The Keeper of Dawn (8 page)

“What is it?” Chris asked.

“I could have sworn …”

“What?”

“I could have sworn I saw someone’s face up there.”

“Where?”

“Up there, in that room.”

But only the moonlight shone from the tall, dark windows.

I laughed. “Maybe I’ve heard too many pirate stories.”

On the way back down, Chris’ flashlight went out, forcing
Derek to use his to prevent the stairwell from plunging into darkness. We
parted ways in Oak Yard, the roommates returning to Kirkland Hall while Derek
and I headed for Patterson. Tired and wanting nothing more than to crawl into
bed, I thought I was hallucinating when three figures emerged from my room. They
had pillowcases over their heads and hurried off in the other direction. Though
I couldn’t see their faces, one of them had his arm slung in a cast.

When I opened the door, Benjamin sat up in bed. “I told you
already, he’s not here.” He squinted from the hallway light. “Oh, it’s you. Man,
you have to be the luckiest guy alive. You just missed Loosy-Goosy and his
thugs. They were dressed up like they were in the Ku Klux Klan or something. Missed
‘em by less than sixty seconds, no kidding.”

As I tossed and turned in bed, my mind burned with one
unanswered question. It had nothing to do with Loosy-Goosy, or the hazing that
I had so narrowly avoided. More than anything, I wanted to know how close
Roland had come to throwing his family’s heirloom from the lighthouse.

“Good morning, Wellington,” Mr. Lawson said, his monotone
draining all warmth from the morning greeting. He stood motionless before the
student body, the veins in his pale hands visible as he gripped the lectern.

A hushed silence fell over the auditorium. I snapped out of
my early morning stupor at the realization that the dean was conducting the
morning meeting instead of the headmaster. Mr. Hearst may have been the brunt
of many jokes, but he was generally well-liked. Mr. Lawson, however, was a
mystery. Not once had he attended formal dinner, nor was he ever seen walking
about campus. In a small school where every faculty member performed multiple
tasks, Wellington’s dean was held in reserve, a behind-the-scenes man who
served some critical, unspecified function that rarely required interaction
with the students.

“I’m afraid that I am the bearer of some most unfortunate
news,” he announced. “Yesterday, it came to our attention that four students
violated one of this school’s most steadfast rules.”

In the dramatic pause that followed, the drumming of a
guilty conscience beat inside me. Four students? I exchanged a worried look
with Roland.

“It is with extreme displeasure that I inform you that Chazz
Polmetti, Paul Lanford, Richard Addison and Jared Verano have used and
distributed marijuana on school grounds. As I am sure you are all aware,
Wellington has a no-tolerance policy when it comes to drugs, whether it be
alcohol, marijuana, or any other illegal substance. The four mentioned students
have been expelled and escorted from the island.”

We filed out of the auditorium. What had felt reckless the
night before now seemed juvenile. News of the expulsions—announced with a hint
of satisfaction in Mr. Lawson’s otherwise flat-line voice—had a sobering effect
throughout campus.

Surprisingly, it had been in the mailroom where Chet had stumbled
across the drug trail. Perhaps Chazz Polmetti, the alleged head of the drug
ring, had wanted to get caught, for he had chosen the school mail as his method
of distribution. One whiff of an envelope full of weed was all it took to send
Chet into a sneezing fit.

Tired of hearing about the ex-students who had been
catapulted into Wellington martyrdom, I looked forward to my afternoon retreat
to the clock tower. Unfortunately, Max had other plans.

“I need one of you to lend me a hand,” he said, searching
through his immense keychain. Roland, Chris and I stood behind him in the
hallway. “I figured you’d be done by now, but seeing how you’re milking this
for all she’s worth, I can’t wait any longer.” He popped the lock off,
unraveled the chain, and swung the heavy door open. “So, who’s it going to be?”

“If it involves spending more time with you, you can count
me in,” Chris said, flashing Max his most sarcastic smile.

“You’re not getting out of here that easy, Bellringer. It’s
got to be one of you two.”

Not wanting to separate the roommates, I followed Max
outside. The courtyard was empty. What had been vast distances the night before
had returned to their regular size. I stopped at the edge of the sidewalk when
Max started across Oak Yard. He was halfway to the gazebo before he realized I
wasn’t following.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, turning around.

“We’re not allowed to walk through Oak Yard.”

“You kidding me?”

“It’s a Wellington—”

“Tradition. Yeah, heard all about it. And traditions are
fine, as long as they don’t get in the way. Tell me, what good is ground you
can’t walk on? This place used to be a jungle. Thistles and knapweed up to your
waist. No one walked here because no one
could
. I had to cut it all out.
So I’ll be damned if somebody who hasn’t sweat a drop on this ground is gonna
tell me I can’t walk on it. And that includes you. The rest of my crew is
renovating the south wing, so you’re all I got. Now follow me.”

Then he walked toward the lighthouse without looking back. He
was like my mother in that regard—once she gave an order, she walked away
without giving you the chance to argue.

Entering the lighthouse felt like returning to a crime
scene. The flashlight still lay broken on the floor. The spiral staircase
forced the image of Benjamin—petrified with fear—into my mind.

“We’re going to bring down the lantern piecemeal,” Max said.

“Let me guess—more stairs.”

“Nope. This here is gravy. You’ll be on this hand crank.” Max
indicated a pair of handles protruding from the wall. “They used to haul oil up
with this.”

As he began to work the crank, a large bucket descended from
overhead.

“It’ll have weight coming down, so be careful it doesn’t
pick up too much speed.” He eased the bucket into a gentle landing on top of
the broken flashlight. “Then hoist it up when it’s empty. Like I said, gravy. The
tub’s aluminum, so she’s lighter than she looks.”

The bucket was filled with rusted brackets and scrap metal.

“You got a pair of gloves?”

I shook my head.

“Here, use mine,” he said, pulling a pair of dirty work
gloves from his tool belt. “Grab yourself a wheelbarrow and dump this where
you’ve been putting the old railing. Here’s a walkie-talkie. I’ll tell you when
it’s ready to come down. You might as well clean up that flashlight while
you’re at it.” He scratched his head. “It’s a mystery how some things get in
here.”

Though intrigued to be back in the lighthouse, the work
proved monotonous. My hands ached and forearms burned from working the crank
(the next day I would be so sore it hurt to brush my teeth). Max’s voice over
the walkie-talkie was my only company. It was while pushing the wheelbarrow
across Oak Yard that any sense of tradition vanished. Like Max had said, it was
nothing more than ground cleared of weeds and covered with sod and new trees. The
southwest quadrant of the courtyard became Wellington’s hollow heart, and I
walked across it without a second thought, the wheelbarrow making a crisp line
of bent grass to mark my path.

If anyone thought differently, specifically those from the
Eastbridge campus, they kept their opinions to themselves, for no one so much
as glanced in my direction. Perhaps it was my appearance that exempted me from
Wellington’s staunchest tradition: the wheelbarrow, the work gloves, my
Wellington shirt dirtied beyond recognition. I could have easily passed for one
of Max’s workers.

I emptied the wheelbarrow behind the maintenance shed. The
sky had darkened; a distant flash of lightning flickered through the clouds.

“Make that your last trip,” Max said over the walkie-talkie.
“There’s a storm headed this way. We won’t finish today anyway.”

The storm arrived as I was leaving the lighthouse. Students
returning from practice ran through the courtyard to get out of the rain;
someone by the fountain fumbled with an umbrella. The rain picked up as I
started across Oak Yard, and when the first clap of thunder rumbled over the
island, the downpour began. It came with such intensity that the four wings of
the school vanished. I could only see the gazebo to my left and the base of the
lighthouse behind me.

I was soaked by the time I reached the gazebo. The air was
filled with the sound of rain ricocheting off the rooftops. Only the occasional
rumble of thunder rose above the downpour. I couldn’t see beyond the nearby
oaks, their slender boughs battered in the rain, pools of water collecting
about their trunks. The walls of the courtyard—all of Wellington, in fact—had
disappeared.

I sat on the gazebo’s banister and watched the marble-sized
rain crater the turf. Runoff from my clothes collected in a puddle beneath me. Though
my stomach rumbled at the thought of being late for dinner, I had little choice
but to wait it out.

Four figures materialized from the storm. They strode
purposefully across Oak Yard, oblivious to the weather. Even through the rain I
recognized the blue tiger paw on the white football helmets. Three of them were
in half-pads, probably just released from practice, and the fourth held an
umbrella over his head. I didn’t have to see the arm cast to recognize
Loosy-Goosy.

I retreated to the far side of the gazebo. William Foster,
Dale Tucker and John Bixley were stone-faced beneath their helmets. But none
frightened me more than Loosy-Goosy. I was shocked at how much weight he had
lost. What little muscle he had managed to put on had vanished—his chest looked
flat as a board, his unbroken arm shriveled to the point of uselessness, and no
amount of exercise could ever remove the drawn look that haunted his face.

“Jacob, Jacob, Jacob,” he chided, closing the umbrella. “I
find you in the strangest places.”

“I’ve been helping Max,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t matter.

“Yes, we’ve seen how you follow him around. Rather pathetic,
even for a newby.”

My mind raced. I couldn’t outrun them. Because of the storm,
no one would hear me shout for help.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Loosy-Goosy said, stepping
forward.

But then, somehow, Max’s voice rose above the rain.

“You forget something?”

The walkie-talkie was still clipped to my belt. I had forgotten
to return it.

“It’s raining buckets out there, so just hang on to it till
tomorrow.”

I yanked the walkie-talkie from my belt. “Max! Max! Help! I’m
in the gazebo. Uhhh!”

Tucker lunged forward and tackled me to the floor. His face
was inches from my own. “I’ve missed you out on the field, Hawthorne,” he said,
tapping my forehead with his helmet. Through watery eyes, I watched Bixley lean
down, pry the walkie-talkie from my hand and throw it into the rain.

“Stand him up,” Loosy-Goosy ordered.

Foster pulled me to my feet and pinned me to the side of the
gazebo. I nearly hyperventilated when Bixley cocked his big fist back.

“Wait!” Loosy-Goosy said. “He’s mine.”

Disappointed, Bixley lowered his fist.

“Give me your helmet,” Loosy-Goosy instructed.

“What?”

“Your helmet! Give me your helmet.”

Bixley grudgingly complied. When Loosy-Goosy slid the nose
tackle’s helmet over his head, only the seriousness of the situation prevented
me from laughing. The helmet came down so low it nearly covered his eyes, with
the chinstrap hanging halfway down his chest. Loosy-Goosy would have looked
less ridiculous had he put a bucket over his head.

“Because you’re too much of a pussy to play football, I’m
bringing football to you,” he said, lowering his head.

Foster and Tucker had my arms pinned. Bixley was grinning
ear-to-ear.

Beyond the gazebo, the rain continued to fall.

Loosy-Goosy rammed into my stomach like a spear. The impact
forced the air from my lungs. I tried to double-over, but Foster and Tucker
kept me propped between them. I couldn’t exhale; I couldn’t speak or scream or
even breathe. The pain hung over me like a cloud. I tried to catch my breath,
but I might as well have tried to stop the rain from falling.

When Loosy-Goosy hit me again, my vision went red. Bixley’s
eyes were bloodshot, his face obscenely sunburned. Blood rained down from the
sky. My head lolled backwards, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of
water.

When the third blow came, fresh air streamed into my lungs
like a current of ice water.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

It was Loosy-Goosy. He was down on his knees rubbing the
back of his neck.

I hung between the hands that held me, taking in generous
lungfuls of air.

“Can I finish him?” Bixley asked.

“Not while I’m still alive,” Loosy-Goosy said, removing his
helmet. “How do you think he’ll look with a broken nose?”

“Might make him prettier,” Bixley said, causing Foster and
Tucker to laugh.

When I first saw him out of the corner of my eye, I was half-convinced
he was a hallucination, a byproduct of my oxygen-deprived mind. The others
hadn’t seen him yet. I watched in disbelief as he ran through the rain. I was
so elated I began to laugh—a wheezing noise that sounded strange in my ears.

“That’s the last time you laugh in this lifetime,” Loosy-Goosy
threatened, cocking his puny fist.

Max rushed into the gazebo, shoving Loosy-Goosy with enough
force to send him flying out the other side. The rain had done nothing to wash
the grease from Max’s hands. His red hair lay flattened to his scalp, his bristly
moustache dripped with moisture. He looked driven by the storm. The rainwater
streaming off him glistened on his skin, exposing his anger.

“This is over,” he said in a hard voice. “Let him go.”

The hands that held me released their grip, and I dropped to
my knees. Scurrying footsteps gave way to the drumming of the rain. When I
looked up, Bixley and Max faced-off. Bixley’s bulk, enlarged by his pads,
looked untested; Max stood rigid as a beam of steel.

“You’re just a grease monkey,” Bixley said. “I’d knock your
ass off this island if I felt like getting kicked out.”

Though he stood a foot taller than Max and outweighed him by
close to sixty pounds, I felt sorry for Bixley. He had only seen Max walking
alone with his head down, keeping to himself. He hadn’t watched him bust
corroded couplings loose with a twist of the wrench; he hadn’t felt his iron
grip digging into his shoulder. I remained motionless, fearing that any
movement would send them both into action.

“It’s just you, me and the rain, boy,” was all Max said. But
it must have been enough, for without saying a word, Bixley reached down,
picked up his helmet, and stepped into the storm.

“You all right?” Max asked, helping me to my feet.

“I’ll be okay,” I said, putting a hand to my stomach. “I owe
you one.”

“Don’t mention it. I could tell you weren’t foolin’ around. Nearly
broke my neck on the way down, but I made it.” He pulled out a fresh toothpick,
but it must have gotten wet, for after sticking it between his teeth, he
grimaced and threw it away.