Marcus shook his head. He didn’t mind being by himself, and at least he’d be safe from Chet and his friends for the next two hours. As he reached for the doorknob, the sleeve of his shirt rode up, revealing a pink circular mark on the outside of his shoulder just above his bicep.
“What is that?” Mr. Allen asked, taking Marcus’s arm in his hand.
Seeing what the teacher was looking at, Marcus tried to pull free, but the teacher’s grip was too strong.
Mr. Allen tilted his head and leaned closer to get a better look. “Is it some kind of tattoo?”
“No,” Marcus answered without bothering to look himself. He’d seen the mark so many times he had it memorized. Upon first glance it seemed to be a scar or birthmark. But on closer examination, an image had been burned into the skin of his shoulder—like a brand on a cow. Hard ridges of scar tissue formed a precise likeness of two creatures doing battle inside an elaborately designed circle.
On the right was what looked like a mixture of a snake and a dragon—with a long, scaled body, a mouthful of wicked teeth, great wings, and sharp talons. It was locked in combat with another make-believe creature that seemed to have the head of a boar, complete with long curved tusks, the tail of a fish, and a bird-like body with long, feathered wings. Two pairs of horns sprouted from the bird-boar-fish’s head, and a pair of human arms held a flaming sword high in the air. The serpent had its talons locked on the front of the bird’s throat, while the tusks of the boar were closed on the snake’s writhing body.
Mr. Allen ran his fingers over the hardened skin. “Who did this to you?”
Marcus shrugged. He’d had it since he was a baby.
“Did you do that to yourself?” he asked, at last releasing his grip.
Marcus shook his head and pulled his shirt sleeve down over his shoulder. Most scars faded with time. But this one was every bit as vivid as the first time he’d been old enough to realize it was there. Having had it for as long as he could remember, he saw it almost as a birthmark of sorts. But the attention people paid to it embarrassed him, and he tried to keep it hidden.
“I’m sorry,” the teacher said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s okay,” Marcus said, shrugging again.
Mr. Allen rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in two hours.”
Marcus grabbed the door knob, this time being careful to keep his sleeve from sliding up. He pulled open the door and scooted into the room on the seat of his pants, pushing himself with his good arm and pulling with his good leg, and guiding himself with his crooked leg like the rudder of a ship.
Ignoring the chair in the center of the tile floor, Marcus slid to the far corner of the room and leaned his head against the wall. Chairs were made for people with two good legs and a straight back. For him they were a constant pain, causing him to squirm and wriggle until he could finally get out. The cushioned seat of his wheelchair was better, but he preferred to sit on the ground.
Some kids were afraid of the dark. That’s why the schools he’d attended always kept nightlights on in the dormitories. But he liked the invisibility the dark provided. In the darkness no one made fun of his deformed body or asked the questions he’d heard a thousand times before. What happened to you? Does it hurt? Were you born that way? And many far worse.
Closing his eyes, he tried to relax. But it was hard to take his mind off the way other kids saw him. How they acted around him.
The truth was, he had no idea what had caused his deformities. Abandoned as a baby at the edge of a Greek Orthodox Monastery in the Sonoran Desert, he’d been taken for dead by the novice who found him while working in the citrus groves. His tiny body had been so badly crushed doctors gave him less than a five percent chance to live.
Elder Ephraim, the monastery’s abbot, had taken a special interest in the baby. Visiting Marcus often in the hospital, and later as he was moved from one home to another, Elder Ephraim tried to keep his spirits up and give him hope. The abbot said it was only through the faith and prayers of the monks that he’d survived at all and that made him God’s child—whatever that means. Marcus wasn’t too sure of that, but he had come to love the old man and respect his advice. He’d been heartsick at the abbot’s death three years earlier.
It was Elder Ephraim who’d given Marcus his name when the police were unable to discover his identity. Marcus, after Marcus Eugenicus, Bishop of Ephesus, and one of Elder Ephraim’s favorite theologians. Kanenas because it was the Greek word for nobody. The little nobody who had come from nowhere.
Unfortunately, the monks had no way to care for an infant, and even if they did, the state would never have allowed it. So he was transferred from one foster family to another. None of them could take the constant stress of caring for a child with Marcus’s disabilities for long, and eventually he was shuffled from one state-run boys’ school to another.
These days it wasn’t his disabilities that kept him on the move. He’d learned to cope as well as could be expected, and could do most things a normal boy could. Only he wasn’t normal. Sometime around the age of six, he’d discovered he had certain . . . abilities . . . that other children didn’t. Abilities like how he’d been able to sense Chet’s trap, and how he’d slipped out of the dormitory without the boys seeing him.
He tried to hide the things he could do—the things he could see. But eventually a day like today would come, when he was forced into revealing his differences. From that point on, the others would watch him more closely, ganging up on him until he was labeled a troublemaker and moved along to the next school.
How long would it be before Chet and his friends noticed Marcus’s differences? Tonight? In a few days? Weeks? Or had they already? It didn’t really matter, because eventually they’d force him to leave this school, just like all the others.
From outside in the hallway came the sound of boys’ laughter, and Marcus jerked forward. Was it Chet and his gang coming for him after all? The door was locked from the inside, but was it locked from the outside, too? He looked for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Even with his abilities, he was trapped. He didn’t even have anything to protect himself with.
Pressing his back against the wall, he waited for the sound of the door opening. But the boys outside moved down the hall, their laughter fading with them.
Stretching out on the cold floor, he closed his eyes again. Sometimes he tried to imagine what could have happened to force his parents to abandon him. Maybe there’d been a car accident and his mother had wandered deliriously for help, leaving him near the orange trees before she disappeared into the desert. Maybe a vicious kidnapper had stolen him from his parents. If his father had fought to protect him, that might explain the injuries. Anything to keep from having to accept that his parents had left him for dead.
What did it matter anyway? Whatever the reason, he was alone, and nothing would change that. There was no point in worrying about things he couldn’t control. That was another thing Elder Ephraim had told him.
As Marcus allowed his worries to slip away, a feeling of calmness came over him, and he let his mind wander. When he was depressed or scared, he liked to imagine a place far away where everything was green and alive, where fish could jump out of the water, sprout color-ful wings, and fly off into the sky. Where trees talked and animals told corny jokes. A place where people could do magic and nothing was impossible. He called this imaginary place Farworld. It was the perfect name for a world so far away from the hot, dry, lonely one he knew.
Sometimes he liked to imagine he had a friend there. A girl his age, with long, dark hair, emerald-green eyes, and skin that was a warm brown from spending so much time outdoors. She usually wore a green robe that matched her eyes, and some kind of necklace around her throat. He thought her name might be something like Kelly or Kristen.
He wasn’t sure why he imagined his friend as a girl. He certainly hadn’t spent much time around girls as he was shuffled from one
boys’ school to another. But a friend was a friend, and he didn’t have many of those. At least not real friends.
Lying in the dark room, his breathing slow and relaxed, Marcus imagined he and his friend were on the balcony of a tall white building that twisted gracefully into the sky. From this spot, he could see for miles in any direction. It was early morning, and the sun cast a pink glow on the snowcapped mountains to the east—at least he thought it was east. At the edge of town, a crystal river lapped playfully against its banks.
On the far side of the river, fields of tiny purple flowers waved to and fro, although Marcus could feel no breeze from where he sat, and the grass around the flowers wasn’t moving at all. He had the feeling the flowers were performing a dance of welcoming for the sun, and if he were only a little closer, he would hear them singing as well.
Past the meadow was a deep forest filled with trees like none he had ever seen. For one thing, they were at least as tall as the building he was standing on, and many were even taller. As tall as skyscrapers. Some of them actually disappeared into the thick, white clouds that seemed to remain in place above them. For another thing, their branches were constantly in motion, waving up and down like big, graceful fans. He had no idea why they would do such a thing, but it was lovely to watch.
He thought it would be the most wonderful thing in the world to sit below those slow-moving branches, breathing in the aroma of their needles and sap. He turned to ask the girl standing beside him if the trees smelled as good as he imagined, but she was gone. Swiveling his head left and right, he searched the balcony, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.
All at once, a feeling of icy dread wrapped itself around his heart like a steel glove. He turned back to the field and saw the flowers had all tucked their purple heads down to the ground. And beyond, the trees of the forest had wrapped their branches tightly around themselves. Their trunks seemed to strain away from the great building where Marcus stood, as though they yearned to rip their roots from the ground and flee, screaming in terror.
What could make something as strong and majestic as those trees afraid? he wondered.
Above the forest, the bank of clouds which had been white and puffy only moments earlier was roiling and thickening into a great, black fist. From his perch on the balcony, Marcus felt a cold wind whip across his face and heard a roar of thunder. Not like the thunder he was used to in Arizona. This sounded like the growl of an angry beast.
A cold rain slashed down from the sky, and Marcus realized he didn’t want to be in Farworld any longer. This had never happened to him before. Farworld had always been a place of protection—a place for him to leave all his cares behind. But now it felt like one of those haunted houses they put up at Halloween. He had the feeling something terrible and grotesque might pop out at any time.
Brilliant green lightning flashed just above his head, tearing open the sky. He tried to scream, but the frigid wind ripped the sound away. Whatever was happening here was terribly wrong, and all at once he knew if he didn’t run now he might never have the chance. He tried to free his mind from the dream, but he couldn’t seem to break away.
He turned to escape down the stairs and found a black-cloaked figure blocking his path. As the figure stepped toward him, icy-blue flames raced up and down the cloak like living fire. Marcus pressed himself against the wall of the balcony, holding his hands out before him.
“Stay away!” he wanted to shout, only his jaws felt locked in place.
The figure took another step closer and raised its arms. An unseen force lifted Marcus off the stone floor of the balcony. Looking down, he saw he was suspended in mid-air, the hard ground hundreds of feet below him.
He tried to convince himself this was only a dream, but his ice-cold body told him otherwise. “What do you want?” he cried, not sure if the words ever left his mouth.
Standing at the edge of the balcony, the dark figure slowly shook its head. A sudden gust of wind blew back the man’s hood, and Marcus found himself staring into the most evil face he’d ever seen. Piercing, silvery eyes stared out from above a sharp nose with a bump at the top like a tree knot. Thin, nearly-white lips snarled over perfect teeth. A thick rope-like scar curled from the base of his jaw to his right temple.
Without a word, the man dropped his arms, and Marcus plummeted toward the ground.
Marcus felt his head slam against the floor, and his eyes flew open. He was back in the school. Before he could shake off the effects of the dream, the door opened and light flooded into the room. Squinting his eyes, he saw Principal Teagarden standing in the doorway.
“Asleep?” the principal asked with a scornful look on his pallid face.
Marcus rubbed his eyes, still trying to get over the fright of his dream.
“Come here,” Principal Teagarden said, tugging the knot of his tie. “I want you to meet someone.” Teagarden glanced to his left, and Marcus realized the principal was nervous. He decided to stay where he was for the moment, pressed into the back corner of the room.
“Very well,” said the principal, coughing into his fist. “Then I guess he can come in and meet you.”
As the principal moved away from the door, someone else eased past him and peered into the room. For a moment, Marcus thought he must be imagining things—then his heart squeezed in his chest, and his throat tightened to the size of a soda straw.
Although the man was smiling, his lips still looked bloodless. His nose had the same bump at the top. But it was his eyes Marcus recognized best.
It was the man from his nightmare.
Chapter 6
Getting Down
from a Tree
Kyja woke to the feel of a rough tongue tickling the sole of her left foot.
“Wake up, sleepy head,” an exasperated voice called.
“What time is it?” She rolled over on her straw mattress, saw it was barely light out, and pulled her pillow over her face.
“You have to get up early today.” Something tugged at a strand of her long, dark hair.
“Stop that,” she groaned, waving a hand in the air above her head.
“Okay,” the voice called. “You asked for it.” All at once, a sharp beak closed on the tip of her big toe.
“Ouch!” Kyja shouted. She sat up to find a teal-blue, reptilian face staring at her from the foot of her bed. Pointed leathery ears wagged back and forth as a pair of bulbous, yellow eyes blinked owlishly.
“Let go, Riph Raph!” she shouted, trying to pull her foot away.
“’Ot until you ‘remise ‘o gee’ up,” the skyte said around a mouthful of foot. It wrapped its scaly tail about its glistening blue body and flapped its small wings.
“I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” Kyja pulled her foot again.
Riph Raph released her toe. “I said, not until you promise to get up.”
“Well, I’m up now.” Kyja wiped her foot on the edge of her blanket. “Skyte spit. Disgusting.”
“Not as disgusting as that toe,” Riph Raff said, belching out a fist-sized ball of blue fire. “What did you do, wade through pig manure yesterday? I’ve eaten dead rats that tasted better.”
“You should talk,” Kyja said, climbing out of bed and pulling a worn, dark green robe over her head, covering an ivory amulet that hung from a chain around her neck. “Have you gotten a whiff of your own breath lately?”
The small, dragon-like creature blinked and licked its foreleg. “I’m just saying you could afford to take a bath more than once a week.”
“I bathe every day.” Kyja looked at her reflection in the square metal mirror hanging from a plank on the wall, wrinkled her nose, and began running a brush through her tangled hair. Below her, in the main level of the barn that she called home, she heard the Goodnuffs’ cows and horses beginning to stir. They would be nice and warm with their thick coats of hair, but in the loft, she was freezing.
“I don’t know why you had to get me up so early,” she groused to the skyte, who wa
s happily sharpening his talons on the wooden floor. Mr. and Mrs. Goodnuff, the owners of the farm and the family that had taken her in, would still be in bed in their cozy little house across the dirt path, as would their son Timton.
Not that she held that against them. They’d been kind enough to take her in when she’d been found abandoned as a baby. They’d provided her with a place to live, food, and clothing for the last thirteen years. And they’d never once looked down on her or treated her badly because of her . . . differences.
Riph Raph flapped his stubby little wings and flew up onto the dresser. “If you want to miss your appointment with Master Therapass, that’s up to you. I just thought—”
“My appointment!” Kyja cried, dropping her brush. “I forgot all about seeing the wizard today. How could you let me forget?”
Skytes hate being interrupted above all else, and Riph Raph was no exception. Wiggling his pointed ears he let out a disgusted harrumph. “What do you think I’ve been trying to tell you about all morning? If you’d ever pay attention to a word I said, these kinds of things wouldn’t happen.”
“If you ever said anything worth listening to, I might pay attention,” Kyja said. She put on her slippers and raced across the room to the ladder that led down to the barn.
Reaching the barn floor, she hurried to where the oats were stored and began feeding the horses. Chance, a gray and white stallion, stomped his hoof to get her attention and shook his long mane.
“I’ve got a new one for you,” he said, in a deep voice.
“I don’t have time for jokes this morning,” Kyja said as she filled his feed bucket. “I’m supposed to meet Master Therapass for a magic lesson.”
“What did the veterinarian say to the shrinking cow?” the horse asked, over her protest.
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