Jane and the Raven King (4 page)

A
fter sprinting three blocks, they stopped, panting and drenched, outside a parked RV camper. Painted in khaki-brown desert camouflage, the mobile home looked as though it had dropped from the sky or been hauled out with the driveway garbage cans.

The blind man opened the RV door and said, “Watch your step.”

“Are you nuts?” Michael said. “We’re not going with you.”

“It’s pouring rain,” Jane said, but she didn’t follow the blind man.
Sure, our clothes are already soaked through,
she thought, wiping strands of hair from her eyes,
but who is this blind man?

“We don’t know him!” Michael shouted to her over the thunder.

The rain hammered them, and Jane hugged her dripping shirt. “What’s your name?” she asked the blind man.

He cupped a hand to his ear. “Eh?” The dog, Finn, hopped into the camper to wait, his tail wagging.

“Your name?”

“My name is Gaius,” he said.

“
Gaius
?” Michael said. “What kind of name is that? Jane, what are we doing out here? We should go back.”

“Let me think,” Jane said, pacing in the rain. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gaius, but my brother is right. We don’t know you…”

“You can’t go home,” Gaius said, as if that were obvious. “It’s too dangerous now. We have to leave before they follow you.”

“And go where?” Michael said.

“Where do you think?” Gaius said. “To Hotland.”

Jane shook her head. “‘Hotland?’ Where—?”

“Where else? At the center of the Earth. Now watch your step. The stairs are wet.”

“He’s crazy,” Michael said. “We’re not going with him.”

Jane turned to her brother. “You let that boy,
Nolan
, in through my window, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“You did, didn’t you?”

“No, why would I do that?”

But the way he looked away and crossed his arms meant he was lying. “Grandma Diana is dead because of you!” Jane said. “And why—for a computer game?”

“Grandma Diana isn’t dead,” Michael said, and he sneezed in the rain. “Come on, let’s go home.”

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Did what?”

“Wake up, Michael! We are standing in a thunderstorm because your friend let a bunch of shadow people into our home—”

“
Sansi
,” Gaius said. “They’re properly called sansi—stickmen.”

Jane jerked her fist down. She wanted to slap Michael the way she’d rattled that monster-boy, Nolan. “You’re not stupid,” Jane said. “You
knew
, but you wanted a new game.”

“Shut up,” Michael said. “I don’t believe you. Grandma Diana isn’t dead, and there’s no such thing as stickmen.”

Jane said, “You
saw
them!”

“No, I didn’t.”

Gaius said, “
Nolan
is an old joke. It’s a trickster name.”

Michael said, “I don’t care.”

“What does it mean?” Jane asked.

Gaius said, “What does it sound like?”

Jane said it: “Nolan, Nolan, No-lan.” She shivered in the rain. “It sounds like
no one
.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s dumb,” Michael said. “It’s just a name.”

“But it isn’t
his
name,” Gaius said. “He hasn’t had a real name in a long time. The Raven King is a broken god, not a boy or even a bird. He is something else entirely. He is the old wickedness at the heart of the world.”

“I don’t care,” Michael said again. “I’m going home.”

“You cannot,” Gaius said.

Jane said, “Michael…”

“No, I don’t believe any of this. I was dreaming or something.”

Jane grabbed his shoulder, but Michael shook her away. “Please,” she said.

“Go with your new friend,” Michael said.

“Don’t be stupid. Those things are probably still there.”

“What things?”

“The stickmen.”

Michael walked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let him go,” Gaius said. “Jane, please let him go. I need your help.” He paused. “I know why the animals are leaving.”

Jane hesitated, but Michael was walking faster. She smiled at Gaius and his dog. “Thank you, but I’m sorry. I have to go with him—I can’t let him go back alone.” As she hurried after Michael, Jane heard Gaius mutter to his dog. As she caught up to Michael, she said to him, “You are
so
stubborn sometimes.”

Their house came into view at the end of the next block. All the lights were on.

J
ane stopped on the front lawn and grabbed her brother’s shoulder. “Wait.”

“Make me.”

It’s late and still raining,
Jane thought.
Mom and Dad must be worried. That’s why all the lights are on. But what if something else is going on? Should we walk in the front door?

“Michael, stop.”

He stepped onto the porch and said, “You stop.”

“Don’t—”

He rang the doorbell.

Jane went to stand beside him on the floral doormat. At least the front porch was out of the rain. When no one answered, Michael pressed the button again, and they heard the doorbell chime in the entry hall. Still no answer.
Something is wrong,
Jane thought. Even in the upstairs bathroom with the shower running, they should be able to hear the doorbell.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Michael frowned and jabbed the button again.

“Michael, let’s go.”

“The lights are on,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean—” Jane shivered as she noticed the
surrounding houses. They looked like ships made out of brick and glass in the midnight rain. All the windows glowed through blinds and drapes—the porches bathed in fuzzy white light.
All
the lights are on,
Jane thought.
In every house on the block. In the middle of the night.

“Come on,” she said.

“No. You can go stand in the rain if you want.”

“Don’t ring the doorbell again.”

After he did anyway, Michael shrugged. “Maybe it’s broken.”

“It’s not broken—we can hear it.”

“Let go of my arm,” he said. “I’ll climb back in the window.”

“Michael, listen to me—”

“Shut up.”

When he tried to push past her, Jane blocked him, and Michael grabbed the doorknob. It turned, and the door opened. As it creaked wide, Michael hesitated. The hall light, the lamps—even the upright flashlights on the plant table were lit. Men talked seriously in the living room—it was the television—and Jane heard at least one radio voice deeper inside the house, along with the background rhythm of reggae music.

“This isn’t right,” she said.

“Don’t be stupid.” Michael stepped inside. “Are you coming?”

No,
Jane thought. Every part of her—especially the jittery hollow in her belly—told her to walk away.
Don’t go in.
But Michael was already in the main hall, calling, “Mom? Dad—we’re back!”

Jane came in and shut the front door behind her. “Michael…”

He disappeared around the corner, heading for the kitchen. Jane’s pulse quickened as she crept into the entry hall. As she edged closer to the main hall, she checked the living room; the lamps were on, and the ceiling fan whipped like a helicopter blade, shaking the yellow overhead lights. Grandma Diana was gone. Cowboys from a grainy Western murmured solemnly on the television, and the shot panned across a desert vista of cacti and sunset rock mesas. She heard one of the cowboys say, “Round ’em up.”

“All of them? Ain’t time for that.”

“Keep the women inside and round ’em up…”

From the kitchen, Michael shouted, “Mom! Where are you?”

Jane went into the main hall, and Michael returned, his face pale. “Did you see Mom and Dad?” he asked.

“No,” Jane said. “We have to get out of here.”

Michael stepped past her, heading for the stairs. “Mom? Dad?”

“Michael, stop it.”

He started upstairs, and she ran after him. “Michael—”

They froze near the top. From the end of the second-floor hall, they heard the click of a keyboard and the staccato drone of a radio reporter’s voice. All the lights were on here too: the hall lights, the lights in her father’s office—in the bathroom, even the electric-socket night-lights were lit. Michael opened his mouth and shut it again.

Jane whispered, “Come on.”

He ignored her and walked down the hall. “Mom…?”

No answer.

Jane’s heartbeat throbbed in her ears. “Stop it,” she said. “Please…”

“Mom?” Michael said again, and he crept toward their parents’ open bedroom door.

I can’t leave him,
Jane told herself and watched Michael near the bedroom doorway. The keyboard-radio noises were coming from in there.

“Mom?” Michael said.

When Jane mouthed, “No!” he continued inside, looked at the bed, and stiffened.

Jane went after him. Their parents sat on the king-size bed, laptop computers on their legs, cell phones wedged between their ears and shoulders. Their father even had a cordless phone pushed against his right ear. The voice on the alarm clock radio said,
“…A flash flood warning is in effect for Mercer County until 3:00 a.m. Winds are expected to exceed forty miles an hour, with severe gusts in excess of sixty miles an hour possible. A tornado watch is in effect until…”

Michael said, “Mom? Dad?”

Both of their parents pounded their laptop keys. Their father cleared his throat into the phone and grunted, “Uh-huh. Um.”

“Dad?” Michael said again.

“…Residents are advised to avoid unnecessary travel and to stay tuned for further advisories. In the event a tornado is spotted, proceed immediately to the basement or to an interior, windowless room…”

Thunder cracked, and rain battered the bedroom window. Jane held her brother’s hand.

“Dad,” she said. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t look up.

Michael began to tremble. “Jane…”

Jane stepped closer to the bed. “Mom?”

“Uh-huh,” she said into her phone. “Okay.”

When they still didn’t stop typing, Jane clapped her hands in front of her father’s computer screen—he was closer—and he frowned, as if she were a stranger. Slowly, he noticed them.

“Jane, Michael,” he said and returned to his keyboard.

“Mom, Dad, stop it,” Jane said.

They didn’t look up.

She slammed her father’s laptop shut and braced for his irritated shout. But he didn’t shout. Instead, he blinked at her,
through
her, his mind elsewhere.

“…This is a severe weather alert for Harrison County,” the radio said. “A flash flood warning is in effect…”

“We have to go,” Jane said.

“I’m not leaving.” Before Jane could argue, Michael said, “If you want to, then go. I’m going to bed, and when I wake up, all this will be back to normal.”

“Michael—”

“Get away from me.” He ran downstairs to his room and slammed the door. Jane knew that when he was like this, it was pointless to argue—Michael was too stubborn.
I can’t just leave him here,
she thought and went downstairs.

“Please Michael,” she called. “Don’t—”

“Go away!”

I have no idea where to go,
Jane thought. But that wasn’t true, and she knew it.

S
till wearing a yellow poncho, Gaius met her in the street. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “Does your grandmother still live in England?”

“She’s dead,” Jane said. “I
saw
it.” Jane’s voice twisted when she said this, and she felt tears behind her eyes. Talking about the horrible, impossible murder suddenly made it real. She lost her balance on a sewer grate, and Gaius caught her.

“Be careful around pipes,” he said. “All pipes lead to Hotland.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s all right,” he said, but she could tell from the drop in his voice that it wasn’t.

They went to Gaius’s RV. He opened the door and ushered her inside Like a bric-a-brac shop on wheels, the camper was crammed with junk: bicycle wheels; stone statues with lamps attached to their heads; afghan blankets of red, orange, and yellow-green; a pile of water-stained road maps; a tiny television with contorted antennae; jars of motionless butterflies; and mounds of ivory dice—some with the usual six sides Jane recognized from Monopoly and dozens more with intricate, tiny numbers and symbols. One die was as large as a tennis ball, divided into at least one hundred numbered sides. Painted model
airplanes dangled from the ceiling, and the German shepherd, Finn, sprawled comfortably on a black couch matted with dog fur. There were snake skins, soccer balls, and a trash can overflowing with crumpled, used tissue.

“Have a seat,” Gaius said. “Finn, get up. Make some room—you don’t need the whole couch to yourself. Up, up already!”

Finn rose slowly, stretching his limbs until every joint—including those in his fluffy toes—popped. Then he sat, licked his lips, yawned, and farted. Finn hopped off the couch, and as he looked for a suitable place on the floor, Jane could’ve sworn she saw the dog smirk back over his shoulder.
No,
she told herself.
Dogs do not smirk.
Even stubborn, flatulent dogs forced to surrender comfy couches didn’t smirk.

“He takes up a lot of space,” Jane said.

“Yes, well.” Gaius glared as Finn thumped dramatically onto a pile of old coats in the corner. “Be grateful he’s only a dog.”

“What does that mean?” Jane asked.

“Sit,” Gaius said, and he went into the front cabin. “Your brother…?”

“He wouldn’t come,” Jane said. “Will he be okay?”

Gaius ignored the question. “Hold on to something,” he said. “I drive fast.”

Wait a second,
Jane thought.
Isn’t he
blind?

There were no windows, but she could tell by the way the clutter-towers swayed that they were moving quickly.
What was I thinking?
she wondered.
This is crazy! I’m going to get myself killed! We might crash at any—

The RV stopped.

Jane followed Gaius and Finn outside; they were parked near a dark stand of trees. The rain had stopped, and the air was thick, heavy, and silent.

Jane said, “How did you drive without…?”

“You don’t need your eyes to drive,” Gaius said. “You only need your hands for the steering wheel and your feet for the pedals.” “But—”

“We’ll discuss this again when you have a driver’s license, Jane.” Finn lifted his leg on the nearest roots, and Gaius said, “Here, now—what kind of introduction is that, Finn? They’ll whisper about that for half a mile.”

“Where are we?” Jane asked.

“The park,” Gaius said. He pressed his hand to a tree trunk, closed his eyes, and then glared at Finn. “You couldn’t have used a bush?” They continued walking, and when Gaius stopped at another tree, he said, “We have to go underground to Hotland.”

“By slapping trees? You’re talking to them,” Jane said, “aren’t you?”

Gaius removed his hand. “Yes. Anyway, these trees have deep roots.”

Jane stepped beside Gaius and placed her fingers on the rough bark. She closed her eyes and listened.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said.

Gaius resumed walking. “The trees don’t trust you.”

“Why not?”

Gaius frowned. “How many pieces of paper have you used? How many wooden chairs, tables, and bedposts have you used?”

“They think I’m going to chop them down?” Jane said.

Gaius said, “No, but they would like an occasional thank you. Written on recycled paper, I suppose.”

Finn barked, his tail wagging.

“Ah.” Gaius brightened. “He found one.”

They hurried after Finn to a great, old oak tree. Gaius checked the trunk and nodded. Jane pressed her palm to the bark, but again, she didn’t hear anything.

“Good.” Gaius pointed his cane at the tree. “We are off then.”

The center of the trunk darkened, as if it had been covered by a black towel. The darkness looked just as solid as the bark.

Gaius said, “I should warn you—we will have to cross the Keeper, but she hasn’t stopped anyone in a thousand years. The Keeper is neutral. She watches what goes in and what comes out in order to protect Hotland. Everyone who enters has to cross her once. After that, you’ll never see her again.”

“What is she?” Jane asked.

Gaius stepped closer to the darkness. “Wait and see.”