The Paladin Prophecy (11 page)

Will hopped into the SUV’s toasty interior. The seat felt plush and heated. Will pressed himself into its embrace and tried to stop shivering. Eloni moved to the driver’s seat, while McBride climbed in beside Will.

“It’s just coming up on six-fifteen, Will. We have a two-and-a-half-hour drive ahead. I thought we’d have breakfast on the way. Eloni, a stop at Popski’s is in order.”

McBride had a nice habit of rubbing his hands together when he spoke, then clapping them once to punctuate things, as if in constant prospect of improved circumstances.

“Popski’s it is, sir.”

Eloni guided them into the flow of early-morning traffic. The cabin felt as snug, safe, and still as a bank vault. As the heated seat returned feeling to his body, Will felt his troubles melt away. McBride’s gracious hospitality gave him the same comfort of unqualified support he’d felt from Dr. Robbins.

Which boded well, Will thought, for where he was headed. No regrets, so far, about his decision.

#19: WHEN EVERYTHING GOES WRONG, TREAT DISASTER AS A WAY TO WAKE UP.

*  *  *

Half an hour later, they were huddled in a red leather window booth in a stainless-steel railroad-car diner called Popski’s. It sat on a frontage road, a stone’s throw from the interstate, surrounded by 18-wheelers. A feast crowded the table in front of them: stacks of pancakes as thick as paperback novels and laden with melting butter and hot syrup; a platter of perfectly fried eggs and fat, pungent sausages; waffles so big a toddler could have used them as snowshoes, smothered with plump blueberries; a pile of crisp, sizzling bacon; pitchers of fresh-squeezed orange juice; and pots of strong black coffee.

Will ate with a desperate craving. Every bite tasted better than any version of these foods he’d ever eaten, as if Popski’s was the place where they’d invented breakfast and no one had improved on it.

“This place is unbelievable,” said Will finally.

“The legend of Popski’s is known far and wide,” said McBride, “to every wayfarer who travels these lonesome roads.”

“We say that a meal at Popski’s,” said Eloni, “can revive the dead.”

Eloni gave out an astonishing belch that made them laugh. Will tried to match it, and they laughed even harder. When he pushed his empty plate away, stuffed and satisfied, Will felt indeed as if he’d come halfway back to life.

Eloni paid the bill and McBride led the way back to the car. Properly fortified, Will felt less assaulted by the cold as they stepped outside, just as the sun peeked over the horizon to the east. He stopped to take in the austere beauty of the unfamiliar landscape, a flat, featureless gray-brown plain stretching to the horizon in every direction. It made Ojai seem like the Garden of Eden.

It had been only twenty-four hours since the last sunrise. In his own room, in his parents’ little house, in a distant region of the country, in what now seemed an entirely different life. Will couldn’t keep the loss and sorrow from his eyes.

“Not the easiest day for you in recent memory, I imagine,” said McBride. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“What state are we in?” Will asked, changing the subject.

“Northern Illinois,” said McBride. “We’ll be in Wisconsin shortly. It’s always wise to know what state you’re in, isn’t it?”

Will thought that over. “It’s good to be alive,” he said under his breath.

Within minutes they were back on the highway, heading north by northwest.

“Do you teach at the Center, Mr. McBride?” asked Will.

“Thirty years now. American history, nineteenth-century. My particular subject is Ralph Waldo Emerson. You’re an athlete, aren’t you?”

“Cross-country.”

“Terrific. That’ll give you the stamina for any sport. We encourage students to play as many sports as possible.”

“I don’t really know what to expect. This all happened pretty suddenly.”

“So I’m given to understand. Whatever the circumstances, if you’ll forgive me for dispensing advice, here you are: a new day. And you must make the most of it.”

“That sounds like something my dad would say.”

“I assume we should regard that as a good thing,” said McBride.

Will didn’t try to mask the sadness in his eyes before he looked away. McBride kept his gaze on Will, steady and kind.

“I know how hard leaving home can be,” said McBride. “I was fourteen when I first boarded. Filled me with uncertainty, fear of the unknown. This may sound odd, but if you’re able, Will, don’t push these feelings away. Embrace them. They’re yours, and part of you. They’re here to teach you some of what you’ve come to learn.”

“What would that be?”

“That’s a question only you can answer. And probably not for some time.”

They rode in silence. The landscape changed when they left the interstate for a smaller, two-lane highway. The road began to ramble through gently rolling hills covered with hardwood forests. Will’s mind wandered back to the events on the airplane, landing again on the image he’d seen on the back of Dave’s jacket.

“What does ANZAC mean?” asked Will.

“ANZAC?” asked McBride, puzzled. “What made you think of that?”

“Something I read on the plane,” said Will.

“ANZAC is an acronym for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. An expeditionary task force from both countries. Formed in World War One.”

“Does it still exist?”

“Absolutely.”

Will saw McBride and Eloni exchange a look.

“Not even sure why I thought of it, to be honest,” said Will.

At quarter past nine, they left the highway for local roads. Eloni executed a bewildering number of turns. Will caught a glimpse of the small town he’d seen online—New Brighton Township—and his senses sharpened. From there, the road threaded through hills dotted with distant barns and farmhouses. When they turned onto a long straightaway, Will recognized the wooded lane leading to the school that he’d seen in Robbins’s tour.

“Have a look, Will,” said McBride.

McBride slid open a moonroof overhead. The trees were all stripped of leaves, but even their bare branches formed a thick canopy over the road.

“American elms and red oaks. Legend has it they were planted by the region’s first people, the Lakota Sioux, to mark their sacred ground. Most are between three and four hundred years old, roughly the same age as our country. They were saplings when Washington and his men camped at Valley Forge.”

At the end of the tree-lined drive, they stopped in front of a traffic gate beside a stone guardhouse. A large man in a tan uniform stepped out. Slightly shorter and less stout, the guard might otherwise have been Eloni’s twin brother. The two spoke in low tones, in a language Will didn’t understand—Samoan, he assumed.

“Say hello to my cousin Natano,” said Eloni.

“Hey, how’s it going, Mr. West?” said Natano. “Welcome to the Center.”

Will returned his wave and saw that Natano wore a holstered automatic on his belt. Natano raised the gate, and Eloni drove through.

After cresting a short rise, they eased down toward a broad, bowl-shaped valley. Through the bare trees, Will got his first glimpse of the Center for Integrated Learning. The photographs he’d seen had not exaggerated its beauty; if anything, the campus looked even more perfect to the naked eye. Bright sun, clear blue skies, and glistening ivy gave the buildings of the main quadrangle a glossy glow. In the clipped hedges and pristine landscaping, not one blade of grass looked out of place. Through the commons between buildings, dozens of students moved along the graceful walkways. A flagpole stood in its center, flying an outsized Stars and Stripes that flapped taut in a steady breeze.

Will felt the same eerie sensation he’d experienced while looking at the website: He
belonged
here.

“Straight to Stone House, please, Eloni,” said McBride.

They followed the road as it curved away from campus, past a broad gravel parking lot filled with cars, a fleet of SUVs, and school buses in silver and navy blue. Around the parking lot stood an assortment of smaller buildings bustling with activity, a vibrant, self-supporting community.

“These house our infrastructure,” said McBride. “Laundry, kitchens, communications, transportation, power plants, and so forth.”

They turned onto an unpaved lane that climbed through thick woods, until they passed through a notch between converging ridges into an open clearing. Directly before them, connected to one of the ridgelines, an immense, broad granite pillar rose sixty feet in the air. It looked as if giants had stacked colossal children’s blocks.

Spanning the top of the column was a jaw-dropping structure. Crafted from soaring lines of wood, stone, and steel, the building looked as if it had grown naturally out of the ageless geological formation below. The house seemed ultramodern and at the same time stark and primitive. Defying an identifiable style, its elements conspired to form a unique, inspiring, and powerful creation.

“Stone House,” said Will.

“No mystery about where it gets its name,” said McBride. “Connected to the earth. Reaching for the sky. Fair description of a headmaster’s job, isn’t it … and this is where he lives.”

STONE HOUSE

Will followed Dan McBride to the rock, past a steel staircase that curved around the column to the house above. They went under an arch carved in the rock and into a small foyer with an elevator. McBride pressed a button and the doors opened.

“This goes straight up through the boulders?” asked Will.

“Indeed. Our founder, Dr. Thomas Greenwood, was a great admirer of an architect named Frank Lloyd Wright. Have you heard that name before, Will?”

“I think so.”

McBride followed Will inside and the doors whispered shut. Dark wood and mirrored glass paneled the interior. A phrase was engraved above the door:

NO STREAM RISES HIGHER THAN ITS SOURCE

“That’s his saying. Wright opened a study center not far from here about a hundred years ago, called Taliesin. When Dr. Greenwood decided on this location, he consulted with Wright about Stone House. Nothing like it had ever been built in this country before. Like the Center itself.”

Will caught the scent of damp concrete as they rose through the heart of the rock. He could feel the solidity of the granite around them—protective, somehow, rather than claustrophobic. The doors opened and they stepped into a reception area with concrete walls. A friendly white-haired woman waited to welcome them. Her name tag read MRS. GILCHREST. McBride called her Hildy.

She led them into an adjoining great room. The dimensions of the space overpowered Will’s senses. Enormous rectangular windows rose up to an arched cathedral ceiling. Breathtaking views of the surrounding countryside—hills, valleys, a distant river—filled the windows on either side of the room. Clusters of solid, simple furniture hugged light hardwood floors. Vast tapestries hung on the walls, woven with what looked like Native American symbols and hieroglyphs. A stacked rock fireplace that climbed to the ceiling dominated the far wall, and a roaring fire blazed.

Lillian Robbins walked forward to greet them. She wore a black skirt and crisp white blouse, black leggings, and knee-high black boots. Her hair was down on her shoulders, longer and fuller than Will would have guessed. She gripped Will’s shoulders with both hands and gave him a searching look.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

Another man entered from a door near the fireplace. He was tall and angular, with big hands and long, rangy arms. He wore brown corduroys, a battered shearling coat over a pale plaid shirt, and riding boots, weathered and muddied, like he’d just climbed off a horse.

“This is our headmaster, Dr. Rourke,” said Robbins.

He had an outdoorsman’s face, broad and tanned, and piercing blue eyes framed by a full head of tousled graying hair. Will guessed he was somewhere around fifty.

“Mr. West. Stephen Rourke.” His voice was deep and agreeable.

#16: ALWAYS LOOK PEOPLE IN THE EYE. GIVE THEM A HANDSHAKE THEY’LL REMEMBER.

They shook hands: Stephen Rourke’s were rough and strong, like a rancher’s. Will saw nothing remotely “academic” about the headmaster. He looked like he could pick his teeth with a bowie knife and seemed as confident as a four-star general.

Rourke smiled at him. “You’ve had an interesting journey,” he said.

“That I have, sir.”

Dan McBride headed for the door. “All the best now, Will. See you soon.”

“Thanks for your help, Mr. McBride.”

McBride gave Will a crisp two-finger salute as he left. Robbins invited Will to sit on a sofa near the fire. A tray of fresh-cut fruit and rolls sat on a nearby table. Rourke poured coffee and sat down across from him.

“Did you finish the paperwork I gave you?” asked Robbins.

Will fished the papers from his bag and handed them over. She paged through them, while Will tried not to watch. Rourke casually studied him.

“In many cultures, including our local Oglala Lakota,” said Rourke, “to
wish
anyone an ‘interesting journey’ is considered something of a curse.”

“I’d have to say my last twenty-four hours have been … interesting,” said Will.

Robbins looked up from the papers and gave Rourke a nod:
Everything in order
.

“What would you like to share with us about it, Will?” asked Rourke.

TELL NO ONE
.

Will wanted to honor Dad’s warning, but he also felt he owed them an explanation. He was here and, for all he knew, still alive because of their timely help and interest in him. But the
whole
truth—Dave, doppelgänger parents, gremlins, and special sunglasses—wouldn’t buy him anything but a room at the Laughing Academy with no handle on his side of the door.

#63: THE BEST WAY TO LIE IS TO INCLUDE PART OF THE TRUTH.

“My parents wanted me to come here right away. As soon as I could. Today. Because they thought I was in danger.”

Rourke and Robbins exchanged a look of concern. Rourke leaned forward. “What sort of danger, Will?” he asked.