Everton Miles Is Stranger Than Me Read online

  “They’ve never been apart before,” I add.

  What I don’t say: However, there’s the small fact that my brother just told me he was going to fight someone.

  Mrs. Abernathy is kind. She nods but somehow shakes her head at the same time, agreeing and disagreeing at once.

  “I know why you think that, but don’t you see? Christine and Christopher absolutely have to learn how to be apart. How are they going to grow up if they can’t be separated, even for a small part of the day?” She makes a lot sense. I hate it, but I can’t argue with her.

  She goes on, “The school board psychologist thinks the twins would benefit from play-based family therapy. There’s a new therapist in town who’s good with children and adolescents. His name is Adam Parks. Christine and Christopher can go together. It’s got amazing potential to help them sort out their identity issues.”

  My mother sighs and takes a sip of her tea.

  A small movement catches the corner of my eye, and I see my little sister’s pink running shoe zip back into the kitchen. Busted. Christine, you are never going to follow the rules.

  I love that about you.

  Thirteen

  After Mrs. Abernathy leaves, the rest of the evening is normal enough. C2 seem to be perfectly happy and content. They chatter away through dinner, they do their homework, they play with Cassie. Normal.

  Once I’m alone in my room, I think about last night. I see a black feather, Everton walking out of the corn, a flutter of white feathers.

  Gwendolyn.

  It’s time. I reach under the bed and pull out Your First Flight: A Night Flyer’s Handbook (The Complete & Unabridged Version, Newly Updated!). I fan through hundreds of pages. It looks so dull that I feel a little headachy. Fortunately, there are lots of drawings and photographs. I should search the index at the back for “dark winged creature, burning feather.”

  That would be wise. But I don’t. If I don’t know anything about it, then maybe it’s not really there. Instead, I flip through the chapters then stop near the beginning of Chapter One: History and Hysteria.

  The illustrations are horrifying. They’re all inky, darkness and light.

  The first drawing takes up a whole page and it’s titled, “Misfortunes of the Night Flying Monster, 1447.” It’s drawn by someone named “T. Bosch.” It’s a work of misery and fear, but I can’t look away.

  A young woman in chains walks along a dark stormy road in the summer. She’s wearing a long, old-fashioned skirt, a loose white shirt, and her hair blows around her. A group of angry, shouting men hold pitchforks at her back and prod her along.

  Misfortunes of the Night Flying Monster.

  I switch my desk light on and study the picture with my nose right up to the book. The men look like farmers, like men who know how to use a pitchfork. The woman, the Night Flyer, the monster, is young. Very young. My age, maybe. In fact, she looks a lot like me. The pitchforks jab at her, tearing her long skirt. She looks fearful, but T. Bosch catches something else on her face, too. She’s not crying. Hers is the only face looking right out at whoever looks at the picture. She stares right at me. Her chin is up, her head is back, her jaw is set.

  Determined. That’s the look. Like she’s saying, “Jab away all you want, I know who I am.” I read a little of the page:

  … from the fifteenth-century records of the first use of the term “Night Flyer.” There appears to have been spirited rejection of the medieval European Night Flyer population, and as Professor Gertrude L. Lisquith (N.F., Ph.D, Oxford), concludes in her lengthy and definitive 1963 study, The Dialectic Presented by the Earliest Records of Night Flying/Non-Witch Identified Populations in Medieval England, France, Germany and Belgium, (Oxford University Press, pp. 816–865), although Night Flyers most likely existed before 1437, we have virtually no written record of them. More study must be made of oral/pre-literary traditions and cultural references to Night Flying individuals or family populations in medieval Europe.

  I force myself to get to the end of this paragraph. It’s not easy. I think of my taped and torn three-page micro-edition brochure for the Less-Than-Willing-Reader in the box-book beneath my bed. Life was so simple just a few short months ago. But frankly, the picture of Misfortunes of the Night Flying Monster pretty much says it all. Pitchforks. A dark road. Angry men. A girl in chains. Monster. You don’t have to be Professor Gertrude L. Lisquith (N.F., Ph.D, Oxford) to get it.

  A few more flips through the pages, and there’s another T. Bosch ink drawing. This one stops me cold. It’s titled, The Monster Meets Her End, 1449.

  This time the same young woman is falling, falling through the sky. She’s whirling in a downward spiral, her head flung back, her mouth open in a scream and her arms above her head, her skirt and long hair blowing upward. Dark clouds form around her, and demons pop out from the clouds as she plummets past. The demons have pitchforks in their hands. What’s with all the farm implements? I look closer. There, at the top of the image, hidden among the swirls of the night sky, is a darker cloud. I gasp. I draw my nose right up to the picture and squint. I wish I had a magnifying glass.

  It’s a darker cloud, alright. And there are eyes in it. And teeth and fingernails. A toe plainly sticks out at one end of the cloud. There’s no doubt about it: T. Bosch has seen the Shade, the unspeakable darkness that chased me from the sky and almost killed me last spring. This image, this plummeting girl, was very nearly me. If not for Mr. McGillies fighting off the Shade with his bottles, I might have been the monster who met her end.

  But he saved me from the Shade.

  My heart starts to beat painfully in my chest, and that bad night with the Shade comes right back at me, the teeth, the fingernails, the toes, the voices all screaming and crying my name….

  … my door pops open, and I jump up and knock the chair over.

  “Good heavens, Gwendolyn, whatever you’re reading, put it away right now and go to bed. Goodnight!”

  “Goodnight, Mom,” I whisper, not looking up. My door closes. As soon as she’s gone, I flip to the index at the back of the book and look up “feathered man.” There’s an entry on page 787 near the end of the book in a chapter titled, “Enemies and Entities.”

  My hands tremble as I flip to the page, and there he is, the dark wings, the dark body, the smoky face and hair, the golden eyes, all the same. It’s another illustration by T. Bosch, and the feathered man is walking along the same road from the earlier illustrations, but no one is around this time. The caption reads, “Rogue Spirit Flyer Abilith, as described to T. Bosch, 1452.”

  The creature has a name. Abilith.

  I read on.

  Rogue Spirit Flyer (RSF): extremely rare, probably mythical or nonexistent. RSF are said to be immortal and are technically a fallen or defiled Spirit Flyer. The idea that the ‘Rogue will get you’ is a story Night Flying parents have told their children to keep them from wandering into danger and dates back to the earliest Night Flyer legends. Bellamy D. Clementine (Ph.D, Sometime Reader of Divinity, Cambridge) notes that the first written evidence of RSFs is in the Geronima Parchment, ca. 1445. The RSF is said to carry a shoulder of heavy black feathers and preys upon the weak and unsuspecting, in lonely, out of the way places. He is beguiling, clever, handsome of face and limb, well-spoken, and dangerous. He is alone, shunned, a miscreant and blackguard. Light and truth do not follow him; fire and malice do. He abandons the ways of humans and non-humans alike to live separate and apart in all things. For this reason, he will never enter a town or well-inhabited village or hamlet and will often shun even two people together. The few unsubstantiated stories that have existed through the centuries suggest that rather than live for all eternity alone, occasionally an RSF will choose a Night Flyer for a companion and beguile that person into believing him or herself a fellow RSF.

  The Legend of Abilith and Mirandel, ca. 1440: One very early (and again unsubstanti
ated) medieval legend tells of Mirandel, a young Night Flyer, who was stolen away by the Rogue Abilith. He was said to whisper her name, leave her gifts, and upon touching one, she vanished forever. His gifts included glass beads, cornstalk dolls, and burning feathers. For further reading, see also this book: Old Wives Tales, Fairy Tales, and Legends.

  I slam the book shut. I break into a sweat and my heart actually hurts, it pounds so hard against my ribcage.

  There’s a legendary Rogue Spirit Flyer in the cornfield outside Mr. McGillies’s cabin.

  He’s left me gifts, twice now. A doll with glass beads for eyes, a burning feather.

  I’ve seen him. And he’s calling my name.

  Fourteen

  It’s Friday morning. Your First Flight: A Night Flyer’s Handbook (The Complete & Unabridged Version, Newly Updated!) is hidden under my bed beneath a pile of laundry. I’m not looking at it again, maybe never. I’ve decided it’s more important than ever not to mention the fact that I may have seen a Rogue Spirit Flyer to anyone, not Everton, not Mrs. Forest, especially not Jez. It’s legendary and extremely rare, according to the handbook. And very unlikely that I actually saw it.

  Deny, deny, deny.

  Instead, for the rest of the first week of high school, I go to bed early and wake up every morning and go to class like any normal teenager. Simple, mindless activity is good.

  There’s nothing more mindless than pottery class. I sit on a bench beside Jez, who talked me into this. She said pottery class would be easy and fun. I needed one grade nine art credit, and now I’m about to stick my hands in a lump of swirling clay.

  The teacher, a middle-aged man with a grey ponytail who wants us to call him “Chas” (although his name is “Charles,” and what would be wrong with calling him “Mr. Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is?”), has been over-helpful with us.

  It’s been hard not to roll my eyes.

  As soon as we walk into the room, we have a “creation smock ceremony.” Clay-covered smocks hang on the wall, and we’re supposed to pick the one that “speaks” to us. The smocks certainly look old enough to talk. According to Chas, each smock holds the “creative energy” of previous grade nine pottery students struggling to create the perfect ashtray or mug.

  “Yes, Michael Cherry made a fantastic sculpted horse-head in that last year,” Chas says when Jez picks her smock and gingerly puts it on.

  I desperately try not to snort. I cannot look at Jez, whose eyes are wide with disbelief. When it’s my turn, I grab the cleanest smock I can find and slam it over my head. Chas smiles sweetly and whispers quietly, “Interesting choice, Gwendolyn. That smock belonged to Shelley Norman. A wonderful ashtray-maker, good with mugs, too. She was my best student last year. This is a good start for you.” Then Chas moves off to the next student.

  I want to tear the smock off over my head and stomp on it. I briefly wonder what Chas will say if I do? I already know that he would respect my “creative choice.” He would nod and hmm and whisper, saying that the smock did not speak to me, and he’d ask me to “experience” another smock.

  This is what I would have done, but the smocks are all chosen. So I’m stuck with it. I can smell Shelley on it, a little body odour mixed with nastiness. Later in the class, he comes and slaps a handwritten label onto our backs with our initials. Sure enough, he covers “S.N.” with my “G.G.,” and I’m forever adorned with the smock of mine enemy. And Everton’s girlfriend. Shelley Norman is now all around me, literally smothering me.

  I spin the pottery table with my right foot, about to form gross wet clay with my hands.

  “So how’s Everton?” Jez asks quietly. I frown. I dip my hands in the clay-covered margarine tub of water beside me and pick up the clay blob. I plop it into the centre of the spinning table like Chas taught us and start to form it. It’s slippery and cool and seriously looks like a pile of poop. I could tell Jez the truth, start at the beginning, mention the winged man, what I found in the Night Flyer’s Handbook about Rogue Spirit Flyers. Tell her that Everton walked out of the cornfield at the very moment that the Rogue’s black feather burned to ash.

  Or I could lie.

  “I have no idea. I haven’t seen him or his girlfriend all week.” I can’t for some reason say Shelley Norman’s name out loud. I suddenly have a vision of the smock coming to life if I breathe its former owner’s name. Shelley’s clay face would pop out of my chest and whisper something bizarre like, “The darkest clay forms solitary figures at midnight.”

  Weird thought, but the whole pottery thing is weirding me out.

  Jez isn’t really listening. She’s concentrating on her blob of clay. My own blob is now a lopsided mess. I change the subject.

  “So the twins are having identity and anger issues. The school is suggesting therapy.”

  “Oh! Well, my cousin went to therapy for all of grade three. It made him a lot nicer.” But she’s not really paying attention to our conversation, because she’s busy creating a masterpiece. There before her on the pottery wheel is a perfectly formed clay goblet. Yes, not only is my best friend good at high school, she’s also a natural at clay. I love her too much to be jealous.

  But it figures. It really does.

  Since I’m not telling her the truth about Everton, or about a legendary Rogue Spirit Flyer whispering my name at the edge of town, I can’t really complain too much.

  Fifteen

  It’s Saturday night, and everyone is asleep. Except me.

  All is silent and dark. I’m at my open window, fully dressed, the screen wide on its hinges. I look over our backyard, over the neighbour’s fence, into the lane that leads to Jez’s street, then off to the edge of the town.

  Every piece of me wants to fly out the window.

  But there’s the small issue of the Rogue Spirit Flyer.

  Clearly, I’m going to have to tell someone about this creature. But I really don’t want to. It’s so unlikely, and I probably imagined it. And honestly, who would believe me? Why would I get to see an extremely unlikely (and unsubstantiated) legend? It’s like seeing the Loch Ness monster or something.

  Maybe I should find out more information, go on a fact-finding mission. That girl in the legend, Mirandel, she disappeared when she touched something the Rogue named Abilith left for her. I’ll just be careful not to touch anything. The truth is, the thought of NOT flying out to Mr. McGillies’s cabin is torture. I’m dying to fly out into the beautiful night, and I’m angry that I have to be afraid.

  For a moment I can hear the Rogue’s whisper, the whisper I’ve been hearing in my head all week, like a silky, gentle rustling of corn and night creatures.

  Gwendolyn.

  Then a real voice says right in my ear, “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I almost jump out of my skin, another one of those sayings that is weirdly accurate. Everton hovers off the roof above me.

  “What can Gwendolyn Golden be thinking with such a dark look on her face?”

  “Everton! How long have you been there? What’s wrong with you? You can’t just lurk around people’s windows!” He flies down level to my window (although still out of reach I notice) and apologizes.

  “Sorry, Gwen, you’re right. But what were you thinking?”

  “I’m just, I’m … what do you want, Everton?” He grins like the Cheshire Cat.

  “Come on, Gwendolyn, don’t you want to show me your town?”

  “Why would I want to do that?” But a devious little part of me thinks, If Everton is with me, I’ll feel safer. He looks at me with dark blue eyes, and I give in. For my own reasons, of course, it has nothing to do with him being charming and persuasive.

  “Fine.” I slip out of the window and float past him. We’re going to the only place that holds any interest for me, with or without a legendary creature calling me. I want to find out more, that’s the truth. Plus, the tug to see Mr. McGillies’s cabin a
gain is overpowering.

  I get a little ahead of him then look over my shoulder. He pokes his head into my bedroom window.

  “Hey!” I shout. “Are you a voyeur or something? Get out of my room!” He laughs and flies toward me. My faces blazes a little as I try not to picture the socks and underwear all over my bedroom floor.

  We head out. I’m not as good at flying as he is, so I waver and dip, and when I do, he calmly flips onto his back like an expert swimmer treading water, waiting for the weaker swimmer to catch up. There’s nothing I can do about this, but it’s annoying. I point out buildings to him as we float along and he smiles and nods and says, “Interesting.”

  We pass the library, which slides below us, and I say like an idiot, “That’s the library.”

  “Interesting,” he says for the twelfth time. I float down to land on the roof of the library.

  “No, it’s not. Nothing about this town is interesting. Why do you keep saying that? I happen to live here. It’s really not that bad.”

  Everton touches down effortlessly beside me. The library roof has little pebbles stuck forever in roofing tar. It’s a pretty view down the main street, past all the stores. The Float Boat is just at the edge of my vision. I can see the top of the high school a few streets over.

  “You’re right, it’s a dull town.” Everton takes a seat on a chimney and leans back to look at the sky.

  The next words just pop out of my mouth.

  “So, you’re dating Shelley Norman. Nice.”

  Everton shrugs. “Not really dating per se. That’s kind of dramatic, don’t you think? But Shelley and I are a lot alike. You don’t like her?”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug. “She’s my mortal enemy, okay. She makes dolls that look like me and sticks pins in them. No, I don’t like her. And I’m pretty sure it’s mutual.”