AFTER THE bizarre battle in the streets of Ardfern, Jimmy had raced home only to find an unwelcome guest sitting in his family’s living room. It was the man from the ul. Jimmy was sure of it. But that was impossible! How did he get here so fast? Ahead of Jimmy, even?
“If yu don’t mind,” said Mr. Ogelvie. He stood with the help of a brown walking stick and covered his wavy white hair with a dark cap. “I think I best be headin’ home.”
“So soon yu be leavin’ us?” Mrs. Gresham asked, clutching her plump, sweatered arms as if she’d caught a chill. She looked to her husband expectantly.
“Aye, so soon?” added Mr. Gresham, obviously just to please his wife; Mr. Gresham was just relieved not to have another hand picking at the dinner roast.
“Me pets need tendin’, I’m afraid.” Mr. Ogelvie smiled and looked to Jimmy. “Spiders don’t feed themselves, yu know. At least caged ones don’t.”
Mrs. Gresham turned to Jimmy. “Mr. Ogelvie is an archenonologist.”
“Arachnologist, my dear,” said the neighbor.
Mr. Gresham chuckled.
“That means he studies insects,” she continued, leering at her husband as if she’d gotten it right all along.
“Technically, that would be entomology,” Mr. Ogelvie said gently. “You could say, I’m more of a specialist.”
Mr. Gresham turned his head to stifle a laugh and avoid his wife’s glare.
She frowned at her husband, but turned on a gleaming smile as she spoke about the new neighbor. “He’s already given Geoffry a wee spider an’ a beautiful cage.” Jimmy looked to his brother, who sat in the corner of the room tapping on the clear plastic of a tiny box.
“I’m a sorry, lad.” Mr. Ogelvie eyed Jimmy. “I was not aware there were two boys in this home or I’d be a bringin’ another present with me.”
“That’s all right,” Jimmy said hesitantly. “There b’ plenty of spiders ’round here.”
Mr. Ogelvie smiled like he’d just finished a fine meal. “Aye, that’s true, me boy. And they all be needin’ food.”
And with those words, every nerve in Jimmy’s body caught fire. The muscles in his upper back tightened, and his stomach churned. He couldn’t understand why he felt so uncomfortable—even afraid—of the old guy.
Mr. Ogelvie had age spots all over his cheeks and white hair growing in patches like ferns out of his ears. His dark pullover sweater and pleated khakis fit loosely on his spindly frame. Now that Jimmy thought about it, this Mr. Ogelvie couldn’t have been the man from the ul, the man fighting against Mrs. Finney. He clearly didn’t pose a threat. But something about him made Jimmy nervous. He reasoned that the unexplainable encounter in the street had just rattled him.
Mr. Ogelvie walked to the door, and Jimmy stepped aside. “It’s been a pleasure, Greshams,” he announced. “And a pleasure meeting yu now, Master Jimmy.”
Mr. Ogelvie towered above, and Jimmy felt a shudder travel through his whole body. He nodded slightly in acknowledgment of the old man’s farewell.
“I’ll be seein’ yu again,” said the old man. Something hardened in his faded blue eyes. When no one else could see, he gave Jimmy such a penetrating glare that Jimmy stepped backward. Mr. Ogelvie hobbled over the threshold. With his walking stick adding percussion on the stones outside, he began to sing quietly, “Soon, very soon . . . I’ll be coming ’round to meet yu again.”
Jimmy bit on the sides of his cheek to keep from crying out and started to close the door, but Mrs. Gresham pushed herself into the gap between the door and the jamb.
“Thank yu for stoppin’ by, Mr. Ogelvie.” She waved. “It’s been delightful!”
“The delight, dear people, is all mine.” And with that, the man gave Jimmy one last glance and slipped around the corner of the picket fence. A sudden indignant fury boiled up in Jimmy. The moment his mother was clear of the door, he slammed it. Hard.
“James Lewis Gresham!” his mother yelled, a combination of anger and surprise shrilling her voice.
“Aye, what’s wrong with yu, boy?” Mr. Gresham put in. Geoffry looked up at last from his spider box. Thunder rumbled outside.
“I—” Jimmy hesitated, now ashamed. What is wrong with me? “I’m sorry, I just—”
“To yur room, young man,” ordered Mrs. Gresham. “I’ve had quite enough, what with you insultin’ our new neighbor and all!”
“But, Mum—”
“I’m not yur mother!”
Jimmy’s mouth dropped open. He half-choked on his next breath. She had never said such a thing before. Mrs. Gresham, clearly shocked at her own outburst, covered her mouth with her hand, and looked back and forth between her husband and Jimmy. Jimmy could see tears welling up in her eyes and felt them in his own. She fell into Mr. Gresham’s arms and sobbed.
“Look what yu done!” he said. “Now get!”
A mixture of shame and confusion hammered Jimmy as he ran around the couches and up the stairs. He burst through the door to his room and landed on his bed. He buried his head in his pillow, face growing hot from frustration and wet from tears.
Yu knew the danger, now didn’t yu? Jimmy chastised himself. Believin’ they might love yu the way real parents do . . . left yurself wide open. Now look at yu, Jimmy growled. Sure he had known it would hurt, but he’d never dreamed it would hurt like this: unspeakable, excruciating pain, the kind of pain that twists your guts in knots and wracks your body with tremors. He lay there, shaking miserably, as rain pelted the roof overhead and time ticked by.
After his tears dried up, a numbing frustration settled in. He couldn’t believe the day he’d had. If there had been anyone he wanted to tell about the fight he’d witnessed, it would have been his parents. But now?
Could it have really been Mrs. Finney and Regis out on the street? And what was . . . that thing?
Voices from downstairs, raised then hushed, then raised again. Jimmy turned around on the bed and leaned toward his door to listen.
“. . . don’t’ understand,” Jimmy’s mother was saying. “We’ve done everything for him, but, he’s so . . .”
“Strange these days,” said his father.
“Aye. What’s gotten into him?”
“Why are yu asking me? I dunno!”
“Well, yu said he might be bringin’ a wee bit o’ baggage with him, but we’d be able to handle it!”
“Oh, don’t start that again!” Mr. Gresham slammed his fist in the table. “We both decided to get that boy! And now yu have yur very own, so I cannot help it if yur not wantin’ him ’round anymore.”
“I didn’t say that, Roger.”
“Aye, yu did, right to his face.”
Jimmy flipped back over and buried his head in his pillow, unable to take anymore. He tried to shut out his crying, but it was impossible. He heard his mother sobbing, too. Or perhaps now she was just Mrs. Gresham.
Although Lochgilphead is not far from Ardfern, the walk to school the next morning couldn’t have felt longer. Jimmy’s mother had handed him his lunch but said not a word. Jimmy saw her lower lip tremble and then the door to his home shut. The grief of the previous night weighed like a sack full of anvils and briars on Jimmy’s shoulders. But now that he was outside again, the unusual events regarding the stranger and Miss Finney and Regis roared back to life once more.
Jimmy left the main road for a shortcut through the moors—vast, rolling plains carpeted with peat moss, patches of long grass, and sedge. As was often the case in the morning, the moors were shrouded in white mist. Ah, nothing’s right anymore, Jimmy thought. Nothing feels safe. Maybe I need to see the school psychologist.
He moved north, away from the loch. Minutes later he rounded the last hill and saw Lochgilphead Central School. If I hurry, I might be able to make it before these clouds dump rain on me, Jimmy thought.
No such luck.
The rain came down in sheets, soaking Jimmy even as he sprinted the rest of the way. He emerged from the moors and raced down the hill to the teachers’ parking lot. He saw some of his teachers balancing various colored umbrellas while digging in the trunks of their cars; others holding steaming mugs of coffee, huddled under the side door arch.
Jimmy searched their faces. No Miss Finney. He entered the building, shed his jacket in his locker, and squeaked down the hall. She wasn’t in her classroom, either. Must be a library day, Jimmy thought as he glanced at the clock. He had ten minutes until homeroom. Plenty of time.
Jimmy eased open the library doors, and there she was, checking out books to a handful of underclassmen. Her dark hair was up in a high ponytail, thin glasses resting on the edge of her nose. She wore a dark-green sweater vest over a gray blouse. Nothing at all out of the ordinary. No medieval warrior princess like the night before. Maybe he was just mistaken, and it was someone else. After all that running through a driving rain, it could have been anyone. But Miss Finney had been there to help him up. And there was no mistaking her. She’d even said, “I’ll handle this,” right to his face!
It had to be her. But how to approach her? Uh, Miss Finney, I was wondering . . . what were you doing out in the rain fighting a strange man-thing with long fingers? That just didn’t seem quite right. Not knowing what to say, he waited in line behind the underclassmen. Jimmy watched the clock. Only a couple of minutes left before homeroom. Little heads of blond and curly black bounced up and down in front of the check-out counter. Miss Finney smiled warmly at each one and then sent them on their way with a cherished new treasure. At last, it was Jimmy’s turn.
He waited. Maybe she would say something first. She looked above the rim of her glasses at him.
He couldn’t stand it. “Miss Finney, yesterday, in the rain yu—”
“Not here, Jimmy.” She put a finger to her lips and glanced at the students who’d gotten in line behind Jimmy.
“But—”
“Not now.” She winced.
Jimmy looked at her sweater near her waist. There was a small spot there, darker than the sweater. “I knew it,” he said. “It jabbed yu, didn’t it? Are—”
“Shh, Jimmy Gresham!” she said. “We’re in a library, yu know.”
“But yu . . . yu’re hurt?”
“Never yu mind.”
Jimmy started to speak again, but Miss Finney raised her voice and said, “Yu’ve come to pick up yur book, then?”
“Uh . . . I didn’t check out anything.”
“Of course, yu did, Jimmy boy. Why, yu put it on a reserve just the other day.”
Jimmy stood there gaping as Miss Finney reached beneath the desk and removed a thick book with a dark-green cover trimmed in gold. She didn’t scan it as she usually did a checkout book. Jimmy didn’t see any barcode anyway. What is this?
“Here yu go, lad,” she said, handing Jimmy the book. “I think yu’ve made a good choice with this one. It’s a tale that goes right to yur heart, if yu get what I mean.”
Jimmy took the hefty book in both hands. He read the title and didn’t recognize it. “Who’s it by?”
Miss Finney giggled. “Who’s it by?” She laughed again. “Surely . . . no, of course, yu wouldn’t. Let’s just say, yu’ll be gettin’ to know the author right soon. Now be off with yu. Homeroom’s about to start.”
“But, Miss Finney, what about yest—?”
“Don’t yu worry about that, lad,” she said, her eyes full of warning. “Oh, and I’ve put a bookmark in there for yu. Hope it keeps yu . . . from losin’ yur page.”
Jimmy thought he’d seen a subtle wink in that last glance. He looked at the braided tassel hanging out of the pages and wondered. A rough knock to his shoulder scrambled his thoughts for the moment.
“Basketball in gym today, Gresham,” said lanky Angus MacBain. “Think yu might play a bit?”
“I might,” said Jimmy, knowing full well the gym teacher would make him play whether he wanted to or not. He only hoped that he could be on Angus’s team. That was bad enough, but it was better than playing against him.
Jimmy made it to homeroom just moments after the late bell rang. Mr. Duncan gave Jimmy a look that somehow spoke very clearly: “Sit down now, Jimmy lad, else I’ll extend me full sarcastic wit and reduce yu to quiverin’ jelly.”
Jimmy flew to his seat. He welcomed the warmth of the radiator unit that was about six inches from his right elbow. He needed to dry out. The morning announcements were on, so Jimmy put his head down on the book on his desk.
The book!
Jimmy sat up so abruptly that the other students stared. He grinned back sheepishly and then looked at the book. The History of Berinfell. And beneath the bold title in a smaller font The Chronicles of the Elf Lords and Their Kin.
Huh, Jimmy thought. Never heard of it. He opened the cover and flipped through the first pages. An intricate piece of black and white artwork stopped him immediately. It was a bridge stretching from a deep wood to the side of a cliff and a stairway that climbed a high, pointed tower like a daring vine. It was so wonderfully detailed that Jimmy found himself tracing the lines with his finger . . . that’s when something surprising happened.
Jimmy lifted up his hand to find his fingertips blackened and the artwork smudged. How could that be? He looked at the back of the page and found indentations from a pen, like the back of a sheet of notebook paper he’d written on. He turned a few more pages and sat back. It was all handwritten, the artwork hand-drawn.
What sort of book was this?
Jimmy kept flipping pages until he came to the bookmark. It was a chapter called “The Ruins.”
He’d read just three words when the bell for first class rang. Math with Mr. Jastrow, and no one ever went late to Mr. J’s class. Not unless word-problem marathons after school were your idea of a good time. No, the strange, handwritten book would have to wait . . . till lunch at the earliest. Gym was second period. Gym, basketball, and Angus MacBain.
“Look alive out there, Gresham!” yelled Mr. Brodie, the gym teacher. And in the time it took Jimmy to register the comment, Angus MacBain snatched the basketball right out of Jimmy’s hands. It was the fifth time since the game began. Jimmy hated basketball.
He dutifully raced after his opponent and tried his best to steal the ball back. He swatted here and there, but each time Angus easily avoided Jimmy’s attempts. He spun Jimmy around and scored on a lay-up off the backboard.
“Stay on that one, Gresham!” Mr. Brodie hollered.
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy replied. “I’m trying.” But what Jimmy really wanted to know was: How come he only yells at me? I’m not the worst one on the court. Am I?
“Better luck next time, Jimmy,” said Luke, his friend and teammate.
Jimmy smiled, waved, and puffed out his cheeks, doing his best impersonation of No sweat. It’s just a game. Doesn’t bother me. While his acting might win him an award someday, it didn’t earn him much there in gym. And, of course, Jimmy knew.
He shook his head and ran over to get a drink from the fountain. It seemed everyone was out to get him. As he walked back onto the court, he wished he could just disappear. If anything, he just wanted to talk with Miss Finney and get back to that book. Jimmy was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even hear Mr. Brodie blow the whistle to start play.
Jimmy’s vision grayed at the edges and blurred. He suddenly felt lightheaded. Waves of nausea washed over him. Sounds became distorted. He thought he might lose his breakfast right on the court. “More water,” he whispered. “I need more water.” He began to wobble back toward the fountain.
“Jimmy!” someone yelled, and the ball was speeding toward him. He put up his hands and caught the pass, stinging his palms. His head still swirled, and he thought he might throw up. Great. The other team wouldn’t need to steal the ball from him . . . just grab it after he barfed. Just great.
It was then, however, that the strangest thing happened. Jimmy watched those waving and shouting his name—Luke and the others, each demanding that he pass them the ball—slow to a near standstill. And as if seeing himself from above the game, he saw Angus MacBain charge in from the left and bat the ball out of the frozen Jimmy’s hands.
The moment the ball hit the ground Jimmy’s eyes snapped back to life, and his stomach settled. He stood holding the ball as before, his teammates screaming for the pass. He felt the leather in his hands and had no idea what had just happened. But, sensing movement behind him, Jimmy ducked to the right; he had moved a mere second before Angus’s hand swiped at the ball.
Jimmy’s teammates went wild as Angus tripped and fell from not having expected to miss the steal.
“’Dere yu go, Jimmy!” Mr. Brodie yelled. “Take the shot! Take the shot!”
Jimmy squared to the net and recalled everything he could about the proper form; he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had an opportunity at the basket. He held his breath and pushed the ball up, letting it roll gently off his fingertips. Everyone watched as the ball sailed elegantly through the air, bounced around the rim twice, and sank through the cotton net.
A hand slapped his back. “That was a good one!” said Luke. “Didna’ know yu had it in yu!”
“Aye, neither did I,” Jimmy said looking to Angus, who was picking himself up off the court. The lanky redhead now had a red face to match. He, like Mr. Brodie, was clearly shocked. But unlike the gym teacher, Angus was not speechless.
“Lucky, move, Gresham,” he said, glaring at Jimmy. “Yu won’t be scorin’ on me again anytime soon, I can tell yu true.”
Jimmy gave up a little grin and turned back to the game. He wasn’t quite sure what had taken place, but something told him this was going to be a good day.
Fish and chips . . . yummm! thought Jimmy as he spied the trays of a few kids walking by in the school cafeteria. My favorite. Jimmy took one look at the sparse lunch his mother had packed him. Minced egg sandwich and sticks of celery just couldn’t compare to the deep-fried splendor of Lochgilphead’s fish and chips. His bag lunch sailed into the tall trash can, and Jimmy stood tenth in the lunch line. Angus MacBain, still very red in the face, got in line six places behind Jimmy.
The line moved briskly and Jimmy found himself in front of Mrs. Entwhistle, the kindest lady in the school. Considered everyone’s grandmother, she spoiled her favorites with large portions. “Ah, Jimmy, me wee boy,” she said. “Are yu hungry today?”
“Aye,” Jimmy replied with a wink. “Like a wolf.”
“I best b’ fillin’ yur tray then,” she replied. With her silver tongs, Mrs. Entwhistle selected two gigantic crispy fish filets and plopped them onto the green tray. Then, utilizing one of those wide-mouthed scoopers that no one knew the name of, she piled enough chips on the tray to half cover the fish. “That’ll do yu, then?” she asked.
“Aye, it will!” Jimmy said, eyes wide. He stuck a piping-hot chip in his mouth. “Delicious!”
“Yu’re so kind, Jimmy me boy. Now don’t forget the tartar sauce outside. Made it meself, I did. Special herbs, yu know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Entwhistle.” Jimmy took out his wallet and fished out the last two pounds of his allowance. But it was worth it.
Steam rose from the golden brown bliss on his tray. He couldn’t wait to sit down. He left the serving room and went straight to the condiments table. Mrs. Entwhitstle’s tartar sauce was there, along with an assortment of bowls of mustard, ketchup, brown sauce, relish, vinegar, ranch, and even hummus. Jimmy took the spoon and gave himself a generous dollop of tartar sauce. He loved the stuff. He’d even dip his chips in it.
Then it hit him again.
The strange nausea that had overwhelmed him in gym came back with a vengeance. He dropped the spoon back in the tartar sauce and steadied himself on the edge of the table.
Whoosh. The kids entering and exiting the serving room slowed way down. Their images blurred. There was sound as before, distorted sound, very low in pitch. Muffled. And then Jimmy found that he could again see the scene from above.
There he was putting the spoon back in the tartar sauce at the condiments table. But from behind him, Angus MacBain left the lunch line, handed his tray to his usual partner in crime, Michael Murray, and rushed toward Jimmy. At the last second, Angus grabbed Jimmy’s jeans by the belt loops and yanked them straight down to Jimmy’s ankles. The roar of laughter from the kids pointing at his boxer shorts sounded monstrous and strange.
Whoosh. In a blink, Jimmy was back to himself. He knew what was coming. No way I’m going to let that happen!
He had only a moment to act.
Without turning around, Jimmy took a hard step backward and bent over at the waist. Angus came on too fast and couldn’t stop. Being tall but light, he slammed into Jimmy and flipped over the smaller boy. Angus crashed onto the condiments table, causing an eruption of brown, red, green, yellow, and white. Mustard, ketchup, brown sauce, relish, vinegar, and tartar sauce splattered the floor, the cafeteria wall, even the ceiling. And Angus looked like he’d been the target of an army of paintball soldiers. “Ugh,” he groaned, wiping mustard out of his eyes.
Jimmy approached him. “Thought yu’d pants me, did yu, Angus?” he asked.
“Wha—? How’d yu—?”
“If it makes yu feel any better, I spilled me fish and chips.”
Mrs. Entwhistle and the kitchen cashier emerged from the serving room. “Angus MacBain!” Mrs. Entwhistle chided. “I spent all mornin’ makin’ that tartar sauce. Now look what yu’ve gone and done! I’ll fetch yu a mop, a rag, and a bucket, and yu can just spend yur lunch cleanin’ it all up.”
“Me?” Angus whined. “But Michael helped me!”
“Did he now?” Turning to him. “Well then, Michael can help yu with the mop!” Mrs. Entwhistle looked to Jimmy. “Did that bully make yu spill yur lunch then?” Jimmy nodded sheepishly. “Just come back in here and let me fill yu another tray.”
The events of the morning and the fresh fish and chips were enough to distract Jimmy Gresham from his more serious problems for a while. But those problems did not go away, and the book Miss Finney had given him still waited.