Crouched now at the clearing’s edge, Hawk stared back and forth between them in stunned incomprehension.
“You’ve cheated!” Basquel screamed. “That means we win, and you’ll be punished! Master! Master, come and see what they are doing!”
“I’m already here,” said Lucifer, stepping from beneath the trees, not guised as GB, but as himself, tall and dark to Michael’s tall and fair. “Did you really think I’d let you go unwatched all this time with such an important charge?” he asked Basquel.
Michael moved to stand between Hell’s ruler and Hawk, saying, “You’ll have to deal with me to have him back.”
“Have him back?” Lucifer said dismissively. “There’s hardly any point now. Not after all this. First Lancelot. Now Mordred. It seems I shall have to improvise again. No, Michael, I’ve only come for . . . closure.” He turned to Basquel with ominous calm. “Whose idea was it to stay and chat in front of the boy once you’d been exposed?”
“What?” the creature said, its fear instantly apparent. “I didn’t—I never—”
“You did,” Lucifer said quietly. “It seems I should have listened to Kallaystra. She may be slow and lazy, but she didn’t waste the boy completely, as you have done.”
“No!” Basquel quailed, rising to his feet. “I’ve served no one but—”
“Yourself.” Lucifer sighed, throwing both arms up to bathe the quaking demon in a brilliant light that flared and vanished leaving only Basquel’s final scream behind.
Lucifer looked back at Michael then, smiling unpleasantly. “I know my terms with your Employer do not require you to obey Him. An oversight, I must confess, but who’d have thought so many of Heaven’s brightest surviving stars hid such potential for subversion?” Lucifer’s grin evaporated. “I still intend to win this wager, and then . . . you know the price for failure in your Master’s domain, as well as Basquel knew the price in mine. I look forward to seeing what a few millennia of confinement to this forsaken rock pile does to all that fierce self-confidence of yours, Michael.”
Before Michael could respond, Lucifer had vanished without so much as a glance at Hawk, who stared openmouthed at where he’d been, then turned to stare at Michael.
“Jake?” Hawk said. “Who was that? . . . Why’d he call you Michael?”
Michael pursed his lips, calculating the damage, and what might be done about it.
“What did they mean about your . . . master?” Hawk insisted.
“You and I must talk now,” Michael said quietly. “A very long talk, about a lot of things, but first, let’s find you something to eat. You’ll need a clearer head for this.”
He reached down to help the boy up, but whatever strength Hawk had possessed before seemed drained now. He could barely stand, so Michael bent down and picked him up as if he were a child.
“Jake?” Hawk asked quietly, as Michael carried him from the clearing. “Was it them . . . that killed her?”
“No,” Michael said. “Her death was just an accident. A terrible accident . . . Or I’d have been there.”
After a moment, Hawk murmured sadly, “I never thanked her for the book.”
“You will,” the angel said. “Now rest until I find some food. There will be time for questions then.” He looked down to find Hawk already fast asleep against his chest.
Rose had lived quietly at the very heart of all that Taubolt was, and her memorial service overflowed the high school’s huge central room through every door. Joby had been at school all day, helping to prepare, and so secured a seat inside where he waited now, reflecting on the week since Rose’s death.
Her young friends and former classmates had gathered within hours of the accident and stayed together all that week, traveling from home to home like a large nomadic family. Cooking and sharing meals together, sleeping side by side on floors and couches, they’d gone from grief to laughter back to grief again and again as they remembered Rose and coped with the fresh and devastating wound of her sudden, awful absence. Invited along, Joby had spent much of that week traveling with them, astonished at the strength and honesty and wisdom of these children who had known so little grief before Taubolt had begun to change for reasons no one could explain.
As the town had reeled in shock, Donaldson had been quick to deny any fault in the accident, and express his sympathy with a gesture of “goodwill,” releasing all the boys arrested that night without bail to await their court hearings in Santa Rosa later that month. For now, the issue smoldered unaddressed, until the community’s more urgent grief was dealt with. But Joby had not forgotten his vow to Nacho that night. When Rose was laid to rest, he would make certain Donaldson paid . . . for everything.
Laid over all of this was Joby’s fear for Hawk. Though his new car remained parked where he had left it at the Connolly’s house, Hawk had not been seen since running off that night. Joby had spent hours that night driving through the darkened town, then searching the highway and surrounding roads without success. By now, he woke and slept suppressing dread of being the next to grieve a child deceased.
As Rose’s parents were ushered through the hushing crowd toward a row of chairs around the center of the room, Ander began to play his guitar and then to sing lyrics that Joby quickly recognized from one of Rose’s many poems.
“The bark is rough,
against my determined hands,
but still it
does not hurt me.
I have climbed all this way,
with branches cracking in my face,
just to hear the gentle song
of the wind.
I will wait now for a while.
And suddenly the song begins,
rippling and laughing.
The trees will dance
to the happy melody, carrying me with them
as they sway to the
music of the wind.”
Ander played an interlude evoking gusts of wind through leaves, as Joby recalled the first time he had heard her whispering to Bellindi in that thicket on the headlands. She had seemed so strange, if fair, running from him, laughing, with flowers falling from her hair. . . . Could she truly be gone? . . . Did such wounds ever fully heal?
Ander’s voice rose again, breaking Joby’s reverie.
“My life is like the wind that blows through
my hair on a cloudy day.
My life is like the fish that swim
in the deepest depths of the ocean.
My life is like five thousand years of light
that will never go out.
My life is like the hills,
rolling away forever.”
Ander played gently for another bar or two, the notes rolling softly into silence.
As there was currently a dearth of religious ministers in Taubolt, Bridget O’Reilly stood to conduct the ceremony that Rose’s parents and friends had prepared. Her opening statements of welcome were brief and unassuming, as were the things she said of Rose before turning to Rose’s parents and inviting them to speak.
Tom and Clara stood and turned to face the crowd. Clara smiled; Tom tried with less success. Their eyes were red and rough, their faces pale and puffed with grief. They’d been in near seclusion all that week, attended by just a few of their oldest, closest friends. Joby braced himself for a painful display of grief.
“Rose was conceived on the shores of a lake high in the Sierras,” Tom began. A pale smile crossed his face at last. “I can’t tell you exactly which one. . . . We saw a lot of lakes that trip.”
There was an instant of surprise before the whole room rang with laughter mixed with tears and admiration. Tom and Clara laughed as well. What amazing people, Joby thought. No wonder Rose had been so remarkable.
“We have often wondered,” Tom continued when the laughter ended, “if that’s why Rose was like she was; because she had been conceived so much closer to Heaven than other people, or in such a wild, lovely place.” Clara nodded and leaned her head on her husband’s shou
lder as he continued. “All we knew for sure, was that from the very beginning she was way out in front of us in so many ways.”
He smiled at Clara, who said, “I see it especially in her poems. You heard some of them in that beautiful song Ander just played.” She turned to smile at Ander, then unfolded a sheet of paper she’d been holding, while Joby continued to marvel at their self-possession. “She wrote this one when she was only eight.”
“Above the ponds,
the marshes glazed with ice,
there is a cavern.
It is eternal,
everlasting.
Those who live there
are beautiful.
They never die.”
“Eight years old,” Clara said again, wiping quickly at her eyes, “and she was already seeing further than I think most of us do at many times her age.” Beside her, Tom nodded, his sad half smile stolidly fixed. “Tom and I are grateful to have had her for as long as we did. We wouldn’t give away a day of it. And we’re grateful for all this community has done for her, and for us, through the years. We are very grateful that we were able to be with our daughter just before she died. She came by and told us how much she loved us, and we got to tell her the same.”
“We’ve both noticed how many people she went out of her way to talk with that day,” Tom agreed, his voice grown rougher, “how much . . . business she took care of, just before she died, almost as if she threw that whole party to say good-bye to all of us. It may be just our imagination, but we’re grateful for that too.”
As Tom took a moment to steady himself, Joby wondered how many others shared the wave of fury he felt remembering how her party had ended.
Tom looked at Clara, who nodded, then he turned back to face the gathering and said, “That’s really all we have to say.”
“We love you all,” said Clara. “And we’re really very grateful.”
When the Connollys had sat down, Bridget stood to speak again, but stopped abruptly, interrupted by some kind of disturbance at the back of the room. Joby turned with all the others, and saw people near the doorway making way for Jake, behind whom, looking pale and abashed, came Hawk.
Joby leapt to his feet, pushing down the row of chairs to get to his son who, to Joby’s overwhelming gratitude, began to press his way through the crowd to meet him. They came together sobbing unreservedly, as people murmured all around them.
“Thank God you’re safe!” Joby groaned into his son’s shoulder as they hugged. “I was so frightened!”
“I’m sorry,” Hawk replied, holding him as tightly. “I’m sorry for everything—the way I’ve treated everybody.”
“I’m just glad you’re here. Where have you been?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Hawk said, pulling reluctantly away. “This is Rose’s time.”
Joby looked past his son to see Jake still standing at a distance. “Thank you,” he rasped, still raw with emotion. “For bringing me my son.”
Jake only nodded and stepped back into the standing crowd, as Hawk turned to look at Rose’s parents. They were standing now as well, and Joby realized how this must be for them, watching his son returned, while no such hope remained for them.
“I’m sorry to disturb you all like this,” Hawk said to them with obvious contrition. “But when there’s time, may I say something to everyone?”
“Of course!” Clara said, smiling through fresh tears and coming to embrace him. “Hawk, we’re all so glad to see you!”
“Thank you.” Hawk wept, returning her embrace as Tom came to wrap his arms around them both. “I loved her. I loved her so much, and I’m so sorry she’s gone.”
“I know,” Clara murmured. “She loved you too, and so do we, Hawk. I’m very grateful that she knew what love was like before she died.”
Hawk nodded and pulled away, drawing a long shuddering breath, then went to stand at the center of the room and face the gathered crowd.
“If you don’t know me,” he said quietly, “my name is Hawk . . . Peterson.” He looked at Joby, who bowed his head to hide another sudden flood of tears. “Rose was the first girl I ever loved, and because she loved me back, I’ve never tried to love another.” He pursed his lips and struggled for composure. “In the years I knew her, she gave me too many gifts to list, but she gave me one the day she died that I think I’m meant to share with all of you.”
Hawk reached into his pocket, and drew out a badly damaged little book, its cover smudged with dirt, its pages torn and wrinkled. He opened it and began to read a poem about a Blackthorn bush blooming at the end of winter. When he’d finished, he looked up and said, “This was Rose’s book. She told me that this poem was her favorite. For . . . a while, after she died, I couldn’t see the flowers it talks about, just the thorny branches. But now I’ve seen them, and I want . . . I want to say . . .”
He looked down at the book again, and Joby saw his hands were shaking. Shoving the book back into his pocket, Hawk looked up again. “A lot of you know I’ve been . . . treating people badly for a while. I’ve probably offended some of you deeply, especially Joby, and the Connollys.” He hung his head again. “I treated Rose worst of all, right up to the end.” He looked up, and said, “I’ve been . . . sick inside. With anger. Very sick. After Sky and Jupiter died, I couldn’t feel grief, or happiness, or hope, or love for anyone, not even Rose. I just felt dead, like I was watching everyone through thick glass . . . not a part of anything. I didn’t know why. I just shoved everyone away. By the time I last saw Rose, there was nothing but a hole where my heart was supposed to be, and . . . and that was how I treated her . . . heartlessly.
“But Rose just kept saying that she loved me, and . . . and she gave me this book.” His tears began at last, but he didn’t stop. “Rose gave me back my heart,” he wept. “She broke it open when she died. . . . And all the things I couldn’t feel before came rushing out, and it was worse than I can tell you, and I wished that I could die, but I didn’t, and then Jake found me in the woods, and showed me . . .” Hawk looked down and pointed at his chest. “They’re here . . . the flowers . . . growing in the heart that Rose gave back to me.” Hawk looked up, struggling to rein in his grief. “I know I’m not the only one. She did so many things for so many people. Those things live on, and I know that someday, you’ll be able to look out and see all those small white flowers Rose planted, growing for as far as anyone can see in all directions from the spot where she lived.”
Streaming tears, Joby stood, gazing straight at Hawk, and said, “He’s right. Because of Rose, I have my son again.”
Across the room, Nacho stood as well. “Rose helped drag me away from that dog that tried to kill me. Because of her, I’m still alive.”
Bellindi was the next to stand. “Rose taught me to love the forest. Because of her, I know what I want to do with my life.”
Behind them, old Mr. Templer wobbled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “When she was younger,” he quavered, “Rose kept dragging me over to help Amanda Farley with her garden.” He turned to gaze down at the white-haired woman smiling up at him from the chair next to his own. “You all know what came of that.” There were tatters of laughter from around the room. “Because of Rose, I have a wife.”
The laughter only grew as one by one by one others stood to tell of some small thing Rose had done to change their lives, while Joby watched in wonder as more and more of the flowers Hawk had promised burst into bloom before their eyes.
Merlin reached up to touch the window between himself and what he’d seen. “You are a true bard now, my boy,” he said. “My great-grandson. I’m so proud of you.”
Merlin stepped back to look around the empty mall. “Having trouble keeping all your balls in the air, Beelzebub?” he called happily into the air above him. “Hawk is playing a very different tune than the one you called for, is he not?” Merlin did a little jig into the center of the plaza—his first merry moment in so very long—then sighed and sat back down to focus once ag
ain on the endless task of winning his freedom.
34
( Throwing Down the Gauntlet )
Hawk had dinner going on the stove when Joby trudged into the small rental cottage they now shared, collapsed into a chair, and stared up at the ceiling for a while before scrubbing at his bloodshot eyes. Hawk turned back to his cooking with a frown. Two months of crusading for “justice” had taken a heavy toll on his father.
The very morning after Rose’s memorial, Donaldson had issued a warrant for Nacho’s arrest, apparently eager to justify his use of pepper spray by claiming Nacho had attacked him as Ander was being cuffed. Joby had gone off like a bomb, visiting every community leader he knew to point out that lots of boys had been arrested that night for nothing more than shouting at a distance, while Nacho had sat bleeding into a bucket for half an hour surrounded by cops who hadn’t even mentioned his even more serious supposed offense, much less arrested him for it. By the following day, Donaldson’s warrant had been quietly rescinded. By week’s end there’d been a huge town meeting at which Donaldson and his faction had faced hundreds of unhappy residents. Donaldson might still have stopped it there just by conceding there’d been errors made and dropping charges against Ander and the others, but he hadn’t, so the fire had spread.
“Smells good,” said Joby, opening his eyes to smile wearily at Hawk.
“Ready in about five minutes,” Hawk replied, stirring what was in the frying pan one more time before going to set the table.
“I can do that,” Joby said, starting to rise.
“No, just rest,” Hawk insisted. “I’m already on it.”
Joby leaned back again with a grateful sigh.
The county sheriff had called Joby personally to tell him what a divisive, conniving, dangerous, possibly criminal element he was for stirring up all this trouble against his sterling men. But Joby had been harder to intimidate than Mansfield had expected. An internal investigator had been sent out to grill everyone involved, then investigators from the state capital. Even the regional senator’s office had made inquiries, until Joby’s life had become just one long parade of official inquisitions and media interviews, not to mention all the politicking required to keep pressure up and people reassured while the ponderous wheels of inquiry and deliberation had rolled on.
The Book of Joby Page 71
