The Shibboleth (6 page)

In the hall. Like a statue. The boy with the Rider stands waiting, like he knew I was coming.

“Boy,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Don't know how to respond to that. He says it like he's my grandfather or something.

“I'm not your
boy.
”

He raises his hand in a strange gesture, like he's a priest giving a benediction. Then a confused expression passes over his features, like he's had some hard thought or bad memory.

“Boy,” he says, almost croaking. “Leave.” He takes two steps forward, bringing his body very close. “The elder will awaken. You must—”

“The elder?”

“
Leave
.”

“I don't get wha—”

“
Be ready. Be prepared. You must leave
!”

Something sparks there, in his expression, and the distance it seems to travel is terrifying.

A long pause while he gives me the stink-eye.

I say, “That's what I was trying to do, man. And you were blocking the way.” I try to slide past him, but he sidesteps and stands in front of me again.

Screw this noise. I start to turn when his arm reaches out and plants one right on my ear, a real ringer of a knock, and I can't tell if it was with a fist or openhanded because my head's vibrating like a bell and my ear feels like it's on fire.

With the pain, instincts whirl my body around to meet the larger boy, and my fists go up, not in some boxer's pose. That is all too graceful for me, head ringing. I bring my fists up just to get something between him and me.

Lower and slower, he says, “Leave, boy. There's nothing for you here now. You must
leave
!”

“Damn it, stop calling me boy.” I do stupid things sometimes. I fight. I fight what's inevitable.

I throw a punch.

And it lands. The boy's head rocks back, his mouth pops open. When he brings his head back forward, he blinks a few times in quick succession like he's waking up. He raises his hand to his nose to wipe the blood welling from nostrils and dripping over his lip and patting on his white T-shirt.

I drop my hands in surprise.

“What the—” he says, staring at me hard. “Why the hell'd you do that, slim?” He glances around the hallway as if he's surprised to be there. “What the hell?”

His voice is different. Higher, more vibrant, more …
present
. But smooth and mellow, like he's from some southern Louisiana parish swarming with mosquitoes, stinking of blood and barbeque.

He doesn't waste much time breaking me down into
component parts, a big knobby fist whipping into my left side, and—
again
—the air whooshing out of me while his other paw clips me on the jaw as I'm falling, sending the world tilting out of control. The lime-green tile flooring rushes up and smacks me in the face.

“Punk,” he says, wiping at his nose with his bare hand and leaving long red streaks up his forearm. “Why the hell'd you—” He stops, probably coming to the same conclusion I'm reaching

–people are seriously messed up–

and because of his Rider, I know that's my thought and not his. The Rider's lurking there, like some bouncer at a club, just waiting for me to try to get past the velvet rope.

Yeah, people are seriously messed up.

He looks about, scanning for witnesses, and then, with one more scowling look, skulks off toward the Commons.

When I can get up, I follow the boy down the hall and into the Commons, where there's a constant, roiling commotion, the boys hooting, hollering, slap-fighting, singing, rapping, cursing, preening, posturing. Some look at me, recognize my distress, and smile. There's a maelstrom of noise in the air and in the dim ether that I'm so attuned to, the mental frequencies. And in some ways, it's easier in the Commons. There are so many thoughts flying about, I can't focus on any single one.

In the bathroom, I run in to two titty-babies, talking in hushed voices

–him the snitch, the narc, oh shit be quiet jorge don't say anything and just walk out–

but they shut up when I enter and watch me with large, wary eyes. They scuttle out like cockroaches when I go to the mirror and inspect my face.

My cheek's swelling pretty good. I hope his nose is broken.

Nothing for it except to go to the infirmary.

Out of the bathroom, through the Commons, where the voices quiet as I pass, and I can feel their gazes on

–little bastard thieving sonofa–

–looks like someone gave him what he deserved for–

–new fish ain't no fish judging by the narc's face, fugly motherfu–

my back, as unwelcome as I am among them now, friendless, alone. But I'll be damned if I bow to them, look scared or hunch my shoulders. They can hate me, but I can bear it and not let the pain show.

–over there over there over there get him–

–aw shit darrel–

Someone yells, “Narc!” and I turn in time to see a boy's body twist sideways in the air, hurtling toward me, elbows tucked tight in some imitation of a wrestling move. He smacks into my chest, his shoulder and elbow hitting sore ribs, and I pitch backward, but there's something—
someone
—there behind my knees, kneeling, and I fall backward with my arms out. Falling,
falling
until my head meets the floor with a
crack
and the world flashes white then black and red, and I'm being cocooned by the howls of laughter and debris being tossed on me, bits of trash, wrappers, empty water bottles. Someone spits, and I feel it warm on my skin, on my neck, my nose, my face. Tracers push into the edges of my vision, but I'm not losing consciousness, just blinking rapidly and thinking,
I've had worse
. The Dubrovniks rearranging my guts, the memories of poor Elissa,
who bore the torture of years in a pit—part of her I carry with me always and will never be free of—and the trials and invasion of Quincrux into my mind. My mother, her anger and grief and spite and neglect. My brother, Vig, lost to me.

–This is just physical pain and cannot touch me, inside. Inside I am impenetrable and—

“What's this?” The boys around me scatter, dissipate like smoke. It's my buddy, the new bull. The thick one, the steer.

He looks down at me, prone on the floor in outraged pain and silence, and smiles. “Ah, ward three thousand, four hundred and ninety-eight. Shreve Cannon, also known as ‘the Narc,' ‘Moleman,' ‘Hollywood,' and ‘Candyass.'”

Since it's obvious he's not there to assist, I lever myself off the tiles and stand upright, swaying, panting into the close air of the Commons as the hushed crowd of boys watch. I feel something warm on my back, and my hand comes away bloody when I touch the back of my skull. Split scalp, maybe fractured rib, possible concussion. I remember the mechanics of diagnosis like a dream, someone else's memories, someone else's pains and woes.
Dr. Stevens
. From North Carolina. I was him; he was me.

“Read my file, did you?” I say, but my voice doesn't sound right and I'm swaying more and then a great wave of dizziness washes over me and I sit back down, hard, my legs crumpling underneath me to keep me from falling over.

The raw cacophony of mental noise pulsing in the air, and

–oh no this little shit might really be hurt last thing i need is hours of paperwork but i wouldn't piss on this piece of crap if he was on fire–

–messed him up, man, messed him up good–

–badass darrel's the man, damn, that was sweet taking that thief out–

–should put two in his head, goddamn I'd do it, just walk right up and blam blam and watch him fall–

the images of me—
me!
—being wounded, killed, destroyed, stabbed by this maddened and intense crowd of kids, it's

–thief–

–thieving piece of–

–trick-ass bitch ho–

–THIEF! THIEF!–

I feel like a car-struck dog hiding under a porch. No more. I teeter, pitch over, and the world turns to black.

–like all the world is new, shy, and coy, a doctor and his nurse between the dispensary and he stops in the hall as if we never kissed that night after the movie and spent that glorious moment, holding me, me holding him, exploring his body with my hands and he mine, he takes me away from that little hospital, holding my hand walking to his car, opens the door for me and when i slide over next to him he pulls me in tight and kisses me, tasting of listerine and the cigarette he had on break and the fecund bitterness of coffee, opaline and somewhat dank, but i couldn't care less because his hands are sweet and he starts his plymouth with a roar, wagging his eyebrows at me in an exaggerated caricature of haste—lust—and to his house even though the radio interrupts the beatles “love me do” by blaring the news about korea and the battle at osan. But the world outside the car, the lobby, his kitchen, his bedroom doesn't exist anymore despite whatever may come later because he's a doctor and i'm just a nurse and there's no balance there. and afterward, staring at the ceiling, smoking like in the movies and ashing into the tray he perches on his belly, it's too warm and too sticky, both our bodies covered in sweat, so we wander about his house, naked as babes, both unrepentant and scandalized by our own nudity. finally we settle on the couch and when we're spent, he turns on the television, a big one, we watch the news and dean martin's variety show and then the midnight movie, dracula, the old one with the frog-featured romanian in formal wear, so dramatic, and he's got
his arms around me, slipping into a light slumber, exhausted from our earlier vigors, while the overdressed vampire rises from his stagecraft coffin, moving eerily through the play-act castle to proclaim, “listen to them! the children of the night” in a great bit of cinema histrionics but it's not the movie or the day or the frisson of our sex or the sheen of sweat or the scent of his breath it's just that burning circle of his arms holding me tight and for that one moment i know i'm worthy of love and able to give it in return something i feared had been burnt to a cinder within me. no, it sparks and kindles and i never want the sensation to end, never end the circle never broken stay like this forev–

Ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights passing above me, through swinging doors and down hallways

–remember what she did to you, Jack! Remember what she did!–

in the bull's big rough arms. He smells of sweat and the gym and gun oil and for a second I'm reminded of Booth, when he hugged me and told me not to get in trouble, so long ago. Everything is lost now, everything is gone, the lights, the stink of disinfectant on the dull Casimir tiles, everything, just this loathed swaying motion of the bull's body as he carries me down the hall where once Jack and I fled from Quincrux and the Witch.

In the infirmary, he makes me stand, and I can manage it long enough for Mrs. Cheeves to toddle around her desk, a startled expression chasing one of worry across her face until

–oh, this one. the taker. back again and again and someday it'll be with a broken neck and who would blame the boys? after what he did last year, what he does at night, stealing–

she looks somewhat frightened, as if dealing with a small, personal apocalypse. A realization. She's puzzled by her
thoughts. And the word
stealing stealing stealing
echoes in her mind as she looks at me and wonders what I have stolen even though she knows with absolute certainty that I am a thief. I have taken something from her. Eventually she shrugs and her face solidifies.

“Put him there,” she says, pointing at a bed in the small ward at the back of the infirmary. The bull puts me on the bed, and the nurse peels back my eyelids, shining a penlight into each. When the light migrates back and forth, she stands and retrieves cotton swabs, rubbing alcohol. A vial of something and a needle.