The Last Martin (20 page)

Kaboom!

I fall back on my butt as smoke rises from the barrel of the gun.
Oh no.
I scramble to the edge on my knees.

Whew!
The boat zips on by and I crumble, face against limestone. Soldiers and questions surround.

“Who were you shooting at?”

“What did you see?”

“What are you thinking, man?”

Strong arms help me, noodly Private Boyle, down the steps and to Colonel Snelling’s quarters.

The Colonel steps onto the porch and shakes his head. “Two days.”

“Don’t I get a trial? A phone call? Maybe a lawyer!” I run out of stupid television comments and armed guards shove me across the courtyard.

“Where am I going? What does two days mean?”

Guard House, straight ahead.

Inside my heart leaps. It’s where I need to go. Nothing could be better. I walk back through the doorway on my own power and stop. “Where’s James? The stonemason, where did he go?”

Spitter doesn’t turn. He turns the key on the cell door and throws it open. “Went mad. The doctor said he suffers from deep confusion. We sent him home not one hour ago.”

I grab for his uniform, but my escorts are quick and toss me into my new home. “I need to see him. See, my name is cursed and he knew something. I don’t know what, but he chiseled something.”

“Aye. The cornerstone of this very fort. In Colonel Snelling’s residence. But you won’t be seeing him anytime soon. As we speak, he’s on a boat to St. Louis.”

No, he’s not! He’s just a guy. A regular twenty-first century guy! He’s probably stuck in traffic right now, so call his cell.

All three men spit tobacco at the pot and jostle outside. I stagger back to the wooden bed and lie down. It’s hard and cool and damp, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I was an hour away from finding out something. From talking to Martin’s fake neighbor. Now it’s over.

A
BUGLE WAKES ME FROM MY SLEEP, AND I THROW off my burlap blanket. I’m shivering, my neck hurts from sleeping in a feed trough, and there’s a nail-head indent in the small of my back.

I reach in my pocket and remove Julia’s chess piece. I turn it over in my fingers.

“I’m thankful for … I’m thankful for …” I follow a drip of water across a ceiling beam. It grows, wiggles, then splats onto my forehead.

“Nothing. I am officially not thankful anymore. God, I am tired of being whipped and thrown in jail by a man named Leonard. I’m tired of this crazy place. I’m tired of being alone and I’m sick of “dyink” and I don’t want to kick the bucket and leave Poole and Charley fighting over the girl I like!”

“That was the most pathetic thankful yell I’ve ever heard.”

Poole creeps in. “The guard won’t be at roll call long, so I can’t stay.”

“Fine, fine. Don’t stay. Enjoy your mattress —”

“Actually, I’m on a feather bed.”

“Whatever! Go nap on your feather bed and eat your custard pies or whatever they serve —”

“Wild blueberry —”

“Wild blueberry pies and then enjoy your grimy years with Julia.” I lie back down on the nail head, wince, and turn away from my friend.

It’s quiet a long time. I hear shuffling feet.
He must have left.

I half-roll and peek over my shoulder. Poole is digging his toe in the dirt. “Nothing’s going to be the same without you.”

I don’t want to cry. Soldiers don’t cry. Even dying ones. They lie there on the battlefield and close their eyes all tough-like. I feel a tear and whisper, “Miss you too.”

I clear my throat. “You better get back to Leonard in the Officers’ Quart —”

I jump up. “I’m thankful you are such a con artist!”

Poole cocks his head.

“I don’t how you got into Snelling’s quarters, but I need you to poke around for the cornerstone. It’s in the Officers’ Quarters. Can you do that?”

“Why am I doing that?”

“James knew me, or he knew the first me, or he
thought I was the first me — oh, it doesn’t matter. He said ‘There can only be one Martin,’ just like Dad says every year. He said he chiseled my name in a stone, the cornerstone of this fort. You always say words have power. Doesn’t that just reek of curseness?”

Poole’s eyes grow wide. “I’m on it. You wait here.”

“Funny, Poole.”

He’s gone for half the day.

“Blueberry pie,” I mumble. “Feather beds and blueberry pie.” I munch on my stale bread and dried beef. Finally I hear Poole talking to the guard. A moment later he pokes his head in.

“Found your cornerstone. There’s nothing.” He pulls out a scrap of paper. “Two names are carved in it: your friend James Delaney and William Goddard. Then there’s a symbol, nothing I recognize. No mention of you. If there was more, it’s gone now.”

I exhale hard. “Maybe James was crazy.”

Outside, the guard stands and salutes. Dad walks in, grabs the keys, and opens the cell door.

“Colonel Snelling has granted my request for time off. I thought I’d explore outside the fort.” He gestures to me and I walk out, slow and stiff.

“I told him I’d like to hunt.” Dad looks at Poole, then back to me. “I said I’d need a few men to accompany me, in case of Indian encounter. He said I
could
choose my companions.” Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “I choose you two.” He leans over. “Let’s go home, son.”

The three of us walk across the parade grounds and beneath the Gatehouse arch. A soldier at the entrance offers Dad one final salute, and we step out to freedom.

“That was awesome!” Poole says. “Incredible! Melt-in-the-mouth-turkey, pudding — I’m talking three different kinds — and potatoes? With butter, with gravy, with stuffing … and my room? You will not believe it. You won’t. Ask me about it. See you can’t, because you know you won’t!”

I can’t say anything. Dad can’t either. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Did I embarrass him? I didn’t mean to.

We step into the Suburban and turn onto the highway. The present feels strange. Cars, loud horns, the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. I look at my uniform. I don’t feel like I belong here anymore. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere.

“My first track meet is tomorrow at 4:00. I didn’t think I’d be back in time, but Dad got me out of jail and my whipping should heal by then.”

Mom’s jaws tighten.

“Whipping? Did you say whipping?” Her gaze shifts to Dad. “Gavin. He said whipping. Explain this now.”

Dad pushes his hand through his hair and shuffles toward Underwear World. He says nothing. I can’t bear not knowing what he thinks.

Mom jumps in front of Dad’s basement door, and the Owl spreads her wings.

Dad sighs heavy. “Yes, Elaina?”

“We did not discuss Martin’s absence,” she hisses.

“I left a note so you wouldn’t worry.”

Mom looks over his shoulder at my tattered, foul uniform — an up-and-down, horrified look. “He is dirty, slimy, and grungy. He is teeming with microbes. I smell them. He was beaten? He was jailed? Good gracious, Gavin! What are you doing to our child?”

Dad lifts his gaze from the ground and turns. He puts both his hands on my shoulders and stares into me. “Letting him grow up.” He leans over and hugs me, hard. “I have never been as proud as I am right now.”

“Ugh! Come with me, Martin.” Mom turtles her hand into her sleeve, and once germ-protected, reaches for my arm. “We have some sanitizing to do.”

I step back. “Thanks. But I think I’ll just grab a shower.”

My father is proud of me. My heart will burst. A happy burst. I can endure it all — the curse, the everything.
I jog up the stairs and into the bathroom, my life suddenly full. I check my back, marvel at the stripe of red Poole gave me, and feel a grin.

“What I said in jail? I don’t mean it. I am thankful for everything.”

M
ARTIN! WHERE’VE YOU BEEN? I’VE FOUND OUT SO much about ancient curses and we have to talk!” Julia pages through her notebook. “Take this one. King Tut’s curse. A guy named Howard Carter opened the pharaoh’s tomb. But his exploring buddy died of a mosquito bite weeks later. Some reports even say a snake ate his canary! But Howard survived, so that was a 50/50 deal.”

I lean back against the lockers and let my head fall back with a thud. “You wouldn’t believe it, Julia. Not in a million years.”

She shifts on her feet. “Try me.”

“Well —”

The bell dongs and we all move toward first period. “Are you coming to the track meet tonight?”

“I have to. Detention. Remember?”

“Okay. Poole’s coming and I’ll talk to Charley. I think it’s time to schedule one last OSM meeting.”

“What do you mean ‘one last'?” She clenches her jaw. “There’s not going to be a last. You have to think positive.”

I say nothing. She shoves my shoulder and stomps off.
Think positive.

The day goes by slowly, which is fine by me. I’m in no mood to hurdle. The day also goes by differently. Mr. Halden, Gladys Gladys, even Will — they all make me smile. I’d invite all three of them over for a party if it would buy me more time. But it won’t. Nothing will.

The school day ends, and I march to the locker room. I change for track and slowly walk out to the field.

“Where you been the last two days?” Charley runs up behind me while I stretch out on the track. “You get a paper cut?”

I roll my eyes, drop down, and stretch my skinny calves. “I went to work with Dad.”

“No way. At the fort?”

Loudspeakers blare, “All non-competitors please clear the track!”

“That’s me,” he says. “Good luck, Marty.”

“Yeah. Can you do another midnight meeting on Saturday?”

“Will Julia be there?”

“She’s invited,” I say.

“Count me in. Gotta go.”

I watch him run off toward the stands. Slow of mind, but no worries. Julia sits in her regular corner. Dad and Mom watch from the other side. Well, Dad watches. Mom lathers the metal bleachers with liquid disinfectant. A ten-foot empty space has formed around my parents on the otherwise crowded bleachers.

And it hits. As I stare at her, a new feeling grows. Not anger. Pity. I feel sorry for her, trapped inside her paranoid skin. I lie back and stretch my back, stare into clear blue sky. I was like that. No more. I’ve just found one of death’s perks.

I glance around the field. School buses from around St. Paul line up outside the fence surrounding the track, and runners cover the lanes. My first track meet is a huge event, and teammates go crazy. I should at least cheer when Midway wins, but I can’t bring myself to hype more than a clap.

“Hurdles. 300 meters!”

“Let’s go, Martin.” Coach calls. The team is freaky excited and lines the inside of the track.

I peek up at Julia and she waves. I’m suddenly nervous. Dad smiles down on me, and my butterflies turn to small birds.

Might be my last chance. Win the tournament and I receive my father’s coat of arms, his seal of approval. And I impress the lady. A knight is humble,
faithful, and expects nothing in return. Ah, the agony of courtly love.

I lower my gaze, stretch my thighs, and march to the starting blocks. I will win. For all the things that could have been, I will —

“Oh my.”

Other hurdlers mill about around the start. They are not boys. They are man-boys. Their bodies are huge, with furry upper lips and chins. They are beasts, not children, with thighs like tree trunks.

I step into lane three and stare down the track. Surrounded by Goliaths, I now only want the hurdles behind me.

I peek at the monster to my right. He sneers and licks his lips.

I reach into my pocket to make sure my chess horse is still there. Sure could use a real one right now.

I’m a knight. I’m a blistering-fast knight. I’m an … unhairy, under-developed, blistering-fast knight. I have faced hideous creatures and hideous curses and sharp-toothed jackals.

“Hey, monster. Are you really thirteen?”

Sasquatch grunts. I guess so. We put our feet in the blocks and our fingertips on the line. We’re tense, like arrows on a string, ready to fly. Muscles ripple around me. At the slightest noise, my competition will launch, leaving me in their wake. Suddenly, I remember my vow.

“I’m thankful I’m not furry!”

Every other hurdler leaps forward.

“False start, lane 1 … uh, and 2, 4, 5, and 6.”

The Furry Ones growl and return to their positions. One more false start and they’ll be disqualified.

“Sorry guys. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just had to get that out — “ A grin works its way across my face.

We lean over.

“Abubalah!” I scream.

“False start lane 1. Runner disqualified.”

One man-boy is out of the race.

“Zeebobie! Gooba! Tooby Toby!”

Lane 2, 5, and 6 leap too soon, furry victims of my stupid-word strategy. The beast in lane 4 glares at me. It’s down to Sasquatch and me.

“Heebeegeebee!” he yells, and I jump.

“Got me, monster.” I tap my temple. We grunt at each other.

“Foobee!” I shout.

“Weeboowaaba!” he hollers.

“Doopee!”

“Mameemoo!”

The starter looks confused, shrugs, and fires.

The beast charges ahead. I follow, hollering, “Geenowa! Flapeeapee!”