The Strange Gift of Gwendolyn Golden Page 3

  That’s it.

  I read this letter probably fifty times (since it’s so short). All I really get from it though is that Mrs. Forest has a great name, and Mr. McGillies has a terrible one. And what on earth is Local 749?

  So I turn my attention to the little brochure, Your Life as a Night Flyer Starts Today. I am ridiculously relieved, and a little ashamed, to be honest. A three-page brochure that answers my 10 Most Pressing Questions is something I can probably read from beginning to end without too much trouble. Although now I’m slightly annoyed at being pegged as a Less-than-Willing Reader. Why do other kids get an eight-hundred-page book and I just get this little brochure?

  Honestly, I’m never satisfied.

  The picture on the front cover of the brochure is interesting. It’s a girl about my age flying beside a huge old tree. It’s night, and there is a hint of something glowing behind her, but you can’t see what. And she looks happy. Like really, really happy. Full of joyousness, if that’s a word.

  I open the cover. The ten questions are neatly laid out:

  1. What is happening to me?

  2. What is a Night Flyer?

  3. Is Night Flying dangerous?

  4. How do I control my flying?

  5. How do I tell my friends?

  6. What is a Watcher?

  7. What is a Mentor?

  8. What Ceremonies and Parties do I attend?

  9. Can I lead a normal life?

  10. How many Night Flyers are there?

  I read the first question:

  #1: 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 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.

  This is going to be helpful, obviously. “Normal in every way,” sounds good to me, except I can already see that it’s going to lead to a lot more questions. I’m not from a family of Night Flyers, so apparently I’m a rare specimen right from the first sentence.

  I scan a little. The answer to question five would have been useful a few days ago:

  #5: 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 which forbid revealing the truth. Seek advice and wisdom from your Mentor.

  I’m just not sure how much extreme caution I can manage. And Jez knows the truth, so that’s one strongly worded caution from the Flight Crew that I’ve already ignored. Not a great start, really.

  I skip down to the entries about the Watcher and the Mentor.

  #6: 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 a Flyer themselves, but this is not essential. The Watcher and Mentor must work together well. The Watcher must take an oath to Watch faithfully.

  Is Mr. McGovern Everett McGillies the Third up to this job? An oath? The only oath that comes to mind when I think of Mr. McGillies is a not-very-nice swear word, which he tends to use a lot.

  And watch faithfully? I suddenly wonder if the people in charge here have ever actually met Mr. McGillies?

  The Mentor entry is a little more reassuring:

  #7: 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 which often lasts into adulthood and beyond. The Mentor must take an oath to teach and guide faithfully. It is a sacred trust.

  I think of all the times Mrs. Emmeline Beatrice Forest has smiled at me in The Float Boat over the years. Where her smile found me in a pile of squealing kids and made me feel like she knew I was there, regardless of whether we spoke to each other or not. I think about her finding me on the roof last night.

  I somehow know she won’t fail me.

  I turn the brochure over, and there on the back is Appendix D (what happened to A, B, and C, I wonder?).

  Here is what it says:

  Your Life as a Night Flyer Starts Today:

  Appendix D

  5 Full Privileges of a Night Flyer:

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

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

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

  You may attend all Night Flying ceremonies as a Member with Full Privileges (see Question #8, reverse).

  You must choose.

  Numbers one through four are reasonably clear, or I figure I can piece them together with the ten questions and help from Mrs. Forest. But number five throws me.

  You must choose.

  Choose what? I feel fairly certain that this is going to come up again, soon.

  I put the brochure back into the handbook for later and pick up the golden feather. It’s a really special thing, light to the touch, but you can tell it’s strong, too, strong as metal. It’s tough and beautiful. I’m looking at it up close when I hear someone come up behind me. I spin around.

  It’s Martin Evells. I stow the golden feather, slam the handbook shut, and stuff it into my backpack.

  “Hi, Gwen,” he says and smiles at me. It’s a great smile. It’s always been a favourite of mine. “What are you reading?” he asks politely.

  “Hi, Martin. Um, just an old book about night … flying … creatures,” I manage to spit out. I’m clearly not too quick on the uptake.

  I stand up and sling my backpack over my shoulder. My body literally leaps up and gets all trembly. My arms and legs start prickling like they are on fire. Uh-oh.

  “Um, we’re having an end-of-year party tonight at my house,” he says. He says it really quickly, all running together, so I can hardly make out what he’s saying.

  “My mom is setting up a food table and we’re playing music. I hope you can come.” He says this like it would be really nice if I showed up.

  My finger starts to float, just a little. I snap my hand shut. My foot starts to lift off the floor, just a tiny bit. I slam it down, hard. I remember what Mrs. Forest said to me last night, “Just tell your body what to do, Gwen. It’ll listen, it has to.”

  I tell my body, Just quit it. No one wants to see you flying around the library ceiling like a bat or a World War II fighting airplane. Just get a grip.

  I say to Martin, “That sounds really nice, Martin. Can I bring a friend?”

  He says sure, please do. He tells me where he lives (like I don’t remember from all those play dates we had when we were little), and says he’ll see me later.

  I nod. I tell him I’ll see him later, too.

  Apparently I’m going to a party at Martin Evells’ house tonight. And I’m a Night Flyer. And Mrs. Emmeline Beatrice Forest, my Mentor, is out of town. Mr. McGovern Everett McGillies the Third, my Watcher, is probably around somewhere, but he’s not exactly the most reliable person in the world.

  Still, I should probably be grateful for whatever help I can get.

  I’m not entirely sure how this is going to work out. I seem to have more control of myself in the daytime, which is a huge relief
and I’m not complaining about that.

  But what about at night? Last night wasn’t exactly a great start to this whole Night Flying thing.

  I know two things for sure, though.

  One: I am not going to miss out on Martin’s party.

  Two: I really am not sure what’s going to happen tonight, or if I am ready to fly solo, if it comes to that.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I walk home in the golden late afternoon. I’m just skimming along, although my feet are very firmly planted on the ground with every step. I have this floaty feeling, but it has nothing to do with my body.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I need Jez. But I forgot: she’s at a family barbecue.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It takes a while for me to get ready. I try on too many pairs of pants and leggings with the new green shirt. I try on so many that I actually work up a sweat, but I finally decide that I should wear the newish black leggings I got at Christmas. I put on some deodorant (which is the newest thing I own) and pull on the green shirt.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Parties aren’t what I expected.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I will wish I left five minutes earlier than I did. Because what happens next is a little disturbing. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, though. So here it is:

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I fly home.

  I think, Why not, no one’s around. It’s getting late. Mom’s going to worry.

  There are some handy things about being a Night Flyer, there’s no denying it.

  I land on the front lawn and crash into the bushes. The door opens immediately and my mom looks out at me. I spit dirt and bushes out of my mouth.

  “You’re twenty minutes late!” she says.

  “Sorry, Mom, I know. I got caught up with Martin,” I say, trying not to look her in the eye.

  “If you’re going to be late again, call me. I was worried silly.” She really does look worried.

  “You could get me a cellphone,” I say helpfully. I’ve been asking for one for ages, but there’s no money for something like that. My mom doesn’t bite and just stands at the door looking at me.

  “Your shirt is missing a button,” is what she finally says.

  “Yeah, it has cola on it too. Sparrow Andrews did his sparrow dance in the dirt and then got all excited and spilled my drink on me.” My mom looks a little like she wants to laugh, but she doesn’t.

  “Okay, go in and get changed. I think I can fix it. There’s another button inside the seam. Oh, Jez called. She said to call her when you got in.”

  I breeze into the house past my mom and run up to my room. I tiptoe past the Chrissies’ bedroom (they are fast asleep), but peek in. They’re kind of cute when they’re sleeping. Cassie is curled up on their floor, snoring. Their lives haven’t been interrupted by blazing hormones or flying jags or crazed teenagers trying to kiss them. For a moment I have a yearning, strong as anything: it would be nice to be seven years old again, it really would.

  My room is quiet and dark, which is good because I need some time to think.

  A boy was once my best friend, when we were six. We played together all the time. Then we stopped. I still really like him and I’ve known him forever. He is also a giant jerk and made me really mad. When I got mad, I lost control and flew. When I flew, I yelled in his face.

  It sure taught him a lesson. But it’s clearly not ideal. I would like to have a little more self-control.

  I get into my pyjamas, reach under my bed, and lift the brochure from the handbook. I look down the list of questions:

  #4: How do I control my flying?

  As noted in Question #2 (What is a Night Flyer?), 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 your Mentor, most Flyers gain increasing control of their flight patterns within a few days or weeks of their First Flight.

  Despite reminding me a little too much of an uncomfortable sex education class we had to take in grade seven, this answer is pretty straightforward, but not entirely reassuring.

  I wonder what happens to Night Flyers who have a terrible temper, like mine? The brochure says, “most Flyers gain increasing control.”

  Does that mean me?

  I’m reading the next entry, #2: What is a Night Flyer, which tells me pretty much what I was expecting: 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 …

  … when the phone rings. It’s Jez. Her voice is all low and breathy, like her mom is asleep and she doesn’t want her to hear.

  “So,” she breathes. “How was it? How was Martin’s party?” She’s never mad at me, not even for not calling her when I say I will. This is one of the main reasons that she’s always going to be my best friend.

  I put the brochure and handbook away under my bed in case my mom walks in, then I tell her everything. About how pretty the backyard looked, and who was there. She wouldn’t let me get off easy on that either. I had to recite the names of every single person I could remember, and my memory isn’t that good.

  Finally, though, I get to the end and then I tell her about what happened with Martin in the playhouse, and the part after.

  Her voice gets that worried edge to it. “You flew in front of him?”

  “Yeah, so what?” I say. Is there something I’m missing?

  “Well, Gwen, what if he tells someone?”

  Oh, no. That just didn’t occur to me. What if stupid Martin-lemony-Evells decides to open his big yap and tell the whole world about me?

  My secret would be out.

  “Uh-oh. I didn’t think about that. What am I going to do?” I start to sweat.

  I get up and open my bedroom window, where a little breeze is making the trees outside dance around. Funny how that doesn’t intrigue me at all tonight, when last night it was about the only thing my body cared for in the whole world.

  “Wait, let me think,” she says. I swear I can hear her thinking. It’s a giant, raspy, grinding sound.

  Okay, that’s mean. Jez is plenty smart. I let her noisy-thinking brain work for a minute, but my own brain is working out something faster.

  I say, “You know, no one is going to believe him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, even if he tells someone that I yelled at him while I was flying around above his head, who would believe him?”

  I can hear her nodding. “Maybe …” she says.

  “No, really, Jez. Think about it. It’s not the movies. I’m not a superhero or something, I’m just … me. And besides, I can tell you he was really scared.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Gwen. But I don’t know.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

  But I am. I know I’m right. Stupid Martin isn’t going to tell anyone. He’s a scared baby who runs for cover when you yell at him. I bet even if you aren’t yelling at him in the air above his head.

  Although that might have given me the edge, just a little.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I hang up with Jez, then toss and turn a bit.

  When I finally fall asleep, I sleep like crazy. I just sleep and sleep and sleep. I don’t remember any dreams, though. I think that maybe my waking life is becoming so interesting that I don’t need to dream things up anymore.

  I sleep in until noon. The house is quiet when I wake up, so Mom must have taken the Chrissies to the park or something. I drag myself around my room, banging into things until I wake up eno
ugh to realize I’m not actually touching the ground.

  So I think really hard about touching down onto my carpeted floor, and my body slowly obeys me, but not willingly or anything. It feels a little like a Battle of Wills, the kind that Mom sometimes has when she wants the Chrissies to do something they aren’t so keen on.

  What am I going to do today? I’m going to take a few minutes to finish reading the brochure. I’m also going to go over to The Float Boat as soon as decently possible, to see if Mrs. Forest is back yet.

  But first, I should eat. Yes, definitely, I’ll start with that.

  I throw some frozen waffles into the toaster and pull some blueberry jam out of the fridge. Something’s gnawing at me, though.

  What if Jez is right? What if Martin does tell people what happened last night?

  My flying is private. It’s my secret, and I want to keep it that way.

  What will I be willing to do to protect it? This question worries me all morning and keeps me from getting much done.

  I can’t barge in on Mrs. Forest yet, since it’s Sunday. So I go and sit on my bed for a while and read the rest of the brochure. The most important entries as far as I see them are frustratingly short and unhelpful:

  #3: Is Night Flying Dangerous?

  Generally, no. Ask your Mentor for further instruction.

  #9: Can I lead a normal life?

  Generally, yes. Ask your Mentor for further instruction.

  And my favourite:

  #10: How many Night Flyers are there?

  The Night Flyer population rises and falls, each day.

  For a moment, I curse my Less-than-Willing status. I just know that the More-than-Willing get a lot more information than this in the full edition of the handbook. And the word “generally” can allow for pretty wild exceptions, at least in my experience with the word.