The Keeper of Dawn
Read The Keeper of Dawn Online
Authors: J.B. Hickman
THE KEEPER OF DAWN
By
J.B. Hickman
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
ficticiously. Any resemblence to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Shadeflower Press
Copyright 2012 by J.B. Hickman
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be
reproduced in any form without permission.
Visit J.B. Hickman's website at
http://www.jbhickmanonline.com
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
For Melissa
CHAPTER 2:
THE ABSENT-MINDED PROFESSOR
CHAPTER 4:
RHODE ISLAND FOLKLORE
CHAPTER 12:
WHITHER MUST I WANDER?
CHAPTER 14:
THE RASPBERRY PATCH
CHAPTER 18:
MAKING THE FULL MOON BLUSH
CHAPTER 19:
PROCURING CONTRABAND
CHAPTER 21:
RELEASED TO THE WILD
CHAPTER 22:
MUSTY, FROM BROOKLYN
The thunder came early that day. The appearance of the
island was what shook the first peal loose. Not a single head turned at the
sound of the storm's approach. None of the others onboard the ferry could hear
it. They were crowded together on the passenger deck that smelled of diesel
fumes and day-old paint, the scent mingling with the salt in the air to sting
my eyes. Their laughter, fissured by the wind, carried no farther than the ear
it was intended for. In narrowbend corduroys and crumpled sports jackets two sizes
too big, we were dressed a style all our own. I had seen it before. The V-neck
argyles and L.L.Bean button-downs amounted to little more than an unspoken
commemoration of our last day out of uniform.
A second round rumbled loose overhead, this time louder than
before. Thunder through a clear blue sky. Thunder without rain.
I had kept it quiet during the car ride from Long Island. Sometimes
I would hide from it by shifting my attention to an object in the distance and
imagine what it would be like to be there. A stranger's house. An airplane high
overhead. Even the moon. But out here there was only the island, which had
risen from the gray-blue water like the humped back of a great whale. Its only
pier jutted beneath a steep slope crowned with pines. Beyond this, a gravel
road wound through a succession of hills in a meandering ascent that cut
through the foliage like a long white scar.
What had been Father's departing words? I couldn't remember
them now. They had become a stain in my memory, the letters bleeding
indecipherably together. But their impact lingered. A single statement uttered
over a newspaper at breakfast was what had pulled me out of Homestead Academy
and enrolled me in a boarding school. Father had left for the remainder of the
summer before the dust had settled. He had always been the great vanisher,
disappearing for weeks at a time before parachuting back into my life,
pretending to have never been away. Mother claimed he was a man of destiny. She
never said this in his presence; only when he was away, to myself, or to my
older brother, David. “Your father is a great man, Jacob,” she would say. But
her tone contradicted her words, as if greatness was an affliction we were
forced to endure.
Overhead, a narrow band of high altitude clouds brought
depth to the morning sky. The flock of gulls that had been trailing us since
the breakers was now reduced to a handful of birds. A boy in a bleached blazer
threw his head back at a friend’s joke, his mouth split open without sound.
The thunder kept up, swelling to a single heavy roar. There
was no stopping it now. It contained the momentum of a summer storm. It was
happening again. I tried to resist it, but I could already feel the chill of a
different season seep through my jacket. I could already smell the wood-smoke
sweeten the air. When I closed my eyes, the crows took up their cawing, the
shrill sound pulling me back to that fateful day in the valley.
* * * * *
The sky was lit with dawn’s first light. The night had
brought another snowfall, perhaps the winter’s last. The wind here always blew.
The only question was how hard and for how long. Evidence of its passing lay in
drifts along the trunks of evergreen and birch. But now all was still. The snow
continued to fall, settling into the nooks and crevices of the bare limbs.
The crows that meddled each winter in Mother’s feeder had
gathered overhead. Silent and brooding, their heads turned to watch my passing,
their dark eyes holding me in their stare. I had been here before. This same
trail of footprints that cut through the snow was what kept me awake at night. But
this time was different. Wasn't that what I liked to tell myself? I took
another step forward and then stopped. This time I wouldn't go through with it.
I stubbornly clung to the belief that my hesitation would prevent what I knew
waited for me at the trail's end.
I found myself listening to the silence, struck by its
completeness. Something vital was missing. Time had stopped, lodged somewhere
in the heart of winter. In its place was a dead soundlessness that resonated
from the wood of the trees, from the frozen ground, from the very air itself. Out
of this came the simple desire to leave. A reminder that I only had to turn
around and the gabled rooftop of home would come into view.
It was the caw of a crow that broke my trance. The bird had
settled on a nearby branch, its feathers ruffled from the cold. It was close
enough that I could make out my silhouette in the reflection of its eye peering
down at me. I watched myself, a shadow among shadows, take a step forward. I
couldn’t bring myself to look away from that pinpoint of darkness. I saw what
it saw. The pale muted daylight. The snowfall drifting like ash spewed from
fire. The branches crisscrossing the sky like cracks in ruined veneer. Despite
my childhood having run its course over this same ground, nothing looked
recognizable.
Suddenly a sound like thunder shot through the trees. The
crows scattered through the air like shrapnel, spiraling overhead on a hundred
beating wings.
I leapt forward, taking the footprints two at a time. Cold
air tumbled down to fuel the fire in my lungs. Legs churning through kicked-up
tufts of white; fists swinging, jabbing panicked blows at an unseen foe,
beating back time. I knew where the tracks would take me, knew how the haze of
smoke would hang over the ground as if to conceal what had been done. But
knowing what lay ahead did nothing to slow my stride.
My breath was ragged by the time I reached the trail’s end. It
was there that I remained, rigid with indecision. I could go no further on my
own. No amount of effort could force me to look at what lay at my feet. Instead,
I stood and waited. Waited for the residual veil of red mist to give way to the
soft fall of powder. Waited for the recoil of thunder to come ricocheting back
across the valley and obliterate everything in its path.
His arrival to the island, in his father’s helicopter the
day after the rest of us had come aboard the ferry, was in itself an act of
rebellion. I was buttoning the collar of my uniform when the helicopter lowered
into the courtyard, kicking up a cloud of dust and loose debris. A tall man in
a dark suit emerged from the cockpit, his silver hair motionless in the wind
brought down by the spinning rotors. He hesitated before descending the stairs,
regarding the writhing grass and the old structure’s trembling rooftops as if
his presence alone had caused the disturbance.
“Pompous bastard!” Derek roared from across the hall. He burst
through our door a second later, his face resembling the screaming,
bare-chested Sid Vicious depicted on his
Anarchy in the U.K.
T-shirt.
My roommate, Benjamin, cast a withering look at Derek before
resuming to labor over his tie. Though we had been at school less than
twenty-four hours, Derek Mayhew had already assumed the role of the nosy
neighbor, treating our closed door as an open invitation.
“He’s rubbing our bloody faces in it!” Derek exclaimed. “I’ve
got five-to-one odds he’s a politician. A crooked, backstabbing politician.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
My attention was so focused on the silver-haired man who
waved enthusiastically to those gathered at the windows that I hardly noticed a
boy emerge from the helicopter a moment later, adjust his sunglasses, and
wander off in the opposite direction.
“Come on, Jake, just look how he’s waving. And that shitty
grin? Besides, this wouldn’t be a prep school if we didn’t have to put up with
some senator’s spoiled brat.”
“You’ll never find me in a helicopter,” Benjamin said,
giving his tie an agitated tug. “I’m perfectly happy with my feet on the
ground. Found that out at the Empire State Building. Can’t beat the view, but
don’t get me anywhere near the edge.” Benjamin’s eyes blinked behind his spectacles.
“As many times as I’ve worn one of these …” he muttered, unraveling the tie and
glancing at his watch—a serious, adult-looking watch that was much too big for
his wrist. “Boy, I hate being late. My folks will be here any minute.”
“Wouldn’t have to bother if you’d stayed home,” Derek said. “You
home-schoolers got it made. Can wear pajamas all day and don’t have to put up
with senators dropping in on your front lawn. Here, give yourself more length. The
secret to a proper noose is you need just enough length to hang yourself.”
Benjamin grudgingly complied, lowering the tie over his
expansive waistline.
“Happiest day of my life was when Wellington burned to the
ground,” Derek said, returning his attention to the courtyard. “Who would've
guessed we’d end up at some alumni’s resort that went belly-up in the sixties? I
swear, this school has more lives than a black cat at midnight.”
I glanced in his direction. I didn't want to be here any more
than Derek, but I envied his familiarity with the school's past. I was finding
it difficult to rebel against the unknown.
The door swung open after a quick knock, and Charles
Patterson, our hall’s prefect, stuck his head in the room. “Why aren’t you
dressed, Mayhew?”
“I
am
dressed,” Derek replied. “Who’s the stiff in the
suit?”
“Governor Forsythe.”
“Shit! I hate it when I’m right.”
“Get your uniform on. The ferry has arrived.”
Derek regarded Patterson. “The
fairy
has arrived
indeed.”
Patterson’s expression darkened. “If you aren’t downstairs
in five, I’ll have you cleaning the lavatory until Christmas.” Then he added,
“I can’t believe you still wear that ridiculous shirt.”
“I always wear this shirt. Even under my
ridiculous
uniform.”
Patterson shook his head. “Get a clue, Mayhew. Punk’s a
fad.”
“Get a clue,
Loosy-Goosy
,” Derek replied after
Patterson had closed the door. “Punk will never die.”
* * * * *
We greeted the busload of parents on the courtyard’s
southwest quad—an area that would be referred to from that day forward as Oak
Yard. Half a dozen sapling oaks had been planted around a white gazebo the day
before. Island birds flew about the terracotta rooftops, flashing their striped
wings in the morning sun.
I walked alone through the crowd. Though I had rehearsed a
dozen different greetings, Father’s response never wavered—a few simple words
sealed with a handshake.
I found him seated alone at the courtyard’s central
fountain. Though he faced the opposite direction, his rigid posture and
receding hairline were dead giveaways. The sight of him brought to mind a picture
in one of Mother’s photo albums. Spoken in a sentimental tone reserved for the
retellings of the early years of their marriage, she would talk of when she and
Father had stayed at the Hotel Nouveau, the luxurious resort on Raker Island
that reminded her of the villa in the French Riviera where she had vacationed
as a child. Her hand hovering over the black and white photographs, she spoke
of how they had ferried to the island, climbed the historic Raker Lighthouse,
and golfed together for the first and last time. The picture I thought of now
was of Father standing in this same courtyard, his full head of hair shining in
the sun, a hesitant smile caught on his lips.
I watched as he dabbed sweat from the back of his neck with
a folded handkerchief. I reached forward, intending to place my hand on his
shoulder, but stopped, my rehearsed greeting catching in my throat.
“Father.”
He turned, his startled expression caught in the glare of
the sun. I blinked once, then again before staring at the stranger in front of
me.
“I ain’t your father, kid. But I will take your picture,”
the man said, hoisting a camera from his neck. “What do you say? Wanna make the
headlines?”
I apologized and made a quick retreat. After making a second
pass through the crowd, I verified my growing suspicion with the wiry French
teacher, Ms. Cartwright.
“What did you say his name was?” she asked, straightening
the folds of her dress.
“Hawthorne. Jonathan Hawthorne.”
“Hawthorne,” she said, running a finger down a list of
names. “There’s no record of him boarding the ferry.” She peered at me over narrow
glasses. “You’re sure he’s coming, right?”
The question hung in the air. No, I wasn’t sure. I was never
sure with Father. But it was different this time, right? I was here because of
him. The least he could do was show up. At that point I would have welcomed his
obligatory goodbye. I was looking forward to that particular letdown. At least
it would have been an acknowledgment that he had once again turned my life
upside down. But there would be none of that. There was only Ms. Cartwright,
here in the flesh, in the here-and-now, her beady eyes piercing the silence
that had gone on entirely too long.
“I probably misunderstood,” I said, forcing a smile. “He
probably said next weekend.”
Wellington’s headmaster, Mr. Hearst, conducted the parent
reception from the gazebo’s shaded interior. Though his booming voice carried
across the manicured lawn of Oak Yard, my eyes kept getting pulled to the front
row where Governor Forsythe stood beside his son. The governor had such a
commanding presence that I half-expected him to turn and address the crowd. His
son, however, was a disgrace. His tie was loosened, his scuffed-up shoes
untied, his shirt untucked and as wrinkled as a roadmap. At the start of the
headmaster’s speech, he went into a sneezing fit as if allergic to ceremonial
rhetoric.
My attention kept returning to him. He seemed apart from
everyone around him, out of focus, as if he still hovered overhead in the
helicopter. He had his own gravity, one that didn't orbit his father, and my
eyes kept bouncing off one to the other.
“Dr. Richard Kirkland made a promise when he founded
Wellington Academy one hundred years ago,” the headmaster proclaimed. “He made
a promise to develop boys into well-rounded, well-educated men. And it is with
great pride that I tell you, the class of 1981, that we have upheld his
promise. Our campus at Eastbridge will be dearly missed, but we must persevere.
We must carry on, for the bright future of these young men before us, and for
future generations who will pass through these halls. No one from Eastbridge
will forget the seven oaks that towered over the heart of our beloved campus.”
When he pointed up, the crowd’s gaze followed the trajectory
of his hand. But any hope of stirring awake the memory of the oak trees from
Eastbridge was dispelled by the lighthouse that loomed overhead, its base
shrouded in dead vines. A clock tower rose from the opposite end of the
courtyard, its face throwing back the reflection of the sun.
“Many of your fathers, even grandfathers, walked beneath
those trees. So I ask each of you to maintain the tradition of Oak Yard. With
the exception of this morning and commencement in the spring, students and
teachers alike are forbidden from walking here. It is imperative that we
respect our past. These trees may be fresh to the soil of Raker Island, but in
time their roots will take hold, and they too will become a testament to
Wellington’s past.”
The crowd watched in silence as the headmaster stepped from
the gazebo and lowered the last of the seven oaks into the ground. He performed
this task solemnly, as if lowering the casket of a dear friend.
Though many of the families lingered after the ceremony, I
left immediately, hoping to have set foot in Oak Yard for the last time. I
wandered aimlessly through the old hotel, each room persuading me to go
somewhere else. I was on my way back to the dorms when I came across an
unfamiliar corridor. The walls were bare, the plaster fallen away. Puddles of
light trickled in through dirty windows. The thought of spending the afternoon
with Benjamin and his parents was all the motivation I needed to sidestep the
Under
Renovation
sign and proceed down the hall until the voices at my back fell
beneath a whisper.
I climbed scaffolding speckled with paint and wiped a circle
of grime from the window with my sleeve. Outside, parent-son triumvirates
strolled through the shadow of the clock tower. Though it was a privilege for
them to be here, Wellington’s traditions and prestige meant little to Father. It
was Raker Island—a secluded isle off the coast of Rhode Island—that had
convinced him to send me here. As long as I remained away from home, he could
rest assured that I wouldn’t follow in David’s footsteps.
“Don’t look at it,” I whispered, but it was too late. The
black and white photograph of Father at the courtyard fountain was already in
hand. Why had I even brought it? Why had I taken it from Mother’s photo album
before packing anything else? Perhaps because it convinced me that I was glad
he hadn’t come. But that was a lie just to get me through it, to keep away the
abandoned, hollowed-out feeling that seemed to follow me wherever I went. I
felt self-control slide away from me then, glaring back at me from my blurred
reflection in the glass. My throat constricted, and a sound escaped me—a kind
of whimper—and I looked up to see if anyone had overheard. But I was alone,
except for those in the courtyard, who, looking out from the remnants of the
old hotel, seemed a world away.
A distant voice caused me to look up. I brushed away a stray
tear and climbed down from the scaffolding. I assumed it had come from the
courtyard, but when the voice spoke again, it carried down the dim interior of
the hallway.
“—came late on purpose. He knew the entire school would be
watching. That’s why he didn’t use the helipad. Everything’s such a production.
Can’t take a piss without checking with his advisors. You know what he told the
pilot? ‘I don’t care if they’re not eighteen—they’ll be voting in ’84, won’t
they?’”
I crept through the shadows, following the voice to an open
doorway at the end of the hall.
“Hasn’t said a word to me all day. Too busy planning with
his campaign manager. But something tells me he’ll notice me now.”
“What are you going to do?” a second voice asked.
“Just expressing my gratitude for sticking me out here on
Preppy Island. Here’s to you, Commander and Chief!”
“Chris, no!”
The voices were drowned out by the tolling of a bell. The
noise was deafening, my teeth rattling with each peal. It sounded three times
in succession before I gave in to my curiosity and crossed the hall to the open
door.
The hollow exposure of the clock tower extended overhead. A
metal staircase spiraled through the musty air. The entire room shook with each
ring. Near the tower’s peak, a student swung from a rope, his legs flailing,
the massive black bell tilting back and forth. His friend stood nearby, hands
cupped to his ears. The longer I watched, the more lightheaded I became until I
was forced to look away. I pressed both hands against the wall until the
darkness massing behind my eyes had subsided. By the time the dizziness left me,
the boy on the rope had let his momentum carry him to the stairs. There was a
tense moment when he clung to the railing before his friend pulled him to safety.
As the bell emitted its last shuddering ring, they started down the stairs.
I recognized Chris, the bell ringer, to be Governor
Forsythe’s son. A few days’ growth of facial hair did little to take away the
hard edge of his jaw line. His dark hair fell across his forehead like the
feathered wings of a bird. Instead of looking guilty, he carried an air of
satisfaction about him, as if having just put in a full day’s work.
His companion was the first to see me. His sandy-blond hair
was cut military style. His dark shoes shined like they were new. Except for
the sweat rings beneath his arms, his uniform was neat and orderly. He had an
urgency about him, and with a hand on Chris’ shoulder, seemed to be directing
him down the stairs.
