The Scarlet Letterman (19 page)

After a second or two, Samir tentatively opens one eye and then the other. Seeing the heap of Lady MacBeth at his feet, he cries, “Yeah,
that’s
what I’m talking about! Watch who you’re messing with.”

Hana and I look at each other, but decide to say nothing. If Samir wants to think he vanquished Lady Macbeth, that’s fine by me. Samir kicks Lady Macbeth’s broken pieces, but then winces with pain. “Ow,” he cries, holding his foot.

“Heathcliff! Your hands,” I cry, looking at his bleeding knuckles. He must’ve gotten cut from the stained glass figures. I take his right hand in mine and bind it with my Bard necktie. Heathcliff winces a little, but then gives me a grateful look.

“I hate to break this Hallmark moment, but look what I found,” Hana says, picking up a couple of old book pages. The text at the bottom of each page tells us they’re the missing pages from
To the Lighthouse
and
For Whom the Bell Tolls.

I hand Hana the books from the passageway. I watch as she replaces the missing pages with the ones Blake left behind.

“Step back everybody,” Hana says. “Here comes backup.”

The pages fuse back together on their own, and as soon as the books are complete, Ms. W and Coach H emerge, whole, from both of them.

“That’s about time,” Ms. W says, giving me a smile.

“What took you so long?” Coach H growls, snatching the books from my hands. “Do you have any idea how
cramped
it is in there?”

“And by the way, you’re welcome,” Samir says.

“Wait a blasted minute,” Coach H says, taking in Heathcliff for the first time. “Just what is
he
doing here?”

“He’s on our side,” I say.

“Is this true?” Ms. W asks Hana and Samir. They both nod.

“A temporary truce then,” Ms. W says, eyeing Heathcliff warily.

“Emphasis on the temporary,” Coach H adds.

“So do we have any idea how to catch this guy?” Samir asks.

“I think I may have an idea,” Ms. W says.

We all lean forward to listen.

Ms. W believes that Blake thinks he’s on a mission from God. That he’s taken the form of a tiger is significant, because the tiger to Blake represents the proof of God’s power. The poem itself discusses how the creator of the tiger has to be more fierce and powerful than the creature itself. He’s found a way, Ms. W says, of bringing to life characters in his mind
without
the help of the books from the vault. And based on what we found in his room and in the secret passageway, she thinks he plans on trying to conjure angels and other characters he believes will bring about the Apocalypse.

“There we go, end of the world again,” Samir says. “How come it’s always the end of the world as we know it? Why doesn’t anyone want world domination? What kind of bad guys
are
these?”

“Blake doesn’t think he’s bad,” Hana says. “He thinks he’s doing the right thing.”

“But where is he hiding?” Coach H asks.

“He would want to be on what he thinks is holy ground,” Hana says. “To do what he thinks he has to do.”

“The old church,” Ms. W whispers.

“Old church?”

“Before the chapel was built, Bard Academy had an old church. It’s where the boathouse is now. You can still see its foundation, next to where the boathouse was built.”

“My dream!” I exclaim. “So that explains why I was dreaming about a church all this time.”

“It burned down in 1847, when much of the campus burned in the great fire,” Coach H says.

“Hey, that was the same year that
Wuthering Heights
was published. That’s when Heathcliff came into being,” Hana says. Heathcliff scowls at her and Hana hastily adds, “Not, of course, that you had anything to do with the fire.”

“That we know of,” Ms. W adds.

“Frankenstein was responsible, or so legend has it,” Coach H adds.

“So Blake would’ve know about the church, because he was here
before
1847,” Hana says.

“That’s right,” Ms. W says, nodding.

“What are we waiting for?” I ask.

“Wait, we’re going to go into the woods
now
?” Samir asks. “Do I need to remind you people that it’s dark out.
And
there’s a tiger on the loose?”

“Don’t be such a sissy,” Hana says, poking Samir in the ribs.

“Maybe Samir’s right,” Ms. W says. “Maybe it isn’t right for you children to come along.”

“Hey,” I say, “we rescued
you,
remember? You can’t let us sit this one out.”

Reluctantly, Ms. W and Coach H agree.

Twenty-eight

We make it down
the path to the boathouse, which is nearly dark, except for the subtle glow surrounding Ms. W and Coach H. As ghosts, apparently, they can glow when they feel like it, which is one of the many odd side effects of being dead.

“Have you guys ever thought of going to a rave? You guys are like walking glow sticks,” Samir says.

“Raves? Who goes to raves anymore?” I ask Samir.

“I’m just saying, these guys would be popular on the DJ circuit,” Samir says.

“As if you even
know
what a DJ circuit is,” Hana scoffs.

“What’s a DJ?” Coach H asks us, looking puzzled. Naturally, one of the downsides of being dead is that you’re not exactly up to speed on current events. It’s like being lame and clueless for eternity.

“
Shhhhhh
,” Ms. Woolf warns as we get closer to the boathouse. The boathouse is dark, but as Ms. Woolf steps forward, the glow surrounding her sheds light on the horseshoe-shaped tree and the giant boulder, and in between them, what’s left of the foundation of the old chapel.

Behind us, on the path, comes the distinctive low growl of the tiger.

“Um, guys, I hate to be a stickler for detail, but did we decide just how we’re going to
stop
that tiger?” Samir asks.

“Not exactly,” Hana says.

“That’s what I thought,” Samir sighs.

“Look for a drawing of a tiger,” Ms. W says. “That’s where Blake gets his power.”

“You mean, like this one?” Heathcliff says, whipping out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. It’s one of Blake’s drawings of a tiger. He must have swiped it from the church.

“You are a genius,” I say, so relieved that I reach up and give him a kiss on the cheek. Temporarily taken aback, Heathcliff flushes slightly. I doubt there is anything cuter than a bad boy who blushes. “I told you he was on
our
side,” I tell Ms. W and Coach H, who don’t quite seem convinced yet.

“So that’s why you found pieces of a tiger drawing around campus,” Hana says. “It must be Blake’s way of turning himself back into a human again.”

“But does he rip them up himself? And where does he carry them? In his tiger purse?” Samir asks.

“Technicalities,” Hana says, waving her hand.

Another growl comes from the forest and I can tell the tiger is coming closer. I glance at the woods. I still can’t see him, though.

“Not to be a downer, but we don’t actually know if this works, do we?” Samir asks us, his eyes flitting back and forth between us and Ms. W and Coach H.

“No, but do you have any better ideas?” I ask him.

Suddenly I see a flash of orange and black in the woods to the left.

“He’s there,” I hiss, pointing.

“No, he’s over there,” Hana shouts, pointing in the other direction. We walk a little closer to the river. The glow from Ms. W casts a shadow on the water.

“Um, don’t mind me, but I’m just going to go stand by the river. Cats don’t like water, right?” Once he gets to the banks of the river, however, Samir stops short. “Um, guys,” Samir says, in an unsure voice, “something’s not right here.”

That’s when I notice that there’s a red tint to the water.

“Blood,” Hana hisses. “Blake has turned the river to blood. Just like in the Bible.”

“He
what
?” Samir shouts, leaping away from the river’s edge.

Before we can ponder this new development, a bright light appears above our heads. It’s an angel. A real one. Unlike Blake’s imaginary friend, this one we can see. He has great white wings and is wearing a white tunic and gold braided belt.

The angel doesn’t speak, but it opens up an old scroll, and right before our eyes there’s a bright ripple of light and the river starts to boil.

“That can’t be good,” I say.

Ms. W and Coach H seem to glow a bit brighter, shining their light on the bubbling river, and that’s when I see a horse head rear up from the bloody water.

“Okay, I am so running away now,” Samir says.

“Not so fast,” Hana counters, grabbing Samir’s arm.

As we watch, the horse becomes whole, and on its back there’s a rider with a long cloak and a scythe that looks very much like Death. Death is followed by three more horses, each one looking like something straight out of a Tim Burton movie. One is just a skeleton holding bundles of what look like dried, shriveled cornstalks. One is all sickly and ill. And the last, most gruesome one is some kind of bloodied warrior, who is carrying the severed heads of some unfortunate souls.

“The four horsemen of the Apocalypse,” Heathcliff says. “War, famine, pestilence, and death.” We all look at him, shocked. “I
have
been to church,” he adds. “Believe it or not.”

Heathcliff is full of surprises. The boy barely speaks, and when he does, he elaborates on Bible verse.

“We can’t let them come ashore,” Coach H says. “They’ll destroy the island, or more…”

“And just how are we supposed to stop them?” Samir asks.

But Ms. W and Coach H spring to action. They levitate in the air, spinning in and near the horsemen. They swoop down on them like giant birds, attacking them from all sides. It’s only a temporary solution, though. They won’t be able to hold them off forever.

“I don’t suppose there’s a magical Bible in the vault?” I ask Hana.

“Drawings,” Hana says. “Blake has to have them somewhere. These are his creations.”

“Arrrrggggggggh,” shouts Samir, as the Pestilence horseman leans over and touches his sleeve. After just this one touch, Samir falls to the ground as if shot, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. Red dots appear on his face. It’s like instant plague.

“The boathouse!” I say, remembering that Blake kept drawings there. “We have to get Blake’s drawings.”

“You both go, I’ll stay with Samir,” Hana says, taking off her Bard blazer and folding it up as a pillow that she puts under his head.

Inside the boathouse seems deserted. It’s dark, except for the light spilling in from the angel outside, sending odd shadows along the floor. It’s like trying to find your way by the light of a fireworks show. Heathcliff looks around and seems to almost sniff the air, as if trying to track Blake by scent. Whatever he smells or doesn’t smell, he seems to be satisfied. Together we climb the stairs, and at the top of the landing, Heathcliff turns to me and puts his finger to his lips to tell me to be quiet. Then he silently turns the knob of the office door. The door swings open with a slight creaking sound, and inside I’m surprised to see Blake’s tiger sitting there, quietly, facing the door as if it were waiting for us. Its paw rests protectively on top of a stack of drawings.

“Blake,” Heathcliff says. “Stop what you’re doing. Now.”

The tiger, however, just stares blankly at Heathcliff. It stretches its other paw out, lengthening its back and showing us its full dimensions. It’s about the size of a couch.

“I warned you,” Heathcliff says, whipping out the tiger drawing.

The tiger sits up and sniffs the air. Then it growls. Blake doesn’t like the fact that Heathcliff has one of its drawings, that’s for sure. Heathcliff begins to rip up the drawing, and that’s when the tiger yelps, and then bright white cracks start to appear in its fur. The tiger is literally breaking apart.

“It’s working,” I cry, amazed.

Before it fades completely, the tiger kicks up the stack of drawings, sending some of them in our direction, but a few more, including some of the horsemen, fly out the open window and down to the dirt ground below. Drawings of tigers flitter to our feet. Before I can pick the pages up, another tiger leaps in through the window. It’s followed by a second and a third. What the…? There’s more than one? So which one is Blake?

“Get out of here,” Heathcliff hisses at me as he scoops to pick up some of the tiger drawings.

“But —”

“Go get the horsemen drawings,” he tells me. “Save Samir.” It’s a command, not a request.

Reluctantly I leave Heathcliff, flying down the stairs and running outside. I see that Coach H and Ms. W are still trying to contain the horsemen, without much luck. In fact, there are only three of them. One is missing.

Hana and Samir are hiding behind a nearby boulder. Samir is getting worse by the second. The pink spots on his face have turned into red welts, and even in the dim light I can tell he’s in a great deal of pain.

I run over to the place where the drawings fell. I drop to my knees to pick them up, and as I grab three of them and reach for a fourth, the paper is suddenly pinned to the ground by a horse’s hoof. That’s when I glance up and see myself staring at the Death horseman, complete with black hood and scythe. I’m temporarily paralyzed, and all I can do is watch, helplessly, as he leans over and touches my shoulder with one bony finger.

Twenty-nine

I squeeze my eyes
shut and prepare for the worst. This is it — the end. I saw what happened to Samir. One touch from Pestilence and he came down with the plague. I’m sure Death is even more efficient.

Am I going to see my life flash before my eyes? Or will I see a big bright light? Or — heaven forbid — am I going to find myself stuck at Bard — as a ghost student — for all eternity? I’m really hoping that God has other plans for me. If I have to be stuck in purgatory, please make it on some tropical island somewhere. Maybe something like
Lost,
only without the “others” and with more cute young guys. Like Ryan. Or Heathcliff.

And that’s when I realize that a good ten seconds have gone by and I’m not dead. I open my eyes and glance up. Yes, Death is standing above me. Yes, he touched me. But I’m unaffected. I
didn’t
die. I don’t even feel sick.