Culann the blacksmith was angry.

“I welcome thou, little lad,” said Culann, “because of thy mother and father, but not for thine own sake. I am sorry for this feast.”

“What hast thou against the lad?” asked the king.

The smith replied, “It is my misfortune that you have come to drink my ale and eat my food, for my livelihood is lost now after my dog. That dog tended my herd and flocks. Now all I have is at risk.”

“Be not angered, Culann my master,” said the boy. “I will pass a just judgment upon this matter.”

“What judgment would thou pass, lad?” asked the king.

“If there is a pup of that dog in Ireland, I shall rear him till he is fit to do his sire's business. Until that day, I will be the hound to protect his flocks, his lands—and even the smith himself!”

The men laughed at the fierce boy's pledge, but the king weighed the words and marked them a fair offer. On that day, the boy left behind his childhood name and became known as Cúchulain—the Hound of Culann.

Cúchulain was fierce and proud and anxious to become a warrior. So it was that one day he overheard the king's druid and advisor remark that the child who took up arms that day would have the greatest name in Ireland but his life would be a short one. Upon hearing this, Cúchulain raced to the king, demanding his right to take arms that very hour.

“Who put that idea into your head?” inquired the king.

“The druid,” responded the boy.

Having great respect for the druid's councils, but ignorant of the latest prophecy, the king relented, and Cúchulain ran off to the smithy. No weapon could be found to match the boy's strength. Spears and swords were shattered until at last, the king allowed the boy to try his own. Only these proved true. When the druid saw this, he cried out, “Who has told this child to take arms this day?” to which the king replied that it was the druid himself. When the druid denied this and told the king of the prophecy, the king was furious and confronted his nephew.

“You have lied to me!”

“I have not,” replied the boy. “You asked only who put the idea in my head and I answered truthfully. It was the druid!”

Although the king was saddened, he acknowledged the boy spoke the truth. And so it was that Cúchulain took up the king's arms and became Ulster's champion.

Cúchulain's legend spread rapidly. Fighting on foot or from his chariot, he conquered Ulster's enemies. It was said that in battle he shook like a tree in the flood and his brow shone so bright he was near impossible to look upon. Chief among his weapons was the “gae bolg”—a great spear whose wound was always fatal.

Cúchulain's greatest feats occurred during the Cattle Raid of Cooley, a war sparked by a squabble between husband and wife. The queen of Connacht, another of Ireland's four great kingdoms, argued with her husband over whose heritage and possessions were greater. The two matched each other until it was revealed that her husband owned a magical white-horned bull named Finnenbach. The queen could find no equal among her herds and, consumed by jealousy, sent her emissaries to Ulster, where she sought Finnenbach's rival, the Brown Bull of Cooley. Her offer refused, the queen resolved to take the bull by force.

The queen chose an auspicious time for her raid into Ulster. The men of that kingdom suffered from an ancient curse that weakened them for a time each year. As the queen's armies raided north, the men of Ulster were bedridden and powerless to stop her. Not being born in Ulster, Cúchulain was spared the curse and stood alone against the queen's armies. Cúchulain came upon them at night, killing the outriders and leaving only heads behind as a warning to turn back. So devastating was his onslaught that the queen's soldiers quaked at the mention of his name and the armies were brought to a standstill.

The queen sought desperately to negotiate with him, promising riches and reward if he should give way. Cúchulain refused these temptations until, finally exhausted by his efforts, he agreed to a bargain. In exchange for halting his nightly attacks, he would meet a single champion of the queen's each day. While the two fought, her armies could continue on their march. If and when the queen's champion was defeated, her armies were obligated to stop and camp.

Each day, Cúchulain met a different champion at the river and fought while the queen's armies raced deep into Ulster. So impressive were his feats that Morrigan, the death goddess, watched from above in the form of three ravens. Finally, the queen sent forward a kinsman of Cúchulain's who now served Connacht. Preying upon Cúchulain's loyalty, the kinsman pleaded with the youth to give way—as a favor to one who had raised him. Reluctantly, Cúchulain stood aside and relinquished the field. Galloping ahead, the queen's riders seized the bull and rushed back to Connacht with their prize.

Once reunited, the magic bulls went mad in an attempt to destroy each other. In their rage, the bulls devastated the surrounding countryside and were never seen again.

Max put the book down. He tried to envision the tapestry he had seen at the museum. His mind wandered over its threads of green and gold, the brilliant glow that erupted from the scene within it. He understood that scene now. The sleeping soldiers were the weakened men of Ulster, unable to protect the Brown Bull of Cooley. The approaching warriors were undoubtedly the soldiers of the queen of Connacht. Cúchulain stood tall in the distance.

While the images were clear to Max, the interpretation of the story was not. After all, Cúchulain had
failed
—the queen was able to get the bull despite his acts of heroism. Was Max somehow destined to fight the good fight but fail? Was
his
life to be short? Max turned the page and poked gingerly at the bump on his head. His eyes fell upon a discolored illustration of a wounded warrior tied to a stone pillar. The heading read “The Death of Cúchulain.”

Max quietly closed the book.

His head ached and his mind raced with too many questions to count. With a sigh, he slipped the book into his bag and walked once more to the windows. The campus was quiet; just a few lanterns bobbed along the paths. Max turned to go when a small flash of green light danced on the window. It disappeared suddenly. Squinting, Max hooded his eyes against the window's glare and peered deep into the night. Another pinpoint of green light shot from the black mass of Brigit's Vigil. It bobbed and hovered in front of Max's eyes before disappearing a moment later. He stayed at the window another ten minutes, but the light did not return.

                  
18                  

S
MUGGLERS ON THE
N
ORTH
A
TLANTIC

T
he morning sky beyond the observatory dome was a pale blue. Max frowned with concentration beneath it, flipping through a thick booklet full of glossy charts as David came downstairs to join him at the table.

“What did Ms. Richter say?” asked Max, turning the booklet sideways to read a particularly detailed chart.

“Bad news,” said David. “Two of the four paintings are actually forgeries—the Enemy has already stolen them.”

Max looked up. “Which ones?”

David retrieved two posters from his desk: one was a Vermeer of a girl reading a letter; the other was a Rembrandt depicting Abraham's sacrifice of his son, Isaac. Max stared at them, abandoning his booklet on the table.

“I don't get it,” said Max, glancing up. “If they wanted to hide the fact that some paintings were stolen, why wouldn't they just replace all of them with forgeries? Then we wouldn't even know they were after paintings.”

David nodded.

“It's a good point, but the forgeries needed to be real—made by hand, that is. Any traces of enchantment would have aroused suspicion. Not too many people can forge a Rembrandt or a Vermeer, so they would only be able to leave behind forgeries for a few,” said David. He leaned down to read the spine of the booklet Max had been reading earlier. “What does your Course Analysis say?” he asked.

Max shook his head slowly from side to side.

“I'm never sure with these things. I wish they'd write them in English.” Max pushed the slim white booklet full of crisp blue graphs and analyst commentary toward his roommate.

“They say some good things,” David allowed, skimming through it. He selected a paragraph from the summary page. “‘McDaniels continues to demonstrate capabilities well beyond the normal Apprentice spectrum. As illustrated in scenarios MMCD048, MMCD071, and MMCD093, his Amplification abilities are at Agent levels and will continue to be monitored very closely. Relative to peers, McDaniels is among the top four in scenarios involving live adversaries, including four scenarios with random vye generation. Ratings on Strategy Execution continue to be high, and McDaniels's aggressiveness should prove to be an asset if it can be applied more selectively. Due to exceptional physical abilities, McDaniels currently has the highest Course rating among both First and Second Year Apprentices.'”

“That
does
sound pretty good!” said Max, perking up considerably. David started giggling.

“What?” said Max, his smile frozen at the sound of David's sudden laughter.

“Well, you can read the rest,” his roommate said, failing to suppress a smile as he handed the booklet back to Max. “Second paragraph, summary section.”

Max scanned the page, murmuring aloud as David picked up a discarded sock and sniffed it before dropping it in a hamper.

“‘McDaniels's slide from the top spot is as imminent as it is inevitable. His combination of gutter ratings on Strategy Selection coupled with high marks on Strategy Execution are a disaster waiting to happen; the operational equivalent of running very fast in the wrong direction.

“‘Running very fast in the wrong direction seems to come naturally to McDaniels and has been a common theme in his more amusing scenarios. We can recommend MMCD006, MMCD-052, and MMCD076 as personal favorites, although other colleagues swear by MMCD037 as a candidate for this year's highlight reel. Unfortunately, these tendencies are a fatal flaw, and we recommend McDaniels's scenario options be restricted to those emphasizing Issue Identification and Strategy Selection. In his long-term interests, McDaniels should be prohibited from accessing those scenarios that allow raw physical execution to overcome glaring strategic flaws. One can only hope that a steady diet of Strategy scenarios will help him overcome lazy mental tendencies and build a strong foundation for longer-term success.'”

Max blinked twice and flung the booklet on the table. He whirled at David.

“Can they write that?”

“Don't take it all so personally,” said David, slipping on his running shoes. “What happened with your Strategy midterm?”

“Failed it,” Max replied, casting a final angry glance at his booklet. “But at least Boon passed me on my Mystics midterm—then again, I think that's just so I'll talk to her about my vision. Does she ask you about yours?”

David turned toward his wardrobe to change shirts.

“Not really. I told her I forgot mine,” he said.

“I said the same thing, but I don't think she believes me….”

Max trailed off as he caught a glimpse of David's chest in the wardrobe's mirrored door. A long, ugly scar trailed down its center from chest to navel. The small, pale boy pulled on his athletics shirt.

There was a knock at the door.

David shuffled up the steps. A moment later, Max heard a bloodcurdling shriek.

“Get it away from me!
Get it away from me!
” Mum's voice screeched.

“Max, I think it's for you,” called David evenly.

Bounding up the stairs, Max saw Mum backed into the hallway, slumped against the wall with her hands over her eyes. A small basket was overturned on the floor; a variety of nutrition bars were scattered around.

Mum stabbed an accusatory finger at Bob, who chuckled softly.

“You
knew
that Max lived with that thing!” she sobbed. “That's why you insisted Mum do the knocking! You could have given me a heart attack tricking me into standing face to face with that hideous, wretched thing!
A heart attack!
Oh, it was so gruesome!”

David rolled his eyes.

“Sorry, Mum,” interjected Max. “Er, what are you guys doing all the way up here?”

Bob started to speak until Mum shushed him with a furious waving of her hands.

“You keep quiet!” she hissed. “Just you wait and see what I can hide in a grilled-cheese sandwich! Ooh! The soup will be even better!”

Mum started giggling and seemed to forget the original purpose of her visit. Bob cleared his throat, causing her to blink several times. Suddenly, the hag launched into a dramatic curtsy.

“Max McDaniels, we have come to nourish your body and provide an honor guard on this blessed day of greatest promise.”

“Excuse me?” asked Max, raising his eyebrows.

“Bob and Mum are here to walk you to your tests,” Bob translated.

Mum glared at Bob for the intrusion.

This was the morning that the First Years would be undergoing their monthly fitness measures—a series of events similar to a modified decathlon. The periodic tests were not normally a matter of great interest except that Max was now very close to breaking several records. He looked down the hallway to see several sleepy Second Years who had poked their heads out their doors, apparently roused from sleep by Mum's shrill voice. Alex Muñoz's brooding face was among them.

“Thanks for the…escort!” said Max, ushering David out the door and shutting it behind them. “We'd better get going.”

Mum took a slimy, possessive hold of his arm as the four walked down the hall. She insisted that David stay well ahead, so she could keep an eye on him. Several Second Years wished Max good luck as they passed; Alex merely closed his door. For the past week, the two of them had endured their daily punishment in relative peace, scraping and scrubbing the
Kestrel
's hull in tense silence.

As they reached the stairs, Mum fished a nutrition bar from her basket.

“Eat this,” she whispered. There was a sly hint of conspiracy in her voice. “I got them special just for you. It wasn't easy, I can tell you! They're very
modern
!”

Max
was
hungry and glanced down at the granola bar in its silver wrapper. He unwrapped it and took a bite, causing Mum to swoon with pleasure and flash her fierce crocodile smile.

“Don't tell anyone I gave you that,” she breathed quickly. “I'm not sure it's legal.”

“I won't,” Max promised, ignoring David's giggle and giving her a nod of reassurance.

         

Despite the early promise of a clear day, wisps of cool, damp fog blew in off the ocean. David ran back to their room to grab sweatshirts, returning just as Old Tom rang eight o'clock. The four had to hurry toward the athletic fields, which shattered Mum's hopes for a stately procession. She cursed the entire way.

Seeing YaYa alerted Max that something was unusual. The ki-rin's great head was visible near the bleachers. Max called ahead to David.

“Is that YaYa? What's she doing here?”

David just turned and gave a little smile.

They rounded the Field House to see the bleachers filled with several hundred students and faculty, who burst into a cheer as Max arrived. Nick raced toward Max, running tight little circles around him and shaking his tail with a metallic whir. Max bent down and scooped him into his arms. The lymrill promptly hooked his claws into Max's sweatshirt and relaxed, becoming a considerable dead weight.

Max turned and scanned the chattering crowd. Jason Barrett was there, hollering and clapping with most of the Sixth Years. Sitting on one of the lower seats was Julie, holding her camera and laughing at something said nearby. She snapped a quick photo of Max. Mr. McDaniels was there, too, waving wildly and sitting with Mr. Morrow, who puffed steadily on his pipe.

Hearing a whistle, he turned to see M. Renard impatiently shooing away Hannah, who did not appear at all pleased about it. She waddled toward Max, the goslings in tow.

“Hello, dear,” her honey voice cooed. “Good luck today. We're all rooting for you. And I had a few words with
that man
to keep it fair.”

“Thanks, Hannah,” Max said, taking another glance at the crowd, not at all sure he wanted an audience. The whistle blew again, and Max trotted to where M. Renard had gathered the class. The instructor had a cold and blew his nose into a handkerchief with a loud honk.

“All right, my little sausages. Today you make me proud, yes?”

The children nodded.

“We will do the tests in alphabetical order, as always, except for the races, which will be paired by your most recent times. Ignore all these people—focus on each task and do your best. Does anyone have anything to say?”

Connor raised his hand.

“Yes, sir.” He leaned across the circle of classmates and jabbed a finger in Max's chest. “We went through a lot of trouble to drum up this crowd, so don't you screw it up!”

Everyone burst into laughter; even M. Renard cracked a smile as he brought the whistle to his lips to signal the first task. Max shook his hands loose and took a long look at the stretch of track before him.

         

An hour later, Max was consumed by assorted cheers, roars, honks, and shouts. Hoisted onto the shoulders of Jason and another Sixth Year, he caught his breath and looked far across the fields to where his javelin's flag fluttered in victory. YaYa stood to her full height and bowed; David held Nick tightly to keep the lymrill from hurting himself. Mr. McDaniels almost trampled a row of students in his hurry to reach the field, while Mr. Morrow merely doffed his cap and waved from the stands, his expression strangely sad. The Humanities instructor raised a bottle of champagne to Max and took a sip before passing it back to Mr. Watanabe and Miss Boon, who followed suit. Max waved back, trying to ignore Mum's nearby shrieks that he owed his triumph to her “miracle treats.”