Falcon Quinn and the Crimson Vapor

by Jennifer Finney Boylan

  “They’re late,” she said.

  Dr. Cortex, head of the Academy’s Wellness Center, turned to her and nodded. “Indeed,” he said. His giant exposed brain pulsed and the black veins that encircled it wriggled and throbbed.

  For many long years transportation between the amusement park and the Academy had been subcontracted to a group of monsters known as the Mutant Corsairs. These creatures lived on an island of their own, called Pirate Island, and devoted themselves to the pirate lifestyle, with its all-consuming obsession with the burying of treasure. The Mutant Corsairs even operated their own school upon their island, the Pirate Conservatory, which taught its pupils the finer points of swordplay, rum swizzling, and cartography. They were a breed apart, the pirates, and over time they had come to think of themselves as a society wholly separate from that of their monster cousins. Still, there was no one as dependable for traveling across the high seas as the pirates, and their privateer, the Cutthroat, with its many decks for passengers, was the traditional means of transport between Shadow and Monster islands.

  Pirate swabs, holding coils of thick rope, now stood by the rails as the Cutthroat prepared to dock in the harbor of Shadow Island. Other corsairs hung from the rigging, looking toward the towers of Castle Gruesombe through spyglasses.

  “Yargh!” shouted a young buccaneer from the crow’s nest, speaking in the nearly incomprehensible pirate jargon. “Tar tar jack skoggin!”

  Mrs. Redflint sighed. “I hope we can get the students safely to their dorms without the usual disturbances. It would be nice if the pirates would spare us the traditional burning and looting this year, given what the students have been through.”

  “Why do we put up with them?” asked Dr. Cortex, his engorged brain pulsating. “They give me such a headache.”

  Dr. Cortex was the associate of Dr. Medulla, the former head of the Academy for Monsters’ Wellness Center, who had been turned to stone the previous spring.

  “I like pirates!” said Mr. Hake, the vice principal, who was also, on some occasions, the Terrible Kracken. At present he was in humanoid form, wearing a cardigan and a pair of tennis shoes. He licked a melting Creamsicle. “They’re funny!”

  “They’re not so funny when they set fire to things,” said Mrs. Redflint, the dragon lady. She puffed two large smoke rings from her nostrils. “They’re not so funny when they lie in the center of the academic quad singing songs about—well, you know. Wenches.”

  “But it’s tradition!” said Mr. Hake. “Tradition is good! It connects us to our grampaws!”

  “Traditions should be examined from time to time,” said a man with tangled, yellow hair and a scraggly beard. “To see whether they still serve their proper functions.”

  There was silence for a moment. The four of them watched the Cutthroat draw near.

  “Mr. Lyons. Are you saying you doubt the usefulness of our pirate friends?” said Dr. Cortex to the bearded man.

  “Not their usefulness,” Mr. Lyons replied in a deep, rumbling voice. “But their loyalties.”

  “Their loyalties?” said Mrs. Redflint. “They have been ferrying our students from the Academy to Monster Island for long years now. “

  “Yes,” said Mr. Lyons. “But still. Now and again, I wonder if the pirates are wholly on our side.”

  “They are on no side at all, I should think,” said Mrs. Redflint. “At this point they serve anyone who will provide them with—what is the term? Booty. Which, indeed, we do.”

  “My point exactly,” said Mr. Lyons. “I wonder, given the changing circumstances of the world, if there are others who have considered providing them with terms better than our own.” He growled softly. “For if there is a price we pay for protecting our students, for bearing them away from harm, then surely there is a price that might be paid—by others—to lead them directly into harm’s way.”

  “Yes, well,” said Dr. Cortex. “I imagine many things will be examined in days to come.” He looked at Mrs. Redflint. “Has the headmaster been kept informed of the events on Monster Island? This unprovoked attack?”

  “He has,” said Mrs. Redflint.

  Mr. Hake’s Creamsicle slid off of its stick and slapped onto the dock. “My ice cream fell down,” he said sadly. “Go boom-boom!”

  Dr. Cortex’s brain veins throbbed again. “What do you do when you’re sad, Mr. Hake?”

  The vice principal thought about it. “I suffocate things with my tentacles.”

  “That’s good,” said Dr. Cortex. “You don’t want to keep things bottled up inside.”

  The Cutthroat was nearly at the dock now. Two pirate swabs in striped shirts and tricorn hats stood by the railings, holding coils of rope.

  “I wonder if that’s true,” said Mrs. Redflint.

  “Therma?” said Dr. Cortex.

  “I said I wonder if that’s true. That it is best not to bottle things inside.”

  “Of course it’s true,” said Dr. Cortex. “Is that not the credo of our school? That we should accept ourselves and live our truth in the open?”

  “I know, Doctor,” said Mrs. Redflint, a trace of smoke once more drifting from her nose. “You need not remind me of our principles. I merely wonder if we understand what we are asking of our young people when we ask them to live an authentic life.”

  “An authentic life is its own reward,” said Dr. Cortex. “Is it not?”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Lyons. “But the challenge of living this authentic life, it seems to me, can be its own burden as well.”

  On the Cutthroat’s promenade deck, the young vampires drank plasma smoothies and ate little pieces of raw meat served on stoned wheat crackers. A jazz band played “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” As they drew near the harbor, the students could see the gray wall that surrounded the Academy and, rising just beyond this, the towers of the academic buildings, castles Grisleigh and Gruesombe.

  “Look, look,” said Muffy to a small group of her friends. “I can see Saphenous Hall!” She turned to Dominique. “We are going to have the best year ever, in our own double room! You and me, VFF!”

  “I hope so,” said Dominique in a tremulous voice.

  “Dominique,” said Reeves Pennypacker Waldow-Sherrod Binswanger III, who was wearing a blue sport jacket with small gold buttons that had anchors embossed on them. “Surely you’re not still distraught over the unpleasantness at the Bludd Club!” He looked surprised.

  “No,” said Dominique softly. “Course not. But I’d feel a little better if my friend Merideath was here. We were best friends when we were little. We used to suck the blood out of her gerbils.”

  “I heard about her,” said Reeves. “Expelled last spring, wasn’t she? After failing the test of the first semester?”

  “That test was rigged against her!” said Dominique. “The way they always rig things against us! I hate it when we don’t get our way! It’s so unfair!”

  “Don’t you worry about Merideath,” said Muffy.

  “What do you mean, don’t worry about her? She got permanently expelled!” said Dominique.

  “Nothing’s permanent,” said Muffy. “Except us.”

  Several levels down, the rest of the monster students were crammed into something called the grease deck. Weems and Destynee and Ankh-hoptet were wedged into a single seat. Just behind them, Pearl, Max, Mortia, Falcon, and Lincoln Pugh stood in a small space between the seats and the bulkhead. The grease deck emitted a unique stench—a combination of old garbage and frying fat. There was a pirate in a uniform speaking into a microphone. “Please take a minute to—argh, tar tar!—check the area around yer seat,” she said. “Fer your tar tar tar tar!—personal belongin’s. Argh! Argh! Captain Hardtack will give ye the two-bell signal—tar tar!—indicatin’ it’s safe to walk about the cabin.”

  “I, for one, shall be cheered to disembark from these close quarters!” said Pearl. “I feel as if I have been flattened like a cake of the pan!”

  “I’m hungry,” said Max. “They didn’t eve
n give us anything to eat except biscuits. Who eats biscuits, man? Nobody!”

  “I like biscuits,” said Lincoln Pugh. He was still half blind without his glasses. “They’re tasty.”

  “Biscuits bad,” said Sparkbolt.

  “You know what I wonder?” said Mortia. “Do the monsters from the Reality Stream put up with this? When they take their vacation on Monster Island? Do they have to ride these crummy pirate ships too?”

  “No way,” said Max. “They take the magic bus, man. Remember how we got to the Academy in the first place? They got these excellent magic buses that are all wonky-do.”

  “I do not understand this wonky-do!” said Pearl.

  “Well,” said Max. “You oughta.”

  The ship lurched suddenly as the Cutthroat bumped against the dock. The monsters belowdecks heard the sounds of pirates leaping onto the dock from outside and the sounds of hatches opening and gangplanks moving.

  “All ashore that’s gargh ashore,” said the pirate steward. The monsters on the grease deck all stood up and grabbed their luggage, then moved toward the metal stairs that led up to the exit. The staircase was jammed. All the disembarking monsters were shoved toward the gangplank. There was a cacophony of growling and laughing as the students jostled against each other.

  “We’re totally smooshed!” said Destynee.

  “Yes,” said Weems happily. “We are.”

  “Wish I had some more of those biscuits,” said Max.

  “You said you did not enjoy these biscuits of the sea!” said Pearl.

  “I said I didn’t like them. That doesn’t mean I don’t want some!”

  “Señor Falcon,” said Pearl. “You will have to explain the language of the Sasquatch to me. At times I find it difficult to translate into Chupakabra.” Pearl looked around her, at the crammed-together crowd of monsters. “¿Señor?” she said uncertainly. “Señor Max?” she said. “Where is Falcon Quinn?”

  “I don’t know, man,” said Max. “Wasn’t he with you?”

  Pearl looked anxiously at the encircling throng. There were creatures with antennae, things with claws, entities with stingers and fur and razor-sharp teeth. There were no angels.

  “Falcon?” she said.

  “We’re back!” said Muffy, coming down the gangplank. “Be glad, everyone! Muffy’s here!!”

  “Miss Ventricle,” said Mrs. Redflint. “How was your summer?”

  “Divine!” shouted Dominique.

  “‘Divine’ is a word that means happy,” said Mr. Hake with a smile. “And happy means happy! Yes! Yes! That is what it means! Happy!”

  “Attention, please,” said Dr. Cortex. “If all vampire students would follow me, please, we’ll get your things and head over to Saphenous and Arterial.”

  “Good afternoon, Muffy,” said Mrs. Redflint. “It’s a pleasure to see you!”

  “Oh, Mrs. Redflint,” said Muffy, bursting into tears.

  “Now, now, dear,” said Mrs. Redflint. “You’re back among vampires and zombies and mummies. Nothing can hurt you here.”

  “It was so terrible!” said Muffy. “They attacked us, out of nowhere! They sprayed us with this sleepy fog!”

  “There, there,” said Mrs. Redflint. Dr. Cortex nodded gravely.

  “It was the Quinn boy,” said Reeves Pennypacker Waldow-Sherrod Binswanger III. “He brought them.”

  “Dr. Cortex,” said Mrs. Redflint. “I do think we ought to offer counseling services to the students. It must have been a terrible shock.”

  “I don’t want counseling,” said Muffy, wiping her eyes. “I want revenge!”

  “Revenge,” said Mr. Lyons, shaking his head. “Do you think revenge will solve your troubles?”

  Muffy wrinkled her nose. “Who’s he? I’ve never seen him before!”

  “This is Mr. Lyons,” said Mrs. Redflint. “The librarian. He just joined us over the summer.”

  “You will find a number of interesting books on the consequences of revenge in the stacks,” said Mr. Lyons. “I can prepare a reading list for you.”

  “I don’t want a reading list,” said Muffy bitterly. “I want them to punish Falcon Quinn!”

  “Revenge is a happy way to make people pay!” said Mr. Hake. He turned his arms into tentacles and waved them around exuberantly. “Revenge is a kind of happy. My, my! If you think about it, there really are so many varieties of happy!”

  “Let us first find out the truth,” said Mr. Lyons, “before we start doling out revenge. There can be no justice without truth.”

  “Yada yada yada,” said Dominique. “We all know the truth.”

  “Miss Ventricle,” said Mrs. Redflint. “You will not say yada yada to a member of the faculty.”

  “He’s not faculty,” said Dominique contemptuously, nodding toward the bearded man. “He’s just a librarian!”

  “Rrrr!” shouted an angry voice at the top of the gangplank. “Destroy! Destroy!”

  “Ah, Mr. Sparkbolt,” said Mrs. Redflint. “How nice to see you again!”

  “Cutthroat bad!” said Sparkbolt. “BAD!”

  “Ugh,” said Destynee, walking behind him. “He’s right. I’ve never been so squished in my life. The whole ride I’ve been jammed right up next to Weems in that horrible tiny chair!”

  “I didn’t think it was so bad,” said Weems, looking at Destynee with his sad, hollow eyes. “Was it really so bad, being so close?”

  “The worst!” said Destynee.

  “Mr. Weems and Mr. Sparkbolt,” said Mrs. Redflint. “You’re in Dustbin Hall. And Miss Bloodflough, you’re in Heimlich, of course.”

  “Rrrrr!” shouted Sparkbolt.

  “Mr. Sparkbolt,” said Mr. Lyons, checking his name off on a clipboard. “I’m Mr. Lyons, the librarian. I’m told you’re a talented poet. Miss Wordswaste-Phinney speaks highly of your work.”

  “Aw,” said Sparkbolt. “It nothing.”

  Mr. Lyons gave Sparkbolt a small handwritten note. “I’ve drawn up a list of books you might find helpful. Sharon Olds. Elizabeth Bishop. Sylvia Plath. Young writers sewn out of dead body parts such as yourself find these authors highly inspirational.”

  Sparkbolt murmured, “Inspiration good.”

  Destynee looked up at the crooked mass of Castle Grisleigh. “We aren’t in Grisleigh this year? I liked Castle Grisleigh,” said Destynee. “The towers, and the catacombs. It was homey.”

  “Heimlich Hall is homey too!” said Mr. Hake. “Every house is a home where someone’s happy!”

  Mr. Lyons licked his lips as he noted the disembarking students. After Destynee came Ankh-hoptet and Lincoln Pugh, and Mortia and Crumble, and Snort and the Crofton sisters and Picador. The teachers stood at the bottom of the ramp, welcoming each of the monsters back as the ship emptied itself of the entire student body. It took almost fifteen minutes to unload them all and to get everyone’s luggage squared away. Max and Pearl were some of the last off the boat.

  “And so!” shouted Pearl triumphantly. “Once more I return to the Island of Shadow! To continue my quest toward illumination! I am ¡la Chupakabra! The famous goatsucker of Peru! I disembark!”

  “Miss Picchu,” said Mrs. Redflint. “How nice to see you. This is Mr. Lyons, our new librarian at Screamer.”

  “Señorita,” said Mr. Lyons. “¡Bienvenido a casa!”

  Pearl curtsied in midair. “I am most pleased to hear the Spanish within my ears!”

  “Dude,” said Max petulantly. “I don’t understand Spanish! At all!”

  “‘Doodah’ is from the German,” noted Mr. Lyons. “It means ‘fool.’”

  Max looked crushed. “Dude,” he said.

  “Here,” said Mr. Lyons, handing Max a book, In Pursuit of Excellence. “I have reserved this for you.”

  “Excellent!” said Max.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Lyons.

  “Señora Redflint,” said Pearl. “Where is our friend Señor Falcon Quinn? We seem to have become separated from him, and I was most hopeful of finding him on the d
ock, waiting for us.”

  “Falcon Quinn?” said Mrs. Redflint. She looked over at Mr. Lyons.

  “He has not disembarked,” said Mr. Lyons.

  “Hmm,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Curious.”

  Dr. Cortex led the vampires toward their digs in Saphenous and Arterial, and Mr. Hake guided the other students toward Dustbin and Heimlich. Max and Pearl remained on the dock, looking back at the Cutthroat.

  “Wait”—said a voice at the top of the steps—“for—me—”

  For a moment, Pearl and Max—not to mention Mrs. Hake and Mr. Lyons—looked up at the gangplank hopefully.

  Turpin the wereturtle appeared in the hatch and then slowly began working his way down the gangplank.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Redflint with what almost sounded like regret. “Mr. Turpin. I almost forgot.”

  “Hello,” said Turpin. He took another slow step down the gangplank.

  “Argh yar jack skoggin,” said one of the pirates, and the other pirates began untying the ropes.

  “Strange,” said Mrs. Redflint. She turned to Turpin, who was still only halfway down the gangplank. “Did you see Falcon Quinn, Mr. Turpin? The angel?”

  “No,” said Turpin.

  “Very strange,” said Mrs. Redflint.

  Mr. Lyons rumbled softly. “They have him,” he said.

  “What?’ said Mrs. Redflint.

  “The boy,” said Mr. Lyons. “They have him.” He gave his clipboard to Mrs. Redflint. “Excuse me.”

  “I warned our friend to be on his guard!” said Pearl. “I implored him to maintain the highest level of caution!”

  “Mr. Lyons,” said Mrs. Redflint. “We have no evidence—”

  “Argh tar har yo!” said the first mate, now nearly finished untying the ropes.

  Mr. Lyons walked up the gangplank. “Argh tar yo skoggin!” shouted the first mate, and instantly a half dozen other pirates appeared on the deck. They drew out their swords.

  “Avast!” said Captain Hardtack, appearing in the hatch. “You’ve not been given permission to come aboard me vessel!”

  “I cannot tell you how terribly, terribly sorry I am,” said Mr. Lyons in his deep, sad voice. “But it would appear as if one of our students has not disembarked! I just thought I’d have a look around. To be certain, you see.”