Billy Hooten

  Yeah, I do that kind of stuff every day.

  But as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, the germ of a crazy idea was planted.

  What if the goblin was right?

  What if he could be Owlboy?

  What if?

  Billy awoke early Sunday morning, thoughts of old-time superheroes on his mind. He took his glasses from the nightstand, grabbed the old comic book and immediately started to read it again.

  It was even better this time.

  But even before he'd finished rereading the last story, nagging questions had begun to develop inside his brain.

  What exactly did Archebold mean by saying I'm Owlboy? Why would he say something like that? I'm just a kid who gets his gym shorts pulled down around his ankles at least once a month. How could I ever be as cool as Owlboy?

  Questions on top of questions, and before his head exploded, Billy decided there was only one thing he could do. Tossing back the covers, he got out of bed and slipped on his clothes.

  He tiptoed to his door and, as quietly as he could, crept down the hallway, hearing his parents’ rumbling snores drifting from their room. Once downstairs, he put on the sneakers he had left on a mat beside the back door and slipped outside.

  Standing for a moment on the back steps, he listened to the September wind rustling the leaves on the big old oak tree in the yard, amazed at how strangely peaceful it was this early in the morning. Then he took a deep breath of the smoky fall air and headed toward the stone wall. Even with the early-morning sun, it was still creepy in the cemetery, but that just made it more exciting. Billy imagined himself as the hero in one of the old-time scary movies he loved to watch, heading out to kick the butt of some disgusting monster who had been terrifying the countryside.

  He smiled. Wouldn't that be something? he thought. To be a real live hero?

  But the closer he got to the Sprylock mausoleum, the tighter the knot in his belly became. Finally he was standing before the great stone structure, a nasty sensation in his back as if somebody was running an ice cube up and down his spine.

  He took a deep breath, gathered his courage and pushed the mausoleum door, hearing the screeching whine of the rusty hinges as the door slowly swung inward. The chamber was filled with a dim, flickering light.

  “Hello?” he called quietly. Getting no response, he held his breath and entered the crypt, like a bug drawn to a candle's warm glow.

  Billy felt a jolt like the zap of a static shock running through his body as his gaze fell upon the goblin lying on the floor of the mausoleum, sound asleep in front of a tiny fire. Slowly, Billy approached the sleeping creature, then started as he noticed that lying beside the fire, its scaled skin a bright red, was a little dragon, its snores producing small gouts of flame that shot from its nostrils to keep the fire burning.

  “Cool!” Billy exclaimed, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

  Archebold bolted upright, looking around as he wiped sleep from his eyes. The dragon awakened as well, staring at Billy, gray smoke trailing from its nose.

  “Hey,” Billy said, waving foolishly at the two strange creatures and suddenly feeling very nervous.

  “You've come back. I knew you would!” Archebold scrabbled to his feet. “Didn't I say he'd be back, Ferdinand?”

  The small dragon nodded, spreading its folded wings and taking flight to soar around Billy's head.

  Billy stared in wide-eyed wonder as Archebold's next words echoed through the stone chamber.

  “The Owlboy has returned.”

  The dragon flapped its leathery wings, hovering in front of Billy's face.

  “She likes you,” Archebold said, making a silly smooching sound with his mouth and motioning for the dragon to join him. “She doesn't usually take well to strangers,” he added as he pulled a small sack from the inside pocket of his coat.

  “In you go,” he instructed the reptile, pulling the bag open. The dragon took one more pass around the boy's head before zooming down into the opened sack.

  “Thank you.” Archebold pulled the rope, cinching the bag closed, put it back inside his coat pocket and returned his attention to Billy.

  “You're much shorter than the other Owlboys, but that shouldn't be a problem,” he said, circling the boy and giving him a good once-over. “Yes, you should do quite nicely, Owlboy.”

  “Stop calling me that. My name is Billy.”

  Archebold stopped in front of the boy and crossed his stubby arms. “Of course, you can be anyone you like in your civilian life.”

  “Civilian life?” Billy asked. “But … but I'm Billy Hooten all the time.”

  Archebold began to laugh. This one had a sense of humor; he liked that. The other Owlboys were always so serious. “Good one, sir,” he said with a wink.

  “No, really,” Billy continued gravely. “Look, are you trying to say that … that Owlboy is real?”

  Archebold couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Of course he's real. He was our greatest hero!” he exclaimed. “Monstros’ guardian and protector.” He shook his head sadly. “But it's been a very long time since there was an Owlboy.”

  “Why?” Billy asked. “Did something happen to him?”

  “One day he was there, fighting the good fight, and then …” Archebold paused for effect. “And then he was gone.”

  “What happened?”

  Archebold shrugged. “Nobody knows, and Monstros was plunged into chaos. The criminals were able to gain the upper hand against the city's law enforcement. After all, there's only so much the police can do.”

  “So there's no Owlboy in … in Monstros City right now?” Billy asked.

  Archebold sighed heavily. “There hasn't been an Owlboy in over twenty years. My family has served those great heroes of Monstros since the beginning, but Grandpa Templeton was the last to bear the honor. It was his Owlboy who disappeared. He's never quite gotten over it. Blames himself and all.” Archebold shook his head again.

  The fire had started to die down, the shadows of the crypt beginning to close in around them. Archebold picked up a few of the twigs and sticks he'd gathered earlier and fed the dwindling flames.

  Billy helped. “So what does your father do, if there's no Owlboy?” he asked.

  “He drives a bus,” the goblin replied, somewhat embarrassed. He sat down in front of the fire and poked at the flames with a stick. “I couldn't stand to see what was happening to the city anymore. Someone had to do something. So I came here.”

  Billy sat down across from the goblin.

  Archebold pulled the stick from the flames, its tip glowing orange, and waved it around like a magic wand. “This is where the first Owlboy was said to have come from, where all the Owlboys are said to be from.”

  The two were quiet, staring at the fire.

  “I came to find a new Owlboy,” Archebold said, breaking the silence. “And I believe I have.”

  Billy did not look up from the fire, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “I'm sorry, Archebold,” he said quietly. “But I don't think so.”

  The goblin leaped up, running around the fire and plopping down next to Billy. “Yes, yes, you're an Owlboy, trust me,” he said urgently. “You have the same eyes.”

  “How can you tell through the goggles?”

  “You have to trust me,” Archebold said earnestly. “Goblins know these things.”

  Billy stood, shaking his head. “No, Archebold, you've got the wrong guy.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I'm no superhero,” Billy interrupted. “I'm just a goofy kid who wouldn't know how to be a hero if it bit him on the butt.”

  “I could teach you,” Archebold pleaded as he too stood. “And there would be no butt biting involved.”

  Billy smiled sadly. “I'm sorry I made you think I'm something I'm not.”

  Archebold didn't know what to say. Could I have really been so wrong? he wondered forlornly. “But you saved me,” he said, trying again.

  “That
was an accident,” Billy explained. “If the pig guy hadn't slipped on those bones, we'd both be in his stomach right now.” He stopped and looked around then as if searching for something.

  “Yes?” the goblin prodded.

  “What happened to him anyway?” Billy asked.

  “I dragged him back to Monstros.” Archebold pointed to the open stone coffin at the back of the mausoleum, then stretched, wincing as his bones popped and cracked. “Just about ruined my back.”

  Billy moved over to gaze at the open coffin. “Is this how you get home … is this the mystical doorway back to Monstros?”

  “I see you've read the comic,” Archebold said happily. “Yes, there are stairs in the coffin that lead down to the city. I could take you there.”

  For a minute, he thought the boy might be tempted to take him up on the offer, but Billy quickly backed away. “No, that's all right,” he said. “I need to get home before my folks wake up and realize I'm gone.”

  The disappointment returned, nearly crushing Archebold beneath its weight. “I understand,” he said dejectedly.

  Billy started toward the iron door of the mausoleum. “I really am sorry.”

  “It's fine.” Archebold turned his back on Billy and trudged toward the open coffin. He had told his family he was going to the world above to find a new Owlboy, and he felt sick with the knowledge that he had failed.

  He had been so sure that Billy was the one.

  The goblin hopped up onto the coffin and was preparing to drop down into the darkness when he noticed Billy standing by the door, watching him.

  Archebold paused for a moment, then jumped back to the ground, reaching inside his coat pocket as he crossed the room. Finding what he was looking for, he tossed something to Billy.

  “This is for you,” Archebold said, watching as Billy caught the object against his chest.

  “What is it?” Billy asked, examining the white owl-shaped object.

  “It's a whistle,” Archebold explained.

  “A whistle?” Billy asked. “What for?”

  “Just in case,” the goblin said, and he returned to the open stone coffin, jumping onto the edge before dropping into the darkness to return home.

  “Just in case.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The rest of Sunday seemed to last forever.

  Even though it was a day off from school—one of the most precious gifts in the whole universe—Billy couldn't concentrate.

  He tried watching some of his favorite DVDs, but just couldn't get into them. And trying to play video games was useless; he kept getting knocked out because he could not get Archebold's crazy story out of his head. In fact, things got so bad he committed the ultimate sin—he wished that Sunday was over and that Monday would hurry up and arrive. At least then he'd have something else to think about.

  And arrive Monday did.

  By the time Billy fell asleep Sunday night, it seemed that his mother was already at the foot of the stairs calling for him to get up and get ready for school. Even though he'd wanted to rush into the first day of the week, Billy barely made it to homeroom before the late bell rang.

  His mind was filled with an ugly goblin face spinning tales of how Billy was a superhero in an underground city of monsters. The idea was nuts. So why in the world couldn't he forget about it? Is it because the idea is so freakin cool that I don't want to forget it? he wondered.

  His morning classes were torture. He tried to concentrate; he really did. But when Mrs. Doherty was teaching her English class about the proper use of the comma, her voice kept changing, sounding more and more like the goblin Archebold, and soon Billy wasn't hearing anything about commas anymore.

  I came to find a new Owlboy. And I believe I have. The goblin's words echoed in Billy's mind.

  Finally the bell for lunchtime rang.

  Maybe if I eat something, Billy thought, plunking himself down on one of the bright orange plastic chairs in the cafeteria at Connery Elementary School. He fished through his book bag for the brown paper sack containing his lunch, and his fingers brushed against something he didn't even know was there. He pulled his hand out of the bag with a start, staring inside at the old Owlboy comic.

  “I thought I left you in my room,” he muttered, struggling with the urge to pull out the comic and read it again.

  “Are you talking to something in your book bag, Billy?”

  Billy looked up to see his friend Danny Ashwell standing at the table, lunch tray in hand. “You know, it's bad enough people think we're geeks, but when you add crazy to the mix …”

  “Just talking to myself,” Billy said, ignoring the comic and pulling out his lunch bag.

  Danny placed his tray on the table and sat down across from Billy. “Let me know if the two of you want to be alone.”

  “Knock it off,” Billy ordered. “I've got a lot on my mind.”

  “Tell me about it,” said the heavyset Danny, digging into his macaroni and cheese as if he hadn't eaten in a month. “The science fair is only six months away and I still don't know what my project's gonna be.”

  Three more of Billy's friends, Kathy B, Dwight and Reggie, showed up with their lunches. They greeted each other in their usual, or unusual, way. Danny grunted, way too busy shoveling food into his maw to be bothered saying hello. Dwight gave everyone his special nod, trying to be the coolest kid at the table but instead looking as if he had a nervous tic.

  “Hey,” Reggie said with a big grin that showed off the most elaborate set of braces Billy had ever seen.

  Kathy B, who hadn't yet taken her seat, appeared to be thinking, and Billy knew exactly what she was about to do, because she did it every day.

  Suddenly, she cleared her throat. “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow,” she said in a powerful voice filled with emotion as she gazed up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.

  The boys glanced up as well, just in case there was something to see.

  She looked back down at them. “Well?”

  Every day Kathy B would rattle off a Shakespeare quote and wait for somebody—anybody—to guess what play it was from.

  “Green Eggs and Hamlet!” Reggie screamed, and everybody rolled their eyes and shook their heads.

  Reggie used the same joke every day, and Billy wondered when he would realize that it was only funny once.

  Once.

  Kathy B ignored Reggie, taking her seat in a disgusted huff. “It's from Romeo and Juliet, you dopes,” she said, unzipping her lunch bag.

  Yep, it's a veritable geek rainbow at the ol’ lunch table, Billy observed. He usually enjoyed lunch with his pals, a gentle reminder that he wasn't the only weirdo in school. But today he didn't feel like joining in as everybody excitedly talked about their weekend activities. The stuff he had to share was just too bizarre, even for this group.

  He listened to Danny talk about the moldy half of a sandwich he'd found under his bed on Saturday, and listened to Dwight tell how he'd gone to the coolest birthday party ever and hadn't gotten home until after midnight. Reggie talked about how awesome his teeth were going to look once his braces came off—big surprise—and Kathy B regaled them with tales of her new production of Macbeth, which wasn't going well because her all-cat cast wouldn't stop fighting.

  And then it was as if they realized all at once that Billy wasn't talking.

  “Hey, what's wrong with you, Billy?” Kathy B asked, popping a corn chip into her mouth and chewing noisily.

  “He was talking to his book bag when I got here,” Danny said. “I thought maybe he was going insane.”

  Billy crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “I was hoping you wouldn't notice,” he said in one of his weird voices.

  Everyone at the table laughed—well, except for Dwight. The face and screwy voice must not have been cool enough.

  Reggie tossed a balled-up napkin at Billy, and Billy caught it easily. “What's goin’ on? You feelin’ all right?”
he asked through his mouth of metal.

  “I'm fine,” Billy assured them. “Just thinking.” He reached into his bag and carefully removed the Owlboy comic, laying it on the table.

  Everyone seemed properly impressed by the old book, except of course for Dwight.

  “Owlboy,” Reggie read, his eyes wide as he reached out to touch the cover. “That's an old one,” he said, and then started to giggle, looking at Billy.

  “What?” Billy asked.

  “Is that where Randy got the name?”

  “Doubt it,” Billy answered. “I don't think he can even read.”

  “What's it about?” Danny asked as he broke off a piece of double fudge brownie and shoved it into his mouth. “Is it like Snake?”

  Billy reached out, flipping open the comic. “No, it's really different.”

  He realized this was his opportunity to see how his friends would have reacted if they had been faced with Archebold and his offer.

  “It's about this kid who's been chosen to be this superhero … Owlboy, and how he protects this underground city where monsters live, from evil and stuff.”

  The gang just continued to stare at the brightly colored artwork as Billy slowly turned the pages.

  “Sounds neat,” Reggie said, clutching a napkin to his mouth. His braces had a tendency to make him drool when he got excited.

  “Think so?” Billy asked warily. “What if you guys were chosen to be a hero—would you do it?”

  “Depends on the hero,” Dwight said, reaching out to turn the comic toward him. “Is this him?” he asked. “He looks okay. I guess I'd do it.”

  “Me too,” Danny piped up, his face covered in chocolate. “Usually, these superhero types have great big laboratories where they do all kinds of experiments.”

  “Almost as good as being onstage,” Kathy B said. “And besides, I like the cape. It's very theatrical.”

  Billy was both surprised and pleased by his friends’ responses. Maybe this isn't such a crazy idea after all.

  “Well, well, well, what've we got here?” the unmistakable voice of Billy's mortal enemy boomed.

  Why was it that whenever Billy started to feel positive about anything, something bad—like Randy Kulkowski—had to come along and ruin it?