The Book of Joby (56 page)

“I’m here, Joby,” O’Reilly said brightly from a door behind him. “Thank you for coming so quickly and, please, call me Bridget.”

A rustle of murmurs and whispered laughter quickly swelled back into the hubbub Joby had first encountered, as conversation and horseplay resumed around him.

“It’s lunchtime,” Bridget said more loudly, smiling and pretending to cover her ears. “Let’s talk here in my office, where we won’t have to yell.”

“I hadn’t realized Taubolt had so many kids,” Joby said as Bridget closed her office door behind him. The room was small with only one long, horizontal window high in the wall, like an archery slit in some medieval fortification, though it allowed a surprising amount of light into the room. The walls were covered in bright posters, photographs of students, and artifacts of kid-made appearance.

“Taubolt’s not as small as it seems,” Bridget said. “Three times as many people live in the hills around us as here in the village.” She waved him toward a well-stuffed chair across from her desk. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“This building’s a lot newer than anything else in town,” Joby said.

“The old building burned a few years back,” Bridget said wryly. “A newly arrived architect designed this to replace it. It’s a bit industrial for some of us, but wonderfully functional. Want some tea?” She gestured toward a hot plate and kettle on her desk.

“No, thank you,” Joby said. “I’m kind of curious about why you asked to see me.”

“Father Crombie tells me you’re looking for work,” she said, pouring herself a cup of tea, and sitting on the edge of her desk. “Interested in teaching high school?”

“I’m not qualified,” Joby said, startled.

“You have a degree in English, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Can you diagram a sentence?”

“I suppose,” Joby said. “It’s been years since I—”

“Know what a ‘predicate’ is? How to punctuate a prepositional phrase? The difference between an essay and a novel?” she joked.

“Yes,” he said, “but I have no experience.”

“None at all?” she asked.

“I did a little tutoring with grade-school kids in college, but—”

“Ah!” She sounded triumphant. “Then you’re the most qualified candidate I have at present. You seem to have strong language skills. Father Crombie says you like to write. From what I heard on Christmas, you’re a born storyteller. Do you like children?”

“Yes,” Joby said, “but . . . I hope Father Crombie hasn’t pressured you into this as some sort of favor, because I—”

“Of course not!” Bridget laughed. “I really don’t want to pressure you, Joby, but I’m sort of in a fix right now. Are you interested at all?”

“Well,” Joby said, still trying to sort out his questions. “I might be, but . . . what about a credential and all that?”

“Here’s my situation,” Bridget said, getting up to refresh her tea. “Charlie Luff, our current English teacher, is ill.” Her smile wavered and vanished. “It’s come on suddenly, and he’ll be out at least through summer. If I’d had more warning, or it were earlier in the year, I’d go looking for someone with all the right paper and more experience, but by the time I found anyone willing and able to come here now, the term would be over. So if you’re at all interested, I’d like to have you come meet the kids at morning meeting tomorrow. If that goes well, we could try it for a week or two and see what happens.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know this is sudden, but what do you think? . . . Eighteen dollars an hour if you pass muster,” she added, hopeful.

Joby could hardly believe his luck. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good,” he smiled, “but I’ll give it a try. When would you need me to start actually teaching?”

She looked apologetic. “Is Monday too soon?”

“It’s fabulous! And so affordable! I’ll take it.”

Tom Connolly could count on one hand the number of real-estate clients he’d had from outside of Taubolt during the past ten years, so he’d been caught somewhat off guard when Agnes Hamilton had shown up at his home, steered by someone in town, to ask about houses for sale in “this simply exquisite little village of yours!” He knew the drill of course. Occasionally, one of Taubolt’s visitors got it into their heads to stay. If Taubolt really wanted them, no amount of discouragement could dissuade them. If not, almost none was more than enough.

There were only two houses available within the village proper—the same two that had been available for years. He’d shown Hamilton the more
decrepit one first, and he quoted an outrageously high price, hoping to get this over with quickly. To his surprise, she had happily examined the leaking roof upstairs, the loose and blistering gingerbread trim, the cracked windowpanes and crumbling glazing, the sloping back porch covered in now barren wild rose vines, chattering all the while about the deplorable state of the urban world and its distressing disinterest in her solutions to its problems.

So, he’d moved to phase two: casual banter about how depressed realestate values were at present in these parts.

“Glad to hear it,” she’d replied. “I’d hate to see this place go suburban.”

“No worry there,” he’d jovially assured her, jumping to phase three. “Lots of people talk about moving here, but most find it’s just too big an adjustment.”

“What kind of adjustment?” she’d asked.

“Poor roads,” he’d mused. “Hard on your car, and takes forever to get anywhere. Social isolation—our nightlife here is all on four legs. Having to chop wood and light a fire every morning. Electricity’s twice as costly up here as everywhere else, and it goes out practically every week in winter, which means you’ve got no running water at all unless you’ve got a generator to run the pump. There’s no water system, you realize. Got to maintain your own well, truck water in if it goes dry in summer. No, this life wears most people out in a hurry.”

“Well, aren’t you the salesman, Mr. Connolly,” she’d scoffed, seeming more offended at his lack of showmanship than put off. “You needn’t worry though. I’m a woman of exceptionally strong character, and quietude is precisely what I’m seeking.”

So it seemed she was actually going to buy. Wouldn’t Stan Weston be surprised!

“Well, that’s great,” Tom said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Guess we should go back to my office and start on the paperwork.”

“I’m so thrilled to have discovered all this!” Ms. Hamilton said. “You know, I had a sort of premonition at breakfast this morning and just drove right up here! It’s all so beautiful! Taubolt must be California’s best kept secret.”

“Oh, that it is.” Tom nodded.

“Well, I hope it stays that way,” she said. “Though I suppose there might be one or two people I wouldn’t mind importing once I’m settled. Particular friends of mine. But don’t you worry, Mr. Connolly, they’re all people who see things precisely as I do.”

No,
Tom decided,
this could not possibly be anyone Taubolt wanted.
She’d undoubtedly go home and reconsider, or just forget completely, like so many before her. He wasn’t going to bother Stan about it yet, whatever papers she might sign today.

“That’s one launched,” Kallaystra said, “and the fire’s being lit under a number of other useful minds as we speak. What amazes me, now that we’re looking, is how many little fragments of this place already litter the world. I’ve found photos, letters, newspaper clippings, even postcards! How could we possibly have overlooked all that before?” she asked breezily.

Lucifer didn’t answer, suspecting her question of being a veiled barb. But he couldn’t help contemplating the kind of power it had taken to keep them blind for so many years to an entire domain and all its myriad little traces, even one as small as Taubolt must be.

“How long before they’re all placed?” he asked.

“It’s hard to say for sure,” Kallaystra answered. “By fall, I hope.”

“I had expected greater efficiency from you, Kallaystra.”

“Well, I can’t push them much harder,” she protested. “Most of them would be far less cooperative if they knew who was pulling their strings or that we existed at all.”

“The instant you have them settled,” Lucifer said wearily, “I want every detail you glean on my desk without delay.” He allowed himself a small sigh of resignation. No doubt years of their best work with Joby were being washed away in Taubolt like so much monsoon mud.

As Joby approached the school that morning, there was no one to be seen outside, nor any ruckus as he walked inside to find the students standing hand in hand in a large ring around the perimeter of the room. Their heads were bowed, their eyes closed, as if he’d walked in on the middle of a prayer. Joby stood by the entrance, pale sunlight streaming through the doors and glass-block wall behind him, and waited uncertainly.

Glinting moats of dust drifted through shafts of light descending on the silent circle of kids from various windows and skylights, lending the scene a radiant serenity both beautiful and surreal. Whatever Joby had expected, this wasn’t it. Were these teenagers, or Tibetan monks? A moment later, at some cue Joby didn’t discern, the students all looked up at once, smiling across the circle at one another, and chorused, “Good morning.” Then their buoyant silence dissolved into the kind of conversational babble he’d expected.

“Hi, Joby!” Bridget said. “Come join us.” The kids all sat down on the floor where they’d been standing, turning to watch as Joby came and sat beside her. “We take a minute every morning to get focused,” Bridget told him, as if perceiving his unasked question. “Everyone, this is Joby Peterson. I’ve been talking with him about filling in for Charlie until he’s better.” She turned to Joby. “Want to tell us a little about yourself?”

Gathering his thoughts, Joby noticed that not all of the circle’s attentive faces were young. A woman with sharp, bird-like features and long, dark hair streaked in silver wore layered, green silk skirts, knee-high boots, and a black lace shawl. A silver stud pierced one of her nostrils—which he found surprising, given her age. Directly across the ring sat a snow-haired man, his wide, toothy smile bright in a well-tanned, lined-leather face. He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a woolen crew-neck sweater. Surmising that these were his fellow teachers, Joby was glad he hadn’t worn a coat and tie.

“Well, you know my name,” Joby said, and launched into the well-rehearsed remarks he’d been practicing all morning. “I studied English in college . . . but my interest in language goes a lot further back than that. When I was a kid my grandfather gave me a book about King Arthur and the Roundtable: knights, dragons, magic, wizards, witches, all that stuff. I pretty much lived inside that book for years, but only later on did I begin to realize how powerful language really is. We take words for granted; talking, writing, reading, but we’re the only animal on this whole planet who can do it. It’s made everything we are, everything we make and do, possible. In ancient Europe, men called bards sometimes had even more power than kings. Their ability to use the language was considered magical.”