The Iron-Jawed Boy

by Nikolas Lee

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE LIGHTING OF THE TREES

  Ion watched from the staircase as his sister paced back and forth across the Great Room. He had been sitting in silence for a while now; times such as these put Oceanus in a sort of…state. This state was known as the Oceanus Process, which involved walking speedily in one general area, cursing under your breath, and occasionally glancing over at your brother to make sure he was still being quiet. Ordinarily, an Oceanus Process would bring about great epiphanies and proper solutions to whatever existing problem plagued her. Interfering with it was quite dangerous, like walking down black stairs in the dark, or eating anything made by a wood nymph. So Ion had to wait...and wait...and wait, until finally Oceanus stopped in her place.

  “It’s decided!” she exclaimed, her head high and her finger pointed to the ceiling. “We must tell someone!”

  Ion’s eyes darted nervously about the room, desperate for any idea but that one. “Um…I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

  Oceanus looked at him with tight lips, the kind a teacher wears when a student tells them they’re wrong. “I think it’s a brilliant idea! I’ve thought everything through! We’ll tell a teacher, and with some luck on our side, we might be able to rid the fortress of this thing before it actually hurts someone.”

  Ion sat there, battling Oceanus’s eyes with his own. If she went through with this plan, the ghost would be gone—banished or destroyed—in a week’s time. But Ion couldn’t allow that, not after it had spoken his name and certainly not before he could ask it why.

  “We have to keep this to ourselves. At least for now.”

  “Ion, it attacked me,” she said through gritted teeth. “This white-dressed…faceless…thing went screaming and howling around the room, launching couches and plants and chairs at me! Meanwhile, every icicle and whip of water I threw at it in defense just passed right through it! But you want me to keep this to myself?”

  He tried his hardest to find a reason she’d believe. “We’re Callers,” he said.

  “So?”

  “So people already think we’re freaks!” he said, waving his hands in the air. “And going around ranting and raving about ghosts won’t help our cause. Besides, it didn’t even lay a hand on you. That’s hardly an attack.”

  Oceanus clutched her chest and gasped. “Its attitude was quite pointed, I’ll have you know!”

  “Pointed or not, I don’t want to be seen as a freak any more than I already am.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. She approached until her nose was an inch away from Ion’s. “You know something, don’t you?”

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I knew it!” she shouted. “Your eyes—they’re as big as a bush baby’s!”

  “What’s a bush baby?”

  “They’re monkeys or something. You know: tiny, bushy, kind of make you happy inside. Ugh—that’s beside the point! Your eyes always look like they’re going to explode when you get caught. Now…confess.”

  He paused, frozen by his own fear. Visions of drowning at the hands of a sudden tsunami came to mind, and he suddenly realized keeping Oceanus in the dark about the banshee was never really an option.

  “I overheard Vinya and Esereez the other night,” he said quickly, like saying it as fast as possible would reverse the fact that he had said it at all.

  “Now you’re eavesdropping on gods?” Oceanus asked. “Well isn’t that just promising.”

  “It wasn’t on purpose!” he urged. “I stumbled upon it. Well, it sort of stumbled upon me—in the War Room. Vinya was talking to Esereez about something called the Shroud. From what I’ve gathered, it’s a kind of barrier, which separates the spirits of the dead from the living. But…but something must have happened to it.”

  “I’ve never heard of this Shroud,” said Oceanus. “But I guess it would make sense—something would have to separate us from them. The dead obviously aren’t the friendliest.”

  “The problem is that supposedly it’s thinning,” Ion went on. “And here’s the interesting part: Vinya said the only reason why it hadn’t disappeared completely was because…”—he felt he shouldn’t repeat it—“because...”

  “Yes?”

  “The male Callers are powering it, while the females fight in the war.”

  Oceanus stared, until finally she said, “That can’t be. The gods said the Callers are fighting in the Outerworld. They wouldn’t lie about that.”

  “Apparently they would,” said Ion. “I heard it straight from Vinya’s mouth.”

  Oceanus rolled her eyes.

  “I’ve done some research,” Ion said, “but all I’ve found out is that the ghost we’ve both seen is a banshee. And…well...it kind of knows my name, which is bad, because banshees only know the names of those who are soon fated to die.”

  The color drained from Oceanus’s face. If the thought of the Illyrians’ lies hadn’t split her stomach in two, the idea of her brother dying certainly must have. She turned on her heel and began to pace back and forth once more.

  “This situation needs to be properly assessed,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “We need to figure out what the real problem is here. You know, the root of it all—why this is happening.”

  “The Shroud is thinning,” Ion said. “If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t have seen the banshee, and the Detainment wouldn’t have happened.”

  She shook her head and stopped in place. “That’s not the problem. The Shroud might be thinning...but it’s not the reason you’re going to die.”

  Ion took a deep breath. Hearing someone else say it hurt like a sword to his chest. “Wow, you have quite a way with words.”

  “I’m to the point,” Oceanus said. “Yes, the Shroud might be thinning and the gods might be lying about it—though I’m sure they’d have a good reason—neither of those things are important. The fact that that banshee has spoken your name is. We need to find it and get some answers, if that’s at all possible—that ghost is far from cordial.” She stopped pacing and thought for a moment before continuing, “We only need the Shroud for one thing: if we find out how exactly it manages to keep the spirits trapped, perhaps we could use the same tactics to trap the banshee. Maybe then we could avert your imminent death.” She shuddered. “Good grief, I hope it’s not bloody.”

  Ion flared his nose. “Yeah, me too.”

  While Ion cleaned the Great Room of any evidence a banshee had attacked (besides Othum’s head...there was absolutely nothing he could do about that), Oceanus thought and thought until a plan had been created, revised, completely rewritten, and settled upon. The plan would be hatched tomorrow, during the ceremonial Lighting of the Trees.

  The air in the Jovian Fields smelled sweet with chocolate. All around came the sounds of chattering students and bustling feet. Tents rose in every direction, each selling something different: scarves that adjusted their temperature, books that read themselves aloud, and dresses that changed color. Indeed, the last night of summer was upon the island, and the Lighting of the Trees was the celebration for it. But Ion never thought the last day of summer was anything to celebrate; it just meant they were one night closer to the frigid, unforgiving days of winter, which he hated profusely, and most especially now, since those days of winter weren’t so different from the frigid, familiar cry of a banshee.

  Oceanus led him through the crowd on the main road, until she entered a bright pink cylindrical tent.

  “Awfully cold tonight,” said Oceanus, sifting through a basket full of scarves.

  “I noticed,” said Ion, giving a shiver. “I wish someone would just stop making winter. Just kill it. No one would miss it.”

  “Kill winter?” Oceanus asked, dressing her shoulders with a blue scarf. “Not your best idea, I have to say.”

  “Just wishful thinking, I guess.”

  On the way out of the tent, Oceanus dropped a single gold coin into the opened hand of an automaton as payme
nt.

  “How’d you get a Cretan?” Ion asked eagerly, as he and Oceanus joined the throngs of students outside.

  “Won a bet with Spike,” said Oceanus. “He really is awful at Gods and Guts.”

  Cheers broke out to the left, where a group of dwarves banged their mugs of hot pumpkin-chocolate together, and stumbled about, pretending to be drunk. A giant stomped across the road nearly flattening Ion, then a herd of nymphs strode by, their pink skin even pinker under the light of the weeping willow above.

  As Ion and Oceanus passed by a table brimming with golden plates of sweets, Ion began surveying the area for elves. Plenty of drunken dwarves, giants playing kickball, nymphs doing weird, giggly nymph things—but no elves, which meant there was less of a chance Ion was being monitored, which meant he could ask Oceanus what weighed most on his mind.

  “Who are you going to ask?” he whispered, pretending to wave to someone who wasn’t there.

  “I’ve given it some thought,” she replied, “and I think Mr. Poe will do.”

  “Mr. Poe?”

  “I didn’t stutter, oinker.”

  “And why do you think he’d know anything about the Shroud?”

  She turned to him, looked cautiously from side to side, and then said, “I heard he eats breakfast in the shower.”

  For a second, Ion thought he’d missed something. “And that means...”

  “That he’s weird,” said Oceanus, “which means he’ll know weird things.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  “Sort of,” she shrugged. “Ezra and Eos would classify it under their Theory of Association.”

  “Right,” Ion said. “I suppose eating breakfast in the shower could make you as weird as a banshee or a Shroud.” He chewed on his lip in thought. “But don’t you think it’d depend on what kind of breakfast he was eating in the shower? I mean, would cereal be so weird?”

  Oceanus stared at him. “No. It’s weird no matter what you’re eating. Trust me, he’ll give us the answers we need.”

  Together, Oceanus and Ion pushed their way through the crowd of shopping students, shimmying past the lumbering giants and stocky dwarves, until Mr. Poe finally came into view. He sat in his usual rocker, stacked on top of a collection of one too many rockers that swayed rather unstably beside the entrance hall of the fortress.

  “Cursed pages!” he shouted, gripping the arms of his rocker as the tower swayed ominously to the right. “I demand to be moved this instant!” But the pages were nowhere to be seen. “I said this instant!”

  Oceanus turned to her brother. “Now’s my chance,” she said. “You stay here and keep watch.”

  Ion nodded and watched with clenched toes as his sister approached the aggravated professor.

  “Good evening, Mr. Poe!” she said, waving up at the sprite. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  “Hello Misses Reaves,” Mr. Poe said in low and lazy voice. “Sure—beautiful night.” The tower of rockers leaned to the left, bending miserably like the branch of a willow, and Mr. Poe smacked his hand to his mouth to hold back the sick desperately wanting out. “I don’t even know who put me up here,” he croaked through his hand. “One moment, I was napping peacefully in my office, and the next...I was here.”

  “Pages,” Oceanus shrugged. “Always sneaking about.” She paused in thought. “They’re like...ghosts, aren’t they?”

  “Ghosts?” Mr. Poe asked. “I suppose that’s a clever observation, but—” The tower lurched violently to the right. “Oh, good gods!”

  “Speaking of ghosts,” Oceanus said, leaning toward Mr. Poe, “I was wondering if perhaps you’d know anything about the Shroud?”

  Mr. Poe’s eyebrows smashed themselves together, and through his tiny spectacles, he stared quite curiously down at Oceanus. “The Shroud, you say?” he asked, suddenly unfazed by the swaying tower of rockers.

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “It’s for a class of mine—a research project on the barrier that keeps the dead from the living. I think it has potential to be a great piece, don’t you?”

  “Misses Reaves, the Shroud is hardly a proper subject for a research project,” Mr. Poe replied. “Especially these days.”

  “And why is that?”

  Mr. Poe looked appalled by the question. “This conversation should be held some other time.” He looked suspiciously about the crowds encircling his chairs. “And perhaps not around so many people.”

  “Please, Mr. Poe,” Oceanus said. “The project is due in two days! If it’s to see proper outlining, writing, and revising, I’ll need to get all my information by tonight!”

  Mr. Poe shuffled in his seat. The tower leaned to the left. “Oh, all right. Listen closely, though; I won’t be repeating myself...”

  Ion breathed deep, watching from behind a throng of dwarves, as his sister leaned in closely to listen to Mr. Poe’s words. At that moment, he thought the nervous events of the night would be coming to a close. But when a hand nearly as big as a gorilla’s fell upon his shoulder, and he turned to find Spike in all of his armored glory, the night still seemed young.

  “You look like you’re up to something, jaw-boy,” said Spike.

  “W-what?” said Ion. “I’m not up to anything. Just…enjoying the festival, is all.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Spike. “Who could enjoy this?” He looked revolted as a group of dwarves waddled by. “So obviously you’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying, Spike,” Ion replied. “It might come as a bit of a surprise, but sometimes people enjoy different things than you do.”

  Spike clenched his jaw. “I suppose you’re right. If people were more like me, we wouldn’t have all these lower races like yours running about, learning beside true gods.”

  Ion felt his face grow hot. “And what exactly is a true god?”

  Spike took a bold step toward Ion, and replied, “One that looks nothing like you.”

  The anger welled within Ion until it bled out his eyes as sparks of hissing, green lightning. They crackled and split and filled the air with the smell of metal. “I think you should leave.”

  “I think I’ll stay right here,” Spike replied, sheets of stone washing over his fists. “I’ve noticed you slinking about lately, short stuff. I know you’re up to something. Tell me now, and maybe I won’t get you expelled later.”

  Ion swallowed. “Like I said: I’m not up to anything.”

  Spike’s face twisted in rage—he drew his fist back. But when he lunged forward to deliver the punch, a hand even larger than his clamped around his wrist. Spike yelped, and the mighty god who had stopped him yanked him away from Ion.

  The Skylord towered high over the tents this evening, dressed in long, red robes, with a hole designed in the chest to showcase his giant diamond.

  “Fists are not what hands were intended for,” he told Spike, smiling goofily. “They’re much better opened, to embrace the world around you.”

  “Or to slap,” Spike mumbled.

  Othum tapped his chin in thought. “Hm…I think you’re onto something there, boy! Though, slapping is still violent, and violence against other students is just not permitted on the Acropolis. I apologize, but I don’t make the rules. I only recite them happily—and uphold them too, I suppose.”

  “You do too make the rules!” Spike said.

  Othum tapped his chin once more. “Why, I think you’re right! Thank you for reminding me, young man.” He cleared his throat. “Now who are you again?”

  At this point, Spike was dangerously brimming with anger, like a glass full of grape juice, or cherry juice, or any sort of juice really, so long as it was dangerous—especially around Mother’s favorite couch. There was a moment, where Spike’s teeth were ground so tightly together it looked like he was seconds away from using his rock fists on Othum’s face. But Spike only snorted, tore his wrist from Othum’s grip, and stormed off into the crowd.

  Othum turned to Ion, his expression not too unlike a sad puppy’s. “Did I say someth
ing wrong?”

  “Certainly not,” Ion was quick to reply. “Spike’s just…sensitive.”

  Othum paused for a moment, staring at Ion with his gray eyes so serious. And for another moment, and another after that, until finally...“So how has the Acropolis been treating our resident Sea Guardian?”

  Though Ion still agreed to slightly dislike Othum, he was warmed by the fact that the Skylord hadn’t been able to remember his own nephew, but could at least recognize Ion as a Guardian. Sure, he wasn’t Oceanus, but it was a step in the right direction.

  “So far, so good,” Ion shrugged.

  “Perfect then!” said Othum, patting Ion on the shoulder, which hurt. “I knew you’d do well! Sea Guardians are chameleons at these types of things. Anyway, I should be off—important matters to tend to.” He leaned in and whispered, “I’ve got a show to put on, you see.”

  And with a wink, Othum made his way down the road. The crowd parted as he walked, awed by his height and fancy new robes and the diamond jutting out his back, gleaming under the light of the trees.

  A few steps and Othum had reached the entrance to the fortress. Vinya appeared by his side, wearing a yellow dress that folded and flowed over her like strips of a running river. Mr. Poe’s tower of rockers swayed beside the two gods, but Oceanus was no longer in sight.

  The Skylord raised his colossal hands, and everyone went quiet—even the dwarves, who were still busy pretending to be drunk.

  “I know what you’re all thinking,” said Othum in a voice that carried to all ends of the Jovian Fields. “Where did he get those beautiful robes?” The crowd remained silent. “Well, it’s a secret, and I wouldn’t tell you even if I was allowed...but I bought them at Sadie’s Eighth Avenue, located on the corner of Eighth and Pontus in Protea. It’s a small store—cute really. Now, personally I don’t quite understand this new red fad, but I’m willing to bend for the trends of youth, in order to remain current.”

  Vinya had been smiling uncontrollably during all of Othum’s speech, probably trying to restrain her laughter, as Ion was. Sweetly, she placed her hand on her father’s shoulder and whispered something into his ear.