Wayfarer (3 page)

The watchful feeling followed Timothy all the way to the house, but once he'd made his way inside and shut the door, it soon faded. Inside Oakhaven all was light and warmth, wooden floors glossy with age and walls painted rich, spicy hues; modern design shook hands with classic architecture, and the furniture looked comfortable enough to sleep on. The place had definitely changed since his aunt and uncle had moved out, but to Timothy's mind it was all for the better. He dropped his backpack by the staircase and headed down the corridor.

He found Paul sitting at the kitchen table, chopping onions. “There you are!” he said as Timothy entered, putting
down the knife and pivoting his wheelchair to greet him. “Good to see you, though I suppose we could wish for better circumstances. Have a seat.” He plucked a chair from beside him and sent it skidding across the tile toward Timothy. “Now what's this about getting suspended?”

“It was nothing,” said Timothy, squirming a little under his cousin's level gaze. “I was just being stupid.”

“He says,” came Peri's voice from the open refrigerator, “that he lost his temper.” She sounded perfectly calm now, as though she'd forgotten she'd ever snapped at him. “Paul, have we used up all the mayonnaise again?”

“Look in the door,” said Paul, then returned his attention to Timothy. “So was the other boy hurt? Worse than you, I mean.”

Timothy ran his tongue across his split lip. “Not really. I just knocked the wind out of him. But fighting's against school rules no matter what, so…I guess I got what I deserved.”

“Hm,” said Paul. “Do your parents know?”

“Not yet. I was supposed to call them when I got here. Only they'll be in bed now, so I thought…maybe I could send them an email.” Or pretend to, anyway. It wouldn't take long to fake an apologetic message and send a copy to the dean, but what he really needed to say to his parents would take more time to figure out. A
lot
more time.

Paul looked skeptical, and Timothy held his breath. But in the end his cousin only said, “All right,” then picked up
the knife and began chopping again.

That had been far too easy. It wasn't like Paul—or Peri, either; they'd always been patient with Timothy's mistakes, but when he broke the rules they'd given him no quarter until he put things right. Maybe they'd decided he was old enough to take responsibility for his own actions, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong here….

The telephone warbled.

“Excuse me,” said Paul, wheeling to answer. “Hello, Paul McCormick speaking.” He glanced at Timothy. “Yes, he's here. Did you want to speak to him?”

Timothy's stomach did a swan dive. It had to be his parents. The dean had called them and told them what he'd done, and he wasn't ready. What was he going to say?

“I see,” Paul said. “All right then. Good-bye.” He put the phone back down. “Just the secretary at your school, making sure you'd arrived.”

“Oh, right,” said Timothy, his voice cracking with relief. “They said they'd do that. So…what's for supper?”

 

They ate right there in the kitchen, which made Timothy feel a little more at ease: It meant Paul and Peri were treating him as family, instead of making an awkward fuss on his account. But even so, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were putting an effort into appearing relaxed and friendly with him, instead of just
being
that way.

“So,” said Paul as he passed Timothy the salad, “how's your family?”

“Fine, I guess,” said Timothy.

“Uncle Neil still running that clinic for the poor, or whatever?”

“Yeah.” Kampala itself had good medical facilities, but his father often traveled to the nearby village of Luweero to offer his services. He also preached at the chapel and led Bible studies in their home, but Paul probably wasn't interested in that. “He keeps pretty busy.”

“And your mum? What's she up to these days?”

This was torture. Paul and Peri had never tried to make small talk with him before: They'd always talked about interesting things, like nature and art and music. He forced himself to answer politely and was dreading the next question when Peri broke in:

“Tell me about Uganda. What's it like?”

Timothy was surprised: She'd never asked him about his home country before, and he'd assumed she wasn't interested. “It's…different,” he said. “Warmer mostly, and there's more sunshine and not nearly as much rain. But it's not all dried up or anything,” he added quickly. “It's got plenty of green plants and trees and flowers. Kampala's the capital, so there are lots of big banks and hotels and crazy traffic….”

His memory conjured up the image of Entebbe Road at rush hour, crammed end to end with the blue-striped white vans that served as regular taxis, while the motorcycle
boda-bodas
darted in and out of the chaos. His mother had begged Timothy not to ride the
bodas
when he went into the city with his friends, since they were dangerous, but they were so much cheaper and faster than a taxi that he'd usually done it anyway.

“The buildings are mostly light-colored plaster,” he went on slowly, trying to put the images into words, “and the roofs are red. Instead of crows and pigeons, we have these big, ugly storks. And the streets are full of people, but it's not like here, where everyone rushes around with their heads down and won't even look at one another. Ugandans are friendly—they like to talk and laugh, and when you meet someone, they ask how you're doing and if your family is well and if you have any news….”

Paul nodded politely, but Timothy could tell he wasn't that interested. Peri, on the other hand, had a faraway look on her face, as though she were imagining herself in Uganda at that very moment. “It sounds fascinating,” she said. “Like nothing I've ever seen. I wish…”

Her words trailed off as Paul reached over and gently put his hand on hers. She looked down at their overlapping fingers, and her face closed up again. “Yes. Well, never mind that. Did you get enough to eat?”

 

“The computer's in my studio,” said Paul, leading Timothy down the corridor to a pair of French doors. “The connection's slow, though, and sometimes it doesn't work at all. I can't make any promises.”

Though the curtains were drawn and the room dimly lit, it only took Timothy an instant to recognize his aunt's old parlor. But now the built-in shelves that had once held porcelain figurines were littered with paintbrushes and tubes of oils, while an easel stood where the piano used to be. And instead of family photographs the walls were hung with canvases, all rendered in the bold strokes and vibrant hues that were Paul McCormick's trademark.

“Here you go,” said Paul. He flicked a switch and the track lighting at the back of the room came on, revealing a computer desk in the corner. “Help yourself. Any problems, give a shout.” And with that he wheeled back out into the hallway.

Timothy dragged over a chair and sat down in front of the computer. Despite Paul's warning the internet connection seemed to be working fine, and within a few minutes he had logged in to his school account.

You have one new message,
his mailbox informed him.

Timothy's heart plummeted as he saw the return address. It was from his mother. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat, he forced himself to click the email open.

He relaxed. Just her usual weekly letter. She hadn't found out about his suspension after all: wouldn't, either, until Timothy was ready to tell her. Though when he explained
the reason for what he'd done, the news that he'd picked a fight with the biggest boy in the school would be the least of his mother's worries, probably.

He skimmed the first few paragraphs of her note—which included a report of how his little sister, Lydia, was doing at school, as well as a funny story involving one of the neighborhood children and a list of requests for prayer—then slowed abruptly at the sight of a familiar name:

Quickly Timothy scrolled down to the photograph. There she stood in front of the familiar white bungalow on Luthuli Avenue, one long arm draped over his sister's shoulders. Her hair was a mass of tight braids, with a colorful scarf tied around it, and her smile seemed to blaze out of the screen. Miriam Sewanaku, his neighbor and best friend.

He missed her, now more than ever. She'd introduced him to the music of Bernard Kabanda, who'd become one of his musical heroes; and when he bought his first guitar she hadn't laughed at the
muzungu
boy wanting to play Ugandan music, the way Timothy's schoolmates did. Instead she'd gone
to a family friend, one of the finest guitarists in Kampala, and persuaded him to teach Timothy how to play.

Without Miriam's encouragement, he might have given up. But now the guitar had become his passion, and he couldn't imagine a life without it. He would always be grateful to her for that—and lately, he'd come to realize that he might be a little more than just grateful. But she was a year older than he was, and he was a
muzungu
, and besides they were both too young to do anything about it. So he hadn't worked up the courage to say anything…at least, not yet.

Reluctantly Timothy closed his mother's letter and started a new message of his own. A few lines to his old email account in Uganda (which his parents never checked), a copy to Greenhill to make sure the dean was satisfied…done. He shut down the computer and…

There it was again, that feeling of being watched. As though there were some
presence
in the room with him, invisible but uncomfortably real. Timothy sat very still a moment, then abruptly spun around—

No one was there. But on the opposite wall hung a painting he'd never seen before. It was a portrait of Peri, her narrowed eyes staring directly out of the canvas. Her feet were bare, and she gripped a long knife in her hand.

Timothy got up from his chair and walked to examine the picture more closely. It was beautifully done, but something about it bothered him. It wasn't that Peri looked
murderous, not exactly: If her expression was fierce it was only in a protective way, like the face of a guardian angel. In fact, the way the light filtered through the leaves behind her looked almost like a pair of translucent wings….

No, that was stupid; he was reading too much into it. But something about the portrait still made him feel uneasy, like it was sending him a message—or a warning—he didn't understand.

Timothy glanced around at the rest of the art displayed—mostly Paul's, interspersed with a few pen-and-ink sketches in a different style that had to be Peri's—then turned off the lights and left. But as he climbed the stairs, the image of that strange portrait still haunted him, like a voice whispering at the back of his mind:

Beware.

 

The guest bedroom had a four-poster and a window overlooking the front garden, and it was as big as the room he'd shared with three other boys at Greenhill. Timothy kicked off his running shoes and jeans, flopped back onto the mattress, and put his hands behind his head, thinking.

Maybe there wasn't anything wrong at Oakhaven. Maybe it was just him. He'd been confused and unhappy for so long, he just needed time to relax and get his head clear—that was why he'd come here in the first place, wasn't it? Maybe all he needed was a good night's sleep, and this feeling of constant tension, of being spied on
wherever he went, would go away.

And yet out there in the garden, beneath the oak tree…he knew what he'd seen, what his hands had touched. That hole in the trunk had been real. So how could it just have disappeared like that?

Part of him wanted to go back outside at once and investigate. But the sky was dark now, and there'd be plenty of time for that tomorrow. Timothy got up, picked a novel off the shelf at random, and read until his eyes felt heavy. At last he turned off the light and settled down to sleep.

He was just drifting off when he heard a voice floating up through the grate beside his bed, muffled and tinny-sounding but still distinct:

“—difficult with him here, but we'll have to manage somehow.”

It was Peri, talking about him. And now that Timothy knew it, there was no way he could close his eyes and pretend he hadn't heard. He squirmed closer and dangled over the edge of the mattress, straining to hear Paul's deeper voice reply:

“Of course. But we'll still need to warn the others. Make sure they know it's not safe to visit until we give the word.”

Not safe?
Timothy frowned. All right, so he'd hit somebody and got himself suspended, but Paul was making him sound like some kind of dangerous criminal. Or the mad cousin shut up in the attic.

“I don't think they'd try it in any case,”
said Peri.
“Not with so many crows about.”

Had she really said
crows
?

“You're forgetting Linden,”
Paul remarked.
“Or was that wishful thinking?”

Peri must have made a face instead of answering, because Paul went on in an amused tone:
“Not my fault, love. She's her mother's daughter. Or”
—his voice sobered—
“as near to it as we're ever going to see.”

“Don't say that! I'm not ready to give up yet. And don't tell me you are, either.”