by C. R. Grey
Bailey took the note out of his pocket. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I thought you might try to talk me out of going,” he said.
“It sounds like a setup to me,” Hal said, scanning the note.
“Maybe,” Bailey said. “Only one way to find out.”
Hal hesitated, then shrugged. “What’s the worst that can happen? You get in trouble and get booted out of school.”
“That’s the spirit,” Bailey said, grinning. He was actually relieved that Hal had followed him. It was nice to have company. “Let’s go.”
Together, the boys made their way to the lawn in front of the classroom buildings, and peeked around the corner of the administration building.
The lawn seemed vastly different at night. It reminded him a little of the fields he was used to in the Lowlands, but the short, dark green grass made it seem more like a murky ocean (or at least pictures Bailey had seen of the ocean) and the ornate marble buildings looked like huge blocks of ice reflecting the moonlight. In the center of the circular common was the Fairmount clock tower, the oldest structure on Fairmount grounds. Each of the arms on the clock’s enormous face was at least as tall as Bailey. And each of the numbers was represented by a different golden animal, surrounding the face of the clock like a mechanical parade. In front of the tower flew the Fairmount flag. It looked forbidding and impossibly tall, like a finger raised threateningly toward the clouds.
A small group of students were gathered around the flagpole just a few yards south of the clock tower. It was Taylor and his Scavage friends, along with a handful of Year Ones. Bailey wasn’t a bit surprised.
“Come on,” Bailey whispered to Hal. They moved closer, and hid behind a bush just across the yard from the clock tower, so they could see what was happening.
“Okay, Fresh Meat, watch this!” Taylor said, and pointed upward, to the face of the clock. Bailey felt his heart speed up.
The center of the clock opened inward, and a number of bats flew from their home behind the gold-painted face. Hal closed his eyes. Bailey knew that Hal was trying to feel his way into the bat’s bodies, to hear and see what they did.
One of the older boys stepped through the opening onto a narrow stone ledge and Bailey’s mouth went dry. The ledge had to be fifty feet above the ground.
He shot a nervous look over at Hal. “What’s happening?” he asked.
Hal’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t know … ” He shook his head. The bats resettled in a nearby tree, and Hal looked troubled. He rubbed his forehead. “I can’t get anything clear.”
The boy waved at his audience. Then, without hesitation, he jumped.
Bailey’s heart stopped. The boy was plummeting toward the ground. Faster … closer …
Then he reached out toward the flagpole and grabbed the rope that dangled down from the top. In a split second, he went from falling to swinging.
Cheers and laughter erupted from the older boys. Bailey had unconsciously climbed to his feet. He felt exhilarated. The jumper landed safely among his friends, who clapped and patted him on the back.
“That was crazy,” Hal exclaimed. “Who would do that?”
“I would,” said Bailey.
“You wouldn’t!”
“In a minute,” said Bailey, and it was true. If jumping from a clock tower would prove that he wasn’t some kind of weaselly freak, then Bailey would jump. “I’ve got to do it, Hal,” he said.
“You don’t have to prove anything to them,” Hal said to Bailey. But Bailey knew he was wrong. Of course he did; he had everything to prove.
The older boys were now herding the Year Ones into the tower, through a plain wooden door set at ground level. The younger boys all looked frightened, even panicked. As they began filing into the tower, three of them broke loose from the ranks and ran back in the direction of the dorms.
“Animae Chicken!” Taylor shouted after them. His friends began cawing and clucking.
“That’s three down—how many to go?” one of the Scavage players boasted.
Bailey placed a hand on Hal’s shoulder.
“Wait here,” he said.
He jogged toward the clock tower. The laughter of the Scavage players died down. Taylor glared at him. Maybe he hadn’t expected Bailey to show.
“I’m here to jump,” Bailey said loudly.
Taylor smirked and narrowed his eyes. “You sure about that, Walker? It’s a long way down.”
“I’m sure,” Bailey said. But even as he spoke, he felt as if he’d swallowed a bag of sand. He knew it was too late to turn back now, though.
The inside of the clock tower smelled like dust and old moisture. The spiraling stone stairs seemed to go on forever. Bailey steeled his nerves and began to climb. He could hear the laughter of the older boys outside, muffled through the stone, along with the ominous ticktock that echoed within the tower. As Bailey climbed higher, panting, he could hear too, the voices of the kids at the top, daring one another to make the jump.
“No way!” one boy said.
“They can’t be serious?” said another.
“It’s suicide!” another one whispered.
At last, Bailey reached the landing. There were three Year Ones standing at the top of the stairs. Bailey recognized one from his homeroom, and wondered what he’d done to Taylor to have been called here. The boys turned to him, white-faced and surprised. They huddled against the giant gears that powered the clock, as far away from the door that led to the open-air ledge as possible.
“Are you going to do it?” the boy from his homeroom asked, wide-eyed.
“Why not?” Bailey said with a shrug, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. In reality, his heart was hammering. He ducked under a low-hanging gear and stepped through the clockface door out onto the ledge.
Immediately, everything around him seemed to fall silent. He couldn’t hear the turning gears behind him or the murmuring students or even the ominous ticking of the clock itself. All he could see were the vast, dark grounds of Fairmount and the buildings with ribbons of mist curled around them. He could smell the river nearby, just vaguely, and for a moment, he felt a completely unexpected sensation: happiness.
He inched farther out on the ledge. A shot of adrenaline raced through his body and he realized he was shaking—no, more like buzzing. Below him, Taylor was standing with his arms crossed.
I’m not afraid; not of you, not of anything, Bailey thought.
But he couldn’t help his hands shaking as he looked down. The ground looked impossibly far away. His legs began to wobble, and Bailey forced himself to breathe deeply. Just one little jump. Easy. Nothing to be afraid of.
Before he could change his mind, he crouched into a runner’s stance, sucked in a breath, and leapt.
He fell for what seemed like whole minutes. Bailey could feel the wind whipping in his ears, and the strange heaviness of his body dropping through thin air. Time eased as the ground spiraled closer, as though he were dropping in slow motion.
And then he could see the rope just a few feet below him, and he reached out blindly. He felt the rope in his hands, and then the quick jolt of his body changing direction. Suddenly, instead of falling, he was swinging around the flagpole—suspended, flying! He’d never felt anything so wonderful before; he found himself laughing as the rope swung him around the pole.
He wondered if this is how it was for everyone else when, just by clearing their minds, they could see what an animal saw, or think the way an animal thought. For once, soaring above the grass, Bailey thought he knew what it must be like to feel bigger, to be something other than just Bailey Walker, freak.
As he hit the ground, he was a new person—a stronger person. Even the burning in his hands from clutching the rope felt good. The other Year Ones were peering out of the clockface, clapping and whooping at the sight of Taylor’s shocked expression.
“Who’s Animas Chicken now?” he said, grinning.
But Taylor didn’t answer. He was wide-eyed and backin
g up slowly, as if Bailey had a contagious disease. “Ants!” he cursed. “Run!”
Bailey watched, confused, as the Scavage players began to scatter across the lawn, back toward the dorms. What had he done wrong?
“Young man!” a voice trumpeted out from behind him.
Bailey looked toward the assembly hall and felt his stomach dive to his toes. Tremelo, his Homeroom teacher, was walking swiftly toward him, his red fox trotting swiftly at his side.
Just my luck, he thought to himself. The only one to jump—the only one to get caught.
It was too late to make a dash for cover—Tremelo was already upon him. Besides, Bailey’s legs were still so shaky from the leap that he really wasn’t convinced he could walk just yet. Bailey scanned the lawn for Hal, but there was no sign of him. At least he had gotten away.
“A decent performance, but I hope you know that you could be expelled from this academy for less,” Tremelo said, stopping in front of Bailey. He reached into his pocket and took out a small silver flask. He lifted it to his lips and indulged in a long sip. “Fairmount does not tolerate rule breakers, I’m afraid.”
“Then how did you get in?” Bailey blurted out, and then immediately regretted it.
But, to Bailey’s surprise, Tremelo threw his head back and laughed.
“Well done,” he said, returning the flask to his pocket with a flourish. “You should thank Nature I’m not the headmaster, or you’d be kicked out before you could say ‘Animas Platypus.’” Still chuckling, Tremelo clapped a hand on Bailey’s back and began to steer him toward the main hall and the dormitories. “I’m unfortunately obligated to see you head back to your rightful place. Which is … ?”
“Towers,” Bailey muttered.
Tremelo began humming an old Gray City tune. “I knew myself a lady, her Animas a snail!” The fox dashed in front of them as they walked, playing her own games with the dew-covered grass.
Bailey wondered what Tremelo was doing, wandering around the grounds by himself at night. But Tremelo was a teacher, and could wander where he pleased. As for Bailey, he’d only just arrived at Fairmount, and he’d been caught breaking about a hundred rules.
As they passed the small, copper-roofed shed that served as the night guard’s post, Tremelo stopped.
“A moment, please,” he said to Bailey, and he ducked inside. Bailey could see that Mr. Bindley, the night guard, and his two massive dogs were snoring. Bailey watched from the doorway as Tremelo sniffed the air inside the shed. He moved forward and picked up a small packet from Bindley’s table, which lay next to a thick, gear-heavy object. Tremelo caught Bailey looking at the strange contraption.
“Night-vision monocle,” he said proudly. “Special lenses refract moonlight, amplifying it. I made it for him years ago. Best watch yourself, when he’s got this on … and he’s awake.”
Tremelo quickly placed the small package he’d picked up in his jacket pocket.
“Every year,” he muttered, shaking his head. He looked at Bailey and winked. “The Scavage team makes a habit of stealing my myrgwood to put old Bindley to sleep, so they can run amok on the grounds.”
They left Bindley’s post and walked across the commons to the dorms. It was late—nearly one o’clock, and the entire campus was a chorus of crickets.
Then Tremelo suddenly said: “You’re the boy with an Absence, aren’t you?”
There was that word again. Bailey didn’t even get to think of a lie or try to avoid the question. As Bailey had suspected, Tremelo already knew.
“Mrs. Shonfield told you?” Bailey asked.
“She did. You are, after all, my student. But she didn’t have to. It’s plain as day to me. We have much in common, Bailey.”
Bailey wasn’t sure what Tremelo was referring to. What could he possibly have in common with this man who, for all his strangeness, was supposed to be one of the most powerful Animas trainers in the kingdom?
“It’s just coming to me slowly, that’s all,” Bailey said.
“You don’t have to tell me about slow development,” Tremelo said. “I was well into my eleventh year when Fennel found me, and before that I’d had myself convinced I was Animas Rat, like my father.” From his jacket he removed the same pouch Bailey had seen him take from Mr. Bindley’s table. He extracted a large pinch of a dark herb that Bailey had never seen before, and packed it into a pipe. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked. He didn’t wait for Bailey to respond. Within seconds, the professor was surrounded by a sweet, slightly bitter-smelling smoke.
Bailey’s mouth itched and his throat was dry. “Sir,” he said, “I read something before I came to Fairmount. You’ve helped people Awaken, haven’t you? You’re supposed to be an expert in strengthening the bond.”
Tremelo stared toward the distant trees beyond the dorms and shook his head.
“That part of me died some time ago, boy. I used to, in my first few years at Fairmount … but no more.”
Bailey’s heart sank.
As if he could read Bailey’s mind, Tremelo clapped him on the back. “Don’t think of it as hopeless, my boy. Think of it as a puzzle to be solved. After all, trees may bear seeds, but no fruit.” Tremelo stared dreamily at Bailey through the thick cloud of smoke. His fingers moved in midair as though he were playing an invisible piano. “Kin rise from ashes, hand over paw / When Locusts turn Men from Treachery / The Sun calls to the Loon.”
“What?” asked Bailey, confused.
“It’s a riddle,” said Tremelo, as though this should have been obvious. Bailey began to wonder what, exactly, was in that pipe. “Find the answer to the riddle, Bailey, and perhaps you’ll find your Animas.” He laughed. “That’s what my father used to say, anyway … not that it helped. I still Awakened eventually, no thanks to his ramblings .… ” Tremelo shook his head, chuckling at some memory that Bailey couldn’t know.
Bailey thought this over. Part of it sounded familiar to him, though he wasn’t sure from what. His mom had sung many songs to him as a baby, and he wondered if the familiar line—“the Sun calls to the Loon”—was from one of those.
“I think I’ve heard something like that before,” he said. “From a lullaby. Is that what it’s from?”
Tremelo shrugged and made a dismissive phh noise as he exhaled a bit of smoke.
“My father never sang me lullabies,” Tremelo said. “Unless his friends’ pub songs count. I doubt you heard any of that in ‘The Squirrel-Faced Girl from the Lowlands’, but then, I’m a bit hazy on those lyrics as well .… ”
They had reached the Towers. Tremelo released his grip on Bailey’s shoulder.
“Chin up, Bailey,” Tremelo said. “Now, back to Towers with you.”
Nine
LONG AFTER HE SAW Bailey back into his dorm, and despite the two pipes of myrgwood he had smoked, Tremelo could not quiet his mind.
Meeting a boy with an Absence was about as likely as Nature herself emerging from a cave in the Velyn Peaks, materializing in a cloud of mist for a cup of tea and a cookie. Bailey seemed sharp too, and strong, whereas a typical Absence meant utter tragedy— poor health and insanity to boot.
Tremelo poured a glass of rootwort rum, lit his pipe once again, and sank into a groaning armchair, the only piece of furniture in his quarters not covered with books and papers. He reached over the arm to crank a gramophone next to the chair. The record began to circle, and Tremelo placed the needle and closed his eyes as the sounds of the Gray City Symphony poured out of the amplifying horn. Fennel the fox wound her way affectionately around his feet, and Tremelo could feel the soft pressure of the animal’s mind, the wordless reassurances.
Though Fennel began to sleep, and this too Tremelo could feel—the fog, the relaxation into the dark—he could not join her. He had never slept well. Too many dreams, always waking up feeling as though he were suffocating. But aside from the usual insomnia, he couldn’t stop picturing the leap that Bailey had made through the air—the bravery that the boy must have summoned, the grace h
e’d shown. And no Animas? Was it even possible that a human without an Animas could have such determination, such power?
Perhaps it had been a bad idea to tell Bailey the riddle—to tease him with his father’s old rantings. But then again, Tremelo reasoned, if it’s only gibberish, can it really do the boy any harm? His own childhood had been a haze of tale-telling by people like his father—called the Loon—and the other men and women who took heart in the old myths, who were loyal to the fallen king Melore, who traded prophecies and tales like others traded idle gossip. Tremelo’s hazy memories were clouded with riddles and stories, and had he really turned out so badly after all? Perhaps better not to answer, he thought to himself.
At his feet, Fennel stretched, and Tremelo had a brief image, as common to him as breathing, of a blurry flight through the woods, a rabbit’s tail flashing in front of him.
I’m only thirty-two, Tremelo thought. But I feel so old. A puff of smoke left his lips and disappeared in the draft from the window. That must be why his father’s stories and riddles were on his mind this night.
Tremelo reached under the chair and pulled out a small locked trunk. Resting the trunk on his knees, he reached into his pocket and produced the key. Inside the trunk was a book with a crumbling leather cover, which had been made of the hide of a mountain goat as a gift to his father many years ago. It had once been a prized possession of the Loon’s, but had become worn and cracked with time and misuse. Tremelo caressed it the way he had seen the Loon do so many times. Hello, old friend. He started to open it, but stopped himself.
No. The book was nonsense, a series of scratches and dashes, as though each symbol were just a picture of a bunch of sticks. His father claimed it was taught to him by the Seers in the western mountains, and Tremelo had believed him, although he himself had never met the Seers, even in the many trips that he and his father took to those mountains when he was a boy. He had once been certain the scratchings were a code … but now he wondered whether his father had simply been mad. Trying to figure out what it meant now would only disappoint him, as it had so many times before.
