Everton Miles Is Stranger Than Me

  Other Night Flyers Handbooks

  The Strange Gift of Gwendolyn Golden

  For Paul,

  a Night Flyer from the start

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Prologue

  Congratulations, your life as a Night Flyer starts today. We hope you find this copy of Your First Flight: A Night Flyer’s Handbook, The Complete & Unabridged Version (Newly Updated!) a valuable reference for any questions you may have about Night Flying.

  Do NOT lose it! This will be your only copy.

  For quick and handy reference, here are Your Ten Most Pressing Questions Answered:

  What is happening to me? You are, in all probability, a young teenager from a family of Night Flyers (except in very rare circumstances), and you have recently flown without mechanical assistance, which means that you have had your First Flight. You have therefore been identified by the local authorities (see Mentor and Watcher entries, below) as a Night Flyer. Rest assured that you are normal in every way, except now you have the added ability of unaided flight.

  What is a Night Flyer? A Night Flyer is anyone (although most often a young teenager or adolescent entering puberty) who has taken his or her First Flight. The First Flight usually occurs in a safe and controlled manner with the young Night Flyer’s parents, Watcher, and Mentor cheering him or her on. It is a time for celebration and joy.

  Is Night Flying dangerous? Generally, no. Ask your Mentor for further instruction.

  How do I control my flying? As noted in Question #2, Night Flying, or the ability to fly, usually begins during puberty, although sometimes much later, and except in a few very rare cases, almost never before. Since puberty is a time of great hormonal flux, you may find that you fly when you least want to, such as at times of stress, anger, sudden upset, or joy. Sometimes you may fly simply during a moment of boredom or carelessness. Young Night Flyers generally outgrow this troubling problem quickly. With practice, focus on breathing techniques, and the help of their Mentor, most Flyers gain control of their flight patterns within a few days or weeks after their First Flight.

  How do I tell my friends? In most cases, the Night Flyer need not tell anyone except family members and other Flyers about his or her new ability. The decision to tell non-flying friends and community members must be made very carefully and often is not recommended. This is because in many, many unfortunate cases, non-flying prejudice has occurred. Extreme caution and restraint is advised, although there are no rules that forbid revealing the truth. Seek advice and wisdom from your Mentor.

  What is a Watcher? One who watches, keeps watch, or is especially vigilant as a sentry or night guard. S/he is someone who is well-known to the Flyer and who is constantly on the lookout for his or her First Flight and continued welfare. The Watcher is generally also a Flyer, but this is not essential. The Watcher and Mentor must work together well. The Watcher must take an oath to Watch faithfully.

  What is a Mentor? A Mentor is steadfast, honourable, courageous. S/he is there to teach, guide, and help the young Night Flyer in every facet of his or her learning. The Mentor is not, in most cases, a family member, but is instead a member of the young Flyer’s community. The Mentor/First Flyer relationship is usually one of great respect that often lasts into adulthood and beyond. The Mentor must take an oath to teach and guide faithfully. It is a sacred trust.

  What ceremonies and parties do I attend? As a Night Flyer with full privileges, you may now attend the First Flight Ceremonies of any other Night Flyers in your community. You may also attend the annual Midsummer Party. Ask your Mentor for further information regarding the latter.

  Can I lead a normal life? Generally, yes. Ask your Mentor for further instruction.

  How many Night Flyers are there? The Night Flyer population rises and falls each day.

  Five Full Privileges of a Night Flyer (Appendix D):

  You may now fly unrestricted day* or night, at your discretion. (*Daytime flight is not generally recommended in populated areas.)

  You have received your golden feather. You will receive only one. Keep it safe.

  You now have a Watcher and a Mentor who have each taken an oath on your behalf.

  You may attend all Night Flying ceremonies as a member with full privileges.

  You must choose.

  One

  I’m flying.

  It’s 3:00 a.m.

  I glide, effortless, over the rooftops and church spires of my little town. I float over the park that Jez and I meet at when we sneak out at night. The empty swings creak in the gentle last-night-of-summer breeze. I drift over the wooded lot next to the park then float slowly above empty streets. The backyards, driveways, and rooftops pass below me like a miniature village, a child’s play-world.

  Past the library, I drift lazily over The Float Boat, the only candy store in town. Mrs. Forest, my Mentor, and her husband are tucked up inside, cozy against the night. My school, Bass Creek Senior Public School, drifts below me.

  Correction. My OLD school. Tomorrow, I start high school at the big building further down the street.

  No. I’m not flying over the high school tonight. Tomorrow will come soon enough.

  So I pick up speed. I’m still not great at flying, to be honest, but I can finally go where I want, although I may never get the hang of landing. The fence tops and tree limbs float below me until I reach the last street in town. I hover and look out over the September cornfields toward the distant woods.

  There’s a solitary cabin at the edge of the forest. It belongs to Mr. McGillies, a local hermit, the old bottle collector who has sworn an oath to be my Watcher when I’m out flying. The truth is he saved my life recently, and I don’t know how to thank him. I’ve been drawn to this spot all summer, watching the shape of his dark cabin against the forest as I bob above the corn like a weather balloon.

  Tonight though, something is different.

  I gaze past his cabin, past the trees, out toward the glow of faraway city lights. Somewhere out there t
he oldest trees stand. Somewhere out there the Spirit Flyers wait, starshot immortals, guardians of light and air.

  Then something flashes in the muddy laneway below me.

  A small lost thing lies face-up in the mud. I drop and hover above the road to investigate. It’s a tiny figure, a doll made of cornstalks. It stares up at me with bright glass beads for eyes.

  This is odd. Who would put a doll in the laneway like this? What child would have visited Mr. McGillies and lost it? None, since he never has visitors as far as I know. With one hand I clasp my father’s golden feather on my mother’s chain around my neck. With the other I reach down to touch the doll, but then I swear the corn rustles next to me and a voice whispers: Gwendolyn.

  I zoom up above the corn.

  Gwendolyn.

  The corn has never whispered to me before. Then a lone figure steps out of the field onto the muddy lane. It hesitates then takes a step toward me. A dark figure with glowing golden eyes.

  And wings.

  Gwendolyn.

  I streak home and dive into my bed.

  I don’t know what I just saw, but I do know this: from somewhere out there, a darkness is coming.

  And it’s calling my name.

  Two

  Jeffrey Parks begins to cry.

  We all immediately look away, humiliated for him.

  We’re sitting in the first few minutes of the very first day of grade nine. We’ll be playing this scenario out for the rest of the year, the rest of high school, the rest of our lives. From now on whenever we think of grade nine, this will be our first thought: Jeffrey Parks cried on the first day.

  Mortification fills my every pore.

  Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Mayhew, is loud. She’s a slammer and a pointer. She already slammed the door and made the windows rattle, then loudly demanded that Jeffrey Parks tell everyone what he did all summer. I think she’s just trying to get us to introduce ourselves, but she’s so loud that we’ve all gone to ground like frightened birds.

  I glance at Jez next to me. This would never have been allowed in Bass Creek Senior Public School, us sitting together, since we talk too much. I have to tell her about the whispers in the corn, the dark, winged figure in the laneway last night, but I’m too scared of Mrs. Mayhew to try. I haven’t told her yet, since I’m the only teenager in the world without a phone, and anyone can listen in on our home phone.

  We all stare at the back of Jeffrey Parks’s exposed neck because unlike all sensible people, he’s sitting at the front of the class. We simply can’t look away. Even the huge boys who grew gigantic over the summer, with legs that stick out like a grasshopper’s beneath their desks. Even the girls from nearby small towns, girls I don’t know, which is most of them.

  We all just stare.

  Mrs. Mayhew stands over Jeffrey Parks. He looks like he’s stopped crying, but I can’t be sure. At least, I don’t see his shoulders shake like they did a minute ago. His knuckles are white where he grips the desk.

  “Well? What did you do this summer?” Mrs. Mayhew looks at her clipboard. “Jeffrey Parks,” she adds for emphasis.

  Come on, Jeffrey! I think. Give her an answer! I’m sorry for booting you and making you cry in grade five, but it should have made you tougher. If you go down now, we’re all lost. But Jeffrey just folds like there’s no fight in him. His head goes down on his desk. Mrs. Mayhew looks puzzled, then almost kind, like she wants to help but doesn’t know how.

  “Okay, Mr. Parks, never mind,” she says and then goes on to call out the rest of our names. When the bell rings, we all file out to start the first full day of grade nine, and Jeffrey never does lift his head off the desk. I watch the pulse in the back of his exposed neck as I hurry past. I wish I could say I stopped to say a comforting word, but I’d be lying. I file by like everyone else, trying not to let his tears rub off on me.

  All I can think as I pass by is: Someone has to fall on the first day, Gwendolyn. Just be thankful it’s not you.

  Three

  I navigate to my locker, something I’ve never had before.

  There’s no way to do this locker thing with dignity. I pin books under my chin and get the combination wrong. Again. Jez breezes up beside me and opens her locker one-handed, like she’s been doing it her whole life. Jez is going to be good at high school. She was born to be a cheerleader, to wear the right clothes, to be at ease with everyone. Jez will never struggle at her locker.

  “Jeffrey Parks’s parents got divorced this summer,” she says with a little whiff of superiority. “That’s why he was crying.” She slips her books onto the locker shelf.

  “Oh,” I say. Poor Jeffrey. My locker door suddenly escapes and swings wide. The boy on the other side of me jumps. The kid stares at me. Even his braces look scared.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. I don’t know him but maybe he’s already heard about me. I slam my locker shut. I do have a reputation for having a bad temper. Then there’s this whole vicious rumour thing, too. The town was convinced I was a drug addict. Long story.

  But I’m not, believe me. I hate drugs.

  The kid bolts, and for a second Jez and I are alone. I should tell my best friend that someone … something … is at the edge of town calling my name. But I don’t. Everyone is between classes and the halls are packed. It’s too noisy to talk. Besides, what am I going to say that doesn’t sound like I made it up? And what did I see anyway? Probably nothing.

  But this is the very first time I’ve kept a secret from Jez. She knows absolutely everything there is to know about me. She was the first person to find out I’m a Night Flyer, for instance (followed by Mr. McGillies, Mrs. Forest, then my mother).

  We push our way through the halls like salmon swimming upstream to gym class. We find the girl’s locker room, then we mill around with the other grade nine girls.

  I scan the gym, which is easy since I’m one of the tallest, but there’s no one else I know.

  Until she appears. Shelley Norman.

  My bully.

  Shelley Norman strides into gym with the other grade ten girls. I grab Jez.

  “What’s SHE doing here?” I hiss. How can this be happening? I put up with Shelley Norman in gym classes in middle school. But now?

  “Not enough girls in grade ten take gym. Jeesh, Gwen.”

  Shelley Norman has tree trunks for legs, and she’s grown about six inches since I saw her last spring. She’s a giant. She marches into the gym, and it really doesn’t matter who else is in the room. I’m the only person she sees. Our eyes lock.

  There’s a sloppiness to Shelley. She needs a good scrub or something. Her shorts have a smear of ketchup and what might be egg on them, and it’s just the first day. I think of my mother carefully teaching me how to do the laundry a few years ago, and I wonder who let Shelley have such filthy shorts.

  I gulp. I slowly feel my stupid mouth curl up at the edges in terror, but from Shelley’s point of view it must look like a weird grin. I will my lips to do a downturn, but it’s too late. Shelley laughs. She turns to her friends and whispers, and they all turn and laugh at me.

  I look away. Just standing in gym is now an ordeal. All I really want to do is bolt.

  Or fly away.

  Our teacher, Miss Moreau, walks in and I spend the rest of the class trying to keep clear of Shelley’s dodgeball. But it’s no use. She hits me every time. I’m already black and blue, and it’s only the first day.

  There’s a grade nine assembly at the end of the day. It’s dull, but there’s one hilarity in the form of Mr. Skinty, our principal. He’s the skinniest man I’ve ever seen. He’s Mr. Skinny. Or worse, Mr. Stinky (although I’m too far away to detect any odours). I’m desperately trying not to giggle, when suddenly a face pops out of the crowd a few rows down.

  I’ve been dreading this moment.

  It’s Martin Evells. He raises his hand in
a weak hello. I’ve been trying not to see Martin all day, trying to forget that he goes to this school, or that he exists at all.

  I don’t wave back. Instead I stare straight ahead at skeletal, stinky Mr. Skinty.

  Martin was my best friend when I was six.

  He’s the boy whose mother phoned the police on me, whose mother started the vicious “drug addict” rumour about me. And he’s also the boy who gave me the Worst Kiss Ever last spring.

  Martin and I will have to talk sometime, I can see that.

  Honestly, I’d rather die.

  Four

  Jez and I walk home. Older kids jostle past us on the sidewalk. Now is the perfect time to tell her about the winged creature calling my name last night.

  But for some strange, sneaky reason, I don’t. It’s too weird. And what was it, anyway?

  Instead, we talk about day one in high school. About Shelley Norman and terrible cafeteria food and poor Jeffrey Parks. Then Jez walks off down her street and I wander on alone. This is the one day all year I don’t have to pick up my little twin brother and sister, Christine and Christopher (the Chrissies if I’m mad at them, C2 if I’m not), after school. Mom always picks them up on the first day, but from now on it’ll be my job. There’s no one else to share the parenting, just me and Mom.

  Now you’re wondering why. Don’t. Dad vanished, disappeared, died, whatever you want to call it, in a terrible storm a few weeks before the twins were born. He was a Night Flyer too (but Mom’s not), and for some stupid reason he was checking on a neighbour.

  I was six.

  Now you know.

  When I open my front door, noise hits me like a wall. The twins roar around the living room shrieking into each other’s faces.

  Christine shouts, “Mrs. Norton is so smelly, I can’t even get close to her. She’s RE-PELL-ANT!”

  Christopher shouts back, “Just hold your nose!” They’re in grade two and this year their principal, Mrs. Abernathy, got the bright idea that they should be in separate classes. “For their development as individuals,” she said to my mother on the phone a few weeks before school started.