Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“Bless you,” she said, removing her glasses and wiping her eyes. “No one wants to talk about what happened—they just tiptoe around it or concoct euphemisms like ‘unfortunate outcomes’ and ‘compromised assets.’ Thank you for having the courage to speak plainly and acknowledge my feelings. It means the world to me, Max.”

She gave a sad smile and looked at him, no longer a teacher but simply a person in pain.

“Do you know what breaks my heart?” she said. “To most, William comes across as such a hard man—so grim and sinister. A professional killer. I called him that once when we were aboard the Erasmus . Do you remember?”

Max nodded.

“You’d never have known it then,” she continued. “But that little gibe wounded him. He knew that’s how people saw him—a scar-faced brute and nothing more. Rowan’s attack dog. For years, I think he even believed it—he withdrew into himself and became the role. But there is such nobility in that man,” she said, shaking her head. “There is such warmth and love. And what have the Atropos done? They’ve stripped it all away and turned him into the very monster he feared he was.…”

“What can I do?” asked Max, feeling helpless.

She blinked. Her mismatched irises returned to focus squarely on him. “Nothing,” she said sharply. “You are to do nothing, Max McDaniels. You are not to go looking for him. He is no doubt looking for you , and we’re expending many resources to ensure that William Cooper—or whatever he has become—stays far away from your person. Do you understand me?”

“But—”

“No,” she snapped. “I love very few people on this planet and I’m not going to lose them all to the Atropos. Grendel is on the hunt again and the Cheshirewulf is better equipped to track his steward than anyone else. If we need your help, we’ll ask for it.”

“Fair enough,” said Max, anxious to change the subject. “Are you teaching again?”

“Just two classes.” She sniffed. “Third and Fourth Year Mystics. I’d like to say my personal life hasn’t affected my work, but those students just took the hardest exam I’ve ever written.”

“Well,” said Max, “just grade it on a curve.”

She glared at him, simultaneously shocked and appalled. “Do you honestly believe in such ridiculous measures?”

Max winced, feeling as though he’d violated some academic commandment. He made to speak, but she raised an authoritative finger and began pacing.

“Tell me,” she demanded. “Are we to lower our standards and applaud a student’s mediocre efforts because it’s simply less mediocre than his or her peers? On the same basis, shall we admit an Agent to the Red Branch because he can do three whole sit-ups while his fellows only managed two? Are these the utterly absurd standards that you would impose upon the world’s greatest school of magic? Well, I submit to you that …”

With a hasty bow, Max retreated.

He left the Archives, climbing up the many steps and passing a handful of winded scholars along the way. Emerging from Maggie’s front doors, he beheld a campus that was settling into late afternoon. Above, the sky was azure; to the west was a thin band of orange as the sun dipped behind the Manse and the hedge woods of the Sanctuary. The air was colder and a light snow was blowing in off the ocean.

Wrapping his cloak about him, Max walked through the woods behind the academic buildings, winding his way among the birches and oaks, conscious of the distant shouts and ring of steel from the refugee camp. But he drifted away from the noise, content to let his boots sink through the crusted snow and let the smell of pine tickle his nose.

At last he came to the clearing where Rose Chapel stood.

The sun had set and the snow was falling harder now. The chapel was conspicuous in the darkness, an elegant building of white stone whose open doors spilled warm yellow light onto the graveyard’s headstones. Poking his head inside, Max saw an elderly chaplain and several domovoi laying out prayer books for the Sunday service. The chaplain spied Max in the doorway, lingering at the threshold.

“Can I help you?”

Max cleared his throat. “Would it be all right if I sat in here awhile?”

“Of course,” said the chaplain, gesturing toward the pews.

Max slid into the nearest row, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. It had been two years since Scott McDaniels’s death. The funeral had been held here; Max could still picture the man who raised him lying in a coffin by the altar. This very chaplain had spoken. Max wondered if the chaplain knew who he was. He almost certainly did, but at least he had the decency to let Max be—not to preach or pry but to simply let him sit in this quiet space of wood and glass and stone.

When they’d finished with their work, the domovoi filed out. The chaplain followed behind, stopping only to set a lantern by Max’s feet.

“Stay as long as you like,” he said. “No need to lock up.”

Max lingered for another hour, savoring the silence and the warm glow of the yuletide candles set within the alcoves and windows. At last he rose and left the chapel, closing the door gently behind him and gazing out into the dark churchyard. Snow was still falling, the flakes settling softly onto the gravestones.

Holding the lantern, Max walked the rows of the dead, shining its light upon each headstone until he found the one for Scott McDaniels. It was a modest slab of pale granite with the proper letters and numbers chiseled into the hard stone. Kneeling, Max brushed away the snow and wiped away the bits of dirt and grass that had accumulated upon the foundation.

Rolf’s grave was easier to find. There were still flowers propped against the headstone, half-frozen roses and lilies left over from the funeral. As Max arranged them, he found a medal buried in their midst—an award the boy had won in Mr. Vincenti’s class. Polishing its surface, Max hung it around the headstone so that it dangled next to Rolf’s name.

There were no flowers at Byron Morrow’s grave. It was a small plot near the woods that ran along the churchyard’s boundary. He’d been buried next to his wife, Elaine. Her headstone was weathered, the corners worn smooth by many rains and winters. But Mr. Morrow’s was new, its edges clean and sharp as Max knelt to brush the snow away.

He had just finished when he noticed that someone was watching him.

The figure was standing in the woods, just beyond the lantern’s light. It did not move, but there was something unsettling and sinister about its quiet surveillance. Drawing the gae bolga , Max hoisted up the lantern.

“Who is that?” he hissed. “Show yourself!”

The figure glided smoothly forward, emerging from the dark wood so that the lantern shone full upon his white and smiling face.

It was Astaroth.

Max stared, disbelieving, as the Demon came forward. The last time Max had seen Astaroth, he had been radiant and white—a luminous image of terrible power. Now his raiment was less glorious, more subdued. He wore a simple black robe and leaned upon the very staff he’d been carrying when he pursued Max and David in the Sidh. The Demon’s face was the same—a gleaming white mask of patrician, almost genderless beauty framed by smooth black hair that hung past his shoulders. His fathomless black eyes crinkled into cheerful slits as he spoke in his honeyed tenor.

“Now it is the time of nightThat the graves, all gaping wide , Every one lets forth his spriteIn the church-way paths to glide .“Are we communing with the dead?” he inquired pleasantly.