The Prince of Neither Here Nor There

by Sean Cullen

  Finbar held out a little finger and the baby clutched it tight. “Hello, young Breandan.”

  “Breandan?”

  “In the old tongue Breandan means ‘prince.’”

  “Does it indeed? Well, it’s a good enough name, I think. Breandan it is. Oh, he shall certainly be a prince in this house when all the sisters lay their eyes on his sweet little face. Hold him a moment while I prepare a bottle for him.” The sister held the baby out for Finbar to take in his huge hands, then she began shuffling around the kitchen, happily absorbed in her task. Finbar held the boy up, dripping, until they were eye to eye. He stared into the child’s face. The baby, sensing the mood of the man, became sombre and still.

  “Fáilte, Breandan,” Finbar said softly in Gaelic and then repeated in English. “Welcome, My Prince.”

  The medallion lay heavy in Finbar’s vest pocket. “It’ll be our little secret, awright?”

  Out in the waste ground beyond the walls of St. Bart’s, the rain and wind flattened the tall grass. Two tiny figures scampered up to an empty oil drum that had been tipped onto its side and left to rust. A dark figure sat crosslegged on the drum, silhouetted by the lightning flashes. The rain poured down onto his bowed head, streaming from the tips of his white tresses. The small figures cowered on their knees at the foot of the oil drum, waiting on the figure to speak.

  “Is it done?” The dark figure’s voice was cold, like a door flung open on a field newly rimed with frost: beautiful but cold.

  “Done, Highness. Done. It’s done.”

  “Completely done. No doubt.”

  “Were you seen?”

  “No! NO! NO!” the two little creatures squeaked insistently. “Not seen! Not seen at all.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Uh …”

  “YES?”

  “There was one who sensed us. He didn’t see us but he felt our presence.”

  The dark figure was utterly still for a moment, water dripping from his chin. Finally, he spoke. “Very well. I release you from service. Go now. Get out of my sight.”

  “Gladly. Oh, gladly, Your Highness!” Squeaking, the little creatures fell over each other, darting through the grass in their eagerness to be away. Like twin comets, they leapt into the air and streaked off between the raindrops.

  The figure waited until they were gone and then unfolded from its position, stepping lightly down onto the wet grass. Lightning flashed above, illuminating briefly the stark, angular lines of a male face, not quite human, with dark molten eyes of black fire.

  “I have done what I could, love,” the dark figure announced to the empty field, his voice choked with grief. “He is safe for a while.” He raised one hand skyward and beckoned. In answer, a jagged finger of lightning scorched through the air toward his outstretched hand. If the human eye were capable of registering such speeds, a person watching would have marvelled to see pale fingers grasp the lightning like a rope. The lightning retreated into the sky, yanking the dark figure along with it.

  6 Saint Bartholomew lived in the first century AD. He was flayed alive in Armenia. This had an adverse effect on Armenian tourism for several centuries afterward.

  7 I know what you’re thinking: how original! A dark and stormy night! I would love to change the

  8 When I say nineteenth century, I mean the hundred years between AD 1799 and 1899, that is to say the eighteen-hundreds. It’s confusing to call the eighteen- hundreds the nineteenth century as they have 18s instead of 19s in them, but that is the way these things are done. So… get off my back.

  9 Burgher is another word for citizen, not to be confused with burger, a delicious patty of beef on a bun. I wouldn’t want you to think huge sentient hamburgers were wandering the streets of Toronto. That would be weird.

  10 There are other theories as to how Toronto got its nickname. Some say it’s because the city hogs all the resources in the country of Canada. Some say that the residents have gluttonous eating habits. Another theory is that the city was built on a mound of bacon that went bad on the journey over with the first colonists from England. I don’t subscribe to that last one… although the soil is quite salty.

  11 Red is a colour that often signifies danger. In the case of accounting, red ink is used to write records of debt, whereas black ink shows positive cash flow or profit. So, weirdly, the colour black is positive for once in its existence.

  12 Mortgage: The term originates from the French word meaning “dead pledge.” It is an agreement that stands until a payment is missed or the pledgor dies. Now it means the debt owed to a bank or other financial organization when one wishes to buy a house. Usually one does die before managing to pay off one’s mortgage, but that’s beside the point.

  13 Bog-trotter is a nickname for Irish people that started out as an insult, referring to the boggy nature of the Irish countryside. It is truly impossible to trot on a bog. You will sink into it no matter how lightly you trot. Given that Finbar is Irish, his use of bog-trotter is a good example of how a people can reclaim a word that is meant to be insulting and, in doing so, take away the bad connotation. There’s a lesson for you: if someone insults you, start using the insult as a nickname and confuse your detractor. I now call myself Iguana-face Gingerbeard Flatbottom for exactly that reason.

  14 The “paddy wagon” originated in New York City and was a nickname for an armoured police wagon employed to transport criminals. Calling the Irish “Paddies” is a play on the Irish name Patrick, so calling the police wagon a paddy wagon is a bit insulting, insinuating that all criminals were Irish. The Irish immigrants to New York did get involved in a lot of criminal activity due to the fact that they were extremely poor and had little choice if they wanted to survive. Eventually, they realized that if they drove the paddy wagon they would get a regular paycheque and medical benefits, which led to a huge influx of Irish into the police force.

  15 Beatific is a word that means heavenly or saintly. I didn’t just forget how to spell beautiful. Give me more credit than that!

  16 Changelings, according to folklore, are fairy children left in place of a human child by mischievous sprites. They notoriously end up turning into wizened, sickly, ill-tempered creatures that cause no end of trouble for their unwitting Human parents.

  PART 1

  Awakening

  Another Note from the Narrator

  Ha! What a prologue! Really whets the appetite, doesn’t it? A good prologue is the soup before the meat, don’t you agree? Maybe a salad. An appetizer? You know what I mean!

  Let me caution you: the next part of the story takes place several years later, fourteen years later, in fact. The jump forward in time is a common device in storytelling that allows us to skip over some, if not dreary, certainly timeconsuming and unexciting bits. I could have detailed each of the ensuing years, days, hours, minutes, and seconds in excruciating detail but what would be the point? You’d get bored by the time the child got potty-trained and we’d never get to the really interesting parts. Besides, can you imagine the size of such a tome?17 All of Siberia would be utterly deforested just to print the first run of the book! You don’t want to be responsible for such a vast amount of soil erosion. I knew of one narrator, a friend from the Institute, who wrote the life of Winston Churchill starting with the point where his father met his mother at a card party until the great man’s death. Every single instant was chronicled! The manuscript was so large that the writer in question ended up abandoning any hope of mailing it to an editor and lived in the huge stack of paper instead. Sadly, the book burned down one night and he was forced to move into a small pamphlet. Sad. Sad but irrelevant.

  So. Fourteen years have passed. The little boy is now in that dangerous and sinister place called “high school” with all its inherent perils. We join him in the most terrifying of all predicaments-the horror known as … gym class!

  17 Tome is another word for book. I could have used volume or manuscript or hardback or codex but I like tome. It comes from the
ancient Mayan practice of writing on tomatoes. Unfortunately, all the great literary works of the Mayans are now just dusty ketchup.

  MURDERBALL

  Why? Why me? Brendan crouched in the middle of the gymnasium floor as Chester Dallaire wound up for the killing blow. I’m a good person. I’m kind to animals. I even tolerate my sister! So why me?

  He had known it was going to be a bad day when he woke up with a giant, red, glistening pimple at the junction of his eyebrows. Pimples were a constant worry for him. Clustered at the corner of his mouth or at the side of his nose, they were a common occurrence. This pimple, however, was different: it was a harbinger of doom. He had tried to squeeze it but that had only made it redder and angrier. He knew then, as he left the house, this day was going to be a bad one.

  “Ches-ter! Ches-ter! Ches-ter!” the crowd of students at the edge of the floor chanted. They were all excited and eager for the kill. There is nothing a crowd enjoys more than not being the one who is about to get clobbered.

  Chester Dallaire was really savouring the moment, allowing Brendan to contemplate his fate at great length. Chester Dallaire was the largest boy in grade nine at Robertson Davies Academy. Chester truly was a misfit in RDA. Usually, jocks are the norm and nerds are the minority in high school. RDA, however, was a small school that recruited academically gifted students from all over the city. In essence, one could call RDA a school of nerds where Chester was the odd man out. Physically more mature than the other students, Chester had the beginnings of a moustache, and the rumour ran that he had a tattoo of a crouching panther on his back. No one had ever seen this tattoo as Chester rarely took off his shirt and scrupulously avoided bathing. He tossed the ball playfully in the air and leered at Brendan, who trembled in terror, waiting for the blow to fall.

  Brendan was on the exact opposite end of the spectrum, physically. Where Chester was already well on the way to adulthood, Brendan’s body was still teetering on the edge of adolescence. He was thin and gawky. He had to wear thick glasses if he didn’t want to run into walls and furniture. As an added bonus, he wore braces on his crooked teeth. Yes, indeed. Brendan had definitely won the Teenage Affliction Lottery.

  He pushed his glasses up onto his nose. Why do we even play this stupid game, anyway! Brendan thought miserably. Who, besides Chester, even likes it?

  “CHES-TER! CHES-TER! CHES-TER!”

  Murderball18 is a game that is ideal for bullies. Why bother picking on the weaker kids in the schoolyard when you can just whack them in the head with a ball during gym class? Every gym teacher on the planet fails to see how humiliating and often painful it is to let these bullies have their way. Gym teachers the world over believe that Murderball is a great way to instill character in their young charges and allow the kids to blow off some steam.19 Most schoolkids would rather leave their steam where it is and live without the giant purple welts on their backs.

  “CHES-TER! CHES-TER! CHES-TER!”

  Murderball is a game for sadists20 and masochists.21 Chester definitely fell into the former category, while Brendan liked to think of himself as neutral. How he’d ended up lasting to this point in the game he couldn’t quite understand. Maybe his desire to avoid being the recipient of a smack from Chester Dallaire had infused him with some hitherto unknown agility.

  Usually, Brendan could barely avoid tripping over his own feet. He was famously clumsy. All his classmates teased him mercilessly. Butterfingers, Thumbs, Trippy McFallstein—they were always dreaming up new names to mock him with. Yes, Brendan knew he was a danger to others and to himself. At home, his father had gently but firmly banished him from the basement art studio after the nine-hundredth time he had accidentally crushed some delicate sculpture or piece of art. His mother said he was just growing too fast and he would eventually grow out of his clumsiness, but Brendan had his doubts.

  Knowing all this, it was hard to believe that he was the last person in the game, backed into a corner, waiting for Chester to pulverize him. How? he asked himself. Why? But he knew the reason. The reason was Marina Kaprillian, a ninth-grader of surpassing beauty who was currently leaning coolly against the wall with a tittering group of her friends watching the action. The students who had been eliminated from the game early watched with relish as the humiliation continued, relieved to escape relatively unscathed. The audience grew as more were knocked out and so did the humiliation. The added opportunity for embarrassment was the fact that gym classes, due to the small number of students, were co-ed. Unlike most high schools, gym class and sports were a low priority compared to academic pursuits at Robertson Davies Academy. As a result, physical education suffered from funding shortfalls in favour of Chess Club and the Debating Team. Brendan was desperate to impress Marina or at least make her notice him. Staying in the Murderball game seemed like the way to catch her eye. So, despite all his physical shortcomings, he had made a superhuman effort and here he was on the verge of devastating personal injury.

  There’s an old saying: be careful what you wish for. Now he was standing in the middle of the gym, wishing she would look anywhere else. Chester was going to cream him and he would look like a total goof.

  Brendan looked to the sideline where his friends gathered, faces screwed into varying expressions of horror on his behalf. Harold’s chubby hands half-covered his round face as if he couldn’t bear to look but at the same time couldn’t pass up a chance to witness such exquisite carnage. Dmitri, small and blond, shook his head and motioned for Brendan to just play dead. Beside Dmitri, Kim gave Brendan a thumbs-up. The expression on her face suggested she wished she were in Brendan’s place. She was a true tomboy and loved physical contests. Of all his friends, she was the only one who was at home in the gymnasium: her shorts and T-shirt actually fit, and she stood with one hip cocked, looking quite sporty. She kept her hair cut in a trim little bob that framed her oval face neatly. One graceful eyebrow was arched as she slowly shook her head in disbelief. Apart from Kim, Brendan’s little gang of nerds lived mainly in their minds and found physical activity difficult at best and distasteful at worst.

  “CHES-TER! CHES-TER! CHES-TER!”

  The chant-ing of the crowd took on a feral edge.22 They sounded less like high school students and more like a pack of hyenas baying for blood.

  Brendan looked away from the little knot of supporters and back to his inspiration. His eyes sought out that special face…her face. There she was! She was looking at him! In spite of his pimple, she was looking at him.

  “I am so gonna smear you all over this floor, Brendan Clair!” Chester’s heavy voice cut through Brendan’s daze. Brendan turned to see Chester sneering at him from across the floor.

  “No need for taunting, Chester.” Mr. Davenport, the gym teacher, his voice nasal and piercing, chided over the noise of the crowd. “That’s poor sportsmanship.” Mr. Davenport was thin and wiry with a horrible comb-over. He wore a red sweatsuit with “Robertson Davies Academy Philosophers” stencilled on the front. Mr. Davenport was a physics teacher but he doubled as a phys. ed. teacher because he had a secret desire to be an athlete, a desire that had no hope of ever being fulfilled. As a result, he took grim pleasure in inflicting physical exercise on his students.

  “Whatevs.” Chester shrugged and wound up his massive arm. The inflated rubber sphere was clutched in Chester’s banana-like fingers, the surface dimpling as he reared back to launch a massive throw at Brendan as he squatted, cornered.

  Suddenly, Brendan felt a surge of anger. He was tired of being sneered at. He was tired of having a giant pimple on his forehead. He was tired of being afraid. How dare this big guy humiliate him in front of his friends and, more importantly, in front of the girl of his dreams? He shouted in his mind, NO! He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Gathering himself like a panther, he let loose with a feral cry.

  “Graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” Brendan launched himself across the floor at Chester, driven by all the pent-up frustration of being a nerd. Chester’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
At first, the lunge was quite impressive. The onlookers held their collective breath as Brendan surged forward. Unfortunately, Brendan was unaware that his shoelace was untied. He stepped on the offending lace and tripped himself spectacularly. He face-planted on the hardwood and slid with a skin-erasing squeak on the waxed surface, ending up spread-eagled at Chester’s feet.

  Brendan rolled over onto his back, blinking up at his adversary. Chester grinned evilly and cocked the ball back for the coup de grâce.

  “Nice one, dorkmaster!” Chester said with relish. He slam-dunked the rubber orb squarely into Brendan’s upturned face.

  Fifteen minutes later, Brendan was assuring the nurse, Mrs. Barsoomian, that he was fine. His nose had stopped bleeding and the ringing in his ears had subsided. His face, normally somewhat pale and spotty, was an angry red welt from ear to ear. He looked like the recipient of an intense and localized facial sunburn. His glasses hadn’t broken but they had been mashed into his skull, leaving a welt around his eyes. He held up his hand to ward off another cold compress. “I’m fine, really, Mrs. Barsoomian.”

  “Are you sure? You can lie down and rest a while longer if you wish.” The thin dark face of the nurse was full of concern. “I can put some lotion on your face. Or a bag of ice, maybe.” Mrs. Barsoomian was a sweet little woman with dark hair and kind brown eyes. Brendan felt embarrassed by the attention.

  “No thanks.” Brendan smiled and winced at the sudden pain. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

  “I get more patients from Murderball than from any other source.” Mrs. Barsoomian shook her head in irritation. “It should be outlawed.”23

  “Yes, ma’am. In a perfect world, I’d never play again but Mr. Davenport wants to make a man out of me.”

  “Someone should make a man out of Mr. Davenport,” Mrs. Barsoomian said darkly.