Bindings (2 page)

I
ALWAYS KNEW THAT GYM CLASS WAS
state-supported torture,
Timothy Hunter thought.
After all, forcing us to play football outdoors in this weather is clearly cruel and unusual punishment.

Tim hovered on the outskirts of the game. Sports—other than skateboarding—were not his strong suit. He felt foolish in his gym outfit. Gooseflesh covered his skin, and his baggy shirt only emphasized his lack of muscles. His father said Tim was undergoing a growth spurt and that it was typical at thirteen years old to do so. But it made his arms and legs gangly; and his skinny wrists and ankles were always poking out of sleeves and cuffs.

To make matters worse, Molly O'Reilly's class was running laps around the perimeter of the playing field. The last thing Tim wanted was for her to see him miss a pass or trip over his own
shoelaces. Not that she was impressed by sports types, but he still didn't want to look like a dolt. So he tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He didn't want anything he did to be interpreted as an invitation to his teammates to send the ball his way. As he hung back, away from the others, he realized he might be more conspicuous on his own.

Uh-oh.
He was right. Molly saluted to him as she jogged by. Her curly brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail that bounced in rhythm with her feet. She was fast, he noticed, and she wasn't even breaking a sweat.

He didn't want to insult her by not waving back. He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and then lifted his arm. He held it close to his side and only moved his hand back and forth. Sort of how the Royals waved as they drove by in a parade. He used as little movement as possible so as not to attract the attention of his teammates. He glanced over at Bobby Saunders, who had the ball.
Safe
, Tim thought.
Bobby never passes to anyone.

Tim went back to daydreaming. His mind was so full these days—how could anyone expect him to concentrate on something as ordinary as a silly football match? So much had happened to him, and he was still trying to understand it.

Not too long ago, Timothy had been pretty much like any other thirteen-year-old boy in a London council home. Then four strangers arrived and informed him that he had the potential to become the most powerful magician the world had ever seen. Heavy stuff. Needless to say, things changed pretty radically after that.

These men—the Trenchcoat Brigade, as he called them—took him to other worlds. The one known only as the Stranger brought him into the past. Tim witnessed the sinking of Atlantis, saw ancient civilizations, and even met Merlin. Then John Constantine took him to America and introduced him to other magic types of the present day. Tim's favorite part of the trip was meeting Zatanna, a lady magician he had admired on TV. She turned out to be even cooler in person. Next, it was on to Faerie, a magical realm that seemed straight out of a storybook.

Faerie had been amazing. It wasn't just that it was probably the prettiest, most spectacular place he'd ever seen. It was where he felt like magic was real. More than that—that magic was natural, everyday, and ordinary but in an extraordinary way. He had met talking animals, nasty little creatures, and beautiful fairies who could fly and sing, and even the air there made him want to dance—if he were keen on dancing.

He almost wound up a prisoner there, when the Queen, Titania, tricked him into accepting a gift. But he managed to find a way out and was able to return home. Then, of course, no adventure would be complete without an attempt on one's life. And Tim had been there, done that, too. His creepy tour guide, Mr. E, took him into the future, to the “end of time,” and then turned on him and tried to drive a stake through his heart. It was a bizarre miracle that Tim had made it back alive.

Throughout all the journeys, it seemed like there were always people trying to kill him or take his magic. John Constantine, the bloke Tim liked best of the crew, had explained that Tim's magic could go either way—good or evil—and that there were powerful forces who wanted to be sure his magic went the way they wanted it to—or didn't go at all. In other words, if Tim wasn't going to work for the bad guys, they wanted him dead!

Am I still in danger?
Tim wondered. Since the Trenchcoat Brigade had deposited him at home that rainy night a little over a month ago, exhausted and confused, nothing unusual had happened. In a strange way it was a little disappointing.
Now what? What do I do with this information?

Even though Tim had spent the whole time scared stiff, it was the most alive he had ever felt.
Maybe because so many times I thought I was about to be dead
, he reasoned
.

Tim thought about things he'd seen and magic he'd
done
. When they first met, Dr. Occult, the one who had shown Tim the land of Faerie, had turned Tim's yo-yo into an owl. At the end of time, when Mr. E had attacked him, Yo-yo flew in front of the stake that had been intended for Tim. Yo-yo's sacrifice had saved Tim, but killed the owl. Back at home after the Trenchcoat Brigade had left him, after Tim had rejected magic, frustrated and disappointed and alone, Tim had managed to somehow turn his yo-yo back into a bird.
How did I do that
? he wondered.

But the bird had flown away. And Tim missed him.

A movement overhead caught Tim's eye. He squinted up and saw a large bird circling above him. “Yo-yo?”

Just then he felt a thud against his ankle and glanced down. The football sat beside his foot. “Oh,” Tim said. “I suppose I should do something with that.”

“Yikes!” he cried, as the opposing team thundered toward him.
Oh no!
His teammates were heading straight toward him, too!

Tim tried to kick the ball away, but it had now rolled out of reach.

Ooof!
The large boy who sat three rows in front of him in Literature class slammed into Tim. Tim landed on the ground, winded, his face grinding into the dirt, as three more kids piled on top of him. Then he heard a shout. “Saunders has the ball!” Everyone scrambled away, leaving Tim sore and humiliated, alone on the grass.

Slowly, Tim sat up. He felt around and found his glasses. Luckily, they weren't broken. Tim's ribs twinged where someone's knees had connected with them. He felt trampled. He stood up and felt worse. He saw that Molly had stopped running and witnessed the entire fiasco.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, “just brilliant.” He started to jog. He planned to run toward the others, to prove he wasn't a complete wimp and weakling. But instead, he bypassed the knot of players in the scrimmage and kept going. He picked up speed and tore out of the schoolyard.

“Hunter!” he heard his gym teacher, Coach Michelson, shout behind him. “Hunter! Where do you think you're going?”

Tim ignored him, ignored everything. It was all just a blur as his feet pounded the pavement.

What is wrong with me?
Tim admonished himself.
I am such a loser. How can I possibly be this powerful magician that the entire universe is after, when I can't hold my own on the bloody schoolyard?
No wonder Yo-yo abandoned me.

Footfall after footfall, the running jangled his bruised body, but it felt good, as if he were landing punches on an unseen adversary—and that enemy was his own confusion. He felt like he would explode out of his skin.

This change, this magic event, this was big. Too big for him to sit still, too big to play stupid football, too big to explain to anyone. Even to Molly.

His breaths were ragged now. He couldn't slow down, couldn't stop running. His chest hurt, but he didn't stop. The pain was
real
—it made sense. It wasn't like that magic stuff. Run hard, breathe hard. Logic. His thoughts were now taking on the rhythm of his feet. Fairy Queens? Magic keys? Past worlds? Tim stopped and grabbed a lamppost, bending over and panting.
How can that have happened to me? How could it have happened to anyone?

He slid down and sat on the pavement, leaning against the lamppost, sweat pouring down his face. He knew he'd feel chilled soon, sweating in the cold December air, but he didn't care.

No one would believe me. Not even Molly. And I don't want her to think I've gone completely mad. I need her to be my friend. And she wouldn't be friends with a raving loon. Well
, he thought getting to his feet,
she probably would
.
She wouldn't drop someone
just because he deserved to be committed, not Molly.
But Tim didn't want a friend who cared for him only because she felt sorry for him. He did want someone to confide in, but how could he tell anyone about an experience for which he couldn't find the words?

Tim glanced around to get his bearings, then laughed. He'd run all the way home. He'd gone the long way, past the boarded-up shops and behind the parking garage. He had added about fifteen blocks to the route, but now his home in Ravenknoll Estates was just a few streets over. He might as well go there.

If he told her, Molly might think it was all just a dream, Tim thought as he slowly walked up to his front door. He had trouble believing it was not a dream himself. He had met Merlin, back in the time of King Arthur. He had traveled to America with John Constantine in no time at all, literally. Of
course
it sounded like a dream.

Then he paused.
Only it wasn't a dream
.

Tim slogged up to the door, then realized his keys were in his jacket in his locker back at school.

Great.
He wouldn't be able to sneak in, hoping his distracted, depressed father wouldn't notice. He'd have to knock and explain himself. Well, today already stunk. Why not let it stink worse?

He knocked. He heard the television blaring from the living room, then noticed the curtain in the front window move.

His father opened the door. “Tim?”

Father and son looked at each other. Tim saw his dad's fleshy face, his thinning hair, the paunch his cardigan stretched over, the missing button. Tim wondered what his dad saw looking at him. Tim figured he himself looked a wreck; he certainly
felt
a wreck.

Uh-oh.
On further observation Tim recognized that his dad was 100% alert today, for once. The clues were small but there.

The car accident that had taken Tim's mother's life had also caused Tim's father to lose an arm. Today the empty sleeve of his father's gray sweater was neatly pinned up. Some days—the bad ones—Mr. Hunter let the empty sleeve dangle, if he got dressed at all. On those days he paid far less attention to Tim, shouting out only for him to come watch some old black-and-white movie on television or to ask absentmindedly how school was, even on a Saturday. Those days, Tim could get away with anything.

“Have you lost your key again? I swear, lad, you'd lose your head if it weren't attached to your shoulders.”

Tim pushed past him and entered the house.
His father shifted in the doorway and peered at him.

“Tim, what are you doing home at this hour? And where are your school clothes?” His father began to follow him. “What happened to you, lad? Did you get into a fight?”

Tim didn't answer, just trudged up the stairs to his room, shut the door, and lay facedown on his bed.

Every muscle hurt. He'd been quite trampled. How was that considered education?

The downstairs phone rang, and Tim heard his father answer.
Good.
That meant he'd leave Tim alone a little while longer.

“Yes?” Mr. Hunter said. There was a long pause, and then his voice had an edge to it. “Is that a fact? I shouldn't take that tone if I were you. If anyone wants sorting out for negligence it's your gym instructor.”

Did I think the phone call was a good thing? Now I'm going to catch it for sure.
Tim stood and crossed to his door. He opened it a crack so he could hear his father's side of the conversation better. It wasn't hard, since his father was getting louder as he got angrier.

“Oh no?” Mr. Hunter said. “What do you call it when my boy limps in with a split lip? He's putting up a brave front, but I think he's got a cracked rib or two. As a matter of fact, I was
about to run him in for an X ray.”

Tim's forehead furrowed. His father was defending him to the school?

“Fine,” Mr. Hunter snapped. “Just so we're clear on one thing. My Tim is not an incorrigible anything. Good-bye.”

Tim heard his father slam the phone down. Then he heard the creaking of the stairs. He quickly grabbed a book from his desk, sat on his bed, and flipped the book open, trying to not look incorrigible.

“Hullo?” Mr. Hunter hovered in the doorway, then stepped into Tim's room. He seemed ill at ease. Uncertain.

Tim didn't know what was coming, so he didn't know what to do. “Hullo,” he replied.

“Well, I just thought I'd…” Mr. Hunter glanced around Tim's room, surprised. “What's all this? No skateboarding chaps on the wall? Owls, is it now?”

“I like owls. Doesn't everyone?”

Mr. Hunter perched on the edge of Tim's bed. “Errrr. Beautiful day outside, isn't it?”

This is a brilliant conversation
, Tim thought. “Yeah. Looks sort of like yesterday. Quite a lot like yesterday, actually.”

“What I mean is, nice as it is, why don't you go outside and play?”

“Play?” Tim stared at his dad. He sensed worry and concern—two emotions his father rarely displayed. Self-absorbed melancholy was more his dad's style.

“You've been looking a bit peaked, lately.”

“Peaked?”
Who is this man
, Tim wondered,
and what have they done with my father?

“Really, Tim, you're getting to be a regular recluse. Don't think I haven't noticed.”
Dad has noticed me? This
is
news.
In addition to surprise, Tim also felt it was too little, too late. “But—”