“Arrr, I’ve killed sharks with me bare hands before,” he boasted. “The likes of you ‘ll be no problem a’ tall.”
“Die, you one-eyed bastard!” Derek said, putting Roland in a headlock. After letting him squirm for a moment, he slashed the flashlight across Roland’s throat.
“Ahhhh! It appears you’ve got me after all,” Roland uttered in a pained voice, stumbling out of Derek’s hold and clutching his throat. “That be fine, for I fear not death. With me dying breath, I curse ye. I curse ye all! Me one eye shall shine forth again, and when it does, any man who looks upon it shall be incapable of … ever getting it up again. Ahhhh!”
Roland dropped to the floor and writhed in convulsion.
“A most impressive performance, Sir Roland the Third,” Chris said, applauding. He had a fresh cigarette in his mouth and cupped his hands to light it.
Roland rose to his feet and made an exaggerated bow. “I have Mrs. Letterbee to thank. The biggest prude I’ve ever met, but a talented drama teacher. Here, it’s your turn,” he said, tossing Chris the flashlight.
“You have your fun, I’ll have mine,” Chris said, the tip of his cigarette glowing.
“Is the governor’s son too good for us, then?” Roland said in a snooty English accent. “Does he wish to merely be entertained? Very well, then. Perhaps Sir Hawthorne is not afraid to wield the blade.”
“He can have mine,” Derek said, handing me the flashlight and joining Chris at the guardrail, like he had just been caught playing a game he was too old for.
But any reservations I might have had were forgotten when Roland said, “Hold on tight, butterfingers. I wouldn’t want you to drop two in one night.”
We charged one another, unsure who was playing the role of Pirate Raker. I crouched low, ducking beneath his blade, and then sprung at him with the flashlight leading the way. It wasn’t long before our swordfight turned into a wrestling match. I tried to put Roland in a headlock, but he saw it coming and slipped away. We both ended up on the floor, intent on dying the infamous death of Pirate Raker when Chris pulled us apart.
“Hold up. I hear something.”
“Not now,” Roland said. “I’m going for the kill.”
“No, seriously. Shut up.”
“Probably just the waves,” Derek said.
“Wait, I hear it too,” Roland said, getting up. “It’s a helicopter.”
“You sure?” Derek asked as we congregated at the guardrail.
“I’d know that sound anywhere,” Roland replied.
“There!” Chris said, pointing to a light hovering over the Atlantic.
“Maybe they’re coming here,” Roland said. “I’ve heard that the Coast Guard uses this helipad.”
We watched as the helicopter bridged the distance from the mainland, its course taking it over the island’s northern tip before veering away.
“And there she goes,” Roland said, disappointment evident in his voice.
The sound of its passing fell beneath the wind. Soon only its flashing blue taillights could be seen.
“How cool would it be to fly one of those,” Derek said.
“Chris has flown before,” Roland said. “Haven’t you?”
When Chris didn’t reply, Derek took his flashlight from me and pointed it at Chris. “Is that true? You’ve flown?”
“Once or twice. Now get that thing out of my face,” he said, waving the light away.
“Bullshit. I’ve never heard of a seventeen-year-old flying a helicopter.”
“I didn’t say it was legal. I’ve never flown anything as big as a Pelican, but I’ve flown our Jetranger.”
Derek considered this for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “You almost had me, Forsythe. Almost had me hook, line and sinker.”
“Believe what you want. I was flying before I could drive. And that’s the first thing I’m gonna do when I get off this trash heap.”
Derek thought this over. “So were you flying when you made your grand arrival?”
Chris took a drag off his cigarette.
“No.”
“I have to admit I hated your guts before you even landed. I got a thing against show-offs.”
“Believe me, it was all the Governor’s idea. He’ll never turn down a chance to wave at a crowd, even if it’s on some crummy island off the coast of nowhere.”
“Did you know that if you drop a penny from really high, it’ll gather up enough speed it can kill a person?” said Roland, reaching into his pocket for loose change.
“Anyone down there you don’t particularly like?” Chris asked, flicking his half-finished cigarette from the edge.
“Not at the moment. But I can aim for that fountain,” he said, cocking his arm back and throwing.
We all watched the coin drop. I sat against the guardrail with my feet dangling from the edge. Having climbed the lighthouse and found what may or may not have been Raker’s bloodstain, the excitement of the night was over. Though there was little to do but watch Roland toss coins, no one wanted to leave.
“Shut up, Jake,” Chris said. “I can’t think straight when you’re talking so much.”
“I’ll try to keep it down.”
Suddenly I wished Benjamin was there. Perhaps some of the guilt from dropping the flashlight lingered, for when I looked down at Patterson Hall, I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening in the darkness of our room.
“Flash me your light,” Roland said, while rummaging through his pockets. “I don’t want to be wasting any quarters.”
“Don’t know why you’re bothering,” Derek said, shining his light over Roland’s shoulder. “It’s not like you can spend money here anyway, outside of vending machines.” He bent down and picked up an eraser-sized object from Roland’s pile of quarters. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” Roland said, trying to grab it, but Derek pulled his hand away.
“You’ll get it back once you spill the beans.”
“Oh grow up.”
But Derek stood his ground.
“It’s my …” Roland hesitated. “My insignia.”
“Your what?”
“You know, an insignia. For sealing letters.”
But this only confused Derek more, for he turned it over in his hand the way a blind person examines an unfamiliar object.
“Just don’t drop it,” Roland said, returning to his coins. “It was a gift.”
“Looks expensive.”
“Where’d my light go?”
“Catch, Jake,” Derek said, tossing me the insignia.
“Hey!” Roland shouted. “Just don’t drop it.”
The insignia had a marble handle with the letters “VB” engraved in its base beneath a coat of arms. It reminded me of Mr. White, my American History teacher at Homestead. Mr. White kept five rubber-handled stamps on his desk, a different color for each grade. Whenever he assigned a failing grade, he would seize the red stamp and pound it on his desk like a judge’s gavel, making the entire class flinch.
“So you actually use this?” I asked, returning it to Roland.
“Only for letters to my family. It’s kind of a Van Belle tradition.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Chris said, sitting down and pulling his knees to his chest. “The rest of the world stopped using them in the eighteenth century.”
“The wax can be a pain,” Roland admitted.
“But it’s not just wax.”
“Shut up, Chris!” Roland exploded. “I swear, you can’t keep a secret to save your life.”
“I didn’t know the Blood of Kings was a secret.”
“You most certainly did!”
“Well why keep secrets from friends?”
“You tell me, Christian.”
Chris drew himself up. “That name doesn’t suit me.”
“Christian? That’s your real name?” I asked.
“Christian Madison Forsythe,” he said without a hint of embarrassment. “It’s made me a firm believer
in nicknames. I’m not going to suffer because my parents lack taste.”
Derek was grinning. “This is great. You two know all the dirt on each other. You’re just like my brothers.”
“Hey, here’s a grand idea,” Chris said. “You’re always complaining about that lame assignment in O’Leary’s class, right? Announcing your history to everyone.”
“Oh, I hate that,” I said.
“You too?” Roland asked.
“I have no idea what I’m going to say.”
“Me either.”
“You’re joking, right?” Chris asked. “You, Roland Van Belle the Third, can’t come up with history? Your family has more history than most nations. Just tell them about the Blood of Kings.”
“Better yet, tell us,” Derek said.
“There’s nothing much to tell,” Roland said.
“Come on, out with it.”
“I don’t know. I’m not a storyteller like Benjamin.”
Derek laughed. “Well he’s busy changing his pants.”
“Come on, man,” I said.
“What?”
“You know what. You don’t have to tell us, Roland.”
Roland shrugged. “No, it’s all right. Better now than in front of O’Leary’s class, right? I was eight years old when my father gave me this,” he said, weighing the insignia in his hand. “We were living in Korea at the time, and he was getting ready to leave for an assignment in Japan. I can’t remember why we didn’t go with him. I think it was because Mother didn’t want to relocate, since it would only be for a couple of months. Anyway, I took the news pretty hard. We had followed him all over the world. I didn’t see what made Japan any different.
“He called me into his room the night before he left. He took out a vial of wax, a lit candle and this insignia. He told me about how, when his father went off to fight the Germans, he had given him this same insignia.”
Roland resumed throwing coins. When he spoke, an older voice stood behind his words, like he were reciting from memory.
“It’s been passed down from father to son for over three centuries, starting with Prince Thomas Van Belle, the cousin of King Charles I. Supposedly it was blessed by the king himself. When my great-great-great-grandfather, Arthur Van Belle, fell at Gettysburg, his men removed this heirloom from his body and sent it home to his only son.
“Father told me that I’m never to let it leave my sight, that I should cherish it as I cherish my own life. Then he took out his knife and cut the palm of his hand. He let his blood drain into the wax and told me that while we’re apart, we are to seal our letters with our blood. With the blood of kings.”
Instead of the proud voice of a military son, Roland uttered the phrase ‘blood of kings’ as if ashamed. He was turned from us, reaching into his hand for another coin.
“I was pretty scared when he handed me the knife. I was just a kid. But now I’ve done it so many times, I don’t even think about it.”
Roland reached into his hand, his fingers closing over his family’s heirloom.
“So that’s what my letters are sealed with. The blood of kings.”
He cocked his arm back to throw another coin, but stopped upon feeling the familiar weight in his hand. He hung there, motionless, his arm pulled back behind him like a bird with a broken wing.
No one said a word. It wasn’t until Chris touched him lightly on the shoulder that he lowered his arm.
“So that’s it,” he said, returning the insignia to his shirt pocket. “That’s my family. My father really. Mother goes along.”
“The blood of kings,” Chris echoed, looking at his roommate.
“I know,” Roland said. “It’s stupid.”
Suddenly my eyes felt heavy. Roland’s story had woken something in me—some distant memory—and I felt a strong desire to leave. We had extended the night too far, and the thought of taking an exam in the morning made my head hurt.
When I turned from the guardrail, a movement caught my eye. Behind us, in the lantern room, a face flashed in the window and was gone.
“What is it?” Chris asked.
“I could have sworn …”
“What?”
“I could have sworn I saw someone’s face up there.”
“Where?”
“Up there, in that room.”
But only the moonlight shone from the tall, dark windows.
I laughed. “Maybe I’ve heard too many pirate stories.”
On the way back down, Chris’ flashlight went out, forcing Derek to use his to prevent the stairwell from plunging into darkness. We parted ways in Oak Yard, the roommates returning to Kirkland Hall while Derek and I headed for Patterson. Tired and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed, I thought I was hallucinating when three figures emerged from my room. They had pillowcases over their heads and hurried off in the other direction. Though I couldn’t see their faces, one of them had his arm slung in a cast.
When I opened the door, Benjamin sat up in bed. “I told you already, he’s not here.” He squinted from the hallway light. “Oh, it’s you. Man, you have to be the luckiest guy alive. You just missed Loosy-Goosy and his thugs. They were dressed up like they were in the Ku Klux Klan or something. Missed ‘em by less than sixty seconds, no kidding.”
As I tossed and turned in bed, my mind burned with one unanswered question. It had nothing to do with Loosy-Goosy, or the hazing that I had so narrowly avoided. More than anything, I wanted to know how close Roland had come to throwing his family’s heirloom from the lighthouse.
CHAPTER 6: CROSSING OAK YARD
“Good morning, Wellington,” Mr. Lawson said, his monotone draining all warmth from the morning greeting. He stood motionless before the student body, the veins in his pale hands visible as he gripped the lectern.
A hushed silence fell over the auditorium. I snapped out of my early morning stupor at the realization that the dean was conducting the morning meeting instead of the headmaster. Mr. Hearst may have been the brunt of many jokes, but he was generally well-liked. Mr. Lawson, however, was a mystery. Not once had he attended formal dinner, nor was he ever seen walking about campus. In a small school where every faculty member performed multiple tasks, Wellington’s dean was held in reserve, a behind-the-scenes man who served some critical, unspecified function that rarely required interaction with the students.
“I’m afraid that I am the bearer of some most unfortunate news,” he announced. “Yesterday, it came to our attention that four students violated one of this school’s most steadfast rules.”
In the dramatic pause that followed, the drumming of a guilty conscience beat inside me. Four students? I exchanged a worried look with Roland.
“It is with extreme displeasure that I inform you that Chazz Polmetti, Paul Lanford, Richard Addison and Jared Verano have used and distributed marijuana on school grounds. As I am sure you are all aware, Wellington has a no-tolerance policy when it comes to drugs, whether it be alcohol, marijuana, or any other illegal substance. The four mentioned students have been expelled and escorted from the island.”
We filed out of the auditorium. What had felt reckless the night before now seemed juvenile. News of the expulsions—announced with a hint of satisfaction in Mr. Lawson’s otherwise flat-line voice—had a sobering effect throughout campus.
Surprisingly, it had been in the mailroom where Chet had stumbled across the drug trail. Perhaps Chazz Polmetti, the alleged head of the drug ring, had wanted to get caught, for he had chosen the school mail as his method of distribution. One whiff of an envelope full of weed was all it took to send Chet into a sneezing fit.
Tired of hearing about the ex-students who had been catapulted into Wellington martyrdom, I looked forward to my afternoon retreat to the clock tower. Unfortunately, Max had other plans.
“I need one of you to lend me a hand,” he said, searching through his immense keychain. Roland, Chris and I stood behind him in the hallway. “I figured you’d be done by now, but seeing how yo
u’re milking this for all she’s worth, I can’t wait any longer.” He popped the lock off, unraveled the chain, and swung the heavy door open. “So, who’s it going to be?”
“If it involves spending more time with you, you can count me in,” Chris said, flashing Max his most sarcastic smile.
“You’re not getting out of here that easy, Bellringer. It’s got to be one of you two.”
Not wanting to separate the roommates, I followed Max outside. The courtyard was empty. What had been vast distances the night before had returned to their regular size. I stopped at the edge of the sidewalk when Max started across Oak Yard. He was halfway to the gazebo before he realized I wasn’t following.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, turning around.
“We’re not allowed to walk through Oak Yard.”
“You kidding me?”
“It’s a Wellington—”
“Tradition. Yeah, heard all about it. And traditions are fine, as long as they don’t get in the way. Tell me, what good is ground you can’t walk on? This place used to be a jungle. Thistles and knapweed up to your waist. No one walked here because no one could. I had to cut it all out. So I’ll be damned if somebody who hasn’t sweat a drop on this ground is gonna tell me I can’t walk on it. And that includes you. The rest of my crew is renovating the south wing, so you’re all I got. Now follow me.”
Then he walked toward the lighthouse without looking back. He was like my mother in that regard—once she gave an order, she walked away without giving you the chance to argue.
Entering the lighthouse felt like returning to a crime scene. The flashlight still lay broken on the floor. The spiral staircase forced the image of Benjamin—petrified with fear—into my mind.
“We’re going to bring down the lantern piecemeal,” Max said.
“Let me guess—more stairs.”
“Nope. This here is gravy. You’ll be on this hand crank.” Max indicated a pair of handles protruding from the wall. “They used to haul oil up with this.”
As he began to work the crank, a large bucket descended from overhead.
“It’ll have weight coming down, so be careful it doesn’t pick up too much speed.” He eased the bucket into a gentle landing on top of the broken flashlight. “Then hoist it up when it’s empty. Like I said, gravy. The tub’s aluminum, so she’s lighter than she looks.”
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