The Candlestone (2 page)

A dreamy expression floated across Professor Hamilton’s face, the dancing fire reflecting in his eyes. “Arthur is the stuff of legends, the search for the Holy Grail, the splendor of Camelot. It’s hard to decipher truth within the myriad tales.” His scholarly air returned as he took the scabbard from Walter. “It seems that each new storyteller tried to outdo the previous one, not really caring whether or not his tale was true. Legends are, after all, not meant to be historical fact. For example, I certainly doubt the existence of a goddess in a lake, but I have no doubts that Arthur once wielded the great and mysterious Excalibur.”

He caressed the scabbard again, his finger pausing on one of the worshipful knights. “This is a replica handed down through many generations; its shape and details are based on legends and descriptions in journals. Many tried to copy Excalibur’s image, but no one could reproduce its power.”

Bonnie’s eyebrows arched up. “It had power?”

The professor placed his fingers around the hilt and drew the blade out a few inches. “Power incomprehensible. Whosoever held the sword in battle could not be defeated, as long as the wielder was pure of heart. And the offensive powers in the hands of the holy were a terrible sight to behold.”

Bonnie put her hands behind her back and shifted her weight toward her toes. “Does the real Excalibur still exist?”

The professor glanced from Billy to Walter to Bonnie, as if searching for something in each set of eyes. “I have no doubt about it, Miss Silver. I have hunted for it throughout the world, following many rumors and obscure tales. Finding it would make my life complete. You could say that it’s something of a Holy Grail for me.”

“What about the sword that guy took from Whittier’s office?” Walter asked. “Didn’t it have some kind of marks on it?”

Billy bit his lip to keep from laughing. He remembered Walter’s story of his adventure with Professor Hamilton when they searched for clues in the principal’s office. One of the slayer’s cronies had come in and picked up a sword from its hiding place while Walter and the professor watched in secret. When Walter told the story again just a few days ago, he acted out every event, using a baseball bat for the sword and coaxing Hambone to play the part of the professor.

The professor slid the sword into the scabbard. “Your memory is accurate, Walter. That sword had many similar characteristics, but I couldn’t be sure of its identity. I would like to pursue that lead at the appropriate time.” His eyes fell on Billy and Bonnie, and his gaze lingered, making Billy feel uneasy. The professor went on. “And I suspect that there are some people I know who might be able to enlighten me concerning its whereabouts.”

Billy twisted his shoe on the carpet like he was squishing a cockroach. How could the professor guess what was going on? He wasn’t there when Bonnie battled the slayer in the mountain forest, and no one told him that Bonnie dropped the sword while flying away from the battle scene.

“In any case,” the professor continued, “my sword is adequate for young William’s training. While this replica is valuable, its symbolism is paramount for his development. His skill in swordplay will become necessary before long. And there is no concern for the replica’s safety; it is practically indestructible.”

Billy stepped away from the dying fire. Its flames had toasted his backside, and his hair had dried. “When are you going to explain all that to me—I mean, the stuff I’m training for?”

“In due time, William. I’m just putting the pieces together myself.” The professor rose to his feet and strolled around the room, holding the sword casually across his shoulder. “Since you were expected to be out of commission for quite a while, I sent our mystery book to a friend of mine, an expert in antiquities. He has completed his analysis and will return the book in time for class Monday. I assume that when we decipher it we will learn a great deal.”

Billy folded his arms across his chest and rubbed his aching biceps. Thinking about that book and how it had come into their hands made him feel sore all over. During his ordeal on the mountain with the powerful dragon slayer, Billy sat against the trunk of a tree, his hands and feet bound. The slayer opened a book and claimed that reading from it would summon a dragon, whom the slayer wished to kill. The poem sounded sort of like English, but Billy couldn’t understand it. The words seemed archaic and symbolic; they just didn’t make any sense. Clefspeare, Billy’s father in dragon form, showed up before the poem ended, so it was unclear whether the words actually summoned him or he had sensed his son was in danger and flew to his rescue.

Since Billy was severely wounded in the fierce battle that followed, his memories of the details were fuzzy, but he recalled the professor’s amazing crossbow expertise that saved his life that day. How could this wrinkled old guy be so daring, so agile? He could handle a crossbow and a battle sword with great strength and endurance, yet excel even more in his intellectual pursuits. This affable professor was becoming more and more of a puzzle.

The professor stopped his pacing and gazed at the fireplace, sighing before turning to face his students again. “William, I hope you and Miss Silver will carefully consider telling me what you know.” He fingered the designs on the replica’s scabbard. “I have discerned that you’re confused and frightened, and I understand completely. I believe I would be, too. Both of you were severely wounded, yet you have mended at a miraculous rate. These are among the many perplexing mysteries to be solved.” He straightened his whole body, his head held high. “I hope you will decide that you can trust me with your secrets. To be quite frank, I think I have earned your trust.” A smile appeared on his wrinkled face, though a hint of sadness crept into his eyes. “Good night, students.” He turned and stepped quickly out of the room. Seconds later, the front door clicked open, then closed with a muffled clap.

Billy flopped into the easy chair and slapped his hands on the chair’s arms. Bonnie sank onto the sofa with a sigh, her brow knitting into three deep furrows. Walter sat on the far side of the sofa, his feet propped up on the coffee table, one shoe on top of the other. He picked at his fingernails, then retied his shoes, his eyes wandering toward Billy and Bonnie every few seconds. He finally jumped up. “I’d better make sure Hambone’s warm.” With a graceful bound, he dashed from the room.

Billy put his hand to his ear. “Bonnie, was Hambone whining?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Not a whine or a woof.”

A sparkling gleam shone in Bonnie’s eyes, though only the fading light from outside and a few dying embers in the fireplace illuminated the room. Billy sighed. “Either Walter has mind-to-mind connection with that dog or he knows more than we think.”

“Uh-huh, I think he knows something.”

“You do? Why?”

“Just some things he said to me today. And you know the professor’s going to put all the pieces together before long.”

“Yep. He’ll figure it out sooner or later.” Billy walked over to the small den window, and his thoughts traveled to the distant horizon, hills stretching into tree-covered mountains. He pictured the leaf-strewn battle scene and the dark, breezy cave. Bonnie joined him, and together they gazed at the deepening winter—thick gray clouds, cold, leafy breezes bending naked trees, tiny snowflakes threatening to bring millions of their friends later that night.

Bonnie’s phantom reflection appeared in the window, smiling and peaceful. Billy kept his eye on the transparent image and pushed his hands into his pockets. “I think I’d better talk to Dad. I’ve only seen him once since I got hurt, and I was still pretty bad off then. I didn’t ask him about a bunch of stuff that doesn’t make any sense.”

She leaned against the windowsill, bending forward to make room for her backpack. “A bunch of stuff? Like what?”

“Like, what’s the deal with the sword you used on the mountain? And what happened to the slayer and that crazy candlestone? Stuff like that. And if I’m going to tell the professor everything, Dad should give his permission. Don’t you think? I mean, I know the professor’s going to ask lots of questions, so I’d better have a few more answers ready.” Billy placed his hand on his stomach, and, with his lips forming a circle, he created a perfect ring of smoke and pushed it into the air. “Besides,” he added as the ring expanded, “I’ve been practicing fire breathing, and I want to show Dad how I’m doing.”

Bonnie put her hand through the ring, scattering the remaining smoke. “You’re going to ask your mom to fly with you back to the mountain?”

“Uh-huh. Tomorrow if we can. We have a primitive airstrip up there now, so it’s easy to get in and out.”

She placed both palms on the windowsill and pushed herself up. “Then can I go with you?”

“That would be great, but isn’t tomorrow the big day, you know, the thirty-day deadline?”

Bonnie put her hands on her hips. “How could I forget? Mr. Foley wants to finish the adoption paperwork as soon as possible. The judge said he would sign it for us even though tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“Mr. Foley? Aren’t you going to start calling him ‘Dad’? That’s what Walter calls him, except when he’s acting crazy and calls him ‘Pop.’”

She ran her fingers through her hair and then hitched up her backpack, her eyes toward the floor. “Not yet. That’s going to be hard to get used to. I called my real father ‘Daddy’ for so long . . . until he betrayed me.”

Tears welled in Bonnie’s eyes, and her pain drilled a hole in Billy’s heart. How could anyone, especially a father, give an awesome girl like Bonnie over to a dragon slayer? And now she was on the verge of being adopted by Walter’s parents, two really cool adults who still had no clue about her dragon heritage. Still, everything might work out great. If her real father didn’t make contact in time, the judge would declare abandonment and let the adoption go through. The tension must have been terrible for Bonnie, like waiting for William Tell to shoot an arrow at the apple on her head.

Billy cocked his head and playfully tapped on the window. “I know what you mean. I’m going to a cave in the mountains tomorrow, and I’ll be calling a huge dragon ‘Dad’!” He placed his hand on Bonnie’s shoulder and pointed, as though he were showing her something in the distance. “Can you see it? I’ll be going, ‘Dad! Dad!’ and then I’ll hear a roar, and a huge rush of flame will come flying out of the cave. And then I’ll go, ‘Dad! There you are!’”

Billy and Bonnie laughed together, and Billy noticed his hand resting on her shoulder, his fingers crossing the strap of her backpack. When their eyes met, her smiling countenance melted into a sincere, searching gaze. Billy pulled his hand away and cleared his throat. “Anyway, since it’s your big day, I think you’d better stick around here. I should be back the same day or early the next.”

They sat down on the sofa, and Bonnie placed her hands in her lap, nervously rubbing her thumbs together. “But what if we do hear from my real father? I don’t know what I’d do without you here to talk to, I mean, if he wants me back and stops the adoption.”

Billy glanced out the window toward the mailbox at the street. “There’s no mail tomorrow, so the only way he could contact you would be by phone, right?”

“I guess so. Why?”

Billy kept his eyes on the street while rubbing his chin. “I don’t know. Maybe you should come with me then. Maybe it doesn’t make much difference whether you’re here or not. I mean, even if your father called, Mr. Foley would be the one to talk to him.” He turned back to Bonnie and sighed. “But I’m not even sure if Mom’ll have time to go or what the weather’s supposed to be like tomorrow. Since they finally started rebuilding our house, she’s always busy with that, too.”

“When will she be back?”

He glanced at a clock on the wall, an old cuckoo with dangling, weighted cones. “It’ll be a while. She spent all day training a new pilot to carry skydivers, so she has to catch up on paperwork. She was pretty worried about the training. Dad used to do that kind of stuff.”

Bonnie stood and stepped toward the window again. Billy joined her and pushed the window up, letting in a cold, fresh breeze. Walter was playing “fetch” with Hambone in the leaf-covered grass. The old hound wore a thick doggy sweater, so he probably didn’t mind a little romp on this blustery January day. The dog’s owner, Arlo Hatfield, a hunter who lived in the mountains, never dressed his tracking hounds in anything so spiffy. Hambone yipped and raced through the leaves, grabbing a ragged ball and rushing it back to Walter.

Billy leaned out the window. “Hey, Walter! Give the old dog a break!”

Walter and Hambone stopped. The hound sat on his haunches with his long tongue hanging out. “He’s posing for you,” Walter shouted back. “He knows you’re doing a portrait of him.”

Bonnie shivered and rubbed her hands over her arms. “You’re doing a portrait?”

Billy slid the window closed. “Yeah. You want to see it?”

“Sure!”

Billy led Bonnie to a small utility room that Walter’s father had converted into a serviceable art studio. He stepped over to the far corner where he kept his easel, dodging several rolled up posters and an empty frame. Gandalf, Billy’s cat, lay curled up on the stool under the heating vent, so Billy remained standing. He lifted the cover of the sketchpad and flipped several pages over to find his drawing.

Bonnie let out a chuckle. “That’s Hambone, all right. Those big sad eyes and long ears are perfect!”

“Thanks. You think Mr. Hatfield will like it?”

“He has to. It’s beautiful! With all those shades of gray it looks almost like a black and white photo. It’s so real!”

Billy reached into the deep, side pocket of his cargo pants where he always kept paper and something to draw with. He pulled out a pencil and signed the bottom of the portrait, including his trademark—two letter B’s, the first one reversed, sitting back to back with the second. “Well, it’s the least I could do. He didn’t have to lend me his favorite dog.”

“Are you going to give him the drawing when you visit your dad?”

“If I can. Mr. Hatfield doesn’t have a phone, so I can’t call him to see if he’s home.”

Walter ambled in, holding a pretend phone and talking in a high-pitched hillbilly twang. “Hallow? Do yew have a number fer Arlo Hatfield? The city? Nowheresville. You know, rait over dere next ta Boondocks? Yeah, I got a drawin’ fer him. He caint read, so I drawed a pitcher fer him.”