by Ben Zackheim
Four towers, one on each corner of a huge stone building, loomed over everything. They cut a shape in the dark sky like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The walls were dotted with tall windows, several of which shone a dull orange glow. Smoke billowed from four chimneys.
“He lives in a castle,” Simon said, flatly.
“Yes, you do,” Hector said with a wink. “Falcon Castle.”
A security spotlight shot onto the car, as bright as the noon sun. Simon blinked. Hector calmly put on some sunglasses and got out to fetch Simon’s bag.
Welcome home.
Simon wanted the introduction to go well. His plan was to talk about the weird plane ride, and then move on to what his uncle liked to do in his free time. He pressed down on his messy hair to straighten it out. He tucked in his wrinkly shirt and stood up straight, like his mom would want him to.
Simon took a deep breath and followed the driver inside. The castle doors were made of wood, two feet thick, with black iron hinges. They groaned and slammed shut behind him, on their own weight, with the drama of a church bell.
As the clang echoed across the walls and ebbed to silence Simon grasped how big his new home was. They stood in an entry hall five stories high. Each floor’s railed balconies wrapped around them, glowing dimly in the sparse light. Large statues - Greek, Roman, Egyptian - lined the marble floor like a stone army.
Anyone who lives in a place this big has some serious secrets, Simon thought.
Straight ahead, a hundred feet away, another large set of doors opened and a small, middle-aged man emerged from the darkness. As he shuffled closer, Simon saw that he wore a red robe with a velvet scarf, and carried an unlit pipe in his hand. He had wild black hair and his small eyes bored through everything. Simon didn’t expect a kind greeting from a man who looked like that, and his instincts were right.
“You’re like a small Thadeus with a bad haircut,” the man said. It was true — Simon was a copy of his dad. But it wasn’t a very kind thing to say and wasn’t said in a very nice way.
“Hello. I’m Simon.” They stood about twenty feet apart, so Simon didn’t bother to reach out his hand.
“I know who you are. You think I would invite just anyone to my home? Blood has to look out for blood. It’s in the bones.”
Simon wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he got the gist.
“Thanks for…”
A couple of large men entered from yet another set of doors. They hauled a small table with a full tea set on top. The porcelain clanked around but not a drop of tea spilled. They lay the table between Simon and Victor, yanked out a couple of folding chairs from beneath the tablecloth, snapped them open, and left the room as quickly as they’d entered.
“I’ll leave you two to enjoy yerselves,” Hector said, and went back out through the front doors. Enjoy themselves? Simon felt like running back to the airport. He watched the driver leave. When he turned back Victor was sitting in one of the folding chairs, hands folded on the tabletop, staring.
Simon sat.
“So…” Simon said. But Victor only gave him the evil eye. Simon got the distinct sense that he was supposed to say something. He couldn’t recall any of the topics that he’d planned to bring up. “Big place.”
“Bad haircut. But strong teeth. That’s good. Your father had awful teeth. Horrid. I used to call him Jaws. Where did you get the black eye?” Victor asked curtly.
“Guy named Brad,” Simon muttered.
“You hit back?”
“No. But I ducked well.”
“Thadeus was a fine brother, but an insufficient man.”
Simon was so surprised by his uncle’s bluntness that he didn’t have the clarity of mind to be offended. After a moment, he was about to respond, but Victor didn’t let him.
“He left his only son to fend for himself while he ran off to chase the ghosts of people who never even existed.”
“He probably had his reasons,” Simon said, which was being charitable.
“If those reasons are madness and naiveté, yes. Tell me, Simon, do you miss your parents?”
“Of course I miss them. They were my parents.”
Simon was getting angry now. Who was this guy to ask such personal questions? He didn’t know Simon from a random kid on the street. What gave him the right?
“I didn’t miss my parents when they died,” Victor said. “Don’t give me that face. I’m asking for an honest answer, Simon Sharp, not something you’d tell an adult to get him off your case.”
“Yes. I miss them every day.”
“I see. Doesn’t the memory of them get in the way of reaching your dreams?”
“What dreams?”
“Come now. You must have dreams. You must want to be the best there is at something.” Victor took a sip of his tea. He shoved some cookies across the table.
Simon used to have dreams about being an astronaut one day. That dream transformed into a burning desire to be an inventor. But all of that was before his folks died. Since then he’d spent a lot of time trying to escape the future. It didn’t seem to have much for him. But from the stare his uncle was giving him, he sensed it best not to say as much.
“I want a family,” was what Simon could muster.
Victor almost smiled until he realized Simon was serious. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Disappointing,” he said. Simon glared back, but it didn’t have much effect on his uncle as far as he could tell. Victor stood and shuffled back to the door he’d entered through. He raised his voice so it filled the chamber. “As I said in the letter, I will give you room and board. I will also give you your education. Let’s hope you use it wisely, and not for chasing your parents’ silly dreams.”
Hector appeared behind Simon, surprising him.
“Show him his rooms, Hector! One rule, Simon. Don’t open closed doors.”
And with that Victor disappeared into the darkness.
“Is he always that way?” Simon asked.
“Always what way?” Hector answered. “You can move around as you please in the main area. But don’t open any doors except to your rooms. That’s the rule, plain and simple. Even I have to follow it, hard as it is sometimes.”
“I can manage that,” Simon said. Of course, he couldn’t even get close to managing that. He would try, but he’d only last a day before the curiosity would win out.
The chauffeur led him into a large bedroom on the second floor with a big bed and a library of books. French doors led from the room into a private den, where a raging fire warmed everything within fifty feet.
“These are yer quarters. Plenty to keep you occupied,” Hector said, as he gestured to the books. “Lots to keep yer mind off of all those closed doors, too.”
Hector turned to go.
“Will I see you again?” Simon asked. He was already feeling lonely.
“Sure. Whenever you need a ride.”
“Uh, okay, great.”
Hector was halfway out the door when he leaned back in. “Follow the rule and you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Hector.”
“Sleep well.”
The door clicked shut. Simon wondered if he’d ever sleep well again.
7
The morning’s light burned Simon’s dreams from his memory as if they were mist, which was probably for the best. He needed a break from the terrifying images.
He wiped the sand from his eyes and noticed a school uniform draped over the chair next to his bed. He could tell it was a school uniform by the stiffness of the line and the logo on the chest: a dragon with a curlicue tail, wrapped around a sword.
He was in the United Kingdom all right. His dad was fond of saying that its people clung to heritage, but only understood it well enough to make bad movies about really old wars. At its core, the United Kingdom was dying, drowning in tabloids and corruption. Or so his father had said.
And, as if to prove his father’s point, on that first morning in his uncle’s house, there was a hot breakfast on
a tray and a rolled up London Sun newspaper with the headline...
Simon munched on a roll as he searched the room for his own clothes. He couldn’t find them anywhere. So, with no other choice, he put on the uniform. Was that intentional? Had his uncle hidden his bag so he’d be forced to wear the horrid costume?
Simon checked under his pillow where he’d stowed the vambrace. It was still there. He ran his fingers over the smooth metal. It comforted him in a way that he didn’t understand. But he’d take all the comfort he could scrounge together. He’d even bring it to school if he could, but he figured showing up with armor on his first day might be like putting a Kick Me sign on his back.
He stuffed the vambrace back under the pillow.
Simon opened the bedroom door and peeked out. The castle was so quiet it made him nervous. He got to the banister and was again awed by the fantastic room below. How he was going to get through his days without exploring Falcon Castle, he didn’t know. Simon’s mom would have said, “Uncle Victor better have an expensive security system with our son around.”
Unfortunately, Uncle Victor did.
Simon passed a couple of elaborately carved doors. What could be in that room? Maybe his suitcase? He turned the knob, expecting it to be locked, but the door opened.
He peeked in and tried to make sense of what he saw. Everything was dimly lit by sunlight from high, dusty windows. Rows of shelves ten feet high disappeared into the darkest parts of the space. He couldn’t make out what was on them, but he did spot a pile of spears in a sliver of sun.
Then a loud bark made him stumble back out of the room. Simon couldn’t see it clearly, but it sounded like a guard dog chained up near the spears. The bark got another dog barking in another room, and another, and another, until the whole mansion was filled with a sound like a huge beast roaring in a cave.
Simon covered his ears and tried to think of a place to run. But the sound was everywhere.
“SOCHD!”
The barking stopped. Simon peeked over the edge of the banister and saw his uncle standing in the middle of the room, his arms raised. It was hard to tell from this distance, but Simon sensed he was being glared at through those bushy black eyebrows.
“Hi, Uncle,” Simon said. But his meek voice was lost somewhere around a statue of two Greek wrestlers.
“I thought I made it clear that the closed rooms are off limits!”
“I was looking for my bag.”
“What? Speak up boy!”
“I was looking for my bag!”
“You were looking for trouble, more like it. Now get moving or you’ll be late for school.”
The walk down the stairs was a long one. His uncle watched his every step. Not the best way to start his stay. But what was he supposed to do? There were hundreds of doors in the place. All closed. It was human nature to be curious.
Victor waited for him in the middle of the hall, frowning.
“Perhaps you think it’s human nature to be curious,” Victor said. Simon worried he could read his mind. “But let me assure you, young man, that curiosity has killed cats and people around here. Not every door leads to something familiar in this house. I say again: if the door is closed, keep it that way!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now. I’ve arranged for you to attend one of the best schools in Scotland. Graham Academy. It’s where I went and every Sharp before me, except your father, for six generations. It’s sufficient for you and your talents, trust me.”
“Do I have to wear this costume?”
“That is not a costume! It’s a uniform! Don’t let the faculty hear you say otherwise or this will be both your first and last day.”
Simon hated the school already.
DURING THE DRIVE with Hector, Simon dwelled on what his uncle had said about the closed doors. What could be so dangerous? Besides the dogs, that is. What were they protecting?
Even with all the excitement of the morning, Simon still felt lonely more than anything else. He let his mind wander back to what his life had been like before his parents died. For some reason, he fixated on the Chinese food they usually ordered for dinner. They’d eat as a family, mostly at Simon’s insistence, and talk about their days. The conversation was usually one-third school and two-thirds King Arthur, but at least they were all talking. Once the paper plates were thrown in the trash it was right back to the Arthur work. At that moment, Simon missed it all terribly.
Simon’s attention turned to Hector. The driver was cool and friendly, but the silence was a clear sign that he didn’t want to be friends.
“Graham Academy,” Hector said as he steered the car into a parking lot. Simon blinked his way out of a trance and saw a big block of a building outside his window. It was a squat redbrick fortress with small windows that looked out on a tidy but pale green lawn. Chilly, windblown students were huddled together in cliques, ramping up the gossip machine for the day. A white flag with an image of a dragon whipped around atop a flag-pole. It could have been any school, anywhere.
“Can you, uh, show me around town instead, Hector?”
“No can do, Mr. Sharp. Yer uncle would have my head.”
Simon got out of the car cautiously. Some students turned to check him out. They pointed and chuckled. Hector gestured for Simon to adjust his collar, which had ridden up to his ear. Embarrassed, Simon fixed it, ducked his head, and walked through the wall of ridicule.
The inside of the school was a lot like the outside. The fluorescent lights cast a green pall over the white walls. A main hallway intersected with a half-dozen smaller ones. A bulletin board with neatly pinned sheets of paper announced “Announcements” in gray cutout letters.
“You must be the new boy.” The voice shot from behind him, laced with disdain. The owner wasn’t an old lady but she held herself like one, peering down at him. Her white hair was pulled back into a tight knot. Her bifocals glittered, perfectly shiny, and her disapproving frown went right through his gut.
Simon checked his collar and cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“I think so.”
Some nearby students chuckled and the teacher shut them up with her glare.
“I’m Mrs. George. You’re late, Mr. Sharp. Every student is to be here fifteen minutes before the first bell. We work on time around here.” And as if on cue the bell rang and the students filed into lines and walked to their classrooms. Before he knew it, Simon was alone with Mrs. George in the vast entry hall. “Follow me,” she finished.
Simon stayed a few paces behind. He figured she was the kind of person who would like that sort of thing. They ended up at a classroom where the session had already begun. The door opened into the front of the class, so everyone stared at him when he entered.
“Class, this is Simon Sharp, from America. He’s been placed here by Victor Sharp, his guardian, since his parents are dead.”
Some students looked at Simon as if they were horrified and others whispered. One boy, a big specimen with pale skin and beet-red hair, even laughed from the back row. Simon’s eyes locked on his and neither broke the stare until Simon was guided to a desk by Mrs. George. Of course the desk was near the front of the room, so he could feel everyone staring at the back of his head.
The class started up again as if his introduction had never even happened. He didn’t listen to the teacher, whose voice droned on and on about some war somewhere. He was too distracted by what Mrs. George had done to him. Why did she have to tell the whole class that his parents were dead? Why were adults so stupid sometimes?
He was afraid that gossip would make him a target in school.
He was right.
8
After class ended, the students dispersed to their whispering huddles. Now that everyone had something to talk about, they had a grand old time using Simon as a conversation piece.
But no one approached him. No one tried to get gory details or find out anything at all about h
im. For all intents and purposes, he was there to be talked about, not to talk to.
During lunch in the fluorescent, cavernous cafeteria, he studied his daily schedule. Next up was British history. It was a long class, too. Three hours.
He felt something hit the side of his head. A long, curly orange skin, perfectly peeled, dropped onto his lap. The room filled with laughter. He threw the carcass on the ground and picked up his tray.
“Hey! You dropped your trash!” someone called out. A large, pale-faced kid with red hair was pointing at him. It was the same kid he had locked eyes with in the classroom. The room fell silent as everyone waited for what would happen next. Even the cafeteria staff was watching.
To widespread disappointment, Simon picked up the peel and put it on his tray. Most kids went back to their conversation when they realized there wouldn’t be a fight. The bully shook his head and gave some buddies high fives.
To make things worse, Simon couldn’t find the room for his next class. Sure, the school appeared to be a big block on the outside, but inside it was another matter. The halls were like a maze. If Simon had to guess, he’d say the architect hated kids and built the place to make their lives miserable. Halls wrapped around on themselves, forked in three directions and dead-ended. Some double doors even had one door go to a room different from the other door. It made Simon’s head hurt.
Since his very presence cleared a wide path through the students, he looked for a teacher for help. But the halls were emptying quickly. Great. He was going to be late again.
“Which class do you need?”
A pretty girl with strawberry blond hair and big green eyes stood next to Simon. She was two inches taller, at least, but about his age. He dropped his books and tried to muster a smile. She bent down to help
“British history,” he managed.
“That’s my class. It’s right over here.”
“Thanks. I’m Simon.”
