20
FATHER AND SON
Max awoke to the smell of something roasting, something delicious. A breeze of lilac skimmed across his cheek from a nearby window, and he stirred in a bed of smooth sheets. His forearm ached. He touched it and found it was wrapped in thin layers of a spongy material. Max slid upright, resting his back against the headboard. It was twilight, and the room was in shadow: deep purples and blues except for a sliver of yellow light under the door.
Walking slowly out the door and into a hallway, Max heard a chorus of laughter. He steadied himself against the wall with his bandaged hand, ignoring the buzzing in his head and stumbling forward.
A number of adults were having dinner around a large table. A dark-haired woman saw him first, glimpsing him in the doorway during a sip of wine.
“Well, hello there,” she cooed, as though to a lost puppy.
The other adults ceased talking and looked intently at Max.
“He must be famished,” said an apple-cheeked man with a strong Irish accent. “Use a bite to eat, could you, Max?”
Max’s head felt light. He nodded and let the man steer him to a seat at the table, next to a younger woman with red hair. She smiled and fixed him a plate of roast chicken and wild rice. Max grabbed a large piece of chicken and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Sir Alistair must have his hands full with this one,” chuckled a man with glasses.
“Hush!” said the dark-haired woman. She smiled at Max and pushed the plate of carved chicken closer to him. “Welcome to the Dublin safe house, Max.”
Suddenly aware that he was eating in a strange house with strange people, Max put down his piece of chicken. His eyes searched from face to face.
“I’m Max,” he whispered.
“We know—we know all about you, Max McDaniels.” The apple-cheeked man beamed. “You’re very welcome here.”
Like water through a breaking levee, the memories flooded his mind.
“The Potentials!” he gasped. “Ronin! What happened to them? I tried to save Alex, but I couldn’t. He was pulled away from me. Astaroth is awake!” He almost toppled backward.
The red-haired woman caught his chair and eased him forward. She smoothed back his hair and gently quieted him. Max was still for several moments, studying the little flames on the candlewicks.
Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and in walked three men wearing dark clothes that seemed to shift and blend in with the room. To Max’s surprise, Ms. Richter followed on their heels. She gave a cursory nod to the group before her gaze fell on Max, sitting small and hunched at the table. Her eyes twinkled as she studied his face.
“Well, colleagues, our guest is up and about.” Her voice was soft and serious. “Hello, Max. How are you feeling?”
Max frowned at his arm, where the spongy fabric covered the deep gashes and punctures from Cyrus’s teeth. The memories of their struggle on the hilltop were very vivid.
“Alex Muñoz,” Max murmured. “He’s gone….”
“Yes, I know,” said Miss Richter gravely. “It was his watch that summoned help. That crypt is being excavated and examined now. In fact, that is where I have just come from with these gentlemen.”
Max looked at the men in the strange clothes who were now helping themselves to the food. He could not take his eyes off the fabric that seemed to swim with grays and blacks and greens and browns. One of the men, blond and handsome with a weathered face, smiled and stepped over to Max. He kneeled down and pinched part of the fabric off his shoulder so Max could feel it. Rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, Max was fascinated. It was slick to the touch, impossibly smooth but utterly flat, allowing no candlelight to reflect from its surface.
“Nanomail,” the man grunted. “New version—in beta. I’m Carl. I was the one who got your call.”
Something in the man’s manner reminded Max of Cooper. They each had the same directness: a calm, clipped way of speaking that suggested an intense, disciplined nature.
“Thank you, Agent Drake,” said Ms. Richter. “That will be all. If the rest of you would please excuse us, I would like to have a word with Max.”
Glasses were raised to Max as he followed Ms. Richter out of the dining room.
They went outside to sit on a porch of weathered stone and knotted wood. The moon had risen high and bright over the trees, and the air was very still. Max looked hard at the Director, who seemed lost in thought as she gazed out over the countryside. There were a thousand stories and secrets in her face, Max thought; they were etched in deep seams across the forehead and in tight little crow’s feet at her eyes. Her pupils looked like drops of mercury in the moonlight.
“How long have I been gone?” Max asked.
“Thirty-seven days,” said the Director.
Max drooped in stunned silence.
“Thirty-seven days lost, but forty-two children gained,” she said, turning to smile at him. “Not a bad bargain. Forty-two children will be reunited with their families because of you, Max. You are a hero.”
“But Alex is gone,” Max said with rising anguish. “They have Astaroth, and he’s awake!”
Ms. Richter patted his hand.
“Shhh. You did what you could do, and that is all a person can ask of himself. You went well above the call of duty for a thirteen-year-old boy, Max.”
“Did Ronin survive?” Max asked quietly.
Ms. Richter wrinkled her nose in curiosity. “Who is Ronin?”
“Peter,” Max blurted. “Peter Varga. He saved me. Is he okay?”
“Ah, I think he will be, Max. I do,” said Ms. Richter, with a small smile. “It’s a curious name Peter chose for himself. Do you know what a ‘ronin’ is?”
Max shook his head.
“A ronin is a samurai—a wandering samurai without a master. Such a notion would appeal to Peter, I suppose. Peter is going to live, but he was very badly injured. Whether or not he walks again remains to be seen. He is here—the moomenhovens are doing their very best.”
Max said nothing; he was not even sure what a “moomenhoven” was. But he was sure that without Ronin, he would still be trapped beneath the earth with Marley Augur. His throat felt tight.
“Try to put Peter out of your mind for the moment,” said Ms. Richter. “No one knows better than you that something very serious has happened and that dark times may be coming. I need to know everything that has happened starting with the day you were taken….”
Max told Ms. Richter about the attack on the dock, his journey across the ocean, and the trials in Marley Augur’s crypt. None of it seemed real to him; he felt as if he were telling someone else’s story.
“What was Marley Augur?” Max asked. “He said he used to be one of us.”
“What he was is certainly different from what he is,” she replied. “He was, by all accounts, a very noble and valued member of our Order. However, it sounds as though his misery has transformed him into a revenant—an unquiet spirit consumed by thoughts of vengeance. Unfortunately, as a blacksmith, Augur’s talents clearly lay in craftsmanship and enchantment—the making and unmaking of things. These are slow, methodical magics well suited to the task of freeing Astaroth.”
Max frowned and tried to blot out the memory of Astaroth’s little smile amidst the smoke and noise of Augur’s crypt. He looked out over the dark countryside.
From the Director, Max learned that the ropes supporting the Kestrel had been cut, resulting in what appeared to be a horrific accident. The ship had crashed down and obliterated half the dock beneath it, causing the Kestrel’s guardian to wail and churn the waters. It was feared that Alex and Max had been crushed, their bodies swept out to sea. These fears were seemingly confirmed as their apples had turned to gold in the orchard. Three days later, it was discovered that the apples had only been coated with gold. The Kestrel’s crash had been nothing but a diversionary tactic to hide the fact that Max and Alex had been kidnapped. Search parties were deployed, but the trail had already gone cold.
As she finished her story, Max asked a question that was troubling him.
“What’s going to happen to Ronin?”
“We shall do our best to heal him and then we shall have to see. I suppose it will depend somewhat on his condition.”
“The vyes couldn’t have gotten to the orchard,” Max said somberly. “They had help. There is a traitor at Rowan, I heard the vyes and Marley Augur talk about it!”
“I know all too well about the traitor at Rowan,” the Director said sadly. “Yesterday, the traitor was taken into custody. Without a struggle, thank God.”
“It’s Miss Boon, isn’t it?” Max asked very quietly. Goose bumps raced up his arms when he thought how dangerous it must have been to be alone with her in Rattlerafters.
“Miss Boon?” exclaimed Ms. Richter, suddenly incredulous. “Why in heaven would you suspect Hazel?”
Max’s face reddened in the dark; he felt very stupid.
“She…she was so curious about my vision; she kept asking me about it and asking me not to tell anyone. She assigned my punishment for fighting with Alex. She made me go down to the water where the vyes were waiting.”
“Ah, I see,” said Ms. Richter, nodding sympathetically. “I expect Hazel wanted to keep your conversations secret because she knew I would not approve; she was pursuing a branch of analysis that I had discouraged. And the whole school knew about your punishment.”
It looked as though the Director was trying very hard to control her emotions.
“It was Mr. Morrow,” she said at last. “He was the traitor among us.”
Max sat in stunned silence. His mind swam with thoughts of the gravel-voiced lessons, the rivulets of pipe smoke, and the little cottage beyond the dunes.
“It can’t be Mr. Morrow,” Max snapped. “He didn’t think you were doing enough to catch the traitor! How can it be him?”
“He said those things because he realized full well that Bob would report your conversation back to me,” she replied. “And in some ways, I think he was speaking the truth. Deep down, I believe he wanted the traitor to be identified and apprehended.”
“But why would he do it?” pleaded Max. “Are you absolutely sure it’s him?”
“We’re sure,” said Ms. Richter, reaching over and patting his hand. “He was very sick and lonely. And he was never quite the same after his wife died. Apparently, the Enemy claimed to have his son—a son Mr. Morrow thought was lost over thirty years ago. In addition, the Enemy promised him long life free from the pain and pills that had come to dominate his existence. I think the prospect of many healthy years reunited with his son gnawed at his mind until he succumbed at last.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Max. “I don’t believe that Mr. Morrow would sacrifice so many kids just to see his son again. He’s not that selfish!”
“I don’t think he believed he was sacrificing them, Max. The Enemy insisted that the Potentials were a bargaining chip—a brutal but necessary lever that would force his stubborn Director to consider their overtures of peace. It is no secret that Mr. Morrow never supported my appointment as Director. I think he very much wanted to believe that I was the one endangering lives and that he acted on behalf of the greater good.”
“But how did he even do it? How did he help the Enemy find the Potentials?”
“That matter is still under inquiry. However, I believe that he found a way to exploit Isabelle May. When her apple turned to gold, interception of Potentials ceased, leading many to deduce that she was the traitor. I think her death gnawed at Mr. Morrow—his health deteriorated soon after.”
Max shivered, and Ms. Richter placed her jacket over him.
“But the Enemy also knew about the raid at Topkapi Palace!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Why would Mr. Morrow have told them that? Why would he endanger all those Agents?”
“Because once the Enemy had ensnared him, once he had committed to this course of treachery, it was a simple matter to manipulate and twist him further. The Enemy cautioned that the Potentials were protected by powerful spells that would harm them if they were taken by force. And thus, ironically, to keep them ‘safe,’ Mr. Morrow had been obliged to warn the Enemy of our movements. All in all, it was a neat little plan that could have resulted in considerable losses. Fortunately, Mr. Lukens’s private joke tipped us off that an ambush was planned and that a traitor was still in our midst. This would explain why Mr. Lukens has disappeared—that man probably has more to fear from the Enemy than from us.”
“How is my father?” asked Max quietly.
“At first, he was inconsolable,” said Ms. Richter. “And angry. He is overjoyed at the turn of events and very anxious to see you. Though that will have to wait a few days, until your arm has healed a bit more.”
Max was consumed by a sudden urge to leave the porch and burrow somewhere deep in the woods. “I wish none of this had ever happened,” he said. “I wish I’d never seen that tapestry.”
Ms. Richter smiled sympathetically. Her eyes shone like disks of polished silver.
“Did you know that there are eleven dewdrop faeries out on the lawn right now?” she asked.
Max stood and squinted into the dark, leaning against the porch railing.
“I can’t see them,” he said.
“Ah,” she said, standing next to him. “There’s one just below us.”
Ms. Richter pointed her finger directly at the ground below. She muttered a word and a small bulb of golden light grew into being. Within the enveloping light was a tiny girl with the fluttering wings of a dragonfly, dressed in a silken nightgown. She held a small basket and flitted to and from the blades of grass like a hummingbird.
“They collect the evening dew to feed their families,” she said. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” Max was entranced by the delicate little form swooping below him. “Why couldn’t I see her before?”
“You’re still very young,” said Ms. Richter. “You don’t expect to see them and consequently you can’t. By the time you leave Rowan, you’ll see a whole world of magic that you didn’t know existed. But it’s not just echoes of Old Magic that makes this world such a wonderful place. There are mountains and rivers, plains and meadows, oceans and tides. Architecture and orchestras, discovery and achievement—humans striving for mastery in one thing or another for thousands of years. These are the great things.
“But there are the little things, too,” she said, smiling. “For me, there are my morning walks in the gardens. My kettle telling me the water is hot. The fierce love in Mum and Bob’s bickering…. There’s a pair for you! Two beings that started on very dark paths yet have been won over by all that is so very good. These are the things I fight for, Max. These are the things for which I am willing to face and endure the less pleasant realities of this world.”
Max sat and thought about her words. The dewdrop faerie’s light dimmed as she skimmed away over the grass toward a lone tree in the dark field.
It was hard to see Cooper in the fading daylight as Max climbed out of the plane. The dark-clad Agent stood motionless on the private runway with his hands clasped in front of him. He opened the limousine’s door and ushered Max inside.
“It is good to see you, Max,” said the Agent quietly. “I’m glad you are well.”
Max thanked him but did not otherwise speak during the ride; instead he looked out the window and waited patiently to see his father.
The sky was nearly dark when they reached Rowan. The town’s shops were closing; the wall of trees bordering the campus was tall and black. At the gate, Cooper rolled down the window as the car was surrounded by grim-looking strangers. They peered inside at Max and Cooper, scanning their faces with a red light before they were permitted to pass. Max turned and watched the gate close behind them as the car continued on the winding road that would take them to the Manse.
“Who are they?” asked Max.
“Extra security,” muttered Cooper. “Rowan’s been a busy place. Lots of defensive measures going in. Until those are ready, we’ve got extra manpower.”
Max looked up and saw the fountain illuminated with waves of watery light. Beyond was the Manse, its windows bright and its walls thick with ivy and flowers. He stepped out and listened to the distant surf, his eyes following the walks across the lawns and flower beds to Old Tom and Maggie. Beyond was the dock where he and Alex had been snatched away.
The door to the Manse opened suddenly. Miss Awolowo came swooping down the steps to engulf Max in a fierce hug. He was nearly crushed in a swirl of indigo robes, clicking beads, and gleaming bands of heavy gold. The woman shook with warm, joyous laughter as she held Max by the shoulders and looked him over.
“My boy, my boy,” she cried, pushing the hair out of Max’s face and squeezing his hand. “Welcome home.”
Tears welled up in Max’s eyes and he closed them tightly. It was as though Miss Awolowo had wrung out a sponge: all the emotions that Max had walled away so carefully within came seeping out. Max found himself sobbing into her shoulder, his grief and fear and triumph rushing out along with his tears.
“It is all right.” She sighed. “You are home again and you are safe.”
“I know,” Max answered, wiping his nose on his arm. “It’s just been…a lot.”
“More than a young man should bear.” She nodded, rising to her regal height and holding his hand. “But you return a hero, nevertheless. A champion of Rowan! Let’s take you to your father.”
Cooper nodded good-bye and strode off toward the gate as Miss Awolowo herded Max through the foyer and up the stairs. Max could hear students yelling and bustling about as dinner was concluding in the dining hall.
When the door opened, Max and his father looked at each other a long time. Mr. McDaniels examined Max from head to toe, pausing at his arm and hand, which were still enveloped in their spongy wraps.
“You’re hurt,” he said quietly.
“I’m okay, Dad,” said Max, stepping inside and burying himself in his father’s shirt.
Max did not leave his father’s suite for several days. Classmates knocked and Connor slipped funny little notes under the door, but Mr. McDaniels permitted no visitors while Max cocooned, trying his best to put the horror of his experience and his black thoughts behind him. As students took their finals, the McDanielses played cards and listened to ballgames on the radio, living off sandwiches brought up by Mum or Bob.
One night, however, Max decided to leave his father’s room and visit his own. The rumor of his appearance spread before him, and he was forced to ignore many curious faces on the way.
David was inside their room on the lower level, pulling on his shoes.
“Hi, Max,” said David softly, finishing his knot.
“Hi,” said Max, gazing around the room and at the brilliant stars above.
“I was just going to feed Nick,” said David.
“I’ll do it,” said Max. “I want to see him.”
Hanging on David’s wall was a poster of the Rembrandt painting from which Astaroth had smiled at him.
“That was the painting, you know,” Max said quietly. “You were right.”
David nodded and went to throw the poster away.
“I wish I’d been with you, Max,” David said solemnly. “I wish they’d taken me, too.”
“I know,” said Max, glancing at the trash can. “Astaroth’s awake now. He’ll be getting stronger….”
David looked intently at him.
“We will, too.”
Nick was already pacing his stall when Max arrived at the Warming Lodge. Upon hearing Max’s voice, the lymrill froze and swiveled his head toward the door. Max smiled and tightened the thick leather apron around his waist. Instead of rushing Max, however, the lymrill merely inched forward and sniffed at his ankle. Giving Max a reproachful glance, Nick climbed back into the small tree that served as his perch. He yawned and swished his tail slowly from side to side.
“Come on, Nick,” Max pleaded, stroking the soft red-and-copper fur at the top of his head. “Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to be away so long.”
Nick twisted in the tree to expose a sinewy back full of lethal-looking quills. The branch groaned under his movements; Max guessed Nick must weigh a hundred pounds or more of muscle and metallic quills. He buoyed the straining branch with a hand.
“Come on,” Max cooed. “Let’s go outside. It’s nice out. I may have even seen a skunk. A nice juicy skunk! Hmmm?”
The lymrill did not move. Max slid around the tree branch to glimpse his face. Their eyes met for a split second before Nick closed his and pretended to be asleep.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Max snapped, scooping his hands under Nick’s warm belly and hoisting the heavy animal onto his shoulder. The lymrill relaxed his body into a dead weight.
Max staggered to the food bin.
“Food for one sulking Black Forest lymrill,” he growled, stepping back as the bin shook. Crate upon crate of metal bars and writhing, furry rodents appeared. Nick was not inclined to make the ensuing job any easier, remaining draped over Max’s shoulder as he grunted and loaded the crates onto the wheelbarrow. Muttering under his breath, Max wheeled the towering mound outside.
Instead of pawing at the crates as he usually did, Nick focused his attention on Max. He tensed his muscles and lowered himself to the ground as though preparing for a charge. Taking the hint, Max sprang away through the dark clearing, cackling as the lymrill closed the gap to swipe at his feet. Nick gave an irritated yowl as Max suddenly Amplified and rocketed away. Max whooped and galloped back toward the pond, leaping across a patch of marshy grass. Finally, Max heard a patter of little snorts right behind him. He braced himself for the inevitable blow that caught him a nanosecond later.
Nick pounced on his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Even through the leather apron, the claws felt dangerously sharp. Nick looked down his snout to survey Max with shining eyes. With an anguished mewl, he suddenly nipped Max’s nose hard with his small, sharp teeth. Max yelped and rolled Nick off of him. The lymrill trotted back toward the wheelbarrow in visibly better spirits.
While Nick finished washing his claws and snout in the pond, Max rolled the empty crates back to the Warming Lodge. When he returned, he found Nick waiting patiently outside, his wet fur sleek and glistening. Despite Max’s pleas and threats, the lymrill refused to come inside. Old Tom chimed eleven.
“Well, I have to get back,” said Max finally, striding off toward the hedge tunnel. “You can stay here or come along.”
The lymrill waddled alongside him, its quills vibrating occasionally in sudden fits of satisfaction.
On the night of the farewell feast, Max held Nick in his lap and gazed out his father’s window, watching students file toward the Sanctuary in chattering groups. Mr. McDaniels was rummaging through his closet while Nick tried to wriggle off of Max’s lap to swat at the fireflies that hovered just outside. One group of students stopped and turned to look up at the window. Max recognized Sarah, Lucia, and Cynthia in their formal uniforms. They waved; Lucia blew a kiss. Max waved back and hoisted Nick up to see Sarah, who had helped to care for him while Max was gone. In his excitement, the lymrill tore a hole in Max’s shirt and knocked a vase off the small writing desk.
“How do I look?” asked Mr. McDaniels.
Max swiveled around and saw his father wearing a navy jacket and yellow tie. The jacket was several sizes too small and strained to contain Mr. McDaniels’s ample waist.
“Er, you look nice,” said Max.
“No, I don’t,” said Mr. McDaniels, laughing. “Nolan’s jacket looks ridiculous on me.”
“Then why are you wearing it?” asked Max.
“Because I can’t exactly wear Bob’s pajamas to the farewell feast,” said his father, laughing.
“You can go without me,” said Max, turning back around to watch the fireflies.
His father sat beside him.
“We can’t stay in this room forever,” said Mr. McDaniels. “I think it’s time, Max.”
Max listened to the breeze rippling through the orchard and let Nick waddle off him to sprawl on a mound of laundry.
“Everyone will want to know what happened,” said Max. “They probably blame me for Alex.”
“They might,” said his father simply. “And so you might feel bad and I might look ridiculous, but we’re still going to live our lives….”
Max glared at Nick, who was nibbling at his last pair of dark socks.
The Sanctuary was more crowded than Max had ever seen. By the time the McDanielses arrived, the commencement ceremony was ending. Hundreds of students, faculty, and alumni sat around long candlelit tables, sipping champagne and nibbling hors d’oeuvres as Ms. Richter awarded the last diploma to a beaming Sixth Year. Tea lights shimmered on the pond, swirling slowly in the wakes of Frigga and Helga, who turned lazy circles in the water. Dozens of giant phosphorescent seashells decorated the clearing, each illuminating the surrounding grass with a radius of soft yellow light.
“Want some champagne, Dad?” Max asked as a faun passed by with a tray of drinks.
“Dear God, yes,” muttered Mr. McDaniels. He reached for a glass while the faun gave his shoes a peevish glance.
The McDanielses sat toward the back at an unoccupied table. Max bowed his head and focused on the sound of water lapping at the lagoon banks as people caught sight of him and began whispering. Glancing up, he saw Anna Lundgren and Sasha Ivanovich staring daggers at him from several tables over. Max ignored them and turned to Ms. Richter, who now stood to speak.
“We’re very proud of all of our graduates,” Ms. Richter said. “And while we permit our beloved Course analysts a few more minutes to put the finishing touches on their highlights reel”—here the older students groaned—“I’d like to dedicate this moment to Rowan’s annual awards. That is, unless you’d prefer to simply wait for the film.”
The student body began to yell and jeer in protest. Sir Alistair hid his face in a napkin.
She chuckled. “Well, I suppose we can squeeze them in. As you all know, these awards are very special at Rowan; each of them symbolizes qualities that are a necessary component of what we do and what we stand for.”
As Ms. Richter finished her speech, six gleaming glass cases on tall stands of polished wood materialized near the head table. Inside, lit from within, floated the artifacts from the Course trophy room.
“Would you look at that?” breathed Mr. McDaniels, pinching Max’s elbow. It was now very quiet in the Sanctuary.
Ms. Richter then awarded Macon’s Quill to a blushing Fifth Year girl for her academic achievements, while the Giving Belt went to a student known for her diligence in the Sanctuary. Max clapped hard along with the Sixth Years when Jason Barrett’s name was called for the Helm of Tokugawa. Jason strode forward from the tables of graduates, eliciting a laugh from the audience when he produced a pen and pretended to carefully write his name on the plaque.
Ms. Richter cleared her voice and continued.
“It is exceedingly rare for an Apprentice to win one of these awards.” Max felt his stomach tighten as the audience turned toward him once again. “And yet I can think of no student during my tenure as Director who has been more deserving. To present this award, allow me to introduce an alumnus and former winner, Mr. Peter Varga.”
Max’s head shot up.
A blushing, plump little woman in a nurse’s uniform emerged from behind a row of seated faculty, pushing Ronin in a wheelchair. Several of the alumni exchanged glances and whispers; the students offered a smattering of hesitant applause.
Ronin looked drained but happy. He shared a few quiet words with the Director, who amplified his voice with a wave of her hand.
“I would not be among such fine company if it was not for this young man,” he croaked, shutting his eyes from the effort. The audience was utterly silent. “Nor would dozens of children who will soon return to their families. For outstanding courage before the Enemy, the Gauntlet of Beowulf is awarded to Max McDaniels.”
A roar of cheers overwhelmed Max as he made his way dazedly toward the head table. Ronin’s head hung heavily, but he was smiling as he offered a trembling handshake.
“When did you get here?” whispered Max, taking his hand and leaning close so Ronin could hear him over the applause.
“Few hours ago.” He smiled, closing his eyes once again. “Insisted on it.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” Max said. “You’re not well yet!”
“Not yet—but he will be,” interrupted Ms. Richter, placing her hand on Max’s shoulder. “Mr. Varga is not present just for your award, Max; he will finish his rehabilitation here. Congratulations, my boy! Now go take your place.”
Max shook her hand, glancing up at the fathomless silver eyes. He walked over to his award. The gauntlet’s dented plates and rivets gleamed inside the lighted case. More cheers erupted, and he looked down to see his name written in flame.
Max found it almost impossible to concentrate for the remainder of the awards ceremony. He felt very small and exposed, doing his best to clap dutifully for the remaining winners. As Ms. Richter brought the ceremony to a close, Max looked for Ronin but he was already gone.
Two days later, most of the students had left and the Sanctuary was quiet. Under a hot afternoon sun, Max caught his father’s throw and tried to herd the goslings away from the wrapped sandwich he had left lying on the grass.
“There you are!” a familiar voice called out. “Come here, my darlings! Mother’s all soft and gorgeous again!”
Max looked up to see Hannah waddling toward them from the hedge tunnel. Walking behind her was Julie Teller.
The goslings abandoned Max’s sandwich and went off honking toward their mother. Julie stepped gingerly around them, looking very pretty in a blue summer dress.
Max glanced at his father, relieved to see him nibbling on his sandwich and chatting amiably with Frigga and Helga as the sisters basked on the banks of the pond.
“Hi!” said Julie, coming to a stop.
“Hey.” He grinned, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Are you leaving today?”
“Yeah. I wanted to come say good-bye for the summer.” She looked down at her shoes. “I have something for you.”
Max fumbled for words as she handed him a little unsealed envelope of pretty stationery. “Uh, thanks,” he finally said, turning the envelope over in his hands.
“I read it during Humanities—in Morrow’s favorite book, of all things! It made me think of you.”
Max flipped open the envelope.
“Oh God!” she laughed, covering her mouth. “Don’t read it now!”
“Sorry!” Max exclaimed, snatching his hand away from the letter.
“Well, have a good summer, Max. You can write me if you like. My address is on the back, and it would be nice to hear from you.”
Blushing furiously, Julie leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. A second later, she was gone, walking quickly back over the grass toward the Sanctuary tunnel. Max watched her go; her figure grew smaller with every step until she disappeared into the dark green foliage.
He dropped his ball and glove on the ground. Reaching inside the envelope, he retrieved a folded sheet of stationery. The words were written in careful, graceful script:
Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee; as for a time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than the other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.
—Herman Melville,
Moby-Dick
Max read the note several times before folding the paper again, careful to keep its original crease. Placing it in his back pocket, he breathed in deep and watched a flight of black swans streak across a sky the color of marigolds. Frigga and Helga slid silently back into the water, leaving father and son alone in the Sanctuary. Mr. McDaniels was smiling now. He pounded his mitt as he took up a spot near a tall backstop of hay bales. Max reached for his glove. His first throw was high.