Lois Lowry - Son

Then suddenly the stiletto was on the ground and Gabe’s hands were empty and defenseless. Trademaster was inches from him and had struck the knife out of Gabe’s hand with a larger weapon, something with a terrifying curved blade.

“Guan dao,” Trademaster whispered into Gabe’s ear, naming it.

The wind howled. The man held Gabe’s neck with one gloved hand, raised his weapon with the other, and touched the tender skin there with the blade. Gabe held his breath, afraid that the slightest movement would cause it to slice into his skin. He could feel the exquisite sharpness of the steel.

The two of them stood motionless in an embrace that was wrought by hatred. Gabe hoped that his death would be quick. It was the only thing that he could hope for now.

Then, to Gabe’s surprise, still with the knife poised, Trademaster began to talk. Gabe could again smell his foul breath. His voice was low, and he recognized the tone, superior and arrogant, as bragging.

“You’re such a small, unworthy opponent,” Trademaster taunted. “I’ve destroyed people far more important than you.”

Gabe said nothing. He barely breathed. He was motionless, still aware of the blade against his skin.

“Leaders. Whole families.” The voice was excited. “I’ve torn them to pieces. Left them in whimpering shreds!”

Gabe felt a sharp sliver of pain, and something trickled from his neck onto his bare shoulder. Trademaster had allowed the razor-sharp blade to make a shallow cut.

“Wars,” the voice went on. “I’ve caused wars!”

Gabe stood motionless, paralyzed, but sensed that the man wanted a reaction from him. Some kind of admiration, perhaps. He stayed silent.

“I’ve destroyed whole communities,” the man murmured gleefully into Gabe’s ear. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Gabe whispered. And it was true. He did believe that he had such power. This was not a man, Gabe realized. It was a force disguised as a man. It was nothing human. It was simple evil, wearing a cloak. Jonas had told him this but he had not understood, not until now. He tried desperately to remember what advice Jonas had given him. How should he fight this battle? Finally he said the only thing he could think of to say.

“If you have such power,” Gabe whispered, still trying not to move, “why kill someone as unimportant as me?”

To his amazement, Trademaster withdrew. He lifted the blade from Gabe’s skin and tossed it to the ground, where it fell beside the stiletto. Then he smoothed the folds of his cloak. “I have other weapons,” he said. “Cutlass? Pole-ax? Machete? Cleaver? Pick one and we’ll duel.” He licked his lips and gave a harsh laugh.

Gabe could think of nothing to reply. He remained silent.

“No? Dueling doesn’t appeal? Forget the weaponry, then. I’ll make it more fun, the way Trade Mart was,” he announced. “I’m going to offer you a trade.”

Through the window, quite suddenly, the moonless night brightened. A pale golden stream of light appeared across the floor, reaching almost to the bed. At the same time, Claire’s hoarse, uneven breathing changed slightly. She seemed quieter, more comfortable. Jonas reached over and took her hand. He had been holding it, stroking it, off and on throughout the night. The veins had been thick and knotted under the thin, frail skin; the fingers were thickened at the joints.

Now, startlingly, the old woman’s hand felt different. Smoother. More pliant. In the sudden light he leaned down to look. But at that moment the moonlight disappeared; the night was dark again. He thought of going to relight the oil lamp in the corner, to bring it closer to Claire. But why? Let her sleep, he thought. She is at peace. Let her die without knowing the peril her son is in.

Perhaps this is what death does, he thought, still touching her hand. Smooths the skin, eases the painful joints. Yes, he thought. This must be death coming.

Jonas nodded off against his will and dozed fitfully. It had been such a long, exhausting day. He didn’t see the moonlight reappear, then recede, then reappear. Claire’s hand slid away from his. He didn’t see the skin clear, its dark spots fading, or how the thickened, discolored nails became shell-like and translucent.

“A boat.” The offer was abrupt and angry.

“I don’t need a boat.”

Trademaster looked at him slyly. “It’s not a question of need, my stubborn, stupid lad. It all has to do with want. It’s always want.”

Gabe stood there silently. He was cold. He was wet, still, from the river, and now the stiff breeze had resumed. He rubbed his own arms briskly.

“Chilly?” Trademaster said with a sneer, seeing him shiver. “I could loan you my cloak.” He twirled it. “You could come inside. I could envelop you.”

Gabe didn’t reply. The thought of being inside the dark cloak revolted him.

His eyes glittering, Trademaster said, “All right then, stand there and shiver. Let’s revisit the boat idea, shall we? Not need, but want. Do you want a boat? Wait—don’t answer yet. Let’s make it, oh, a fine sailboat. And part of the deal, guaranteed: billowing sails, a sunny day, a smooth lake, and a strong wind.”

He leaned forward and beckoned with a thin, gloved finger. “Want it?”

Not long ago Gabe would have wanted it very much indeed. But things had changed for him. A boat no longer held any appeal. He no longer needed a boat. His quest for belonging, for love, had ended when he had knelt by a bed and held his dying mother’s hand.

He stood silently for a moment, trying to think of how to say no without further enraging Trademaster.

“Wait! I’m going to add something!” The man leaned even closer.

Gabe didn’t reply.

“On the fine teak deck of this superior sailing vessel? Seated there, her hair blowing in the wind, smiling at you, looking at you very affectionately—extremely affectionately—as you sail your craft, maybe leaning forward to offer you something . . . Let me think. An apple—she has just peeled a fine round apple and she will offer you a bite, she being, of course, someone you care about deeply, maybe that freckle-faced girl named . . . Deirdre?

“Want it?” Trademaster put his mouth to Gabe’s ear and breathed the question hoarsely.

“No,” Gabe said. “I don’t.”

Trademaster laughed cruelly. “Of course you don’t,” he rasped. “You’re waiting for something more? Let’s do it, then! Still the boat. You can have the boat and the lake and the sunshine. And she’ll still be there, leaning forward, offering you food and sustenance and affection—but it’s not silly little Deirdre at all. Know who it is?

“Got a guess?” he hissed.

Gabe did. But he refused to say it. He tightened his hands on the smooth wood of the paddle. When he did, he felt the curved indentations, the places carved here and there with names: Tarik. Nathaniel. Simon. Stefan.

“It’s Claire,” Trademaster murmured to him. “Sweet, young Claire with the long, curly hair. She could be there with you. You know who Claire is, don’t you?

“Want it? Want her?”

Gabe felt the place where the name Jonas had been carved. The sweet cedar of the paddle was infused with all of them: the ones who cared about him, the ones who at this moment were sending strength to him. As his hand lingered on the wood, he suddenly felt something unfamiliar beneath his fingers. The paddle had been smooth in this spot. Now, to his surprise, it had been carved. He felt the rounded curve of a C. An L. And then the four letters that followed.

“Don’t you dare to speak my mother’s name,” he said fiercely. “I don’t want your trade.”