Everton surprises me with a smile. “She doesn’t really like anyone, so don’t take it personally. She doesn’t have the best home life.” Then he takes off into the night. I follow. I want to mutter that Shelley Norman deserves a terrible home life, which is a bit dark, even for me. I’m curious, though. What does he mean?
We travel for a while in silence. We float soundlessly over the town, and like every other night, I’m drawn to the cornfields. As the houses thin beneath us, I slip a quick look at Everton. It’s obvious I’m taking us back to Mr. McGillies’s cabin. When we finally get close, Everton stops and looks quizzically at me.
“Is this your favourite place or something?”
“Sort of. I come here a lot, but you said it was dangerous.”
He looks at me slyly. “I said it’s dangerous for you, and you shouldn’t go alone. You’re not. You’re with me.” He’s not going to tell me more.
We reach the cornfields, and there’s Mr. McGillies’s cabin. The light is on in the window again. He’s still up, and it’s one thirty in the morning. Everton floats lazily behind me and catches up when I stop. I just can’t cross the field. I’m stuck as though I’m tethered from my ankle to the road.
“Why did you stop?” he asks. He flips onto his back and looks up at the deep velvety sky then grins over at me. It’s impossible to describe this feeling of being stuck, so I stay quiet. I look around for black feathers. I strain my ears for any whispering, but all is calm and silent. It’s so quiet that we can both hear the CREAK of the front door of the cabin as it opens. A figure steps out, and a small light bumps into the field.
A flashlight?
Everton draws up beside me and whispers, “Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious why your Watcher is out in the darkness at one thirty in the morning?” His breath tickles my ear. I am curious. I’m burning with curiosity, to be honest. Then the cabin door opens again, and another bouncing light heads for the open field. Two people out in the darkness?
The flashlights flicker up and down. In a second, Everton is over the field, floating toward the cabin, and I can’t stop him. I don’t want to be left behind either, so I have no choice. I have to fly over the cornfield.
I don’t look down. I don’t think about the feathered man. I don’t think about the Shade or The Monster Meets Her End, 1449. Instead I think about the girl being poked along by pitchforks, and her chin jutting up and out, looking straight at me.
I fly as fast as I can to catch up to Everton, but he keeps ahead of me without trying. We’re almost across the cornfield and closer to the cabin. The dark trees of the forest come nearer and nearer. I keep my eyes on the bouncing flashlights. Suddenly, voices.
Mr. McGillies. And … a boy.
Everton lands gently on the roof of the cabin and waves me over. I land as quietly as I can, although I’m still pretty loud. I creep across the roof and lie on my stomach beside him. We peek over the chimney …
… and see Mr. McGillies standing in the field.
Martin Evells is at his side.
What?
WHAT?
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. What earthly reason could bring Martin Evells here at this hour? The world does a flip for a second, and I have to grab the rooftop to steady myself. I suddenly worry I’m going to slip and fall. Everton watches the old man and the boy. I strain to listen.
“Here, Martin?” Mr. McGillies strobes his flashlight across the yard. Something shines out in the darkness as the light flickers over it: an enormous mountain of glass bottles. It must be the largest collection of bottles in the world. It reaches halfway up the cabin wall. But it’s possible, since Mr. McGillies has been collecting bottles for as long as I can remember. The effect of the flashlights shining on the bottles is magical. They glimmer and glint like fireflies where the light catches them. It looks like a mountain of treasure glinting in the darkness.
“Yes. Perfect, Mr. McGillies, right here, close to your back window so you can see it. We can start building it tomorrow,” Martin answers. Then he moves forward and takes Mr. McGillies by the arm.
“Come back inside,” Martin says. He’s as tender and caring as any mother with her child. I simply can’t fathom this. What is Martin doing here?
And why is he being so sweet to Mr. McGillies?
The two walk below us, and I can’t see Mr. McGillies very well, because he’s all stooped. But I see Martin’s face, and I’m struck by the intensity I see there. And the care. It feels wrong to be watching the two of them like this. I suddenly pray that Martin doesn’t look up and see me. They go back into the house, and Everton lifts off the roof.
“We should make the evening more exciting for them, don’t you think?” His eyes get wide, and I see what he’s going to do.
I launch myself at him, and he hits the roof with a thud, tiles digging into his spine.
“You are NOT going to scream like a rooster outside anyone’s window!”
Even I’m scared. This comes out of me in an unholy snarl. I don’t care. Everton grunts a little as I shove my knee deep into his stomach, and he wheezes.
“Gwendolyn, you do have a temper. A few people said so, but I didn’t believe them.” He gently pushes my knee off him and sits up. “Okay, I’ll leave your Watcher alone. Don’t worry.”
I’m about to snarl that he better, but the door flies open below us, and Mr. McGillies’s shaky old voice shouts into the darkness: “I hear you bumping around on my roof! Be off now, foul thing, you Rogue! There’s nothing for your feathers of fire here!”
I freeze.
Rogue? Feathers of fire?
Everton snaps to attention and sits upright. He puts his fingers to his lips in a shhh and looks quickly out to the darkness of fields and trees. I hear Martin tell Mr. McGillies to shut the door, and as soon as he does, Everton grabs my arm and we launch into the air at top speed. We zip back over the cornfield.
There’s something following us, something travelling as fast as we are.
“Everton, what’s behind us?” I shout.
“Don’t look back! Fly, Gwendolyn!”
I fly as fast as I can. There are more noises behind us, and I can’t help it. I have to know what’s going on. I twist my head, and there’s a creature hot on our heels.
Pure white feathers flash like the sun.
I gasp and close my eyes tight, then open them. There’s nothing behind us. We fly faster than I thought I could. We shriek into town and land on the library roof. Everton collapses onto the pebbles and tar, and I sit down hard beside him.
“What … what was chasing us?” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. I’m about to get even louder when a gentle voice arrives in my head.
Gwendolyn Golden, Everton Miles is protecting you. As am I.
Then I swear, a pure white creature lands gracefully on the library roof beside me. I can’t do anything but stare, even though I’ve seen this kind of creature before. I look from the shimmering figure to Everton. I’m astonished.
Everton says quietly, “Gwendolyn Golden, meet Celestine. My friend, the Spirit Flyer.”
Sixteen
I stare at Everton, although I do sneak a few peeks at the Spirit Flyer, the starshot immortal of light and air standing nearby. I try not to act too surprised. I’ve seen her kind before, and I shouldn’t gawk, but it’s hard not to. Here are the white feathers and the hint of gold I saw the last time Everton flew me home.
The Spirit Flyer is tall, taller than I remember from the Midsummer Party. She, for this Spirit Flyer certainly seems like a girl, and I think Celestine is a girl’s name, glows gently in the darkness, but she politely keeps her distance. Everton sits up.
“She’s helping me, Gwen.”
“Helping you? What are you doing?” Everton doesn’t answer, but Celestine’s Spirit Flyer voice arrives in my head.
We are seeking the
dark Rogue, Gwendolyn Golden.
Everton nods. “Didn’t you hear your Watcher? Be off, foul thing? Rogue? Feathers of fire? We thought the Rogue existed, but we weren’t sure.”
A horrible pain forms in the pit of my stomach.
“So there’s probably a Rogue around Mr. McGillies’s shack. A Rogue Spirit Flyer. I’ve wondered. I’ve been trying to track it, Celestine and I have been trying to lure it, but it’s slippery and smart. You probably don’t know what a Rogue is, though.” He looks at me and I squirm.
“I’ve seen it.”
Everton stares at me. “What?”
“I’ve seen it. The Rogue. It called my name from the corn. It left me a corn husk doll and a burning feather. That’s what I was looking at the first time you found me there.” I see a lot of things cross Everton’s face, disbelief, surprise, anger, concern, before he can compose himself and speak.
“You’re lucky, Gwendolyn. Stupid and lucky. You have no idea. If you’ve seen this Rogue, it didn’t want you dead. That’s the only possible reason you’re still alive.”
There is another possibility, Everton Miles.
A deep look of worry creases his forehead.
“What?” I demand. “What possibility? Tell me.”
“Nothing, it’s just a legend.”
“No, it’s not.”
Celestine isn’t going to say any more. Everton looks at me a long time. The silence makes me jittery. Then Everton lets out a long breath.
“I’d be really famous if I saw the Rogue. Celestine is the youngest of her kind. She’d gain respect among the other Spirit Flyers if she caught it and took it to her older brothers and sisters. They’re always searching for it. But we can’t get close to it.” He pauses. “It’s here for a reason, though. I think it’s here for you.”
I start to argue, but Celestine speaks in my head again.
Gwendolyn Golden, the Rogue has been solitary for centuries, roaming the dark isolation of space. It is lonely and seeks companionship. But you have accomplished something that we have not, for Everton Miles and I have not seen it. If you have, beware. Everton Miles may be correct. It may have chosen you.
“What? Why? Me? You’re wrong!” I’m scared now. Celestine shakes her golden head.
You must be careful, never solitary, Gwendolyn Golden. You are safe in the confines of your village, but you must call Everton and me to you when you travel alone.
“How do I call you?”
You think of me, and I shall come. Go safely, Gwendolyn Golden, until we meet again.
Then Celestine is gone in a gentle golden shimmer. I turn on Everton.
“How exactly did you join forces with a Spirit Flyer?” I must sound mad, because Everton looks worried.
“We were around Mr. McGillies’s cabin. A lot.”
“Why didn’t I see you there?” He shakes his head.
“Sorry, Gwendolyn, but you’re not very good at not being seen.”
Suddenly I’m exhausted, and I stumble on the library roof. Everton catches me and for a moment holds me tight.
“Are you okay, Gwen?” he whispers. I nod and pull away.
“I’m going home,” I say and float gently into the night. Everton sticks by my side all the way. I reach my house, open the window latch, and float into my room. He watches me settle on my bed.
“Gwendolyn, a Rogue doesn’t like people. Celestine said you’re okay in town, or with a friend out of town. But don’t go to Mr. McGillies’s cabin alone again. You have to promise me.” I nod and roll over in my bed.
“Goodnight, Everton,” I mumble.
You’d think it would take a person forever to fall asleep after a night like that, but it doesn’t. I tumble into weird dreams of a golden Spirit Flyer and a dark-feathered figure, both calling my name. And a charming, dark-haired boy who stands guard by my window all night long.
Everton Miles is a teenage Rogue-hunter with terrible taste in girls and a shimmering, underage Spirit Flyer for a friend.
If I didn’t think so before, I do now: it’s entirely possible that Everton Miles is stranger than me.
Seventeen
I wake with a start. I’ve overslept. Sunshine pours in the window, and I have a hard time picturing the events of last night.
Did I really see Martin Evells and Mr. McGillies at the cabin? Did Everton Miles really introduce me to a Spirit Flyer? Is it possible that some fallen, legendary creature is really looking for me?
None of it seems remotely real, and I realize in the interest of my sanity, I have to get outside and do something normal. So, today is the day I’ll hand my old paper route to the twins.
Before I do though, I take a quick look through the Night Flyer’s Handbook for anything about Spirit Flyers. Nothing. Not a word.
Curious.
When I tell C2 over lunch that today’s the day they start my paper route, they’re ridiculously excited. We trundle the old wagon around with Cassie’s leash tied to the handle, and I try not to keep looking up into the autumn sky for dark feathers. Instead I show my little brother and sister where to find the big bag of flat papers at the corner of our street, how to roll them and stack them into the wagon. Christine holds the list of addresses, and she marches us down the street like a sergeant major.
We get to the first house. Christopher is an amazing shot — he never misses. His sister tells him where to throw the first paper, and he parks it right there. At the first house, he bounces the paper off the door and onto the welcome mat. Then we go to the next house, and the paper lands on the rocking chair. Then at the next house, it startles the sleeping cat on the top stair. C2 are going to love delivering papers, and the neighbourhood cats will never be the same.
I’m a lot less determined and a much worse shot than my little brother.
On any other day, a day when a legendary and probably mythical fallen creature isn’t leaving me burning feathers that will destroy me if I touch them, I’d enjoy watching C2. But not today. Everything is darker, the world is harder, scarier, the edge of town less inviting but more urgent than ever before.
If this is growing up, I’d like to avoid it. I really would.
Christine and Christopher deliver the papers, and I trail around behind them like any normal, paranoid, self-absorbed teenager. Do we all think we’re being chased by deadly entities, I wonder?
Probably, but how many of us actually are?
Then Mom takes them out to the mall to buy some last minute back-to-school stuff, and I can’t be alone another second, so I call Jez but she’s not home. I can’t stay alone, so I wander over to the library and spend the afternoon with a book that’s been on my “to be read” list for a while: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
I can’t put it down, and when the library closes, I sign it out and take it with me. On the way home, I try not to look everywhere for burning feathers or strain to hear my name on the wind. I can’t wait to get into my room and follow Huck downriver. I read all night, and I have to say, that boy Huck and his friend Jim have some strange adventures. Almost as strange as mine.
On Monday morning as I head to school, Mom stops me.
“I’m picking you up at school, out front, 3:35.” I do a mental check. I don’t have a doctor or dentist appointment for months. We’ve already bought everything I need for school.
“Why?” My mother looks uncomfortable. C2 race past us and out the front door to wait in the car. She watches them go.
“Mrs. Abernathy got us in to see Dr. Adam Parks really quickly. We start family therapy today.” My stomach drops. I’m about to wail WHAT? WHY DO I HAVE TO GO? but my mother puts her hand up before I can say it.
“Don’t argue, Gwen. It’s family therapy. The doctor is expecting everyone to go the first time.”
My whole body sinks.
I get through the day somehow. There�
�s no gym class, so no Shelley Norman, and no science class, so no Martin Evells. I’m starting to get the hang of the rest of my classes, English, French, math, civics (which was mainly about salt and garbage in middle school and doesn’t seem any better in grade nine), geography. I also don’t see Everton anywhere, which is just as well because I can’t imagine what I’d say to him.
In pottery class I stare at my “creation,” which is another blob of unformed clay. Jez nicely helps me “create” an ashtray because clearly I can’t do anything myself. I keep dropping the clay on the floor. When she asks me what’s wrong all I can say is, “Family therapy today.” Which is really only half the problem, but Jez doesn’t know about the other half.
At the end of the day, I slouch across the high school lawn and hope no one sees me get into my mother’s ancient car that roars and belches black smoke like the comedy car in a bad movie. I open the door, and my brother and sister shriek at me from the back seat. Together again, AND off school a little early on a Monday. What could be more exciting?
We drive downtown to the private health clinic that none of us has ever used, but then none of us has ever had therapy before. Not even after Dad died, I suddenly realize. No one thought of it.
My mother herds C2 into the waiting room and gets them signed up with the nice receptionist at the desk. The waiting room is filled with quiet little kids and their mothers, a few fathers too. There is no one even remotely close to my age here. I hang out by the door ready to bolt, my library copy of Huckleberry Finn clutched against me. I can hide behind a book, can’t I?
My mother drags me over to a hard plastic waiting-room seat. I’m silent. I said everything I had to say in the car. Loudly.
Still, there is just no reason for me to be here. I open my book and read as stonily as I can. My brother and sister have commandeered the toy box and are loudly building an army of blocks across the floor. They’re annoying everyone in the waiting room, and I think, Good, everyone will see how normal they are and we can leave. I have bigger problems, like, WAY bigger problems than my little brother and sister.
Everton Miles Is Stranger Than Me Page 5
