Free The Keeper of Dawn by J.B. Hickman Page B

hills, even the spindly road curving along its
meandering course. A sea of darkened glass surrounded it all, bulging and
swaying to the rhythm of the tide, its sound lost beneath the wind. The
moonlight instilled a timeless quality to the landscape. This view would never
change. It was the island my parents had seen a generation before.
    The school, however, looked insignificant, its walls a
ghostly white, like it might vanish at any moment. Even the clock tower looked
smaller, crouching in its corner across the courtyard.
    “Hey, guys!” Roland called out. He was bent over the floor. “This
is it! Quick, pass me the light.”
    “It’s … something,” I said, examining the dark smudge on the
floor.
    “It’s got to be,” said Roland.
    “Think what you want,” Derek said. “But I’m not buying that
this is some pirate’s bloodstain.”
    Roland suddenly swung the flashlight in front of him. “Prepare
to meet your maker at the hands of Pirate Raker. Hiyah!”
    “En garde,” Derek called out, pulling out another
flashlight.
    “Where’d you get that?” Chris asked.
    “I always come armed for a fight.”
    He and Roland swung their lights at one another as if
wielding light sabers. Derek looked moderately amused, but Roland really got
into it, making exaggerated sound effects as their imaginary weapons clashed.
    “Arrr, I’ve killed sharks with me bare hands before,” he
boasted. “The likes of you ‘ll be no problem a’ tall.”
    “Die, you one-eyed bastard!” Derek said, putting Roland in a
headlock. After letting him squirm for a moment, he slashed the flashlight
across Roland’s throat.
    “Ahhhh! It appears you’ve got me after all,” Roland uttered
in a pained voice, stumbling out of Derek’s hold and clutching his throat. “That
be fine, for I fear not death. With me dying breath, I curse ye. I curse ye
all! Me one eye shall shine forth again, and when it does, any man who looks upon
it shall be incapable of … ever getting it up again. Ahhhh!”
    Roland dropped to the floor and writhed in convulsion.
    “A most impressive performance, Sir Roland the Third,” Chris
said, applauding. He had a fresh cigarette in his mouth and cupped his hands to
light it.
    Roland rose to his feet and made an exaggerated bow. “I have
Mrs. Letterbee to thank. The biggest prude I’ve ever met, but a talented drama
teacher. Here, it’s your turn,” he said, tossing Chris the flashlight.
    “You have your fun, I’ll have mine,” Chris said, the tip of
his cigarette glowing.
    “Is the governor’s son too good for us, then?” Roland said
in a snooty English accent. “Does he wish to merely be entertained? Very well,
then. Perhaps Sir Hawthorne is not afraid to wield the blade.”
    “He can have mine,” Derek said, handing me the flashlight
and joining Chris at the guardrail, like he had just been caught playing a game
he was too old for.
    But any reservations I might have had were forgotten when
Roland said, “Hold on tight, butterfingers. I wouldn’t want you to drop two in
one night.”
    We charged one another, unsure who was playing the role of
Pirate Raker. I crouched low, ducking beneath his blade, and then sprung at him
with the flashlight leading the way. It wasn’t long before our swordfight
turned into a wrestling match. I tried to put Roland in a headlock, but he saw
it coming and slipped away. We both ended up on the floor, intent on dying the
infamous death of Pirate Raker when Chris pulled us apart.
    “Hold up. I hear something.”
    “Not now,” Roland said. “I’m going for the kill.”
    “No, seriously. Shut up.”
    “Probably just the waves,” Derek said.
    “Wait, I hear it too,” Roland said, getting up. “It’s a
helicopter.”
    “You sure?” Derek asked as we congregated at the guardrail.
    “I’d know that sound anywhere,” Roland replied.
    “There!” Chris said, pointing to a light hovering over the
Atlantic.
    “Maybe they’re coming here,” Roland said.