Suitcase of Stars

My name is Finley McPhee. Finley sounds just like it looks: FINN-Lee. Anyway, I’ve had a pretty good life. I wasn’t the smartest kid in school or a great rugby player like my brother, but I never argued much with my parents or fought with my friends. Not that I had many friends. I preferred to be alone whenever I could, away from bullies and drama.

I didn’t get to see much of the world outside where I lived. I knew that the main road out of my village would eventually take you to Inverness or Edinburgh, two bigger cities that were full of people and — according to our teachers — great opportunities. Though they never did explain what kinds of opportunities they meant.

I grew up in the village of Applecross in the far northern part of Scotland. It was a nice enough place to grow up. It had everything you needed to survive, but not much in the way of distractions. Applecross had two roads, a main square with a small fountain that never worked, Mr. Fionnbhurd’s pub, a supermarket, and various other stores.

The farms were located just south of the village. Nearly all of them were involved in raising sheep, just like my father’s farm. North of the village was the mill where they used to make the wheat. Only old lady Cumai lived there now.

Higher up in the hills, on the heathland, were the remains of a large deserted castle. Cumai herself claimed the place was haunted on the thirteenth day of every month. On the opposite side was the cold and murky sea. On windy days, the sky was clear and the clouds sped by like wool through the threads of a loom. But when the wind dropped and the tide receded, clouds of mosquitoes would swarm the beach. But that didn’t stop me and Patches from searching the beach for treasures.

Yes, treasures! You might not believe me, but Patches and I actually found a message in a bottle once. Patches was my dog. He was as tall as my knees and had long ears and shaggy fur. He found the bottle, actually. I put it in my bedroom along with the other pieces in my collection of rare finds, including chunks of metal, pieces of driftwood, and strange rocks. I labeled each of them with names like Ligneous Steganosaurus Bone or Dry Leaves from the City of Doucumber. I’m not sure if a Steganosaurus ever really existed, or if there actually was a city named Doucumber. I just made up the names on the labels so that Doug, my brother, wouldn’t try to steal them.

Doug was obsessed with rugby, girls, and being a total idiot. At the time, he was sixteen and had already dropped out of school. That was probably the only thing we had in common: I didn’t care about finishing school, either.

Viper. That’s what my brother nicknamed me. I think he chose it because I used to crouch down in the grass and hurl myself at him when we were little. Or maybe it was because I used to lie on the rocks in the sun all the time. I hated being called Viper, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Once a nickname sticks, it stays with you forever.

Anyway, it was true: I did like sitting on the rocks — especially the ones along the curve of the Baelanch Ba. The name Baelanch Ba might sound fake like the names on my labels, but it’s actually Gaelic for Oxen Road. We just called it the Coastal Road, and it ran along the entire coast. There were several huge stacks of rocks next to the road that were almost as big as the ancient dolmen, which are basically big tables made of boulders. I used to climb on top of them, sit with my legs crossed, and gaze out at the islands on the other side of the sea.

When I was young, my father taught me the islands’ names in a particular order, saying it had always been done that way in Applecross. First came the islets to the north where the clouds seemed to come from. Then, slowly, you traced your finger along the islands until you got to Skyle, the largest one. It was black, eerie, and surrounded by shadows. My father promised me we would visit the island of Skyle on my fourteenth birthday, which was less than a year away. I was looking forward to it.

As I said, life was good. That is, until the Lily clan arrived and everything changed.

The stream where I liked to fish didn’t have a name. Old lady Cumai used to call it Calghorn Dinn, which means stinky puddles in the language of the Little People. That was a pretty good description of the spots where stagnant water formed and all kinds of things had fallen in and rotted. But once you knew it as well as I did, the Calghorn was actually a pretty awesome river.

To get there, you had to jump over the first few puddles and head north until you found an oak tree with a goat’s skull hanging from it. Underneath the skull was a sign that read NO TRESPASSING. Anyway, you ignored the sign and take the path on the left. Then you’d come to a small white beach with water so clear that you can see fish swimming in it. Once you saw the place, you’d understand why I spent my free time there.

During the last week before the Lily family arrived and everything changed, the weather was perfect. Thankfully, school was closed for the summer. Well, to be honest, there were a few days of school left, but I’d decided that it was already over for me. I couldn’t waste any more time sitting inside at a desk and memorizing my times tables or trying to remember what day Napoleon Bonaparte lost the Battle of Waterloo. I mean, does that stuff even do you any good? Not for me. And not for the fish I caught, either.

I hid my brother’s fishing pole inside a tree that had been hollowed out by lightning. As for the tackle, I’d taught myself to make fishing flies all by myself — it’s the only time I’ve actually found a book to be useful. As soon as I’d finished reading it, I returned it to the bookstore.

I made the flies while I waited for fish to bite. I had all the equipment with me: a hammer and a flat stone for curving wire into a hook, a pair of scissors to sharpen the hook, a few pieces of shiny aluminum, and some feathers I’d gotten from Mrs. Bigelov at the deli. I even colored the lures myself using dye that Meb McCameron, the dressmaker, had given me.

Nothing was biting that day, but fishing was never the main reason I went there. I just liked relaxing in the warm summer weather. Soft, white pollen hovered in the air beneath the blazing midday sun. If I’d stayed there until evening, I would have seen dragonflies gliding over the surface of the lake. But I couldn’t stay much longer — my parents thought I was at school, so I had to return home shortly after the school bell rang.

I glanced at my watch. The face had an ivory dial, and the golden hands had sharp points like miniature spears. The numbers were all raised — except for number seven, which had fallen off. I’d always thought that it wasn’t a coincidence, since seven was the hour I hated most of all: it was the time I had to wake up on school days.

It was almost time for school to get out. If I left now, I’d have just enough time to walk through the woods, slip by the flour mill without old lady Cumai seeing me, and then arrive in the village a few seconds before the bell rang.

Come on, Patches! I shouted. My dog looked up at me from under his ears. It looked like he was trying to move them with his eyebrows. Let’s go, goofball!

I picked up the fishing rod and wound the line around it, making sure to place the hook in a lump of cork so that the line wouldn’t get tangled. Then I carefully placed everything back into the tree trunk, threw my school bag onto my shoulder, and headed back toward town.

It took me about fifteen minutes to reach the black-roofed buildings of Applecross. I entered the village in front of Mr. Everett’s souvenir shop, The Curious Traveler, and crossed the square. I walked along the village wall, which was made up of stones that were fished out of the sea, and then snuck behind the school. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

When I heard the school bell ring, I was already on the other side of the building. I hadn’t seen that side of that horrible school very often. Its crumbling walls and barred windows made it look like a prison. In fact, the only difference between the two was that you could get out of prison in less than five years on good behavior.

I took the road that led home to the farm, whistling as I walked. Soon I’d reached the dress shop.

Hello, Ms. McCameron, I said.

Meb smiled at me. Hey, Finn, she said.

Thanks again for the dyes, I said.

My pleasure, she said, and went back to work on a dress she was mending.

Less than five minutes later, I stood outside the gate to my house. Father’s sheep looked like tiny flecks of white scattered across the sloping hills of our land.

I lifted the latch on the fence. Patches leapt forward and wedged himself between my legs, barking loudly in the direction of the house. No one could get him to shut up once he started barking. I dropped the latch, wondering why he was so worked up. That’s when I noticed a car parked in the center of our front yard. I’d never seen it before. It was one of those compact city vehicles — I couldn’t imagine someone driving it through the Highlands of Scotland.

I pushed open the screen door to the living room. At that moment, a wave of perfume hit me. The scent made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Uh-oh, I mumbled, realizing it was already too late to turn back.

Widow Rozenkratz, the superintendent of the schools, stared at me with her cold eyes. William Shuster, the barber’s son, claimed that she’d been born a widow. I’d only seen her a couple of times during my life, but that was more than enough for me. Yet there she was, perched on an armchair in our living room, sitting in front of my mother and father.

Dad was wearing his work overalls — and a huge frown. He looked more disappointed than angry. Mom, on the other hand, looked like a pot that was about to boil over.

Finley, come in, Mom said. Keep Patches outside, please.

I had to shove Patches with my foot to get him to leave. After