The wind? The words don’t make sense. The fire doesn’t make sense.
But Rahab motions for us to leave. She doesn’t look like she’s taking any more questions.
Marcus goes first, and Seymour and I follow. We step through the circle of fire and the doorway. Ahead there’s a bridge that arches high above a chasm. We are only a few paces past the door when there’s a loud grating sound. A solid iron gate lowers steadily behind us, closing the doorway, as Rahab turns away.
The three of us stand at the edge of the bridge, with no choice but to cross. It is long and thin, made of the same red stone as the tower. Beyond the bridge there are ranges of rust-colored mountains with snowy peaks, stretching as far as I can see. A valley with a river cuts through the middle of the mountains. Far to the left the mountains meet the vast forest of the Green Tower’s land. To the right the mountains rise to a steep and rocky ridge, with pockets of snow clinging to the cliffs. I do not see any dragons.
“Let’s go.” Marcus leads the way onto the bridge. He walks steadily, even though the bridge is two feet wide and impossibly high. The jagged ravine is hundreds of feet below us.
Seymour goes next. His body is wider than the bridge. He holds his arms out on either side, balancing like a tightrope walker. He starts talking as if oblivious to the height. He says something about a type of berry that grows in the mountains, and the kind of bush we should look for. He says the berry goes well in tarts. I tune him out and focus on my feet.
I’ve taken two steps onto the bridge when I go to my knees. The height makes my head spin. With my hands gripping the edges of the narrow stone platform, I glance back at the closed iron door. There’s nowhere to go but forward. I start to inch my way across, crawling, clutching at the smooth stone, and trying not to look down.
The Blue Tower had nothing like this. Water is dangerous, but even stormy seas are gentler than these mountains. One slip and I’m dead. Even if it’s only temporary, it’s got to hurt. And then my memories would be wiped. It would be like losing my Mom all over again. I’m more afraid of falling than drowning.
“Come on!” Marcus shouts.
He and Seymour wait at the end of the bridge. I’m over halfway there.
“Stand up!” Seymour says. “It’s better to walk.”
I keep crawling, eyes fixed on the red stone under my hands. The going is slow, but safe.
“What, are you scared of heights?” Seymour asks.
Yes, apparently... But I don’t respond, or speed up. I remember the first time I walked up the path inside the Blue Tower, following Abram and hugging the outer wall. The view down the tower’s hollow center scared me then. This bridge is worse.
When I finally reach the other side, Marcus and Seymour laugh a little as they clap me on the back. At least they waited.
“I hope you like dragons more than heights,” Marcus says.
We begin descending down a narrow path along the side of the rocky slope. Seymour is back to his talkative self. He tells us that he’s seen a dragon fly over the distant ridge, so that’s where we’re headed. My focus is on the landscape, and keeping my footing. A valley opens below into a broad, bowl shape. There is a twisting river at the bottom. It must have carved this valley over ages. I wonder again about how old this place is, where it is, and what it is. It could be another dimension or on some other planet in the far reaches of the universe. With three suns. There are familiar things from earth—mountains and sea, towers and people—but everything here seems more surreal.
I interrupt one of Seymour’s monologues about varieties of bacon. “Hey, do you guys think we’re in a different universe than earth?”
“Oh yeah,” Seymour says. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since we got this task. I was scared at first, but I’m over it now. If we all died on earth, then this is some kind of afterlife. It’s not that bad, really. We get to discover our old memories and have these nice young bodies that can’t be destroyed. It’s some crazy magic. Burn me up, toss me off a cliff, whatever—I’ll just wake up in cozy furs in the Red Tower and start again. I mean, I guess I feel trapped sometimes but there are worse places to get trapped. I was telling you guys about all the kinds of bacon I can make. And here I can eat as much as I want!”
Seymour doesn’t stop talking. Marcus and I are quiet as we walk. We trek further toward the edge of the river. The three suns beat down from directly overhead.
It feels like we’ve been going for hours when we reach the river. Steep cliffs rise from either side of it, at least twenty feet high. A few trees cling to the rock walls. The water below rushes over and around boulders, churning into frothy rapids. We won’t be able to wade across it. There’s no bridge in sight.
We decide to head upstream. The river will be narrower that way. The path becomes more difficult, with huge boulders to scramble over and around. We pass a forty-foot waterfall and have to climb almost straight up to keep going. My hands and knees collect scratches and scrapes from the rocks. Seymour huffs and puffs behind me, no longer talking.
“Look,” Marcus says, pointing ahead. It’s his first word in hours.
There’s a fallen tree. The roots are wedged under a large stone, and the bare branches grab the opposite edge of the ravine like a person’s hand holding on for dear life.
“A cypress!” Seymour says, rushing ahead of us.
“A bridge,” Marcus mutters as if annoyed.
We follow after Seymour and see him kneeling down by the roots. He gathers up little berries from a bush growing by the tree’s uprooted base, putting them in a small leather pouch.
“Those the berries you wanted?” I ask.
“One of the varieties, yes,” Seymour says. “These are no good in a tart, but if you drink the juice, it gives you energy.”
“How’d you learn so much about berries?”
He glances up at me, and for once he hesitates before he answers. “From before.”
“Before the Red Tower?”
“Yes, I was a chef.” Seymour doesn’t say more. He steps up onto the tree that stretches over the river.
Marcus stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“What?” Seymour asks.
Marcus pulls Seymour back with surprising strength, then he moves to the tree and dangles his long legs around it. “Watch me. Like this.”
Marcus starts scooting across, his front hands fixed fast on the slick wood, his legs wrapped tight around it. The fallen tree is so narrow, and his legs are so long, that his feet almost touch underneath the trunk. He does not hurry, but he does not pause. His lean frame steadily slides across.
“He’s just showing off,” Seymour says to me.
“You want to go next?” I ask.
“Sure. But after this, let’s get some rest. I’m ready for a campfire and dinner.” Seymour clambers onto the tree and begins sliding across. His round body’s grip does not seem nearly so tight, even as he tries to follow Marcus’s form. A couple times he wobbles, but manages to keep his balance. At least his center of gravity is low.
“Hug it closer,” I shout out to him. “Lean down more.”
He does as I say, inching forward. The river rushes along twenty feet beneath him. He’s about two-thirds the way across when we hear a distant but terrible roar.
Above, silhouetted against the slate gray sky, is an honest-to-god dragon. It is pitch black with a long, sinuous body and vast wings shaped like a bat’s, but flapping slowly and smoothly like an eagle’s.
It roars again, louder, as it swoops toward us. It passes over my head so close that I can feel the air as it flaps its wings and soars past. I don’t have time to duck, or to think, before it is flying away, toward the mountains rising from the opposite side of the river.
A loud shout pulls my gaze down. It’s Seymour.
His large body hangs, one hand gripping a branch, the other swinging wildly to try to take hold of something. I start to dash forward, but it’s too late. His grip gives and he falls. He drops l
ike a rock and splashes into the water below.
His head bobs up. He shouts again, arms flailing. White rapids churn around him, carrying him quickly downstream.
Before I can even think of what to do, Marcus jumps off the opposite cliff and into the water after Seymour. I sprint along the bank, remembering what’s ahead: a waterfall that no one could survive.
I race past Marcus and Seymour and grab a long branch from the ground. A quick scramble brings me down to the river’s edge, just before the waterfall. I reach out, extending the stick over the water.
“Seymour! Marcus!” I shout. “Grab it! Grab it!”
Seymour is still ahead of Marcus. He reaches out of the water as he drifts toward me. His hand connects with the wood, clinging fast.
“Hold on!” I say, as I start pulling him in.
Then I hear a crack, followed by the split of wood. The stick couldn’t hold him. The water rushes him ahead, broken stick still in his hand. Marcus is swimming closer now, but Seymour is out of time. I charge to the cliff and watch in terror as Seymour floats toward the edge. This is his last chance. A few last rocks to cling to.
He grabs at a rock but the current is too fast. He slips past it. He goes over the edge of the waterfall.
I know what I have to do. The rules have to be broken. In an instant I’ve grabbed the air. I frantically channel as much as I can hold, weaving an invisible net and swooping it up from the bottom of the falls. Seymour slams into it, and I fall to my knees. The net and my power hold, barely.
A shout pulls my eyes to the top of the falls. Marcus is clinging to a stone that juts out of the racing river, the lower half of his body already over the waterfall’s edge.
“Let go!” I shout. “I’ll catch you.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, but his grip slips anyway. He hits the net of air beside Seymour, and it feels like a punch to the head. It takes so much power, and there’s no Emma or anyone else to draw on for help. Still, I stagger to my feet, holding my hands out as if willing the air to rise as I do. Slowly, inch by inch, I lift them. With a final breath I raise the net and drop Seymour and Marcus safely on the opposite side of the ravine.
Their distant faces show relief, and shock. It’s the last thing I see before I collapse, eyes closed, onto the hard ground.
10
THE SOFT CRACKLE of fire wakes me. The air smells delicious, like roasted meat. I lie there with my eyes open, looking up into the starry sky. My head throbs. Each pulse makes the stars go brighter, then dimmer, then brighter again. I rise slowly onto my elbows and look across the fire. Seymour and Marcus are watching me.
“Hey, look who it is,” Seymour says. “Welcome back! You’ve been out a long time. You must be hungry. We’ve got roasted rabbit almost ready. Marcus caught it. I cooked it. Smells good, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Seymour smiles as he moves toward the roasting meat. I see Marcus studying me across the flames. He looks concerned.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing special,” Seymour says as he turns over the meat. “I slipped off the tree when that dragon flew over us. I was rushing down the river, went over a waterfall, and pretty much was going to die, but then something invisible caught me. It caught Marcus, too. Next thing we know we’re sitting safe on the bank of the river, and you pass out. Marcus had to go back over the tree, put you on his shoulders, and haul you here. By then I had this merry fire going, and Marcus went off hunting. He wouldn’t tell me how he caught the rabbit, but it doesn’t make much difference to me. After today we deserve a little feast. It beats the salty pork strips they gave us, right?”
“Sure does,” I say, my eyes on Marcus. “Thanks for coming back for me.”
Marcus stares at me, quiet for a moment. “Did you use your power?”
I see no reason to hide it. “Yes.”
“How?” Seymour asks. “Can you teach us?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “It just came to me in the Blue Tower. Others there get the power, too, but I can control more of it. Or I could. The power seems weaker here, in Red. Or maybe I’m just rusty since Rahab won’t let me use it. Watching you go over that waterfall got my blood pumping enough to do it again. I made a net to catch you.”
“Told you!” Seymour glances to Marcus. “He’s a freakin’ magician.”
Marcus ignores Seymour. He says to me, “Thank you.”
“Yeah, good thing you kept us alive so that we can go get eaten by a dragon.” Seymour lifts the roasted rabbit from the fire, holding it out proudly. “But as long as we’re alive, let’s eat, drink, and be merry. You ever hear that one? I think it was in a book or a song or something. I always liked it, though. Especially the eating part...”
Seymour keeps talking as he cuts the meat. He talks as he serves it. Marcus and I do not talk much. We enjoy the rabbit. I lick my fingers and there’s not a scrap left once we finish.
We each find places to lay down near the fire. There are no pillows or blankets or furs. The night is dark and cold.
Seymour eventually falls quiet and sleeps. Marcus does the same.
But not me.
I stare into the fire, watching the yellow and orange flames dance above the bed of coals. I think about Rahab summoning fire and controlling it above her hands, and about the fires hovering magically throughout the Red Tower. I hold out my hand. I focus on the fire. I summon the air and try to fuse the flames into it. It doesn’t work. I use the air to make the fire blow this way and that. I try to lift a flame out of the coals, as if I could float it over my hand, but as soon as the flame separates from the larger fire, it goes out.
So, I cannot control fire. The girls can. What will happen if we combine our powers? If I can make it back to the tower, my Mom and I can find out.
The longer I gaze into the fire, the more I feel the weight of the darkness around me. The coals burn bright red. The color and the warmth draw me in, as if my mind can touch the blazing embers. A memory comes.
Water glides past. Wind blows. A thick oar is in my hands. My whole body aches. A boy sits in the front of the boat, shouting Pull! Pull!
My knees bend, my arms pull. Another boy sits in front of me doing the same motion. Others row behind me.
For a moment I think I’m in the Blue Tower again, in another race. But in the distance, the water stretches to a city. Only a few lights show in the skyscrapers. Stars are visible in the dark, morning sky. The city skyline is familiar, like home. It’s Chicago. This is Lake Michigan.
Pull! Pull!
The shouting continues. My body obeys but there’s no heart in it. The other boats are ahead of us. Too far ahead to catch.
Our boat bumps to the dock in last place. Other boys are already standing on the dock. They’re wearing matching uniforms, clinging to their bodies like gloves. A few of them have shirts off, muscles bulging from the workout, sweat dripping. They’re laughing and looking past me, across the water. I turn and see the object of their attention—the girls’ team, on the opposite dock.
I scramble out of the boat and join the other boys. Maybe they’re hot from the rowing, but I slide on a jacket. The jacket makes me look bigger, I think. It’s not the team’s uniform. I don’t have one of those. I didn’t make the team last year.
The boys move toward the boathouse. Across the water, I see the girls going the same way. They’re going to meet us. They’re going to talk to us. Already my palms are sweating. My mouth feels full of cotton balls. I’d rather dive into the cold water than have to talk to them.
Except. Except I see her as we approach the boathouse.
Samantha Jones.
She’s near the front of the girls, walking like she owns the world. Her face has bottled up the sun. She laughs with her friends and it makes my teenage body quake.
Everyone moves toward a board where papers have been posted. As the crowd gathers, Samantha scans our group of boys. She’s smiling. I swear she noticed me as her eyes passed. Maybe t
oday I’ll talk to her. I’ll just say “Hi” and she’ll say it back and then all will be right in the world.
Stay cool, Paul. I take a deep breath.
Everyone’s crowding around the board. I’m probably supposed to look at the board, to care what it says. All I care about is Samantha. In this churning group of sweat and hormones and rowing uniforms, no one will notice if I inch closer to her. Maybe I can bump against her side. My hand might even accidentally graze her leg. Hi, I practice under my breath. I’m Paul.
She’s at the front now. Only a few people are between us. They’re girls, too, but they might as well be trees blocking my view. I squeeze between them. It’s not hard. I’m smaller than everyone.
Samantha is almost within reach when a boy steps to her side. One of the bare-chested boys. He’s a head taller than I am—a long, floppy haired blond head. He puts his arm over her shoulder. They’re both looking at the board. I’m looking at his arm, a vile hook. I’m close enough to see the dark hairs in his armpit, to smell him. It’s a king-of-the-jungle smell. Damp, earthy, powerful.
“Congrats Sam,” he says. “Welcome to first team!”
She turns and looks up at him and the lines of her jaw and chin make Aphrodite scream bloody murder from Mt. Olympus. No mortal should have such a face, such eyes. Those large dark pools look at the boy and smile. It might have been a minute since I last breathed.
“Thanks, Johnny,” she says. “I hear you’re captain this year?”
“Yeah, we’re gonna have a great season together.” He unclenches his vile hook from around her shoulders. He turns and bumps into me as he passes. “Watch out little man,” he grunts.
Another bare-chested boy gives him a high five as he joins their group. Samantha steps into a huddle of other girls. They’re giggling and whispering about something. The only word I hear from their huddle is Johnny.
There’s no longer anything separating me from the board. There’s no excuse not to look at it. I shuffle forward with the other stragglers. The board has six pieces of paper. The top three say Boys First Team, Boys Second, Boys Third. Each page of paper is yellow and wrinkled, with names scrawled on it. I don’t bother looking at the first or second team pages. My breath freezes while I scan the names on the Boys Third page. Steve Williams. Patrick Johnson. Name, name, name. I reach the bottom. Paul Fitzroy is not listed.
The Red Tower (The Five Towers Book 2) Page 5
