Into the Mist

  We strode up the hill to the house and soon heard Max and the Mooch barking, which had the effect one might suppose: Everyone was quickly awakened. The first to show his face was Finch, who came bounding onto the front porch of the old house with a large wooden club in his hand. The first light of day seemed to stun him and set him back on his heels a little, and he put his arm up over his face with his free hand.

  "Who's there?" he shouted, blinking furiously

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  as he dropped his arm and spotted the two of us standing in the dirt. Children started flooding out the door past Finch. All the girls and boys who lived on the hill were soon on the porch, pointing and cheering and yelling our names. There were new children I didn't recognize and others who'd grown a little older in our absence. And something I wouldn't have expected had taken place while we were gone. Our leaving had become a thing of legend and late-night whispers, our return awaited and long hoped for. They'd taken Thomas at his word and expected us to come back for them -- it was only a matter of when. All of the children began streaming down the steps and onto the hill. Soon they were dancing around us, yelling out questions and greetings.

  "Get back in the basement! All of you!" screamed Finch. He was waving the club over his head when suddenly Madame Vickers appeared behind him, pushed him out of the way, and stood motionless, her hands on her hips. I wouldn't mention it were it not such a sight, but to see her in the morning was something to behold. Her hair stood like a wild cone of lightning on top of her head, and her face was pinched in a profoundly mean expression, as though waking her from sleep was an offense punishable by the most painful kind of torture. From within that horridly pinched expression arose two bulging,

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  angry eyeballs that seemed altogether too big for the face to which they were attached. Oddly, she'd either taken the time to put her boots on before coming out onto the porch, or she'd never taken them off when going to bed the night before. Either way, she stood before us in a rage, a nightshirt dancing at her knees, the ghastly boots in full view rising up her shins.

  "You children get in the basement this instant, or there will be no breakfast!" She was cold and calculated in her words, and the group that had formed around us lost its nerve and began to disperse in her direction.

  "We promised we would come back for you if we could," said Thomas. He had his eyes trained firmly on Jonezy, the new boy that had arrived at the House on the Hill on the very day we'd left. He was older now - everyone was - and it was strange to think that we hadn't aged so much as they had in our absence.

  No breakfast!" howled Madame Vickers. She walked three steps forward to the edge of the porch and Finch came up next to her, smiling and tapping the wooden club into the palm of his hand. She leaned out over the steps of the porch and screamed, "Get back to the basement!"

  "NO!" yelled Thomas. The defiance and courage in Thomas's voice set Madame Vickers back for an

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  instant, but then she turned to Finch, tore the club from his hand, and marched down the steps toward us in those awful boots that were made for kicking.

  "Thomas," I said, "maybe now would be the right time to call Armon. She's really angry."

  The crowd of youngsters scattered in every direction and Finch ran around the side of the house yelling over his shoulder that he was going to get the dogs. I was beginning to wonder if Thomas had gone frozen at the sight of those black boots and that dreadful face about to descend on him. And then he said that magical word, and the scene before me was transformed.

  "Armon!"

  He yelled it not with dignity and grace, but more like a war cry, like the cry of a young man about to charge into battle and carry the day. It was magnificent!

  "What are you babbling about now, boy?" said Madame Vickers. She stood over Thomas and reached the club over her head, ready to strike my brother to the ground. Max and the Mooch were rounding the corner with Finch close behind; he was laughing wickedly at the idea of so much violence about to occur.

  A shadow came over Madame Vickers's face, and I was reminded once more just how big Armon was. He was coming up the hill behind us, his huge

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  strides pounding the garbage on the path into oblivion, and he had come into full view. There wasn't a closed mouth among us -- everyone stared, slack-jawed and mystified by the coming fury of such a magnificent being. All at once he had his arm out over our heads and took the club from Madame Vickers's bony fingers. She released it without complaint, and Armon pushed me and Thomas gently aside.

  It is very hard to describe how someone so mean -- someone who had held such power over us - could fall so far so fast. Madame Vickers was so small and frail standing in the shadow of Armon, I felt truly sorry for her in that brief moment before he spoke. Max and the Mooch had run back behind the house, but Finch remained, backpedaling toward the porch.

  "You," said Armon. His voice was not loud, but big like a mountain. He was pointing at Finch. "Come stand here by your mother."

  I had a feeling then that Finch couldn't do it, that he would run away and hide, and so I felt I should try to help, if only a very little. "He won't hurt you," I advised, "if you do as he says. But Finch -- you can't escape him. He'll find you."

  Finch blubbered as he came, and I don't think to this day I've ever seen anyone quite so afraid. It

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  took a while, but finally he arrived beside Madame Vickers, wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve, unable to look up.

  "No more children for you," said Armon, and Madame Vickers jumped as though Armon had clapped his hands in front of her face. The power of his voice was almost more than she could bear. There was a fierce wind in it, as though he was very angry and could barely contain himself. He clenched his huge fists, and they made a grinding, popping sound.

  "We'll take all the children," he went on. "And this place will be no more."

  Armon put one huge hand on Madame Vickers's shoulder and the other on Finch's. Then he commanded them both to look at him. "I'll be back this way again," he warned. "You would do well not to attempt to fool me."

  And then he released them. The moment he did, Madame Vickers and Finch ran off, hitched up the one horse and cart, and rode off down the hill of garbage with Max and the Mooch yelping and running behind.

  "We found a better place for you," Thomas told the other boys and girls. "I've seen it with my own eyes." The crowd was in something of a state of shock, unsure what to think of Armon and all that

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  had just occurred. But then Armon got down on his knees and smiled at the group of eleven lost children standing amidst the garbage.

  "Thomas is right," said Armon. "There's a better place for you -- a place you can call home, where no one will take advantage of you again."

  They still seemed afraid and wouldn't come near him, so I walked right up to Armon and punched him as hard as I could in the knee. Armon knew just what to do, for he had been winning over lost children of a different sort for a very long time. He toppled over as if my little fist had been too much for him, and as he lay on the ground I dug through his pockets and found a brightly colored candy.

  "What do we have here?" I said sternly, unwrapping the treat and popping it in my mouth.

  The children shuffled forward slowly, and then Armon put a candy in his own mouth and smiled so big and so silly and made the most outrageous mmmmmmmmm sound you can imagine. The children came to him then -- they ran to him, dove at him, tackled him, rolling around in the dirt trying to get the candy from his pockets and all the while he smiled and hummed mmmmmmmmmmmmmm .

  Thomas and I stood there laughing, and then we looked back over our shoulders, watching the dusty

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  trail of Madame Vickers's cart snake its way toward Ainsworth.

  "She's gone," said Thomas. "She's really gone."

  A cheer rose up around the House on the Hill, and we looked back to find Armon's hand open, all the brightly color
ed candies being taken by smaller hands and popped into eager mouths.

  Soon our group was on its way, walking toward Mount Laythen ... and a future in which my days of wandering the wide world with my brother were about to come to an end.

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  ***

  CHAPTER 26

  A Fork in the Wood

  I'll never forget the day of our arrival with the eleven children from the House on the Hill. They were older than the children from Castalia by four or five years each, and every one of the boys and girls from the House on the Hill took at once to playing big brother or big sister to the younger children on the terrace. It was a day of watching them explore the wonders of Sir Alistair Wakefield's home, with me and Thomas remembering what it was like when we'd first arrived there. The group of fourteen was always together after that - no matter when I saw them -- and it seemed to me that they had been marked for one another from the start.

  "It's time I was on my way."

  These words were spoken by Armon the very next day, and it was the beginning of a series of good-byes that would last until my heart was nearly torn into pieces. When he'd left the first time, I'd had this wonderful feeling that I would see him again. That sort of feeling has joy in it, because longing for something tells your heart that it will one day

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  come to pass, either in this life or the next. But when Armon said those words -- It's time I was on my way -- there was a finality in them that broke something deep inside me. And I think there was something else -- something even deeper -- as if I'd only just begun to feel a new and terrible emotion in the wake of Armon's leaving.

  I remember embracing him and having my feet leave the wooden floor of the terrace as he lifted me into the air. I could get my arms around his neck just enough to lock my hands together, and I did this, hoping he would never make me let go. I remember sobbing in such a sad way that my body shook against his chest and I wouldn't look at him or anyone else. I loved Armon then for a special reason only a brother can know. I knew what was soon to come -- I could feel it in my bones -- and this moment with Armon let me pour out all my loss and fear at once, to release it into his care, to let it go and move on.

  Not long after he was gone -- maybe a day or two or three -- Alistair pulled me aside and we walked along the blue water of the lake together. Thomas was busy at building things once more, and already he was in the habit of spending entire days in the model room.

  "There are times in a young man's life when two paths appear before him," said Alistair. His

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  hands were locked behind his back as he walked, and there was a melancholy smile on his face. "That time has come for you, Roland, and it must be faced."

  There were tears welling up in my eyes, but I fought them back and looked off toward the lake. Alistair stopped and put his hands on my shoulders. He wouldn't go on until I looked him in the eye.

  "I have a deep feeling of a coming catastrophe," he said. "Grindall's war machine grows more frightening, or so Armon says. A man such as Grindall won't stay put forever."

  He looked down at his feet, then back at me. "Neither of you can stay here as the world around you grows darker. You must each play your part as we come to a fork in the path."

  We walked on quietly, and somewhere along the edge of the blue lake Alistair whispered, "Path leads to path."

  In everything he'd said before, there had been a glimmer of hope that I might yet find my way back to the people and life I'd known, but in those four words my sadness deepened. Path leads to path. It suddenly seemed possible that the whole of my coming adventure would be had on paths of water, while Thomas's would be made entirely of land.

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  "It's time I grew old, don't you think?" said Alistair.

  "You are old," I said, and this made him laugh a little.

  "I think you know what I mean," he said. "Where will you go?"

  "I was hoping I could go along with you -- to the Five Stone Pillars -- and I could spend the rest of my days as a grandfather of lost children."

  I thought this sounded like a very good idea.

  "Besides," he continued, "you'll need to know how to bring the Warwick Beacon in close to the Five Stone Pillars. It's ... complicated."

  I didn't ask then what he meant, but I thought a great deal in the days that followed about what sort of challenges awaited me at the bottom of the black stone columns that rose from the Lonely Sea.

  "We leave tomorrow morning," Alistair said as we turned and headed back in the direction of the terrace. "Best we finish packing and say a difficult good-bye."

  I busied myself with preparations, doling out responsibilities to the boys and girls who would soon be leaving the home of Sir Alistair Wakefield. There was electricity in the air as we talked of the journey ahead and the place we were going. The looks on the faces of the fourteen boys and girls made me very happy for them. I knew how they

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  felt, at the start of some grand adventure, and a part of me longed to be on our way. I didn't see Thomas at all as he busied himself in the model room. I think we were both afraid of what might happen if we encountered each other so close and yet so far from my departure. We were not sentimental with each other, and the thought of it confused us both. It seemed best to go about our business until the very end.

  Late that night I went to our room and found it empty. I sat on my bed and looked across the room we'd shared, and then I lay down facing the wall. I was just nodding off to sleep when Thomas crept in quietly and got into his bed.

  "Good night, Roland," he said softly.

  "Good night," I replied.

  And that was all we could think to say before drifting off to sleep.

  There was a lot of activity the next morning as we readied the group and the supplies for what would be a special two-day trip with small children to the Warwick Beacon. I kept trying to find a moment of peace in which to pull Thomas aside, but each time our eyes met from across the terrace it seemed that either he or I was being pulled in some direction. Maybe we were happy of the distractions - able to put off the inevitable good-bye for just a little

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  longer -- but there was a part of me that began to regret not having spent more time talking with my brother in the days leading up to our parting.

  There came a time when all was prepared and everyone was ready to leave, and it felt to me as if the moment arrived suddenly and without warning. Everyone lined up and took their turn saying good-bye to Thomas. When it came down to only me and Alistair remaining, Alistair seized the moment and went straight up to Thomas, hugging him as a father might do when he knows he'll be gone a long time. There were words between them, but they were secret words that were not meant for my ears. I heard only what Alistair said at the very end, and it seemed as though it was said for my benefit as well as Thomas's:

  "Don't stay on here too long."

  When Alistair turned to go, there was a determination in him, as though he knew it would take all the strength he could imagine in himself to actually leave this place.

  "Come along then," he said, waving everyone down the stairs, each with some small or large supply to carry. "Let's give two brothers a moment of peace."

  I have a memory of being in the Ainsworth orphanage as a small boy and playing out in the dirt in the courtyard with all the other children.

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  And there was this one time when I was digging a hole, and I could hear the bell go off and the sounds of children yelling and playing as they filed through the big door that led inside. I remember looking up and hearing the silence of the moment. Only a second ago there had been a clamor of noise and activity, and then there was nothing, only me and the haunting stillness. It felt that way now. There had been so much separating my brother and me -- all the bodies and sounds and tasks -- and suddenly there was nothing between us but a lingering stillness.

  "I don't know if I can do this," I said. And I really didn't k
now. Thomas had always been there. It had been his strength that carried me beyond the House on the Hill, through the Lake of Fire, out of the Wakefield House - and so much more. I didn't know if I could navigate the Lonely Sea without him. More important, I didn't want to.

  "Take this with you," said Thomas, coming toward me. He was holding out his book of paintings.

  "I can't take that from you," I protested, finally unable to contain my emotion. "Your whole life is in that book."

  "Our lives are in there," he corrected. "We're always together if we can look at our past. But we can't live in our past, Roland. We have to go on."

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  "But if I take the book, you won't have it," I said. And then finally I told him what was truly in my heart. "You won't remember me."

  Thomas smiled the way he always did when he'd pulled one over on someone. It was never a smile that said, You see there! I got you! -- but a smile that told how much he liked you, how much he enjoyed being with you. He reached behind his back and into a pocket, and pulled out a second book that looked about the same size as the one in his other hand.

  "You don't always have to make models in the model room," he said. "It's a good place to paint as well."

  He handed me his original book, and I began to flip through its worn pages. He followed along, turning as I did, and I saw that he'd painted the book all over again. Though the new paintings were a little less smudged or torn, it was hard to tell the pictures apart.