by Cora Choi
***
Sitting atop Ankou’s death cart and holding the reins of his phantom horse was a pleasant change. I felt as if I was in a private seat, a space no one would dare enter. And although I was, at first, afraid that Ankou’s clothes would carry a miserable eau de toilette of centuries of death and mourning, I was pleased that they smelled like fresh overturned earth.
As I was beginning to adjust to my role as substitute graveyard keeper, I heard a scuffle ahead in the hedge of oak trees that separated the Forgotten Cemetery from the Five Ring Road. I stayed still to see who it might be and was shocked to watch a boy in a lion’s mask tumble out and roll until he hit a crumbling tombstone. His mask flew off, and I recognized him as Irving, one of Drev’s roommates from the cellar. He lay on the ground. I saw blood on his forehead. He didn’t move. I was about to flick the whip and ride out on Ankou’s cart, when I saw J.P. and Max burst from the same hedge and run toward Irving.
A few seconds later, from among the dark spaces between the trunks of the oak trees, a pack of five snickering students, all wearing the same brown bird’s mask that resembled the face of a shrike, walked toward Irving. I immediately raised the reins of the horse, ready to charge.
“Hey, faggot!” one of them yelled as he walked up to J.P. “Now that your friend is down, are you going to write the paper for me or aren’t you?” Max hovered over Irving, making sure his friend wasn’t badly hurt. I prayed for Irving to get back up on his feet and face down his aggressors. But he was as still as an opossum.
“Back off, assholes!” yelled J.P., his sunglasses reflecting the light of the moon.
“Irving! Hey, Irving!” said Max, as he tried to help his dazed friend sit up.
“Looks like Grandma’s little boy couldn’t take the tumble,” jeered the same masked student, who seemed to be the ringleader for that pack of thugs.
Max swiftly turned on his feet and gave the student a shove. The attack sent his adversary back only two feet, but he exploded with rage, head-butting Max’s chest, propelling Max back five feet and onto the ground. J.P. wasn’t in a better situation, for one of the other goons pinned his arms behind his back while his friend freely jabbed at J.P.’s face.
I wasn’t eager to expose myself to any more students. Drev was enough. However, I knew what the outcome would be if there were no supernatural intervention.
“Get going!” I said, cracking the leather whip on the ivory bones of the horse. Despite her feeble appearance, the mare had the strength of a dozen stallions, and I felt as though the cart itself were being lifted off the ground and through the air. In half a breath, we were in the middle of the fight. I jumped off the cart, wielding my scythe at the bewildered masked punks.
“Holy shit!” I heard them shout, as two of them fell to their knees and crawled back toward the oak trees.
“How the hell . . . ?” began the one who was holding J.P.’s arms. I kicked him in the shins without saying a word. He yelped as he fell to his knees, letting go of J.P., who stared at me, stunned.
“I wanna see who this shithead is,” said the leader of the gang. He grabbed my hat—or Ankou’s hat—and tried to pull it off. But J.P. had come to his senses, and, for some odd reason, instead of punching his attacker in the face, he decided to humiliate him and pulled down his pants. The other boy shrieked. As the boy bent down to pull up his pants, J.P. took the opportunity to kick his butt with a loud thud. The blow sent the boy sprawling. He then jumped up and ran away, with his pants around his knees. Max had gotten the upper hand with a boy he was fighting and knocked him down next to Irving, who by now was sitting up, looking around, dazed yet anxious. His two friends knelt by his side.
“Hey, you all right?” Max asked.
“You put up a good fight there, pal,” said J.P.
Irving shook his head a couple of times, before saying, “I suppose they’ll attempt to write their own term paper now.”
Max and J.P. chuckled at Irving’s remark and helped him to his feet. They then looked over at me, their faces grim.
“Hey, man, thanks for your help,” said Max. His voice quavered.
“Yeah, thanks. Our asses would’ve been beat if you hadn’t come,” said J.P., swallowing nervously.
I took off my hat and saw their wariness vanish as they most likely saw someone they thought was the same age they were—just another student.
“Glad I could be of service,” I said, as cheerfully as my voice permitted me. Now that the air of mystery was gone, they grinned, and all three of them walked over to me.
“I’m Max.”
“Name’s J.P.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Irving.”
I shook hands with each of them and said, “I’m Hugh. Good to meet all of you.”
A moment of odd silence hung in the air, before Irving asked, “Are you going to the party, too? That’s a wicked costume you’re wearing.”
“Yeah, and that horse and wagon are pretty wild,” murmured Max, looking over to where I had left Ankou’s mare and cart.
I could pass off my odd attire and scythe as part of a costume disguise, but I couldn’t explain the moving, breathing skeleton horse. I tried to distract the three by changing the subject.
“Who were those guys? And why did they come after you?” I asked.
Irving shifted his weight to one foot, embarrassed. But Max opened his mouth readily. “Aw, they’re a bunch of legacy kids.”
“Legacy kids?” I asked.
“Yeah, those are the kids whose entire families have gone to this school for at least the last four generations.”
“They’re not like the scholarship kids, who got in through merit,” added Irving. “And they’re not jocks, either.”
“They’re just self-entitled bastards,” said J.P.
“I see,” I said. I turned to Irving. “Have they been giving you a hard time since school started?”
“They bully everyone,” sighed Irving. “Not just me. But the chancellor turns a blind eye to it all, because their parents usually hold some position of power in the Order of the Shrike.”
“Or they’re just filthy rich,” added J.P.
“Which also means they’re probably devout members of the order,” said Max.
I shuddered, thinking about the Order of the Shrike’s power with impunity and about how its future leaders were no better than hooligans. It came as no surprise that the Shadow of Fear was on an unobstructed rampage, and that people not only were full of fear but had no hope for the future.
The bells in the tower began caroling out the old tune that had become a hit at the turn of the century, “The Chimes of Normandy.” The song indicated that the doors to Stauros Hall were now open and the party had begun.
“C’mon, Hugh, let’s go,” said Max, as he and the other two turned toward the oak trees to head out of the Forgotten Cemetery.
“Supposedly, they’ve brought in macarons and tarts from the best baker on the mainland,” Irving said, beaming and rubbing his hands.
“And there’s going to be some good imported beer there, too,” said J.P.
I wanted to go. Not for those reasons, however. I was now a part of their fold, their friend. Although I had wanted to be alone earlier, I now didn’t want to lose their company. I looked over at Ankou’s horse standing nobly in the graveyard, keeping to her duty. I figured she wouldn’t go anywhere, nor would she be capable of telling Ankou that I had abandoned my post and joined the party.
An hour at the party couldn’t hurt, I thought.
“Fine. Let’s head off,” I said to them. I looked back at the horse staring at me from the middle of the cemetery. “I’ll see you later, old girl.”
I spoke too soon. I would never see Ankou’s horse again, and this Toussaint soiree would be the last one I would attend.
