The Owl Keeper (7 page)

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reporter. "The target date is July seventh, the day citizens will be transported from their local cities and towns to the government's all-modern, temperature-regulated, darkness-free domes!"

"Fancy that, Maxwell, the domes are opening the same day as your birthday," said Mrs. Crumlin, clucking her tongue.

Ignoring her, Max glugged down the hot cocoa. He didn't want to think about the domes, or what it would mean to turn twelve. The drink was chalky as usual, with a bitter aftertaste. Hot cocoa always made him feel groggy, disembodied, as if the world around him were slowly slipping away.

Don't worry, he told himself, Mrs. Crumlin is at the helm. All you have to do is obey. Forget the High Echelon and the domes and Gran's lost books, forget the stolen boots and the silver owls. Forget the Owl Keeper and Sages and the myths surrounding them. Forget Rose's father, exterminating people with his creepy toxic plants.

"Try Cavernstone Grey Premium Gold-Foil Truffles!" came the soothing voice of a female announcer. "You can rely on Cavernstone Grey: the finest chocolates in the country!"

Little by little, Max's stomach stopped its relentless churning. He closed his eyes, thinking how the cocoa never failed to comfort him, damping down all those unsettling thoughts, wrapping him inside a pleasant, airtight cocoon.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

[Image: The owl tree.]

Max took one bite of Mrs. Crumlin's singed fava bean soufflé and reached for the sliced bread. In the flickering candlelight, he noticed his parents looked pale and sleep-deprived. They had arrived home late from work, so Mrs. Crumlin had stayed longer than usual, coaxing Max into a tedious session of Skeletons in the Cupboard. She'd left the moment his parents walked through the door, anxious as always to be home before the sun went down.

Max watched shadows move across the geometric patterns of the wallpaper. Outside the shuttered windows of the dining

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room a northerly wind was howling. It was, he reflected, the kind of wind that Gran used to say set her pulse racing.

"Well, well, Mrs. Crumlin has done it again." Mr. Unger leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach. "A thoroughly delicious meal."

"Why do you always say that, Dad?" said Max, annoyed. "That burnt bean dish is totally disgusting. Mrs. Crumlin is the worst cook in the world!"

"The old dear tries hard," murmured Mrs. Unger, pushing her food around with her fork. Max noticed her hand trembling slightly. "Put yourself in her shoes, Max. Day in, day out, she's baking, cleaning, knitting, keeping the house dark, protecting you from germs."

"Yeah, but what about you and Dad? You work way harder than she does!" Max looked at the two of them, noticing the deep circles beneath their eyes. "Why were you late tonight?"

His parents exchanged a look. As usual, he found it impossible to read their veiled expressions.

"They announced an important meeting after work." His father's voice was curt. "Attendance was mandatory."

Max sometimes wished his mother and father weren't so secretive and aloof, discussing dull subjects like the weather or the rising cost of food. It dismayed him, the way they always avoided unpleasant subjects.

If only he could confide in his parents about the nightmares. What would they say about the hissing creatures that flapped beside him in his dreams, demented things with sunken eyes? Lately he suspected they weren't birds at all, but something much

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more sinister. Maybe, he thought, these creatures really did exist, in some treacherous swamp or some hidden jungle.

"How's work these days, Dad?" he asked, knowing exactly what the answer would be.

"Excellent." Max watched his father loosen his tie. Workers at Cavernstone Hall were required to wear formal attire. "No complaints there." It was the same response he always gave.

"Mrs. Crumlin is a real pain," said Max. "She's always sticking her nose into other people's business."

"Now, Max." His mother's pale eyes swam behind her bifocals. She looked even more tired than usual, he thought. "Mrs. Crumlin has your best interests at heart, and that's what counts. What would we do without her?" She threw Max a wavering smile. "The old dear made a lovely lava cake for dessert. I'll bring it out, shall I?"

Max had so many questions--about the Great Destruction and the rise of the High Echelon, the book burnings, the new edict against the Sages--but he never managed to ask any of them. He knew those kinds of topics would be too upsetting for his parents.

The Great Destruction of 2066 had happened when Nora and Ewan Unger were his age, both growing up in Cavernstone Grey. They never mentioned it to Max. Once his father remarked that the High Echelon expected people to soldier on, work hard and forget all that had happened before. Max had gotten a lump in his throat, hearing him talk that way. How could they forget when the High Echelon had totally wrecked their lives, crushing their hopes and cheating them out of their youth?

Max turned to his mother. He could see she'd forgotten about the cake. Fork in hand, she was drawing invisible patterns on the

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tablecloth, as if working out a complex equation that required every ounce of her attention.

Max took a deep breath. "What exactly do you
do
at Cavernstone Hall, Mom? I mean, what's your job title and all?"

She looked up, startled. "Job title? Well--"

"Nora," interrupted Max's father, "you were about to go get us some cake."

"Oh. I was, wasn't I?" Mrs. Unger rose to her feet and walked unsteadily toward the kitchen. Max wondered what kind of medicine Dr. Tredegar was prescribing for
her.

"Now, Max, haven't I explained all this a hundred times?" His father gave an irritable sigh. "It's quite simple. They ship us the unrefined cocoa from the landholders' factories by train. Once here, the cocoa goes through phases--the combining of sugar and preservatives, the packaging and so forth--and the final product is shipped all over the country. Cavernstone Grey Hot Cocoa is hugely popular, as are our Premium Gold-Foil Truffles. 'The finest chocolates in the country,' as they say, heh heh."

"But what do you do
specifically?"
Max persisted, secretly wishing his father were a spy instead of a factory worker. "You have an important job, right?"

Mr. Unger fiddled with his tie. "Of course it's important. Last year I never missed a day's work." He nodded toward the framed certificate on the wall--a watercolor sketch of Cavernstone Hall--his award for perfect attendance.

"I know, Dad," said Max. "It looks like an awesome place. When do I get to see it?" His father had long ago promised him a tour of the factory, but so far it hadn't happened.

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"As soon as I can arrange it, Max," came the reply. It was the answer his father always gave.

Max's mother returned with the lava cake. "Enjoy, you two," she said, setting it down in front of Max. One whole side had caved in completely. Seeing it made his stomach roil.

"I'm going up to bed now. It's been a long day and I'm feeling rather fragile." Nora Unger kissed her husband on his forehead.

"Good night, dear Max, I'll see you tomorrow." Her lips grazed Max's head, soft as moth wings. The gesture nearly broke his heart.

As she drifted out of the room, a memory came back to him. He was five or six, running with his mother and Gran through a field of poppies and tiny blue flowers, sunlight streaming down, leaves tumbling around them, all three laughing uproariously. He struggled to hold on to the memory, to savor it. But moments later the colors blurred and the details slipped away, leaving him with a blank space inside his head.

When Gran was alive, his mother didn't wear bifocals or take antianxiety tablets. Those memories, he knew, were true. She never fell asleep at the dinner table either, the way she did now.

He watched the middle section of the cake ooze out as his father sliced into it with a butter knife. Ewan Unger had a toothbrush mustache and hair parted down the middle. His wife called him an old-fashioned gentleman, reserved and polite. He was also, Max observed, somewhat austere and high-strung. When Max was little his father used to make up goofy jokes, but he hadn't kidded around with Max in a long time.

"Gran loved silver owls more than anything, right, Dad?" Max asked.

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Mr. Unger cleared his throat. "She loved
you
more than anything." He handed Max a wedge of cake. "Owls were second. Of course, the owls are extinct now. Pity."

"What did Gran die of, Dad? Nobody ever said."

Mr. Unger cut a smaller slice for himself. "It all happened very fast. She was healthy one day and gravely ill the next. I don't remember the details."

Max frowned, sensing his father was holding something back. Couldn't he just answer the question? "Okay, but I need to know one thing. Why didn't I go to the funeral?"

"Funerals are not for children." His father's voice went flat and dead, like Max's old robot when the batteries ran down. "Your grandmother died of complications and we were sad to see her go." Setting his fork next to his uneaten cake, he stood up. "Let's leave it at that, shall we? She's gone, Max, she's not coming back. Nothing we do can ever change that."

"I know, Dad." Seeing the pain on his father's face, Max knew he should drop the subject. But stubbornly he went on: "Where's Gran buried? In Cavernstone Grey?"

"We'll discuss the matter another time, shall we? I'm off to bed now, it's been a difficult day. Good night, Max, enjoy the cake." He gave Max's shoulder a brisk tap and strode out of the room.

Max stifled a sob. "Good night," he whispered.

But he knew there was nothing good about it at all.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

[Image: The owl.]

"I'm going to be an explorer one day, because explorers dig up ancient bones and buried cities," said Rose that night as she reached for a low-hanging branch. "My dad says it's a highly elevated profession."

Max knelt beneath the owl tree, trying not to think about his parents. He pictured a black curtain falling across his mind, blocking out the scene earlier that evening at the dinner table. Using Mrs. Crumlin's paring knife, he absentmindedly scraped at the moss, careful not to get dirt on his mittens.

High above sat the silver owl, mute and elegant, watching.

"You've got to be dead smart to be an explorer, and tough as nails, because of the tremors," Rose went on, swinging upside

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down. "I mean, if you're not careful a long-lost city could fall on top of you." She shook her head, as if to emphasize her point, and a dryad beetle fell from her hair and landed next to Max. "Anyway, it won't be a problem for me."

He looked at the squashed beetle in disgust. At least it wasn't a deathwatch beetle--though he was starting to have a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Crumlin had made them up.

"My dad knows stories about olden-day explorers. He told me stuff that would curl your nose hairs." Rose swung up to a sitting position. Her matted hair glistened with cobwebs. Max wondered if she ever washed it. "They lead rough-and-tumble lives."

"You ought to brush your hair once in a while," he told her. "It's got knots and bugs in it." His owl drifted down and greeted him, nuzzling his cheek, then she hopped onto a low branch.

"Huh, shows how much you know." Rose gripped the tree and started to climb. "Explorers are too busy fighting grave robbers and digging up gold and artifacts to worry about how their hair looks."

As Rose talked, Max thought. There was something that was bothering him. If Einstein didn't know about Rose, that meant she wasn't enrolled in school. But what did she do all day? Where did she go? He had so many questions, but he was too timid to ask, for fear of Rose losing her temper or, worse, making fun of him. She was so unpredictable.

"Hey, Max," Rose called down. "Do you know about a place called The Ruins?"

Max looked up. She had climbed far higher than he ever dared go. "Sure I do. The Ruins are near Cavernstone Hall, where my parents work."

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"My dad scouted them out. He thinks they're downright eerie. He says something peculiar is going on in there."

"Your dad's wrong. The Ruins are derelict." Max wiped the knife on his jeans. He was a bit envious of Rose's having a spy for a father. His dad, he knew, would never be caught dead near The Ruins. "Mrs. Crumlin says they're empty as eggshells."

"Hey, Max, time to pop that bubble you're in!" Rose clambered down the tree, swinging monkey-style off a branch. "Crumlin's lying again." She shook her head, throwing off twigs and leaves. "You can't trust her, she's part of the machine. She's dangerous!"

"Dangerous?
My parents hired her to be my guardian!" Max could hear the owl's talons, clicking against the bark, and the low thrumming of her voice.

Rose threw Max a sideways glance.

"Okay, I admit she's nosy and snoops around my room, and she's a terrible cook. But that doesn't make her a bad person." Max had no intention of defending Mrs. Crumlin, but Rose's know-it-all attitude was getting to him.

"Fine, Max, have it your way, let's just say your guardian is a cog in the wheel. Let's just say she's misinformed. Misinformation is something secret agents deal with all the time." Rose stood peeling a slug off the tree. "Everyone knows guardians are paid by the High Echelon."

Max stared at the black dirt caked under Rose's raggedy fingernails. It looked permanent. What did she mean by
a cog in the wheel?
What machine was she talking about? He wondered where she picked up her quirky expressions.

Max saw the owl lean toward him, nearly falling from the branch, blinking her golden eyes. He blinked back at her. If he