The Owl Keeper (6 page)

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were bruised and fragile, as if cut from crushed velvet. He had never seen so delicate a plant.

As he reached for it, Rose knocked him over. "Don't you know anything? That flower will kill you in seconds flat! They make poisons out of it! Why do you think it's got 'deadly' in its name?"

Max picked himself off the ground, brushing mud from his jacket. Why was Rose so jumpy and wild? "You mean if I touch it I'll die?" It sounded like advice from a witch in a fairy tale.

Rose gazed at him in that haughty way of hers. "My dad learned things like that at spy school. He knows how to mix up potions using stems and leaves and dried-up bugs. Tinctures of henbane and foxglove, syrup of squill! Deadly nightshade, belladonna! His recipes are positively lethal--they could bring down a diplodocus."

Max frowned. He wasn't exactly sure what a diplodocus was. And did spy schools really exist?

"Add it up, owl boy, my dad's a secret agent! Everything he does is classified with a capital C." Rose looped her leg over a branch and hoisted herself up next to the owl. "Sometimes murder is the only option."

"Your father
murders
people?" A chill went through Max.
Murder
was one of those extreme words that made his flesh creep.

"The key word here is
exterminate.
Ex-ter-mi-nate. Like what you do to rats." Rose stroked the owl, a little too gingerly, Max thought. "My dad exterminates people because the High Echelon tells him to; it's all hush-hush, top-secret stuff. His name is Jackson Branwell Eccles, but mostly he uses made-up names. He's got a PhD in undercover surveillance--a real egghead, you know?"

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Max swallowed. All this talk about spies and murdering people was making him feel anxious and overwhelmed. A hundred questions tumbled through his head. What exactly was an egghead?

"Hey, Max." Rose sat on the branch swinging her legs. "What's that song I heard you singing?" She leaned down, smelling of honey and wild grass. "You know, the one about ice and silver?"

Didn't Rose ever stop asking questions? Max wondered. "It's the Owl Keeper's song," he said. "My granny used to sing it to me."

"What's an Owl Keeper?"

"Keeper of the silver owls," he replied, feeling a bit superior to know something Rose didn't. "There's a prophecy that in times of Absolute Dark an Owl Keeper will appear to gather the silver owls and Sages, uniting them to defeat the evil forces."

Rose gave an imperious sniff. "Too bad the Owl Keeper's not real. We could use somebody like that around here. And too bad about the owls, too."

"The Owl Keeper's real!" said Max, annoyed by her flippancy. "He's coming this way soon."

"Well, he'd better hurry up, that's all I can say. What's Absolute Dark?"

Shivering, Max gazed at the moons overhead. He didn't really know the answer, so he improvised. "I guess it's when things get very bad and everyone loses hope." He could feel the damp seeping in through his sweaters. "I have to go now." Spending time with Rose, he realized, was exhausting.

"First sing the song," ordered Rose.

Max looked up, startled. "My voice is no good." He could feel himself blushing.

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"Go on!" she said. "I promise not to laugh."

He gave a sigh and, in his froggy voice, began to sing:

"Silver and ice, silver and ice,

Silver owl will guide you, with its golden eyes. Owl
in the darkness, silver in the leaves,

Blind child comes leading through the fog and trees.

Two will make the journey, old one gone before,

To the icebound tower, through the crumbling door.

Silver and ice, silver and ice,

Silver owl will guide you, with its golden eyes."

He frowned. "I can't remember the other verses. I get them mixed up."

"That was fantastic." Rose fluttered her lashes and looked straight at him. "It sounded kind of
otherworldly."

Max felt the tops of his ears go red. Nobody had ever called his singing otherworldly before. Mrs. Crumlin always said he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

Rose smiled. "It's a song about your owl, too!"

Max smiled back. Rose had called the silver owl
his
owl! He pointed to the owl, sleeping peacefully on a branch. "See the light from her feathers? It's ethereal, like the light from the moons."

"That's called an aura," said Rose knowingly. "Your owl's got an aura."

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CHAPTER SIX

[Image: Cocoa.]

Max sat at the kitchen table, looking dubiously at a cake sprinkled with coconut flakes, leaning to one side. Today was Tuesday, Mrs. Crumlin's day for baking cakes. He groaned inwardly. This was no doubt one more of her over-the-top, sickly sweet creations.

"Good timing," she twittered. "I've just popped this lava cake out of the oven. What do you think of the icing? Maxwell, you're mouth-breathing again."

Max closed his mouth. Why did she have to criticize every little thing? A tinny voice was singing on the radio and Mrs. Crumlin hummed along:

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"Flee the icebound mountain, flee the fortress old,

Flee the deadly Frozen Zone and its killing cold.

Journey to the city domes and their perfect light,

Never fear the dark again, never fear the night."

Max watched her lumber about, boiling up fava beans for the evening meal. Her bulky shape seemed to fill the kitchen. She reminded him of an extinct animal--a whale, maybe, or an elephant--Max had seen pictures of both in Gran's books.

When Max was small, his favorite book was the story of an elephant king. He never tired of hearing Gran read it aloud. Snuggled on her lap, he would breathe in the musty pages. The heady scent of old books was his favorite smell in the world.

A few days after Gran died, Mrs. Crumlin had arrived at the front door clutching a tapestry duffel bag and promising to set the house in order. When she discovered the books in Max's toy chest and under the bed, she had dumped them into her bag, exclaiming, "What on earth was your grandmother thinking? These are banned books! They go against all the rules!"

It had been a shattering experience, seeing those books disappear. Mrs. Crumlin swore she'd never set eyes on his toy owl, but Max knew she'd taken it. He had cried for weeks afterward. She offhandedly dismissed his tears, saying books could be dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands. Max had never really forgiven her.

Only
Owls of the Wild
had survived, because he had hidden the book under a closet floorboard, next to a small seashell. The book and shell were all he had left from his grandmother.

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"You're daydreaming, Maxwell." Mrs. Crumlin slammed down a slice of cake on a chipped plate.

He felt his stomach seize up. He could see that the cake was runny in the middle, with crunchy bits all through it. Why didn't she stick to simple things like instant pudding?

She sat down opposite him at the table, waiting for him to take a bite. "I heard the recipe on a radio cook show." Her sausage-shaped fingers rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. "Always fun to try something new."

"Breaking news!" barked the radio announcer before the song had finished. "Six citizens, believed to be members of the radical organization Silver Sages, were captured outside Barleygate Headlands Lighthouse and taken into custody by the Dark Brigade! As of midnight last night all Sages have been declared enemies of the state."

"Enemies of the state?" echoed Max, a cold hand closing around his heart. He turned to Mrs. Crumlin with a puzzled look. "The Sages? But what did they do wrong?"

"If you slept less and listened to the radio more you would know!" she snapped. "The No Tolerance for Dissenters Edict went into effect overnight. Sages have been stirring up trouble for years. They're radicals, disloyal to the government! The High Echelon has taken a stand against them--and not a minute too soon, I might add."

"But my--" Max was about to say his grandmother had been a Sage, but quickly thought better of it.

Mrs. Crumlin's gloating expression unnerved him. Hadn't the

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Sages belonged to a circle of wise scholars who fought for peace and equality?

"Eat up, Maxwell." Mrs. Crumlin pointed to the cake.

He took a forkful and nibbled at it. The runny part was loaded with sugar and the crunchy bits had a tart flavor that made his lips pucker. But he knew if he didn't eat the cake she would be insulted.

"Tasty, isn't it?" she asked.

"Mmmm," he replied. He could never figure out why her desserts always smelled so delicious but never tasted quite right. "Why don't you try a piece?" Max had noticed that Mrs. Crumlin never went near her own desserts.

"Dear me no, not at my age! Now then, you haven't seen a pair of boots anywhere?" She scratched the scalp beneath her thinning hair. In times of stress, Max knew, she suffered from rashes and dry skin. "Green rubber boots, brand-spanking-new, from the same mail-order house as your boots. I left them on the porch, but last evening I went to fetch them and they were gone. Strange, isn't it?"

The cake lodged halfway down Max's throat. His face burned as he pictured Rose in those huge green boots.

"I didn't see any boots," he lied, hoping Mrs. Crumlin didn't notice his ears go red. He crammed a piece of cake into his mouth, trying to keep his face blank and his brain neutral. Sometimes he suspected that she could read his mind.

"Goodness, this vinyl needs sponging." Mrs. Crumlin smoothed the tablecloth with her beefy hands, then jumped to

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the next topic of importance. "Shall we have cusklet loaf tonight, or fava bean soufflé? What's your preference?"

These were the kinds of inane questions she asked day after day, with such intensity one would think the fate of the world hung in the balance. Max could only take so much of her mindless chitchat.

He pushed away his plate, feeling bloated and ill. Everything Mrs. Crumlin cooked ended up charred to a crisp, so the menu didn't really matter.

"Either's fine," he told her. Then, without thinking, he blurted out: "Do you think the High Echelon plans to make me a special agent? I could deliver secret messages and stuff like that!" Oh no, he thought, why do I always say things that could get me into trouble?

A bristly eyebrow shot up. "You? A special agent?" Mrs. Crumlin sounded out the words as if speaking a foreign language. "Heavens no, Maxwell, you're far too frail for that sort of work." She marched over to the sink and turned on the tap.

Max clenched his jaw. He detested her belittling tone. "But if they trained me to be a spy, I could sneak around in the night," he argued. "It would suit me, because of my condition and everything." It would also mean he could take his little owl with him. Maybe he'd keep her hidden inside his secret-agent briefcase.

"Patience, Maxwell, the High Echelon is aware of your condition. It will decide on an appropriate career." She emptied half a box of soap flakes into the water. "Hmmm. Perhaps I should contact the police about those missing boots. I'd hate to think we

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have thieves lurking in our woods--or worse." She plunged her arms into the dishwater. "It's disturbing to think the Misshapens are growing bolder. Perhaps they're venturing farther afield."

"They'd never do that," said Max. "They hate open spaces." He remembered Gran telling him the Misshapens were bound to the forest--something to do with their inner wiring--and could never go beyond its natural boundaries. Anxious to change the subject, he asked, "Have you ever been to The Ruins, Mrs. Crumlin? What's inside them?"

"You mean that heap of derelict buildings on the other side of town? They're empty as old eggshells." She stood scrubbing a pot as if her life depended on it. Max noticed that her voice had a nervous edge, and she was talking faster than usual. "The High Echelon boarded up The Ruins ages ago, for safety reasons. They could collapse at any moment."

Max sat, chin in hands, wondering what Mrs. Crumlin was hiding. "What are The Ruins, anyway?" he asked. "Did the tremors knock them down?"

Mrs. Crumlin ignored him--her way of putting an end to the conversation. No surprise there, since she always kept to safe topics like recipes and radio song lyrics. He was tempted to ask more about the Sages, but he'd probably be skating on thin ice, as his father liked to say. His parents had cautioned him never to question Mrs. Crumlin about politics or her personal life.

"Time to fix you a mug of hot cocoa, young man," she said, her voice husky. "We don't want any tummy upsets or congested noses."

She retrieved a yellow box from the cupboard, the same one

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she pulled out every day. Printed on the box was the motto cavernstone grey hot cocoa--just like gramma used to make, and below that was an illustration of a refined-looking lady with half-moon glasses and wavy gray hair. Wavy Gray was Max's secret name for her. He often wished Wavy Gray could be his guardian, instead of fussy old Mrs. Crumlin.

Max hated being sickly. Mrs. Crumlin put it down to bad luck, saying he'd inherited his timid nature as well as weak genes for extra-soft teeth and limp hair. "Such a frail, uncertain child," she would remark to Dr. Tredegar, "and dull as foggy weather." But why did he catch fevers and colds so easily? Why couldn't he fight off germs like ordinary kids did?

Then there were the terrifying dreams, jolting him awake in the middle of the night. What were the grotesque creatures that flew in and out of The Ruins--hairless and jellyish, with half-formed faces? Why did he fly with them and hunt down his silver owl?

Did these things really exist, he wondered, or had he unconsciously invented them? It rattled him to think his mind had made up such disgusting creatures. Maybe, he told himself, they were half-digested memories from scary books he'd read, or illustrations from one of Gran's medical texts.

Steam rose from the mug, warming his face, blotting out Mrs. Crumlin, who was nattering about the latest knitting patterns. Her empty words floated through his head, light as cotton candy.

"Citizens will be pleased to hear that the Citizens' Dome Construction Scheme remains on schedule," announced the news