The Blues are only down by one now. Four minutes left. The Reds are furious. They yell at one another, they yell at the coach. I show the yellow card to two more kids for poor sportsmanship, but no one gets the red card. It’s like they know exactly how far they can go before being ejected from the game. That’s the nature of evil, I guess—to always be at the brink of being caught—almost, but not quite being exposed for what it really is.
One more minute of play. I’m shivering. The leaves that have been hissing in the roaring wind are finally being torn from their branches and disappearing into the blackening sky. The field is yellow everywhere now, and both coaches look scared—not just Mr. Apfeldt, but the Red coach, too—as if he never really wanted his own team to win.
And then something happens. Something that changes everything.
The ball is moving toward the Red goal again. It looks as if Blue will score—Uri comes in for the shot, but Alastor is there to block it. He gets to the ball first, they collide, and Uri loses his balance, flying into the hardwood frame of the goal. The goal shudders, Uri yells out in pain and hits the ground. I blow the whistle and race to him.
“Take a knee!” I call out to the players. Everyone, even the Reds, go down on one knee as I go to examine the injury.
It’s bad. Really bad. Uri’s arm is broken—twisted at a horrible angle—but as I look away from it, I see through the corner of my eye, not an arm, but feathers. White feathers on a wing bent backward over itself. I quickly look at it again, but it’s just an arm.
Uri moans in pain. Coach Apfeldt is there in an instant, assessing the damage. He tries to move Uri’s “arm,” but Uri yells the second he touches it.
Then from behind me I hear a cold, calculated voice. “Looks like the game’s over.” Standing over me, Alastor looks much taller than his four feet. From this angle, I can see two little bumps beneath his hairline that look like the slightest hint of horns.
“It’s not over yet,” I tell him. “There’s still three minutes to play.”
Alastor puts his hands on his hips, all cocky and gloating. “Rules say seven players on a team. Now they got six.”
“So what—they can play with less than the regulation number.”
Then he smiles. “Not if we call for a forfeit.”
“But . . . but no one ever does that!”
“So what? It’s the rules. We can if we want.”
And the thing is, he’s right. If they call for a forfeit, I have no choice but to call the game and declare them the winners.
I look down to Uri. “I’m sorry,” he says weakly, grimacing in pain. “I’m so sorry . . .”
Coach Apfeldt looks at me desperately, but what can I do? I have to ref. I have to follow the rules.
Alastor turns to his coach. “Call a forfeit.”
Their coach, as big as he is, seems somehow smaller than the kid. “C’mon, Al—let’s just finish the game. Six players—you’ll beat ’em easy . . .”
“Call a forfeit!”
Alastor yells, his voice blending with the thunder, his eyes reflecting the lightning still caged within the clouds.
His coach looks to me, tears in his eyes, and says: “I officially request that the Blue team forfeit. They have less than the regulation number of players, and by league rules—”
“I’ll do it,” says a meek voice behind me. “I’ll play for the Blue team.”
I turn to see Cody standing behind me.
“I’ll take Uri’s place,” he says.
I’m stunned speechless. I look at the other players. These aren’t just little kids, they are creatures of immense power. I try to imagine what Alastor and Loki and all the others will do to him once he gets on that field. “Cody, you can’t.”
Although Cody looks scared, he won’t back down. “I have to. You were brought here for a reason, Danielle. I think I was, too—and I guess it wasn’t to watch from the sidelines.”
Alastor scowls at not getting his forfeit—then he looks my brother over, and laughs. He turns to Loki. “This oughta be fun,” he says, and raindrops begin to fall. Not enough to call the game, but enough to remind us that the storm is only minutes away. Three minutes, to be exact.
“Cody ...”
“I know what I’m doing.”
I don’t feel right about it at all, but then I don’t feel right about any of this. Everything feels Wrong with a capital
W
. But my only choices are to give the game to the Reds or to let Cody play. So I let the game go on. Cody takes his position as left midfielder.
If Cody had been out of his element among other seven-year-olds, he’s completely lost on the field now. He can’t even turn his head fast enough to keep up with where the ball is. Now the ball comes his way—a powerful line drive. I expect him to treat it like it’s a game of dodgeball, but he doesn’t. The ball comes flying in his direction, and instead of blocking it with his hands—which would make me have to call a hand ball if it hits him—he lowers his hands and stops the ball with his chest. I can see Cody beginning to double over, the wind knocked out of him, but somehow he stays on his feet. He passes the ball to Mikey, and Mikey takes it downfield. No goal. It comes back toward Cody again. The Reds are intentionally sending the ball in Cody’s direction, because they know he’s the weak link. Each time the ball comes to him, he doesn’t flinch. Sometimes he gets hit hard by the ball, other times it flies past him. Sometimes he tries to get his foot on it, and can’t—but just as often he kicks it accurately and directly downfield, right toward one of the Blue players. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems to be getting better by the second. Certainly he’s nowhere near as good as anyone else on the field, but he’s good enough to hold his own.
Alastor kicks the ball downfield, but Cody’s there to stop it. He dribbles a little bit, drawing the Red midfielders toward him, then he passes to Gabe, who delivers a power kick over the Red goalie’s head. Goal! Tie game! The Blue team doesn’t take time to celebrate—it’s right back to the line. Not even Cody cheers. He’s focused. The Reds are furious at one another, blaming one another for the goal. Quickly I put the ball down, blow the whistle, and play resumes. One minute. The rain is still just a drizzle, but lightning has begun to flash everywhere. The thunder is so loud it feels like it could tear the earth apart. Maybe it will. But not yet. Not yet!
Thirty seconds. Alastor drives toward the goal at full force, but Cody is in his way. He doesn’t care, he barrels through Cody, sending him flying, just as he sent Uri flying—but Cody, bruised and shaken, picks himself up. By simply standing in the way, Cody has stopped Alastor’s drive. Mikey gets the ball and takes it toward the Red goal. Cody races along with him, out of breath but keeping up. Mikey shoots. But it’s stopped by a Red defender, who boots it with incredible force. Right at Cody.
“I’ve got it!” Cody shouts. It’s coming right at his head. He’s going to head the ball—a ball that’s flying toward him like a black-and-white-checkered bullet!
He angles his head to receive it, but his judgment is off. It doesn’t hit the top of his head, or his forehead—it nails him in the face, bouncing right off his nose.
“AAAHH!” he screams.
This is it
, I think. This is where he crumbles, and the Red team drives past him to score the goal and win.
But then I follow the path of the ball. It had bounced right off Cody’s face . . . and toward the goal! The goalie dives for it, but he wasn’t expecting it, and he’s an instant too late. The ball bounces past him for a goal! I can’t believe it!
Lightning crashes again, and I look at my stopwatch. Six seconds, five, four—the Red team’s scrambling to get the ball to the centerline so they can kick off. Three . . . two . . . one!
I put the whistle to my mouth and blow those three wonderful long blasts signaling the end of the game.
Now—for the first time—the Blue team begins to cheer. They race to Cody, lifting him up. He’s almost weightless in their arms.
“We knew you could do it, Cody!” his teammates say. “We all knew it.”
Only now do I notice the blood. There’s blood all over my brother’s face. “Cody, are you all right?”
He looks at me with a smile still as wide as his whole face, wondering what I’m talking about. Then he touches his nose, finally seeing the blood for himself. “It’s just a bloody nose,” he says.
“But what if it’s broken?”
“So it’ll heal.”
This from a kid who always screams at the prospect of Bactine and a Band-Aid.
Mr. Apfeldt comes over with the winning ball, and looks at it. He rubs his finger over a spot on the ball. There’s a small red smudge on the ball, already turning brown: the spot where it connected with Cody’s nose.
“Looks like it took a blood sacrifice to win the game,” says Mr. A. “How about that!”
He hands the ball to Cody, telling him he can keep it. A souvenir for saving the world.
That’s when I realize that Uri is with them, jumping up and down, and holding Cody high, using the same arm that was broken . . . and I realize that it was never broken at all.
When the excitement settles a bit, I ask Uri why he did it.
“With the game so close, why did you pretend to be hurt, and let my brother play?”
Uri just shrugs. “He needed to win more than I did.”
“But . . . how did you know he
would
win?”
“I didn’t,” said Uri. “I guess you could say it was an act of faith.”
Remi razzes him when he says it, but doesn’t contradict him.
Across the field, the Reds grumble, curse and blame, but their blustering means nothing now. Even the lightning and thunder have stopped.
“Look at them,” says Mr. Apfeldt. “How could a team like that ever expect to win?” Then he gathers his own team together into a huddle. “Okay, guys. You know what to do.”
The Blues—Cody included—put their hands in the center, and they chant “
Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Reds! Reds! Yaaaaaay!
”
But the Reds are gone. They’ve vanished along with their coach. They didn’t even have the courtesy to echo back with the traditional “one, three, five, nine,” rhyme.
Mr. A and his players come over to say good-bye. Some shake my hand, others are too cool for that—they just punch knuckles with me and Cody. Then Gabe says, “Hey, could I try out your whistle?”
I take it off my neck and hand it to him. He takes a deep breath and blows. It begins as a shrill sound, but mellows until it sounds like a horn. Nothing so refined as a trumpet or anything. Something more earthy, like he’s blowing into a ram’s horn—and as he blows, the clouds above boil away into nothing. Bright sunlight begins to fill the field, and by the time his lungs have forced his last bit of wind through the whistle, the grass that had gone completely yellow is green again.
“Yeah, that’s a good one,” he says, handing it back to me. “You should hold on to it.”
“I think I will,” I tell him. But I don’t think I’ll use it for just any old game—because after Gabriel the archangel has blown into your whistle, it’s probably best to save it for
really
special occasions.
Cody is practically dancing, his feet barely touching the ground. I give him my sleeve to wipe his bloody nose. “Does it hurt?” I ask
“It’s a good hurt,” he answers.
When I turn to Mr. Apfeldt and his team, they’re gone. Uriel, Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Remiel, and the rest have all vanished, just as the Red team had. There’s another coach walking onto the field now, and I can see a new set of kids arriving. Kids with parents. “Are you our ref?” the coach asks.
“Nah, I just reffed a game. I’m sure yours’ll be along in a minute.” And then I add, “I’m surprised people are showing up—what with the lightning and all.”
He looks at me as if he hasn’t heard me right. “What lightning?”
I stammer for a moment, and realize that perhaps I should finally take Mr. A’s advice, and not think too much about it. “Never mind,” I say. “Have a good game.”
Cody and I head to our bikes. His bleeding has stopped, but his nose is swollen and turning purple. “So what should we tell Mom and Dad about it?” he asks.
I think about the answer, and how I can never lie to my parents. “Tell them the truth,” I answer. “Tell them the team needed an extra player, and you made the winning goal with your face.”
He laughs at that, and so do I. Sometimes the truth is exactly what parents need to hear.
SOUL SURVIVOR
I have always been intrigued by ghost stories. I very rarely write them, though, because I always find one ghost story to be much like another. It was the character’s voice in this story that got me to want to write it. When I’m experimenting with a new style, and new storytelling voice, I usually experiment by writing a short story.
The goal here, as was the goal in my novel Everlost, was to come up with a ghost story that was unique, and didn’t feel like “just another ghost story.”
This story helped me to explore the world of ghosts, and laid the early groundwork for Ever
lost.
SOUL SURVIVOR
What I tell you now you can never tell another living soul.
It began as a dream—or what I thought was a dream. I was floating—rising higher and higher. Then, when I looked back, I could see someone lying in bed. It was a boy. Not just any boy—it was my own self, and I was lying in the stillness of sleep.
This was one of those dreams where you know you’re dreaming—where you have your whole mind, not just part of it, to think things through and make sense of everything. An out-of-body experience—that’s what they call it. And as it turns out, I picked just the wrong time to have one.
The room I was floating in was bright and clear, because dawn had already broken, and light was pouring in through the blinds. Then I heard a noise growing louder. I should have realized something was wrong by the way it sounded. It grated against the silence of the morning, but I was so wrapped up in floating around the room, I didn’t notice until it was too late.