Gil Marsh Read online

  M. Larivière agreed it could be used. “But it will need to be set.”

  They decided to ask the local blacksmith. An immortal man. No one knew where he came from. He had been around since the Indians and, it was said, had learned their secret potions and tricks. He was renowned as a healer and crafty with his tools. They brought him an old silver spoon with a twisted handle and misshapen bowl. Whatever wasn’t used for the ring would be payment for his work.

  The ring the blacksmith created enchanted Clotilde, and her mother even more. Mme. Charette never took her eyes off the garnet.

  “A very generous gift,” she said.

  Mme. Charette stored it with her own few pieces, promising Clotilde that she could wear it on special occasions.

  The wedding was scheduled for that fall, after the harvest season.

  It never took place.

  A few weeks after receiving her gift, Clotilde cut her thumb deeply while helping her mother in the kitchen. Her mother wrapped a washing rag around the wound, and later that night changed the old rag for a clean one. They replaced it again the next day, but the wound festered. In another day or so, the infection spread.

  M. Charette wanted to call the immortal man because everyone knew that he could cheat death. He had saved babies with fevers, sewn up innumerable cuts, and set countless bones.

  Mme. Charette wouldn’t hear of it. “Not that heathen! The village has a good Catholic doctor now. Call him.”

  But the doctor had been called away to a difficult birth and didn’t arrive until the following afternoon. Clotilde lay feverish in bed. She pleaded with her mother to see the ring, but Mme. Charette refused.

  “Don’t be foolish. You need rest.”

  The doctor decided to amputate Clotilde’s arm, but it was too late. She died the following morning.

  Mme. Charette railed against fate, God and the Devil. “You took her from me.”

  She thought of Clotilde’s last few words, begging to see the ring. “Cursed thing.”

  She sent the ring back to Antoine’s family, never to see it again.

  The attendant finally arrived to roll Gil to X-rays.

  “Wait,” Gil said. He turned to Enko. “You have to tell me what happened to Antoine.”

  “He was inconsolable,” Enko said. “He died the following spring.”

  “So why do you think the ring brings luck?”

  “Our family made its fortune soon after getting it.”

  Gil crumpled his chin. “That was some sad story.”

  “Many of the Québec legends are,” Enko said.

  “Let’s go, son,” the attendant said.

  The results came back positive. Gil had suffered a minor concussion. The hospital admitted him overnight for observation. Not only was he barred from the competition, but he couldn’t accompany the team on the bus.

  “Too much jostling,” the doctor explained.

  Gil wanted to break something. “It’s Nationals!” he yelled. “We were all set to win!”

  “We’ll win, Gil,” Enko said. “I promise.”

  Gil grabbed him by the arm. “Wear my number. At least my number will run. And you’re as good as me—better even.”

  Enko gave Coach a questioning look.

  “Sure,” Coach said. “Enko can wear your number.”

  “I’ll text you,” Enko said, “as soon as we finish.”

  Gil hugged Enko then—a powerful hug, as if he could transfer all of his strength to his friend. Enko hesitated, but only for a second. He hugged fiercely back.

  Mom arranged to work from home on Friday, to keep watch over Gil. He sent an unending stream of text messages to Enko, demanding to know every step of his travels. Enko texted back, giving details and passing on the occasional team joke.

  That night Coach called lights-out at eleven.

  Bedtime, Enko texted.

  I’ll dream of U, Gil texted back.

  Winning?

  The champion

  No sweat

  Promise?

  LOL. OK. Some sweat. But I’ll win

  Gil wished there were some way he could transfer all of his pent-up energy to Enko, give him some extra boost and be part of the meet as well.

  I’m w/U, he texted.

  Yes, Enko texted back, U R

  The meet began early on Saturday. It’d be over by mid-morning. Gil waited anxiously by his phone. He tried to distract himself by surfing the Internet, but nothing caught his interest. He couldn’t focus on any video games. And the morning cartoons were just too silly. All he could think of was Enko running—his easy gait, the look of relaxed concentration he always had, the way he breathed, the swing of his arms.

  The phone’s ring caught him by surprise. The text was from Enko!

  #1!

  Gil’s whoop brought his mother over in a hurry.

  “Enko won Nationals,” Gil said.

  Mom grinned. “That’s great!”

  When the bus returned late Saturday evening, Gil was there, along with all the other cheering family and friends. He threw an arm over Enko’s shoulders as soon as he stepped off the bus.

  “You are awesome!” Gil said.

  Enko looked just a little worried. “You sure …?”

  Enko’s parents were pushing through the crowd. Gil had only a few more seconds.

  “You deserved to win,” Gil said. “I’m glad you did.”

  At that moment, Enko’s mother swooped in and folded Enko into a huge hug. His father snapped pictures. Gil stood to the side and beamed.

  Yeah, Gil realized, he was glad. Truly, honestly, no qualms about it, glad. He was disappointed that he couldn’t have been there—but Enko winning was the very next best thing to being there. And Gil wanted to celebrate his victory wholeheartedly.

  If Gil and Enko had been close before, they were now inseparable. That Thanksgiving, Enko’s family joined Gil’s for dinner.

  “This is so much fun,” Enko’s mother said. “Thanksgiving in Québec is much earlier in the season and less elaborate.”

  Over too much food and lots of wine, Enko’s parents talked about their move to Connecticut. His father had been offered the opportunity to transfer.

  “We thought it would be good for Enko to get some schooling in English, too,” his mother added.

  “It is the international language of commerce,” his father said.

  Enko mouthed the words as his father pronounced them, obviously having heard this line a few times too often.

  His father gave him a mock slap on the side of his head. “You make fun of me, but it’s true.”

  “Until Mandarin takes over,” Gil’s father said.

  They all laughed.

  Gil turned to Enko as they sat on the couch to watch the football game. “Don’t they have English schools in Quebec?”

  “Sure,” Enko said, “but because of the language laws, I couldn’t go to them.”

  Enko explained that in Quebec, only a limited number of kids were permitted to attend publicly funded English schools. He didn’t qualify. So if his parents wanted him to receive schooling in English, they either had to pay tuition at an expensive private school or move somewhere else.

  “You really didn’t have a choice?” Gil asked.

  Enko shook his head. “But then, if I did, I wouldn’t be here.”

  The smile he shot Gil warmed him.

  Gil invited Enko along for a ski trip New Year’s weekend. They drove up to a condo in Vermont that his parents had rented. Enko was almost as good a skier as he was a runner.

  “The slopes were half an hour from our house,” Enko said. “My parents taught me as soon as I could walk.”

  In February, Enko invited Gil to come with him to Quebec City.

  “The Winter Carnival—it’s unbelievable,” he said. “Ice sculptures. Slides. Parades. The greatest time in the world.”

  But Gil’s parents had booked a family trip to the Caribbean.

  “We’ll get together when we’re both
back,” Gil said.

  Gil caught something nasty on the plane ride home. It started as a cough that winded him halfway up the Rock his first run back. Enko convinced him that they should turn around. Gil protested. Enko wrapped an arm around him.

  “Don’t be a fool. I want you strong.”

  Gil spent the next week in bed fighting bronchitis. Enko visited him every day.

  “Don’t worry. I’m keeping the paths clear for you.”

  Somehow that helped Gil improve. But when, a week later, he felt strong enough to run again, Enko was coughing.

  “Damn it, Enko. I gave this to you.”

  Enko smiled and punched him in the arm. “I’m giving it back.”

  He didn’t give it back. But he didn’t get better, either. After a week of coughing, Enko’s parents had him get a chest X-ray. He was diagnosed with pneumonia.

  “They think I caught it in Québec.” Enko tried to reassure Gil. “A few weeks’ rest and I’ll be as good as new.”

  And after a few weeks, the pneumonia did heal, but somehow, he never got better.

  “I need more time at Overhang Rock,” he said.

  But he didn’t have the energy to run up the Rock—even walking it tired him. He was back in bed with a combination ear and throat infection. And a new bout of bronchitis. By late March they had diagnosed his ailment—aggressive leukemia.

  There was no time to process the news. Enko was hospitalized and the treatments started immediately. When Gil visited him, he had to dress in a sterilized jumpsuit, mask, hat and gloves. Enko stayed in a special pressurized room that didn’t allow any unfiltered air in from the rest of the hospital.

  “Gil!” Enko seemed so happy to see him.

  Every hair on Enko’s body had fallen out. It made him look naked, more naked somehow than Gil had ever seen him before.

  “What’ve you been up to?” Gil asked.

  “Watching TV. Reading an ebook. Catching up on stuff online. And sleeping.”

  Gil sat on the chair next to Enko’s bed. “They let me bring in a pack of cards. Freshly sterilized. Want to play poker?”

  Enko’s mischievous glance, so familiar to Gil, came from exhausted eyes. “I hope you’ve brought money to lose.”

  But Enko only lasted a few rounds. He rested his head on the pillows that propped him up, tired out by the effort it took to hold the cards and play. Gil’s chest pinched. It wasn’t right!

  A nurse came in to check on Enko’s vital signs and adjust one of the drips attached to his arm. “This boy’s a trooper,” she told Gil.

  Gil nodded, not sure how to respond. When the nurse left them to fetch a new IV bag, Enko grabbed Gil’s wrist with a bony, powerful grip.

  “Hold me,” he said. “Please.”

  “But I’m carrying germs. You’re immunosuppressed. I could kill you.”

  Enko’s eyes filled with tears. “What’s the point of living, Gil, if people can only shove needles into me?”

  Gil wrapped Enko in his arms and held him, for as long as he could. He didn’t let go when the nurse returned. He kept his eyes shut, squeezing away the wetness under his lids, feeling every ragged breath in Enko’s body.

  Gil visited every day the hospital allowed him. Even when Enko was too weak to stay alert, Gil sat next to him, staring at his ravaged body, memorizing the line of his nose and brow, hoping to catch a glimpse of his dark eyes.

  They stopped the chemo cycles after four weeks.

  “It wasn’t working,” Enko said. “If I’m going to die, I want to do it away from here.”

  His family contacted the local hospice, and Enko moved back home to a room downstairs. Some of his hair grew back.

  “A miracle.” He laughed. “It’s not supposed to happen for months. I guess some things are too strong even for the chemicals.”

  Gil held his hand, cradled his head, drove him once to the top of Overhang Rock. Gil attended school only to stay out of trouble. Every other waking moment was spent with Enko. A week before he died, Enko gave him the ring.

  “I can’t take this,” Gil said. “It’s a family heirloom.”

  But Enko insisted. He smiled—that smile that could still disarm. “I want it to be yours. You’re family now.”

  Gil didn’t speak, afraid words might choke him. He took Enko’s hand in his. When Enko’s mother came in, Enko had fallen asleep, Gil still holding his hand. She saw the ring on his finger.

  “Le grenat,” she said, and nodded. “Enko loves you very much.”

  Gil stared down, still unsure whether he should keep this treasure.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to return it?” he asked.

  She shook her head, her shoulders bowed. “It belonged to Enko. It was his to keep or give. He chose you to have it.”

  Gil didn’t reply.

  When the call arrived that Enko had died in the night, Gil did not believe his mother.

  “You misunderstood,” he said. “His mom’s accent …”

  “I’m sorry, Gil. But I didn’t misunderstand. Angine was very clear.”

  “No. I’m going to call—”

  His mother put her hand on the phone.

  “Listen to me, Gil. Enko is dead. His parents are overwhelmed. They have arrangements to make. Family to call.” She was pleading, Gil realized. Crying even. “Please, honey. It’s hard. But he is dead.”

  “NO!”

  He went to his room and put on his sweats and shoes. He ran to Enko’s house—and there he saw the hearse. The door to Enko’s house was open.

  No!

  He turned away and ran faster, heading north. He made it all the way to Stone Orchards, where he had been such an idiot at Homecoming. Winded, he looped around. By the time he returned home, he was so tired, he almost collapsed.

  At dinner he learned that they had shipped Enko’s body back to Quebec—to a family plot in the Montreal area.

  “When’s the funeral?” Gil asked.

  “In a week,” his mother said.

  “We can book a room now.”

  His parents exchanged glances.

  “It’s hundreds of miles north,” his dad said.

  “And we can’t take the time off now,” his mom added.

  Gil hadn’t touched his meal. Food repulsed him.

  “Then I’ll go alone,” he said.

  “No,” his father said. “You’ve missed enough school.”

  “I’ll miss the funeral!”

  His mother’s tone was kind—Gil could hear it even if he would not accept it. “The school will hold a memorial service in a couple of weeks. We’ll visit his grave this summer.”

  “A memorial service!” Gil pushed his plate away, making a glass tip over.

  His mother jumped up to mop the mess. His father scowled.

  “No one at school knew him,” Gil said. “No one! Not like me.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” his father said. “The school will—”

  “The school will not do anything!” Gil said. “You don’t understand, do you?”

  He stood. His mother stepped back. His father rose as well.

  “I need to say goodbye. For real. To him. Even if he’s stuck inside a box! He was my best friend. He was everything—”

  “That’s enough,” his father said.

  His mother reached out. “Everyone is grieving, Gil. His parents’ hearts are broken. Their home was there. It’s where he belongs.”

  Gil didn’t give up. “Then let me go!”

  But his parents wouldn’t.

  “This summer,” they said.

  “NO!” he screamed.

  He ran back to his room and threw himself onto his bed, where he rolled into his comforter. He tightened it around himself, as if the cocoon he created might keep the world at bay. Enko couldn’t be gone. Gone from life. It wasn’t possible!

  At the memorial service he sat in the back row. The principal, a few teachers, several members of the team, Jennifer Royland, all spoke about Enko in glowing terms. Th
ere wasn’t a dry eye in the auditorium—except for Gil’s. He had refused to speak. These were empty gestures. No one knew Enko the way he had. No one felt the loss the way he did.

  He began skipping school entirely. He was called in to the school’s main office, his parents dragging him along.

  “You have always been an excellent student,” the principal said. “We know you lost your best friend, but you still have to attend school.”

  The guidance counselor recommended a psychologist. Gil went to sessions because his mother drove him there and didn’t leave. He never said a word.

  He stopped showering. Stopped cutting his hair. A ragged beard grew in around his chin. If there were a cream that would have made his hair grow faster on his skin, he would have bought it. Everywhere he went he remembered Enko.

  Here they had studied. Here they had laughed. Here they had run.

  Although he attended the last few weeks of school, his father driving him there, his mother bringing him home, he spent his days alone.

  Robert tried to reach out.

  “I’m thinking of switching to track next year,” he said. “Maybe we could run together.”

  Gil didn’t even acknowledge him.

  He shied away from everyone, and in return, everyone shied away from him. He passed his classes—barely, thanks to his stellar grades earlier in the year. Come June, he packed his duffel bag and demanded, “So, when are we going to Quebec?”

  But his mother’s interior design firm was in the middle of three major renovations.

  “Clients expect me around,” she said. “I’ll get a break soon, I’m sure.”

  His father’s company was in the middle of an important deal. “We close in July. After that, I promise.”

  But July came, and neither could see traveling north.

  “Maybe later in the fall,” his mother said. “We’ll take you out of school. The whole family could use a break.”

  When the course schedule arrived for his senior year, something snapped. There on the printout, in bold letters, was the afternoon slot reserved for practices.

  Cross-country

  Gil was not going to return to school. If no one took him north, he’d take himself. He could no longer bear being in Green Valley, where every place hurt him. He had to find Enko, whether anyone helped him or not.