What Came From the Stars (20 page)

By noon, Mrs. MacReady let it be known that she had her own work to do on top of being a substitute teacher and as far as she knew, no one was doing it for her. So she would have to go back and forth between the main office and this classroom for a couple of hours, and she expected perfect behavior when she had to step out. If you were finished with your book, you could continue your essay on the relevant current event. If not, you should keep reading attentively. Both of these were still Closed-Mouth Activities. She would be back in a few minutes.

As soon as Mrs. MacReady left and her footsteps were sounding from far enough away, James Sullivan put down his book and turned to Tommy. “What happened to Mr. Burroughs?”

“I’m glad you remember Mr. Burroughs,” said Tommy.

“How could I not remember Mr. Burroughs?”

“Good question. And he’s not the only one missing.”

He told them. He tried not to bawl like a first-grader.

“So Mr. Burroughs was the first one gone,” said Alice Winslow. “Maybe if we found out where Mr. Burroughs went, that might be a clue to where Patty is.”

“Thank you, Detective Winslow,” said Patrick Belknap. “Do you want me to get out the bloodhounds now or after school?”

“You know, Patrick, you can sometimes be—”

“A maeglia, I know,” said Tommy. “Listen, I think what we need to do is to arm ourselves.”

This took a moment to understand.

“Arm ourselves?” said Alice Winslow.

“Arm ourselves!” said James Sullivan.

Tommy nodded. “Arm ourselves,” he said again.

“Oh my goodness,” said Alice Winslow.

And suddenly it seemed as if everything in the room grew hushed, and serious, and important.

“How?” said Patrick Belknap.

Tommy stood up. “We have to go,” he said.

“MacReady will kill us if we’re not here when she gets back,” said Alice Winslow.

Tommy considered this for a moment. Then he looked at Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin. He walked over to her desk. “Cheryl Lynn,” he said.

Cheryl Lynn looked up from her book.

“We have to go. Can you cover for us?”

“What?” said Cheryl Lynn.

“We need you to cover for us. Say we’ve gone to the bathroom.”

“I’m not going to cover for you, jerk,” said Cheryl Lynn.

“Not just me. Alice and Sullivan and Belknap, too.”

“Really. All four of you. All gone to the bathroom. You expect me to tell MacReady that?”

“Not just that,” said Tommy.

Tommy looked around, then he went to Patrick Belknap’s desk and picked up the accordion that Patrick was keeping by his feet.

“Hey,” said Patrick Belknap.

Tommy lugged the accordion to Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin’s desk. Then he reached beneath his shirt and pulled out his chain. He grabbed Cheryl Lynn’s hand—“What do you think you’re...?”—and he pressed the chain into her palm.

For a moment, it glowed sharply, then Tommy put it back under his shirt.

Cheryl Lynn looked down at the accordion case.

Patrick Belknap stood up.

“Belknap, it’s all right,” said Tommy.

Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin opened the accordion case. She grappled with the thing, and finally swung it out.

“I think I’d play something that sounded sort of Scottish,” said Tommy.

Cheryl Lynn began to squeeze.

“Time to go,” said Tommy, and—Patrick Belknap looking back—the four of them ran out of the classroom, and down the hall, and across to the first grade hall, and so outside.

Mrs. MacReady later said it was a song from her childhood. She couldn’t believe Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin was playing it. Neither could Cheryl Lynn.

It wasn’t long before Mrs. MacReady started to cry happily.

She never even knew they were gone. Most days, it took Tommy about thirty-two minutes to walk from William Bradford Elementary School to his house. At a run, pausing for breath, he could do it in twenty-four, or maybe twenty-three if he was headed from his house to William Bradford, since it’s mostly downhill that way.

They took about twenty-two. Who knew Alice Winslow could run so well?

Along the way, Tommy told them what they needed. He’d already made the orlu. Maybe another orlu for Sullivan. A halin for Alice. And a limnae for Belknap.

“How come I don’t get an orlu?” said Patrick Belknap. “And what is an orlu?”

Tommy said he didn’t know what exactly they were going to do, but somehow, somehow, he knew they’d have to wait for Mr. PilgrimWay to show up. And they’d be ready. “And whatever you do,” he said, “eteth threafta.”

They nodded.

“Sure,” said Sullivan.

And as it turned out, Tommy was right about the first thing: they didn’t know what exactly they were going to do. But he was wrong about the second thing.

They didn’t have to wait.

It was a familiar sound—or one that felt familiar: the sound of two orluo, clashing.

Tommy ran behind the house, and there, in the pine woods, he saw them: Mr. PilgrimWay and a shirtless boy who looked as if he might be his own age. Maybe just a little older, but almost the same height, and weight, and—well, almost everything. And the orluo were flashing between them, faster than Tommy could have imagined, and Tommy couldn’t help but, with a pang, feel amazed and even a little jealous at how skilled the boy was.

“Tommy,” yelled Alice Winslow, “we should call the police.”

But Tommy ran into his house, and when he came out, he was shirtless too, and he carried his orlu.

“Tommy?” said Alice Winslow.

And suddenly, Mr. PilgrimWay was pressing the boy back down the dune, and the blows of his orlu were stronger and more powerful than those of the boy, who gave way, and gave way, back and back, falling once in the sand, and saved only when Tommy cried out and Mr. PilgrimWay looked up and Tommy swung at him with his orlu and Mr. PilgrimWay had to parry it and the boy scrambled away.

Mr. PilgrimWay smiled.

“Gumena weardas!” the boy yelled, and he pointed to the ground beyond the house—where the flags were blowing their little selves straight in with the sea breeze, and where the blocks of the thrygeth wall lay scattered.

Together, Tommy and the boy ran to the flags, with Mr. PilgrimWay only a few steps behind them, and there, they turned and stood beside each other, shoulder to shoulder.

The boy looked at James Sullivan and Patrick Belknap. He pulled his gyldn from his belt and threw it to them.

“I think he meant you to take it,” said Patrick Belknap.

“It’s closer to you,” said James Sullivan.

“I’m not taking my shirt off. It’s freezing.”

“Oh my goodness,” said Alice Winslow.

Mr. PilgrimWay ignored them, and smiled again at Tommy Pepper and the boy.

“Two boys against one who sits in the Seats of the Reced?” he said. “And only one of them Ethelim?”

Tommy figured that this was where they were supposed to say something noble and heroic, but the boy, who was holding his orlu out in front of him, said nothing. Tommy decided to shut up. But he held his orlu out in front of him too.

He wasn’t exactly sure if he was holding it correctly—or if it was upside down.

Mr. PilgrimWay took a step closer.

And then he was upon them.

Tommy was sure that he was holding the orlu upside down.

If it had not been for the boy, Tommy Pepper would have been overwhelmed immediately; the rush forward was that quick. He tried to be a part of the battle, but really, the most he could do was to circle behind Mr. PilgrimWay and pretend he was a threat—at least he could keep Mr. PilgrimWay a little bit distracted. And maybe it worked, because even though the clash of his orlu did not come as loudly as the boy’s, Mr. PilgrimWay did have to keep turning his head to see where Tommy was, and those were the moments—brief though they were—when the boy could let down his orlu and breathe.

“You know, Sullivan,” Tommy called out, “I could use a little help.”

“How do you hold this thing?” said James Sullivan.

“It’s a gyldn,” hollered Tommy.

“Oh, thanks,” said Patrick Belknap. “That tells us a whole lot.”

And then the three orluo clashed together and, in sparks and shrieks, locked, and Mr. PilgrimWay struck the boy in the face with his open hand, and the boy fell back to the sand, dazed. And Mr. PilgrimWay turned to Tommy.

He drew his own gyldn from behind him.

“See! That’s how you hold it,” said Alice Winslow.

Mr. PilgrimWay smiled again.

“Your orlu is upside down,” he said.

Tommy turned it in his hands.

“Give me the chain.”

Tommy looked behind Mr. PilgrimWay. The boy was shaking his head, trying to stand up, but still dazed.

“He will be no help to you. Give me the chain.”

“Where’s Patty?” said Tommy. “Where’s my father?”

Mr. PilgrimWay took a step closer. He shook his head. “The chain first.”

So did Tommim Pepper draw out again the Art of the Valorim, and show Ouslim the Liar the chain of the Art of the Valorim. And the boy Ealgar looked, and cried against the faithless Ouslim, who would take the Art of the Valorim and subdue his world.

And Tommim Pepper spoke. “No.”

So did Ouslim the Liar come upon him again, and though his companions did rush to him—even unto Ealgar—they were thrown down, and Ouslim the Liar stood above him, and terrible was the speed of his orlu.

Then, in the battle’s greatest need, did Tommim Pepper fight as did Elder Waeglim himself at Brogum Sorg Cynna, who, disdaining all armor and weaponry, did go out against his enemies with a gyldn, and only a gyldn, and his hands flew before his enemies like flighted birds, and none could pierce him, or wound him, so quickly and easily did the gyldn fly in front of him, and it seemed there were many more than one.

And Tommim Pepper laughed in his heart and swung his orlu, and glad was his mind when Ouslim stepped back before him, and back again, and back, until finally his feet were in the sea.

And Ouslim the Liar cried out to the O’Mondim, and again.

And the O’Mondim came.

And the O’Mondim went to Tommim Pepper and he took the orlu from his hand and threw it far under the waves, where none will see it again. Then he gripped the shoulder locks of Tommim Pepper and did drive him to the ground, and Ouslim the Liar held his bright orlu above his face and did say that there were none to save him now. And who was he, to challenge one who sat in the Seats of the Reced?

And it seemed to Tommim Pepper that he looked upon the setting sun for the last time in his days.

“Byrgum barut,” said Tommim Pepper. “Su byrgum barut!”

Mr. PilgrimWay smiled. He pulled his orlu away and rested it on the sand. He looked around at Alice, and Belknap and Sullivan, at the young Ethelim, and then again at Tommy.

“This is pointless,” he said. “You will give me the chain. You must give it to me, for the sleep that closes the eyes of your sister and your father will be only sleep for another day. Then it will be sleep no more. It will be death.”

“I don’t believe anything you say.”

“Then you will live with the consequences of your unbelief.” He looked over his shoulder. The sun had set not long ago and the darkness was coming quickly. “It isn’t a long time, and when I come back, you will give me the chain of your own will.” He pointed to the boy. “Remember, he will want the chain for his own purposes—but those are not your purposes.”

Tommy shook his head. “Liar,” he said.

Mr. PilgrimWay smiled. “A sign, then, of good faith.” He looked at the O’Mondim, and suddenly his orlu whirled and hit the O’Mondim across the chest, who fell on the sand and lay still. Mr. PilgrimWay turned back to Tommy. “The Art of the Valorim gave him life. So it can take it away.” He pointed. “There is the mark you drew across his face. Use the chain now to erase it and this clod will dissolve into the grains from which he was made. That is my act of good faith.” He stepped back.

Tommy got up, slowly. He watched Mr. PilgrimWay, and watched the O’Mondim, who did not move as he came closer. Who did not move as he gripped his chain. Who did not move as Tommy looked at the mark he could erase—already harder to see in the darkening light.

The O’Mondim.

“Ferr,” said the boy.

But Tommy Pepper whispered, “What is your name?”

“The O’Mondim have no names,” said Mr. PilgrimWay.

Tommy looked at Mr. PilgrimWay. “They used to,” he said. He looked back at the O’Mondim. “What is your name?”

“Tommy Pepper,” said Mr. PilgrimWay, “you speak to sand.”

But Tommy knew this was a terrible lie.

Tommy stepped back from the O’Mondim. He took his hand from the chain and shook his head again. “I won’t,” he said. He looked at Mr. PilgrimWay. “We’re
not
the same.”

Mr. PilgrimWay laughed, suddenly, harshly. He motioned to the O’Mondim, who stood up, slowly, awkwardly without his right hand.

“A day, Tommy Pepper. And then you will give me the chain.”

Another motion to the O’Mondim, who turned and walked toward the sea. Tommy watched him pass through the blocks of clear thrygeth ice and into the waves. And in that light he could not be sure, but before the O’Mondim sank beneath the water, it seemed that he turned back to Tommy for a moment—only a moment—and then he was gone.

And Mr. PilgrimWay walked away along the beach down toward Plymouth, and was covered in the gathering darkness.

“I still don’t think I’m holding this right,” said James Sullivan.

Tommy looked at him. “It doesn’t look like it.”

The O’Mondim had turned his sightless face back toward him.

They helped the boy up to the house, and Tommy got one of his sweatshirts for him. It fit pretty well. Then he went into the kitchen and he and Sullivan made peanut butter sandwiches—which turned out to be something the boy had never seen before, but he was hungry enough that it didn’t matter—while Belknap worked at building a fire, and the living room filled first with smoke and then with the wood’s dry heat. The boy could not understand anything that Alice Winslow or James Sullivan or Patrick Belknap said, and they couldn’t understand anything he said, but Tommy translated as he brought peanut butter sandwiches and kindling back and forth down the yellow hall, his mother’s image walking beside him each time.