Fugitives of Chaos Read online

  "To the impractical, Mr. Triumph… ?"

  "No, Headmaster. I was going to say, to the nonsensical."

  The Headmaster laughed out loud and, for some reason, seemed so pleased with this answer, or with the class, or perhaps with life in general, that he dismissed his students with ten minutes to go before next period.

  8.

  Amelia and the other students used the ten minutes to have a quick powwow.

  There was a little semicircular courtyard tucked between two wings of the Manor House, set (during the summer) with a little herb garden. An oak had once grown up through the middle of a circular bench; now the stump made a nice footstool. The students all sat there, facing each other and watching over each other's shoulders, watching in every direction for any sign of grown-ups.

  Victor put out his hand: "All for one."

  Quentin said, "And one for all."

  The girls chimed in: "One for all—one for all."

  Colin waited until Vanity and Amelia put their hands in the circle, and he plopped his hand down on Amelia's, caressing her knuckles with his finger in an oily fashion; and he said, "And all the girls for me!"

  Then he said, "Ow!" when Amelia, without removing her hand from the circle, elbowed him in the ribs.

  Victor slapped his neck. That was the sign that everyone should assume the conversation was being bugged.

  Then Victor said, "What's your favorite color, Amelia?"

  Yellow was her favorite color. Everyone sighed, except Colin, who groaned. Yellow Alert meant no unsecured communications, even when alone, and everyone was to wake up at midnight to participate in a conference (by tap code) through the dormitory walls.

  Quentin said, "I'm curious as to why you're curious about her favorite color, Victor." (Translation: Why the alert?)

  Victor said, "I see a squirrel. Rare this time of year." (Girls, start chattering.) Amelia was annoyed. Not only had she and Vanity just had an argument that morning, but it was something of a stereotype, if not an outright insult, to assume that girls could just blather on and on about nothing on demand.

  Vanity did not help matters by living up to the stereotype. She apparently had forgiven Amelia, and now wanted to chat about Mr. Drinkwater, the handsome new teacher.

  Amelia tried to follow the conversation of the boys (the "Macho Patriarchy," as she called them) while they coughed and tapped the benches in code or made innocuous-sounding comments with double meanings.

  Victor said, "The weather is getting warmer." (This comment was hard to translate, because the weather actually was getting warmer. In code, it was supposed to mean that things were heating up; that is, the grown-ups were up to something.)

  Quentin: "Seems cool enough to me, except for one thing."

  Colin said, "Rum luck that we all came down with Doctorfellitis at the same time. Missing the big meeting, whatever that was. But won't it get colder as the week goes on?"

  Victor had been writing a note in his notebook. He passed it around the circle. Unfortunately, he passed it to his left, so that Quentin saw it first and Amelia saw it last.

  Never so much drugs before. Never knocked us out for days at a time.

  Vanity (still chattering away like a stereotype) took out her pink pen and circled the s in the plural "days"

  and put a question mark by it. Amelia passed the note back to Victor.

  Victor took an almanac out of his coat pocket, opened it to a page he had dog-eared, and passed it to Vanity. Amelia peered over her shoulder. It was a chart listing the predicted times of the rising and the setting of the moon and certain major stars, cross-referenced by latitude and time of year.

  Colin said, "Hey, look what I found!" (Translation: I stole this.) And he pulled out a folded back-page from a newspaper, one of the several that arrived daily in the large mailbox, surrounded by stone like a pillbox, at the far end of the drive. He had circled the times given for sunrise and sunset, moonrise and moonset for today.

  The two figures agreed that today was Monday, December 18. But the school calendar and the class schedule for today indicated that it was supposed to be Wednesday the thirteenth.

  Vanity turned away from Amelia and said to Victor, "Remember what they taught us in science class?"

  (Translation: Always seek independent confirmation.)

  Quentin said, "This may not interest anyone but me…" (This may not convince anyone but me.) "…

  but who wants to see a card trick?"

  Quentin took his Rider-Waite deck of tarot cards out from a cedar box he kept in an inner pocket. He shuffled, cut the deck into three piles. He said, "Pick a card, any card."

  Vanity leaned across the circle and picked one of the cards, turned it faceup. It was Key Eighteen: the Moon.

  Quentin said, "That's been happening all day."

  Colin said, "Good job in language tutorial today. Not everyone speaks Greek as well as you do, pal." He passed him Victor's notebook. "Why don't you write out that passage for me we were looking at."

  Quentin wrote in his small precise hand:

  — 2day clearly Monday, not Wednesday. Monday is assoc w/Moon (obvsly!) but also w/ White Roses, silver, Willow trees. All signs v. obvious. Saw Owl by day, flew widder-shins thrice around clock tower: Warning of Danger! Key XViii-deception.

  Colin rolled his eyes and sighed. "Look, the big meeting is over and we missed it. The weather is turning colder again. We all got sick, but we're all better now, so… so what is all this? My favorite color is Irish green. Why don't we all just relax?"

  Victor leaned over and pointed to what he had previously written in the notebook: Never knocked us out for days at a time.

  Colin turned to the rest of us. "What's that you've got in your hand?" (Let's see a show of hands.) This comment was also hard for Amelia to translate because, at that moment, she had pulled the lump of fabric out from her skirt pocket. She was staring at it in confusion, utterly confounded.

  It was a knot. A knot with no beginning and no end. It looked like it was made out of an apron sash.

  Amelia looked up to see that everyone else was voting.

  Vanity was usually impatient with Yellow Alert restrictions. She held out her mittened fist, thumbs-down.

  Colin said, "Caesar says, 'Kill the Christians!'" and showed his thumbs-down.

  Quentin and Victor both gave a thumbs-up. Quentin said softly, "Spare the gladiator, who fought well, and the plebes will thank you next games, despite that they presently howl and yell."

  A tie. Everyone turned and looked at Amelia.

  She was staring at the impossible knot of fabric in her hands. She looked up, tears in her eyes. She raised her hand, thumb up. She whispered, "Vanity, what's your favorite color?"

  Vanity raised an uncertain hand to stroke her red hair.

  Colin made an impatient noise. "Oh, you are kidding. If things are that bad, what about plan C?"

  (Plan C was "Call the cops")

  Amelia shook her head. "The sun has come out." (It was getting a lot warmer; danger was growing.) Colin said, "Plan C is a great plan."

  Victor said, "What do we say? That they overmedicate us here? I understand that happens in a lot of schools."

  Colin snorted. "We'll think of something. We'll say Vanity is being sexually molested by the teachers.

  Heck,

  I'll sexually molest her my own self. At least I'll get put in a nice prison colony, and I won't be here any longer!"

  Vanity smirked at him, saying, "Why don't you go sexually molest yourself, Colin? Oh, wait! You might catch a social disease from yourself! You don't know where you've been. Bleh!"

  Vanity stuck out her tongue, and Colin smiled and pantomimed pulling down his zipper, with exaggerated welcoming gestures toward her tongue.

  Amelia looked back and forth at this. Childish. So childish. But we are not children anymore. We cannot afford to be.

  Quentin said to Amelia, "How hot do you think the weather will turn? Like spring?"

  Amelia
shook her head.

  "Like summer? Tropic summer?"

  Amelia shook her head.

  "How hot?"

  She whispered, "Do you remember the myth of Phaethon?"

  Victor passed the notebook to her.

  I wrote quickly:

  They erased our brains, all of us. Me, they slipped. There is a creature in my bloodstream.

  Sympathetic. This knot reminded me that I had amnesia. I tried to remember. Creature felt, wants to help. The creature is an amnesia-inducing drug. Knows how brain works. Helped. Starting to open brain block.

  I know who we are. I know who they are. They can hear whatever we say; listen on the wind. No talking!

  Victor leaned over and pointed to the sentence, "I know who they are." I wrote: Boggin=Boreas, North Wind; Fell=Telemus, a Cyclopes; Wren=Erichtho, witch; Glum=Grendel, sea monster; Daw=Thelxiepia, siren. Drinkwater from Atlantis.

  Vanity, giving Victor a look of impatience, leaned in with her pink pen, and circled one sentence over and over. "I know who we are." She started sketching big question marks and exclamation points. I wrote: I am a Greek goddess from hyperspace. Quentin from underworld; Colin from dreamland; Victor from outer space; Vanity is from Homer We all have magic powers.

  Names: Phaethusa; Eidotheia; Phobetor;

  Damnameneus; Nausicaa

  And, because I did not know whether I would have the chance, I wrote the secret out quickly: Victor has power over Wren; Quentin over Glum; me, Fell; Colin, Daw.

  Boggin unkn ???? V Dangerous! Flies! Bends space! Curses! Spanks!

  Also reverse. Watch out!!! Glum stops me; Wren stops C; Daw stops Vic; Fell stops Q. Boggin (?) stops Vanity?

  If catch us, erase memory for good, no slip-ups.

  Victor looked around at the others. He said, "Vanity's favorite color."

  No one doubted me. No one called me crazy. It was the proudest moment of my life. All my friends trusted me.

  All four of them held out their hands, thumbs-up. Unanimous. Red Alert.

  Red Alert was the code for maximum security and greatest care.

  It was the code for the escape attempt.

  Colin leaned over the note. "Half a mo'. What's that word there?" He was pointing at "Spanks!"

  But by then, the ten minutes were up, and the bell was ringing. I had the excuse of gathering books. We all hurried off to next period.

  * * *

  Less than six hours, I was the girl I used to be less than ten days ago. One would think there could not be much difference.

  Now as I walked to the library with Victor, all the cliches that you hear about in old songs, but which never appear in real life, applied to me. There was a spring in my step and a song in my heart. I stood straight and proud and tall, and my face almost hurt from how wide and bright my smile was.

  I could not figure it out, and I did not really know why. There is nothing to show it in anything I did that morning, during those six hours when I was just Amelia, but take my word for it: My life was tepid. The girl from ten days ago felt dull, harassed, and joyless, all the time, and she never noticed it, any more than a fish notices being wet.

  But before ten days ago, I had never matched wits with Grendel and, to save my soul, outsmarted him. I had not talked Thelxiepia into standing aside silently while I undid Dr. Fell's foul potion. Ten days ago, I did not have two gods, Trismegistus and Mulciber, both vying for my favor. Ten days ago, I had not been the one brighter than the others. Ten days ago, I had not been the dangerous one.

  Even if I failed and ditched now—and the chances of failure were higher than the chances of success—at least it would be my hands on the controls of the crashing airplane.

  I resolved, as I walked, to be the most dangerous one I could be. And in my mind, that meant one thing: thought. Think things through; then act. First be patient; then be brave.

  My smile faltered and my footstep got heavy.

  "What is it?" said Victor.

  I shook my head. I could not answer aloud, not while the wind might be listening, but a poignant thought had pierced my heart like a needle.

  They had stolen Quentin's first kiss.

  Again.

  1.

  Headmaster Boggin and Lord Mulciber were standing on the steps of the library, talking in low tones.

  There was no way to avoid walking past them without being tardy for our study period.

  I now wished I had taken my Dramatics lessons more seriously two years ago, when Miss Daw had insisted we attempt to put on a Shakespeare play with just five students to play all the roles.

  I tried to recall what my first impression had been upon seeing Lord Mulciber, who now to me seemed kindly and funny, if gruff. I remembered he had looked like Quasimodo from Notre Dame, all humpback and twisted leg and crooked shoulders broader than a yard across. I tried to get a look of pity or disgust or something on my face, but I was not doing it. In the end, I just decided it was cold enough to allow me to put my scarf over my mouth and nose.

  Lord Mulciber was standing on the upper step, but his head was still only about level with Boggin's breast pocket. Victor stepped past the two with a brisk nod, but Mulciber put his thick steel walking stick in my way and said, "Reginald, you must introduce us."

  Victor turned and looked back down. His face was expressionless; he had one foot higher than the other; his hands were relaxed and by his sides. But I had never seen him look more dangerous.

  Boggin said uncomfortably, "Carry on, Triumph. Tell the librarian that Miss Windrose is excused with my permission for a moment or two, there's a good lad."

  Victor turned like a soldier and continued on in.

  "What do we have here, an Arab girl from a harem?" said Mulciber. "Show us your face, girl."

  That made me blush. Maybe I would have blushed more if I had actually been Amelia with no notion of who this was. But maybe not.

  Boggin cleared his throat. "Miss Windrose, this is His Lordship, Weyland Talbot. It is his family which owns the estate on which we stand; it is his generosity which houses and sustains us. Please treat him with all due courtesy."

  "How do you do, Your Lordship," I said, putting my left foot back and sketching the briefest possible curtsy.

  Here was what was so strange. I could not remember what I was like. Would I have been more shy?

  Less? Maybe a little rude? Or fascinated or repelled? I have never actually studied myself before. I did not know what to act like.

  Boggin said, "His Lordship expressed the desire to see your face, Miss Windrose. I hope you will not continue this conversation all muffled and, ah, obscured."

  Mulciber said, "Reggie. You like the sound of your voice. Only you. Got me? Let me talk to the girl. And you! Windrose, is it? What about that face of yours, eh?"

  I leaned forward and presented my cheek to him. Boggin raised both eyebrows. Mulciber squinted (and scowled) a moment, not understanding my gesture. Then he snorted loudly and squinted (and grinned), raised his huge thick-fingered hand, and plucked the veil away from my face.

  The folds of the scarf fell lightly down across the bosom of my jacket.

  "Very nice," said Mulciber.

  "I thank Your Lordship," I said coolly, straightening a bit.

  "Don't get vain. I've seen better. I have better at home," he said, scowling (or maybe he was still grinning).

  "I am sure Your Lordship's daughters are very beautiful, sir," I said. (1 thought myself terribly clever for this comment, clever enough to remember that I was not supposed to remember who his wife was.) He scratched the stubble of his skull with a finger as thick as a sausage. "No. I got no little ones. None that are any damn good, anyhow." He looked rather sad for a moment, and there was real pain in his eyes. "No, I guess you could say I married young. A showgirl, actually. Gold digger, just like everyone warned me against. She run off with a soldier boy. Serves me right, I guess."

  I was actually past embarrassment and well on my way to pity at this point. 1 said, "Your Lordshi
p—? I mean, please don't tell me your… not that I don't want to hear, but…"

  "But I shouldn't be telling a stranger, right? You see, your face fooled me, Miss Windrose. Ever get the feeling you met someone before?"

  "Well, Your Lordship, I get that feeling when I see Vanity. It is quite an eerie sensation. She is my roommate, you see, so I actually have seen her before. Every day, actually. But the sensation is still quite eerie."

  "Heh. Heyah. Funny one, aren't we. Listen, Windrose! I was asking Boggin here who his best and brightest student is. Your name came up. I want you to send me your resume when you graduate. I have a large industrial concern on the Continent, and I can always use new folk."

  1 turned to Boggin. "Headmaster, when exactly is the date of graduation?"

  He said coldly, "When you turn twenty-one, the institution can release you."

  "And when is that date, sir?" I said brightly, "I'd like to mark it on my calendar. I am sure His Lordship would, too, wouldn't you, Your Lordship?"

  Boggin looked at Mulciber. Mulciber just smiled, obviously relishing Boggin's discomfort.

  Boggin turned back to me abruptly, saying, "Since you are presently sixteen, that would make it five years hence. We do not know the date of your birth with any precision. January first may be assumed to be the date."

  I said to Mulciber, "I understand, Your Lordship, that sixteen-year-olds are sometimes legally allowed to work, at summer jobs if nothing else. Your Lordship would need to acquire Headmaster Boggin's permission, as he is my legal guardian, of course, but considering the great debt he no doubt feels in his heart toward Your Lordship for this wonderful estate——-Well, he would not do anything to obstruct Your Lordship's plans, may I assume that?"

  Mulciber grimaced. "Stop with that 'Lordship' stuff. I bought my title, and I did it only to make it easier to do business in England. You're a sweet girl, but you've studied how to annoy people, haven't you? Well, don't annoy me."

  I said, "Sir… ? What may I call you?"

  He opened his mouth to say "Stumpy"… I could almost see he was thinking it___But then he changed his mind and said, "Mr. Talbot will do for now."