EVENING
Let me tell you something about December in Thessaly: it sucks. It’s rainy or it’s snowy and it’s worse than February because in December you know it’s only going to get colder. Also it’s so dark. It’s painful to get out of bed before the sun comes up, and you don’t believe your alarm half the time so you’re always oversleeping.
Today was the suckiest of sucky December’s sucky days. And not because of specific things. Just the general feeling about it. A sucky feeling.
Glen got all depressed because he wanted to chat on the walkie-talkies again during study hall and I didn’t want to, so we didn’t, which made the walk home today kind of blah with Glen complaining about his grandma and me hardly listening. And Mandy was sick and so I couldn’t talk to her about anything. And Mrs. Delgado gave us a pop quiz in Earth Science and I’m sure I got no better than a C. Not end-of-the-world stuff, but when it all piles on, it piles on high.
So all I wanted to do tonight was zone out in front of the TV with something stupid, and I was flipping the channels trying to find the most brainless thing possible when Alistair came in.
“Stop there,” he said, pointing at the TV. “Go back one.”
I clicked one channel down on the clicker and there it was: a picture of the Littlest Knight. It was some news special on cable. While there had been plenty of coverage of the Littlest Knight, the media had never shared a clear picture of him. But this one was clear. Maybe too clear.
Trust me, you don’t want to see the face of a dead kid. Ever.
Alistair sat down on the edge of the sofa and rested his chin in his hand. “I thought it might be him,” he said, “but now there’s no denying it.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Hadrian,” Alistair said.
“Hadrian who?”
“A guy I knew, an unbelievably old swimmer,” Alistair said. “I … I’m the one who … He died because of me.”
There was a tremor in his voice that reminded me of the old Alistair, the bumbling kid who used to question things more, who used to get more confused and flustered. Only the old Alistair was usually worried about a stain in the carpet, not a dead kid half a world away.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “He’s way off in the desert somewhere.”
“I let a monster called the Mandrake get to him,” Alistair said. “The vicious, merciless Mandrake ran him through. And the thing that everyone suspects is true.”
“What does everyone suspect?”
“That if you die in Aquavania, then you die here too.”
“You didn’t know that?” I asked. “I thought you were all-knowing in Aquavania.”
This was me heeding Dad’s words. This was me being a sister. This was me wanting to believe, but not being able to believe, so pretending to believe, because it was dark stuff he was talking about. People getting hurt. Exactly what my parents were worried about.
“I know a lot,” Alistair said, finally turning his gaze from the TV. “But there’s a lot I don’t know. Like about the other swimmers. I’m still working on getting them back too. That’s what happened to Hadrian, but it hasn’t happened to them, which means there’s still hope.”
That word! Hope. It counts for so, so much. Even more than wanting to believe Alistair, I want to believe that there’s hope for him. Yes, I had broken my promise to him and, at that moment, I decided to break it again. But it was in the name of hope.
Hope alone can’t do everything, though. Hope needs help.
“Mom!” I called out. “Dad!”
There was no answer.
“What are you doing?” Alistair asked.
“Mom! Dad!”
“They’re not here,” Alistair told me. “They left thirty minutes ago. They had a meeting with Ms. Kern. Left some baked ziti in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
“They’re seeing her without you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure they want my input these days. I guess they’re doing what they think is best for me.”
“And so am I,” I said.
“You’re going to tell them what I told you?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, but I already have,” I said. “At least a little bit. But I can’t keep secrets like this.”
“I never said these were secrets,” Alistair replied. “Only that I needed a little time. I haven’t heard back from Jenny Colvin yet, and that is the most important thing at this point. Go ahead and tell Mom and Dad what I told you, but I don’t think they’d believe it.”
“And why am I supposed to believe it again?” I asked, a question I have asked myself about a billion times already.
“Because you know about the wombat,” he said.
“Again with the wombat! Who cares about a wombat?”
“And you know about the waterfall.”
“So what?” I said, my voice hopping up a few octaves. “It’s weird for you to know that. It scares me that you know that. But it doesn’t prove anything.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll ask you one more question, and maybe that will change your mind.”
“I can’t imagine that being possible.”
“What does Banar mean to you?” he asked.
Impossible.