What Came From the Stars (15 page)

And they sorrowed for Young Waeglim and their misjudgment. They bowed the knee and swore they would fight with him against the Lord Mondus and the O’Mondim, as their fathers and mothers had fought before with Elder Waeglim.

And then Ealgar, son of Bruleath, youngest and smallest of all, who could not remember the days of Brogum Sorg Cynna, so young he was, said, “Where is the Art of the Valorim, that we might fight with it?”

And Young Waeglim said, “That you should be the
one to ask speaks most well of you.” Young Waeglim put his hand on Ealgar’s shoulder. “There is a way,” he said, and his hand felt heavy to the boy, the heaviest thing he had ever carried.

And Young Waeglim told them what must be done to retrieve the Art of the Valorim. When he had finished, he asked if Ealgar could do such a thing. And Bruleath, the father of Ealgar, offered to do it in his son’s place, but Young Waeglim said, “It is a task for the youngest and smallest, for the strength of one Valore alone is not the strength of the Valorim Ascendant, and the journey is as long as Thought.”

And Ealgar felt his dreams come upon him. He remembered the stories of the Valorim. He remembered the stories of those who had fought with them. And his heart yearned to see again what the Silence had covered with dust and ash. So, with a voice that trembled not a little, Ealgar promised to do what Young Waeglim had spoken to them all.

And the eyes of the Valore looked again at the Ethelim, and this time, he saw hope.

Then did Young Waeglim gather the Ethelim into companies, and each company chose two to lead them, and each of the two came to Young Waeglim, and the Valore saw that their hearts were good and their minds keen and if their arms had not the strength that he might have hoped to bring against the O’Mondim,
still, good hearts and keen minds were nowhere among the Faceless.

And what could there be against the Silence except battle?

And Bruleath, who had been sent by Verlim the Destroyer for a sign of the Ethelim’s obedience, smiled grimly at the sign he would now carry back.

But he sat apart with his son, and with Hileath, and they trembled for what was to come. For how could anyone hope to leave this world, and come back?

Yet that is what Ealgar was to do.

Tommy’s class was wondering how long it would be before a teacher showed up. James Sullivan was betting the whole day, and he was already starting to push the desks to one side of the room to make an indoor football arena—even though they had only a stubby William Bradford Elementary School football to play with—when Mrs. MacReady appeared at the door, looking a little startled.

“Mr. Zwerger would like to see you in his office,” she said to Tommy, and “Why are you pushing those desks that way?” to James Sullivan, and “I think I had better wait here until your substitute arrives,” to the whole class. Everybody groaned. “I’m not paid to do this, you know.” Everybody groaned again.

Tommy went to Mr. Zwerger’s office. The fah smell of O’Mondim was so strong in the halls, he wondered how anyone could stand it. Or didn’t they smell it? No one seemed to notice anything.

He walked into the main office, and since Mrs. MacReady wasn’t there to make him wait, he knocked on Mr. Zwerger’s door. It opened immediately.

Mr. Zwerger looked a little startled too.

“Tommy Pepper,” he said quickly, “thank you for coming.” He almost pulled Tommy into the room, and taking him by the shoulders, he held Tommy between himself and the other man in his office.

The tall man. With shadows across his face. Wearing a dark suit, and a dark shirt, and dark gloves. He stared at Tommy. He was very still.

“Tommy Pepper, this is Mr. PilgrimWay,” said Mr. Zwerger.

Mr. PilgrimWay stood, smiled.

“I think we’ve met,” said Mr. PilgrimWay, “in a way.”

“He’s been admiring your painting,” said Mr. Zwerger. He pointed to the cottage.

Mr. PilgrimWay nodded. “It is a very unusual”—Mr. PilgrimWay paused, looked out the window, looked back at Tommy—“technique,” he said. “That is, unusual for this place.”

Tommy wished very much that Mr. PilgrimWay had never seen the painting.

Mr. Zwerger still had his hands on Tommy’s shoulders.

“Mr. PilgrimWay is going to substitute for Mr. Burroughs while he’s gone, and Mr. PilgrimWay has asked if you would be his special helper as he gets to know the class. I told him you would be glad to.”

Tommy stepped back—which was not easy since Mr. Zwerger stood so close behind him.

Mr. PilgrimWay looked down at Tommy’s chest, where the chain was warming quickly.

“We’ll get along well,” said Mr. PilgrimWay.

“PilgrimWay is an unusual name,” said Tommy. “That is, unusual for this place.”

“Is it?” said Mr. PilgrimWay. He smiled. “I’m sure there’s much that is ... unusual ... about us both.”

Mr. Zwerger angled himself a little bit farther from Mr. PilgrimWay.

“So, Tommy,” said Mr. Zwerger, “if you would get Mr. PilgrimWay’s things—that briefcase right there—and I’ll get this folder, and we’ll all go down to the classroom.”

Tommy picked up the briefcase. It was light, and he wondered if there was anything in it. Mr. PilgrimWay followed them out of the office, walking with almost no sound, just behind Tommy all the way.

When they reached the classroom, Mrs. MacReady was holding the stubby William Bradford Elementary School football and coaching all the desks back to their right rows.

James Sullivan was not looking happy.

“Mrs. MacReady?” said Mr. Zwerger.

“This is not what I am paid to do,” said Mrs. MacReady.

“And you’re not paid to...”

Alice Winslow put her hand over James Sullivan’s mouth.

“Class,” said Mr. Zwerger—he looked over once at Mrs. MacReady, but she shook her head and held the football in front of her chest—“class, this is Mr. PilgrimWay. Mr. Burroughs is not available to teach today, and so Mr. PilgrimWay will be substituting. I think you’ll all agree that PilgrimWay is a wonderful name for a teacher at William Bradford Elementary School. I know you will all like each other, and that you will all behave exactly as you would if Mr. Burroughs were here.” Mr. Zwerger looked at Mr. PilgrimWay and handed him the manila folder he was carrying. “The classroom roster,” he said.

Mr. PilgrimWay nodded and took the folder. He went to Mr. Burroughs’s desk and sat down. He watched them all.

Mr. Zwerger, and Mrs. MacReady in front of him, could not have left much more quickly.

And when they were gone, Mr. PilgrimWay opened the folder, took out the roster, and tore it up into twelve pieces.

“I’ll get to know your names...” he said.

His mouth barely opened.

“...soon enough.”

“Dang,” whispered James Sullivan. His hands gripped an invisible football.

“Dang, dang,” whispered Patrick Belknap.

Tommy nodded. “Dang, dang, dang,” he said.

Even sitting down, Mr. PilgrimWay was the biggest substitute teacher Tommy had ever seen. He was probably the biggest substitute teacher anyone had ever seen.

He had shoulders that stuck straight out, and arms that fell from them to hands as large as platters. Big platters. He did not turn his head, but moved his face with his shoulders. His mouth was set and straight.

The shadows across his face covered his eyes.

But when Mr. PilgrimWay began to speak again, Tommy realized that it was his voice that was the most remarkable thing of all. How had he not noticed this in Mr. Zwerger’s office? His voice was sweet and beautiful. When he spoke, he sounded as if he were singing. You couldn’t help but listen to him. You couldn’t help but wish he would keep on talking forever. When he asked Alice Winslow to stand and tell him her name—he didn’t go in alphabetical order, but by order of nyssi—Alice Winslow looked as if she had fallen in love with him. When James Sullivan stood and said his name, he looked as if he would give Mr. PilgrimWay his Tom Brady-signed football if he still had it. And when Patrick Belknap stood up and said his name, he looked like Mr. PilgrimWay had handed him free box seats on the first baseline side for every Red Sox game for the rest of his life—a seat for him, and for his accordion, too.

Tommy Pepper knew that he would come up next in order of nyssi.

Mr. PilgrimWay’s shadowed eyes looked at him.

“Tommy Pepper,” said Mr. PilgrimWay.

He didn’t sound like he was singing it.

“Tommy Pepper,” he said again. “I know you.”

Tommy didn’t stand. He slid down in his seat.

Mr. PilgrimWay’s shadowed eyes left Tommy and moved around the classroom. Slowly. “It is good to meet you all,” he said. “Mr. Burroughs has told me you are one of his very finest classes. I’m sure that we’ll get along well.”

Tommy peered around. The way that everyone was looking at Mr. PilgrimWay, he was pretty sure they would.

“Open your mathematics textbook. There are fifteen problems to do on pages eighty-five through eighty-six. When you finish, bring your answers to my desk.”

Tommy looked around again. No one was groaning. Why was no one groaning? He opened his math book and turned to Alice Winslow. “Don’t you think he’s creepy?” Tommy whispered.

“Who?” said Alice Winslow.

“Who? Mr. PilgrimWay.”

Alice looked at him. “He has the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard,” she said.

“But didn’t you...”

“Mr. Pepper,” Mr. PilgrimWay said.

Tommy started in on the fifteen problems.

They took more than an hour.

No groaning at all. Not from anyone. No one asking for help. No one asking to go to the bathroom. No one begging for mercy. Not even James Sullivan.

They finished one by one and they went up to show Mr. PilgrimWay their work.

When Tommy went up, he kept Mr. Burroughs’s desk between them. He did not look at Mr. PilgrimWay. He kept his eyes on his worksheet as Mr. PilgrimWay went over it with a red pencil.

Mr. PilgrimWay held the pencil as if he had never held one before in his life. He held it like an orlu, for heaven’s sake.

Tommy’s chain warmed.

“We’ll be working on the solar system in the afternoon,” said Mr. PilgrimWay to the class. “I hope the results will not be as disappointing as they were this morning. ”

Tommy’s chain throbbed with heat.

Tommy brought his solar system folder with him to lunch but left his lunch box in his locker. To hide it. But this time, not from anyone in his class.

In the cafeteria he checked the hot lunch menu. Corn dogs. Good. No one ever finished a corn dog. Before he ate, he went through his folder and picked out all the pictures of revolving planets he had drawn. He crumpled them all together—he could feel their motion within his hands—and he threw them into the bottom of the garbage bin. He looked around. It wouldn’t be long before they were covered with half-eaten corn dogs.

At recess after lunch, James Sullivan went to the gym for another football, but the football he brought back was even stubbier. Tommy couldn’t catch a single one of James Sullivan’s throws. It was as if his hands had turned to rocks. The passes bounced off them and onto the asphalt.

“Pepper,” said James Sullivan, “are you paying attention?”

“Yes, I’m paying attention,” said Tommy.

“You do remember how to catch a football, right?”

“I do remember how to catch a football, you jerk.”

“So run a cross.”

Tommy ran a cross. The ball came into his hands, and he dropped it. It bounced onto the asphalt.

“Maybe I should throw to Alice,” said James Sullivan.

The day had turned cloudy and cold over the morning, as if winter was thinking of shaking itself out of its long sleep and really showing its stuff. The brittle fronds of the daylilies alongside the sixth grade door rustled drily. A few drops of rain pattered, cold as ice.

Everyone decided to come in from recess early.

Tommy was the last one in.

When they got back into Mr. Burroughs’s classroom, Mr. PilgrimWay was twirling Tommy’s lunch box in his hands. He looked at Tommy and smiled.

It took Tommy a minute to see that everything in the classroom had changed. Instead of the posters Mr. Burroughs had put up on the new bulletin boards—posters of the entire Red Sox teams of 2004 and 2007 wearing their World Series rings and signed by every member of the team, every single member!—new posters of the solar system covered half the boards.

And the desks were now set up in nyssi order, so Tommy’s desk butted up against Mr. PilgrimWay’s desk.

“Neat!” said James Sullivan.

He tucked his stubby William Bradford Elementary School football in and ran the rows until he got to his own desk, and he closed the window against the cold rain—which was now coming down in more than a few patters.

Tommy watched Alice Winslow walk to her desk. It was at the very back of the classroom.

Alice Winslow hated having her desk at the very back of the classroom.

Alice Winslow complained loudly if her desk was at the very back of the classroom.

But Alice Winslow sat down as happy as all get-out. She looked at Mr. PilgrimWay and smiled.

“Tommy Pepper,” said Mr. PilgrimWay. He almost reached toward Tommy, then pulled his hand back. “Your desk,” he said, “is here.” He pointed to the desk beside his own and laid the lunch box upon it.

Tommy looked into the shadowed eyes.

He sat down.

Mr. PilgrimWay began to hand out large sheets of paper.

“To start off our study of the solar system,” said Mr. PilgrimWay, “we’re going to draw a place on a far, far distant planet. A place far out of your solar system. Perhaps a planet that is much warmer than your own cold world.”

He looked down at Tommy.

“Use your imaginations and be as creative as you wish, but give it ... credibility. Make it seem as if it could exist.”

Everyone started to draw. Even James Sullivan, who hated to draw, started to draw.

Tommy felt his chain twist and pull. He looked up.