The Turtle Boy: Peregrine's Tale

The Turtle Boy: Peregrine's
Tale

Kealan Patrick Burke

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 by Kealan Patrick
Burke

Originally published by Cemetery Dance
Publications, 2010

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

This ebook is licensed for your
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away to other people. If you would like to share this book with
another person, please purchase an additional copy for each
recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or
it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to
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the hard work of this author.

Other Titles by Kealan Patrick
Burke

The
Turtle Boy

The
Hides

Vessels

Midlisters

Seldom Seen in August

Ravenous Ghosts

Underneath

Dead
of Winter

Saturday Night at Eddie's

You
In?

INTRODUCTION

I have to admit I'm fond of
writing introductions to my books, and here's why: Writing the
introduction almost always means the book is done: written,
rewritten, read and reread
ad
infinitum
(and often
ad nauseum
), to the point where I'm
ready to fling the manuscript out the door, or possibly drop it
from a height and watch the wind play critic. It means I get to
brew some coffee, maybe light a smoke, and take a few moments to
directly address you, the reader. I'm aware that some of you, as a
rule, bypass introductions entirely, while for others it's the
first thing they read. Assuming the eyes scanning these words now
are doing so because they're curious, eager to discover what has
brought you and me to this place, and time, in our lives, let me
welcome you and promptly get on with the show, so to
speak.

When I wrote
The Turtle Boy
, I never
intended for it to become the first book in a series.
The Hides
, then, was not
written to cash in on a tale that had put my name out there and won
a few awards, but mostly because after finishing and delivering the
first book, I couldn't get Timmy Quinn, or Kim, out of my head. I
wanted to know more about them, see them later in life, even if
whatever I wrote never saw print. It was also the perfect excuse to
revisit my hometown and resurrect some old ghosts.
The Hides
, if reader
feedback is to believed, went over just as well, but drew some
criticism because of its length. People wanted more, and that's
never a bad thing, but all I could say was that
The Hides
was the length it was
because that's how long the story wanted to be. Any longer and I'd
have been padding it, and that's something I prefer to avoid,
because it shows. Snappy, fast-moving scenes become drawn out,
exposition gets lengthier (and more tiresome), and the pace
falters. So I left it as is, with the promise that more answers
were to come. And I followed up on that promise, although it would
take over a year for the third book,
Vessels
, to be released.

If anything, and
though
The Turtle Boy
has gathered quite a bit of fuss to itself over the years due
to positive reviews, the Bram Stoker Award, and the ridiculous
prices it now commands on the secondary market,
Vessels
was the best of the three
books, in part because my writing had developed enough in the
interim between installments to enable me to tackle subjects I'd
avoided before, and in a more mature fashion, and also because the
story itself had matured, as had the characters, and I had a little
more freedom to put them all through the grinder, with nary a
smidgen of remorse.
Vessels
is a bleak, unforgiving tale, with perhaps the
most alarming and surprising ending of all the books. Again, reader
feedback let me know how much the book was appreciated and enjoyed,
but a common theme ended all these emails and message board posts,
and that was frustration at how long readers would have to wait for
the final chapter, the conclusion of a series that has now spanned
almost four years of my life. Worse, I've had to admit that even
though the last book,
Nemesis
, has been started, it's not
even close to being done. So, while the final book continues apace,
it will, unfortunately, be a while before you see it.

Hence this little curio you now hold
in your hands.

There are times when authors or
publishers will get too greedy, particularly if they know they are,
or have access to, a cash cow. The same book might be released over
and over again, with minor changes but an unwaveringly high price
tag. And every time, fans of the author's books will fall all over
themselves to get their hands on it, only to find that the book
they bought isn't a whole lot different from its previous
incarnations.

I abhor this practice, and have no
desire to be a part of it.

Which is why, with
The Turtle Boy: Peregrine's
Tale
, what you have is not some hastily
scribbled prologue, epilogue, or mysterious "lost chapter of
Chupacabra" unearthed from some mystical secret drawer only
accessible via ancient chants and an ornate brass key secreted
under the floorboards of a crumbling church atop an eldritch hill
somewhere in Providence, Rhode Island, but rather a section from
what was intended to be the novel
Brethren
, a composite of
The Turtle Boy
,
The Hides
, and
Vessels
, which I aborted
in favor of doing
Nemesis
, and ending the
series.

I then transplanted this
section into
Nemesis
to use as my start-off point—the introduction of Peregrine,
Tim Quinn's enemy. But it didn't fit. It felt off, somehow, and I
realized it belonged in
The Turtle
Boy
, if I had known when I wrote that book
that it was going to be the first of four. As it's too late to
change what's already in print, and because I know the wait
for
Nemesis
is
going to be a long one, I decided to do Peregrine's story as a neat
little complement to
The Turtle
Boy
. Call it a special bonus for those
who've followed the series thus far, or just for those who
read
The Turtle Boy
and want a little something extra.

Tim Quinn's universe has many strands.
In the future I may pick up some more and see where they lead, but
the one you're about to read is a major one, and it is my absolute
pleasure to share it with you here.

—
Kealan Patrick
Burke

CHAPTER ONE

1979

His name was Perry Griffin,
but before he'd learned the proper way to pronounce it, he'd simply
run it together into one word: Per-grin, which as the years went by
mutated into
Peregrine
in the mouths of all who repeated it. Annoyed at first by what
he considered a ridiculous title, it wasn't until he realized what
the name meant that he stopped trying to dissuade people from using
it. An awkward child, he found the image of the bird of prey that
came to mind whenever someone addressed him to be somewhat
bolstering, and more than a little cool. The christening of this
new name, then, officially took place on his eighth birthday, when
his mother presented him with his cake. Amid the twisted turrets of
icing was a picture of a falcon in flight, its body skewered by
dripping birthday candles, talons bared as it prepared to snatch
its meal. Written in white icing across the cake was: HAPPY
BIRTHDAY PEREGRINE. From then on, only the teachers at his school
would insist on using his birth name. Everyone else used Peregrine,
which the boy discovered meant "traveler," and though his ambitions
of seeing beyond the woods in which he lived had not yet graduated
beyond a mild curiosity, it would not be long before he was forced
to live up to his name.

CHAPTER TWO

Peregrine didn't believe in ghosts,
but only because he had never seen one. He heard the stories, of
course, and sometimes lay awake attributing the chorus of
night-sounds below his window to the wanderings of the dead, but
always in the morning he would feel silly. The dead stayed dead, he
knew. His mother had told him so and she had no reason to lie. The
topic was occasionally broached in their house, but seldom
discussed in-depth because for Peregrine, thinking about ghosts
forced him to think of death, and that was infinitely more
terrifying than anything that he might hear rustling around in the
dark. So far as he knew, there was no proof that ghosts existed
anywhere outside the realm of the campfire, but the reality of
death could not be denied. It was a shadow the sun would never
chase away, and the awesome inevitability of it terrified the boy
to the core of his being.

Despite his convictions, however, he
awoke one gloomy overcast morning to find a ghost sitting in the
kitchen.

At least he assumed she was a ghost,
for she would not look at him, but continued to stare at a point
somewhere east of the window overlooking the woods. When he spoke
to her, she did not answer, and after a prolonged moment of
indecision, Peregrine went to his mother's side and shook her. She
was cold. Still she did not move, or acknowledge his presence. She
just stared, her rocking chair frozen in mid-swing by the heel of
her tattered gray slipper. Frightened, the boy followed her gaze
but saw nothing he deemed worthy of such intense focus.

He spoke; she ignored him.

He wept; she was silent.

A newspaper sat folded on the table,
with only the word 'MURDER!' visible above a grainy photograph and
lines of tiny print. On the stove, the pots and pans were cold, the
customary smell of bacon and eggs absent from the air. There was
only the smell of woodsmoke as the embers of last night's fire
hissed and spat, as if to assure the curious that there was life in
its ashen bones yet.

Beyond the window, low purplish clouds
rolled over the woods, rumbling. A flock of Canadian geese honked
their way across the bruised pallet of the sky, plowing forth
through a strengthening wind as lightning made dark veins of the
trees.

Peregrine swallowed, panic clawing its
way up his throat. "Mom?"

She didn't answer. He was beginning to
feel as if he'd woken up in a strange house, or a nightmare. He
wished for the latter, because all nightmares had to end
eventually.

His mother hadn't combed her hair—a
lapse in her strict daily routine that only reinforced his unease.
Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, as if she hadn't slept. A part of
him he had to struggle to ignore wondered if she was dead, if she
had seen him to bed last night then come downstairs to sit in her
favorite chair and die. She had certainly been quiet and sad enough
over the past few weeks, ever since The Man left. Maybe the sadness
had stopped her heart?

The mere thought of such a thing
almost stopped his own.

Gently, so as not to startle her if
she was simply lost in a fanciful daydream, he put his slim fingers
on the arm of her chair, pausing when the pressure made it creak
forward a notch. He hoped the movement wouldn't hurt her heel,
braced as it was against the runner. Breath held, he drew close
enough to her to notice that only the faintest scent of perfume
lingered on her skin. Another ritual missed. She always squirted
some on her neck just before she made him breakfast. Eggs and
bacon, usually. Sometimes waffles, if he had done something to make
her proud.

But there were no waffles this
morning, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd made his
mother proud, couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile.
Ever since The Man left, slamming the door and leaving only a waft
of whiskey, cigarettes, and sweat in the air behind him, she hadn't
been herself.