The Patterner
The Realms. Book III
Morag Gray
Smashwords Edition
©Morag Jane Gray 2011.
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Chapter 1
Mr Wright kept the 4A cricket team behind after practise at lunchtime that Monday, so Sam Seeley was late for maths. Bad move on Sam's part. Gifford was in a foul mood, and he really had it in for that guy. I don't know why, especially since Sam is spectacularly good at maths. But then, Gifford's likes and dislikes were pretty hard to fathom out. I was on his hate list, along with my best friend William, and although I felt sorry for Sam, I was glad he was Mr Gifford's victim for the day, and I was not.
"Seeley," Gifford barked. "Why are you late?"
"Sorry, Sir. I was late getting changed from cricket."
"But the bell went five minutes ago. Don't tell me that it takes you five minutes longer than anyone else to get changed. Or do you need that extra time to make sure your hair is just right?"
Sam flushed. "No, Sir," he said.
He was one of those boys who always looked immaculate, no matter what. He even looked neat and tidy with his shirt tucked out. Ben Thomas and Andrew Beaumont slid in through the door and to desks near the back of the class, Andrew tucking in his shirt as he went, but Gifford ignored them, even though they were much later than Sam. Ben pulled his tie out of his pocket and hastily put it on, then ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to neaten it.
"Should I tell Mr Wright to send you off the field early so you can be ready in time for class?"
Sam said, "No Sir".
"Or is that you think you are above such things as school rules? After all, your father is Deputy God, and I suppose you think that entitles you to special treatment?"
"No, Sir," Sam repeated.
"That's a bit below the belt," whispered William. I raised my eyebrows in agreement. It was not safe to answer any other way.
"Sit down, fairy boy," growled Gifford, and he turned to the rest of the class. "Turn to page …" He didn't finish because there was an earthquake and the cupboard behind his desk suddenly toppled forward, spilling its contents all over the floor. Mr Gifford was pinned between it and the desk.
Sam's face went white, and he bolted. Once the shaking stopped and the rest of us got over the shock, several boys rushed up to the front to try to help Mr Gifford. I went after Sam. He wasn't hard to track down. He had taken refuge in the loos by the Sunderland House lockers and had locked himself in a cubicle.
"Sam, it's Alex," I called.
"Bugger off!" "Are you okay?"
"Yes. Bugger off and leave me alone."
I could tell by his tone that he was not. I shrugged my shoulders. "Suit yourself, then," I said, and I turned to go. I expected an imposition when I got back, for leaving class without permission. Such is life. I did not expect to walk straight into a prefect when I went out the door. Unfortunately it was a prefect who knew me; my brother, James.
"Alex, what are you doing out of class? I should give you a fatigue for that," he said.
"Don't bother. Gifford's going to give me an impo anyway. I followed Sam Seeley here. He took off after the earthquake, and I just wanted to make sure he was okay."
"What earthquake?" asked James.
I gaped at him in disbelief. "What do you mean, what earthquake? There was a massive one. The whole building shook. Gifford's cupboard fell on him."
James said, "I didn't feel an earthquake." I knew from his face that he didn't believe me. He didn't give me a fatigue, though.
I went back to class. A couple of boys were putting the last things back into the cupboard when I arrived. Gifford's temper had not improved.
"Where have you been, Johnstone?" he shouted.
"To the loo, Sir."
Imposition. Have you seen Seeley in your travels?"
"No, Sir," I lied.
Sam did not come back to maths. He turned up in English, next period.
Gran and Granddad came to dinner that night for Mum's birthday. My cousin Calum, who had just arrived back from America, brought them. After dinner he and James fell to discussing school - who was still there, who was new. I ignored most of it because I wasn't that interested in teachers.
James turned to me and said, "Did Gifford give you an impo this afternoon?"
"Yup," I answered.
"What for?" asked Mum.
"There was an earthquake this afternoon, although James says there wasn't."
"Yes," James conceded, "but you were upstairs, weren't you? On the top floor?" I nodded. "I was in the quad," he continued, "showing an ancient Old Boy around. So you may have noticed it even though I didn't."
"That doesn't answer what you got the imposition for," put in Mum.
"Gifford had been having a go at Sam Seeley just before the earthquake hit. Sam bolted and I went to see if he was okay. I was out of class without permission."
Mum let the subject of my imposition slide.
"Who's Gifford? He's new since my day," asked our cousin.
"He's a sadistic bastard," said James.
"James!" said Mum.
"Well, it's true," said James. "He doesn't like boys who don't play soccer or tennis, darkies, dagoes, chinks (which is anybody from anywhere between Thailand and Korea), arty-farty types, religious types or people who aren't omni-competent. He started at St Mungo's the same time as I did. A couple of years ago he went to England, to Winchester for a year's exchange. We all hoped they would keep him, because Mr Barrington, who came in his place, was cool. Unfortunately, Winchester sent him back. He now thinks all the boys here are unutterably thick and uncouth, compared to the young Milords in England, and he totally resents having to teach B-stream classes."
"That explains it," I said. "I don't play tennis and I'm a - what are we?"
"Wogs," said James, ignoring Mum's glare of disapproval. She doesn't like us talking like that. "Wily oriental gentlemen."
"There must be only about two boys in every class that he likes. None in ours, 'cause we're the B-stream. He really has it in for Sam Seeley, though. He picks on him whenever he can. It's always surprised me 'cause Sam's good at maths, but I suppose he's arty and doesn't play the right sports. And his Dad's the chaplain. Still, there was no reason to call him a fairy in front of the whole class."
Thursday was imposition day. I did my time, along with Sam, and William, Andrew Beaumont, Philip Reedy and several others. Mr Nelson was in charge, and while he is a stickler for the letter of the law, he was "a beast, but a just beast" as the writer said. Unlike Gifford, who is just a beast. As we filed out after our punishment Sam caught up with me, his blue eyes blazing with anger.
"Thanks for nothing, Johnstone," he spat.
"What?" I was astounded. I stepped back, even though he was about half my size. He looked so fierce. I did not know what I had done to offend him. I mean, he was not one of my close friends; he was just a guy in my class. He got an imposition for leaving class, just like I did. I did not dob him in to Gifford, and I am sure his friends would have told him that. Maybe they did not.
"Why"' you let on about Gifford picking on me? Now my dad knows and is giving me hell at home."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, truly baffled.
"Someone told Calum McIver," Sam did not sound very mollified. "And he told Dad."
"Why did you blame Alex?" said a level voice. "Calum McIver's my cousin. Why didn't you blame me, or anyone else in the class?" My jaw nearly hit the floor. This was William Jackson, my best friend, speaking.
Sam glared at him. "Alex looks like him. And he came after me on Monday."
"Oh shit," I said. "I did tell Calum. He's my cousin, too. I'm sorry. We were just talking about school and teachers. James was filling him in on what a bastard Gifford is. I didn't know he knew you. I really didn't expect he would tell anybody, let alone your dad. I really am sorry."
"He seems to be everybody's cousin," remarked Sam sourly, and he stalked off.
I said to William, "You were joking, weren't you?"
"No," he replied. "He is my cousin – our mothers are sisters. And Sam's right, you do look a bit like him."
"Except I'm a wog and he's not. Did you know he's my cousin?"
"I was told, before we moved from Auckland, that Calum had a cousin in my year at St Mungo's. I didn't know your name. I didn't let on at first because I wanted to figure out what sort of a person you were. Afterwards it was irrelevant, until now."
The fact that Sam's father knew Gifford picked on him did not make any difference to the way Gifford treated him. Sam still got dumped on regularly. Mind you, so did the rest of us. And Sam just said, "Yes Sir, No Sir," as necessary and accepted the inevitable impositions and detentions.
Until the junior fixture with Melville College. They are our arch-rivals. This year we went to Newbury – I got to go as twelfth man for the 4A cricket team. It was not much of a position but it was better than class, and the Bs did not usually get to go to fixtures. William was in the water-polo team, so it was a good trip. Richard Johnson (tennis) and I were billeted with my uncle and aunt. My cousin, also Richard, was in the Melville tennis eight. It was a bit confusing with Richard Johnstone and Richard Johnson in the same house. It was fun, though. Auntie Joanne invited all the wider whanau round for dinner, and the eating, drinking and singing went on for hours. I don't think Richard Johnson had ever been to anything quite like it before. Little kids just slept where they dropped, on the floor, on chairs, under tables, wherever. Uncle John brought his guitar and the adults sang and laughed and joked until late. Auntie Joanne made us go to bed at a reasonable time though, because of the fixture. Otherwise it was like being on holiday. (School) Richard and I slept on bunks in (cousin) Richard's and Paul's room. (Cousin) Richard nabbed the sofa. He said it was his bed and we were not allowed anywhere near it. Paul slept in a curtained-off bit at the end, so he did not have to mingle with the commoners. As we dropped off to sleep, we could still hear the adults singing downstairs. School Richard said, "This is amazing. Do your parents often have parties like this?"
Cousin Richard said, "Nah. It's just part of our strategy to beat you guys."
I woke at six, like I usually do, and (cousin) Richard and I went out for a run. They live on the fringes of Newbury, so we ran out into the country. I love going there. It is not like running on city streets. The smells are different, and the air feels crisper. It was one of those beautiful still mornings that promise a good, hot day. Richard was up by the time we got back. Paul had an exam in the afternoon, so he slept in. After showers and breakfast – one of Auntie Joanne's specials ("Also part of the strategy," said Richard. "It's designed to weigh you down.") - Uncle Ash dropped us off at Melville College. We walked from the gate up the long drive and across the absolute acres of grounds that they seemed to have until we came to the back playing fields. The tennis courts were next to the cricket pitches. Various other St Mungo's boys were already there; the cricketers in whites and everybody in the hideous red, black and yellow striped blazers that we wore on fixtures. We looked like liquorice allsorts. Issued from a store, with your own blazer held hostage until you returned the striped monstrosity, they were all in various degrees of antiquity. I am sure one of Noah's sons wore mine on a fixture on the ark.
The tennis started at nine. The cricket was not due to start until ten, so we drifted over to watch the tennis for a while. Gifford bustled about, trying to look important. He mostly ignored us cricketers, except for barking at us to stay out of the way. Richard and Richard drew to play each other, and they were first up. We humble cricketers perched ourselves on the spectators" benches, along with the tennis players who weren't on court yet and the water polo boys. Sam was sitting just behind me, alongside Michael Chan and Ashwin Kumar. Richard and Richard finished their game, with a narrow win to St Mungo's. Michael jumped down for his game. Both Richards came over to where I sat. School Richard carefully packed his gear away – he was that kind of boy - and shrugged on his hideous blazer. Cousin Richard laid his racquet down on the ground and flung himself down beside it. He ferreted in my bag and helped himself to my water bottle.
"Hey," I remonstrated.
"Mine's too far away," he retorted. "Good game," he added, to Richard.
"Mmm," Richard agreed, through a mouthful of water. He sat down beside me. The next games began. Gifford, at a loose end for a minute, wandered past us.
"Not a bad game, Johnson," he said. "You need to concentrate more. Perhaps you should think about the company you keep." His eyes flicked contemptuously over the group of us as he passed.
"Push off, Johnson. Don't you know brown's contagious?" said Ashwin, just loud enough that Gifford couldn't help but hear him.
"Yeah, go away. You raise the tone," I said. Richard just grinned and stayed put.
"Who was that?" asked cousin Richard incredulously.
"Gifford, tennis manager and Hitler wannabe," said Ashwin.
"What a tosser," said Richard (cousin).
Ashwin grinned. "You're telling us?" he said.
Shortly after that the cricket began. Ashwin lost the toss, and the Melville captain chose to bat first. I had to keep score and to keep an eye on the gear and so on. Sam Seeley opened the bowling for St Mungo's. I wish I could bowl like him. He is so fast, and got a wicket in each of his first two overs. When he is not bowling he fields at long off, and he is brilliant at that too, because he covers the ground quickly and he catches well. Some guys are timid, and prefer to just stop the ball. A cricket ball travelling at speed packs a fair bit of pain, but Sam doesn't seem to be bothered by anything and goes all out to catch it if he possibly can. By lunchtime we had limited them to a respectable total.
The Melville parents put on an amazing lunch. I began to think Richard was right and there was a plot to weigh us down. There was so much food! Eventually even Andrew Beaumont said he'd had enough to eat, and that"s a minor miracle. He eats as if food is going out of fashion. During lunch the sky clouded over.
We went in to bat. Ashwin and Andrew opened for us. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw something going between some boys, but I didn't take too much notice. Andrew got out for a duck, fortunately not on the first ball, nor in the first over. We hassled him about too much lunch. Ben Thomas went in at number three. James Nicholson padded up to go in at number four. Mr Wright looked around. "Where's Seeley?" he asked. "He should be ready." Nobody knew. "Damn and blast. Hari, you get padded up. I'll send you in next if I have to. Johnstone, go and see if you can find the wretched boy."
I checked out the tennis courts. No sign of Sam. He was not anywhere outside the buildings. I found him in the loos, heaving his guts out.
"Mr Wright's looking for you," I said. "You should be padded up to go in."
"Oh shit," he swore, and then he was sick again.
"Do you want me to tell him you're sick?"
"No, I'll be there in a minute. Something's upset me, that's all."
I went back to Mr Wright. "He's in the loo, Sir; he said he'd be here in a minute."
"Humph," was all Mr Wright said. Hari went in to bat, and Daniel Smith strapped on his pads.
Sam appeared, looking green. He quickly got ready to go in to bat. Mr Wright sent him in before Daniel. By this time the tennis and water polo had finished, and boys from both schools were watching the cricket. Sam batted atrociously. Richard (cousin) and William stood and watched with me.
"What's up with Sam?" asked William.
"Dunno," I said. "He played brilliantly this morning. But I don't think he's well. He was heaving up half an hour ago."
Richard studied him for a moment, frowning. "He's the guy who was in the fight," he said at last.
"What fight?" we demanded.
"After lunch. There was a bit of a skirmish between some of our nicer sorts and a St Mungo's boy. I'm pretty sure it was him."
Sam lasted three overs, and made six runs.
Mr Wright scowled. "Not your best innings, Sam," he said.
"No, Sir. Sorry, Sir," Sam answered, as he undid his pads. He sprang up and ran for the loos again, leaving his gear scattered all around. When the rain started I picked up his stuff and moved it into the pavilion. He came back shivering, put on his jersey and crammed his blazer over the top. He glanced around at his gear.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"'S'right," I said. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I will be."
We moved away to talk to some of the Melville boys. Richard nodded his head towards Sam asked one of his friends, "That was the guy in the fight, right?"
"Yeah."
"What was it about, do you know?" Richard asked.
"Apparently Martin Cruikshank, who's as thick as two short planks, cast some aspersions upon his manhood. So he thumped him. Hard. Broke Martin's nose. I wouldn't have thought he had it in him. Then that tennis guy of yours had a go at him. That man's a psycho."
"Tell us something we don't know," said William.
Ashwin finally got out. He walked back to the pavilion to a burst of applause, because he had made 56. Our no. 11, Simon Short, went in. He was a sensational bowler, but he was not that brilliant with the bat. Ashwin chatted to Sam as he removed his pads and stowed away his gear. He had really good stuff. I would have killed for a bat like his. I just happened to glance in their direction in time to see Sam, in what looked like slow motion, topple off the bench and into a heap on the ground. Ashwin stared like a fish on a slab. I do not think he could believe his eyes. I could not really, either. William and I scrambled over the benches as Ashwin bent down and see if Sam was all right.Then Simon got out. Poor Ashwin was in a quandary. Sam is one of his best friends, but as our captain he had to go out to the field.
"You go out there, I'll stay with him," I said.
"Thanks," Ashwin shot me a grateful look and headed out of the pavilion.
William said, "I'll go and find Mr Worthington."
I watched the cricket team shaking hands with the Melville College boys, keeping a weather eye on Sam all the while. Unconscious people are quite scary. In the movies they just lie still, but in real life they twitch. And they make noises. Sam's eyes were closed, but beneath the lids they moved all the time. It seemed like ages, but it probably was not really, until William and Mr Worthington turned up. Mr Worthington coaches the water polo team, and is quite decent, for a teacher. He did all the right First Aid stuff- checking Sam was not going to choke, et cetera, and so on.
He stood up and asked, "What happened?"
"I don't really know, Sir," I said. "Sam was okay this morning. He was sick after lunch, and I fetched him out of the loos to bat. He insisted he could. Then after he played he just keeled over."
"Hmm," said Mr Worthington. He rubbed his chin. I could hear his whiskers scraping together above the noise on the cricket pitch. While he was thinking Sam came round. He opened his eyes, shut them again, and then re-opened them. Slowly, he sat up, obviously quite lost.
"How are you feeling, Sam?" asked Mr Worthington.
Sam looked about him. "Fine, Sir," he said. William, Mr Worthington and I all thought he was lying. Still, what else can you say? He stayed sitting on the floor for quite a while, his head in his hands, but his colour did improve over the next few minutes. He did not go out and join the rest of the cricket team on the pitch (in the rain), but he seemed all right when he went off with his billet.
Auntie Joanne had a small party that night, just twenty or so members of the immediate family. Melville won the fixture, so that was the excuse. I suspect she would have had a party if they had lost. Any reason is an excuse for Auntie Joanne to throw a party. Poor Richard Johnson couldn't quite cope with this. I had not the heart to tell him that Dad was the youngest of ten and this was only a fraction of the crowd. None of the rellies from Auckland or Palmerston North were there and I was the only one from our neck of the woods. That was not counting the South Island ones, either. After most of the food had gone, at least the main part of it – there were still plenty of filler-uppers in evidence – we middling younger ones, the boys anyway, retreated to the rumpus room. Richard and Paul had a Playstation set up there. In fact the lucky dogs had a PS3. James and I just have an ordinary old PS2 at home. They also had the latest version of our favourtie game. Paul, being the oldest, and having few manners (he gave school Richard the second one) began a game. He said he needed the relaxation because he was in the middle of NCEA exams. Some excuse. Anyway, we sat around drinking Coke, eating crisps and offering advice, and we told him when he was stupid, which was quite often. Cousins Josh and James (there is a shortage of names in our family) were busy telling Paul just how lousy he was at playing, when Richard (cousin) said to me,
"You know that guy that I said was in the fight?"
"Sam? Yeah?"
"The word is that Martin's friends, who are as thick as he is, are saying that he never actually thumped Martin. He just sort of zapped him."
"What? You mean like a wizard in a movie, shooting lightning bolts out of the ends of his fingers or something?"
"Yeah." He laughed, a little embarrassed. "Who is he anyway?"
"He's in my class. His Dad's the school chaplain. He's fairly ordinary. He's really good at sport, well usually – he wasn't in his usual form today – and he's brilliant at maths, but he's not so hot on reading and writing and stuff, which is why he's in the B stream. But come on, this is the 21st century. Fifteen-year-olds don't go round zapping people with lightning bolts. I mean, Sam Seeley? It just doesn't happen."
"I know, but that"s the story they're putting round," said Richard.
Nothing happened on the bus trip home. Ashwin organised it that way. Sam slept for most of the four hour drive, curled up in a corner of the back seat. Whatever happened to him the previous day must really have knocked him for a six. Ashwin formed a ring of fortifications around him, so that any time Gifford came down to the back of the bus a wall of brown and yellow faces sat between Sam and him. There was absolutely nothing the sod could do because no-one put a foot wrong and we all behaved impeccably. It didn't stop Gifford uttering about "…boys who bring the school into disrepute…" and making loud comments like "…boys who think they can hide behind their fathers' positions…" This riled James Nicholson no end. His father is the Head, and James is in trouble at least as often as the rest of us.
Chapter 2
I think Sam got a fatigue for the fight. After that Gifford never let an opportunity go past of making some sarcastic comment about Sam's violent tendencies and uncontrollable temper. Still Sam said, "Yes, Sir, no Sir," and took it all. I would have told Gifford what I thought of him several times over long before he finally pushed Sam too far.
Mr Wright was away for our science exam, and so we got stuck with Gifford supervising us. It was bad enough having him in maths. He made us sit in alphabetical order, for some obscure reason, allegedly to break up cliques. That was ironical, because I got to sit next to William – exactly the outcome Gifford said he was trying to stop. Not that I would bother cheating anyway, because William's marks are usually worse than mine. He's a total slacker. Sam sat in the back row, between Philip Reedy and Simon Short.
About ten minutes before the end of the exam Gifford said, "Short, Seeley, bring up your papers." Of course we all turned around to look. They both looked baffled. Gifford gave Simon"' paper a cursory glance and said, "Go back to your seat, Short." He stood and made a great show of reading Sam's exam. Then he tore it in half and dropped the pieces in the bin. The atmosphere in the lab chilled. No one moved. We watched in fascinated, absolute silence. Sam flushed red.
"That's what happens when you cheat, Seeley," Gifford drawled. "You get caught."
"I wasn't cheating, Sir," Sam said, far more calmly than I could have done.
"So why did you spend so much time looking in Short's direction?"
"I didn't realise I was, Sir. I'm left-handed."
Gifford laughed. It had no humour in it. "So Mr Holier-than-thou Seeley is caught cheating, and he explains it away by reason of being left-handed. You'll have to do better than that, boy."
"I wasn't cheating, Sir," Sam said again.
"Would you care to explain your actions to Mr Nicholson?" Gifford snarled.
"Yes, Sir, I would."
This was not the right answer. Gifford lost it. He read Sam his pedigree, commenting in no uncertain terms on what he thought of him. I swear Sam did not move, but suddenly the tap next to him came on, at force. Water went everywhere, all over Sam, and Gifford, and the boys sitting nearest the sink. Gifford swore and told Sam to turn it off. Sam did not move; he just stood there, white and immobile. In the end Gifford reached over and tried to turn the tap off, but no matter which way he turned it the water kept pouring out. If anything, the force increased. Once he was really soaked, he succeeded.
"Beaumont, collect the exams and take them to Mr Nelson," he barked. Andrew silently got up and we handed him our papers. He picked up Simon"s paper from the front bench. It was sopping. He glanced at the rubbish bin, but thought better of it. Once he left Gifford stalked out. He didn't bother to dismiss us. There was a moment's stillness, then one or two bold souls got up and left. Seeing the ground did not open up and swallow them, the rest of the class gradually filed out.
When almost everyone had gone I approached Sam. He still had not moved. Water dripped off his hair, and his blazer hung lank and heavy-looking. I looked at the astonishing amount of water on the floor and benches.
"I'll give you a hand cleaning this up," I said.
Sam almost seemed to come out of a trance. "Thanks," he said I found a couple of rags and we set to wipe up as much water as we could. I did most of it – he was pretty lacklustre. I did not like the way he looked; he was greenish-white, like he had been at Melville the fixture. I was sure he was going to be sick, and I was not altogether surprised when he bolted. I finished cleaning up, retrieved the pieces of his exam from the rubbish bin, picked up his bag as well as my own, and trundled off to the loos. I lounged against the doorway, listening to him throwing up.
When he emerged I collared him. "This can't go on, Sam. Gifford's dumping on you too often. We're going to see your dad."
He said, "I'm okay. He doesn't need to know."
"Yes he does," I said. "It's one thing calling you names and giving out impos, but what he did today was beyond it. Or do we go and see the Head?"
"Dad," said Sam, resignedly.
We stopped off at the library, to check the chaplain's timetable, because he teaches in the Prep School as well as the Secondary School. He was not teaching that period because of our exams, so I dragged Sam along to his office.
Rev. Seeley is a cheerful, untidy, round man with grey hair and big round glasses. He dresses in suits, but they usually look as if he hangs them on the floor. Sam doesn't look remotely like him. He was a bit surprised when he opened his office door to us. He made Sam take off his blazer and shirt and fossicked around in a cupboard, eventually producing another shirt and a jersey.
"Here, put these on, you silly boy." Sam meekly did as he was told, while Rev Seeley hung the sopping blazer on the back of his chair. Sam sat down in an armchair. He still seemed very dazed.
"Now, obviously something has happened. Tell me what brings you here, Alex," Rev. Seeley said to me. I was rather surprised that he knew my name, even though he had been my R.E. teacher in Year 9. I told him of the incident in the science lab. Rev Seeley looked sharply at Sam when I said Mr Gifford accused him of cheating. Sam was shivering. Rev Seeley took off his own jacket and put it around him.
"Go on, Alex," he said. I produced the torn up paper.
He stopped me. "This is really awkward for me. These are serious accusations. If it were any boy except Sam, I wouldn't have a problem. But I need a witness. Hang on to that, while I find one. You're in Hamilton?"
"Bedingfield, Sir."
"Oh. I assumed you would be in Hamilton."
Nobody from school had ever associated me with my McIver cousins, who were all in Hamilton. He obviously didn't connect me with James, either, who's Bedingfield's House Captain. Most people failed that one, too. I did not enlighten him. "No Sir. My father was in Bedingfield."
While he was away Sam shut his eyes and leaned back, resting his head against the back of the chair. He's pale anyway, but now what colour he usually had was gone. He looked exhausted.
"What House is Gifford in, do you know?" he asked me, his eyes still shut.
"McIntosh," I said.
"Damn," he said.
"Why?"
"It's the tramp coming up. I'm in Sunderland."
Gifford was a keen outdoors man. When he was in a good mood (which was seldom) he could sometimes be distracted by getting him to talk about some of his expeditions. He has climbed Kilimanjaro and Everest and several other famous mountains. He always went on school tramps. The six Houses are usually paired up alphabetically. For the tramps, though, they are divided into two groups. Under normal circumstances Sunderland is paired with Wallace and the Hamiltonians have to put up with Gifford and McIntosh. But for the tramp McIntosh House is always put with Sunderland and Wallace. I could see Sam's difficulty – three days in Gifford's company would be pretty awful for him.
"I'm scared that next time I might kill him," he said. Startled, I looked over at him. He still had his eyes shut, and looked as if he had been through a mangle. I told myself I had not heard him properly. It just didn't fit.
He opened his eyes and sat up. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"No," I shook my head.
"I came so close to it today. I can't go on the tramp if he's there. If I don't hurt him I'll probably end up hurting someone else. I'm scared someone will just get in the way. I can't control it. It frightens me." He put his father's jacket on properly and wrapped it close about himself. It almost went around him twice. He hunched himself up in his chair, and closed his eyes again.
Rev Seeley came back, with Mr Nelson, who is my House Dean as well as being Head of Science, Mrs Briggs, who is Sam's dean, and Mr Shelby, who is the Deputy Head. I got up from my chair. Rev. Seeley raided Mr Shelby's classroom and came back with a couple of chairs for Mr Nelson and me.
"Now, Alex," Rev. Seeley said. "Can you tell Mr Nelson and Mrs Briggs what you just told me, please?"
I told the story again. I produced the torn exam paper. Mr Nelson brought out a sodden one.
"It's lucky Simon used a ballpoint," he said. He read the two papers. He pulled a face. "There's nothing significant here. Nothing I would think indicates cheating."
Three Hamilton boys pulled out of the tramp because they were too ill or too unfit or too wimpish to go. Sam became an honorary member of Hamilton for the tramp, and ended up in the same group as Ashwin. That's the drawback of Houses – if your friends are in different ones to you, you don't ever get to do any of the fun stuff with them.
Chapter 3
The weekend after school finished my cousins got married at Uncle Peter's farm. He is super-rich and has this play farm that has a bit of private beach. Some years we go there for Christmas. It is a fantastic place. This wedding was a family scandal, and kept Mum and the uncles and aunts talking for the best part of two years. Two years ago Calum and Rebekah announced they were getting married. The problems, as the McIvers saw them, were: i) they are first cousins and ii) Calum is ten years older than Rebekah. Dad kept saying he could not see what all the fuss was about; everyone should just leave them alone to get on with it. But Dad's not a McIver. Then again, neither are any of the aunts. Two years ago Rebekah was sixteen, and still at school. Now she is eighteen and has just finished school. Anyway, they got engaged then, and Calum went to America for two years. I think the family hoped they would both get over it. They did not. The wedding was a small one – just immediate family and a very few very close friends. Unfortunately William was not going to be there. He had to go to Auckland for his sister Kate's graduation.
The immediate family is mostly McIvers – Mum's brothers and their families. Auntie Louise and Auntie Sue don't seem to have nearly as many relatives. To my surprise the very few, very close friends included Sam Seeley. I knew his father was taking the service, but I did not expect Sam to be there. He arrived with this absolutely stunning looking woman, incredibly elegant, with black hair and bright blue eyes. I saw at once where Sam got his looks from. They sat with some of Auntie Louise's and Uncle Dave's friends.
During the eating and drinking part Sam and I drifted together. I was the youngest of my generation, and my older cousins' kids were all tiny.We were the only ones anything like our ages. (James thought he was an adult now that he had left school a whole week previously.) Once we had finished eating I suggested we went down to the beach. So we did. We tossed our shoes and socks aside, rolled up our trousers and generally mucked around. We were climbing up to the top of a rock outcrop when Calum's best man appeared on the beach.
"Sam, I was looking for you," he said.
"Why?" Sam asked suspiciously.
"I want to talk to you."
"Is it anything you can't say in front of him?" Sam jerked his head in my direction. The best man looked at me doubtfully. I knew I had seen him at something before, but I was not sure where, or when. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed, athletic-looking and moved like a cat – very gracefully, and without any apparent effort. "It's okay, he's the McIver cousin," said Sam. "He seems to be there to pick me up all the time. And it's because of him and his big mouth that Dad found out."
"The curse of the McIvers strikes again," the best man smiled. I was perplexed.
"Alex, this is my cousin Robin," Sam introduced me.
"And I'm your cousin Emma"s brother-in-law," Robin said to me. I had to think about that.
He looked around. "Do you think we could go around the beach a bit – go somewhere where no-one will notice if we cause some damage?"
"We could go this way – no one ever comes here," I said, pointing over the rocks. "But…"
I'm not dressed for it. Never mind," said Robin.
He sprang up alongside us – a feat made more difficult than it sounds because not only was he dressed in morning dress and shiny leather shoes (classy, expensive looking ones, not the ones with tractor tyre soles like most guys wear), but he had a bottle of champagne and a glass in one hand.
We climbed around to the next bay. It is quite small, and not that easy to get to. It's not very inviting either, because there's not much sand. It's mostly broken-up rocks.
"Perfect," said Robin. He poured himself a glass of champagne, and carefully balanced the bottle on a rock. He took a sip. "Oh, how I hate exercise. Now Sam, target practice. That rock over there."
Sam stood and stared at the rock. "I can't do it," he said, after a long pause.
Robin shrugged. He turned to me. "Tell me about Mr Gifford," he said.
"What do you want to know?" I asked.
"Everything, in every specific detail, about what he's like, how he treats you guys, and what he does to Sam."
It struck me as a strange request, but I told him everything I could remember, from the beginning of the year. Gifford's likes, dislikes, his special hatred for Sam over and above the rest of us darkies, dagoes and dumbos. Robin listened attentively, slowly sipping champagne and occasionally glancing in Sam's direction. Sam stood watching and listening, his stance saying, "Oh, for goodness sake. This is pointless." I got up to the earthquake. As I repeated what Gifford said about Sam's appearance Sam suddenly spun around so his back was to us. There was an almighty shower of rock and sand. Robin and I ducked, hands over our heads. After about a minute, which is a long time when you're crouching, the rain of rock fragments stopped.
"Shit!" exclaimed Robin. He laughed as he held up his champagne glass. It was full of shards of rock. "What a waste."
He swirled the champagne and tipped it out. White-faced, Sam sank down on the sand, his head in his hands. He looked as if he was going to be sick. Robin casually refilled his glass and resettled himself on the rock.
"I can't control it. It just builds up and then it happens," said Sam, almost tearfully.
"Carry on, Alex," said Robin, as if Sam hadn"t spoken.
I described the earthquake, and how Sam had run off after it. Then I said how James said there wasn't one. Robin idly swirled the champagne in his glass, and watched the bubbles popping up to the surface.
"Did it make you sick?" he asked.
"Yes," Sam answered.
"He was sick as a dog at the Melville College fixture," I put in.
"What happened there?" Robin asked Sam. "I haven"t heard about that."
"Because I didn't tell Dad. I just said I had food poisoning. Some Melville boys had a go at me because I look too much like a girl. We fought, and I broke the nose of one of them. That's all. Then Gifford got stuck into me because I'm violent and can't control my temper, and I brought St Mungo's into disrepute," Sam shrugged.
"Sam, the master of the classic understatement," said Robin. "Tell me the rest of it, Alex."
"Sam went missing, he nearly missed batting. Mr Wright sent me to look for him, and he was chucking up. Then he batted spectacularly badly, and was sick again afterwards. Then he fainted." Sam glowered at me. "My cousin said a couple of the Melville boys were putting it about that Sam zapped that guy. We didn't believe it."
Robin took a swig from his glass, and looked at Sam thoughtfully.
"Did you do anything to Gifford that time?"
"No," said Sam.
"Did you want to?"
"Hell, yes!" This was Sam's most animated response so far.
"Did you do as much damage to those Melville College boys as you really felt like doing?"
"No."
"You are controlling it. That's why you feel so rotten afterwards. The more control you are using, the worse you feel. Can you sing?"
Sam shook his head.
"Pity," continued Robin. "It's a good way of releasing energy without people realising what you are up to. I used to do it all the time. Finn and Tania complained 'cause I was always making a noise." He glanced across the bay to where Sam had blasted the rock. "You're incredibly powerful, Sam. That little explosion should have made a crater several metres wide. But it didn't. You controlled it, so it shattered the rock and did minimal damage to the surroundings. When was the earthquake incident?"
"About six weeks ago."
"And that was the first time anything like that had happened to you?"
"Yes."
Robin turned to me.
"Why did you go after him, after the earthquake?"
I thought about it. "I don't really know. He just looked so terrible. Everyone else ran to help Gifford. I just thought someone should see how Sam was."
"Do you usually look out for other people, that sort of thing?" He emptied the bottle into his glass.
"Not really. I'm just averagely compassionate. It just gets up my nose, though, the way Gifford dumps on Sam all the time. Because it's personal, it's not about things he can do anything about – like how he looks or who his father is. I don't mind him picking on me so much because it's just simple racism, and I am thick at maths. You dismiss that because he's bigoted and small-minded. It's less personal, and other guys get it too. What Sam gets is nasty."
"And you were there when each of these outbursts happened?"
"Yes. I stayed with him when he fainted. William – he's Calum's other cousin on his mother's side – went to get help. And I dragged him along to his father after the science exam."
"Why?"
"Because I thought things had gone too far. What"s the use of having your father as a teacher at school if you can't get a little bit of special treatment? It's not as if Sam puts himself forward and asks for it. If anything he's the opposite. But the rest of us can go home and moan about teachers like Gifford and some parents will ring the Head and complain, or write to him. And I was worried about him. He looked sick."
Robin gazed into the middle distance for a while, saying nothing and sipping champagne. Finally, he asked, "How old are you guys?"
"Fifteen," we chorused.
"After Christmas," I confessed.
"In January," said Sam.
Robin grinned.
He put his glass down, stood up and dusted the seat of his trousers. He picked up the empty champagne bottle and placed it on a rock in the middle of the bay.
"Now do this," he ordered Sam, and he levitated it, putting it down safely again.
Sam gaped. "I can't do that," he protested.
"Try," said Robin.
Sam tried. Nothing happened.
"Are you left- or right-handed?" Robin asked him.
"Left."
"Good. So am I. Stretch your arm out, and I'll put my hand over yours, so you can feel what happens."
Sam obeyed. Robin stood behind him and laid his arm along Sam's. He hummed something, and the bottle floated up and back down again. Sam's eyes widened.
"So that's how you do it!" he said.
Robin took his hand away and wandered back over beside me. Sam tried again, an expression of extreme concentration on his face. The bottle rose into the air, and he put it back down with a clatter. He turned to us joyously.
"I did it," he crowed.
He did it again, and again.
"What am I watching?" I asked nobody in particular. "I'll wake up soon and it will be Saturday morning."
"Sorry, chum. That"s the McIver curse. You won't. All you are seeing is absolutely positively real. You're trapped, and you can't tell anyone about it." Robin took his attention off Sam and looked me in the eye. "I'm not joking."
I could tell he wasn't.
"But there are a few, a very few people you can talk to about it – Calum and Rebekah, and Emma. And Uncle J – Sam's father. You're watching magic."
Sam smashed the bottle as he tried to put it down again.
"Bugger," he said.
Robin laughed. "You'd better clean that up. Try reducing the pieces to dust. Do what you did to the rock, only focus it down." He got up and sauntered over to Sam. "Like this."
And he stared hard at piece of glass. It crumbled into a pile of shiny green grains.
"Try to do it without using your hands."
As Sam practised Robin sipped his champagne and I watched Sam. I'm not sure that I believed the evidence of my eyes. He was slow and fumbling, sometimes not getting it quite right, but in about half an hour he had completely broken down the bits of bottle to sand. Robin drained his glass and set it down at his feet.
"How can he do that?" I asked.
"Because Gifford was right. He is a fairy, but not in the sense he meant," Robin said, his eyes fixed on Sam.
I looked at him sharply. He turned and grinned.
"And you've been chosen as his minder. I feel sorry for you. It's not an easy task. Just ask Calum."
"How does he know?"
"Because he's mine. Has been for fourteen years now, poor sod. That"s why he dobbed Sam in to Uncle J. He figured out exactly what was happening in Sam's life. We've been watching for developments since then. Calum suspected that you might be being drawn into it, but we thought there had only been two incidents. We didn't know about the Melville College affair. Three times makes it a certainty." He reached down and picked up his glass, looked at it regretfully and put it down again. "Adolescence is hard enough, as you no doubt know. Your emotions are all over the place, you hate your family and they hate you, you keep comparing yourself unfavourably with other guys – I was podgy and a smart-alec, and all you can think of is sex. Then suddenly zap, this parcel of magical ability lands on you and you have to learn to deal with it. Usually it coincides with a growth spurt, and just leaves you exhausted. I was lucky, my main gift is music, which is not common, but as I said to Sam, it allows to you release a whole lot of energy without being noticed, at least not as magical. My brother Finn is a strategist, and it was a lot harder for him than for me, I remember. He was horrible to live with. Plus he didn't find his minder until he was about seventeen. That's tough. And lonely. Sam's got two points in his favour just now – he's got the holidays to grow and sleep and learn to deal with things, and he's found you already."
I watched Sam grinding a piece of glass to atoms. He actually looked as if he was enjoying himself – it was the sort of look I'd seen on his face when he's made a particularly good catch, or bowled well.
"But we're not particularly good friends – we're just in the same class," I said. "And anyway, what's a minder, and how do I know you're not winding me up? And what would I have to do?"
"Have you ever seen anyone else do that?" asked Robin, nodding in Sam's direction.
"No."
"That's how you know I'm not winding you up. What do you have to do to be a minder? Minder's the wrong word really. It's just a friend, a human who knows about you as you really are. And it is good to have someone other than your parents or siblings with whom you can totally be yourself. Calum certainly wasn't my best friend at school, though he is now. I'm still good friends with my old school friends. But over the years you go through things together that create a bond between you. Your bond with Sam has already started – you looked out for him, and you noticed that there was something odd happening. I bet most boys in your exam would swear they saw Sam turn the tap on. The others wouldn't because they weren't looking in that direction. You know about him as he really is. And today I've dragged you further into it. Actually, we both did, because Sam could have sent you away, or refused to talk to me. I suspect it's tough on the human member of the equation because there are so few people you can talk to about it. And what is extraordinary to you is quite normal to us. Like this little exhibition. On the positive side, you'll probably find you develop a bit of magical ability yourself."
"Cool," I said.
Robin grinned again.
Chapter 4
I saw Sam a couple of times over the holidays. Robin took us out one day and I watched the two of them blasting rocks to bits. I wished I could do it – it looked like tremendous fun. Otherwise, there was no cataclysmic change in my life. I'm not quite sure what I expected.
When school went back we were in Year 11 – no longer juniors, but not proper seniors, either. The threat of NCEA Level 1 hung over us, but that was at the end of the year – plenty of time to worry about that. Our classes were all split up from last year, and we didn't have a form name any more. To my surprise, Sam was in my maths class. Then it transpired that Gifford was teaching the A stream.
Ashwin remarked glumly one day, "The only reason Gifford is teaching us is because we'll all pass anyway, despite him."
Sam and I were also in the same English class – Mrs MacAndrew's Neanderthals. We called her St Jude – patron saint of lost causes. She had the thankless job of getting the misfits, the time-tabling problems, the idle, the dyslexics and other hopeless cases through the year in one piece.
Sam, Ashwin and a new boy made the Second XI for cricket. The new boy. Actually, there were four new boys in our year group. Three of them were innocuous, and soon blended into the background. One came from Melville College, one from Knox School in the South Island and the third from Auckland. He knew William from primary school. But the fourth new boy. Alexander Neville was his name. Always Alexander, never Alex like the hundred or so of the rest of us. He put in his first appearance at the cricket trials, which were in the last week of the holidays. Three days of batting, bowling and fielding practise and an assortment of team combinations. Most of last years' First XI were back, but there were plenty of gaps in the Seconds and Thirds. By the end of the first morning we all knew that Alexander's uncle was a Black Cap. His other uncle was an All Black. He also had all sorts of other famous connections. He was only just below being a genius (which doesn't explain why he ended up in our English class). He'd had cricket coaching from Shane Warne while he lived in Australia. Mid-way through the first afternoon Brian Buchanan, the captain of the Firsts, (who was quite pissed off with him even that early in the piece) asked if the coaching included using steroids, because Alexander was big compared to most of the rest of us Year 11s – tall as well as broad – he was nearly as big as Brian, and Brian's huge. I'm sure that's the only reason Alexander didn't damage him. I noticed that he ignored the presence of Hari, Dushan Patel and Ashwin, James Hamilton and anyone else who was tinged anything other than white. Maybe I'm over-sensitive. Or maybe it's just I was lining up my ammunition because I didn't like him. We took an instant dislike to one another.
On Day 2 Mr Jones and Mr Slack had a group of us at the nets. Alexander batted. I bowled an indifferent over and Alexander quite rightly made mincemeat of it. He's a good cricketer; a slogger rather than a stylish batsman, and a good infielder. Brian Buchanan sent down the next few deliveries, and gave him a bit more trouble. Then Sam bowled. He bowled fast. Then he pitched a couple of slower deliveries. Alexander scooped the second one over his head and out of the nets. James Nicholson ran after it.
Alexander eyed Sam contemptuously. "Who taught you to bowl? A girl?"
"My aunt, actually," said Sam coldly.
"Shows," said Alexander.
"She used to play for England," said Sam matter-of-factly. "She didn't teach me to bowl like that." James lobbed the ball at him and he caught it one-handed. "Her style is more like this."
He commenced his run-up and before Alexander knew which way to look Sam had his middle stump out.
"One up to Sam," muttered Hari. Damien Jones and I grinned.
The team lists went up the first week back at school. I made the Thirds. I was quite content with that. Alexander Neville deserved to be in the Seconds, but that meant Hari, who is a much classier player, was left out. Still, the Thirds benefited.
In House cricket Alexander Neville began to show his true nature. He was in Hamilton House, with Ashwin and Hari. They had a very strong team, because four of the First XI are in Hamilton, which doesn't leave many for the rest of us. Sunderland has another three, and five Seconds. Bedingfield came a resounding last in the cricket – we have Duncan Phillips from the Seconds as our star. The rest of us are Thirds, Fourths and also-rans. The final was between Hamilton and Sunderland. It's a big affair. We get a half-day with no classes. Everyone is supposed to watch the game, but the smokers don't and the nerds usually slope off to the computer room. They get to stay there if Mr Tucker is in a good mood. Parents and Old Boys come, and there's usually a good feed at the end. Several of my McIver cousins and a couple of my uncles turned up to watch. Sam's cousin Robin and his brother also came. They'd been in Sunderland.
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