The Keepers (7 page)

“What is this?” he breathed.

Behind him, a polite cough. Mr. Meister stood there, his huge eye roving eagerly across Horace and the box. Horace swung the lid of the box closed. The two halves came together with a satisfying
snick
.

“I will ask for your caution in this moment, my young friend,” Mr. Meister said. His voice was as mild as his stare was keen. “The box is a subtle contrivance, and I would like to avoid any mishaps.”

Horace slipped the box back into its pouch and pulled it tightly to his chest. For some reason, he was terrified that Mr. Meister would take the box away from him.

But Mr. Meister only smiled. “I gather you would like this to be yours?”

Horace wanted to say the box was the most wonderful and important thing he had ever seen, or would ever see. He wanted to say the box already
was
his. He wanted to say he would not be able to leave this place without it. But he could hardly speak. He pressed the box harder against his chest. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. Finally he said, “This was made for me.”

“Better to say that you were made for it.” The old man's face was full of a quivering energy. “Be at ease, Horace. I will not take the box from you. Indeed, let me speak aloud the truth you are already beginning to know: the box is yours now.”

“To keep?” Horace asked, his voice squeaking.

“Yes, to keep. This box has been in my possession for twenty years, but it was never mine so deeply as it is already yours.”

“You don't want to keep it?”

“Goodness no. I could not even use it if I tried. It belongs to you now, Horace. You know that it does. Need I say it again?”

Horace shook his head, his throat closing. He tried to summon words of gratitude but could not. At the front of the
room, the trilling birdsong began to rise again. Horace listened, swaying, feeling buoyant and loose and happy.

“Your place in the world is changing, Horace. You feel this, yes?”

“I'm not sure what I feel. I feel . . . like I'm falling. Like gravity is pulling me somewhere strange.” He looked down at the box, lost for words. “I know something is happening to me, but I don't know what.”

Mr. Meister nodded, his wide eyes warm and shining. “This is the first stage of the Find.”

“The Find? What is that?”

“It is a becoming.”

“Becoming what?”

“What you are. But do not overthink it. All you need to know for now is that this connection you feel—this pull toward the box—it is good and right and true. The rest will be revealed in due course.”

Horace nodded. He didn't really understand, and he had a habit of overthinking things, but he found that he could not quite summon up his usual curious urgency. The box was in his hands. He felt floaty and untouchable. He watched as Mr. Meister lifted the clockwork ball and the miniature earth from the
OF SCIENTIFIC INTEREST
bin, making them disappear into his vest. Up front, the birds kept sewing their river of song. “Those birds,” Horace said at last. “You sure do have a lot of birds.”

“Ah, the birds, yes,” said Mr. Meister. “They are a precaution.”

“Against Dr. Jericho?”

Mr. Meister's face contracted, becoming hard and serious. “Just so,” he said, his voice like a hammer. “Against him, and others of his kind. You saw him this morning, yes? Was he alone?”

The terror of Horace's flight from the thin man had drifted apart, pushed by the easy waters of this new peace. The box was in his hands. Still, he recognized the anxiety on Mr. Meister's face. “Yes. He chased me.”

“Chased you?” Mr. Meister said, clearly alarmed. “He was aware of your presence? But were you not carrying the leestone?”

Horace rubbed his thumb across the engraving on the pouch, tracing the infinity symbol. “I was, but . . .” He tried to remember how it had happened, what he had done. “There was a girl, about my age, wearing a green hoodie. She helped me.”

“A girl. What was her name?”

“I have no idea. Bossy McSomething.”

Mr. Meister didn't laugh. He studied Horace, then began to rummage through his vest pockets. There seemed to be hundreds of them—pockets within pockets, even. The old man pulled out a tiny notebook and a stubby pencil. He began to scribble, muttering. He finished, tucked the notebook away, then dug through his pockets again. He produced a delicate white sphere, roughly leestone sized, but shoved it back with a grunt of impatience. He stalked off, scanning the shelves
of bins. Horace followed, still cradling the box. Mr. Meister stopped and stretched high to reach into a wooden bin marked
RAVENS
'
EYES
. He pulled out a small dark purple sphere and thrust it into Horace's face. “This was the color of the leestone when it was presented to you, yes?”

“Yes,” Horace replied, glad that the leestone hadn't been one of a kind.

“And what color is it now?”

“It
isn't
,” he said. “The last I saw, it was almost clear all the way through.”

Mr. Meister's face went slack with shock. “A single day,” he muttered. Then his gaze grew sharp again. “I believe I am correct in guessing that you no longer possess the leestone.”

Horace told him the whole story as best he could. It seemed like a thing that had happened to someone else. When he described the destruction of the leestone, Mr. Meister interrupted, “If I may ask, what prompted you to do this thing?”

“I'm not sure. I guess I thought that if whatever was inside the leestone was let out, all at once, it would distract him. I thought maybe he wouldn't be able to look away.”

“And so it was,” Mr. Meister said. “Remarkable.”

“But I don't know why. I don't know what a leestone is. I don't even know who Dr. Jericho is. Or
what
he is.”

“He is the enemy.”

“That's no kind of answer,” Horace replied.

“On the contrary, Horace, it is the heart of the answer. To
know your enemy is to know where you stand.”

“No,” Horace said. “No, that's wrong. I think you have to know where you stand before you can know your enemy. And I don't know where I stand.” He looked down at the box in his hands. “I only know exactly one thing right now.”

Mr. Meister stood in silence for several breaths before speaking. “Well spoken, Horace, my friend. And forgive me for the blindnesses you must endure. But for now you only need to know one thing about Dr. Jericho: stay away from him.”

“That's the same advice Mrs. Hapsteade gave me. It didn't turn out too well.”

“Fortunately, I have the solution you need.” They cut across the aisle and worked their way toward the front, stopping before a wide, shallow bin with a single item in it—a small statue of a turtle with a bird on its back. The bin was marked:

For the Initiate

Initiate
. The word sent a tingle across Horace's skin. The statue itself was about six inches high, very lifelike, carved from some dark stone. The turtle's face was lifted to the sky, eyes closed. Atop it, the bird looked alertly off to the side, like it was keeping guard. It had a thick hooked beak and huge taloned feet that gripped the turtle's shell.

“Is that a crow?” Horace asked.

“A raven. A formidable creature, extremely intelligent.”

“And how is this going to help me?”

“This is a leestone, Horace. A mighty one. So mighty that I feel confident entrusting you to it.”

Horace frowned. “I hope it works better than the last one. I think that one was defective or something.”

“Not defective, no. That was a raven's eye—not a particularly powerful kind of leestone, but it was working just fine. Indeed, it was working hard. Had it failed you utterly, Dr. Jericho might have noticed you the moment he boarded the bus. You see, Horace, a leestone is a kind of distraction. Leestones soak up unwanted attention, absorbing and draining the focus of those who would seek you out. Focus, thought, perception—the contents of the leestone absorb all these in the same way a black cloth absorbs light.”

Horace considered this. “So that's why destroying the raven's eye distracted Dr. Jericho? I released what was inside, and all his attention was drawn to it.”

“Just so.”

“You said the raven's eye was working hard. And you were surprised it faded so fast. Did it fade because Dr. Jericho was thinking about me? It was absorbing his thoughts?”

“Correct again. You have a scientist's mind indeed. Like that black cloth in the sun, the raven's eye fades with use. Clearly your first encounter with Dr. Jericho yesterday made an impression on him.”

“But if the raven's eye was working, how did he know
what bus I was on?”

“I doubt that he did. Understand first that it's the warehouse that draws him to this neighborhood, not you. He and his brethren are always searching for it, though they are unlikely to find it. As for why Dr. Jericho boarded the exact bus you were already on?” Mr. Meister waved a hand through the air. “The raven's eye might have lost some potency, yes. Clearly Dr. Jericho can sense the . . . difference in you, when he gets close enough. But perhaps, Horace, it was not you that drew him onto the bus today at all.” His face tightened into a knot of thoughtfulness for a moment, his mind clearly elsewhere. Horace understood at once—the girl in the green hoodie. What could the thin man possibly want with her? Was she different, too?

Mr. Meister stirred, laying a hand on the statue. “But back to the issue at hand. This leestone is many times more powerful than an ordinary raven's eye, and it will not fade. Take it home, keep it there, and all who live under your roof will be protected, wherever they go. Should you encounter Dr. Jericho—on the street, at your school, even outside this very warehouse—he will take no notice of you and may, in fact, even avoid you without realizing that he has done so. Unless, of course . . .” Here he paused and looked pointedly at Horace.

“Unless what?”

“Unless, of course, you were to do something drastic, to draw attention to yourself in some way. Or—especially—if
you were to brandish something that was of particular interest to him.” His eyes dropped to the box.

And with those words, the peaceful veil Horace had been wrapped in was yanked away. Sparks of anger and fear flared up inside him. Questions blossomed in his head like fireworks. “The thin man . . . Dr. Jericho. He's hunting the box?”

“He will take it from you if he can, yes.”

“Why?”

“He collects instruments like the box.” He swept his arm across the warehouse. “Just as Mrs. Hapsteade and I do.”

“But how did Dr. Jericho even know I would find the box? How did you?”

“I did not know. Nor did he. Even now he does not know you possess the box.”

“Why was he after me, then?”

“As I said, he sensed the difference in you.” The old man's voice was maddeningly calm.

“What difference?”

“You have an affinity, Horace. An aptitude.”

“I don't even know what that means.”

“Let us say you have a talent.”

“For what?”

“That is for you to discover.”

Horace frowned down at the ground, squeezing the box against his belly and clenching his other fist. So many questions, and so few answers—he thought he would burst. He bent and pressed his forehead against the box, soaking in its
presence, letting the veil of easy peace begin to fall over him once again. “Okay,” he said at last. “Okay. I guess you won't tell me more. Even if I don't understand
why
.” He straightened and looked at the leestone again, gazing at the raven's shining eyes. He reached out and rubbed the head of the bird. “Ravens. And a turtle. My mom likes turtles.”

Mr. Meister pressed his lips together, as if he were suppressing a smile. “A happy circumstance, with Mother's Day upon us. The leestone would be a most appropriate gift, Horace, in ways you cannot yet begin to fathom. Let me prepare it for you, and you can take it home to your mother. As for the box, it must go with you as well—but perhaps your mother does not need to know about it quite yet, yes? Nor anyone else.”

Horace nodded but again could not find the right words. Mr. Meister puttered around and found some cloth to wrap the leestone in. He made no such offer for the glass-bottom box, and that was just as well; Horace had no intention of letting the old man touch it.

Mr. Meister saw Horace all the way to the front door. He reassured Horace that with the leestone in hand, he would see no sign of Dr. Jericho on the way home. When he cracked the front door open, throwing a long slice of bright sun onto the dark entryway, Mr. Meister stepped into the light, closing his eyes and lifting his face.

“We don't get much of this, of late,” he said, basking. He gave Horace a last stern look. “Remember, Horace: use the
box with caution. Whenever you use the box outside your home, you run the risk of drawing Dr. Jericho's attention, even from a distance—leestone or no.”

“Use the box?” Horace asked. “But what does it even do?”

The old man fussed with his Möbius-strip ring. “I cannot tell you that, Horace, for many reasons, reasons that range from the practical to the sacred. You are in the Find. The path before you belongs to you alone, for a while. It may not be an easy path, but eventually something will happen. Clarity will come. Afterward, we will speak more.”

“Why won't it be easy? What will happen?”

But Mr. Meister shook his head. “You must experience the Find for yourself, Horace. Be with the box. Once you have come to an understanding, we will meet again, and much will be revealed.”

Horace sighed. “So I guess it's good luck to me, then, huh?”

The old man hesitated, then cleared his throat. “The coming days are likely to bring you discomfort, Horace—confusion, anger, even despair. But I believe I can give you two pieces of advice that may help you through the Find.” He leaned closer, his left eye keen and searching. “These are not really warnings, but simple facts. Do you understand me?”