Guardians Chapter Book #5 Read online

  And so it was with Nightlight and Katherine. This kiss brought about an unshakable belief in the wonder and goodness of each other. And this belief became amplified by Nightlight’s powers. In those 2.86001 seconds Pitch’s Nightmare spell on Katherine was shattered, and she awakened from her near-endless sleep, but in her heart she knew that something in both of them had been transformed. It would be a long time before they understood in full the extraordinary transformation, which was to come.

  But instead of bringing them together, the kiss and its after-effects pulled them apart. Nightlight would vanish for more than a hundred years. And while Katherine never stopped believing that she’d see him again, his absence took its toll on her. She missed him. She missed their bond. She missed the brightness of his company.

  Then, in the winter of 1890, she and the other Guardians began to hear tales of an untamed, white-haired youth who varied in age and made a mark on all who encountered him. His exploits quickly became legendary. He had taken on the identity of a dazzling young gentleman of great wit and zestful temperament named Jackson Overland Frost.

  It was Katherine who first suspected that Jack Frost was Nightlight transformed. An article in the London Times described this young Mr. Frost, who had taken London by storm:

  His handsomeness is pleasing in a way that crosses over into curiosity. He has a face that invites a second look. And then the urge to stare. His features seem to exist in some twilight between youth and adulthood. His skin has a slight iridescence, like a perfect layer of new-fallen snow in moonlight. His complexion is pale, but there is always a flush of red in his cheeks, setting off the icy blue of his eyes. His shock of white hair is like a crown of mischief, a sort of proclamation of roguish royalty. Even at his most thoughtful, there is about him an air of cheerful possibilities, of pranks or fun about to be had—and in abundance. Reports of his age seem to vary. Some guess him to be in his early teens, while others are adamant that he is at least several seasons past twenty.

  Upon reading this, Katherine knew in her bones that this Jack Frost must be Nightlight. The last time she had seen her friend, he radiated the same qualities and features, but it was the lack of certainty about his age that also stood out to her.

  In the years after Nightlight had disappeared, Katherine aged as any young girl would, until she turned sixteen. Then something extraordinary happened. Whenever her thoughts dwelled on Nightlight, she would instantly become younger, usually around twelve years old, the precise age she had been when Nightlight had kissed her. She could remember everything that had happened to her since the kiss, but she was not only physically younger, she could also remember exactly what it felt like to be younger. The feelings and thoughts one has at twelve are different than at any other time of life. So in a strange way she could go back in time and remember and actually become her childhood self.

  For years she kept this new ability a secret from the other Guardians. It, after all, happened only when she thought of Nightlight. It kept him vivid in her mind. There were many times when he seemed to be as close as a sigh, and this became a great comfort. His absence was a wound she kept to herself, so this tender marvel of remembrance felt very personal and private.

  But in time it became obvious to her and the other Guardians that the kiss had changed her in other ways. By the time she was in her twenties, her aging slowed and then stopped completely.

  After rigorous examination and much discussion the Guardians came to the conclusion that Katherine had changed from a mortal Earth child to a Golden Age woman who might very well live forever.

  “Seldom has a kiss brought about such amazements,” North had told her. “The history of the cosmos may likely be changed.”

  Katherine didn’t know if that was true, but she did wonder what the kiss might have done to Nightlight. And when she heard these stories of Jack Frost, she felt sure that she at last had an answer. But it was as elusive as Jack Frost.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  By the 1890s the Guardians had organized an army of allies and observers that kept a helpful eye on children all over the world. North and Bunnymund spoke the languages of almost every creature on Earth, which made the gathering of information very thorough. Birds, mice, dogs, cats, squirrels, insects, and fish were privy to virtually every occurrence indoors and out, and so when Jack Frost appeared near the end of the century, his movements and secrets were communicated to the Guardians almost immediately.

  The Guardians decided that this Jack Frost needed further observation. The reports on him were tantalizing.

  He hardly sleeps! Sandy noted.

  “He’s at ballets, operas, art exhibits, and parties, seemingly all at the same time!” Bunnymund added.

  North raised his formidable eyebrows and said, “And what a jolly group of friends he has—magicians and jugglers, acrobats and clowns!”

  “As well as novelists, poets, composers, artists, actors, playwrights, and even some politicians,” Toothiana added. “He seems to have enchanted them all!”

  Bunnymund twitched one ear and lowered his voice. “It’s said that this Frost fellow has inspired stories and characters as varied as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Dorian Gray, and even Peter Pan!”

  They call him “Wild Jack”! Sandy reported.

  “Royalty seeks him out,” Toothiana mused. “He’s broken many hearts, and he seems to do the impossible daily: gallivanting in Moscow with Rasputin on a Friday evening and then attending the races at Ascot in England the following morning and not only riding the winning horse in the Gold Cup, but then presenting Queen Victoria the cup and giving her a lock of his cold white hair!”

  North said in wonder, “Women adore him and men want to be like him.”

  And most important, the Guardians observed, was that children loved him.

  No matter what glamorous bacchanal he was involved in, Jack always took the time to help any child who needed aid. If a child was hungry, cold, or without shelter, Jack made sure they were safe and comfortable. Tea at Buckingham Palace could wait, as could the queen. If Jack sensed a street child’s sorrow, the queen would be left wondering where her luminous guest had gone. For beyond Jack’s thirst for the whirl of experiencing life, there was a deep, unbending duty, or need, to take away the loneliness, the uncertainties, the fears of childhood and replace them with solace and comfort.

  Jack did this quite simply.

  He was kind and he listened.

  He never, however, let a new friendship last for very long. His company was like that of a shooting star, a bright and wondrous flash, and then he would vanish. He wouldn’t cut off a friend completely, but he would become aloof. Seldom seen. A pleasant phantom.

  And of equal interest, it was found that he could also become invisible when he wished. He could fly great distances by a force that could not be seen. He was able to walk on clouds, and on the rare occasions when he did sleep, it was always during a full moon and on a drifting cloud. He had a staff that apparently wielded an assortment of extraordinary powers. Most important, he could, in fact, change his age at will, but never younger than eleven or older than eighteen.

  Yes, thought Katherine at the time. This must be my Nightlight. The kiss has given him the same ability as mine. But why has he not shown himself to us?

  It had been this question that had made the old wound of Nightlight’s absence ache as if new. In her daydreams he had seemed so close and yet so far away. In reality, her plight was the same.

  Then one extraordinary night in London their past caught up with their present.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Where There’s a Will, There’s a Whisper

  AS THEY NEARED THE Isle of Ganderly, where Katherine lived, she realized that Jack had fallen asleep against Kailash’s feathers. He seemed so desperately to need rest. His brow was furrowed, making him seem older than he was. The many burdens of his long life weighed on him, she could tell.

  As Kailash’s powerful wings stilled into a glide, Katherine wished Jack was
peaceful. But she knew he hadn’t been, for a long, long time. As she watched him now, she thought back to the report of his last night in London. She had not read it in years, but when it had first come in, she had gone over it countless times, desperate for any news of her dearest friend. And now she could remember every detail.

  Several mice, six doves, one finch, and a red squirrel had observed the events of that evening. They reported as follows:

  It was a piercingly cold winter night. Jack was leaving the Athenaeum Club. He belongs to many clubs. Private clubs are a vital function of the social life of young and old men in this whirligig era. These clubs are elegant and brimming with friendships, rivalries, and the excitable friction of men with ambition and ideas. It is at the Athenaeum that Jack has made some of his most interesting friendships.

  On the night of this report, Frost was seen walking out of the festive warmth of the club with three companions. They were bundled against the cold, laughing and chatting as they trekked their way down the snow-covered steps to the street. As is his habit, Jack hung back a few paces. He enjoys observing the easy joviality of his friends at the end of an evening of fun. The most affable of the three is young Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill, whose booming laugh and manner reminds Jack of his old friend Nicholas St. North. Churchill had been a devilish child, full of mischief, and had been kicked out of most of the finest schools in Europe. On this evening he is smoking a huge cigar and is at this point singing the song of one of the schools he had attended.

  “Sandhurst was a great school with a wretched song!” he shouted out, interrupting himself midchorus. The other two friends, Joseph Rudyard Kipling and James Matthew Barrie, are both writers of some renown, though tonight they were singing the song of a school they had never attended and were doing so with considerable volume and enthusiasm.

  “It would jolly well help if we knew the words,” said Kipling, laughing, but this ignorance did not seem to hamper his and Barrie’s happy attempt.

  Jack grinned. He liked his friends best when they behaved less like adults and more like children.

  But as the group reached the sidewalk, they passed a huddle of street children who stood shivering in the evening air.

  “Please, sirs, a penny for the hungry,” said one child with a practiced, hopeful desperation.

  Jack’s friends did not even glance the children’s way. These children were cold and close to starving. Jack saw the ragged clothes. The thin, lanky legs and skinned elbows. Again Jack stayed back, watching as his friends continued down the street.

  The children stood quiet and shivering. They watched the happy threesome stagger and wail down the street.

  Jack appeared angry with his friends. He knew they may have had childhoods of comfort, but each had experienced great turbulence and heartbreak in their youths. They should not, could not, would not ignore the wretched children they had just passed. They must be made to listen.

  So Jack made himself invisible. It is a power he uses subtly. If a party is dull, he will simply disappear. Or if he wants to secretly influence the outcome of an event, being unseen makes his efforts much easier.

  At this point in the proceedings he discreetly launched three expertly constructed snowballs at his friends.

  Each hit its mark.

  All three men’s hats were knocked to the snowy ground. The three then spun around and stared at the children. The children stared back.

  Apparently, a war had silently been declared.

  “This aggression must not go unanswered,” muttered Churchill as he, Kipling, and Barrie crouched down and began busily packing snowballs.

  Though invisible, we surmise that Jack was delighted. He whispered to various children, “Better get busy. They’re bigger than you.” They instantly fell to their knees and began to pack snowballs themselves.

  Churchill and Kipling both have military histories and have seen battle, so they knew the necessity of a steady supply of ammunition. Barrie, as records show, is the worst shot of the three, so he continued making snowballs while his cohorts took up positions behind a lamppost and a mailbox.

  “Wait for my command,” said Churchill, puffing his cigar.

  The children were seasoned snowball makers, and they had amassed an impressive hoard of ammo. They were ready to attack, but they seemed uncertain. Again Jack intervened. “Concentrate on the one with the cigar.”

  The children were so focused on their enemy that they hadn’t even noticed that Jack was nowhere to be seen. They heard his suggestion, and without questioning it, they acted.

  And charged! Their battle cry was high, shrill, and impressive. Eight little voices sounded like an army.

  “My word,” said Kipling, astonished.

  “Steady!” commanded Churchill.

  Barrie stopped his constructions and readied for the attack, a snowball in each hand and several in each pocket.

  In an instant the children were upon them. The air was thick with snowballs and shouting and cheers.

  “Fire!” yelled Churchill, but his command was muffled by five or six direct hits on his head and shoulders. He fell backward and lay on the street as helpless as an overturned turtle. Four children stood over him and pounded him with snowballs.

  “My cigar!” he yelped. And indeed his cigar had been knocked from his mouth, landing somewhere inside his coat.

  Kipling and Barrie tried to lend aid, but both were hit with such accuracy that their eyeglasses were caked with thick clumps of snow and neither could see a thing.

  The three men were being overwhelmed, routed, in fact. But suddenly, the tide of the battle changed. Twenty or so members of the Athenaeum Club had seen the skirmish from the windows and were rushing out to lend a hand.

  Jack had reappeared and raised his staff, and within an instant, he brought about a blinding gale of snow to slow the Athenaeum men.

  A smallish boy who looked particularly ragged raised two fingers to his mouth and let out a high, sharp whistle that could be heard for blocks. The boy had not finished his first note when children began to appear from seemingly every direction and swarm toward the fray.

  And so this snowball battle became epic. Adults against children. Jack watched with astonishment. What had he triggered?

  Old men — older than eighty — who minutes before could barely hobble with canes across a plush dining room carpet, were now rippling over snow-covered cobblestones with the vigor and skill of Roman gladiators.

  Gangly half-starved children, some as young as five years old, were standing their ground or attacking with the stalwart cunning of the most seasoned generals.

  The blur of a thousand snowballs glistened in the streetlamps’ glow as cheers and laughter of pure exultant joy filled the air. The strange untethered glee of making pretend war with well-packed snow had turned men into boys, and children into heroes.

  Jack returned to invisibility, but he stayed in the thick of this battle royal, flying from place to place faster than any snowball. He was heard shouting instructions or guidance to anyone he felt was in need. At first he only helped the children, but as the ruckus continued, he began to urge the Athenaeums on.

  So focused were the combatants that none ever wondered who was helping them.

  The fight reached a pitch so fevered that one by one participants began to collapse with exhaustion and merriment. There were calls of:

  “Stop! Enough!”

  “I surrender!”

  “I’m done!”

  Shouts became laughter. The din of the battle dissolved into a singsong of helpless giggling and gasping and guffaws.

  Churchill struggled to his feet. He was laughing with more gusto than anyone. He pulled his still-lit cigar from some deep fold of his coat and took a long and satisfying puff.

  “I suggest we call an end to these hostilities,” he said to the spent troops. “I suggest we call this battle a draw.” He took another puff.

  The half-block heap of young and old sat panting, their
warm breath making a wheezing fog around them.

  “I say we are all victors, and so to all must go the spoils,” Churchill continued. “Let us retire to the warmth of the club. I urge that we leave the snow to fall in peace and that we feast like kings!”

  Cheers of agreement rang out. As they helped one another to their feet, Churchill began again to sing his old school song, the song of his beloved Sandhurst:

  “And so from those who have gone before, to those who are yet to come,

  We pass our motto loud and clear, all evil overcome.

  As true as is a brother’s love, as close as ivy grows,

  We’ll stand four square through our lives to every wind that blows.”

  It was then that Frost tactfully reappeared as stealthily as he’d vanished in the first place. Smiling, he watched the scene unfold. Churchill slapped him on the back, still in full-throated song and joined by all who knew the words.

  “They never saw me,” Frost whispered to Twiner. “But I believe they thought I was there—” Then Jack froze midthought. His left hand (upon which there is a deep scar) suddenly clenched, as if in pain. As the others went inside past the great oak doors of the Atheneaum Club, Jack stepped aside and peered into the shadows of a nearby side street.

  The Nightmare Men finally find Jack