“Keep on walkin'! You lazy, good-for-nothing —”
I slam the front door on his anger. I should be the angry one, but I’m not, for some reason I’m not. Maybe it’s all that thankfulness. Maybe I’m delusional. But seems to me I’ve been given a pretty good life.
CHAPTER 25
DAD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP?”
He sits in his seldom-used main-floor den. Usually he’s retreated into Underwear World by now.
Dad beams. “It’s an exciting night. Landis just called from the hospital. Can you imagine Landis in a hospital? I’m surprised he knew how to use the phone.” My heartbeat flutters. “Is he okay?” “He wanted a home birth, but sometimes babies surprise a man.”
“Babies.” I swallow hard. “But it’s too early.” Dad grabs my shoulders. “You’re going to have a cousin, likely by morning. I’m waiting now for word.” He cocks his head. “You’re pale, Martin. Really pale. Go get some rest. It’ll be a full day at the hospital tomorrow.”
He swirls his back to me and goes to work on the computer. I turn to leave.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he says. “What did you spend your college money on?”
It doesn’t matter now. “Hot air balloon ride. But most of it’s still in my middle desk drawer. Feel free.”
“Was it fun?”
“Until the fighting part.”
His fingers fly over the keyboard. “I need to know I can trust you, Martin. No more withdrawals from the account, agreed?”
“Believe me, no more.”
What’s the best way to die? Alone? Flopping lifeless in front of your parents? Lani should not see it, that’s for sure.
I haul up the steps, grab my story from my bedroom, and keep going down the hall. I climb into the attic. It’s cold and damp, sort of how I feel.
I pull the chain on the light bulb and sit in the chair in the center of the attic. And wait.
This waiting will drive me crazy!
I grab my notebook from beneath the chair, set my chess knight in front of me, and sigh. This all started as a story for Julia. I need to finish it.
The White Knight … no, that’s not his name. I take a shallow breath. It’s me.
I ran toward the fortress and across the lowered drawbridge. There, in the center of the courtyard, was a stone gnarled like wood and old like a mountain. It towered so high its peak poked above the walls. I stared into it, and gasped. Two eyes stared out. Grayish, tormented eyes. The eyes of the princess. Julia was trapped once again, but in none of the beauty or brilliance of the clear stone. She looked old, tired, and bent, as if this tomb had sucked all the youth from her bones.
“Is she not a sorry sight?”
The Black Knight appeared from behind the rock of death, his minions rising as one on top of fortress walls.
“She is nothing to me now.” The Black Knight stroked the scar on his cheek. “Prepare to taste death together.” He squinted and snarled. “And to think you fancy yourself a hero.”
A force inescapable took hold of me, my strength vanished, and I walked resolutely toward the rock. I knew my fate. I would reach the boulder, enter it, and all hope would be lost.
The Black Knight laughed. “Do you not like my rock? With my own hands I carved your forever home. To think I learned my craft at your father’s side. Such tragic irony.”
“Black Knight, Dark Counselor, Evil Creature. Now that you’ve won. Pray tell. What is your name?” I asked.
The Black Knight grew grim. “No, heir. That will forever be my secret. Do you not know that words have power?”
I slam the book shut. “That’s twice, Poole, twice that you’ve weaseled your way into my story.”
A wave of panic washes over me. I don’t want to be alone.
I grab my little knight and stumble down the stairs. Dad sits where I left him. I slip in the den and ease down. “Dad?”
He jumps and spins in his chair. His eyes narrow. “You look even worse.”
I nod. “I just wanted to say that I think you’re a great dad and … thank you.”
“For what?” He folds his arms and gives his penetrating look.
“Um, well, for taking me to the fort. That was kind of fun, actually.”
“You surprised me,” Dad smiles. “I was very impressed with how you carried yourself. A real soldier.” He locks his fingers behind his head and leans back. “Next time we won’t let the Colonel keep us from exploring around the fort.”
I open my mouth to tell him everything, but I can’t. “Okay.”
“There’s a lot to see. You’ll enjoy the adventure more now that you understand the proud name you bear.”
I squint. “My proud name?”
“Didn’t James tell you all about the first Martin’s exploits? You were in jail together, weren’t you?”
“James the crazy drunk stonemason? He was —”
“Your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s neighbor at the fort. An eyewitness to the first Martin’s bravery.” Dad winks. “And the actor who plays him, well, he’s also a childhood friend of mine. He’s perfect for the role. One, he actually works with stone, and two, his name really is James. He used to chisel little wooden figures, and I’d blow them up. We terrorized our neighborhood.”
I rewind The White Knight in my mind and hit the play button.
The Black Knight laughed. “Do you not like my rock? With my own hands I carved your forever home. To think I learned my craft at your father’s side. Such tragic irony.”
Whoa! James grew up at my dad’s side.
Dad continues, “James and I joined Fort Snelling’s reenactment infantry on the same day.” He shakes his head. “You owe him more than you realize.”
“What do I owe him?”
“You came into this world a few weeks early. It was my last day stationed at Fort Hood. Your mother was here and needed to get to the hospital. James showed up on the doorstep. What a good friend.”
The king trusted the Black Knight. Dad trusted James …
“Yeah.” My mouth goes dry. “So your friend was at the hospital. Think he could have grabbed my toe?”
Dad frowns. “Your toe?”
James was there at my birth! But wait, Dad’s friend can’t be the Black Knight; he’s alive now. He couldn’t curse all the Martins before me …
A bead of sweat traces down my cheek. “Forget it. If he’s such a good friend, why haven’t I seen him?”
“Something changed after you were born. We grew apart.” Dad lowers his voice. “Still, we work together at the fort, and I figured he would fill you in on the first Martin’s heroics while you two were in the Guard House.”
“Heroics?”
“Our ancestor saved that camp.” Dad stares into the distance. “Ah, the first Martin Boyle. There can only be one Martin.”
A knife-like pain jabs my stomach, and I groan.
“Son, are you —”
“Keep talking, please.”
Dad frowns. “A famous story, really. So back in 1820, the original James Delaney was so thankful to Martin for saving so many men and women and children, he carved him a memorial stone, after Martin had died, of course. The fort actually considered the rock its cornerstone.”
“No.” I wipe sweat off my forehead. “Poole saw the cornerstone in the Fort. There’s no mention of me, I mean the other Martin.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “What do they teach in school these days? Son, when the Fifth Regiment, the one that built the fort, first arrived at the site of what is now Fort Snelling, what did they see?”
“Uh —”
“That’s right. Nothing. Grass and trees. There was no Fort Snelling. Through that first, harsh winter, during construction, where did they stay?”
“Uh. Somewhere else?”
“Yes. Somewhere else. New Hope Cantonment.”
My eyes widen. “Another fort.”
“Another fort.” Dad smiles. “Temporary. A place to store the materials and men while they b
uilt Fort Snelling. And that’s where Martin saved half the regiment by his heroic trade missions. Sickness hit. Most of the men died. Many women died. Martin’s firstborn son died. But he alone kept bringing in food he got from the Indians. He was so sick, but he tramped mile after mile after mile. And then he died.”
Dad stands and walks to the bookshelf. “I usually only take this down for our cemetery gathering.” He opens a weathered book. “But read for yourself. The account written by the first Martin’s widow.”
My vision blurs, and I blink hard and reach for the book.
My Martin’s last words before he left me forever: Don’t worry about the boy or me. I swear this on our lives; there will always be one Martin in this family. And one is enough.
“Blek!” I cry. “The first Martin said that?” The stench of curseness. I read on.
The men have taken my Martin’s words and rallied around the courage they express. James seems uniquely affected, as ‘There Will Only be One Martin Boyle’ is now scrawled on the commemorating cornerstone resting in the middle of the camp.
“Double blek! It gets worse. Thanks a lot, James. Permanent words, permanent curse!”
I jump to my feet.
That’s the beginning. The beginning of the end of all the Martins.
The beginning of the end of me!
The first Martin and his neighbor did it to us all!
“Where are you going?” asks Dad.
I close my eyes, imagine a pencil in my hand, and write.
“Words have power!”
“You’re a stonemason,” I whispered. “Your name. Your name is James. Not Knight, not Counselor. You are James!”
“Silence!” James flew into a rage and charged toward me, his sword raised.
Behind me, a hideous sound. The jackal pounced over my head and sunk his teeth into James’s raised arm. The two rolled around on the ground. I tried to stop, but still I walked.
“Down! Down here!”
Below my feet, a centipede raced to match my morbid march.
“How did you —”
“Look down, before the rock grew, toward the bottom, when time began. Look down here. What do you see?”
I took another step toward the rock and squinted at the base. “I see scratchings. Words.”
“Destroy them!” yelled the centipede. “You’ve found the cornerstone. Words have power.”
Like Julia said. Find that cornerstone.
The phone rings and my eyelids fly open. Dad answers. “In labor? Congratulations! Get back in there and be of some help.”
He hangs up. “You’re going have a cousin in a matter of hours. What do you think about that?”
“I think the first Martin accidentally spoke a curse on all the Martins born after him, and then the Black Knight, a.k.a Mr. James Delaney, a.k.a his grateful neighbor, a.k.a the drunk mason, set the curse in stone!” My legs weaken, and I grab the back of my chair. “I think I have two hours to do what Julia and the centipede say and destroy the rock, if I can find it.”
I push out the door, pause and turn. “And you really need to choose your friends more carefully.”
Dad frowns. “Get some sleep, please.”
“Yeah,” I run out the garage door, grab the sledgehammer, and drag it into the night. “Be there, Poole. Be there.” I race around the side of the house and exhale hard. A dull light still glows from inside the boxcar. I approach and hear Poole and Julia.
“Hey! Poole! I need you. We have two hours. Can you get us to Fort Snelling in two hours?”
He pokes his head out. “Done! Come on.”
Julia jumps down and lifts the sledgehammer from my hands. “What’s this?”
“My sword.”
CHAPTER 26
IT’S A DARK NIGHT, FULL OF FOG AND MIST.I SLUMP against the back of the boxcar, my forehead on fire. My body jars to the rhythm of the rails, and I stare out at city lights racing by.
Julia and Poole speak quietly near the train car’s mouth. Every so often she looks over her shoulder and smiles. But it looks forced and doesn’t last long.
“How much longer?” I ask, and break into a coughing spell.
Poole waits for me to finish. “Twenty minutes, maybe thirty.”
I press my head against the cold metal. The cool feels good. Closing my eyes does too.
“Marty. Come on!” Poole’s face blurs. “We have one minute to get off.” Poole reaches under my shoulder and yanks. “We’re here.”
“Here.” I swallow hard. “Where’s that?”
“Fort Snelling.” Julia grabs my other shoulder.
I swallow hard. “That’s nice. My dad works here, you know.”
We hobble to the edge and I tumble out, wobble like the world. “Fort Snelling! We need to hurry. My sword, where is it?”
“Leave it, friend.” Poole takes hold of my arm.
“No!” I try to climb back in, but my leg slips. Julia jumps up and drags out the sledgehammer.
“I have your … sword.”
Together we hurry out of the station. It’s a strange kind of hurry. Three shadows stumbling through the mist. It’s hard to see anything, but after ten minutes, the imposing shape of Fort Snelling rises in the distance.
“Okay, centipede, where to?” I whisper.
“Hold it!”
A husky voice yells from the fort and we freeze. The front gate springs to life with shouts and movement.
“Go!” Poole hisses. “Whatever you got to do, move quick.”
“But I don’t know where to look.” I glance around. “Some other fort. There’s some other fort, or there was or should be or —”
Poole shoves me behind a tree. “Move!” He jumps out and walks toward the Gatehouse. “Look by the river. They always built stuff by rivers. They were like roads or train tracks.” He pauses. “Learned that when you sent me to school. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a fort to attack.”
Julia helps me to my feet.
“Hallo, spooky soldier guys! I’m a little lost.” Poole calls. “Anyone seen the Midway train depot?”
His shadow disappears in a host of sentry shadows, who hustle him through the gate. The night outside returns to quiet.
Whatever happens to me, I’m thankful for you, Poole.
“Help me up.” I say.
Julia grabs me by the arm. “You’re cold. Really cold.”
“To the river.” I point to my sledgehammer. “You’ll have to lug that. I’ll manage.”
Together we stagger through the woods, twigs and brush snapping beneath our feet.
“Problem is …” I gasp for air. “Fort Snelling sits on two rivers. I don’t know which one to search along.”
“Minnesota.”
Julia screams, and I tumble to the ground.
“Didn’t think I sounded that frightening.” Squirrel reaches out a hand. “You don’t look so good. You should see Dr. Kearney in the infirmary.”
“I should not! I need to find New Hope Cantonment. Do you know where that is?”
“Where it was. We don’t need it anymore. We have Fort —”
“Squirrel!”
“Fine. I was just giving some history. You realize I didn’t have to listen to your friend or come find you.” He straightens. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Julia.”
“It’s a pleasure to —”
“Squirrel,” I gasp. “Please.”
He clears his throat. “Fine. We’ll proceed without proper introduction.” Squirrel takes the lead and veers to the right. “It’s a half mile from here. We should be there soon.”
“You’re going to make it,” whispers Julia.
I swallow hard and walk on. I feel less with each step. The branches that scratch me, the cool mist on my skin. I feel less. The world and me are saying good-bye. Only Julia seems more. I’m not in this alone. I glance at the hammer. She holds the handle with both hands and drags it behind her through the woods. She’s carrying my load.
Beep!
>
Squirrel whips around. “What in tarnation —”
“My cell. Sorry.” Julia digs it out, peeks from the phone to me. “It’s your mom. Charley must’ve caved under pressure. My foster mom probably found me gone, called his place and found out I was at your place, and your mom, well, what should I do?”
“Here.” I slide open the case and take a deep breath. “Hey, Mom, I can’t talk now. I’m okay. Well, not really okay, but I’m not in danger so I’m okay that way but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I want to tell you I love ya, ‘cause I do even if you’re kind of over the top sometimes or all the time. It doesn’t matter anymore. But I love you and I’ll see you — well, I love … Bye, Mom.”
I suck in a lungful of air as Mom’s voice cuts into the night. “Come home now! Landis called. Should be any —”
I slide the cell cover closed. Julia and I stare at the phone.
“Hurry, Squirrel.”
We pick up the pace, a lumbering, falling, fearsome pace. The sound of water rushes in front of us.
“Almost there.” Squirrel breaks out of the trees and runs for the bank. Julia lets go of me, hoists the hammer, and leaps out after. I shuffle out, my legs noodling. All sensations fire. Like in Mr. Halden’s Treatment.
“This is it.” Squirrel runs around the grassy field. “You are standing in New Hope Cantonment.”
“But there’s nothing here!” Julia grabs Squirrel and shakes. “Nothing but high grass.”
“I told you, we don’t need it anymore.”
Ring.
My replacement is coming. I feel energy drain from my head, then my shoulders. It drains into the ground. I was wrong. I took a chance and listened to a stupid centipede and now Julia will have to watch another person die.
Ring.
That’s the call. Martin’s here. Answer the phone and I’m done.
“Martin! What should I do?”
“Don’t answer.” I step forward, my foot catches, and I fall face-first. My arms don’t even try to break impact. I smash into the earth. Funny, it doesn’t hurt. I’m glad it won’t hurt.
The Last Martin Page 16
