Unnatural (7 page)

Michael turned to her and he thought she would break tradition and offer some words of love and wisdom that she had failed to say all the time he had been
living with her, but instead she hugged him tightly, and when she pulled back, she placed a folded envelope in his hand. “This is for you” was all she could say before the lump in her throat interfered with her speech. Michael stood there and watched the short, gray-haired woman, wearing clothes that she made herself, clutch her pocketbook and walk slowly away. He knew it would be the last time he would ever lay eyes on her.

   He couldn’t wait any longer. He had wanted to read his grandma’s letter when they were flying over the Atlantic Ocean, but that wouldn’t be for another hour. Thousands of miles above Kentucky or Pennsylvania or some landlocked state, his curiosity proved stronger than his discipline and he pulled the envelope out from his backpack, where he had stuffed it upon boarding the plane. Before he opened it, though, he knew it wasn’t from his grandma. He recognized the handwriting as his mother’s.

He waited for his hands to stop trembling and then he used his index finger as a letter opener to break the seal. There was only one page, one page of his mother’s scribbled handwriting, dated the day she killed herself.

Tears fell onto the paper without warning. Michael turned to face the window, shielding his face from the other passengers. Even in death his mother was a mystery to him. What did her letter mean?
Protect me from what? Warn me about England? My father?
Michael didn’t understand.
I can’t run from myself?
So she knew. She knew and she never said anything. Why would she waste her time writing something like that minutes before she put an end to her own miserable life when she
never took a moment while she was alive to say,
Yes, Michael, I’m as unhappy in this place as you are
or
I understand what you’re going through?
Her letter, like her life, made no sense. So Michael chose to ignore it.

Just as he crumbled up the letter into a tiny ball, the pilot announced that they were now flying over the Atlantic Ocean. Finally, he was going to be separated from his past. He wasn’t running from anything, but moving toward something greater. Michael brushed away his tears; he didn’t need them any longer. He didn’t need to feel sorry for himself or conceal his truth and he definitely didn’t need his mother or her insane instructions. Because on the other side of the water, his life was about to begin.

Outside, the earth was new.

The moment Michael stepped off the plane, he knew his life had changed. He was not in Weeping Water, Nebraska, any longer and try as he might he couldn’t conceal the smile on his face. It stayed there even when he saw the text on his cell phone from his father’s assistant advising him that Vaughan was called away to Istanbul for an emergency meeting, so his father’s driver would be picking Michael up to take him directly to Archangel Academy. That was a change in plan. But his own driver? Istanbul? He had definitely entered a world in which the town of Weeping Water didn’t exist.

His smile remained even when he had a flashback to
when he was seven or eight and his father had promised he would visit so the two of them could spend the week together, just them, fishing, camping, doing the type of father-and-son stuff that Michael had seen fathers and sons do on television and in the movies. But as Michael lay in his bed, dressed in his fishing outfit so he wouldn’t have to waste time getting dressed in the morning, Vaughan called to cancel. Loose business ends needed to be tied up. For a moment, standing alone in the airport, time halted and Michael was that little boy again, disappointed but determined not to show his true feelings. “That’s all right, Dad, I understand,” Michael said back then alone in his bedroom before crying himself to sleep. And that’s what he said now.

Now, however, there weren’t any tears and his disappointment didn’t sting as sharply. His father was a busy man, his calendar ever-changing, and Michael understood that. He knew that very soon they’d have their own moments together and they would be worth the wait. For now he would be content to know that his father wanted him back in his life, as hectic and unpredictable as that life might be. In the meantime, he needed to find his chauffeur.

Among the crowd of people in the airport, there was a very tall man holding a sign with the name Howard printed on it. Michael would have recognized him as his father’s driver even if he weren’t holding his last name in his hands. Dressed cap to boots in black, most of it leather, the man possessed the austere quality needed to be an employee of Howard Industries.

“You must be my driver,” Michael said.

“Follow me,” the driver responded. “Your bags are already in the car.”

Even though the man’s black-framed sunglasses prohibited Michael from seeing his eyes, he was sure they weren’t smiling. This man was all business. But Michael didn’t care; he was thousands of miles away from a life he never felt accustomed to and about to start what even his mother called the adventure of a new life. Despite the knowledge that he was on his own for the first time in his life, he could feel little bolts of energy pulse through his veins. He looked around at the faces passing by him—tourists, businessmen, employees. Could they tell? Could they tell that Michael was happier and more excited than he had ever been in his entire life? He knew he shouldn’t feel this way; only a few short days ago he had buried his mother, only a few short hours ago he had said good-bye to his grandparents for what could be a very long time, but the difference in his spirit couldn’t be denied. He felt as if he were back where he belonged. And on his way to where he was destined to be, in grand style.

The interior of the car, all black like the driver’s outfit, was plush and luxurious. Michael sank into the seat; the leather was soft and slightly heated and he felt the warmth penetrate and calm his anxious body. The sound of violins, Mozart maybe, drifted into the space from some hidden speakers, unhurried and soft. There was a smell vaguely like cinnamon, but definitely crisp,
autumnal. He closed his eyes, and the memory of his grandfather’s Ranger faded easily.

The car wasn’t quite a limousine, but a sedan with a smoky gray glass partition that separated the backseat from the front so Michael could see the driver but couldn’t converse with him without pressing the red intercom button on the door panel. Not that Michael was in the mood to chat; he was too busy looking out the window, watching the city transform into the countryside. Skyscrapers became oak trees, concrete pavement a rolling green landscape. His life was changing right before his very eyes.

Several hours later, they sped past a sign that welcomed them to Eden, a small town of Cumbria County in the northwestern part of England. Michael pressed a button, and the dark-tinted mirror descended, giving him a better view of the surroundings. Outside, the land looked untouched and the few buildings worn and weather-beaten, as if they were built centuries ago, which Michael figured they most likely were. After a few miles during which time no buildings interrupted the grasslands, they made a right turn onto an even narrower road. “Almost there,” the driver announced.
Almost there.
Those two words were both comforting and uncomfortable and made Michael’s heart leap and his stomach lurch. In a few minutes he would reach his destination here in what could easily be labeled the middle of nowhere. He closed his eyes and asked God, “Please let it be worthy.” When he opened them, he saw that God had not denied his request.

Stepping onto the cobblestone path, Michael could feel the past detach from him and float away on the breeze. As he stood on the uneven walkway, he felt, for the first time in his short life, grounded and as if he had returned home. It was a wonderful, welcoming feeling. And, Michael had to admit, odd. He had never been here before, he had never even heard of Eden or Archangel Academy until his father told him about the school a few days ago, and yet, yet somehow, he knew this was the place he had been dreaming about. This was where he had longed to come when he had longed for something new, something better. He took a deep breath and savored the moment because he had learned, in his short life, that such extraordinary feelings were not ordinary.

He looked around and was awed by the sight of nature at its purest. The grass was so many different shades of green, all of it growing wild and free. Clusters of purple and yellow flowers populated the brush, some large, some small, but all radiant in their color. Trees with thick, gnarled trunks rose high overhead and their branches sprayed out dense with leaves that rustled in the wind, their sound mingled with birdsong. Weeping Water, in comparison, looked like a desert of dry, flat land.

The only artificial element among the scenery was the impressive entrance gate, the top of which had the name Archangel Academy spelled out in an arc made up of twisted pieces of metal. Very tall, but only about thirty yards in length, the gate was decorative and not practical;
it wouldn’t keep trespassers out, but simply announced to all the school’s presence. Michael couldn’t believe that beyond the gate the buildings he saw in the distance comprised one of the most elite boarding schools in the world. From where he stood, they looked like the buildings he saw on the sides of the main road, abandoned stone houses belonging to the past and not part of an institution of higher learning. The metal, the stone, even the wild nature created a strong, masculine appearance. But the look was neutralized by the smell of lavender on the wind, wistful and feminine. All boys were welcome here. Michael stood in front of the gate and gave it a push.
Archangel
separated from
Academy
and the gate easily opened.

“We can drive to the main office,” the driver said from the car.

“I’d rather walk,” Michael replied.

He followed the cobbled path for a little over half a mile until it stopped at a building that looked as old as it had from the gate. Inside the greeting room, the driver was already waiting for him, standing in a corner, Michael’s bags placed around the driver’s feet. The room’s walls were painted a deep forest green to mimic the surroundings and were barren except for a huge rectangular mirror, wider than it was high, that hung on the wall directly in front of the door. The thick frame was dark brown oak decorated with carvings of angels—not cherubs, but guardians, warriors—the seven archangels that gave the school its name.

On the top of the frame, in the left-hand corner, was
the angel Gabriel, foreboding but gentle, making his presence known by holding his celebrated horn to his lips. In the right-hand corner was Raphael in mid-flight, his rippling robes in perfect balance with the strength of his muscular arms. On the side of the frame underneath Gabriel was Uriel, his fiery sword pointing toward the center of the mirror, and below Raphael was Sariel, floating an inch above a crest of bones.

Ramiel lived in the bottom left-hand corner, behind a cloud of thunder, and in the opposite corner was Zachariel, whose face was framed by the sun. Finally, Michael’s eyes rested upon the largest carving, which lay in the bottom center of the frame, the one of his namesake. Michael the archangel was depicted in the traditional image, wings outstretched, sword raised to heaven, his foot pressing down mercilessly on Satan’s neck, his exquisitely carved expression triumphant and a bit vainglorious. Michael knew that feeling. He could feel his own private demons squirming under his feet and so he pressed down firmer to remind them who was in power. He liked it here.

His feeling was revealed by his reflection in the mirror. He noticed that he stood a bit taller. His shoulders weren’t slumped forward and his expression was more relaxed, his brow not so furrowed. He was off to a good start. But then something caught his eye. His reflection, while crisp and certain, was different from the driver’s. Only a portion of the stalwart driver could be seen in the mirror, but in it he appeared smaller, hunched, and a bit hazy. Maybe it was the angle, or all that black.
Michael was about to take another look when the door at the far left corner of the room opened and the headmaster, Mr. Hawksbry, emerged. All thoughts of the driver and his distorted reflection instantly disappeared.

Alistair Hawksbry was a man who commanded attention. At six-two and two hundred fifteen pounds, he wasn’t quite as tall or as powerfully built as the driver, but he exuded the type of physical ease that made his bulk seem standard instead of imposing. He was comfortable in his own skin, which at forty-seven wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was his youthful countenance. His face was still unlined, save one deep cleft on his left cheek that developed into a dimple when he smiled.

“Michael Howard,” Mr. Hawksbry said, his accent precise without sounding affected. “I’m Alistair Hawksbry, headmaster. Welcome to Archangel Academy.”

Mr. Hawksbry’s handshake was firm. “Thank you, sir,” Michael replied. “I’m very happy to be here.”