by J. L. Powers
I’m struck by the absence of noise as we step off the train and onto the platform: the usual hubbub of cars, the random guy playing a guitar, the horn in the train tunnels. And yet a strange sound, a sort of deep chirping, lingers in the air.
“I love the sound of frogs and the wind in the trees,” Aileen comments.
Until she says this, I didn’t know what it was. I like it too. It’s comforting. As though assassins wouldn’t possibly attack when frogs are singing in the trees. Obviously, they only do that to the tense vibrato of violins and rumble of the timpani in the background.
“So before we join everybody,” Aileen says, “we should probably make sure our story is straight.”
“Right.”
“If anybody asks where you live, I met you at JFK and we took the train here, okay?”
“Where did I fly from?” If you plan to lie, you need to have answers for these kinds of details.
She thinks for a moment. “Tell them Rome. That will shut them up. Rome is in such . . . disarray lately. Flying from Rome could literally mean anything.”
I search my head for something I might have heard about in the news that would clue me in to what she’s talking about, but I come up with a big blank. The only thing I know about Rome is the Colosseum. I picture headlines proclaiming, ROME IN DISARRAY! The cows have quit producing! “Madre di Dio, we have no gelato,” says the minister of the interior, bursting into tears. The newspaper article includes pictures of formerly sophisticated Italians dressed in rags with rat nests in their hair.
“And if they ask me, who am I?”
“You’re Adam Jones, of course. And that’s all anybody needs to know.”
“Including me, apparently.”
She grins. “Don’t sulk about it, Adam. It’s unbecoming.”
A man who looks like he’s about Aileen’s age jogs toward us on the platform. His brown hair is cropped close but a bushy beard hangs halfway down his chest, his ears are studded with earrings, and tattoos run from his wrists to his neck.
“That’s Jacob,” Aileen whispers. “Jacob Samael.”
Jacob side-hugs Aileen, his face breaking out in a grin. He pumps my hand up and down, smiling so hard it feels like his face might break, and his shadow bounces around, an overeager puppy.
“You must be Adam!” Jacob’s bushy beard dances when he talks.
“Yeah.”
I look down at the symbol tattooed on the back of each of his hands—a perfect circle, like a clock, with the section between twelve and two broken inward by a curving, looping shepherd’s staff. The Broken Circle. I finger my own version of it, slightly different but similar, hanging around my neck.
Jacob gestures to a group of teens standing nearby on the platform. “We were on a weekend outing to the mainland today so you’ll get to meet a lot of your classmates!” he announces.
I’m beginning to realize that everything Jacob says is an announcement, but the excitement isn’t fake—in fact, it’s contagious. I’m still nervous, the fear is still here, but now I’m a little curious too.
“We picked up another new student earlier today! Rachel! She’s already met the gang but I think she’s going to be glad to meet you! It’s never fun being the only new person in school!”
We jog over to the group as Jacob shouts, “Hey, guys, Adam’s finally here! Time to hit the road!”
The group looks more like a menagerie than a collection of kids going to some special prep school. A couple of the guys apparently just stepped off a yacht. They’re dressed in polos, pastel sweaters tied around their necks. Their slick grins gleam, walking toothpaste ads. One of them is talking to a kid who looks homeless while the other is talking to a girl in full-on steampunk getup right down to the goggles on her hat. Two goth girls are sulking and smoking cigarettes over in the corner, blowing smoke in our direction, the butts of their cigarettes stained with purple lipstick. One guy is wearing a coonskin hat, with a crow perched on his shoulder. A real, live crow, no kidding. And he’s talking to two black kids with long dreadlocks who might be Rastafarians except neither is wearing red, gold, and green—one is dressed from head to toe in cream-colored slacks and shirt, while the other is clothed entirely in black.
Jacob puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles, a piercing shriek. A guy and a girl come ambling out of the shadows. They’re dressed all in black, with red bandannas tied around their foreheads.
As they pass, the guy suddenly shoves one of the polo-clad kids, shoves him so hard he almost falls off the platform onto the train tracks. In the split second when it’s not clear if he’s going to fall or right himself, his shadow leaps into the air, up toward the train station’s roof. But as his body rocks forward and rights itself, his shadow rushes down and latches back on.
He came so close. So close.
The collective sigh of relief is so strong, it’s audible. I examine my future classmates a little more closely, not that I haven’t been staring at them before this, but suddenly I realize a startling fact: I’m not alone. I’m so used to pretending I don’t see things like that, I don’t react—because nobody else I know sees shadows. But everybody here saw what I saw. Everybody. Fucking A.
“What’s your problem?” the polo guy snarls at the Latino-looking gangsta kid. “Trying to kill me?”
I don’t blame him for reacting that way, but I saw the gangsta kid’s face right after he shoved the polo guy. He hadn’t meant for it to go that far.
“All right, all right, you guys, break it up.” Jacob noses his way between them. “Nobody’s trying to kill anybody.”
Aileen gently guides the polo kid away, one arm around him, as he says, “Everybody saw that, right? It came out of nowhere. I didn’t provoke it and I expect there to be consequences.”
“Now, Gabe,” Jacob says to the gangsta boy, “the Angel and La Muerte clans agreed to leave the feud at home. We can’t have violence at school.”
Gabe looks surly but he nods his head.
“Sofia?” Jacob looks at the girl accompanying Gabe.
“You should hear those Angels, always making snide comments under their breath,” she complains. “La Muerte always gets blamed but we don’t start anything.”
“Sofia,” Jacob says again. His voice is patient and kind.
“Yes, okay,” she replies after a short silence. “No violence at school.”
“Good then!” And Jacob claps a hand on each of their backs and herds them down the platform and across a parking lot where a small bus is apparently waiting for us. They board and two dark shapes, lit up against the windows, make their way to the back of the bus.
I stick close to Aileen. Even though she’s walking with the polo kids—Angels?—and they don’t look like my type at all, she’s my only anchor to the real world and I don’t want to lose sight of her.
But when we all board the bus, she sits next to Jacob and I find a seat next to a girl who looks like she needs a friend as badly as I do. If I were placing bets as to the person here least likely to try to kill me, I’d put my money on her.
“Hey,” I say.
She’s a frightened rabbit and she hops behind the long curtain of hair falling down around her shoulders. So I decide to lay all my cards on the table, to coax her back out.
“I’m Adam. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. You?”
She doesn’t say anything until we’re bumping our way down the road. “I’m Rachel,” she whispers. She sneaks a peek at the motley crew behind us. “I don’t belong here.”
Of course. The new kid would pick the other new kid to sit next to. Just my luck.
“Well, that makes two of us,” I say. But then I decide to be hopeful. I mean, everybody here is so different from each other but they all seem to like each other—that is, assuming we can set aside the teeny-tiny incident on the platform where one kid almost killed another. And assuming nobody tries to kill me. In that case, we’re all good.
We drive across a tall bridge spanning a bay
. Lights wink below us, illuminating ships and cranes, and then we descend into what seems like complete darkness. The crow squawks intermittently.
After driving for an hour or so, we take a curving road, the bus’s headlights lighting up the pine trees on either side. We pass an old cemetery and everybody cheers. The guy with the crow starts singing loudly, “Hot-crossed souls, hot-crossed souls, one a penny, two a penny, hot-crossed souls!”
The bus erupts in raucous laughter. One of the boys in a polo shouts, “Only two pennies a soul? No wonder you Crowleys are so poor! Or is that all they can afford down south these days?”
Crow guy laughs and yells, “We have organic souls down south! We don’t poop plastic and diamonds like they do in LA!”
Everyone laughs again. Then somebody starts singing a song about a skeleton and a sheep dog. Between the pine trees and the bus full of laughing, yelling kids, and the overzealous teacher-cum-camp-director Jacob, it feels like we’re headed to summer camp, not school.
Rachel grips the seat so hard, her knuckles are white. I pet her awkwardly on the head, then pull my hand back because, after all, she’s not a rabbit, whatever it may seem like she is on the inside. But she gives me a small smile. “I just wish I knew what I was getting into,” she says.
Eventually, we drive into a town, the old brick storefronts cascading gently down to a narrow bay. We stop at the waterfront and pile out to board a boat. Rachel sticks close to me, for better or worse. We sit at the front of the deck, the sea air washing over us.
Waves slap the side of the boat. Moonlight reflects a silver path on the water, beckoning us onward, across the water and toward a dock on the eastern side of an island.
* * *
We stumble from the dock to a set of wooden stairs, both me and Rachel lugging our tattered luggage up the steps. The climb feels endless. From there, a wide path leads up through the woods toward a large farmhouse.
The girls follow Aileen into the farmhouse and the boys trail through a small field to a large barn, which has been converted into some sort of dormitory. We pass through a common room on the ground floor, furnished with leather couches and a couple of wood billiard tables.
“Adam, here’s a key to your room,” Jacob says.
I climb the stairs, find my name on one of the doors, and lug my stuff inside. It’s small, with a built-in bunk and wardrobes on either side. Bookshelves line the bunk’s interior. A small desk with a lamp pushes up against the window and a door leads to a small bathroom.
I throw my suitcase against the wall, close the door, and crash on the bed. I don’t even take off my clothes. The black card Dad gave me digs into my thigh a little but I ignore it.
I pull out my phone, the glowing light comforting in the darkness. Even though I’m exhausted, I’m even more afraid to go to sleep here than at home. What if I wake up in the cemetery and Dad isn’t there? What’ll happen then? I think back to the carnival and wish I knew how I got myself out of the dream, away from Her. It seems like a fluke.
I send a message to Sarah: Made it. Exhausted. School here seems weird. Wish I was with you guys. My phone beeps and a message pops up: Undeliverable.
I look at the bars on my cell phone and groan. Un-freakin’-believable. No cell phone coverage on this Podunk island? How am I going to get through this semester? And what if something does happen? I can’t even dial 9-1-1 for help.
How am I going to play Kill Sam? How am I going to stay awake? What if I have an emergency? SHIT! I am completely 100 percent stuck here.
I let the phone clunk to the floor in frustration and roll over in bed. A piece of paper crumples against my head. I turn on the lamp and read it.
DEAR ADAM JONES:
Welcome to the School for Soul Guides! We are excited to partner with you in your journey to becoming a successful soul guide. Please join us for breakfast promptly at 7:15 a.m. tomorrow morning.
Principal Armand Ankou
The note flutters as it falls to the floor.
Questions pound against my head. What is a soul guide? Is a soul actually something you can locate and teach and guide? Or am I missing the point?
Despite all the questions, and despite my best efforts to stay awake, I drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER 12
When I wake with a start, the room is still dark. I grope around, turn on a lamp, and check my watch: 5:20 a.m.
Following the sound of voices takes me to the first floor. The blond preppy guy who almost lost his shadow on the train station platform last night is perched on a stool next to a metro-punk guy in a tight black T-shirt and skinny jeans. Steam rises from their mugs.
The metro-punk guy nods toward a large carafe of coffee, sugar, and a jug of cream—full cream, not half-and-half. “If that doesn’t bring joy to your soul, there’s an espresso machine behind the bar.”
He holds out his hand and we shake. He has a firm, friendly handshake and a frank smile. Tattoos sneak down his arms. Jimi Hendrix peeks out from under one sleeve and Bob Marley from another. I already like him.
“I’m Sean, one of the Dullahan clan. This killjoy is Zachary, he’s an Angel.”
Zachary eyes me from head to toe. “So you’re the ‘lost’ boy. They told us to expect you.”
“I’m Adam Jones,” I say. “I didn’t think I was lost.”
Both of them look at me curiously. Zachary barks, “Clan affiliation?”
“Of the . . . uh . . . Jones clan?”
“There is no Jones clan,” Zachary replies in that “duh” voice.
“Dude, he’s a lost kid,” Sean says. “He probably doesn’t know who he is.”
“Where are you from?” Zachary sounds like he’s accusing me of something.
“I’ve moved around a lot,” I lie. My stomach cramps. It’s already beginning. Before yesterday, it would have been hard to believe either of these guys would want to kill me, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. “You know, military kid.”
Zachary stares at me hard. I shift from one foot to the other. “Our families aren’t in the military, Lost Boy,” he says.
I’m getting peeved at Zachary’s tone. “I suppose if you know so much, you must be Peter Pan. Oh, wait, Peter Pan was a lost boy. I guess that makes you Wendy.”
“Ha! Good one, Lost Boy.” Zachary flops back down on the couch, his attention immediately diverted from me to Gabe. His stare turns to a glare. “Hey! What are you looking at?”
“I’m looking at you,” Gabe says. “You want to make something out of it?”
Sean rolls his eyes. “Gabe, Zach, get over yourselves and your stupid little feud.”
“Oh, because the Dullahan clan couldn’t possibly understand feuds,” Zachary says. “The Irish have always gotten along with each other.” He appears to have perfected the art of sarcasm.
“Are you always this pleasant to be around?” I ask.
Sean laughs. “He’s an Angel, he can’t help it.” He moves behind the bar. “Cappuccino? Latte?”
I don’t usually drink much coffee but Sean seems to be nice. “Cappuccino, thanks.”
He hands me a mug of coffee, perfectly foamed, light sprinkles of chocolate across the top. “You’re really clueless, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I respond after a moment. “I mean, I know this is a school for soul guides. I know none of us are exactly normal.” At least, they can see people’s shadows, which I know, from experience, isn’t exactly normal. Maybe, like me, they go places in their dreams. “But I don’t know exactly what any of it means.”
I start laughing and he joins in. He has a nice laugh.
“So what exactly do soul guides do?” I ask. “Do we offer advice for depressed spirits? Are we über gurus for the dead?” I try to laugh again but—and this is embarrassing—high-pitched giggles emerge from my mouth and float to the ceiling like bubbles.
From his perch on the couch, Zachary shakes his head. “Keep laughing, Lost Boy. You have no idea.”
“Wait. Is that it? Is tha
t what we do? We’re like psychiatrists or spiritual advisors for people’s actual souls?”
I look from one face to the other and all of a sudden nobody is yuk-yuking it up.
“Some people call us harbingers of death,” Sean explains. “But that’s not exactly right. When people die, we’re the ones who guide their souls through Limbo to the other side. Modern day Charons, rowing people across the River Styx.”
“Wait . . . What?”
“Pick your jaw up off the floor, man,” Zachary says.
“So . . . when you say you’re an Angel, you mean you’re an Angel of Death?”
He smirks at me.
“I can’t believe you had no idea.” Sean shakes his head. “That’s so wrong. Your mom or dad should have clued you in a long, long time ago.”
A million questions flow like water through my head. They all circle back to the same question, though, creating a whirlpool that sucks me toward one inevitable thought: I’m supposed to help people die? Me? Adam Jones?
This must be the universe’s idea of one big sick joke.
* * *
Morning light filters through the large picture window. I walk outside, onto the deck. A thin stream of smoke trails from the couch, followed by the scent of a tobacco pipe.
“Come. Sit. It’s a beauty-full day!”
A small birdlike boy with thick dreads and mocha-colored skin lounges on the couch. He pulls a pipe from his lip and smiles. “Tomás.” He slides to a sitting position, allowing me room on the couch. “My family is Eshu.”
I sit down. “I’m Adam. I’m . . . uh . . . I don’t know my family. Apparently, I’m a lost boy.”
The rich smell of his pipe smoke wreathes us as we watch the sun break over the ocean, lighting up the mist hanging in the trees. Rollers break on the rocky shore and seagulls let loose their haunting cries. Lobster boats bob on the water.
I sip my drink.
Tomás points his chin at the sunrise. “It is a great day to be alive, isn’t it? Every morning, the chance to begin again.”
And you know what? Given all the ways my life has changed, I have to admit—it is definitely good to be alive.
