The Keeper of Dawn

by Hickman, J. B.

  A strong wind cut across the field behind Kirkland Hall, and for the first time that afternoon, Mr. Noble was appropriately dressed. A narrow path led through the knapweed to where the orange Coast Guard helicopter rested on the helipad. Its flat, heavy blades were motionless in the wind that swept the tall weeds about my legs and prompted me to roll down my shirtsleeves.

  We were in the helicopter for nearly an hour. Chris hardly said a word. He listened as Mr. Noble explained every button, gauge and device in sight. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was the obedient student his teachers had never seen, and in my mind, the dark wings on his back began to flutter.

  * * * * *

  I was dreaming of snowfall. The sky was lit with a weak light—either dawn or twilight—just enough so that I could follow the trail of footsteps deeper into the trees. The smell of wood-smoke sweetened the air. The crunch of my boots through the snow filled my ears. I kept my hands in my coat sleeves, my breath clouding the chill air. Overhead, crows had gathered in the leafless branches, twisting their necks to peer down at me.

  Hadn’t I done this before? The trail of footsteps looked familiar, like I should know where they led and who had made them. It felt like home was around the next bend.

  Just as I braced myself for the first peal of thunder, something pulled me out of the dream. There were hands around me, grabbing me in the darkness. But I didn’t want to go. It was too soon. I only needed another minute. If I hurried, this time I wouldn’t be too late.

  I came rushing out of sleep. Hands fidgeted about my head, rustling in the silence of the enclosed room, pulling hard on the sheets. When I tried to sit up, only my head lifted from the pillow. The sheets bound me to the bed. Figures were in the room, their heads covered in white pillowcases.

  Is this part of the dream, I wondered? But then something Benjamin had said came back to me. They were dressed up like they were in the Ku Klux Klan or something. Missed ‘em by less than sixty seconds, no kidding.

  Three figures surrounded the bed, while a fourth stood in the center of the room. I tried to cry out, but there was something lodged in my mouth, and I only succeeded in making a choked, gurgling noise. I continued to struggle, trying unsuccessfully to spit out what was in my mouth.

  “Look what I’ve caught. A homo and a Headliner. Surprised you two aren’t in the same bed,” Loosy-Goosy said, twirling a white towel in his hand like it was a lasso. “Which one of you weasels wants it first?”

  Benjamin squealed loudly then, which seemed to suffice as a response.

  I have little recollection of when it began or ended. My eyes latched onto the towel’s trajectory. Strapped to the bed unable to move, the darkness became my protector. What I couldn’t see wasn’t happening. But there came a point when I could no longer convince myself that the sounds below me were something other than Benjamin being beaten. There was something hard in the towel, for once, when it struck the sideboard near my head, it sounded like pool balls breaking. But the other noise was greater; not louder, but more horrible. Benjamin’s moans had lost any quality of being human, and every utterance of pain reduced the darkness of the room. Lying there knowing I was next was like sifting through broken glass waiting to get cut. Then something crashed to the floor, and I was convinced they had broken Benjamin. He had finally caved in from all the teasing and torment, and now lay cracked and broken in a hollow heap.

  When it was over, Loosy-Goosy removed his hood. His face was inches from my own. He breathed in what I exhaled, feeding off my fear, expanding with it until all I could see were his pale face and lidded eyes.

  “It’s your day of reckoning, Hawthorne,” he whispered. “Every day I’ve had this,” he held up his cast, “I’ve been dreaming of this moment.”

  He dangled his unlikely weapon above me, tormenting me with it. And when I smelled soap, I knew what rattled at the bottom of the towel. I struggled to break free, but the sheets bound me like iron. Loosy-Goosy stepped back and casually twirled the towel through the air.

  When the first blow struck me in the shoulder, a bright light exploded behind my eyes. Before I could recover, the second blow came, this one on my right bicep, and then a third on my calf just below the knee. Each blow struck me in a new place—the legs, the chest, the groin, the abdomen. Only my feet, head and neck went untouched. The pain was inside me, pulsing with every heartbeat, raging like a caged animal. It was dark when I opened my eyes, bright when I closed them. The towel kept spinning through the darkness. Whistle-thud. Whistle-thud. I writhed beneath the sheets with every impact. My throat ached with pent-up screams. Blow by blow, I was reduced further and further until only a quivering, helpless child remained. I wanted out of this nightmare. I wanted daylight and sandy beaches and surf. I wanted to go home.

  I could not say how long it lasted, only that finally, it was over. Though there was no new pain, my muscles, even my bones, continued to throb. Loosy-Goosy was over me saying something, but his words were static; the only noise that mattered was my own flesh, inflamed and screaming. When he removed the hard, rubbery object from my mouth, I was too exhausted to cry out. I spit up something—warm and liquid—was it blood?

  It was an effort to roll on my side. After several attempts, I drug myself into the sitting position. I didn’t want to move, but I had to see what had become of me. By the time my feet touched the floor, Benjamin had also found the strength to get out of bed. We staggered around the room like old men, groping for the light. The room had never seemed so large, so unknown and dangerous. At last my fingers found the switch and the overhead flickered on.

  Loosy-Goosy and his thugs had vanished. The light was both a blessing and a curse, for it made the pain more real, eliminating whatever chance that this had all been a nightmare. Every part of my body ached; even my jaws were tired, like I had been chewing gum for hours. We looked in the mirror, then at each other, astonished to find ourselves intact. After enduring all that pain, there wasn’t a single scratch or bruise on us (though we would be black-and-blue by morning). What I had spit up had been saliva, not blood. The only thing that had broken was Seymour. The small bonsai lay on the floor amid a heap of broken pottery and spilled soil.

  My eyes returned to the mirror. But instead of my reflection, I looked at Father’s picture. Had he always been smiling? I stepped closer, trying to find any joy in his expression other than grim satisfaction. He wasn’t smiling at Mother thirty years ago; his smile was meant for me, and all the throbbing pain in the darkness.

  “Sorry about Seymour,” was strangely what Benjamin chose to say.

  Normally I would have been devastated, but after what we had been through, a knocked over bonsai didn’t seem that catastrophic.

  “It’s no big deal.”

  Benjamin relocked the door, double-checking it even though we both knew it would do little good.

  “Sorry, Jacob,” Benjamin said, easing himself back into bed. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

  “That’s nonsense and you know it. Loosy-Goosy’s had it out for me since day one.”

  This seemed to satisfy him.

  “Are you going to tell anyone?” I asked.

  Benjamin looked older without his glasses, his eyes smaller and less trusting. He shrugged. “What good would it do?” he said, squinting up at me. The Benjamin I knew would have gone running to the housemaster, or perhaps to the headmaster himself.

  I knelt next to Seymour to survey the damage. Though the stoneware pot was destroyed, the tree was still intact. I salvaged as much loose soil as possible, scooping it into a glass. I pulled the curtains back, opened the window, and stepped onto the sill. Benjamin felt around for his glasses and watched as I climbed onto the roof with Seymour and a glass of soil.

  It was nearing midnight and all the lights in the courtyard were out. It had rained during the day, leaving the night clear and cool. I went down the slant of the roof, the terracotta tiles cool beneath my bare feet, and gingerly sat at the edge. Weeds and sev
eral small trees protruded through broken holes in the gutter. After a bit of searching, I gently lowered Seymour down beside them. By the time I had positioned the soil around his trunk, the sharp pain in my muscles had deepened into a stiff, relentless ache. The bonsai looked delicate next to the other trees, its miniature branches trembling in the night breeze, making me wonder how it would ever survive. My only hope came from Grandpa’s words about bonsai growing alone on cold mountaintops.

  I remained on the rooftop, feeling safe in all that open space. Overhead the moonless sky was loaded with stars, but the night’s brightest light shone from Raker Lighthouse, a reminder that Max was alone in his isolated haven. But it wasn’t long before this light went out as well, leaving only the stars to shine down. And soon they too began to disappear, winking out one by one as if plucked from the sky.

  CHAPTER 11: DEPARTURES

  “I’m George Donaldson from Dover, and I’m a first year student. Both my dad and grandpa went here, so I’ve been hearing about Wellington since I was a kid. Eh, let’s see, I hope this exam is easier than the last one. I feel pretty good about the French Revolution, but I’m a little shaky on the Napoleonic Wars.”

  When he cast a worried glance at the unopened exam on his desk, the entire room emitted an impatient sigh. George reminded me of my own insecurities over announcing my “history” to the class, like I had anything worthwhile to say. I had come to dread each morning when Mr. O’Leary’s gaze swept the room, at times lingering on me, but always calling on someone else, as if he enjoyed dragging the torment out for one more day.

  Later that afternoon, I saw George at practice—another faceless combatant at the bottom of the swimming pool. Why hadn’t I noticed him before? Was this how everyone thought of me? The quiet kid at the back of the room who wouldn’t be missed if, one day, he didn’t show up?

  “I’ve come to pick a fight,” Mr. O’Leary said, stepping beside me on the plithe. It was my first day of sparring, which was a relief, as I had long ago become bored of the endless stretches and unexplainable drills such as walking on the sides of my feet. Clad in white, he looked more like a waiter at a five-star restaurant than a fencing instructor. But instead of offering me a menu, he handed me a foil, and in place of a bottle of wine, a mask was tucked in the crook of his elbow.

  “Are you crazy? I’m not sparring you.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because you’ll destroy me.”

  “I’m here to teach, not to compete. One of fencing’s most steadfast rules is to have your first practice bout with your instructor. Besides, I know how difficult my exam was. Here’s your shot at a swift and violent revenge.”

  Sparring proved more difficult than it looked, with Mr. O’Leary’s fluid movements making me feel clumsy and ill-prepared. Even the simplest maneuvers—the lunge and the parry—eluded me. Mr. O’Leary instructed as he went along, his terse commands accompanying the swing of his weapon. The equipment only added to my awkwardness—the mask, the bulky pads, even the leather gloves that fit loosely over the cuffs of my jacket. I was more accustomed to Max’s work gloves.

  “Keep your poise, Jake,” Mr. O’Leary instructed after a particularly embarrassing incident where I had become so off-balanced that I was forced to pinwheel my arms to keep from falling. “Balance is just as important as speed. When balance is lost, you are forced to defend instead of attack.”

  The air was filled with the sound of clashing steel. Though my successful hits on Mr. O’Leary (few as they were) felt staged, I began to experience the sport for what it was. From my stretching pad overlooking the pool, I had watched a civilized combat fought by gentlemen, a duel without bloodshed. But the spectator wasn’t exposed to what went on behind the mask—the sweat, the emotional strain, the precarious balance of strategy and skill.

  After practice, I helped Mr. O’Leary carry the plithes into the storage room. A metal closet filled with old lifejackets stood in one corner; the remnants of a diving board lay propped against the far wall.

  “I keep hearing about this group of students,” Mr. O’Leary said as we stacked the last of the equipment into place. “They call themselves the Headliners. Apparently their fathers are so important, teachers give you high marks on your last name alone.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Not in my classroom it’s not.”

  “Our fathers made the headlines on the same day, and the next thing you know, no one wants anything to do with us. Most of what they say isn’t even true.”

  “I’m not judging you.”

  “We look out for each other. Even with all the stupid rumors, I’m glad to be part of it.”

  “Are you part of it, Jake? Or are you caught up in it?”

  When I didn’t respond, he added, “They’re all two years older. You’ve been following them around ever since that incident in the clock tower.”

  “It’s better than being alone.” I’m better off than Benjamin.

  “What about guys your own age? What about Joel, James and Arthur at dinner? What about Benjamin? Or the guys on the team?”

  But it was too late for that. As usual, Mr. O’Leary was all questions, and I didn’t have the answers.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what was your father in the paper for?” he asked.

  “A court ruling. It was a lawsuit at Columbia, for affirmative action or something.”

  “How old was the ruling?”

  “A couple weeks. Why?”

  A puzzled look crossed Mr. O’Leary’s face, but in a flash it was gone.

  “No reason,” he said, running his fingers through his beard, which was still moist with sweat. Then he was quiet for so long that I began to hear water dripping in the distance. He had stopped stroking his beard, and when I looked over at him, it seemed to jar him out of whatever trance he had entered.

  “So you’re one of the Headliners,” he said. “I can see I’m not going to change that. Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going to share with you one of those well-guarded secrets teachers like to keep to themselves. My first year out of college, I taught at a boarding school near Amherst. I was like you—new to this whole environment. The headmaster there, Mr. Perkins, an extraordinary man, sat me down on my first day and told me what he referred to as the ABC’s of teaching at an all-boys school.

  “In adolescence, boys are clannish. Girls are intimate, but boys are more tribal. They’re like wolves—they socialize in packs. They’re loyal to those in their pack, but suspicious of outsiders. When a boy comes to boarding school, he is alone for the first time in his life. As a result, he loses his identity in the group. But it is also in the group that he truly finds himself. Forget about education, forget about the Ivy League and that six-figure job at the end of the road. A boarding school’s real mission is to give boys good tribes with good elders. If this is done properly, they will prosper and grow. But give them no tribes, and they will create their own without elders, and they will become irretrievably lost.”

  Mr. O’Leary was watching me, weighing the impact of his words.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “But that’s just it—it is that simple. As complicated as everything may seem, you have two choices. You have to decide, Jake, who will be your tribe. Wellington, or the Headliners?”

  “No. No, that’s not it at all. It’s not just Wellington or the Headliners. I need my friends because … because things go on here that the school doesn’t know about.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Like how a … a certain person has to shower after lights-out because everyone teases him.”

  “Who has to do that?”

  I had already said too much, but I couldn’t stop. “Like how upperclassmen sneak into your room at night and … and …” But I couldn’t repeat what had happened that night.

  “And what?” Mr. O’Leary’s face was close to mine. “What did they do to you?”

  “No. No, it’s not me.”

  “Jake,
I’m sure there are things that go on here that I don’t know about. But your friends can’t handle everything on their own. This is your chance. I can’t help if you don’t talk to me. Why do you have to shower after lights-out?”

  “It’s not me. It’s … it’s Benjamin. There was a misunderstanding in the shower, and now everyone is teasing him. It’s bad. Real bad,” I added, looking away. “He doesn’t want to be here. Besides, he’s not learning anything he doesn’t already know.”

  “Is that why he’s been so quiet lately?”

  “I think so.”

  “Who’s doing this to him?”

  “He won’t say.”

  Mr. O’Leary thought this over. “Okay. Fair enough. You did right by telling me.”

  Afterwards I went and washed up. At dinner that night, I looked at the faces around our table, talking and laughing among themselves, and thought to myself, this is no tribe of mine.

  * * * * *

  The sea was rough that day. The morning sun hung low over the water, scattering light across the backs of waves that broke against the hull. The wind filled my ears as I watched the harbor of Miskapaug materialize on the horizon. Masts of docked ships rose into the air, the coastline a gray shadow behind them. The ferry sounded its courtesy horn when a fishing boat crossed our path. Men in sweatshirts and stocking caps scurried across the deck, their breath visible in the chill morning air.

  I had fantasized about leaving so many times, but now that fall break was finally here, it felt that I was leaving with permission, with a promise that I would soon return. I was taking part of the island with me, or rather, a part of me still remained back on shore, looking out across the water, awaiting the inevitable return. When I forced myself to look back, the island lay obscured in fog, leaving only Raker Lighthouse to witness our departure.