The Warrior Heir

  His mother was seated at the kitchen table, her face blotchy from crying, surrounded by a garland of tissues, like offerings at a shrine.

  “Jack!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “I didn’t get home until an hour ago. When I got your message, I was so worried. And when you were late ...” Her voice broke.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I wanted to come home and get my medicine, but Mr. Penworthy wouldn’t let me. Well, he would have, but then I’d have had to serve a detention. And then I would have missed soccer tryouts.” He hesitated, realizing he was making matters worse.

  “Remember? I told you about tryouts this afternoon?”

  “Soccer tryouts! You should have come right home! I’ve already called the school, the hospital, and the police station. The neighbors are out looking for you.” Now she was really pissed.

  He nodded, his face hot with embarrassment. “I know. I ran into Nick.”

  “Nick?” She blinked, distracted. “I didn’t even talk to him.” Then she refocused. “How could you be so thoughtless? What if something happened to your heart?”

  “Really, Mom, I feel great.” And it was true. Despite a three-hour workout, being thrown to the ground and covered with mud, he felt positively light on his feet. It was hard to explain. The world seemed unusually sharp, more in focus. There was a keen, primitive edge to everything. The wind shrieked, and he could hear the harsh splatter of ice on the roof. The old windows rattled in their wooden frames. He felt like going back out into the wind, shaking his fist and howling back.

  “Well, you look awful! You have mud in your hair!” she said, pulling him in for a hug. She reached for the bottle on the table. “Here, you’d better take your medicine right away. Dr. Longbranch said if you ever forgot a dose, to take it as soon as you remember.”

  She poured out a tablespoon of the nut-brown liquid and handed it to Jack. It carried the scent of damp basements and old paper, last fall’s leaves stirred from the bottom of a pile. He swallowed it down.

  “Now, you’d better get upstairs for a shower. And maybe lie down for a little while before supper. I have some work to do tonight. How’s Thai food sound?”

  “Sure. Great,” he said, the flavor of the medicine lingering on the back of his tongue. It tasted somehow of old sorrows, old regrets. He brushed his fingers across his eyes, feeling an uncanny sense of loss.

  Becka was unloading her briefcase. “Your Aunt Linda is coming tomorrow.”

  “She is?” Jack’s head snapped up. It had been more than a year since his aunt had visited. What was even more surprising was that she’d called ahead to warn them. “What’s up?”

  “Don’t know,” said Becka. “She says she’s coming to see you.”

  Ted Slansky was seated at the battered table in the equipment room, nursing a cherry soda and reviewing his notes from the afternoon’s scrimmage. He rubbed his chin, informally matching players and positions, faintly conscious of the stench of old sweat and leather that permeated the place. The papers stirred with a sudden movement of air as the door opened.

  He looked up, expecting to see one of the players, someone hoping for some early feedback. But two men stood in the doorway, long coats hanging loosely from their shoulders, open in front, as if they did not feel the cold. One was an older man, tall and slender, with a scholarly beard. The other was young and athletic looking, with a sharp jawline and straight dark hair. They glanced quickly about the room, and then back at Slansky.

  “Was there a boy here?” the older one asked. It was an odd question, and spoken with a faint accent, as of someone born overseas.

  Slansky might have laughed, but didn’t. Somehow it didn’t seem like a good idea. “There were about thirty boys here, as a matter of fact, but I think they’re all gone now,” he replied. “Did you look out front? Some of them may still be waiting for rides.”

  “There are no boys out front,” the older man said, as if it were Slansky’s fault.

  Slansky shrugged, feeling uneasy. There was something threatening about the two men. “Which one is your boy? I can tell you whether he was here or not.” He laid the sign-up sheet in front of him on the table.

  “We don’t know which one it is,” the younger man hissed. “That’s why we are here.” At this, the older man lifted a hand to still the other. He picked up the sheet from the table, scanned it quickly, then folded it and put it in his pocket.

  “Hey!” Slansky protested. “I need that.” He would have said more, but the bearded man put out a hand and rested it on his shoulder. Slansky was very conscious of the shape and weight of the man’s hand, the heat of it burning through his sweatshirt. He fell silent, eyes wide, overtaken by an unreasoning fear.

  The building shuddered under the assault of the wind. The younger man stood, head cocked as if listening. “This shouldn’t be so difficult if the boy’s untrained,” he growled. “There’s some disruption about, someone interfering . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Why were thirty boys here?” the older man asked softly, speaking to Slansky. He tightened his grip, and Slansky felt his heart respond, as if the man could stop it with a touch. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades.

  “Soccer tryouts,” he replied, swallowing hard.

  “Soccer tryouts,” the man repeated, as if in disbelief. “There was a release of power here,” the man continued. “Was there, perhaps, a fight?”

  Slansky shook his head. “It gets pretty competitive sometimes, but ...” He shook his head again. “No fights.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual? Did any of the players . . . stand out? Perhaps a new player who did something remarkable?”

  Slansky desperately reviewed the afternoon’s scrim-mage. “There were some good plays, but . . . perhaps if you tell me what the . . . what you’re looking for, I could help you.”

  The bearded man made an impatient gesture. He pulled the list of players out of his pocket and thrust it at Slansky. “Circle your five best players,” he ordered. “We’ll start there.”

  When the coach had done that, the stranger slid the list back into his pocket. The younger man shifted from one foot to the other, as if impatient to be off. The questioner moved his hand from Slansky’s shoulder to his head. His scalp prickled, as if all of his hairs were standing at attention. He quivered with dread.

  “Ana memorare,” the man whispered. That was what it sounded like, some kind of Latin phrase Slansky might have remembered from Catholic school.

  Slansky awoke some time later and lifted his face from the table. He realized he must have been asleep for a while, because it was getting dark and the room was cold. Somehow, he’d knocked over his can of cherry pop. He wondered why the door was open and where the sign-up sheet had gotten to.

  After supper, Jack slipped out the back door and crossed the gravel driveway to the garage, carrying his social studies book and notebook under his arm. He climbed the stairs to Nick’s apartment, and was lifting his hand to knock, when he heard Nick’s voice from within. “Come on in, Jack.”

  As usual, the old caretaker’s apartment was tidy, though several books lay open on his desk. Only three rooms, and the place was packed with stuff: books, model airplanes, a miniature steam engine that Nick and Jack had built the year before, jars of chemicals and plant extractions. Bunches of drying plants hung from the ceiling, like some exotic upside-down garden. There was a large wooden cabinet that had been a store display, with rows of tiny drawers full of antique hardware and scavenged items. One whole room was devoted to books, layered two deep on shelves from floor to ceiling on every wall. The apartment always smelled of paint and varnish and spices and dust: exotic, like one of the Indian markets down by the university. Nick at home somehow reminded Jack of an old bear denned up for the winter.

  Nick Snowbeard looked up from his solitary dinner. “Sit down, Jack. You’re just in time for dessert.” Warily, Jack dropped into the offered chair. Nick shuffled around the apartment, clad in his usual attire of flannel shirt
and work pants.

  Dessert was chocolate marshmallow ice cream. Jack got partway through his dish before Nick started in on him.

  “So you forgot to take your medicine,” Nick said abruptly. “Your mother must have been beside herself.” He still seemed unusually hard-edged and intense.

  “I guess.” Jack looked away from Nick, toward the window. A shallow tray was laid out on the table. It had been spread with different colors of sand, raked into an intricate design, littered with small metal objects.

  “Why didn’t you come home and get it when you remembered?” Nick’s voice broke into Jack’s reverie.

  “Mr. Penworthy said I’d have to serve a detention after school if I left school to go get it. And I didn’t want to miss soccer tryouts.”

  Nick shook his head, his exaggerated brows drawing together in a frown. “You should have come home anyway, detention or not. It’s a small thing for your mother to ask, your cooperation in taking care of yourself. What you did today could have important consequences. You cannot imagine what it is like to lose a child.”

  The old man spoke as if from personal experience. Jack sighed, a frustrated explosion of air.

  “You’re an adolescent. You think you’re immortal.” Nick collected their dishes and set them in the sink, put the teakettle on to heat. “How did tryouts go?”

  Jack told Nick all about the business with Lobeck. By the time Jack finished his story, Nick was frowning again. “Garrett Lobeck went flying through the air? And you didn’t touch him?”

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t really know what happened. He was pissed about it. I think he was just looking for an excuse for blowing the play.”

  “Was he hurt?” Nick persisted.

  Why this sudden interest in Lobeck? “His lip was bleeding. He’ll have a fat lip tomorrow. To match his head,” Jack added.

  “Do you think he’ll make a big deal about it? Tell people he was attacked, and so on?” Snowbeard leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the table in front of him as if he were holding it down. The old man’s hands looked smooth and remarkably young for someone his age. Whatever his age was.

  “Who knows? He said I fouled him. Seriously, someone should’ve hurt him a long time ago.”

  Nick smiled thinly. “Don’t misunderstand me, Jack. It is not that I object to a little butt-kicking when it’s deserved.” He stood abruptly and walked to the window, nudging the metal tokens on their bed of sand with his forefinger.

  “What’s that?” Jack asked, eager to distract Nick, who seemed intent on interrogating him.

  “Mmmm? This? It’s nothing. A charm against evil. Old magic. The eccentricities of an old man.” Typical Nick Snowbeard. He could say any outrageous thing that came into his head and get away with it.

  When Nick had things arranged to his satisfaction, he returned to the table. And the topic of Lobeck.

  “Did anyone else see what happened? Was anyone there to watch the tryouts?”

  Jack shook his head. “The goalie was the closest, and I don’t think he saw it.” He tried to think of who was in the bleachers. Thought of Leesha. “There were some people in the stands.” Jack regarded Nick curiously. “Why, do you think he’ll sue me or something?”

  The kettle shrilled. Nick rose, lifting it from the heat, and poured hot water into the teapot. He set out a china cup, cream and sugar.

  The weather was getting worse. Sleet clattered against the glass of the windows, and the oaks behind the garage creaked in protest. A damp chill seemed to find its way through a hundred unseen passages, running cold fingers down Jack’s spine.

  Jack was still irritated about the medicine. Today, he hadn’t taken it, and he’d felt . . . different. More alive. Now he felt ...anesthetized. As if he were being smothered.

  “I just don’t see what the big deal is about the medicine. Dr. Longbranch says I have to keep taking it. She never runs any tests, so how would she know? I feel fine, and I felt good today without it. Maybe it’s time I weaned myself off the stuff. I think we should find another doctor, someone from around here. I’ve never liked Dr. Longbranch that much anyway.”

  “Have you told your mother how you feel?”

  “I’ve tried, but she doesn’t want to hear it. It’s like she thinks Longbranch is some kind of . . . of wizard.”

  Nick choked, sputtering, spraying tea across the table.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Perfectly.” Nick blotted at his beard with a napkin. “I suggest you speak with your Aunt Linda before you do anything rash.”

  Jack stared at him. Aunt Linda? Why did he need to get a second opinion from her? Becka often joked that Nick had been a present from Aunt Linda, since she was the one who had recommended him. All of her presents were unusual, from exotic African carvings to a chemistry set his parents had vetoed when he was three, to sailing lessons and beach weekends. Some gifts were dangerous, some extravagant and impractical, but all were interesting. Never a golf shirt or a gift card.

  Nick never said much about his personal history, if he had any family, or how he knew Aunt Linda. Somehow, he seemed to be able to deflect those questions effortlessly. He was from northern Britain, had attended Cambridge, though he never finished his degree. Aunt Linda had attended private school in Britain when she was Jack’s age. Perhaps they’d met there.

  It didn’t matter. Jack was tired of being the miracle child, the survivor, tired of swallowing down the medicine that was emblematic of his special status. “Sure, Nick, whatever. I’ll ask her. She’s coming tomorrow, you know,” he said.

  Nick’s black eyes glittered under bushy brows. “Is she? That’s a good thing, I suppose,” he said.

  Impatiently, Jack grabbed his social studies book and leafed through until he found the appropriate page. “Well, back to important stuff. I have a social studies test tomorrow. Can you quiz me on the explorers?” He pushed the book toward Nick, a little rudely. History was Snowbeard’s specialty. Sometimes he spoke of events long in the past as if he had participated personally.

  The old man sat for a moment, tapping a forefinger against his pursed lips. He sighed and rotated the book so he could read it. He found the spot with his finger. “Vasco da Gama,” he said.

  Chapter Two

  The Road Trip

  Jack awoke, momentarily confused by the sound of voices from downstairs. He threw back the quilt, then lay back regretfully for a moment. It had been another late night.

  But there was something else, some vestige of a dream that made him shiver. Something about dead people, somebody looking for him. And Nick. He frowned. It had been a long time since he’d had a nightmare. One he remembered, at least.

  The weather had improved. The wind was finally quiet after shrieking most of the night. There was the promise of a fair day in the brightening sky. The backyard was gilded, every leaf and blade silvered with ice, and gleaming.

  When he rounded the corner from the back stairs into the kitchen, she was there, seated at the kitchen table with his mother. His aunt Linda.

  Her hair was gold and platinum this time, and short and spiky all over. Her skin seemed bronzed a bit, no doubt the result of recent travel in the tropics. She wore blue jeans and a fitted T-shirt, with sturdy leather hiking boots.

  They must have been talking about him, because conversation stopped when he came into the room. There was an awkward little moment until Aunt Linda rose to embrace him. Jack towered over her, but she tilted his chin down so she could look him in the face. Her eyes were blue speckled with gold, like some exotic stone.

  “You’ve grown so tall, Jack,” she said, releasing his chin but still studying his face. “I do believe you’ve passed up your father. It seems boys become men before you know it.” She looked a little sad for some reason, but he felt inordinately pleased, as if he had personally brought the change about.

  “I was just telling Linda some news. I guess I forgot all about it after that scare we had last night.” Becka looked as excited as a c
hild at Christmas. “I’ve been awarded a fellowship to do some research in Middle English literature at Oxford this summer.”

  “Oxford? You mean England? But what about your practice?”

  “Mike Mixon’s agreed to pick up any court work for me this summer. Things are pretty quiet right now, anyway. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a real vacation. I won’t be working all the time, and there’s so much I’d like to show you” Becka said.

  “You’ll love England, Jack,” Aunt Linda added. “Our family comes from there. So many old voices, and so much history under the ground,” she said, as if that comment required no further explanation.

  “Well.” Jack was torn between excitement and apprehension. “Dad said maybe we could finally build that sailboat this summer.”

  “I’m sure we can work something out,” Becka said lightly, pretending it might actually occur.

  “Maybe we could visit you for a change,” Jack suggested to Linda.

  Linda didn’t meet his eyes. “I’d love for you to visit, but unfortunately I’ve sublet my flat in London, since I’ve been doing so much traveling.”

  Aunt Linda’s livelihood had always been rather mysterious. She was in real estate, she said, representing manor houses and castles throughout the UK. Jack assumed she must be good at it; she always seemed to have plenty of money and the leisure to spend it.

  “Mom said you came to see me,” he said bluntly.

  She nodded, steepling her hands. “I was hoping you could come with me on a road trip.”

  “Road trip?”

  “I’m going to dig up some dead relatives,” she went on, “and ask them where the family money is.”

  “Dead relatives?” All he seemed to be able to do was parrot what she said.

  Aunt Linda laughed. “I came back to the States to do some genealogical research,” she said. “I’m going to drive down to Coalton County and look through some old records.”

  “Oh.” Jack tried not to make a face. Funny, he’d never heard Aunt Linda mention anything about genealogy before.