too." He took something from his hip pocket. It was an old baseball, stained and scuffed. "Here," he said, handing it to Jennifer T., "you try throwin' with this little pill sometime, see how it go." Jennifer T. took the ball from him. It felt warm from his pocket, hard as a meteorite and yellow as an old man's teeth. "I done used it to strike out Mr. Joseph DiMaggio three times , in a exhibition game at old Seals Stadium, down in Frisco, away back in 1934."
"You mean you're a scout ?" Ethan said. "Who do you scout for?"
"Right now I'm workin' for those little folks you met, Mr. Feld. The Boar Tooth mob. Only I don't scout ballplayers. Or at least, not only."
"What do you scout?" Jennifer T. said.
"Heroes," Mr. Brown said. He reached into his breast pocket again and took out his wallet. He handed Ethan and Jennifer T. each a business card.
PELION SCOUTING
MR. CHIRON BROWN, OWNER-OPERATOR
CHAMPIONS FOUND—RECRUITED—TRAINED
FOR OVER SEVEN EONS
"A hero scout," Ethan said. It was the second time the word hero had passed through his mind in the last hour. It did not sound as strange to him as it had at first.
"Or," Jennifer T. said, "you could just be some kind of weird guy following us around."
But she knew as she said it that there was no mistaking this man, from the intent, wide, slightly popeyed gaze to the fabled missing finger on the pitching hand. He really was Ringfinger Brown, ace pitcher of the long-vanished Homestead Grays.
"Mr. Brown," Ethan said. "Do you know what they're doing here? What it is they're building?"
"What they buildin'?" As if for the first time, Ringfinger Brown turned to study the devastation of Hotel Beach. His bulging eyes were filmed over with age or tears or the sting of the cold west wind. He sighed, scratching idly at the back of his head with the four fingers of his right hand. "They buildin' theirself the end of the world."
Ethan said something then, in a soft voice, almost an undertone, that Jennifer T. didn't understand. He said, "Ragged Rock."
"That's right," Mr. Brown said. "One at a time, cutting apart all them magic places where the Tree done growed back onto itself."
"And you really scouted me?" Ethan stood up and began backing toward the woods. "When I lived in Colorado Springs?"
"Before that, even."
"And the ferishers put all those dreams into my dad's head, about the airships and my mom?"
"That's right."
Jennifer T. heard voices coming through the trees, and recognized one of them, at least, as that of Mr. Feld.
"Because of me ?" Ethan said. "What do I have to do with the end of the world?"
"Maybe nothin'," Mr. Brown said. "That is, if my conjure eye"—here he touched a trembling old finger to the lower lid of his left eye—"done finally gone bad on me." The milky film that was covering the eye, like the clouds of a planet, seemed momentarily to clear as he looked at Ethan. Then he turned toward the sound of men approaching. "Or maybe, if I still know my bidness, you goin' to be the one to help put off that dark day for just a little bit longer."
Jennifer T. was not following the conversation too well, but before she had a chance to ask them what in the name of Satchel Paige they were talking about, Mr. Feld emerged from the trees, along with Coach Olafssen, Mr. Brody, and a sheriff's deputy named Branley who had arrested her father three times that she knew about.
"Ethan? Jennifer T.? Are you all right?" Mr. Feld slipped on a slick pile of leaves as he approached them, and lost his footing. Deputy Branley caught him and hauled him to his feet. "What are you kids doing?"
"Nothing," Ethan said. "We were just standing around talking to—" Ethan raised a hand as if to introduce Ringfinger Brown to the men. But Ringfinger Brown was not there anymore; he had vanished completely. Jennifer T. wondered if such a very old man could possibly have gotten himself hidden behind one of the earthmovers so quickly, and if so, why he should want to run and hide. Hiding
"You mean you're a scout ?" Ethan said. "Who do you scout for?"
"Right now I'm workin' for those little folks you met, Mr. Feld. The Boar Tooth mob. Only I don't scout ballplayers. Or at least, not only."
"What do you scout?" Jennifer T. said.
"Heroes," Mr. Brown said. He reached into his breast pocket again and took out his wallet. He handed Ethan and Jennifer T. each a business card.
PELION SCOUTING
MR. CHIRON BROWN, OWNER-OPERATOR
CHAMPIONS FOUND—RECRUITED—TRAINED
FOR OVER SEVEN EONS
"A hero scout," Ethan said. It was the second time the word hero had passed through his mind in the last hour. It did not sound as strange to him as it had at first.
"Or," Jennifer T. said, "you could just be some kind of weird guy following us around."
But she knew as she said it that there was no mistaking this man, from the intent, wide, slightly popeyed gaze to the fabled missing finger on the pitching hand. He really was Ringfinger Brown, ace pitcher of the long-vanished Homestead Grays.
"Mr. Brown," Ethan said. "Do you know what they're doing here? What it is they're building?"
"What they buildin'?" As if for the first time, Ringfinger Brown turned to study the devastation of Hotel Beach. His bulging eyes were filmed over with age or tears or the sting of the cold west wind. He sighed, scratching idly at the back of his head with the four fingers of his right hand. "They buildin' theirself the end of the world."
Ethan said something then, in a soft voice, almost an undertone, that Jennifer T. didn't understand. He said, "Ragged Rock."
"That's right," Mr. Brown said. "One at a time, cutting apart all them magic places where the Tree done growed back onto itself."
"And you really scouted me?" Ethan stood up and began backing toward the woods. "When I lived in Colorado Springs?"
"Before that, even."
"And the ferishers put all those dreams into my dad's head, about the airships and my mom?"
"That's right."
Jennifer T. heard voices coming through the trees, and recognized one of them, at least, as that of Mr. Feld.
"Because of me ?" Ethan said. "What do I have to do with the end of the world?"
"Maybe nothin'," Mr. Brown said. "That is, if my conjure eye"—here he touched a trembling old finger to the lower lid of his left eye—"done finally gone bad on me." The milky film that was covering the eye, like the clouds of a planet, seemed momentarily to clear as he looked at Ethan. Then he turned toward the sound of men approaching. "Or maybe, if I still know my bidness, you goin' to be the one to help put off that dark day for just a little bit longer."
Jennifer T. was not following the conversation too well, but before she had a chance to ask them what in the name of Satchel Paige they were talking about, Mr. Feld emerged from the trees, along with Coach Olafssen, Mr. Brody, and a sheriff's deputy named Branley who had arrested her father three times that she knew about.
"Ethan? Jennifer T.? Are you all right?" Mr. Feld slipped on a slick pile of leaves as he approached them, and lost his footing. Deputy Branley caught him and hauled him to his feet. "What are you kids doing?"
"Nothing," Ethan said. "We were just standing around talking to—" Ethan raised a hand as if to introduce Ringfinger Brown to the men. But Ringfinger Brown was not there anymore; he had vanished completely. Jennifer T. wondered if such a very old man could possibly have gotten himself hidden behind one of the earthmovers so quickly, and if so, why he should want to run and hide. Hiding
Similar Books
