The Last Martin Read online

  Nobody says a word.

  I peek at the principal. “Do you know my mother?”

  Another crease marks his forehead.

  “Do you know what it’s like to live thirteen years without doing anything? No frog collecting, no snake catching, no dirt digging, no fly swatting, no worm touching, no baseball playing, no Christmas tree cutting, no egg breaking, no cow milking, no pony riding, no fair going, no convertible riding, no snowball fighting …” I breathe. “No lake swimming, ice-fishing, tree climbing, nothing. Do you know what thirteen years of that makes a kid want to do?”

  He tongues the inside of his cheek and shakes his head.

  “It makes you want to throw a prune. It makes you want to grab a stupid mic and run away from Gladys Gladys and fling a prune.” I push my hand though my hair. “I know it wasn’t right.”

  More silence. Creaker and Gladys Gladys exchange a glance and nod. Creaker stands. “Young man, I came in here to suspend you from school. I think, however, we’ll go with Gladys’s idea. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another prune flyer to prepare.”

  Gladys grins, then swallows it. She’s trying to stay tough but it isn’t working. “Bring out the tray!” Ms. Watershed rolls out the metal cart covered with prune cups. There must be twenty of them.

  “Since you and prunes seem to have a natural affection for each other, why not get to know them even more intimately? Eat.”

  I frown and slowly palm a cup. Ms. Watershed hands me a fork. A minute later, I’ve downed three hideous prunes.

  “And another.”

  I slowly reach for a cup and pause. “How many —”

  “All.”

  “Twenty prune cups?”

  “Twenty-eight. One for each table that is, once again, purple.”

  I slowly nod. And eat. At five, juice dribbles down my chin. At eleven, the stomach ache starts. I swallow the last four prunes with my head collapsed on the table.

  Gladys Gladys smiles and pats my back. “Feel free to toss a prune anytime. Have a good day.”

  CHAPTER 18

  I SPEND THE REST OF THE DAY IN THE NURSE’S OFFICE, shuffling back and forth from cot to bathroom. It gives me a lot of time to think. A lot of time to write.

  Plenty of time to groan.

  “The pain, sir. It increases each day.” The White Knight stuffed his foot back into his boot. “But the Dark Counselor’s interest in Alia. From where does that come?”

  “Is it not clear? You lived. Your union with Alia places her in succession and your death will not give him the throne he desires. He must deal with both of you. And Alia is beautiful.

  The Dark Counselor is, after all, a man.”

  “A man now known as the Black Knight.”

  “Yes.” The old man turned and stared out the window. “When he left your father’s court he took many with him They follow him out of fear, but follow they do. They gave him that name.”

  “But what is his true name? His name from birth?”

  The old man winced. “The rest of the story you know. The Black Knight imprisoned Alia in the stone. Yet he was unaware that in doing so, he would not be able to free her. He never did believe in the prophecies. Thus, he needed one pure in heart. He needed you.” The old man hobbled to the corner. “He needs you no longer.”

  The White Knight stared at the open door. “How do you come to know all these things? An old man, in a hut of mud —”

  Then, behind him, a low growl. The knight slowly rose and turned.

  “Not always an old man,” Tas licked the fur on his arm.

  The knight reached for his sword. “Your teeth, they sunk into my arm, they snapped my bone.”

  The jackal paced back and forth. “Did it not heal?”

  The knight frowned and worked his arm. He had not noticed that pain was no more.

  “Yes. How —”

  “Sometimes …” The jackal froze, “the one who breaks is also the one to heal. Had your arm not broken, you would not have traveled slowly. You would not have paused in the cave. You would not have been captured.” Tas lay down. “You would not be here.”

  The White Knight slowly sheathed his sword and walked to the door. “So there is yet hope to find Alia?” A sharp pain stretched from his hip to his stomach. “Hope to live?”

  He turned, and the old man smiled and closed his eyes. “There is always hope.”

  The final bell rings, and I haul my stomach cramps up to detention.

  I collapse in a seat beside Julia and clutch my gut.

  “Dying early?” She speaks into her lap and doesn’t turn.

  “Nope. But that’s one of two things I want to talk to you about. This morning, I spoke with Death and —”

  “Comforting.”

  “Not with death death. With Dr. Death. He’s a … doesn’t matter. In his office, I figured out how to break the curse.”

  “You did,” Julia mutters.

  “Now Dr. Death is brilliant. He’s from Boston and he’s like Death Einstein and … whatever, but the one who helped me the most was you.”

  “Me.”

  “That picture. The new one. I was looking at it while Death was talking about Irene and it hit — I just need to find the beginning, you know? Who is the Black Knight grabbing my toe? I need to find out where the curse started and undo it.”

  “Grabbing your toe?” She peeks at me. “You’re the knight?”

  I shrug and give a weak grin.

  “And do you know anything about where it started?” she asks.

  “No, but I know who the first Martin was. I know where he’s lying right now. I think we can figure this out!”

  “Martin? Julia? Please come here.” Purse-lips gestures to me.

  “So what do you say?” I whisper and stand. “Will you help?”

  She stands and doesn’t say anything. “You don’t look unmad yet. Listen, just be at the boxcar in my backyard at midnight.” “Martin! Julia!”

  We reach the front and Purse-lips glances from Julia to me.

  “I have a note signed by the principal and the health teacher. You are to be on the track right now.” I groan. “But my gut —”

  “And you, young lady, are to be sitting on the bleachers.”

  Julia looks at me.

  “That’s the other thing. I kind of cut a deal for us.” I nod toward the door. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  I stagger into the locker room, both hands clutching my abdomen. I thought I had ejected all the prunes, but a few must still be rattling around.

  Coach has laid out my track uniform. I slowly strip and step into my shorts.

  “No, no!” I dash to the toilet and empty out yet again. I exhale hard, grab my shirt and cleats, and push outside. I walk slowly across a field covered with dandelions. They’re pretty, pretty like I’ve not noticed before. I bend over and pluck a bouquet.

  Julia might like ‘em.

  “Over here, Martin!”

  The track team sits in a clump around Coach. I check the stands. Julia sits in the middle toward the top.

  So does Poole.

  Boxcar boy smiles and waves and scoots closer to Julia. Opportunistic weasel.

  “Here he is,” Coach announces. “Gang, I want you to welcome Martin onto the team, our new hurdler.”

  The entire team stands and pats my back, shakes my hand. A bunch of their fingers are stained purple.

  “Easy now,” Coach breaks up the group. “Looks like fitting in won’t be a problem.” He points to the far side of the track. “I set up the hurdles over there. Had to dust them off.” He laughs. Nobody else does, and Coach clears his throat. “I’d like to get a baseline of your hurdling ability. Head on over and show us what you’ve got.”

  Inside, a rumble, deep and ugly. “That’s maybe not such a great idea today. I could stretch instead.”

  “Go on, Martin,” David Hany calls out. “You jumped a table in the lunchroom. Show Coach.”

  A chorus chimes in, and I peek into th
e stands. Julia stares down at me. Poole waves.

  Knights. Knights are loyal, generous, and brave. Chivalry and all that. Poole is definitely not a knight. Little sneak.

  “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  I stretch and saunter around the track to the hurdles. My audience watches from the distance, but I hear pieces:

  “This kid can run.”

  “Flying through the lunchroom.”

  I close my eyes and see purple. That was before.

  “Track. Why did I want to run track?” I walk up to the first hurdle. “Be nice to me. Duck a little, will ya? I’m fresh off a prune incident. Ever eaten prunes? Think of a toxic raisin on steroids.”

  The hurdle doesn’t answer.

  “Don’t suppose you’re familiar. But if you peek into the stands you’ll see a girl and I’d really like —”

  Why am I talking to a hurdle?

  I back toward the start line, bend over like I’ve seen hurdlers bend.

  Then I feel it. More bowel rumblings.

  Crack!

  From across the field, Coach fires a gun and I leap forward, faster, faster toward the first hurdle. I slow up, plant my foot and soar … smack into the stupid thing. I tumble forward and land hard on my rear.

  Not now!

  I tense and stand and race off the track toward the port-a-potty. Inside, I plop down and my guts explode. No time to be lazy. I finish and leap out toward the track and hurdle number two. Plant, soar, tumble. Stagger to the potty. Eight hurdles. Eight frantic flights toward the can.

  Dumb prunes!

  I stumble out dazed. The hurdles have been replaced. Poole stretches at the starting line.

  “Supposed to go over them.” He takes off, reaches the first, and leaps.

  “Easy, see?”

  Leap, leap, leap.

  “Nothing to it.” He waves at me as he crosses the finish line.

  Claps and cheers erupt from my team.

  “Hey, kid!” Coach runs toward Poole. “What’s your name?”

  “Oops, gotta go.” Poole dashes over and slaps me on the back. “I hear there’s a meeting tonight at my place.”

  “Yeah.” I glance at Julia. She’s standing and whoohooing and shouting. “Midnight.”

  Poole scampers over the fence surrounding the track and disappears.

  Coach huffs up to me. I peek at him. “How’d I do?”

  “Hideous.” He gasps for air. “Who … who was that kid?”

  “He doesn’t go here. You won’t see him again.” Julia still goes nuts. “I promise.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE NIGHT IS COOL, AND I TIPTOE OUT OF THE HOUSE with my arms full. Computer, projector, white sheet. My belly cramps, reminders of where I’ve spent most of my day, slow me to a stroll. Ahead of me, flashlight beams criss–cross inside the boxcar.

  I hoist the load inside and climb up.

  Poole’s gone all out. There’s a ratty couch, an old La-Z-Boy, a small end table, and a lamp that looks very much like the one from Dad’s study, but now’s not the time for questions.

  “What’d you do to your shirt?” Charley walks toward me and shines his beam on my chest.

  “Permanent marker. It’s a coat of arms. Knights used to have them.” I touch my chest. “I needed a good symbol.”

  “And you chose purple rocks?”

  “Prunes, Charlie. Those are prunes.”

  “Lights out, guys,” Poole says, and flashlight beams go dark. Click. He turns on the lamp, and the boxcar fills with a hazy glow.

  “What do you think, Marty?”

  I smirk at Julia on the couch, nod to Charley, who sits on the chair. “Nice. Very nice.”

  Poole points at a toilet seat in the corner. “I dug up a special seat just for you.”

  “You’re getting funnier by the day.” I set the computer and the projector on the table, plug in, and with Charley’s help, hang the sheet with duct tape.

  “I want to thank you all for being here. What we discuss stays between us in what I’ve dubbed Operation Save Martin.”

  “Operation Save Martin.” Poole collapses on the couch by Julia. “I like it. O. S. M. Otters Swim … Magnificently.”

  “Orangutans Swing Marvelously,” says Julia.

  “Oh, Stupid Margarine,” Charley blurts. He’s a golden lab dying for attention. We roll our eyes and turn toward him.

  “Get it?” he continues. “O stands for Oh. S stands for Stupid …” Charley’s voice trails away.

  “Yes, S is for Stupid. We all have our gifts.” I kneel and set up the PowerPoint presentation, and soon the computer screen shines off the sheet. “I want to go over where we’ve been before assigning duties. Slide one.”

  Julia clicks the screen and an image appears.

  “At a very gruesome ceremony, Martin discovers his name is cursed and he has three months to live. This figure has now been downgraded to less than two, depending on when Aunt Jenny delivers. Slide two.”

  “Poole and Julia appear. This means that we have three believers in the curse. This increases the likelihood of mission success three-fold. If Charley gets it, we’ll have four. Slide three.”

  “Gets what?” Charley throws up his hands. “What am I supposed to get?”

  Poole points at me. “Marty here is going to be dead in a couple months because his name is cursed. Following?”

  Charley frowns at me. “Oh. Yeah. That makes sense.” Poor kid looks lost.

  I continue. “Definition of success. Martin lives beyond the point of the new Martin’s birth. Are we clear so far?”

  Julia nods. Poole points at the sheet. “Very good presentation, Marty.”

  “Wait! You’re dying?” says Charley. “You never told —”

  I clear my throat. “We go on. Enter Dr. Death, a death expert from Boston —”

  Poole taps Julia and whispers, “Ever been to Boston? It is beautiful in — “

  “Shh!” Her gaze is glued to me. “Go on, Martin.”

  “The way to undo a curse is to go to the root, the beginning, and undo it.”

  “Words have power.” Poole folds his arms. “Been telling him this all along.”

  “Next slide. This is a photo of the cemetery. And this is the headstone of the first Martin Boyle buried there. It can be conjectured that he may be close to the beginning, and therefore connected to the curse.”

  I give a shallow cough and breathe in, only no air enters. I swallow hard and gasp. A whisper of oxygen fights through.

  “Great work, Marty.” Poole straightens and leans forward. “Give me an assignment.”

  “Hold on.” I grab the side of the boxcar. I feel unsteady, nervous. Then as quickly as it comes, the sensation goes.

  Julia licks her lips. “You okay?”

  I give a quick nod. “Finally then, it comes to this.” I flick the next slide, one of me standing near a port-a-potty. “Martin Boyle will focus on specific information about the first Martin in the cemetery. Dad has info, but asking him lands me on shrinks’ couches, and I don’t have the time, so I’ll need to figure this out firsthand.”

  Click. Julia sitting on the bleachers. “Julia will gather all the info she can about ancient curses. Who made them? Were there any famous ones? Did anybody live through them, etcetera.” I gesture at her with my pointer. “Look for patterns. You need to become a curse expert.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Julia? Next picture?”

  “Oh, right.” She clicks the screen and Poole appears, sleeping on his bench.

  “When did you …?”

  I smile and turn to Poole. “And you. The first Martin was in this area hundreds of years ago. I know little about him, but where he lived might matter. Can you figure out the fastest train routes across the city so that wherever his trail leads, we can follow?”

  “You want me to map every train route that leaves my depot? And maybe get times and schedules?” He jumps and pumps a fist. “Right up my alley. I know just where to start. I’ll ride th
e line a few times, just to be —”

  “That’s nice, Poole.”

  “What about me?” asks Charley. “Maybe I should work with Julia on the curse part.”

  Click. A picture of Charley superimposed on a wiener and lying in a bun.

  Julia breaks out laughing and Charley jumps up. “How did you?”

  “Photoshop. Now while the three of us sneak all over, we’ll need cover. We’ll need an excuse, a place to be. This will be our line: We’re going to Charley’s house. You need to stay home so it’s believable.”

  “You want me to do nothing?”

  I nudge his knee with my shoe. “Like a wiener in a bun. Just lie there.”

  Charley frowns. “It doesn’t sound too important.”

  “That’s probably the most important job,” Poole nods soberly.

  “Oh yes,” Julia’s eyes sparkle. “Absolutely.”

  Charley glances at her. “I guess then I’m the right guy for it. I won’t let you down.” He looks around. “None of you. Count on me to do … nothing?”

  “We will.” I flick off the projector. “Any questions?”

  It’s silent.

  Poole rises and grabs a piece of sidewalk chalk from a bucket in the corner. “There.” He makes a green tally on the boxcar’s wall. “We’re keeping track of passing days right here.”

  “Fine then.” I swallow hard. “And one last thing.”

  I step in front of the light. “I’ve never been really athletic.”

  “You can say that again,” Poole says. “Charley, you should have seen this guy today.”

  “I was admitting I’ve never been in good shape. That needs to change. What if the curse only affects sickly, skinny Martins? I need to be in great shape. I’ll need your help.”

  My friends crowd around and we grasp hands. I reach for Julia’s and feel a lump in her fist. She presses a hard object into my palm.

  “My dad loved chess,” she whispers. “I never really learned. But if you’re a knight, you’ll need a horse, right?”

  I stare down at the chess piece, a beautifully carved white knight, the head of the horse fierce and proud.

  “Yeah, I will.” I look around the circle. “Although we’ll be in touch, let’s plan on meeting here in a few weeks — after we’ve examined evidence. Same time, same place. Hopefully, Operation Save Martin will be a success.”