“Yeah, I call Max for my basketball team!” piped David, who began rummaging through Rolf ’s pack for snacks, to the visible annoyance of its owner.
The students fanned out and began exploring up and down the deck. Several took turns playing with the wheel. Lucia and Cynthia crawled up to a crow’s nest, raining hard candies down on the rest as they spread out blankets and sleeping bags. Connor strolled toward the cabin, returning shortly with a disappointed expression on his face.
“There are locks on all the doors and hatches; looks like we’re staying above.”
“That’s fine by me,” squeaked a girl from Denmark. “It’s probably scary down there!”
“I’ll bet it’s cool down there,” said Connor wistfully. He took a seat on a nearby blanket and turned on someone’s radio, quickly lowering the volume as an opera singer blared an impressive tremolo. He began scrolling through the stations.
Soon all of them had settled down in their impromptu campsite. Huddling in a small group as the boat rocked, Max laughed and played cards and devoured Rolf ’s snacks while he learned about his classmates’ hometowns and families. Omar was telling Max about his baby brother back in Cairo when the boat pitched wildly.
Playing cards slid across the deck. The masts creaked noisily and the children stopped talking.
For a moment all was silent again. Then the boat shuddered as a massive wave rose beneath it, crashing the children into one another as they scrambled for a hold.
Thump.
Thump, thump.
Something was thudding loudly against the side of the ship, below the waterline.
The children felt the boat strain against its moorings. Lucia shrieked as the gangplank slipped from its hold and splashed into the water. Max looked frantically over the railing to see something, anything that would indicate what was churning the sea. All he saw was swirling, fathomless black.
Keening wails suddenly filled the air, causing Max to fall back onto the deck as the others covered their ears. The Kestrel now bobbed like a toy boat as seawater frothed and spilled in foamy waves over the sides.
“Run!” screamed Connor over the noise, pulling Lucia to her feet. “All of you, run!”
The children staggered toward the bow of the ship, falling now and again as it pitched back and forth. The keening increased; the timbers of the boat began to vibrate and hum. Many of the children leapt over the side, plunging some fifteen feet into the water and flailing through the chop for the beach. Max saw David bob up in the foamy water when he suddenly felt a hand seize his arm. Sarah was shouting at him in terror.
“I can’t swim!”
The wailing became deafening; the boat lurched away from the dock as one of the mooring chains strained near snapping.
Max grabbed Sarah and hurled the two of them over the side. They plunged into the sea. Swallowing a mouthful of salty water, Max clutched Sarah’s shirt and stroked wildly with his free arm for the beach. The water was cold and swirling in wild currents; beds of kelp dragged against his legs like clammy fingers. At any moment, Max expected something horribly strong to clamp on to his foot and heave him out toward deeper waters. Brine splashed in his face, and a great black wave rolled over his head, pushing them under. Sarah was screaming and thrashing crazily in his grip, her sharp elbows hitting him on the side of the face as he labored.
As Max’s grip threatened to give, their feet met the rough sand. Sarah flung herself away from him and scrambled through the surf. The keening began to die as the children fled up the stone steps and across the lawns.
The Manse’s lights were on. A crowd of students and faculty had gathered onto the drive by the fountain. Ms. Richter was among them, her bright lantern casting her anger into sharp relief.
8
THE NEW AND WEIRD
Stifling a yawn, Max stumbled down the hallway with his classmates shortly before six o’clock Monday morning. Many were exhausted, having spent Sunday cleaning out the stables as punishment for their foray aboard the Kestrel. The task had taken most of the day, leaving them drained and filthy. Ms. Richter had been sparing with her words, muttering only that she had never seen a class so determined to exterminate themselves.
When Mr. Vincenti asked why they had elected to do such a foolish thing, Connor insisted that it was his idea, staring all the while at Alex Mu?oz, who gawked from the dwindling crowd.
Despite their questions, no one told them what had churned the seas and wailed so horribly. No students seemed to know, and no faculty would say.
Max was particularly tired. After the day’s labor, feeding and playing with Nick had proven to be no trivial task. Following the instructions in his booklet, Max murmured, “Food for Nick: Black Forest lymrill,” into a stained and spattered wooden bin in the Warming Lodge. The bin rumbled and shook, its lid clattering and spilling beams of light onto the stalls. While his reading had braced him for Nick’s diet, Max still retched upon opening the lid. The bin was piled high with crates of writhing rodents and worms along with small stacks of thin metal bars.
Nick’s tail fluttered wildly, and he zoomed up and down the corridor as Max loaded the crates into a wheelbarrow and staggered outside. He looked away as Nick methodically devoured each crate’s contents: first bloodying his snout in the wriggling piles of vermin before extending his tongue to deftly separate, lift, and swallow whole each of the small metal bars. After cleaning himself vigorously in the lagoon, Nick then chased Max about the clearing, racing ahead in tremendous bursts of speed to ambush him from outcroppings of rock or swatting playfully at his ankles to spill the boy into the grass as he fled. When Nick finally stopped and curled himself into a dozing ball, Max almost wept with gratitude. Scooping the lymrill into his arms, he walked down the Warming Lodge’s rows of stalls until he found the door for Nick’s. After laying the sleeping lymrill in the boughs of the stall’s small tree, Max dragged himself to bed.
“How are you feeling?” inquired Omar, stumbling along next to Max as they descended the stairs for their first class. Omar was in Max’s section, one of five groupings of First Years who would be taking all of their classes together.
“I can’t even see straight,” moaned Max. “Nick kept me out until eleven.”
“Can Nick talk?” asked Omar, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“No.”
“Well, you should be thankful. Try caring for Tweedy. He’s making me memorize the life works of his favorite composers….”
Max grunted in sympathy as they entered the basement classroom, a large space whose floor was covered in firm, spongy mats. A tall, wiry man with close-cropped black hair and heavy-lidded eyes stood in the middle of the room. He wore a loose-fitting shirt and pants; his feet were bare. He sipped from a bottle of water as he perused a clipboard, not bothering to look up as they entered.
“Remove your shoes,” he murmured with a slight accent. “Start jogging around the room. Clockwise. Quick, quick!”
Max jogged along with the others, shooting curious glances at the instructor as they lapped doggedly around the room. “Faster,” the man’s voice snapped like a whip. After a few minutes, Max was huffing; he noticed Jesse and Cynthia were several laps behind. The man took another distracted sip, sat on the ground, and murmured, “All right. Over here. Spread out along the floor, facing me. Stretch your hamstrings, like so.” He spread his legs and smoothly lowered his forehead to a knee, holding it there. As Max and the others seated themselves and struggled to emulate him, he abruptly stood and started walking around the room. “Do not bounce!” he hissed, passing Connor, who promptly groaned and forced himself back down.
“I am Monsieur Renard. I will be your instructor for Training and Games. You will either love or hate me. This does not concern me.”