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Authors: Jason Hightman

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BOOK: The Saint of Dragons
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And he had one more Dragon to face.

Chapter Three
T
HE
S
CHOOL IN THE
L
IGHTHOUSE

F
OR
S
IMON
,
THE INCIDENT
of the beetles swarming the streets had been a dreamlike event, and none of the other boys seemed to feel right talking about it, either. Life slipped back to normal. No one ever listened to Simon much, anyway; his voice never seemed loud enough to get attention.

He was known for only one thing. It had long been a rumor that Simon was poor and that he was allowed to stay at school for free, out of charity to orphans. The rumor hurt him deeply, but everyone had come to believe it.

He had always been treated like a pauper. With no parents to pick him up on weekends or holidays, Simon had come under the care of the lighthouse keeper and his wife. The lighthouse keeper naturally ended up giving Simon all kinds of chores, so the boy came to be known as something of a junior janitor. To the rich snobs at the Lighthouse School, Simon seemed like a servant, a second-class citizen.

He didn’t even sleep in the regular rooms with everyone else.
Simon lived in the lighthouse. He stayed in the little two-story building next to the beacon lamp with the old lighthouse keeper and his wife. That’s the way it had always been.

It was another reason Simon didn’t grow close to the other boys: He lived apart from them.

His room in the lighthouse was plain and simple, often quite cold and drafty. The only thing notable about it was a fireplace, which he was never supposed to use without permission.

The other kids were down the hill in dormitories that had once been used by Revolutionary War soldiers. So even the
buildings
had a past, which Simon was left out of.

Simon did get some use out of the fireplace when he could get away with it. He loved the way the flames shivered and swayed, making little sculptures, how they created flickering shadow plays on the wall.

Recently, he had gotten caught several times and punished with cooking duty. He had started taking more chances in the things he did lately, that was certain. The principal had given him a stern talking-to. Old Denman the lighthouse keeper, who was Scottish, had tried to explain to Simon that fire was a terrible thing, the most awful, sickening thing imaginable to a wood-and-brick place like the school.

“You know how we feel about you, boy,” Denman had said, his wife looking on. “We’ve watched you since you were a little child. We’ve never tried to step in and replace your true parents. We’ve never looked at caring for you as anything but a job, to be done well and without complaint. And we’ve done it. But you listen to me: Fire is nothing to play with. Don’t you ever harm this old lighthouse…it’s your sanctuary.”

These were more words than the lighthouse keeper had ever said to Simon at one time in his entire life. They didn’t talk much. They worked together tending the lighthouse and had the shared sense of accomplishment that came with it, but the old man was not a father figure. His wife was not motherly. Both of them had seemed old and tired since as far back as Simon could remember.

They were tired of Simon’s questions about his family.

Maybe the rumors were true: Maybe he was a poor kid, an orphan, allowed to stay at school for free. Wouldn’t someone have told him if his parents were dead? Or was the school sparing him from the truth? For Simon, it was a depressing possibility. All he knew of his family came from the few things Denman had told him, that they were good people, that they cared about him, that they wanted the best for him. They felt he was better off here than living with them, for reasons Simon didn’t understand.

No one else at school knew much, either. The day after the beetles, on Halloween, Simon had sneaked into the school office to get a look at his file while everyone was out decorating for the masquerade. The file had nothing interesting in it, but the principal and his secretary passed through, and Simon heard them talking while he hid out of sight.

“He claimed he was Simon St. George’s father,” said the secretary, and at this Simon perked up to listen, “but you should have seen him. He was a wreck. His hair hadn’t been washed for Lord knows how long, he had dirt and grime all over his face, he was wearing the shabbiest secondhand clothes you ever saw, and he had these wild eyes like a madman!”

“What did you tell him?” the principal asked.

“Well, I sent him away, of course,” she said. “I think he was a homeless man who had rifled through some of our garbage and found Simon’s name. Probably wanted to snake out some of the boy’s money. Of course, the money’s all set up in a trust fund, and no one can get to it. His parents set that up years ago so they wouldn’t ever have to mess with him.”

“Scam artist,” muttered the principal. “He chose the wrong boy on that one. If Simon St. George’s father
ever
shows up, I’ll have a cardiac arrest.”

Then they left, and, hiding in the darkness, Simon tried not to feel bad. What they had said was true, after all. But it spooked him to know that someone was asking for him.

There was little doubt that the man was an imposter. In all his years at the Lighthouse School for Boys, Simon had never heard from his parents. Not once. They clearly did not want to hear from him. He didn’t even have an address to send them a Christmas card.

There was simply no reason for his father to appear out of nowhere after all this time.

At least that’s what he thought.

Later that afternoon he was cleaning the lighthouse windows, hanging from a rope tied to his waist. Below him was a cliff that dropped off to the sharp rocks of the shore. It was one of the dirty jobs he did from time to time for the lighthouse keeper.

Boys had walked by earlier, and he heard them making fun of him. Even his friends, such as they were, avoided him when he was working. He was completely alone.

Simon was scrubbing the grimy film off of the windows and
thinking how badly they needed it. They had not been cleaned for months. He was listening to the wind whistle around the giant circle of the lighthouse when suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed his leg. He screamed and looked down in horror.

Standing on the narrow cliffside was a bright-eyed man who was in sorry need of a bath and a shave. The wind was blowing hard enough to carry him off the cliff, but still he stood there.

“I need to talk to you,” he whispered loudly.

Simon couldn’t believe it.

“They don’t believe I’m your father,” he whispered again.


I
don’t believe you’re my father,” said Simon, and he kicked loose from the man’s hand. The man had to catch his balance to keep from falling off the cliff.

“Just don’t scream,” said the man. “I only want a chance to tell you who you are.”

“You’re out of your mind,” said Simon, clinging to the rope.

“Don’t you see a family resemblance?” the man called.

Simon turned back, his heart drumming. The man looked crazy.

“I can answer so many questions for you,” the man said, and Simon could see he was desperate to talk. He seemed tired and in a hurry at the same time. “You could be in danger. Listen to me. I care what happens to you.”

“Then you are definitely not my father,” Simon called back, and he clambered up the rope and escaped to the lighthouse deck. When he looked back down, the man was gone.

Simon didn’t tell anyone about him. He didn’t want the man thrown in jail; the poor guy probably just needed a few bucks. And he surely didn’t want anyone thinking that
was
his father.

But what if he was telling the truth? He wondered if it was possible. Why had he looked so run-down—didn’t he have plenty of money? And why couldn’t he prove his identity to the principal?

The questions nagged at Simon all day.

The answers came during the Halloween masquerade. The lighthouse had been surrounded with jack-o’-lanterns and orange lights had been put up all over school. The library had been transformed with ribbons and banners and decorations, and there was music, but nobody danced. Girls from the nearby private school congregated around one punch bowl, and the boys stayed at the other. All of them were nervous, even though they were disguised in their costumes.

Once Simon looked out the window and thought he saw the man staring back at him…but when he looked closer, it was just the reflection of his own black knight mask.

Simon noticed that the girl from the novelty shop had come to the gathering, but before he could approach her, other boys moved in, and he heard them making fun of him. At first he thought they couldn’t see him under his mask. Then he realized they were joking about his costume. Someone said he was the shortest knight in history. The girl didn’t laugh, but Simon slipped outside to escape them all anyway.

He was going to head to the lighthouse or the stables, where he often went to be alone, when he heard voices. He peeked around the building and could see a man dressed all in pale white, along with other men, servants perhaps, talking to the principal. Simon leaned forward, hearing only pieces of the conversation.

“…Simon St. George here?” he heard the man in white say.

“Is he in some kind of trouble?” asked the principal, but the man answered that his father was inquiring about him.

His father?
Simon tried to hear more. Then he glanced down and saw several rats. They had been scurrying beside the building and were now stopped, staring at him. Very large white rats with red eyes.

Simon froze where he was, afraid to get bit, afraid to scream and give himself away.

“I’m very sorry to bother you at this late hour,” he heard the man in white say. “My plane arrived late, and I just desperately wanted to speak with the boy.”

Simon winced as a rat began to crawl onto his foot. He was going to scream after all, but something the man said stopped him: “Has the boy been doing well?”

He strained to hear the reply, that Mr. St. George had nothing to worry about, the boy was doing fine, acceptable work, but he was curious as to why the family had never come to see him in person.

At this the man in white sounded sorry, as if it hurt to explain. “If he ever asks about that, you just tell him his father would like to see him very much, but work has taken him far from home, and you know, as time has gone on, it’s become harder for his father to simply show up out of nowhere. It’s difficult, as I’m sure you realize. His father thinks it might be better to stay away than to stir up a lot of angry feelings, especially if the boy is doing all right without him.”

Simon leaned out to look at the man’s face, but he couldn’t see clearly, not in the dim light. All he could see was a coat, a hat, nothing more.

“I can tell you,” said the principal, “the boy is doing well; you can be sure of it.”

“Well, that’s good,” the man said. “Because I have concerns for him.”

“Concerns?” the principal asked.

“There is always a certain kind of rabble who are drawn to a boy from a family of means,” said the man. “Rotten, disreputable people. I just want to make sure you turn away anyone…unsavory…if someone should come around, looking in on the boy. You know, I suppose I should probably talk to him myself. Is Simon around?”

“Yes, of course. He’ll be thrilled. He’s here somewhere,” the principal said. “Might take me a moment to find him.”

“Well, now, wait a moment. I don’t want to interrupt all this if he’s having a good time,” said the man in white. “I can’t imagine a worse way to meet him, come to think of it. I didn’t know you were having a party here. I’ll tell you what. I’ll be back tomorrow, and maybe I can get away with the boy for a while.”

He smiled at the principal, shook hands, and headed for an old white Rolls-Royce.

For a moment, Simon just stared. He had never heard a word from his father, and now
two
people wanted the job in the same day? The well-dressed man certainly fit the part in Simon’s mind, but he had no time to weigh the matter—the rats at his feet were squealing murderously.

Simon stepped away from them, backing up into the field, where dozens of masqueraders were now leaving for the library to hear ghost stories. The younger students were all carrying jack-o’-lanterns, and a little boy handed one to Simon.

Simon stared blankly at the pumpkin, as above him, the sky clouded over in a sudden desire to make a storm.

Panicked that he had missed his chance to see his father in person, Simon scrambled through the throngs of boys with their pumpkins, hurrying to catch the man in white.

Simon ran across the field, but the ground was slick with mud, and he nearly fell.

As he hurried to catch the man, he did not notice the lizards—several of them—that had slithered out of the underbrush to get to him, just missing. He did not see the bats that had gathered above him, swarming in a tangle of moonlit motion. The boy was focused completely on catching his father.

Simon ran down the lane from the building, but he could not see the landscape well, even with help from the lighthouse and the stern glow of the moon. There was no sign of his father. No sign of anything; the car had vanished. The awful emptiness of the night slammed into him with the power of the ocean wind.

Whoever he was, the man was gone.

Simon stood there, watching the boys continuing to pass over the field, and with a confused sort of feeling, he joined them. He couldn’t think. He just started moving with them.

They began to walk across the dark field, with only their jack-o’-lanterns, a few flashlights, and the lighthouse itself lighting their way. The lighthouse beam would sweep across the field, and then it would spin around and light the ocean, so the field would go dark.

Flash. Flash. Light. Dark. For most of the boys, it was a weird and perfect end to a Halloween night.

Light. Dark. Light. Dark. The boys could hear the ocean rush
ing back and forth against the rocks. Simon thought he could hear something else, too. Thunder. Not the usual kind of thunder from a rainstorm, but something somehow less real. Then he realized it was not thunder he was hearing at all. It was a horse’s hooves.

Walking at the end of the long group of boys, he stopped to listen. “Do you hear that?” he said to the boy in front of him. The boy turned, and then all the boys turned.

BOOK: The Saint of Dragons
6.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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