Legacy of the Claw (9 page)

“Night-vision monocle,” he said proudly. “Special lenses refract moonlight, amplifying it. I made it for him years ago. Best watch yourself, when he's got this on  …  and he's awake.”

Tremelo quickly placed the small package he'd picked up in his jacket pocket.

“Every year,” he muttered, shaking his head. He looked at Bailey and winked. “The Scavage team makes a habit of stealing my myrgwood to put old Bindley to sleep, so they can run amok on the grounds.”

They left Bindley's post and walked across the commons to the dorms. It was late—nearly one o'clock, and the entire campus was a chorus of crickets.

Then Tremelo suddenly said: “You're the boy with an Absence, aren't you?”

There was that word again. Bailey didn't even get to think of a lie or try to avoid the question. As Bailey had suspected, Tremelo already knew.

“Mrs. Shonfield told you?” Bailey asked.

“She did. You are, after all, my student. But she didn't have to. It's plain as day to me. We have much in common, Bailey.”

Bailey wasn't sure what Tremelo was referring to. What could he possibly have in common with this man who, for all his strangeness, was supposed to be one of the most powerful Animas trainers in the kingdom?

“It's just coming to me slowly, that's all,” Bailey said.

“You don't have to tell me about slow development,” Tremelo said. “I was well into my eleventh year when Fennel found me, and before that I'd had myself convinced I was Animas Rat, like my father.” From his jacket he removed the same pouch Bailey had seen him take from Mr. Bindley's table. He extracted a large pinch of a dark herb that Bailey had never seen before, and packed it into a pipe. “You don't mind, do you?” he asked. He didn't wait for Bailey to respond. Within seconds, the professor was surrounded by a sweet, slightly bitter-smelling smoke.

Bailey's mouth itched and his throat was dry. “Sir,” he said, “I read something before I came to Fairmount. You've helped people Awaken, haven't you? You're supposed to be an expert in strengthening the bond.”

Tremelo stared toward the distant trees beyond the dorms and shook his head.

“That part of me died some time ago, boy. I used to, in my first few years at Fairmount  …  but no more.”

Bailey's heart sank.

As if he could read Bailey's mind, Tremelo clapped him on the back. “Don't think of it as hopeless, my boy. Think of it as a puzzle to be solved. After all, trees may bear seeds, but no fruit.” Tremelo stared dreamily at Bailey through the thick cloud of smoke. His fingers moved in midair as though he were playing an invisible piano. “Kin rise from ashes, hand over paw / When Locusts turn Men from Treachery / The Sun calls to the Loon.”

“What?” asked Bailey, confused.

“It's a riddle,” said Tremelo, as though this should have been obvious. Bailey began to wonder what, exactly, was in that pipe. “Find the answer to the riddle, Bailey, and perhaps you'll find your Animas.” He laughed. “That's what my father used to say, anyway  …  not that it helped. I still Awakened eventually, no thanks to his ramblings .… ” Tremelo shook his head, chuckling at some memory that Bailey couldn't know.

Bailey thought this over. Part of it sounded familiar to him, though he wasn't sure from what. His mom had sung many songs to him as a baby, and he wondered if the familiar line—“the Sun calls to the Loon”—was from one of those.

“I think I've heard something like that before,” he said. “From a lullaby. Is that what it's from?”

Tremelo shrugged and made a dismissive
phh
noise as he exhaled a bit of smoke.

“My father
never
sang me lullabies,” Tremelo said. “Unless his friends' pub songs count. I doubt you heard any of that in ‘The Squirrel-Faced Girl from the Lowlands', but then, I'm a bit hazy on those lyrics as well .… ”

They had reached the Towers. Tremelo released his grip on Bailey's shoulder.

“Chin up, Bailey,” Tremelo said. “Now, back to Towers with you.”

LONG AFTER HE SAW Bailey back into his dorm, and despite the two pipes of myrgwood he had smoked, Tremelo could not quiet his mind.

Meeting a boy with an Absence was about as likely as Nature herself emerging from a cave in the Velyn Peaks, materializing in a cloud of mist for a cup of tea and a cookie. Bailey seemed sharp too, and strong, whereas a typical Absence meant utter tragedy— poor health and insanity to boot.

Tremelo poured a glass of rootwort rum, lit his pipe once again, and sank into a groaning armchair, the only piece of furniture in his quarters not covered with books and papers. He reached over the arm to crank a gramophone next to the chair. The record began to circle, and Tremelo placed the needle and closed his eyes as the sounds of the Gray City Symphony poured out of the amplifying horn. Fennel the fox wound her way affectionately around his feet, and Tremelo could feel the soft pressure of the animal's mind, the wordless reassurances.

Though Fennel began to sleep, and this too Tremelo could feel—the fog, the relaxation into the dark—he could not join her. He had never slept well. Too many dreams, always waking up feeling as though he were suffocating. But aside from the usual insomnia, he couldn't stop picturing the leap that Bailey had made through the air—the bravery that the boy must have summoned, the grace he'd shown. And no Animas? Was it even possible that a human without an Animas could have such determination, such power?

Perhaps it had been a bad idea to tell Bailey the riddle—to tease him with his father's old rantings. But then again, Tremelo reasoned, if it's only gibberish, can it really do the boy any harm? His own childhood had been a haze of tale-telling by people like his father—called the Loon—and the other men and women who took heart in the old myths, who were loyal to the fallen king Melore, who traded prophecies and tales like others traded idle gossip. Tremelo's hazy memories were clouded with riddles and stories, and had he really turned out so badly after all? Perhaps better not to answer, he thought to himself.

At his feet, Fennel stretched, and Tremelo had a brief image, as common to him as breathing, of a blurry flight through the woods, a rabbit's tail flashing in front of him.

I'm only thirty-two, Tremelo thought. But I feel so old. A puff of smoke left his lips and disappeared in the draft from the window. That must be why his father's stories and riddles were on his mind this night.

Tremelo reached under the chair and pulled out a small locked trunk. Resting the trunk on his knees, he reached into his pocket and produced the key. Inside the trunk was a book with a crumbling leather cover, which had been made of the hide of a mountain goat as a gift to his father many years ago. It had once been a prized possession of the Loon's, but had become worn and cracked with time and misuse. Tremelo caressed it the way he had seen the Loon do so many times.
Hello, old friend.
He started to open it, but stopped himself.

No. The book was nonsense, a series of scratches and dashes, as though each symbol were just a picture of a bunch of sticks. His father claimed it was taught to him by the Seers in the western mountains, and Tremelo had believed him, although he himself had never met the Seers, even in the many trips that he and his father took to those mountains when he was a boy. He had once been certain the scratchings were a code  …  but now he wondered whether his father had simply been mad. Trying to figure out what it meant now would only disappoint him, as it had so many times before.

Besides, the Loon was dead, along with his stories.

Tremelo shut the trunk quickly, and shoved it back under the chair. Fennel woke with a start.

“No more riddles,” he said, answering the question in Fennel's eyes. “No more codes.”

Best to pretend that the past had never existed at all.

TREMELO'S RIDDLE PLAYED IN Bailey's head for the rest of the week like a malfunctioning music box. It snuck its way into his recitations of Latin verbs, his memorizations of different shaped leaves for Flora and Fauna, and the names of famous members of Parliament for History. It danced through his mind just as he was about to fall asleep.
Trees may bear seeds, but no fruit  …  the Sun calls to the Loon  … 

On Friday night, as he and Hal sat studying in the Towers common room, Hal led him to his first clue about what the riddle might mean.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Hal asked him.

“Why would I be?” Bailey asked.

“It's Saturday. The Scavage results are supposed to be posted. You'll get to see if you made the team!”

Bailey hadn't even been thinking about the possibility of making the team. But he hadn't done that badly, all things considered. In fact, before he'd taken that tumble down the hill, he'd been doing pretty well.

That's when he remembered the tree he'd nearly collided with on the Scavage field—the leafless one, covered in seeds.
Trees may bear seeds, but no fruit.
Was it possible that the tree was a clue?

He told Hal about the riddle, and about the strange tree. Hal listened skeptically, with one dark eyebrow raised behind his thick glasses.

“I'm not sure what the riddle is supposed to mean,” Bailey said, “but if it can help me find  …  you know  …  then I have to try.”

“If you think you can believe a word ‘Mr. Myrgwood' has to say, then all right,” Hal said skeptically. “If you want company, I'm always up for a stroll.”

Bailey and Hal woke before sunrise the next morning. Bailey pulled his blue Fairmount blazer closely around him as they walked past the dorms and herb gardens and out to the Scavage field. The air was crisp with an early autumn chill, and a hazy fog covered the grounds.

Hal was wearing a pressed pair of trousers and a vest over his white shirt, and his customary cravat had been replaced by a bow tie. Bailey wondered if formal clothing was all Hal had brought to Fairmount.

“I just don't want you to get your hopes up too much about Tremelo,” Hal said. “Remember, this is the same guy who spent the entire class time yesterday telling us that the best way to avoid getting eaten by a bear was to put syrup on its nose. I'm pretty sure that nonsense is his first language.”

The entrance to the main gates of the Scavage field was locked, so together they headed toward the far end of the field, where it backed up to the forest. As the stands gave way to fences, and the fences gave way to dense patches of trees, Bailey felt his heart beginning to pound. He hadn't realized how close the Scavage field was to the Dark Woods, which beckoned just beyond the first half mile of harmless forest. Bailey knew that beyond those trees were the Velyn mountains, winding their way south to the Golden Lowlands. He shivered. The morning was chilly and the boys darted quickly into the trees, following the line where the Scavage fences ended, to the back of the field.

Finally, they located the steep hill where Bailey had fallen down a few days ago all the way at the end of the Scavage terrain that marked the edge of the playing grounds. The strange tree looked so much smaller in this gray light. The seedpods hung down like heavy weights, and the tree's branches bowed in sweeping curves.

Hal circled the tree, adjusting his glasses to look more closely.

Reaching up to touch the hanging seeds, Bailey found that the pods were dry and fragile as tissue. When he tried to press one between his fingers, the pod's skin flaked away, and the seeds contained in it fell to the ground and scattered around Bailey's feet. The riddle played over and over again in his mind.
Kin rise from ashes, hand over paw  … 
What did it mean?

“So what now?” Hal said.

Bailey shrugged. “I don't know.” The thin morning light had been chased away, and bright shafts of sunlight shot through the branches around him.

Trees may bear seeds, but no fruit  … 
Bailey sighed, picking up one of the seeds that had dropped on the ground. It was soft and round. He squished it and saw that the insides were the somber purple color of cooked blueberries. Tossing the seed away, he straightened up. Something told him he wouldn't find any clues about his Animas here, unless his Animas was a jar of blueberry jam.

“I'm stumped,” said Hal.

“It was a dumb idea.” Bailey shoved his hands in his pockets. “Let's go.”

As the two of them made their way back onto the main grounds, they saw that the herb gardens they'd passed earlier were not empty. A squat woman in rolled-up pants and a heavy, dirt-stained apron bent over the rows of pepper plants. Bailey remembered her from the first day, outside the rigimotive station: Mrs. Copse, the groundskeeper. Two roly-poly groundhogs chased each other down the row of tomato plants behind her back. Bailey felt a spark of hope again. Maybe Mrs. Copse could tell him more about the strange tree.

To his surprise, Mrs. Copse outright laughed at his description of the tree.

“Strange?” she repeated after him. “Those things grow like pests around here!”

Confused, Bailey felt his heart sink.

“It's just that I—we've never seen one before,” Bailey said.

“You're from the Lowlands, is it?” Mrs. Copse asked.

“Yeah,” Bailey admitted.

“No wonder. King's Finger Oaks grow thick as thistles on the backside of a badger up here.”

King's Finger Oaks. The name sent a small shiver of recognition through Bailey, though he was sure he'd never heard the name before.

“What about the seeds?” Hal asked. “Is there, I don't know, a certain kind of animal that eats them?” Copse's two groundhogs were busy rolling around together in the dusty garden, playing.

“Ha!
We
do!” Mrs. Copse said, tossing a withered vine into a compost basket and slapping the dirt from her hands against her apron. “Not the
most
delicious thing, a little tart, but mix them with something sweet, and they're fine. I remember when my own kids were young—those were the start of some dark days, you know, under the Jackal's rule, less to go around—we'd toast those seeds and eat 'em on our oatmeal. King's Children, they're called.” Mrs. Copse grinned and gazed off into the distance.

Bailey and Hal said a quick thanks, and they walked swiftly back to the Circle, toward the dining hall.

The quiet Saturday morning that Bailey and Hal had encountered upon leaving their room was gone. It had been replaced with a bright, sunny madhouse of students crammed in front of one of the dining hall's windows. Some in blazers, some still in their pajamas; everyone craned their necks and shouted to one another. A playful pack of dogs ran circles around the crowd, and several birds perched on the trim above the windows, squawking. The whole campus seemed to be buzzing over a piece of paper on the outside wall.

“It's been posted!” Hal said.

“Hey, over here!” shouted a familiar voice. He saw Tori waving at them from the group, along with Phi. Phi's amber eyes sparkled as she waved too. Her falcon sat on her shoulder, and even
she
looked pleased. Hal and Bailey rushed to them, and together they pushed their way through the excited students to see the list of new Scavage players.

Bailey scanned the list of positions and names, written in blue and gold letters on the long sheet of paper. The first name he saw that he recognized was Sophia Castling, listed as Sneak.

“Congrats!” he said to Phi. She smiled, and pointed at the paper again.

“Keep looking,” said Tori.

And then he saw it.
Slammer: Bailey Walker
.

Hal clapped him on the back. “Congratulations, Bailey!”

Bailey reeled forward a bit from the force—he seemed to have lost the feeling in his legs. Was this real? He'd made the team, without the aid of an Animas. He looked dizzily around him. Several students were waving and congratulating their friends, and though Bailey knew that was what he should have been doing too, he felt as shocked as he was excited. He looked at Hal in disbelief. For the first time it occurred to him that Hal's name was missing from the list.

“Hal  … ” His tongue felt swollen. “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't be!” Hal looked genuinely happy. He leaned in and whispered, “To tell you the truth, I've never been so relieved in my life.”

“Welcome to the team.” Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed Bailey's shoulder and turned him around. It was Arabella, the co-captain from the day before. She shook his hand vigorously, and then did the same to Phi. “You're both going to be great!”

Finally, Bailey cracked a smile. “Thanks!” he said. The shock began to wear off, leaving room for nothing but gladness in its place. Across the group of students, though, he could see one person who did not seem to be pleased at all: Hal's brother, Taylor. His arms were crossed and his glare menacing. As Arabella rushed off to congratulate the other new members of the team, Taylor sauntered over to Bailey, Hal, Tori, and Phi.

“Congratulations, Walker,” he said, though it sounded less like a compliment than it did a threat. “I hope your little
performance
on the field wasn't just beginner's luck.”

“Buzz off, Taylor,” said Phi, which surprised both Bailey and Taylor.

“It wasn't luck,” Hal piped up. “Bailey's really good.”

Bailey's heart was beating fast in his chest. He hoped Hal was right. What if it
was
beginner's luck? Bailey noticed Taylor's cat on the ground next to them, licking its lips.

“We'll see,” said Taylor, with a narrow smile.

“Oh, Nature! My lands!” someone shouted outside. The hubbub around the Scavage results died down quickly as the students strained to see the commotion, gathering in the commons outside the dining hall.

It was Mrs. Copse, the groundskeeper with whom Bailey and Hal had only just been talking. She hurried toward the group with a look of despair on her face, pointing to the line of trees at the edge of the common lawn.

“Where's Finch? Where's Shonfield? Out of the way, students—
out
of the way!”

She stumbled past the onlooking students toward the administration building. Headmaster Finch and Tremelo, who were walking from that direction, met her.

“Oh, Nature, Mr. Finch! It's terrible—I've never seen such a kill! And so close to the buildings!”

The students began to whisper among themselves, craning their necks in the direction Mrs. Copse had just come from. Bailey felt a tingle on the back of his neck. A kill meant one animal hunting and killing another. It happened all the time, but to see Mrs. Copse so upset  …  This must have been something out of the ordinary.

Finch tried to quiet Mrs. Copse, and shot the students a warning look.

“I'm sure there's no cause for a commotion,” he said, gesturing with his thin hands for everyone to disperse. “Now, students, if you wouldn't mind—I hear the dining hall is serving leek-and-onion tarts for breakfast, so hustle along. I mean it,” announced Finch after no one moved. “All students are ordered to go into the dining hall this minute!”

With groans and whispers, the students filed into the dining hall. Bailey and his friends were about to do the same, when Bailey heard Finch call his name.

“Mr. Walker and Mr. Quindley, if you'll please accompany us,” said Finch.

Hal's eyes went buggy behind his glasses.

“Us?” asked Bailey. “Why us?”

“Come along,” said Finch as he adjusted the collar of his plaid tweed jacket. He turned abruptly on his heel and began to walk toward the forest.

“I'm not missing this,” said Tori quietly. She pulled Phi along and followed the adults alongside Bailey and Hal. When Finch turned and gave the girls a questioning look, Tori's eyes grew wide in a look of concern.

“Quindley gets light-headed at the sight of blood, sir,” she said, elbowing Hal in the ribs.

“They're here for moral support,” Hal added.

Finch shook his head and continued walking. It seemed he would allow them to come along for now.

When they stopped at the edge of the lawn, Mrs. Copse put her hands to her mouth. Tremelo placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Finch plucked a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it to his nose. As the students huddled in closer, Bailey could see what had caused Mrs. Copse so much distress.

A massive black bear lay dead in the grass between the trees. Its neck and side had been deeply wounded by enormous claw marks across its hide.

“Ants,” said Tori. She gripped Phi's arm, and two girls watched solemnly as Tremelo circled the dead bear, observing what he could. Hal squinted at it through his glasses and made small humming noises, as if he was thinking very hard about something.

“
Very
interesting,” Hal murmured.

“What could do something like that?” Phi asked. “The animal that did that must have been huge.”

“Quindley, Walker,” Finch addressed them, “Mrs. Copse said she saw you two near this spot earlier this morning. Did you happen to see anything?”

Bailey and Hal exchanged a worried glance.

“No,” said Bailey. “We were just walking around.”

“You're not in trouble,” said Tremelo. “We're just trying to figure out what might have done this. It's odd to see a kill so close to campus, or so brutal.”

Hal stepped forward. “It
is
odd, isn't it? Don't most large forest animals have the good sense to stay away from campus, even if their human kin are present? And look here,” he said pointing to the claw marks. “Whatever made the kill didn't stay to enjoy it. It slashed and ran. Either it was scared off, or this was defensive.”

“I'd say that's a fair assessment, Mr. Quindley,” Tremelo said.