Darwen Arkwright and the School of Shadows (12 page)

Plans and Specters

“W
hat do flies
wear on their feet?” said Darwen.

“I don't know,” said Alex and Rich together.

“Shoos,” said Darwen.

It was the end of the school day and the three of them were sitting at a desk piled with exercise books in their homeroom. The tensions of the previous day were forgotten, but Darwen had found something else to worry about.

“What?” said Alex. “Flies wear shoes? I don't get it.”

“Not shoes,” said Darwen, wafting the air vaguely,
“shoos.”

“Oh,” said Alex. “Now I get it. But it's not funny.”

“She's right, man,” said Rich. “That's bad. What else do you have?”

“I'd tell you the story about the broken pencil—” Darwen began, but Rich cut him off.

“But it had no point?”

“Right,” said Darwen.

“That's just sad,” said Alex. “I thought English people were famous for their sense of humor.”

Darwen sat down and put his head in his hands. “Guess I can't be a comedian in the talent show,” he said.

“Wait,” said Alex, “that's what this was? You were testing out material you were thinking of doing
in public
? Yeah . . . no. Never tell jokes again. Ever.”

“So what am I going to do?” Darwen pleaded, his eyes flicking across a wall collage featuring all the students in the class. Somehow they all seemed to be brandishing trophies or holding up awards. “I've been so busy thinking about how to save Mr. Peregrine and find allies for the Guardians that I haven't given any thought to the stupid talent show. Not that it would have made any difference.”

“Trust me, though, Darwen,” said Rich. “What flies wear on their feet is not the answer.”

“See,” said Alex, “even if the jokes were funny, you have no presence. You've got to have presence to be a comedian.”

“What is she talking about?” Darwen asked Rich.

“No idea,” said Rich.

“Stage presence,” said Alex. “You've got to own the room. Check this out.”

And she began to sing.

Except that
sing
didn't begin to do it justice. She didn't just sing. She transformed into an entirely different person, a beaming superstar who sashayed around the room, looking them right in the face as she belted each word.

When Alex was done, she turned back into her usual self and said simply, “See?”

And the annoying thing was that Darwen
did
see. Alex was a performer. He wasn't. It really was that simple.

Rich looked positively unnerved by the whole display. “She's pretty good,” he conceded as she went off to the bathroom. “I thought it was all just, you know,
Alex
, but she has actual talent.”

“Good thing to have for a talent show,” Darwen agreed, his head in his hands. “What's everyone else doing?”

“Jennifer Taylor-Berry is doing baton twirling,” said Rich.

“What?” asked Darwen. Baton twirling wasn't big in Lancashire.

“You know,” said Rich. “You have one of these little chrome poles and you spin it around and throw it in the air and what have you. Sort of cheerleader–marching band stuff. Kind of pointless, but difficult, and therefore impressive.”

“I heard Naia's Greek folk songs,” said Darwen. “I didn't understand a word, but she's really good too. Melissa Young does gymnastics and Genevieve Reddock has been playing the bassoon since she was three. I don't even know what a bassoon
is
.”

“Kind of a weird-looking oboe thing,” said Rich.

“Well, good for her,” said Darwen. “I can't even play the kazoo.”

“I was in a jug band when I was eight,” said Rich. “You have these big old jugs and you blow into them. Can sound pretty good if you know what you're doing.”

“And did you?”

“Nah,” said Rich. “We were terrible. Sounded like a room full of kids farting. Not what the Hillside elite want to sit through.”

“We can't be the only people with no recognizable ability at anything,” said Darwen. “What's Barry Fails doing?”

“Turns out Usually can get out of knots,” said Rich. “You tie him up and he escapes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he's like Houdini except that he just breaks the rope. There's no real skill involved, of course. But he's really strong, and it's kind of amazing to watch.”

“Great,” said Darwen. “Just great. We have saved the school—twice—but compared to Usually—
Usually!
—we're going to look like gift-less idiots.”

That was when they heard the first scream.

“Alex!” said Rich, getting up so fast he turned his chair over. They blundered to the door, tore it open, and stepped out into the hallway, turning in the direction of the girls' bathroom.

That was as far as they got.

They saw Alex standing quite still, her back to them. A few yards ahead of her was a girl. Or something like a girl. She was no more than a pale and shimmering form, the hallway beyond her visible through her body. Her feet drifted three inches above the floor, and at first Darwen thought the ghost—if that was what it was—was motionless, but then he realized it was turning very slowly to face Alex. Its countenance was a silvery blur and he could not see where it was looking, or if it could see anything at all, but he felt in his gut that it was aware of them, if dimly.

The apparition completed its slow rotation to face them and stopped, its head angled slightly to one side as if thinking. Then it raised its right hand slowly till the extended index finger was level with the specter's shoulder.

It was pointing directly at Darwen.

Darwen felt his skin crawl, and a chill ran through him as if his veins were pumping ice through his whole body. He took an involuntary step backward and felt Rich do the same. Alex, by contrast, seemed transfixed, immobile as a rabbit mesmerized by a snake. It wasn't until the ghost drifted suddenly forward that she leapt hurriedly aside with a cry of panic. The figure moved quickly, its legs quite still, but its hair seemed to stream behind it like tendrils of pale smoke.

It slid through the air toward Darwen, and as it came close, he backed up further, till he was against the wall with nowhere to go, his eyes locked on the silvery phantom as it surged toward him. Its mouth was moving, as if it was speaking, but no sound emerged, or nothing that Darwen could hear over his own cry of horror. In seconds it was almost upon him, almost close enough to touch him with that one extended hand . . .

And then, quite suddenly, it was gone.

It didn't merely vanish so much as fade quickly, breaking upon him like cloud, so that for a moment there was a pearly white afterimage, which then melted into nothing at all. Darwen stood there, breathless, his heart racing.

“What on earth is going on out here, Mr. Arkwright?” said Miss Harvey, rounding the corner. “I could hear you shouting on the other side of the building. Come on—out with it! You look like you've seen a ghost.”

• • •

Eileen picked them up at school, and they bombarded her with accounts of the Hillside specter, but she was at a loss to explain it. At length she suggested they try to forget the ghost and focus on their plans for the evening: searching for allies and clues to Mr. Peregrine's whereabouts in Silbrica.

“Forget about the phantom that attacked us?” mused Alex with a little shudder. “That might take a little doing, but we'll give it a shot.”

“Good,” said Eileen. “For all we know the ghost has nothing to do with what we are doing. We need to stay focused. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Darwen.

They waited till the sun went down and—after Eileen had confirmed that Aunt Honoria wouldn't be home for at least two hours—climbed through the oven door and down to the Great Apparatus.

They made their way to Moth's forest—Rich had mended the portal on their last visit—and found the dellfeys working on their wings with tiny hammers, still repairing the damage the scrobblers had left in their wake.

“We need to start talking to people in Silbrica . . .” Darwen explained to Moth a few minutes after greeting the dellfey.

“Or creatures,” added Alex, who was surveying the oil-spattered damage to the trees. The dellfey had obviously been busy cleaning the place up, but there was still a lot to do, much of it too big for Moth's friends to complete alone.

“Or creatures,” Darwen agreed, “who might join us in a fight against Greyling before he can take over both our worlds.”

“We were trying to decide if this portal here is safe,” added Alex, showing Moth the notebook she'd been carrying with her ever since they visited Mr. Peregrine's house. “It's small, so we figured that while not many creatures could use it . . .”

“You might know,” Darwen completed for her, smiling at the dellfey.

Moth smiled back, proud to be considered helpful, but her face fell when she looked at the book. “I do not know these markings,” she said.

“They're numbers,” said Rich, “Like the ones in the address you gave us.”

“The portal looks like a statue of a human child, a girl, holding a picture frame about this size,” said Darwen, gesturing with his hands.

“Oh yes!” said Moth, delighted. “This is a very good place to go. It is where the zingers live.”

“Zingers?” said Alex, sounding skeptical. “Are they comedians?”

Moth gave her a baffled look. “They are friends of the dellfey,” she said, “and will be your friends as well.”

“Good enough for me,” said Darwen.

“Mr. Peregrine liked them,” Moth added. “I think they have something of his that you might find helpful.”

“What is it?” asked Rich. “A weapon of some kind?”

Moth looked affronted. “It is his whistle,” she said seriously.

“His what now?” asked Alex.

“His whistle,” said Moth, as if this was obvious.

“And what does that do?” Darwen coaxed.

The dellfey shrugged minutely. “Nothing,” she said, “but I think he liked it.”

“Right,” said Darwen. “Great. Thanks.”

• • •

It took three portals to reach the fractured colonnade in the gardens of the Silbrican mansion, but though the journey went without difficulty, they were tense and jumpy. In one locus dominated by curiously square-sided rock formations, Alex shrieked as something like a giant green crab scuttled by. The crab took off at high speed the moment it realized they were there, and they burst out laughing, partly with relief, partly because it kept bumping into things in its rush to get away.

They passed through the final portal and reached the half-broken statue of the girl with the picture frame without seeing another living thing.

“Not sure I can fit through that,” said Rich, eyeing the portal.

“Sure you can,” said Alex. “It's about the same size as Darwen's oven door, right, Darwen?”

“I guess,” said Darwen, remembering the way the snorkies had tumbled through the portal into his bedroom, “but why would the scrobblers leave this one intact?”

“You're worried because the last one took us to the land of the killer ice elephants,” said Alex wisely. “Maybe they just ignored it 'cause it was little. Come on, man; time's a wastin'.”

Darwen said nothing. Instead he approached the statue, placed one hand on the lower edge of the empty marble picture frame, put the other on the statue's broken left arm and—trying not to look at the unnervingly blank look on the broken face—boosted himself through.

For a moment he saw leaves, but then he was through them and falling through nothingness.

Zingers

D
arwen landed awkwardly
on the silver bark of a massive tree limb. He threw his arms around the smooth branch, its bark cool to the touch and concrete-hard, and stared wildly down. He was in a cloudless blue sky. The ground was too far below to be visible. Darwen hugged the branch for dear life, only remembering a moment later to call back up to the portal he had fallen through with a desperate “Watch it!”

Too late. Rich came crashing through the leafy canopy and hurtled toward him. Darwen rolled a fraction but didn't want to lose his purchase on the branch, so Rich still hit him hard, knocking the wind out of him. As he gasped for air, he saw Eileen and Alex tumbling out of the portal above him.

Somehow they managed the descent with more grace than either he or Rich, and they landed on the branch as if they had been on some kind of amusement park ride, startled but grinning.

“Where are we?” asked Alex brightly.

“In a tree,” muttered Rich, rather less enthusiastic.

“Well,
duh
,” said Alex. “But what's the locus like?”

Darwen had no clue—he'd been trying so hard to keep his eyes fixed on the branch that he hadn't gotten the chance to take a good look around. Feeling the entire tree sway fractionally, he hugged it all the tighter and said nothing. Alex, who had landed on a limb a little higher than the one Rich and Darwen were clinging to, leaned out and peered down through the leaves.

“Wow,” she said, pleased. “We're really high. What do you think, Eileen? A hundred feet? Two hundred?”

“Something like that,” said Eileen. “I can barely see the ground!”

“Thanks,” said Rich, whose normally ruddy complexion had turned the color of sour milk. “What kind of place is this? No wonder the scrobblers didn't bother to shut it down. Step through a portal and fall out of a tree? It's a death trap. Why didn't Moth warn us?”

“Because she can fly,” said Darwen. “It probably never occurred to her.”

“Smells nice,” Alex remarked. “Guess there are no stinking furry elephants up here.”

“In the tree,” said Rich dryly. “Not big tree climbers, elephants. You're right about the smell, though. Pretty nice.”

But it was more than
nice
. The tree hung with a powerful scent, sweet and fragrant, so that Darwen was suddenly reminded of shopping for his mother's Christmas present at the perfume counter of a department store back in England.

“No wonder,” said Rich. “Check out those blooms.”

He was gazing to where a flower hung inches above Darwen's head. It was the size of a soccer ball, bulb-like in the center but with huge open petals around the edges, which, as he looked, shifted from white to pink, and finally to a deep crimson, before cycling back to white again. As the colors changed, the aroma became so strong that Darwen began to feel himself losing focus.

“What are you doing, man?” called Rich.

Darwen came to with a start and grasped the branch with renewed vigor. He had relaxed so much he had been close to letting go. He shook his head.

“It's the chuffin' perfume,” he said. “Sort of . . . distracted me.”

He gazed at the flower in disbelief, trying not to breathe in its fragrance. As he was considering the massive bloom, he caught a thrumming whir above him: a bird, as big as a pigeon but a bright, irridescent green color, and hovering like a hummingbird. It was watching him, and when Darwen met its gaze, he could see that it was not precisely a bird at all. It had slender arms and its beaked face held something human about the eyes that reminded him of the bat-like flittercrake that had led him to Mr. Peregrine. This, however, was something different entirely.

“Hello,” Darwen ventured, still clinging to his branch.

The bird thing stayed suspended in the air, its wings a blur of movement. Then it opened its beak, and in a shrill scream, it called, “Scrobblers!”

It swooped up and away, but there was suddenly movement all around the tree. More of the bird things were massing as if poised to attack.

“No!” shouted Darwen. “We're not scrobblers! We're people. I'm the mirroculist, Darwen Arkwright.”

But the bird things—at least a dozen of them—were already in their attack formation and swooping through the branches.

“Big deal!” shouted Alex. “You think we can't swat off a few sparrows? Bring it on!”

But instead of diving right at their hands and faces, slashing with their sharp little claws or stabbing with those dagger-like beaks, the birds suddenly pulled up and soared away again. It took Darwen a second to realize that they had each dropped something, like a squadron of tiny bombers. He barely saw the tiny ball-like containers—miniature barrels—raining down around him, but as soon as they hit the tree and split open, he knew what they were, and he panicked.

“It's nectar from the flowers!” he called as the perfume exploded on his hands and clothes like a cloud. Immediately he felt his mind gliding up and away on a tide of exotic fragrance. It was a glorious feeling. He was no more than mist, drifting up through the leaves, a bodiless essence carried on a wave like a dream, and all around him was color and scent and beauty and . . .

“Darwen, look out!”

Rich had clawed his way along the branch and was holding him in place, the crook of his arm clamped over his nose so that he was breathing through his shirt. Darwen was barely aware of him and still felt he was drifting, groggy and confused, like waking up at the dentist when he'd had a tooth removed.

“Focus,” said Rich, “and try to breathe through your mouth.”

The birds came again, but this time the boys were huddled over, their faces buried in their clothes. Darwen caught a whiff of the potent fragrance all the same and held his breath for as long as he could. Dimly, as through a fog, he saw Eileen and Alex up on the branches above them, one hand over their faces, the other waving the birds away. When he could hold it no longer, Darwen blew the air out of his lungs and took another shallow breath. Immediately he felt his head swim and darken, but he gripped the branch and tried to balance himself so that if he lost consciousness entirely, he wouldn't fall.

And then, without warning, the attack stopped. The birds wheeled off into the upper parts of the tree and vanished from view.

“So these are zingers,” said Eileen, when they finally got used to the stillness. “Moth's account was . . . incomplete.”

“Not what you'd call friendly, are they?” Rich muttered.

“Maybe with good reason,” said Eileen. “The scrobblers have been here. Look.”

She was pointing to where something hung from the bough she and Alex were straddling. It looked a little like an old lantern, forged from blackened metal and suspended from a heavy chain.

“What do you suppose that is?” asked Alex. “Let me see if I can get a better look.”

“Careful,” said Darwen.

“Relax,” said Alex, her old self again. “This is nothing. These branches are thick enough to walk on.”

And she stood up, arms outstretched.

“Don't touch it,” said Darwen.

“I wasn't going to touch it, smart guy,” said Alex, inching along the branch and rolling her eyes. “Hey, it's making a noise. Can you hear that? A whiny sound like a mosquito or something. It's getting higher as I get closer. You think it's reacting to me getting near to—”

But she didn't finish the sentence.

There was suddenly a crackle of energy, and a fork of miniature lightning shot from the lantern directly at her. It hit her squarely in the chest and seemed to flicker with electricity, convulsing as her hair stood on end. For a moment she stood there, dazed, and then, very slowly she tipped backward and fell.

Darwen threw one arm out, but he couldn't reach and she dropped past him, down beyond the tree's thick branches and away. “Alex!” he cried, but there was nothing he could do. She turned slowly as she fell, the ground racing to meet her and nothing to break her fall.