Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

The real Scathach’s arms gently closed about Max’s shoulders as she crouched behind him.

“YaYa’s killing him,” Max said, utterly stunned and horrified by the scene.

“No,” Scathach whispered, holding him close. “She’s saving him.”

Max was not so certain. YaYa’s teeth were bared, and she was growling with such ferocity that she looked capable of suddenly tearing out Cooper’s throat. The man had ceased struggling and now merely offered a bloody smile.

“Go ahead!” he goaded. “There’s always another—”

With another roar, YaYa impaled him.

When her horn pierced his shoulder, Cooper’s scream was like nothing Max had ever heard before. Nearby spectators covered their ears and drew away. Fiery symbols erupted on Cooper’s skin, evil runes and symbols Max had glimpsed in David’s grimoires. Cooper was weeping now, pleading with the ki-rin to simply kill him.

But YaYa was unmoved.

At last Cooper’s screams and pleas ceased. He simply lay still on the wet grass and took slow, sputtering breaths while smoke hissed and crackled about the ki-rin’s broken horn. As the fiery symbols faded, Cooper’s eyes returned to their clear, pale blue. His hand twitched, and YaYa raised her bleeding foreleg to release it. Tears ran down the man’s scarred, ruined face as he stroked the ki-rin’s muzzle. His voice was barely audible.

“Tell them I’m sorry.”

When he closed his eyes, YaYa slowly withdrew her horn from his shoulder.

“Is he dead?” Max asked, clutching Scathach’s hand.

Dipping her head, YaYa nuzzled Cooper’s face. “He is at peace.”

Three weeks had passed when Max and Scathach met for a walk one morning beyond Northgate. His broken shin had healed in a matter of days, but Max had not returned to this place since the night of Rowan’s victory. He could hardly believe the transformation that was under way. The toppled walls and towers had been cleared away; the blood-churned fields had been tilled and smoothed. Scaffolding surrounded new tower sites and the cool April air was rich with the smell of wet soil, new turf, and budding branches. Max smiled at the sound of saws and hammers, the whinny of horses, and the chirping of innumerable birds as spring chased away the last remnants of winter.

But these were not the most notable changes to the landscape. That distinction belonged to the thousands of small white obelisks spaced in perfect rows. Now and again, he simply stopped to gaze at them, overwhelmed by their simple beauty and the sacrifice that each represented.

“People are calling it Hound’s Trench,” said Scathach, gesturing at the chasm just beyond them, the very chasm Max had made.

He stared at the great gorge, at its blackened edges and raw, jagged contours. Nothing would ever grow there; that part of the earth was dead forever.

Max shook his head. “I wish they wouldn’t do that,” he muttered. “It’s an ugly name, an ugly thing. I wish the gravestones weren’t so close to it. They shouldn’t be near anything like that.”

“I don’t see it that way,” replied Scathach, taking his arm. “These people drew a line in the sand, sharpened their swords, and kept a terrible foe at bay. Not one enemy set foot in Old College. Centuries from now, people will visit these graves, see that chasm, and know that heroes are buried here.”

Far too many heroes , thought Max. For the rest of the morning, they walked along the rows and looked at the names the Mystics had carved in clean white granite. Most were strangers, but now and again Max came upon a name he recognized. And, of course, there were some that brought him to a solemn halt. These names were not a surprise—he’d already heard of their passing and mourned them—but it was a strange jolt to see them etched with such terrible, beautiful permanence. Whenever Max came upon one, he touched the obelisk and spoke their name aloud: John Buckley, Rowan Academy, Sixth Year; Jesse Chu, Rowan Academy, Fifth Year; Laurence M. Renard, Senior Instructor; Annika Kraken, Department Chair of Mystics.…

Each sounded a different note in his soul. Max was almost surprised to find how deeply Ms. Kraken’s death had moved him. Apparently, she had cast such a powerful spell beyond Southgate that it destroyed her along with many of the Enemy and their battering ram. Max recalled the huge explosion he had glimpsed in that vicinity while YaYa was galloping over the sea. He wondered if that had been Ms. Kraken’s doing. She had always seemed such a cranky old shrew, the kind of teacher students dreaded to encounter in a hallway much less an exam room. But the woman had also been an institution, an academic rite of passage that had challenged and galvanized Rowan students for over sixty years. The school would not be the same without her.

But it was not Ms. Kraken’s memorial that brought a tear to Max’s eye. It was another set at the far end of a row near the sea and the beginnings of a flowerbed. The earth around the marker was trampled and its obelisk was far dirtier than most. Max smiled to see the varied prints in the grass and the unmistakable mark of a muddy paw above the man’s name.

GREGORY WYATT NOLAN HEAD OF GROUNDS

Max did not know the details of Nolan’s death. He didn’t want to. It was enough to know that the man had volunteered to serve along the outer walls and that he had died while doing so. Nolan had spent much of his life looking after Rowan’s weakest, most vulnerable creatures. Most often these had been charges, but sometimes they were students, too. The man had a talent for putting others at ease and making them feel welcome. There simply weren’t enough people like that in the world.

Whenever Max stopped at a grave, Scathach stood aside and let him be. It was a greater gift than she could have known. Max had borne the hopes and expectations of so many people for so long that he had become self-conscious and almost terrified of disappointing anyone. With Scathach, he did not have to mask his feelings or explain them. He could simply experience them and know that she was there.

They were not the only people visiting the gravestones. Hundreds of others were paying their respects. Some were larger groups and families, but often it was a solitary figure walking slowly along a row, consulting their little map and peering at the names.

Walking back toward the remains of Northgate, Max and Scathach passed near one small figure kneeling by a grave and talking quietly to himself. Max’s heart sank as the boy glanced up and their eyes met.

“Hello, Jack.”

The boy stood abruptly, brushing grass from his knees and removing his woolen cap.

“I didn’t steal it,” he mumbled. “I was giving it back to her.”

Max was at a loss until he glimpsed the pearly disk in the boy’s hand. It was the very piece of maridian heartglass Max had given to Tam. Looking past Jack, Max saw the girl’s name etched on the gravestone.

TAM TRENCH RATS BATTALION 2ND COMPANY, 3RD PLATOON

“Did she have a last name?” Max wondered. “She must have,” said Jack, blinking at the inscription. “But I don’t know what it was. She never told me.”

“Tam was your good friend, wasn’t she?”

The boy could not reply. He merely closed his eyes and sobbed.

“I know you want to give that back to her,” Scathach said gently. “But I think you should keep that glass and remember Tam whenever you look at it. What do you think?”

“It was her favorite thing in the world,” Jack sniffled.