The Hound of Rowan (25 page)

“Hey there, you two!” crowed Nolan. “Been talking to YaYa?”

“How'd you know?” asked David.

Miss Boon leaned forward, studying them very closely as Nolan gestured at the limp hoof and red snow on the bluff above them.

“Been caring for YaYa for almost thirty-five years,” he said. “I can spot her work a mile off.”

Mr. Morrow took a long draw off his pipe and snuggled deeper into the folds of his woolen throw. The tobacco smelled fine and warm among the pine needles and patches of sun.

“We're a bit cramped for two young First Years and an ulu, but take this, eh?” he said.

Max stepped forward and took a metal thermos from his Humanities instructor. Unscrewing the lid, he smelled hot chocolate.

“Thanks, Mr. Morrow,” said Max, taking a quick sip.

“Not at all, McDaniels,” he growled with a wink. “Happy Solstice to you two, my boys. Songs and treats in the first-floor hall tonight—eight sharp!”

“We'll be there,” said Max as the sleigh continued on around the bend.

Once it disappeared, David shook his head at Max and coughed.

“No we won't,” said David. “Tonight we're figuring out what happened to Astaroth.”

         

Max heard fiddle music and singing from the great hall even before he opened the Manse's heavy doors and crept inside. Nick was fed and David would be waiting. Max stole up an old flight of servant stairs while the baritones of Bob and Mr. Morrow rose above the chorus of remaining students and faculty.

The rising of the sun

And the running of the deer,

The playing of the merry organ,

Sweet singing in the choir.

Max met David in the Bacon Library, where he had left the lights off and was working by candlelight, poring through a stack of newspapers and computer printouts.

“Take this list,” he whispered before Max could sit down.

Max glanced down at a piece of notebook paper; there were dozens of book titles listed.

“We need
all
these?”

David nodded, handing Max a second candle and continuing to jot down notes in his thin, slanting script. Over an hour later, Max grunted as he stacked the last of the heavy books on the table. David was still writing furiously, seemingly unaware that Max was even there. His candle had almost burnt out.

Max sat down to take a breather, perusing some of the spines before him:
Great Works of the Nineteenth Century, Art of the Baroque, Secret Techniques of the Old Masters, Dada and Surrealism, The Genius of Rembrandt, Hidden Symbols of Bernini, A Renaissance of Art and Man, Dutch Masters of the Seventeenth Century, The Postmodern Dilemma…

“David,” Max hissed, overwhelmed by the thick books and unfamiliar names. “What are we going to do with all of these?”

David appeared much older by candlelight; he stopped writing a moment to look at Max.

“Astaroth isn't destroyed,” said David. “I'm sure of it. The Enemy's looking for him, and it has something to do with the stolen paintings. I think some paintings may have secret clues that lead to Astaroth. But first I'll need two more books.”

Max rose in anticipation, but David shook his head and said, “They're not in here. They're locked up in the Promethean Archives—a secret room below Maggie and Old Tom. I can get them, but I have to go alone. Just take these back to the room and I'll meet you there.”

Max ignored David's cryptic comment and watched as David opened his backpack and started putting the books inside. Just as with Nigel's calfskin case, the books dropped inside without making a sound or dent in the sides.

“Where'd you get that?” asked Max.

“Made it,” said David simply. “I'll go ahead—meet you back in the room.”

David blew out his remaining candle and left as a chorus of shouts and cheers erupted from the gathering in the great hall two floors below them. Max bagged the remaining books and was about to creep out the library door when his curiosity overwhelmed him. He wondered exactly why David had insisted on visiting the Archives alone.

Max hurried down a long hallway and pressed his face against a window that commanded a fine view of the grounds between the Manse and Old Tom. Sure enough, down to his left and far below, Max saw David waddling like a penguin across the snow, trying hard to stay within the long shadows cast by the bright moon.

Then something moved in Max's peripheral vision and he caught his breath.

He was not the only one watching David.

A dark figure stalked out from the edge of the woods that bordered the front gate. It stopped and seemed to be watching David, who crouched low and crossed from the shelter of the Manse's shadows to the snow-topped hedges that lined the walk to Old Tom. Max groaned; David had chosen a terrible route that eliminated the hedge as a source of cover.

The dark figure broke into a loping trot before suddenly accelerating into a blurry streak across the fresh snow. Max smacked the window in panic.

“Run, David,” he whispered. “Run, run,
run
!”

David did run. He had turned his head in time to see the dark figure closing rapidly on him from several hundred yards away. Max could hardly bear to watch; David was
painfully slow
!

Suddenly, there was a brief pulse of dim light and David was gone.

The dark figure came to a sudden halt ten feet from where David had been. It crouched and examined the ground, whirling in all directions before it stopped.

“Cooper,” Max breathed, seeing the Agent's pale features staring up at him from the lawn. The Agent walked several steps toward the Manse, keeping his eyes locked on Max, who stood frozen in the third-floor window.

“McDaniels?” said a sharp voice behind him.

Max yelped and dropped David's backpack. Scrambling to pick it up, he whirled to find Miss Boon staring at him.

“Oh,” Max croaked. “Hi, Miss Boon.”

“Hello,” said Miss Boon, glancing at David's backpack. “What are you doing up here in the dark?” She stepped past Max and peered out the window. Max looked out, too. Cooper was gone.

“I just left the library.”

“Hmmm,” she said, turning away from the window to glance again at the backpack. “Well, I've got work to do and you'd better get to bed. Good night.”

Miss Boon disappeared down the hallway toward the Bacon Library. Max dashed to his room, where he found David already hard at work at their table, wheezing and rubbing his chest. Many candles were lit around the room.

“I ran into Miss Boon,” panted Max. “She was going to the library.”

David looked up from the two large books spread out before him; he looked anxious. He said nothing but beckoned for Max to put his backpack on a chair.

“What are those?” Max asked, peering at the enormous books. They were easily three feet tall and filled with many pages of thin, cracked paper. There was something very strange about these books; they had an unwholesome aura, and Max did not wish to remain close to them.

“Grimoires,” said David quietly. “They're kind of dangerous. One is on Old Magic; the other has to do with binding spells and prisons. These aren't originals—they were copied during the Middle Ages.”

Max stepped away. “Can you
read
that?” he asked, scanning the strange letters and symbols.

David nodded. “Sumerian,” he said casually as he pulled the art-history books from his backpack. “You can go to bed, Max…. I'm okay.”

Max lay awake in his bed for a long time while David's scratchy pen and small voice could be heard faintly on the lower level. He watched Andromeda, staring at the grouping of stars and trying to count how long it would be until her outline twinkled with slender golden threads.

When he awoke, he peered over the balcony to see David sprawled across the table below amid a sea of parchment and flickering candle stumps. Hurrying downstairs, Max shook his roommate awake. David yawned and glanced down at a small puddle of drool that had stained one of the grimoires' pages.

“That's a shame,” he murmured sleepily.

“David,” said Max, snapping his fingers under David's nose. “Are you okay?”

David blinked several times. Suddenly, he clutched Max's arm; his small grip was fierce.

“Max! The stolen paintings
aren't
clues to finding Astaroth. They're Astaroth
himself
—or at least one of them is!”

David's face trembled with exhilaration and fear at his discovery.

“Astaroth is imprisoned
inside
a painting!”

                  
13                  

F
IBS AND A
F
IDDLE

T
he ogre walked ahead, carrying a lantern in the twilight and stopping periodically to wait as Max, David, and Connor hurried to match his long strides. Snow was falling, and the sky was darkening to slate.

The door to the Sanctuary was open. A number of students and charges had crowded near the porch of the Warming Lodge, where a bonfire blazed in a large circle cleared of snow. Nolan sat on an upturned crate on the porch, cradling a fiddle and surrounded by students sipping from mugs and thermoses. Max saw a cloud of steam billow from the Lodge's doorway and caught a glimpse of YaYa's eyes glowing white from the shadows.

“Bob!” exclaimed Nolan. “We don't get to see you too often out here. What's the occasion?”

“Afternoon,” said Bob with a nod. “Bob takes young ones across the dunes to see Mr. Morrow. The house is far and little ones know not the way.”

“Ah,” said Nolan. “Well, Byron sure will appreciate that. I hope he's on the mend—he's been sick for weeks now! Give him my best and get on back to have some hot chocolate when you're through. I'll be taking requests a bit longer.”

Bob nodded and skirted the bonfire, leaving the Warming Lodge behind. Max picked his way among the seated students, waving at Cynthia and Lucia, who huddled together. On Lucia's lap, swaddled in a shaggy blanket, was Kettlemouth, who blinked his bulbous eyes and wriggled his red skin in a full-body shiver.

To Max's surprise, Julie Teller turned around to beam at him, the firelight dancing upon her pretty blue eyes and faded freckles.

“Hi,” she said with a smile. “Haven't seen much of you since the break, and here we are in February!”

“Oh, I've been trying to study more this semester,” Max said, fiddling with a zipper on his coat. He was thankful that Sarah was not there. It had taken two weeks for Sarah to speak to him after Halloween, and while they had resumed their friendship, she became sullen whenever she saw Julie speak to Max.

“Well, let me know if you need any help,” she said. “Anything but Languages. I'm hopeless at them!”

Max merely reddened and nodded mutely, ignoring Connor's exasperated face. A quick, cheery tune got a number of students clapping, and Julie turned to watch Nolan, whose fingers and bow danced on the fiddle strings. Connor and Max hurried after Bob and David just as Tweedy began to correct Omar's mistimed attempts to clap along.

“Hey, wait up!” a voice called from behind them.

Max turned to see Cynthia stepping carefully through the snow. She was pulling on her mittens with her teeth by the time she reached them.

“I want to go see Mr. Morrow, too,” she said. “Been meaning to before, but, you know.”

They ran to catch up with Bob's lantern as it bobbed up ahead. When they reached the edge of the sand mounds, Bob and David were waiting for them. The ogre's coat shielded David from sudden blasts of gritty snow. Cupping his hands over his ears, Max struggled to hear Bob over the wind's howl as they resumed walking.

“Stay close to me, little ones,” he cautioned.

What appeared to be little ripples in the distance were in fact towering dunes some fifteen or twenty feet high. Max and the others panted as they clambered up one face and slid down the other side. Thirty minutes seemed like hours; even Bob had to stop and catch his breath from time to time.

“Why does Morrow live all the way out here?” moaned Connor, shielding his face from another gust. “No wonder he doesn't come to class in this weather!”

“He doesn't walk this way,” said David. “I think he takes another way—a secret way. This campus is full of them. You can catch them if you know how to look.”

Connor whistled through his teeth and pressed David for details that were not forthcoming. Max glanced at his roommate, thinking of the night David had vanished to fetch the grimoires, just barely evading Cooper. David never mentioned the incident, and Max had let it be, embarrassed that he had been spying.

As they reached the crest of yet another dune, Bob suddenly put up his hand and motioned for them to be still. A heavy sniffing sound could be heard.

To his horror, Max saw several pairs of luminous green eyes looking up at them from below.

“Bob—” Max hissed as Cynthia clung to him and they backed away.

“Shhh!” commanded Bob, swinging the lantern around and peering down at the eyes below.

The children huddled in terrified silence for several moments while Bob stood as still as a stone, staring down at the base of the dune. Suddenly, there was a low whine that rose above the wind.

Whatever they were had gone.

“We get going,” rumbled Bob. “Not far now.”

“Bob,” said Connor, shivering and clinging to the ogre's side, “what were those?”

“Bob knows not,” he muttered. “Many wild charges live outside the clearing.”

“What do you mean ‘wild charges'?” asked David, his voice almost lost to the wind.

Bob stooped low to answer.

“Charges whose keepers have gone away—charges that live off on their own. Some may have forgotten that people ever cared for them.”

“Are they
dangerous
?” asked Cynthia, shuddering and looking around.

Bob shrugged. “They are wild,” he said, hefting the heavy thermos like a weapon and leading them toward the next dune.

Max caught the comforting smell of a fireplace even before he scrambled up the final dune and saw the cottage. Situated near the edge of a dark wood thick with fir trees, its walls were made of mortared stone crossed with timbers and surrounded by a low picket fence. Bright yellow lights peeked from behind its curtained windows. Eager to leave the wild charges and wintry conditions behind, Max and the others ran downhill toward the cottage.

“Stop!”
Bob's voice echoed on the wind, bringing them to a stumbling halt. “Wait for Bob,” he wheezed, stepping sideways down the dune and using the lantern to light the easiest way. “Little children anxious for walls and warmth. Makes little children foolish—think they are now safe and become blind to dangers.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Connor, rubbing his arms and casting a longing look at the warm cottage.

A slight frown crept across Bob's craggy features. “Before Bob became cook, Bob was ogre….”

The ogre knocked on the cottage's red door; a thick sheet of snow slid off the roof and crashed into the garden. The children huddled together for warmth, their backs to Bob as their eyes scanned the forest and dunes. Bob knocked again.

“Instructor Morrow?” Bob inquired delicately. “It is Bob and some students.”

No sound came from the cottage.

“We brought soup for you,” Bob purred. “Soooouuuuup!”

Bob looked at the children and shrugged, bending down to leave the thermos of soup by the door. Cynthia shook her head and squeezed past Bob, turning the doorknob and poking her head inside.

“Cynthia!” wheezed Bob. “He might be in the bathroom or…
unclothed
!”

“Oh, shush!” Cynthia replied with authority. “He's sick and he needs people to look after him. I haven't hiked this far in the cold to leave him a frozen thermos of soup! C'mon.”

Max, David, Connor, and Bob followed Cynthia through the doorway and into a warm room with a low ceiling. Bob's back creaked as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on a low beam. Books were everywhere: great piles of leather tomes stuffed onto shelves, stacked in precarious towers, or scattered in seemingly random arrangements on the floor.

A low fire burned in a small fireplace while candles flickered here and there amidst winding trails of wax. Mr. Morrow was sound asleep, slumped in a cracked leather chair and buried in blankets. He did not look well; his lips were dry and there were purple circles under his eyes. His gray hair was matted to his shiny forehead.

Max turned to warm his hands at the fire when, suddenly, a familiar voice rumbled in the room.

“I'm far too fat for such tiny pallbearers.”

Max and the children jumped, but Bob's face widened into a relieved grin.

“Ah!” exclaimed the ogre. “You are awake, Instructor. Good, good, we brought you some soup!”

Mr. Morrow fixed them with a bright eye as he drew his blanket closer.

“Most kind of you—it'll help me take my medicine.”

“Ooh,” said Connor, stooping to examine a cup of bright green liquid sitting on an end table. “Is this some sort of magic potion?”

“Yes, my boy,” said Mr. Morrow in a hushed voice suggesting awe and mystery. “This very potion offers its brave imbiber a bevy of benefits both strange and wonderful. I give you…cough syrup!”

Cynthia, Max, and David burst into laughter as Connor set the cup down with a disappointed expression. Mr. Morrow chuckled, too, but was quickly overcome by a spasm of hacking coughs.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Morrow?” asked Cynthia. She brought over a bowl of soup poured from the thermos while the instructor pushed aside a number of spent and wadded tissues until he arrived upon his pipe. With a distracted shrug at Cynthia's question, he lit his pipe and took a long draw.

“So, Bob,” inquired Mr. Morrow without turning his head, “how'd you persuade these four young rascals to visit this sick old bird?”

“Bob didn't, Instructor. They let Bob come with them.”

Mr. Morrow let out a surprised grunt as Max wandered over to examine a framed photograph on the wall. The image was a younger likeness of Mr. Morrow in a fedora posing in front of the Eiffel Tower with an elegant young woman. Max thought suddenly of the carving he had seen on a tree in town: “Byron loves Elaine '46.”

“Ahhh, Mr. McDaniels. Are you admiring my pretty lady?” asked Mr. Morrow.

“Yes, sir.”

“That's my wife, Elaine. Cancer got her.”

“I'm sorry,” said Max awkwardly.

Mr. Morrow shook his head impatiently and cleared his throat.

“Don't be. It was her time. Everyone should be so lucky as to find his matched pair in this world. I'm grateful for the years we had.”

Cynthia stepped over to the photograph.

“Mr. Morrow!” she said. “You were a handsome devil! Look at you in that suit!”

“Very handsome,” intoned Bob in agreement, stooping lower to examine the photo over their shoulders.

“Oh, stop it!” Mr. Morrow chuckled. “You'll make this fat old thing too vain for his own good. That photograph should be in the Smithsonian!” He looked into the fire, but Max saw that he was pleased.

“Who's this?” asked David, picking up a frame perched on a pile of books. In it was a yellowed photograph of a young man in a military uniform.

“Oh, that's my son. Arthur,” said Mr. Morrow quietly. “That's him right after he joined the Marines. Lost him, too—his entire platoon, as a matter of fact.”