The Hound of Rowan

  Max was not sure he wanted any more visitors.

  “Now,” said Nigel. “Let’s fix another cup and I’ll see if I can explain everything.”

  The two of them wandered into the kitchen. Max heated the kettle while Nigel hummed pleasantly and rummaged about for more cookies. Reaching into the cupboard, he pulled out a box of Bedford Bros. Crispy Soup Wafers.

  “Are these any good?”

  “According to my dad, they’ll save civilization,” muttered Max, looking down to rub the remaining numbness from his leg. A moment later, he heard a loud crunch.

  “Well, I don’t know about saving civilization,” Nigel crowed, “but they’re rather tasty!”

  The Recruiter scooped up a handful of snacks and headed for the living room. It was getting dark outside; thunder rumbled in the distance. Max brought two mugs of cocoa from the kitchen and found Nigel standing before the fireplace.

  “Seems we’ve got a storm heading our way. Let’s cheer things up a bit!”

  Nigel’s fingers danced as though manipulating a marionette. The cold logs in the hearth suddenly hissed and popped. Yellow flames flicked along the edges. Within seconds, a bright fire was crackling merrily.

  “There we go!” Nigel clapped. “A storm on the way, fuel on the fire, and a sip of chocolate to soothe the soul! Come on over here, Max.”

  Max gaped at the fire.

  “But how did you…?”

  “All in due time,” said Nigel, spreading the quilt on the hardwood floor so the two could sit down. “Now, Max, before we begin I need you to promise you won’t tell Mum and Bob that I ate so many of these whatchacallums.”

  “Um…okay,” said Max, confused.

  “Excellent!” Nigel stuffed a pair of Bedford wafers into his mouth. “These recruiting trips are the only chance I get to sneak a bit of decent comfort food!” He smacked the crumbs from his hands before continuing.

  “Max, as frustrating as it might be to hold off on your questions, I’d like you to begin by sharing a bit of yesterday’s experience with me.”

  As the fire crackled and the storm approached, Max recounted the previous day to Nigel. Unlike Mrs. Millen, however, Nigel simply listened and did not press for details as Max spoke.

  “I don’t know what it all means,” said Max when he brought his tale to a close.

  “Ah, it seems someone needs an introduction to Celtic mythology! That’s a most unusual vision, Max, involving the Cattle Raid of Cooley. It speaks very highly of your capabilities as a Potential.”

  “What is a Potential? That word was used that way in the letter I received.”

  “Why, Max, you are a Potential, and that is why I’m here! You are one of a handful of people on our wondrous little planet with the potential to become one of us. When you found that room and discovered that tapestry, we were made aware of you. I’m here to see if you have enough of that special something to merit making you an offer.”

  “Who is ‘we’? An offer for what?”

  “All in due time, all in due time. First, I need to administer a few tests.”

  Rain pattered on the windowpanes. Max thought he saw a shadow dart across one of the windows.

  “Somebody’s out there!”

  Nigel smiled.

  “It’s quite natural to be a bit jumpy. But we are quite safe. This house is being watched by friendly eyes.”

  Max shivered, uncertain if he wanted to be watched by anything, friendly or not.

  “What happens if I fail?”

  “Then I clean up the kitchen and go on my merry way, happy to have made your remarkable acquaintance. Within a few days, you’ll have forgotten all about me and this afternoon’s unpleasantness. You won’t remember a thing.”

  “But—”

  “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry. I’ve placed this house under priority watch. Given what’s happened, it will continue to be under surveillance for some time—even if the tests elude you. There may well be more than one Agent standing guard outside this house, Max.”

  It was clear that Nigel thought that this explanation was weighty and sufficient. It was not. Max went to look out the window.

  “You won’t see an Agent,” Nigel said as Max peered out the curtains. “Even I might not see them. That’s part of an Agent’s job—to be as slippery as smoke.”

  Max frowned and closed the curtains; the storm was now directly overhead.

  Nigel stood and motioned for Max to follow him back into the kitchen.

  The Recruiter set his briefcase on the kitchen table. Opening the clasps, Nigel reached in the case and removed a digital voice recorder and what appeared to be a large silver tennis racket without any strings. Max could not see how the racket had ever fit within the slender case.

  “Come over here, Max—we may as well get started. If you don’t mind, hop up on the counter there and forgive me for the formalities.” Nigel activated the recorder and leaned against a cupboard.

  “Senior Recruiter Nigel Bristow initiating Standard Series of Potential Tests on Mr. Max McDaniels, age twelve, of Chicago, Illinois, United States of America.”

  Holding the recorder toward Max, Nigel continued to speak in a clipped monotone.

  “Mr. McDaniels, please indicate that you have been fully briefed and agree to participate in the following trials with full knowledge that they are highly experimental and likely to result in severe disfigurement….”

  “Hey! Wait a minute!” shrieked Max, jumping off the counter.

  Nigel chortled. “Just a bit of humor. Couldn’t help myself.” He waved Max back up onto the counter. “All right, then. First test to be administered: physical aptitude. Max, you’ve been to the doctor before, haven’t you? Well, this is similar to when he taps your knee with a rubber mallet. Only instead of a mallet, I’m going to hold this little contraption. It can’t hurt you, I promise.”

  Max watched Nigel adjust a number of tiny dials on the handle. A small screen flickered on, and a ring of white light appeared within the empty oval head. The contraption began to whine.

  Max squirmed.

  “Nigel, are you sure that thing is safe? It doesn’t sound safe!”

  “Perfectly safe, perfectly safe,” muttered Nigel, carefully guiding the contraption around Max’s dangling foot and up toward his knee. “Now, in a moment you’re going to feel a bit of a shock—nothing painful, but it will make you want to kick your leg out. I want you to resist that temptation and keep your knee within the boundaries. Do not touch the device! Ready…and begin.”

  The machine’s whine rose to a fevered pitch, and Max felt a sudden jolt to his knee. He shut his eyes and focused all of his will on controlling the powerful impulse to kick. Sweat beaded on his face and trickled down his back. Glancing down, he saw his knee moving in a blur of tiny circles that approached but never touched the instrument. Finally, the machine’s pitch descended to a steady hum before slowing to a halt. Nigel studied the device’s screen and reached for his recorder.

  “Lactic production rate: eighty-two. Lactic dispersion rate: eighty-four. Twitch speed: ninety-five. Muscular density, current: sixty-four. Muscular density, projected: eighty-seven. Synaptic bypass: eighty-four. Mental stress fatigue: fifty-two.”

  Nigel frowned as he read the last number.

  “Hmmm. Stress fatigue’s surprisingly low. Score is likely result of subject exhaustion following preemptive Enemy intercept. Recruiter recommends retesting at later date if applicable.”

  Brightening, he looked up at Max, who was mopping his brow. Nigel switched off the recorder.

  “Good show, my boy! Acceptable ratings across the board and you managed to keep from hitting the device. You’re a talented devil. I’ve only been recruiting for seven years, but I’ve never tested anyone who registered a ninety-five for twitch speed. Never even heard of it, actually.”

  “What do those numbers mean?” Max asked.

  “Oh, a lot of hogwash, really,” replied Nigel, seemingly distracted as
he switched off the contraption. “They’re supposed to give us an understanding of your physical capabilities and, more importantly, your ability to control your actions in a stressful environment. I’m sure someone will explain all the numbers to you later if you’re really interested.”

  Max glanced at the strange, silvery instrument.

  “Is that thing magical?”

  “Magical? Heavens, no! In fact, don’t let any of the Device people hear you say that! They take a lot of pride—too much, if you ask me—in making all kinds of useful non-mystic things. I’m just happy this new model works. The last one was—”

  He coughed and glanced at Max, who raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, needless to say, it wasn’t as reliable as this model. This one, however, is a peach!”

  Nigel patted the device affectionately before letting it slip from his fingers into his case. It fell in without making an appreciable sound or dent within the smooth calfskin sides. Plucking up the recorder, he beckoned Max back into the living room.

  “Right. One test down, and possibly two to go. Now, I’d like you to stand across the room and face the fireplace.”

  With a sweep of his arm, Nigel extinguished the lamps. The fire was now the room’s only source of light.

  “Wow,” said Max.

  Nigel smiled and placed several more logs in the hearth. Firelight danced on the walls. Max waited nervously, his eyes adjusting to the darkened room. The fire burned much brighter when Nigel finally stood and turned to him.

  “Max, the first test was not so unusual—bit of an elaborate physical. This next test will be a tad strange for you. I’m going to ask you to try something that you don’t currently believe you can do. I want you to extinguish this fire from where you stand.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Max, shaking his head and laughing with disbelief.

  “You have what it takes to do this, Max. Relax your mind. Imagine this fire ebbing to a low flame, then to a trickle of smoke, and finally to a cold hearth.”

  Max’s eyes followed the brilliant oranges and yellows that writhed about the logs. He heard the wood crackling, watched the heat rise in steady waves. A log collapsed in a shower of sparks. Max flexed his fingers. He pictured the flames slowing to a halt, losing their intensity, and leaving the space cold and dark.

  To Max’s utter amazement, the fire began to die. It was unmistakable, as if the wood was slowly but steadily absorbing the flames.

  “Very good,” said Nigel. “Now finish the job and put it out….”

  Max shut his eyes and focused his entire being on the glowing logs and embers. He clenched his fists, imagining the heat being drawn into the surrounding brick and diffusing throughout the house. His body shuddered; he felt utterly drained. Opening his eyes, he saw Nigel smiling at him.

  “Bravo, Max. Well done, indeed.” Nigel swept his arm up and restored the lights. Max winced as Nigel grasped a log that had been burning only moments before. He tossed it to Max, who instinctively backed away and let it fall to the floor in a small puff of ash and soot. Crouching down, Max flicked at it with a finger. It was cool to the touch. Beaming at Nigel, he placed it back in the hearth.

  Nigel tipped an imaginary cap as he activated the recorder.

  “Test two completed. Subject extinguished a confined stage-two fire from a distance of seven paces. Subject successfully eliminated flames and further sapped residual heat from logs. Test completed in one minute and forty-seven seconds.”

  Max’s chest expanded as Nigel shut off the recorder.

  “One minute and forty-seven seconds is pretty good, isn’t it?”

  “Well, Max, not to burst your bubble, but the modern record is under five seconds by our very own Miss Hazel Boon. Your score was, well, average among Potentials. Not to worry! It took this poor Recruiter over three minutes to squelch his first flame, and even then you could roast marshmallows over the logs!”

  Max smiled at the thought of a miniature Nigel frowning in his blue suit while a Recruiter roasted marshmallows and reported the disappointing result.

  “So, what’s next?”

  “Oh, the last test isn’t so bad—you’ve already had the biggies! It’s just a bit of a puzzle. I’ve got it in my case in the kit—”

  Before Nigel could finish his sentence, there was a deafening boom of thunder and the house went black. Squinting in the dark, Max saw Nigel sprawled on the floor. The back door had been smashed to pieces. To Max’s horror, Mrs. Millen eyed them from the kitchen.

  Her hair was matted from the rain; her makeup was smeared into dark streaks on her fleshy face. She shambled toward them, bent and furious. Her cane smacked the floor at rapid and regular beats.

  “Hoo-hoo-hoo! Thought I’d just gone away? Thought your friend’s little charms could keep me out?”

  Max started to scream but no sound emerged. At his feet, Nigel moaned and struggled to stand, but his arms buckled beneath him and he collapsed back to the ground.

  “Better run, Max!” Mrs. Millen warned. “Better run while you can! Leave that scrawny thing to me and I’ll let you go!”

  She was just ten feet away when Max finally bolted.

  He wrenched the front door open to the summer rain. Whipping around, he saw Mrs. Millen chuckling and crouching low over Nigel, whose foot thumped dully against the floorboards.

  A blind rage came over Max. “Get away from him! Get away from him!” He dashed back into the living room only to see Nigel sitting, comfortable and composed, by the rekindled fire. Max stalked down the hall, adrenaline now racing through his body. There was no sign of Mrs. Millen. The kitchen door was whole, solid and secure on its hinges.

  Nigel smiled and spoke softly into his recorder. “Test three complete. After a brief moment of initial hesitation and retreat, Mr. McDaniels responded to phantasm with a frontal assault, exhibiting extraordinary determination and—oh dear, how should I put this—ferocity! Given that phantasm was generated from a mind cache recently exposed to the Enemy, this is particularly remarkable. It is with great pride and personal satisfaction that this Recruiter may report that Mr. Max McDaniels has passed the Standard Series of Potential Tests.”

  Max stared in disbelief at Nigel. “So that was all just a…test?”

  “Yes, I am sorry about that,” said Nigel with a sigh. “It’s the only way we know of to test a Potential’s courage and loyalty. Unfortunately, it’s the test most Potentials ultimately fail, but we’ve refused to compromise our standards. You were willing to help me at great danger to your person, my boy, and I am indeed touched.”

  Nigel smiled and rose to place a hand on Max’s shoulder.

  Max glanced at the hand. He let it slip off his shoulder as he walked wearily toward the kitchen. Nigel followed.

  “Don’t be too angry with me!” he pleaded. “It’s not so easy being on my side of it, either—what with all the screaming, the crying, the irretrievably soiled pants….”

  “I’m not mad anymore,” sighed Max. “Just promise that you won’t conjure up Mrs. Millen again. I don’t think I could handle her three times in one day.”

  “It’s a deal,” chuckled Nigel. “Now, let’s see if we can’t find some more of those Crispy Sons Snack—whatever you call them.”

  3

  THE TIME TO CHOOSE

  Max awoke earlier than usual as Nigel’s whistling and the smell of coffee wafted upstairs. It was light outside; sprinklers were hard at work. He yawned and rolled out of bed, throwing on a T-shirt and shuffling down the stairs.

  Nigel was seated at the dining-room table, already dressed in a suit and tie. He perused the Tribune and sipped at a mug of coffee. Steam rose from a covered basket arranged on the table along with a crock of butter, several types of jam, and a glass of juice. “And the sleepyhead emerges from his burrow! Can’t say I blame you, though—you had quite a day yesterday.”

  “Nigel, it’s six fifteen in the morning….”

  “Exactly. Time to rise and shine! I’ve got to be
on my way shortly, so I thought we’d first enjoy a proper breakfast. Max, have you ever had popovers?”

  Nigel peeled back the basket’s cover to reveal a dozen of what looked like steaming hot biscuits.

  “Are they anything like Pop-Tarts?” asked Max.

  “I should say not,” said Nigel with a shudder. “My wife’s would shame these sorry creations, but I still think you’re in for a treat! Here’s to new discoveries!”

  Max raised his glass, then spent the next several minutes attacking the hot, flaky popovers.

  “Mneez uhn illy guuh!” he said at last.

  Nigel looked up from his paper.

  “Come again?”

  “These are really good!” Max repeated, reaching for another.

  “Are you admitting they compare favorably to the almighty Pop-Tart? I believe that’s four you’ve managed already….”

  Max narrowed his eyes.

  “Yes, well, now that we’ve fed the monster, perhaps we should give him a present.”

  Max wiped his mouth as Nigel presented him with an envelope of the same heavy cream-colored paper as the mysterious letter that had appeared in his pocket. This envelope was larger, but it, too, had Max’s name scripted on the front. Max slid his hand under the sealing wax and opened the flap to remove a sheaf of papers and a glossy brochure.

  “Save the brochure for later,” said Nigel. “Have a peek at the rest.”

  Max turned the papers over and scanned the cover page.

  Dear Mr. McDaniels,

  It is our understanding that you passed the Standard Series of Tests for Potentials. As Mr. Bristow no doubt informed you, this is a tremendous achievement. On behalf of Rowan Academy, please allow me to extend our most sincere congratulations.

  Based on your results, Rowan Academy hereby extends you an offer to join our organization as an Apprentice, First Year.