The Hound of Rowan (5 page)

Mr. McDaniels's smile vanished. “New England? That's hundreds of miles away, Max. How did you win this scholarship?”

Max began fidgeting.

“Um, I guess I did well on some tests and, uh, they found me.”

“And who is this person coming tonight?”

“Someone named Miss Awolowo.”

“Humph,” his father snorted. “That's a mouthful. We'll see what Miss Aloha has to say.”

The two made turkey sandwiches and took turns dipping into a colossal tin of potato chips. Mr. McDaniels regaled Max with stories about a new paper towel that offered astonishing absorbency.

         

Miss Awolowo arrived precisely at eight o'clock. Towering to nearly Mr. McDaniels's height, she was an elegant woman whose age Max found impossible to estimate. She wore multicolored robes, a necklace of heavy beads, and carried a woven bag decorated with flying birds. She placed the bag on the step and extended her hand. Her skin was as smooth and dark as a coffee bean, her voice rich and tinged with an accent.

“You must be Mr. McDaniels. I am Ndidi Awolowo from Rowan Academy. It is my very great privilege to meet you.”

Scott McDaniels paused somewhat awkwardly before concluding the handshake.

“Yes, of course. Very nice to meet you, too. Please come in.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Awolowo, sweeping past him into the foyer, where Max lingered nervously.

“Hello there—you must be Max! I'm Miss Awolowo.”

Max took her hand and felt his apprehension wash away. As with Nigel, there was a reassuring strength and warmth to this woman. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he led her into the living room, where Mr. McDaniels fumbled with coffee and a tray of sugar cookies. Settling at one end of the couch, she directed her bright eyes alternately between Max and his father.

“You have a beautiful home, Mr. McDaniels, and an extraordinary son. I must apologize for visiting on such short notice; we only recently received Max's results. Have you had an opportunity to review the scholarship we would like to offer him?”

“Yes, and we sure do appreciate that, Miss Ahoolaloo.” Max squirmed as his father adopted the tone of voice he used with clients. “That letter got us tickled pink, but I think we're going to have to take a pass. Max's been through a lot these past few years, and I think it's best if he stays close to home.”

Miss Awolowo nodded soberly and paused before replying.

“Yes, please forgive me for being direct, but I am aware of the situation with Mrs. McDaniels. I am sorry.”

“Er, yes. Yes, it's been difficult for us, but we're managing.”

“Of course you are. You're doing a wonderful job, Mr. McDaniels. You've raised a fine boy under very trying circumstances. I do hope, however, that you will not permit a tragedy in your son's past to obstruct a wonderful opportunity in his future.”

“I only want the best for Max,” said his father defensively.

“I know you do,” she said soothingly. “That is precisely what we offer. Our program is better suited to serve your son than a mainstream curriculum. You see, Mr. McDaniels, a boy with Max's aptitude and creativity cannot flourish in a program that does not recognize and develop his unique skills.”

“How does your academy manage to do better?”

“By placing Max among other gifted, creative students from all around the world. By providing him with teachers who understand his gifts and are capable of developing them to their potential.”

“Did you attend Rowan?”

“Yes, I did, Mr. McDaniels. I was visited by a Recruiter in my village in Africa.” She clapped her hands together and gave a girlish laugh. “Ah, it seems like ages ago. My parents did not want to let their baby go; they were afraid of all that might go wrong! But, after a quiet time, my father came to me and said, ‘If a man does not stand for something, he will fall for anything. I want to stand
for you
.'”

Her eyes glistened, and she smiled at the memory. Mr. McDaniels stared at his knobby fingers. His voice was tight when he next spoke.

“I don't know what to do here. It sounds like a good opportunity, but I just don't know if Max is ready for something like this. Max, how do you feel?”

To this point, Max had been happy to be a bystander. Now, with their attention focused on him, he became very nervous.

“I don't know. I don't want to leave you alone.”

“Don't worry about me, Max. I'm a big boy.”

After an awkward silence, Miss Awolowo spoke.

“Mr. McDaniels? Would it be all right if I spoke to Max one on one?”

“Max? Would you like that?”

Max glanced at Miss Awolowo, who waited patiently.

“It's a beautiful summer evening, Max. Why don't we walk around the block and get a breath of fresh air?”

Max looked at his father, who nodded his approval.

         

Miss Awolowo took Max's arm as they walked down the front steps. The night sky was very clear. They walked without speaking, passing quietly under the streetlamp. Giving his arm a soft pat, Miss Awolowo broke the silence.

“Nigel sends his best. You made quite an impression on him—he speaks very highly of you. You have our deepest apologies for that woman's unfortunate visit.”

Max shuddered and focused his eyes on the dark hedges and lawns all around them. Miss Awolowo drew him nearer and hummed a low, pretty tune.

“You have no need to fear, Max. The Enemy is aware of me and knows that I am no trifle. Old Awolowo can be fierce!” She flashed her eyes wide, chuckled, and gave his arm a playful squeeze. Max smiled and tried to relax.

“Miss Awolowo? Who is the Enemy? Nigel wouldn't answer my questions.”

“Yes, well, that's not his job to answer questions of that sort. Will you come with me? I want to show you something.”

Max nodded. Miss Awolowo straightened to her full height and looked down upon him. Her eyes shone silver, and to Max she appeared as wise and beautiful as all the queens in all his old storybooks put together. She smiled and took his hand.

Max's insides squirmed like they had when he saw the tapestry. Only this time it didn't feel like he'd swallowed bees; helium balloons now filled his stomach. His feet tingled as though he'd stepped into a bath that was too hot. When Max looked down to investigate, he gasped.

The sidewalk was shrinking.

Miss Awolowo held his hand tightly as they rose slowly above the streetlamps and dark clumps of trees. They drifted together on the night breeze, leaving houses and parks in their wake as they glided over the treetops and chimneys. They skimmed out over the lake and rose up in gentle spirals.

They soared so high, Max thought they might catch the moon. He laughed and reached out to touch it. He couldn't reach it, though. It continued to hover above them, bright and distant and cold.

“We live in a beautiful world, don't we?”

Miss Awolowo's words shook Max out of his reverie. It had all seemed utterly like a dream until he realized with sudden terror that he was indeed high above the lake with the wind whipping fiercely about him.

Miss Awolowo was serene. “Let's find a more comfortable perch, shall we?”

Max nodded enthusiastically.

With a wide, lazy turn, she guided them toward the Baha'i temple that jutted against the night sky like a massive block of carved ivory. She set them down on its dome, many stories above the trees. They sat side by side, and Miss Awolowo smoothed her robes and clasped her hands together.

“There! That's better.” Running her hand over the intricate stonework about them, she declared, “I
do
love this building. Anyway, are you a bit warmer, my dear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Now take a look up at the sky. What do you see?”

“I don't know,” Max said. “Stars. The moon.”

“You also see a great deal of darkness, don't you? Max, this is our struggle. There is a force in this world that does not love the moon, stars, or sun. It doesn't care for the lights of cities, the joys of laughter, or even the sounds of grief. It doesn't care for
anything
that causes a ripple in the perfect black stillness whence it came. It would devour that moon if it could.”

Max shivered and watched an elderly couple strolling in the gardens far below. Miss Awolowo continued.

“It can't devour the moon, so it seeks to devour man instead. For thousands of years, people have fought against this Enemy in all its many forms. People like you and me.”

Max looked hard at her. Miss Awolowo nodded and touched two fingers to his forehead.

“Yes, Max—people like
you.
You were born a prince, a prince of humankind. For centuries, gifted people have developed their abilities to ensure man can continue to grow and create beautiful things like this very building. Without us, mankind would have perished long ago. Ours is an ancient struggle for survival.”

“And you want me to join this…struggle?”

Miss Awolowo smiled and placed her head on Max's head.

“Nigel said you are a brave boy. But you're far too young to make such a choice. Only Rowan's graduates are asked to make that decision, and some elect to do other things. All I want you to do is to give us a try and see if you like it.”

Max frowned. “What if I decide not to go? Would you be angry?”

Miss Awolowo sat quietly for several moments. Her response was measured.

“I would be disappointed, but certainly not angry. I won't lie to you, however. My desire for you to come to Rowan is very strong. Nigel's report suggests the Old Magic might be in you, that you might be a prince even among our kind. In person, I can see it might be so. The little light within you burns so bright it warms even old Awolowo!”

Her beaded necklace shook with her laughter.

“Yes, Max, that light is very bright indeed. I am only sorry that others have seen it, too. Given what's happened, I think Rowan would be a safer place for you. But I am here only to offer opportunities—you will get no judgments or false choices from me. The decision is yours alone, and it is an important one.”

Max hugged his knees, listening carefully.

Max swiveled from Miss Awolowo and followed the path of a plane far away over the moonlit lake. Its signal light blinked at steady intervals against the deep blue sky. When he turned to her, his face was set and fierce.

“I want to go.”

                  
4                  

T
HE
F
LIGHT TO
R
OWAN

T
he night before he left for Rowan, Max had an extraordinary dream.

He was walking across an open field at dusk, tossing a ball high ahead of him and running forward to catch it. The wind was brisk and the moon was rising as he came to a path that led to a distant house with lighted windows.

Suddenly, something large darted from a nearby hedge and loped onto the path in front of him. It was an enormous wolfhound. It paused and glowered at him.

Max froze. The animal's heavy face began to flicker and shift—momentarily adopting the unmistakable features of Mrs. Millen, Nigel, Miss Awolowo, and the strange man from the train. The hound padded toward Max, a murderous rumble emanating from its throat as its face became his father's.

Max could not move. The hound reared up on its hind legs and placed paws the size of baseball mitts on Max's shoulders. It looked down at him, its breath a series of hot blasts. Growling, it pressed its forehead hard against his and spoke to him:

“What are you about? Answer quick or I'll gobble you up!”

         

When Max opened his eyes, he saw his father sitting at the foot of his bed. He was smiling, but he looked older and tired. Deep circles lined his eyes.

“You sleep just like you did as a little boy.”

Max blinked and propped himself up on his elbows.

“I had a bad dream.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Mr. McDaniels in mock horror. “What about?”

“A big dog,” Max murmured sleepily, pushing his dark hair off his forehead.

“A big dog! Well, did he bite you or did you bite him?”

“Neither,” Max whispered.

His father patted his foot and stood up.

“Well, just remember—it's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.”

Max sank back under the covers and wriggled toward the foot of the bed.

“I know, Dad. You've told me a hundred times.”

“So I have.” Mr. McDaniels chuckled. “Hop in the shower and get ready. Someone from the school is on your flight, and we're supposed to meet him at the airport by eight.”

Max groaned as his father whisked the covers off the bed and drew the curtains to reveal a morning sky of peach and pale gold.

         

Nigel was waiting near the check-in, holding up a paper sign that read
MCDANIELS
and looking rather bored. The Recruiter was dressed neatly in a sport coat but had seen too much sun since his visit with Max. He stopped adjusting his glasses and extended his hand as the McDanielses approached.

“Hello there. You must be Mr. McDaniels—I'm Nigel Bristow from Rowan.”

“Call me Scott, Nigel,” said Mr. McDaniels, taking Nigel's hand. “This is Max, your copilot for the day.”

“Hello, Max,” said Nigel brightly, giving a quick wink. “Thanks for coming along. Flying is such a bore without good company. We're a bit pressed for time, eh? Let's get you checked in.”

Once Nigel had taken Max's duffel and stood in line, Mr. McDaniels gave Max a nudge. “Seems like a nice enough guy,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Max, puzzling over why Nigel would be holding up a sign with his name. Given all that had happened, Max thought his name and travel plans would be more of a secret.

Nigel called over to Max when it was their turn to check in. Max answered the lady's questions and watched his bag disappear down the conveyor.

“Well, we're all set,” said Nigel, clutching their tickets. “I'll leave you a minute to say good-bye to your father,” Nigel said under his breath as the two made their way back to where Mr. McDaniels stood with his hands in his pockets. “I know this sounds cruel, but try to be quick. No tears. It's important.”

Nigel said his farewells and promised to look after Max before joining the long line snaking toward security. Remembering what Nigel told him, Max avoided his father's eyes. He flicked his fingers against his thumbs and looked straight ahead at Mr. McDaniels's big yellow shirt.

“All right, Max. Here's where I say good-bye.”

Max nodded.

“You're just the best, you know. The best boy a father could ask for.”

Max felt his father's arms wrap tightly around him. Max shut his eyes and promised to call and write and say prayers for his mother. When his father finally let him go, Max walked stiffly to where Nigel was waiting. He did not look back.

Nigel left Max to his own thoughts until they were through security.

“Well done,” he said at last. “I know that wasn't easy.”

“Was that
another
test?” asked Max thickly.

“No,” said Nigel. “A precaution. This airport's a very busy place today. We need to avoid anything too
real.
”

“What do you—”

Max cut his own question short as he saw a boy who looked very much like himself walking in the opposite direction. Max blinked. The boy did not just look like him—it looked
exactly
like him.

“Try not to stare,” said Nigel casually, increasing their pace a step. “They're on our side.”

Max passed himself several more times. He noticed that the boys were always accompanied by one or two serious-looking adults.

“You must be tired,” said Nigel quietly as they finally took their seats on the crowded plane. “I bet you had no idea you've been taking over a dozen flights a day for the past three days….”

“But—”

Nigel held up a finger to quiet him.

“Agents. Decoys. We can talk more when we get to Rowan,” said Nigel, procuring a bar of chocolate and a deck of cards from his briefcase. “We're not quite out of the woods.”

Max nibbled the chocolate and listened to the plane's engines as Nigel dealt the cards.

         

Several hours later, the plane set down. Nigel led Max out of the plane, along the moving walkways, and down toward baggage claim.

Nigel had just swung his duffel off the carousel when Max saw someone step out suddenly from behind a nearby pillar.

It was the man from the train—the man with the dead white eye.

His coat was just as dirty and his eye just as unsettling as Max remembered. He stood as still as a stone between them and the exit while people filed past.

“He's here,” Max whispered.

Nigel appeared not to hear as he fumbled with Max's duffel.

“He's here!”
shouted Max, clutching Nigel's arm.

Nigel shot him a puzzled glance before squinting past him.

His face went white.

The Recruiter immediately gripped Max by the collar and spun him around. Nigel marched him back up the stairs they had just descended. As they swam against a tide of startled faces, Max tried to look behind them, but there were too many people.

Nigel was speaking rapidly into a slim phone at his ear, but Max could not hear what was said. They crossed over to the next terminal, where Nigel hurried Max out the sliding doors and into a limousine that had screeched to a sudden halt at the curb.

         

The car sped onto the highway and made its way north while Nigel typed text messages into his phone, looking uncharacteristically grim. Over an hour passed in tense silence before they suddenly veered off the interstate and merged onto a smaller road. They were very near the coast; tall grasses swayed by the roadside as they wound their way past small farms and towns. Weathered signs advertised public beaches, fresh lobster, and clamming excursions. It all seemed very alien.

Nigel glanced out the back window. The road behind them had been empty for miles. Apparently satisfied, he pressed a button and rolled down the window. The warm summer air rushed in, fragrant and heavy with salt.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his serious expression softening to a smile.

“I'm fine now. It was him, you know—that man at the airport. He's the one who was following me at the museum.”

“Yes, I know. He matched your description perfectly. It was a nasty shock, no question about it. But mission accomplished: here you are, safe and sound!”

Max took a deep breath; it seemed the first real breath he'd taken since the airport.

“Nigel, my dad's okay, isn't he? They won't bother him now that I'm here…?”

“He'll be fine, Max,” Nigel said sympathetically. “You're the one they want.”

Nigel looked past Max and pointed at something out the window. Max turned in time to glimpse an old wooden sign:

W
ELCOME TO
R
OWAN
T
OWNSHIP
, E
ST
. 1649

They passed a few tidy cottages on the outskirts. The Atlantic Ocean shimmered ahead as Max took in the clipped lawns, fresh paint, and clean awnings. The town's buildings were old but beautifully maintained. An old-fashioned movie theater rolled past, followed by a town green and a coffeehouse. Beyond these were a jumble of shops and small restaurants. Passing the row of businesses, they arrived at a small white church whose signboard indicated Rowan Academy was just ahead. Max swallowed and felt his pulse quicken.

They turned off the road onto a smooth lane, passing beneath a towering green canopy formed by the overlapping branches of tall, twisty trees lining the road. They accelerated toward a high gate of black iron flanked by a sturdy stone gatehouse. The gate swung inward as they approached. Max tried to get a better look at a striking silver crest when the limousine crossed the threshold, but the gate swung shut behind them.

The road had become a gravel lane, and the car now followed it to the right, plunging into a thick wood of ash and oak and beech.

Max turned to Nigel.

“Why wouldn't you let me say good-bye to my dad? Why did you make me hurry?”

“Oh, that—I
am
sorry. We needed to stay as consistent as possible with the others—those decoys—that preceded you. You did very well.”

“Who
were
those other kids? Are they in danger?”

Nigel smiled.

“Those
weren't
kids, and they are well equipped to deal with any dangers that might arise. You've seen your first Agents, Max.”

Nigel wriggled out of his sport coat and held it up against the window. Max saw large dark stains under the arms. Nigel sighed.

“But I'm
not
an Agent, just a poor old Recruiter caught in the middle and not quite cut out for all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.” He sniffed once at the jacket before folding it neatly on his lap.

“Why were you the one traveling with me, then?” asked Max.

“The Agents insisted I'd be the best decoy out there,” Nigel admitted sheepishly. “They really can be brutal, you know.”

“They were wrong,” Max said. “That man wasn't fooled. And anyway, I'm glad I got to travel with you and not some boring Agent.”