Curse of the Spider King (25 page)

Jimmy stood there gaping as Miss Finney reached beneath the desk and removed a thick book with a dark-green cover trimmed in gold. She didn't scan it as she usually did a checkout book. Jimmy didn't see any barcode anyway.
What is this?

“Here yu go, lad,” she said, handing Jimmy the book. “I think yu've made a good choice with this one. It's a tale that goes right to yur heart, if yu get what I mean.”

Jimmy took the hefty book in both hands. He read the title and didn't recognize it. “Who's it by?”

Miss Finney giggled. “Who's it by?” She laughed again. “Surely . . . no, of course, yu wouldn't. Let's just say, yu'll be gettin' to know the author right soon. Now be off with yu. Homeroom's about to start.”

“But, Miss Finney, what about yest—?”

“Don't yu worry about that, lad,” she said, her eyes full of warning. “Oh, and I've put a bookmark in there for yu. Hope it keeps yu . . . from losin' yur page.”

Jimmy thought he'd seen a subtle wink in that last glance. He looked at the braided tassel hanging out of the pages and wondered. A rough knock to his shoulder scrambled his thoughts for the moment.

“Basketball in gym today, Gresham,” said lanky Angus MacBain. “Think yu might play a bit?”

“I might,” said Jimmy, knowing full well the gym teacher would make him play whether he wanted to or not. He only hoped that he could be on Angus's team. That was bad enough, but it was better than playing against him.

Jimmy made it to homeroom just moments after the late bell rang. Mr. Duncan gave Jimmy a look that somehow spoke very clearly: “Sit down now, Jimmy lad, else I'll extend me full sarcastic wit and reduce yu to quiverin' jelly.”

Jimmy flew to his seat. He welcomed the warmth of the radiator unit that was about six inches from his right elbow. He needed to dry out. The morning announcements were on, so Jimmy put his head down on the book on his desk.

The book!

Jimmy sat up so abruptly that the other students stared. He grinned back sheepishly and then looked at the book.
The History of
Berinfell
. And beneath the bold title in a smaller font
The Chronicles of
the Elf Lords and Their Kin
.

Huh
, Jimmy thought.
Never heard of it.
He opened the cover and flipped through the first pages. An intricate piece of black and white artwork stopped him immediately. It was a bridge stretching from a deep wood to the side of a cliff and a stairway that climbed a high, pointed tower like a daring vine. It was so wonderfully detailed that Jimmy found himself tracing the lines with his finger . . . that's when something surprising happened.

Jimmy lifted up his hand to find his fingertips blackened and the artwork smudged. How could that be? He looked at the back of the page and found indentations from a pen, like the back of a sheet of notebook paper he'd written on. He turned a few more pages and sat back. It was all
handwritten
, the artwork
hand-drawn
.

What sort of book was this?

Jimmy kept flipping pages until he came to the bookmark. It was a chapter called “The Ruins.”

He'd read just three words when the bell for first class rang. Math with Mr. Jastrow, and no one ever went late to Mr. J's class. Not unless word-problem marathons after school were your idea of a good time. No, the strange, handwritten book would have to wait . . . till lunch at the earliest. Gym was second period. Gym, basketball, and Angus MacBain.

“Look alive out there, Gresham!” yelled Mr. Brodie, the gym teacher. And in the time it took Jimmy to register the comment, Angus MacBain snatched the basketball right out of Jimmy's hands. It was the fifth time since the game began. Jimmy hated basketball.

He dutifully raced after his opponent and tried his best to steal the ball back. He swatted here and there, but each time Angus easily avoided Jimmy's attempts. He spun Jimmy around and scored on a lay-up off the backboard.

“Stay on that one, Gresham!” Mr. Brodie hollered.

“Yes, sir,” Jimmy replied. “I'm trying.” But what Jimmy really wanted to know was:
How come he only yells at me? I'm not the worst one
on the court. Am I?

“Better luck next time, Jimmy,” said Luke, his friend and teammate.

Jimmy smiled, waved, and puffed out his cheeks, doing his best impersonation of
No sweat. It's just a game. Doesn't bother me
. While his acting might win him an award someday, it didn't earn him much there in gym. And, of course, Jimmy knew.

He shook his head and ran over to get a drink from the fountain. It seemed everyone was out to get him. As he walked back onto the court, he wished he could just disappear. If anything, he just wanted to talk with Miss Finney and get back to that book. Jimmy was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't even hear Mr. Brodie blow the whistle to start play.

Jimmy's vision grayed at the edges and blurred. He suddenly felt lightheaded. Waves of nausea washed over him. Sounds became distorted. He thought he might lose his breakfast right on the court. “More water,” he whispered. “I need more water.” He began to wobble back toward the fountain.

“Jimmy!” someone yelled, and the ball was speeding toward him. He put up his hands and caught the pass, stinging his palms. His head still swirled, and he thought he might throw up.
Great
. The other team wouldn't need to steal the ball from him . . . just grab it after he barfed.
Just great
.

It was then, however, that the strangest thing happened. Jimmy watched those waving and shouting his name—Luke and the others, each demanding that he pass them the ball—slow to a near standstill. And as if seeing himself from above the game, he saw Angus MacBain charge in from the left and bat the ball out of the frozen Jimmy's hands.

The moment the ball hit the ground Jimmy's eyes snapped back to life, and his stomach settled. He stood holding the ball as before, his teammates screaming for the pass. He felt the leather in his hands and had no idea what had just happened. But, sensing movement behind him, Jimmy ducked to the right; he had moved a mere second before Angus's hand swiped at the ball.

Jimmy's teammates went wild as Angus tripped and fell from not having expected to miss the steal.

“'Dere yu go, Jimmy!” Mr. Brodie yelled. “Take the shot! Take the shot!”

Jimmy squared to the net and recalled everything he could about the proper form; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd had an opportunity at the basket. He held his breath and pushed the ball up, letting it roll gently off his fingertips. Everyone watched as the ball sailed elegantly through the air, bounced around the rim twice, and sank through the cotton net.

A hand slapped his back. “That was a good one!” said Luke. “Didna' know yu had it in yu!”

“Aye, neither did I,” Jimmy said looking to Angus, who was picking himself up off the court. The lanky redhead now had a red face to match. He, like Mr. Brodie, was clearly shocked. But unlike the gym teacher, Angus was not speechless.

“Lucky, move, Gresham,” he said, glaring at Jimmy. “Yu won't be scorin' on me again anytime soon, I can tell yu true.”

Jimmy gave up a little grin and turned back to the game. He wasn't quite sure what had taken place, but something told him this was going to be a good day.

Fish and chips . . . yummm!
thought Jimmy as he spied the trays of a few kids walking by in the school cafeteria.
My favorite.
Jimmy took one look at the sparse lunch his mother had packed him. Minced egg sandwich and sticks of celery just couldn't compare to the deep-fried splendor of Lochgilphead's fish and chips. His bag lunch sailed into the tall trash can, and Jimmy stood tenth in the lunch line. Angus MacBain, still very red in the face, got in line six places behind Jimmy.

The line moved briskly and Jimmy found himself in front of Mrs. Entwhistle, the kindest lady in the school. Considered everyone's grandmother, she spoiled her favorites with large portions. “Ah, Jimmy, me wee boy,” she said. “Are yu hungry today?”

“Aye,” Jimmy replied with a wink. “Like a wolf.”

“I best b' fillin' yur tray then,” she replied. With her silver tongs, Mrs. Entwhistle selected two gigantic crispy fish filets and plopped them onto the green tray. Then, utilizing one of those wide-mouthed scoopers that no one knew the name of, she piled enough chips on the tray to half cover the fish. “That'll do yu, then?” she asked.

“Aye, it will!” Jimmy said, eyes wide. He stuck a piping-hot chip in his mouth. “Delicious!”

“Yu're so kind, Jimmy me boy. Now don't forget the tartar sauce outside. Made it meself, I did. Special herbs, yu know.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Entwhistle.” Jimmy took out his wallet and fished out the last two pounds of his allowance. But it was worth it.

Steam rose from the golden brown bliss on his tray. He couldn't wait to sit down. He left the serving room and went straight to the condiments table. Mrs. Entwhitstle's tartar sauce was there, along with an assortment of bowls of mustard, ketchup, brown sauce, relish, vinegar, ranch, and even hummus. Jimmy took the spoon and gave himself a generous dollop of tartar sauce. He loved the stuff. He'd even dip his chips in it.

Then it hit him again.

The strange nausea that had overwhelmed him in gym came back with a vengeance. He dropped the spoon back in the tartar sauce and steadied himself on the edge of the table.

Whoosh
. The kids entering and exiting the serving room slowed way down. Their images blurred. There was sound as before, distorted sound, very low in pitch. Muffled. And then Jimmy found that he could again see the scene from above.

There he was putting the spoon back in the tartar sauce at the condiments table. But from behind him, Angus MacBain left the lunch line, handed his tray to his usual partner in crime, Michael Murray, and rushed toward Jimmy. At the last second, Angus grabbed Jimmy's jeans by the belt loops and yanked them straight down to Jimmy's ankles. The roar of laughter from the kids pointing at his boxer shorts sounded monstrous and strange.

Whoosh
. In a blink, Jimmy was back to himself. He knew what was coming.
No way I'm going to let that happen!

He had only a moment to act.

Without turning around, Jimmy took a hard step backward and bent over at the waist. Angus came on too fast and couldn't stop. Being tall but light, he slammed into Jimmy and flipped over the smaller boy. Angus crashed onto the condiments table, causing an eruption of brown, red, green, yellow, and white. Mustard, ketchup, brown sauce, relish, vinegar, and tartar sauce splattered the floor, the cafeteria wall, even the ceiling. And Angus looked like he'd been the target of an army of paintball soldiers. “Ugh,” he groaned, wiping mustard out of his eyes.

Jimmy approached him. “Thought yu'd pants me, did yu, Angus?” he asked.

“Wha—? How'd yu—?”

“If it makes yu feel any better, I spilled me fish and chips.”