by Tad Williams
Feed bills. Equipment bills. A postcard for the brats from their mother, and a couple of letters from a lawyer-Colin didn’t recognize the name, although this was by no means the first time he’d snooped in Gideon’s correspon dence. More bills. Assessor’s office-that would be taxes. Lots of money going out as usual, but nothing coming in. No wonder Gideon was always half crazy with stress and worry. Ah, but what was this? Colin’s heart beat faster as he recognized the gray envelope. He had been waiting, hoping, for one of these.
He cocked his head and listened to make sure nobody was coming, then lifted up the letter. The return address in the corner confirmed what he’d suspected: Jude Modesto Antiquities, Santa Barbara, California. It was from the antiques dealer, the one Gideon was always so secretive about, although Colin had figured out their arrangement long ago. But far more important to him was the information inside-including the man’s email address.
Colin’s mother and Caesar were still upstairs. The cook, Sarah, and her helpers would be here very soon to begin preparing dinner. At best, he had mere minutes. Colin slipped the gray envelope inside his sweater and hurried into the empty kitchen and straight toward the kettle.
Steam coaxed the sealed envelope to open as neatly as one of the pale flowers in Colin’s mother’s garden spreading its petals to the spring sunshine. He slipped out the letter and read it quickly:
Dear Gideon,
Of course I’d be delighted to meet with you-I always enjoy your company and sharing in the miracle of your wonderful collection. In fact, I have a new buyer who is very interested in just the sort of items with which you’ve favored my little enterprise in the past. He will be thrilled if I am able to offer him more “genuine Goldrings.” Of course, I call them that only to myself-I have kept your injunction to secrecy quite faithfully, I assure you…
The letter went on like that for a few more paragraphs, full of all the slimy politeness that grown-ups used when they were pretending they wanted something other than simply to make money. When Colin grew up he wasn’t going to be such a hypocrite. When he wanted something he’d say so. When he didn’t like someone-the way he already didn’t like Tyler Jenkins-he wouldn’t bother to hide it.
Of course, he would have to be in charge. You only got to make the rules and do what you wanted when you were in charge. His mother had taught him that from the first moments he could remember.
Colin memorized the email address in Jude Modesto’s personalized letterhead and sealed the letter back up, then made his stealthy way back out to the lobby. He had dropped the letter back onto the tray only a few moments before his mother reappeared, brushing straight black hair away from her pale forehead.
“This foolish plan of Gideon’s is going to cause us all a great deal of grief,” she said, then suddenly seemed to see her son properly for the first time since she had walked into the room. “What are you doing, Colin? Are you loitering?”
“I’m going to our rooms, Mother.” He was desperate to get to the computer before he forgot the email address. “I just need to make a note for later on. But I’ll be right down after that, if you need any help at dinner.”
She looked hard at him for a moment. “Very well. But don’t dillydally. I’m not in the mood to be crossed this evening.”
A little shiver ran up his back. “I’ll be right back.”
Suddenly she smiled broadly, so that if Colin hadn’t been able to see the rest of her distracted, chilly face, he would have felt quite warm and loved. “That’s my good boy. That’s a boy who knows how to behave toward his mother.” She leaned forward as if to kiss his cheek, but stopped half a foot short, her dark lips smacking the air, then she turned and walked out of the lobby, pulling out her keychain so she could begin locking up.
Colin scuttled to the office in their rooms, and his own computer there-the one with all the security software, so that neither his mother, Gideon, nor anyone else at all could find out what he did. He quickly composed a letter to Modesto.
Please forgive my contacting you this way. I am a business associate of Gideon Goldring and I have certain things that will interest you, both information and an actual rare object. I know you are very interested in Mr. Goldring’s collection. If you would like to learn much more than you have so far been told, I require only two things: a meeting with you and absolute secrecy.
When you make your next appointment with Gideon, send me a message at this address to let me know where and when it will be, and I will arrange to meet you there beforehand so we can discuss things of great mutual interest. However, if you breathe a word to Mr. Goldring or anyone else about our arrangement, you will never hear from me again.
Signed, X
Colin knew the note was probably a little melodramatic, but he still thought it sounded grown-up and serious enough to keep the man interested. He already had what he thought of as the “bait”-an object that would surely provoke Modesto’s interest. He had been saving it specially… Now all he had to figure out was how to deliver the actual prize. He had been thinking about the problem for weeks, but this next bit could be more than disastrous if it went wrong-it could be fatal.
The best way, of course, would be to get someone else to do it
…
Weighing different strategies, Colin sent the email and made his way back to the kitchen. To his pleasure, his mother told him she had confined those brats to their rooms for the rest of the night, and had sent Caesar up with a tray of food and to stand over them till early morning, doing guard duty. Colin grinned to himself-that punished all three of them. For the rest of the evening, he meekly did everything she asked, and afterward she even patted him on the shoulder. Colin didn’t like that. Only a little kid neded to be patted and reassured by his mother. He was stronger than that. That’s why he was going places in this world.
Still, it took him a while to get to sleep that night, and he was troubled by dreams of angry, vengeful monsters.
Morning, and his mother’s rap on the door sounded like a gunshot.
“Get up, Colin, it’s almost six already. Go and get those children and bring them down to breakfast. Now, please.”
“But I want to have a shower-”
“Now.”
He got up, already in a bad mood. Barely dawn and the unwanted strangers were causing trouble for him already. He hated to start the day, especially what was going to be a hot summer day, without a shower. By the middle of the afternoon he would feel like things were growing on his sticky skin, like the clinging plants that had filled and choked off the farm’s unused greenhouse.
He pounded hard on Tyler Jenkins’s door to wake him up. When the boy had gone grumbling off to the bathroom, his eyes half shut, Colin knocked a little less roughly on Lucinda’s. She opened it wearing only a long T-shirt, the skin of her legs almost as pale as his mother’s. That wouldn’t last long, not in Ordinary Farm’s relentless summer sun.
“It’s time to come down to breakfast,” he told her. “It’s going to be a long day so you need a good start.” He felt stupid saying it, like one of those commercials for breakfast cereal, but he couldn’t help feeling bad about dragging her out of bed. She looked tired and fretful.
Of course, she had just met Meseret only a few hours before. He couldn’t guess what that must be like for an outsider.
“Oh, thanks, Colin,” she said. “I’ll be out in just a minute.”
She closed the door. She’d actually thanked him. Quite different from her brother, who emerged from the bathroom at that moment, the toilet still gurgling. “What are you staring at?” Tyler demanded.
“Not you, I promise.”
“Can we see the dragon again?”
“It’s not for me to say.”
“Look, just tell me how it got here, then.”
“I told you, it’s not for me to say.” Colin sighed. Children. “When you’re both ready I’ll meet you at the top of the stairs down the hall and take you down to the dining room.” He walked away, keepin
g his back as straight as he could. He’d show these urchins how to look dignified. If there was one thing his mother had made sure of, it was that Colin had good posture. He ignored the snorting noise Tyler made behind him. The boy was almost a savage, after all.
Ten minutes later, still ignoring Tyler’s endless questions, Colin led the Jenkins children into the kitchen, where he introduced them to the women preparing breakfast-red-cheeked Sarah, blonde, round, and bustlingly warm; tall, superior Azinza from West Africa; and the little, solemn-faced Tibetan girl, Pema. None of the young women liked him very much, Colin knew, but they all feared his mother, which kept them polite. Once names had been exchanged, he pulled the Jenkins children out of the kitchen and led them onward into the dining room with its long tables. Most of the farmhands were there already, and they turned to gaze with curiosity at the new arrivals.
Colin led Lucinda and Tyler to the serving table. The spread was a good one this morning: eggs of every kind, bacon, sausages, ham, hash brown potatoes, a platter of fried mushrooms and tomatoes (which Tyler Jenkins was careful to avoid, although he seemed to have taken more than a little of everything else), waffles, pancakes, and at least five or six different kinds of muffins. When they had loaded their plates, Colin looked around. The only empty space big enough for all three of them was next to Ragnar, so he reluctantly led them over.
The big blond-bearded man grinned and reached out to shake hands with the children. Their hands disappeared into his massive grasp like pink baby mice being swallowed whole by a python. “Greetings to you both.” Ragnar turned a less friendly look on Colin. “And to you, young Needle.”
“Where did that dragon come from?” Tyler demanded.
“That is Gideon’s story to tell, not mine,” Ragnar said.
“Do you all live here on the farm?” Lucinda asked. More farmhands were coming in now, although all but the kitchen workers were men.
“Gideon has generously given us homes, all us refugees,” Ragnar explained. Colin tensed, afraid the man might say too much-Ragnar was far too full of himself-but the Scandinavian giant only turned to Mr. Walkwell, sitting at a nearby table. “Isn’t that right, Simos?”
The farm’s overseer looked sour. “You children, get on with the eating” was all he said. “It is a long day ahead.”
“Ick, Tyler-you’ve got enough syrup on your plate to float an ocean liner,” Lucinda complained. Her brother ignored her and began to eat. Colin Needle realized that he was hungry too. Then, just as he bent to his plate, a cool hand closed on his shoulder.
“Ah, there you all are,” his mother said.
It was always the same feeling Colin’s mother brought to him, part excitement, part worry. Had he made a mistake of some kind? He had done just what she’d asked, hadn’t he?
“Do you mind if I join you?” she asked the two guests. “I’m look forward to getting to know you both.” She turned her smile on her son. “Have you been showing our guests around?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“He’s been very helpful, Mrs. Needle,” said Lucinda.
Colin suddenly decided that for an unwanted guest, the Jenkins girl was not so bad. “Can I get you anything, Mother?”
“Just some fruit and yogurt, dear, thank you.”
By the time Colin came back she was doing her best to charm the Jenkins children, and her best could be quite impressive. Tyler did not look entirely convinced, but Lucinda seemed taken with his mother’s accent, her careful, clever way of talking, and her occasional bright smiles. Colin found himself proud of his mother, proud that he was her son-that she had chosen to have him. Who needed a father, or even to know who his father had been? His mother could be difficult, it was true, but that was because she was special. A sort of genius. That was one of the reasons Colin felt so drawn to Octavio Tinker, the founder of Ordinary Farm. Genius had its own rules. Genius had to get its own way.
“You know, Lucinda,” his mother was saying, “you have such a charming face…” She reached out her long fingers toward the girl. “You should cut your hair shorter to show it off.”
A little startled, Lucinda leaned back suddenly and lifted her arm, knocking over a basket full of muffins that had been set down on the table beside her. The basket bounced and the muffins leaped out, rolling across the floor. The little dark-haired farmhand, Haneb, who had been passing behind her, danced back with a cry of surprise and almost dropped his breakfast plate. Even as he did so, though, Haneb struggled to keep the left side of his face turned away, and tried to shield it with a free hand, but this only ensured that some of the food slid from his plate and fell to the floor amid the now free-ranging muffins.
“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Lucinda as she jumped up. She began gathering muffins into the basket, and as she did so stuck out a hand toward Haneb. “I’m really sorry. Hi, I’m Lucinda and I’m a clumsy idiot, obviously.” Suddenly she gave a horrified gasp and straightened up, stumbling back from the dark-haired man as though she had been struck.
Haneb stared at her for a moment, both eyes wide and the good one blinking. The left half of his face was a mass of scars, the skin melted like candle wax, the eye pulled half shut. Colin had often thought that if the man had any concern for the feelings of others, he would wear a mask like the Phantom of the Opera. Especially when people were eating.
Haneb ducked his head and, without picking up any more of his breakfast, scuttled away toward Mr. Walkwell’s table. Once seated, he began to eat quickly without looking up.
Tyler hissed at her. “Jeez, Lucinda, treat that guy like Frankenstein much?”
She stared at him, embarrassed but also angry. “It surprised me, that’s all.” She turned to Colin. “Poor guy! What happened to him?”
“Burned.” Were these children going to blunder and crash through every little private matter on the farm? If so, it was going to be a very long summer.
“Whoa,” said Tyler, interested for the first time. “Really? What burned him?”
A shadow fell over them-a large shadow. “Come along, you young ones,” Ragnar said. “The sun is almost at noon!”
Tyler looked at his watch. “It isn’t even six thirty yet!”
“On a farm that is the middle of the day,” Ragnar said cheerfully.
“Has anyone decided what chores these children are going to do?” Colin asked. He had a sudden horror that Gideon was going to expect him to entertain these barbarians, to play with them or some other impossibly childish idea.
“Work?” Tyler blinked. “Can’t we see the dragon again? What was her name?”
Ragnar grinned. “Meseret. You like dragons, do you? Then you have never met one on a windy mountainside with nothing but an ax in your hand.” He laughed. “I do not think you will see more of the great she-worm today-she has been ill. But there are other things worth doing… and seeing. I have good news for you, young Master Tyler. There shall be no work for you today.”
“What?” said Colin. “But everyone has to work!”
“Not today,” said Ragnar firmly. “Gideon has decided that the safest thing is for the children to be taken on a tour of the farm, the better to stop any more unfortunate explorations.”
Colin’s mouth fell open. Could anything be more unfair? “But… ”
“As for you, young Master Needle, Mr. Walkwell asks me to remind you he needs his feed budget, and will you please work with your mother to get it to him by the end of the day.”
So the children would get a tour of the farm while he was stuck with bookkeeping? “Really?” Colin asked miserably. “Today?”
“Today.” Ragnar laid a big hand on Colin’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make his point. “You know Mr. Walkwell does not joke.” He turned to Lucinda and Tyler. “No more wasting time,” he said. “Let us go.”
“Bye, Colin,” said Lucinda.
Her brother grinned at Colin. “Yeah. Enjoy yourself.”
The three of them walked away. Simos Walkwell and the farmhands filed o
ut to their various jobs. His mother went off with the kitchen workers to supervise the making of the week’s shopping list. Colin Needle was left alone with his oatmeal.
It had gone cold.
Chapter 7
A Cloud of Horns
M r. Walkwell sat waiting for them in front of the house. He had hitched two horses to the ancient wagon this time, the brown mare that had brought them back from the train station and a spotted gray, perhaps to help with the extra weight of a rusty old two-wheeled trailer piled with feed sacks that had been attached to the back of the wagon. The whole thing had the look of a small and not very exciting parade.
Haneb, the slender man with the scarred face, sat in the wagon, staring down at his feet. Three other farmhands sat with him among the feed sacks, short, squat, tan-skinned men who looked as if they might be Asian. They touched the brims of their odd hats and smiled shyly at the children.
“It’s the Three Amigos,” Tyler said quietly to Lucinda, but she either didn’t remember the movie or didn’t think it was funny enough to laugh.
Mr. Walkwell didn’t say a word as the children and Ragnar climbed on. When they were settled atop the feed sacks he clicked his tongue and the horses started around the driveway, wagon wheels scrunching through the hard-packed gravel. He was no more talkative when Tyler asked questions about the previous night, the dragon, or the day’s itinerary.
“Simos could beat standing stones in a staring contest,” said Ragnar, smiling. “You’re wasting your time, boy!”
They drove for almost a quarter of an hour across the farm to their first stop, which surprised Tyler: he would have guessed all the animals would be close to the house. When they had reached the base of the hills and the house was almost out of sight behind them, they came to a halt at a chained gate. On the gate’s far side a trail led away down the straw-colored hill.
