The Keeper of Dawn (7 page)

We climbed quickly, anxious to leave the ground behind. We
had already paved the way, already pulled back the shadows to expose what was
nothing more than a dilapidated staircase. The only mystery was what awaited us
at the top. The staircase wound tighter the higher we climbed. The burn in my
legs felt good, the fire in my lungs satisfying. Soon my thoughts circled
through my head in the same repetitive round-and-round motion that left me
dizzy throughout. Images of Benjamin, rigid with terror, left me; in its place
appeared a vicious, one-eyed sea pirate.

The stairs ended abruptly. It felt like we had just started.
But when Chris opened the door at the end of a short landing, I knew we had
made it.

We emerged on a narrow walkway. Only the lantern room was
higher, moonlight reflecting from its tall windows. The panoramic view sprawled
out below me like some phantom vision—a rock face tumbling toward the coast,
the old golf course and forested hills, even the spindly road curving along its
meandering course. A sea of darkened glass surrounded it all, bulging and
swaying to the rhythm of the tide, its sound lost beneath the wind. The
moonlight instilled a timeless quality to the landscape. This view would never
change. It was the island my parents had seen a generation before.

The school, however, looked insignificant, its walls a
ghostly white, like it might vanish at any moment. Even the clock tower looked
smaller, crouching in its corner across the courtyard.

“Hey, guys!” Roland called out. He was bent over the floor. “This
is it! Quick, pass me the light.”

“It’s … something,” I said, examining the dark smudge on the
floor.

“It’s got to be,” said Roland.

“Think what you want,” Derek said. “But I’m not buying that
this is some pirate’s bloodstain.”

Roland suddenly swung the flashlight in front of him. “Prepare
to meet your maker at the hands of Pirate Raker. Hiyah!”

“En garde,” Derek called out, pulling out another
flashlight.

“Where’d you get that?” Chris asked.

“I always come armed for a fight.”

He and Roland swung their lights at one another as if
wielding light sabers. Derek looked moderately amused, but Roland really got
into it, making exaggerated sound effects as their imaginary weapons clashed.

“Arrr, I’ve killed sharks with me bare hands before,” he
boasted. “The likes of you ‘ll be no problem a’ tall.”

“Die, you one-eyed bastard!” Derek said, putting Roland in a
headlock. After letting him squirm for a moment, he slashed the flashlight
across Roland’s throat.

“Ahhhh! It appears you’ve got me after all,” Roland uttered
in a pained voice, stumbling out of Derek’s hold and clutching his throat. “That
be fine, for I fear not death. With me dying breath, I curse ye. I curse ye
all! Me one eye shall shine forth again, and when it does, any man who looks upon
it shall be incapable of … ever getting it up again. Ahhhh!”

Roland dropped to the floor and writhed in convulsion.

“A most impressive performance, Sir Roland the Third,” Chris
said, applauding. He had a fresh cigarette in his mouth and cupped his hands to
light it.

Roland rose to his feet and made an exaggerated bow. “I have
Mrs. Letterbee to thank. The biggest prude I’ve ever met, but a talented drama
teacher. Here, it’s your turn,” he said, tossing Chris the flashlight.

“You have your fun, I’ll have mine,” Chris said, the tip of
his cigarette glowing.

“Is the governor’s son too good for us, then?” Roland said
in a snooty English accent. “Does he wish to merely be entertained? Very well,
then. Perhaps Sir Hawthorne is not afraid to wield the blade.”

“He can have mine,” Derek said, handing me the flashlight
and joining Chris at the guardrail, like he had just been caught playing a game
he was too old for.

But any reservations I might have had were forgotten when
Roland said, “Hold on tight, butterfingers. I wouldn’t want you to drop two in
one night.”

We charged one another, unsure who was playing the role of
Pirate Raker. I crouched low, ducking beneath his blade, and then sprung at him
with the flashlight leading the way. It wasn’t long before our swordfight
turned into a wrestling match. I tried to put Roland in a headlock, but he saw
it coming and slipped away. We both ended up on the floor, intent on dying the
infamous death of Pirate Raker when Chris pulled us apart.

“Hold up. I hear something.”

“Not now,” Roland said. “I’m going for the kill.”

“No, seriously. Shut up.”

“Probably just the waves,” Derek said.

“Wait, I hear it too,” Roland said, getting up. “It’s a
helicopter.”

“You sure?” Derek asked as we congregated at the guardrail.

“I’d know that sound anywhere,” Roland replied.

“There!” Chris said, pointing to a light hovering over the
Atlantic.

“Maybe they’re coming here,” Roland said. “I’ve heard that
the Coast Guard uses this helipad.”

We watched as the helicopter bridged the distance from the
mainland, its course taking it over the island’s northern tip before veering
away.

“And there she goes,” Roland said, disappointment evident in
his voice.

The sound of its passing fell beneath the wind. Soon only
its flashing blue taillights could be seen.

“How cool would it be to fly one of those,” Derek said.

“Chris has flown before,” Roland said. “Haven’t you?”

When Chris didn’t reply, Derek took his flashlight from me
and pointed it at Chris. “Is that true? You’ve flown?”

“Once or twice. Now get that thing out of my face,” he said,
waving the light away.

“Bullshit. I’ve never heard of a seventeen-year-old flying a
helicopter.”

“I didn’t say it was legal. I’ve never flown anything as big
as a Pelican, but I’ve flown our Jetranger.”

Derek considered this for a moment, and then burst out
laughing. “You almost had me, Forsythe. Almost had me hook, line and sinker.”

“Believe what you want. I was flying before I could drive. And
that’s the first thing I’m gonna do when I get off this trash heap.”

Derek thought this over. “So were you flying when you made
your
grand arrival
?”

Chris took a drag off his cigarette.

“No.”

“I have to admit I hated your guts before you even landed. I
got a thing against show-offs.”

“Believe me, it was all
the Governor’s
idea. He’ll
never turn down a chance to wave at a crowd, even if it’s on some crummy island
off the coast of nowhere.”

“Did you know that if you drop a penny from really high,
it’ll gather up enough speed it can kill a person?” said Roland, reaching into
his pocket for loose change.

“Anyone down there you don’t particularly like?” Chris asked,
flicking his half-finished cigarette from the edge.

“Not at the moment. But I can aim for that fountain,” he
said, cocking his arm back and throwing.

We all watched the coin drop. I sat against the guardrail
with my feet dangling from the edge. Having climbed the lighthouse and found
what may or may not have been Raker’s bloodstain, the excitement of the night
was over. Though there was little to do but watch Roland toss coins, no one wanted
to leave.

“Shut up, Jake,” Chris said. “I can’t think straight when
you’re talking so much.”

“I’ll try to keep it down.”

Suddenly I wished Benjamin was there. Perhaps some of the
guilt from dropping the flashlight lingered, for when I looked down at
Patterson Hall, I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening in the darkness
of our room.

“Flash me your light,” Roland said, while rummaging through
his pockets. “I don’t want to be wasting any quarters.”

“Don’t know why you’re bothering,” Derek said, shining his
light over Roland’s shoulder. “It’s not like you can spend money here anyway,
outside of vending machines.” He bent down and picked up an eraser-sized object
from Roland’s pile of quarters. “What’s this?”

“Nothing,” Roland said, trying to grab it, but Derek pulled
his hand away.

“You’ll get it back once you spill the beans.”

“Oh grow up.”

But Derek stood his ground.

“It’s my …” Roland hesitated. “My insignia.”

“Your what?”

“You know, an insignia. For sealing letters.”

But this only confused Derek more, for he turned it over in
his hand the way a blind person examines an unfamiliar object.

“Just don’t drop it,” Roland said, returning to his coins. “It
was a gift.”

“Looks expensive.”

“Where’d my light go?”

“Catch, Jake,” Derek said, tossing me the insignia.

“Hey!” Roland shouted. “Just don’t drop it.”

The insignia had a marble handle with the letters “VB”
engraved in its base beneath a coat of arms. It reminded me of Mr. White, my
American History teacher at Homestead. Mr. White kept five rubber-handled
stamps on his desk, a different color for each grade. Whenever he assigned a
failing grade, he would seize the red stamp and pound it on his desk like a
judge’s gavel, making the entire class flinch.

“So you actually use this?” I asked, returning it to Roland.

“Only for letters to my family. It’s kind of a Van Belle
tradition.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Chris said, sitting down
and pulling his knees to his chest. “The rest of the world stopped using them
in the eighteenth century.”

“The wax can be a pain,” Roland admitted.

“But it’s not just wax.”

“Shut up, Chris!” Roland exploded. “I swear, you can’t keep
a secret to save your life.”

“I didn’t know the
Blood of Kings
was a secret.”

“You most certainly did!”

“Well why keep secrets from friends?”

“You tell me,
Christian
.”

Chris drew himself up. “That name doesn’t suit me.”

“Christian? That’s your real name?” I asked.

“Christian Madison Forsythe,” he said without a hint of
embarrassment. “It’s made me a firm believer in nicknames. I’m not going to
suffer because my parents lack taste.”

Derek was grinning. “This is great. You two know all the
dirt on each other. You’re just like my brothers.”

“Hey, here’s a grand idea,” Chris said. “You’re always
complaining about that lame assignment in O’Leary’s class, right? Announcing
your history to everyone.”

“Oh, I hate that,” I said.

“You too?” Roland asked.

“I have no idea what I’m going to say.”

“Me either.”

“You’re joking, right?” Chris asked. “
You
, Roland Van
Belle the
Third
, can’t come up with history? Your family has more
history than most nations. Just tell them about the Blood of Kings.”

“Better yet, tell
us
,” Derek said.

“There’s nothing much to tell,” Roland said.

“Come on, out with it.”

“I don’t know. I’m not a storyteller like Benjamin.”

Derek laughed. “Well he’s busy changing his pants.”

“Come on, man,” I said.

“What?”

“You know what. You don’t have to tell us, Roland.”

Roland shrugged. “No, it’s all right. Better now than in
front of O’Leary’s class, right? I was eight years old when my father gave me
this,” he said, weighing the insignia in his hand. “We were living in Korea at
the time, and he was getting ready to leave for an assignment in Japan. I can’t
remember why we didn’t go with him. I think it was because Mother didn’t want
to relocate, since it would only be for a couple of months. Anyway, I took the
news pretty hard. We had followed him all over the world. I didn’t see what
made Japan any different.

“He called me into his room the night before he left. He
took out a vial of wax, a lit candle and this insignia. He told me about how,
when his father went off to fight the Germans, he had given him this same insignia.”

Roland resumed throwing coins. When he spoke, an older voice
stood behind his words, like he were reciting from memory.

“It’s been passed down from father to son for over three
centuries, starting with Prince Thomas Van Belle, the cousin of King Charles I.
Supposedly it was blessed by the king himself. When my
great-great-great-grandfather, Arthur Van Belle, fell at Gettysburg, his men removed
this heirloom from his body and sent it home to his only son.

“Father told me that I’m never to let it leave my sight,
that I should cherish it as I cherish my own life. Then he took out his knife
and cut the palm of his hand. He let his blood drain into the wax and told me
that while we’re apart, we are to seal our letters with our blood. With the
blood of kings.”

Instead of the proud voice of a military son, Roland uttered
the phrase ‘blood of kings’ as if ashamed. He was turned from us, reaching into
his hand for another coin.

“I was pretty scared when he handed me the knife. I was just
a kid. But now I’ve done it so many times, I don’t even think about it.”

Roland reached into his hand, his fingers closing over his
family’s heirloom.

“So that’s what my letters are sealed with. The blood of
kings.”

He cocked his arm back to throw another coin, but stopped
upon feeling the familiar weight in his hand. He hung there, motionless, his
arm pulled back behind him like a bird with a broken wing.

No one said a word. It wasn’t until Chris touched him
lightly on the shoulder that he lowered his arm.

“So that’s it,” he said, returning the insignia to his shirt
pocket. “That’s my family. My father really. Mother goes along.”

“The blood of kings,” Chris echoed, looking at his roommate.

“I know,” Roland said. “It’s stupid.”

Suddenly my eyes felt heavy. Roland’s story had woken
something in me—some distant memory—and I felt a strong desire to leave. We had
extended the night too far, and the thought of taking an exam in the morning
made my head hurt.

When I turned from the guardrail, a movement caught my eye. Behind
us, in the lantern room, a face flashed in the window and was gone.