by Sean McGowan
Chapter 2:
The Order of the Bull
“The Secret Beasts of Earth: An Encyclopedia of Cryptozoology.” Harold repeated the title of the book in Wayne’s lap. “Think any of these are real?”
“All of them,” said Wayne.
Harold gave a look of amused disbelief.
“Well, most of them,” Wayne retracted.
Harold took the book from Wayne and opened to the front. Each entry was accompanied by a black and white line drawing of its creature. He started flipping through the pages, skipping a few along the way.
“Let’s see here...” said Harold. “Agogwe... Andean Wolf... Big Foot, of course.” He stopped when he came to the entry for Bishop Fish, a fish/man hybrid which appeared like a bearded bishop. “Bishop Fish?... Weird.”
Harold kept turning. “Bloop... Brosno Dragon...” He stopped again. “Bunyip?” Harold looked down at the image of a hairy, hulking creature with tusks and webbed feet. “My dad says he saw one of these in Lake Ignotus.”
“Really?” Wayne examined the entry. “Aren’t those only supposed to be in Australia?”
“Well, let’s see...” Harold looked at the text. “‘The Bunyip is a large, hairy creature which has been spotted in waterbeds all throughout Australia. Its known origins date back to Aboriginal mythology, where the Bunyip was known to inhabit the dreamtime...’ Yada, yada, yada... Yeah, it’s from Australia.” Harold looked out the window at the endless lake. “My dad swears he saw one out there in the lake, though.”
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” asked Wayne.
“I don’t think he would ever lie to me.” Harold looked back at Wayne. “But sometimes he says some things that are hard to swallow, you know? He has a lot of stories like that.” Harold’s eyes returned to the book and he continued reading. “Hey, check this out. ‘The famous idiom ‘why search for the Bunyip?’ originated as an expression of futility referring to unsuccessful attempts to locate the creature.’”
“I have never heard anyone say that,” said Wayne.
At that moment, a head popped up over the back of the boys’ seat.
“Hey, I saw a thing in lake Ignotus once.” It was the head of Winston, a squat, unfit, and messy-haired boy with whom Harold and Wayne were good friends.
“Oh yeah?” Wayne squinted. “What was it?”
“It was like an orangutan, but it had rooster feet and a giant baby head.” Winston pointed at the book. “I think it’s in your book. It’s called a ‘Booger King’.”
Harold flipped through the previous pages. “Winston, I just went through the B’s. It’s not in here.”
Winston slumped back into his seat, where he sat alone, and played with his Gamebu, a sleek portable video game system, which emanated loud electronic noises. “What’s that?” he yelled. “I can’t hear you.”
Doug, a tall African American boy sitting across the aisle from Winston, chimed in. “He’s bleeping and blooping with his video games. That’s why nobody wants to sit next to him.”
“Bloop’s in the book,” said Wayne.
“Nobody wants to sit next to me because I’d show ‘em up,” said Winston.
Doug sneered. “I thought you couldn’t hear.”
“What?” yelled Winston.
Samson, a tiny, wide-eyed boy with short brown hair who sat next to Doug looked up at him. “Winston can hear. I’ve talked to him before.”
Doug nodded. “Yeah, Samson. I’ll bet.”
Harold looked around the comfy interior of the bus, where all the boys and girls from Curious Heights sat. These buses always reminded him of flying on a plane. They had bathrooms and everything. The only thing they lacked were attendants handing out snacks and drinks.
Just as Harold thought this, a crumpled ball of paper bounced off of his head and into his lap. He uncrumpled it to find the words “Return to Lorne,” scribbled across in marker.
Harold turned to look at the back left-hand window seat where sat Lorne Fleischer, a dapper medium-length-blonde-haired boy in a baseball cap and an unbuttoned collared t-shirt. Lorne was two years Harold’s senior and served as a junior counselor at the camp. The two of them always got on well, so Harold thought he’d go see what this paper tossing business was about.
Harold made his way to the back, where Wendell Smith, an unremarkable acquaintance of his who sat next to Lorne greeted him. “Oh, hey, Harold.”
“Hey, Wendell.”
“What’s up?”
Harold held up the paper. “I guess this is Lorne’s.”
Lorne, who until now stared out the window as if he didn’t notice Harold, turned his head and smiled. “Oh you found it! I was wondering where that went.”
Harold held out the paper. “It’s all yours.”
Lorne took the paper, crumpled it back up, and threw it on the floor. “Oh, Harold.” He reached in his pocket. “I think this is yours.” He pulled out a folded square of paper and handed it to Harold.
Harold immediately unfolded it to read the words “Meet me at the lakeside gazebo after you’ve unpacked.” Harold looked back at Lorne. “Um, Okay.”
A short boy named Edmund Sprocket spoke from across the aisle. He had round spectacles, finely combed hair, and looked too smart for his own good. “I’m telling you Lorne, I think it’s a bad idea.”
“Can it, Sprocket,” yelled Lorne. “I’ve already made up my mind.”
Sprocket shrugged.
Harold looked back and forth between Sprocket and Lorne. “Ok, I’m gonna go sit back down now.”
“Attaboy!” Lorne winked and nodded.
Harold returned to his seat and sat down next to Wayne, who continued reading the Cryptozoology book and listened to music through headphones.
“What are you listening to?” asked Harold. “Synth Sages?”
“Of course,” Wayne nodded. The Synth Sages were a popular electro pop band made up of three supposed interdimensionary travelers with whom Wayne was obsessed.
“That’s unfortunate,” muttered Doug.
Harold stared out the window to see the passing rocky lakeshore at the bottom of the mountain they drove along. It was a beautiful view, which he should have appreciated, where his mind not glued to other things. “I supposed we’ve got another hour or so,” he said quietly to himself. And many more until they would return home, he thought.
An hour or so later, the bus pulled up to a wooden lodge in the thick of an evergreen wood. “Welcome to The Lost Woods,” read the sign in front. The campers who had already arrived shuffled in and out of the many wooden buildings which populated the mountainside forest behind the lodge. When the Curious Heights bus stopped, the kids exited and several adult counselors greeted them. Most kids wore backpacks, but they all lined up outside to retrieve their additional luggage from the compartments on the lower portion of the bus.
“Am I the only one who thinks Lost Woods is an odd name for a kids’ summer camp?” asked Wayne.
“No,” said Doug.
The lead counselor, a slender forty-something mustachioed man named Mr. Melvin walked up to the bus and opened the door to the luggage compartment. Inside lay an old man with long gray hair and tattered clothes.
“Oh no, not another stowaway,” said Mr. Melvin. “Sir, this compartment is for bags, not humans.”
The old man got out and brushed himself off. “Oh, I don’t mind a bit... Hey, could you point me to the nearest interstate? I really must be going.”
“Err...” Mr. Melvin pointed behind the welcome lodge. “If you walk through these woods and over Mount Okwaho, you’ll come down to I-90 on the other side.”
“Thank you much!” The old man walked briskly to where he was directed and he was shortly out of sight.
Mr. Melvin scratched his head and then turned his attention to the kids. “Alright, I’m going to take roll while you all gather your belongings.” He pulled up a clipboard with a list of names. “Mark Abbot?”
“Here,” replied Mark Abbot.
Lorne walked up to Wayne from behind and tapped him on the cheek. “Wayne, my boy! How we doin’?”
Wayne shook and looked nervously at Lorne. “We’re doing fine.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
Samson, who stood on the other side of Lorne, looked at Lorne’s green backpack and noticed that it was the same brand and color as his own. “Hey Lorne, we have the same backpack!”
“How about it?” Lorne smirked. “I guess that makes you a cool dude, Samson.”
“The coolest dude!” Samson yelled as Harold, Wayne, Doug, and Winston grabbed their bags after him...
Lorne began to walk towards Mr. Melvin.
“Chelsea Evans?” called Mr. Melvin.
“Here,” replied Chelsea Evans.
“Lorne Fleischer?”
“I’m right here, sir.” Lorne stepped in.
“Oh, good!” Mr. Melvin smiled. “Wayne—“
“Yeah, Wayne’s right over there,” said Lorne. “Mr. Melvin, I have a question.”
Mr. Melvin lowered his clipboard. “What’s that, Lorne?”
“Do we need to be anywhere before the meeting tonight?”
“Nope. Junior counselors will meet in the lodge at six with everyone else.”
“Okay, that’s all.” Lorne nodded. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” Mr. Melvin returned to the list of names. “Samson Friday?”
“Here, here!” replied Samson as he grabbed his bags. Harold, Wayne, Doug, and Winston followed. Samson looked at his friends. “Hey, this is our last year of summer camp. That’s kind of sad.”
“Yeah, but at least we’ll all be in the same school next year,” said Wayne. So far, only Harold and Wayne had been in the same school together.
“Harold Hawkins?” called Mr. Melvin.
“Here,” replied Harold.
“It won’t be my last year,” said Doug, ”if I get recommended to be a junior counselor next year.”
“Now why would you want to do that?” Winston raised an eyebrow. “Obviously not for the money.”
“I don’t know, Winston. I guess I just feel a calling. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Doug Holmes?” called Mr. Melvin.
“Here,” replied Doug.
“Was that your calling?” asked Winston.
“Well, I think this will be a good summer.” Wayne hoisted his backpack upon his shoulders and smiled. “We’ll be like a family before it’s all over. Eh, Harold?” Wayne nudged Harold, waking him from a daze.
“Huh?” Harold shook. “Yeah, it’ll be smashing.”
“Winston Morris?” called Mr. Melvin.
“What?” yelled Winston.
“Think Curious Heights can win the balloon tag tournament this year?” asked Wayne.
“I dunno,” said Harold. “Lorne’s captain this year, so I’d say we have a good shot.”
Wayne picked up a rock and tossed it up and down. “Only got two months. I’d better start practicing.”
Harold scoffed. “Wayne, you’ve got great aim. You’ll do fine.”
Wayne looked at the ground. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
Mr. Melvin piped up. “Alright, you’re all here. Go unload your bags and feel free to hang out for the next couple of hours. Meet at John Lodge at six for orientation and dinner.”
“Last one there’s a rotten Gregg!” yelled Samson. Nobody knew quite what to make of this.
After dropping his bags in the cabin he shared with Wayne, Doug, Winston, and Samson, Harold quickly left through the woods and came out to a large field which opened onto the lakeshore. “What the heck does Lorne want?” he wondered. Near the water’s edge, Harold came upon a large wooden gazebo to find Lorne waiting with Edmund Sprocket and Magnus Simmons, a slender boy with shoulder-length red hair who wore a dark open trench coat and a fedora hat. Lorne looked pleased, but the other two appeared rather cautious.
“There he is,” said Lorne. “Harold, you know my guys, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen them, but I don’t know that we’ve ever actually met,” said Harold.
Lorne waved toward Sprocket. “This is Edmund Sprocket...”
Harold and Sprocket shook hands.
“... And Magnus Simmons.”
Harold grabbed Magnus’s hand and shook it until he pulled Magnus’s entire arm out of the sleeve, detaching it from the body. Harold jumped back and gasped. Magnus chuckled and then popped his real arm out of his sleeve.
Harold looked down at the lifeless limb in his hand. “Oh, it’s a fake.”
“Magnus is a bit of a magician,” said Lorne. “That’s sort of his thing.”
“Oh...” Harold nodded. He waited for a moment, then held the arm out to Magnus. “Do you want this back?”
“Yeah, I’ll take it.” Magnus took the arm and stuffed it in his coat.
“These guys are a year under me, so this is their first year as junior counselors,” said Lorne. “They’re Curious Heights guys, too, so you know they’re all right.”
Harold nodded, then looked at Sprocket. “What’s your thing?”
“I can read your mind,” Sprocket deadpanned.
“Really?” Harold laughed. “What am I thinking right now?”
“You’re thinking there’s no way I can read your mind.”
Lorne grabbed Harold’s shoulder. “Now, Harold, we actually have somewhere to take you, but there’s one stipulation.”
“What’s that?” asked Harold.
Suddenly, Magnus drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and tied it around Harold’s head like a blindfold, leaving him in a world of darkness.
“You can’t know how we got there,” said Lorne.
“Yeah, alright.” Harold’s head wobbled as he got used to the blindness. “Are you taking me to some sort of secret hideout?”
“Golly, you’re smart,” said Lorne.
“I’ll bet he’s already sold on this, Lorne,” said Sprocket, sarcastically.
“Don’t be so presumptuous, Sprocket,” said Lorne. “You don’t even know this guy.”
“Sold on what?” asked Harold.
The others ignored Harold’s question as they lead him on an upward slant through paths of dirt. Blindly following Lorne’s lead made Harold uncomfortable at first, but after a few minutes, he eased up and the group soon came to a halt.
Lorne ripped the blindfold from Harold’s eyes and revealed a lonely stone well in the middle of a small open clearing in the heart of the forest.
“Your hideout’s at the bottom of a well?” Harold scratched his head.
“I said he was smart,” Lorne chuckled. He reached in the well and pulled out the rope that dangled down. “Harold, just follow them down the rope.”
Magnus and Sprocket climbed down the well and Harold followed behind, with Lorne at his back. When they landed, Magnus opened a door in the wall, revealing a fine finished stone corridor lit by small torches hanging from the walls. The torchlight illuminated not only the path, but also a series of gold-framed paintings of grown men dressed in elegant garb, presumably from the late nineteenth century.
Lorne pushed to the front of the group. “Follow my lead!”
As he walked through the corridor, Harold examined the paintings. “Who are these pictures of?”
Lorne shrugged. “I don’t know. They came with the frames.”
As the boys reached the end of the hall, they stepped through an open doorway into a large room with a dome-shaped ceiling of stone, with wooden beams up the sides and lanterns hanging down. The room had an air of formality, but with a number of small tables, chairs, and an open bar, it mostly felt like a tavern. Most of the seats were filled with kids who wore dark red hooded cloaks, with their identities veiled by circular wooden masks. The masks had strange faces carved and painted onto them and each one had a set of bull horns sticking out of the top. Harold stood dumbfounded as he took in the scene from the raised wooden platform in front of the doorway.
“Harold, welcome to The Order of t
he Bull, base number four,” said Lorne with a proud smile.
