by Aiden James
To quiet my mind, I relied mostly on my favored mental menagerie....
Raccoons, moles, and ‘possums... do they even get along? Moles hide in the ground, and ‘possums scurry away whenever a raccoon is near. Must be the scent.... Oh, and don’t forget about the skunk train you saw the other evening, Bas—a momma and her six pups disappearing into the drain system along Old Dominion. Could be a smelly winter and spring just up ahead.
I pictured the raccoons and skunks duking it out over ‘backyard rights’, with the raccoons and their human-like hands getting the better of the skunks, pelting their odious foes with an assault of molting black walnut casings that were already plentiful in our yard. At least for now, until it fell upon me to clean up the piles of walnuts covering much of the backyard’s lawn and the new courtyard. Seriously, this was a new pretend chore devised by my folks worried about my ‘idle hands,’ and they mentioned this fun project offhand this past Friday. Oh, joy!
“What’s so funny?” Grandpa asked, as we cleared the final EEC barrier and stepped onto the sidewalk that would take us into the square. The courthouse and park sat directly across the street from where we stood.
“Nothing,” I said, barely aware of the amused grin that had spread across my face. “Nothing important... just thinking about the raccoons taking over our yard again, and how much fun I’ll have bowling them over with walnuts in the next week or so.”
He grasped my shoulder, grinning wryly.
“Too bad you are restricted in your use of magic, eh?” he said. “Good thing I’m not. In fact, by the time we get done with our ring search this morning, I doubt you’ll find nary a stray walnut anywhere in our yard, and that they’ll be neatly piled up next to the barn.”
“You’ll do that for me?” I smiled, feeling relieved. Honestly, I had hoped the ruse of my family having to go to extremes to look normal had ended after what happened last year. “Thanks, Grandpa!”
“My pleasure, kiddo!”
We entered the square, and at first, casually moved past the host of boutiques, lawyer offices, and Tuttle’s Ice Cream Shoppe. No sign of a constable just yet, and admittedly, I was also relieved the Mateis were also absent. Only our fellow mortal Denmarkians—most dressed for church as they hurriedly passed by.
“Let’s check out this alley, first, Bas.” Grandpa pointed to the first one we came to, an alley filled with massive artworks created by our immensely talented neighbor, Harrison Crawford. “Florina and I had the pleasure of helping Harrison do the mounting for these two pieces. Pretty cool, eh?”
Frigging amazing, really—especially when considering this is still small-town USA and not a major metropolis like Chicago. Harrison’s depiction of historical events mixed with his unique artistic perspective is beyond impressive. The Art Institute of Chicago would be so lucky to display a few works from this local treasure. I had seen Harrison’s smaller works in his and Jennifer Crawford’s home, and it was incredibly cool to see the same unique style applied to these twenty-foot paintings hung upon the alley’s walls. Both works had been protected with a special acrylic finish to help keep them pristine and safe from weather and vandal assaults.
We lingered a good fifteen minutes—largely to allow Grandpa enough time to covertly check a few possible hiding places for Wizard Gabon’s next clue. My job was mostly to keep an eye out for possible ‘trouble’, namely our downtown constables. Yeah, like I’d be much help if Attila von Stroheim came whizzing by like he did in taking down Serghei Matei yesterday morning.
“Find anything?” I asked when my grandfather motioned for us to be on our way.
“No... not yet,” he replied, pausing to scan the alley’s upper reaches before we stepped back into the square. “I think I’ll let you handle the nooks and crannies in the next alley. It’s just a block away.”
I followed him as he stepped back onto the sidewalk and headed south toward a fancy new Italian restaurant being built. A place covered up in scaffold walkways and thick plastic sheets, with a sign that read “Future home of Camoriti’s”.
“Looks like things are moving up around here, huh?” I commented.
“Your mom and dad are pretty pumped about this new restaurant and pub,” said Grandpa.
“Pumped?”
“Isn’t that the word the kids nowadays say for being excited?” Grandpa chuckled. “I like it better than ‘jazzed’ or ‘stoked’.”
“Personally, I still prefer ‘stoked’ best. ‘Jazzed’ is kind of making a comeback.” I chuckled, too, hoping I turned out as cool as my grandfather when I reached his age, some four hundred years from now.
We stepped into the next alley, which was night and day different than the other one.
“Now, this looks like something out of the old South Side.” I pointed to the trash containers overflowing with construction debris and other trash. “I suppose this alley is in its transformation infancy?”
The walls bore spray-painted markers indicating Mr. Crawford would be extending his super cool artistic touch to this area very soon.
“Yep. This is next on Harrison’s list... probably in the next few weeks, if the weather holds up. Otherwise, it might have to wait until next spring,” Grandpa advised. “This spot might be more to our crafty wizard’s liking, since it’s largely been neglected until recently.”
He pointed to noticeable gaps in the upper reaches of the buildings. The walls contained deteriorating bricks that in some cases were approaching two centuries in age. I noticed a sizeable bird’s nest in one of the crevices.
“Ahh, that does look promising, eh?” Grandpa noticed my repeated glances to the nest. “Why don’t you take a look?”
“Just float up there?”
“Sure... but do it like I did in the other alley. Use a standard cloaking spell. We don’t want to cause a stir with the good folks of Denmark on their way to church, do we?”
“No, I suppose not.”
I returned his impish grin with my own, uttering my favored cloaking spell before I drifted up to the nest. I thought it was empty, but apparently a couple of squirrels had noticed this choice hideout as well. Neither one could see me... but animals have long been noted for possessing keen instincts. Both froze in their scavenging activities upon my arrival, and then scurried into the deeper recesses within the wall when I gingerly pushed my invisible hands through the nest.
Nothing. Nothing in the form of a note or other clue.
Also, for those curious as to why Grandpa and I weren’t wearing gloves, keep in mind that virtually nothing harmful to mortals has any effect on us. Even so, he and I should’ve been wearing masks that day, to be good examples for our fellow citizens in light of the current pandemic going on. But we actually fit in with most everyone else... only a few patrons in the square were wearing masks that morning. We had heard that Herschel County was split on believing Covid-19 as a genuine threat, despite almost one thousand cases reported and a dozen deaths. Apparently, our church-goers in Denmark were in the ‘anti-masker’ group—at least on Sundays.
“Nothing, huh?” Grandpa asked when I rejoined him, reversing the spell from behind a dumpster before emerging fully visible again. “Hmmm... maybe we should take a moment to better devise our search plans. How about we head over to one of the benches across the street?”
He pointed to several empty wooden benches along the brick walkway leading to the courthouse steps.
“Sure, why not?”
He laughed at my wry grin, surely understanding my growing skepticism that we would be allowed to ‘mill about’ in the acknowledged ‘forbidden zone’ for much longer. Not to mention, we would soon be within a stone’s throw of Wizard von Stroheim’s art studio/apartment.
Despite our nonchalant pace in crossing the street, I could tell that Grandpa’s eyes and senses were on high alert. But it could’ve also been due to his previously stated hunch about the courthouse area. I joined him in scanning the treetops of the ancient maples, pecans, and pin oaks scattered thr
oughout the park.
“This was your grandma’s and my favorite bench to visit before the EEC enacted their version of Martial Law,” Grandpa advised as he led me over to one of the shorter benches nestled beneath a brilliant sunset maple. “When I covertly visited this park a few weeks ago, it’s also where my wand was drawn to strongest—like a divining rod being pulled by an underground stream.”
“I bet you’ve had a prior hunch about this location, too, haven’t you?”
He nodded, before turning his attention to the Herschel County Courthouse bell tower, looming six stories above the building’s main entrance. As I’ve touched upon previously, my father has a thing for visiting the tower whenever he feels the need to get away from everything. All of us in my immediate family have chosen personal spots throughout the area, when needing to meditate and collect our thoughts. Grandpa’s refuge is obviously the Beauregards’ roof, and for those familiar with my prior chronicle, my favorite place is a hillside facing the Denmark Winery.
“Yep. Not sure what it is about this spot... maybe it’s just me missing how innocent and refreshing things were before the Mateis showed up,” he replied. “I miss how things were with Florina back then, since she was getting back to embracing the amazing vibrant spirit she had personified for centuries—prior to our falling out with Valerian and Irina... and the rest of those shitheads.” He shook his head with a faraway look in his eyes, as if reliving everything he described.
“You were quite close to the Mateis prior to what happened... in Rochester, New York, after both families were forced move from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Right?”
“Yes... and now we must reconsider everything—especially the inconvenient fact that Sorin Gabon likely wasn’t the nasty old codger we believed him to be. It certainly messes with the mind, Bas.” He chuckled sadly for a moment, until he caught me studying his face intently. “But, if it’s true—and I’m inclined to believe what you shared about him last evening—then, the sooner we let go of our preconceived notions about Gabon, the better. Wizard Gabon, I should say....”
His voice trailed off as something drew his attention from beyond the other side of the bricked walkway. At the moment, the entire area sat deserted... just us and the birds singing their cheerful melodies, along with a pair of squirrels scampering up a nearby tree trunk in what looked to be a playful race.
Then I saw it as well.
Some might say the approach was subtle, as what looked like a small tumbleweed—of all things—drifted toward the walkway, carried along by a stiff breeze. But, before the withered weed reached the benches across the way, it began to change.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, while Grandpa released a slight whistle under his breath.
The object began to glow, and as it did, it was transformed into an envelope, traveling end over end as it continued to be pushed along by a series of gusts. When it touched the brick border to the walkway, it suddenly flew into the air and landed on the bench between my grandfather and me.
The glow dimmed slightly, but I could tell from Grandpa’s reaction to my expression as I studied the envelope sitting between us that he fully understood my recognition of what had been delivered. And not just because the envelope was addressed to me.
“‘To Sebastian’... I bet the glowing letters are the same or similar to what you experienced the other night?” he sought to confirm.
“Yeah.” My mouth went dry, and my pulse began to race.
“Well, son, pick it up and let’s find out what’s inside.”
Not sure why I initially hesitated, but I picked it up. The envelope shimmered momentarily, and when it stopped, I opened it.
“There’s a note inside.” I peered into the envelope before gently pulling it out.
“You’re acting like you expect a black widow to jump out and bite you.”
Grandpa grinned, while motioning for me to just open the damned thing. So, I did.
Hello again, Sebastian!
You’re on the right track.... The key to your salvation and happiness awaits discovery. But only if you keep your eyes peeled and your heart open—Just like Grandpa says.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Grandpa said softly. I looked up to see his acute fascination. He lifted his gaze from the note, scanning the area for any sign of our mysterious correspondent... or perhaps to make sure we hadn’t attracted any undesirable attention from our guardians. “Now, this... this is really something.”
Maybe not the most profound thing he’s ever said; but honestly, I was left with even less to say as I reread the note. Same script on another piece of old parchment, and yet the message was written as if created that very morning. An odd thought popped into my mind, that perhaps the note was written as Grandpa and I sat on the bench.
That notion brought a surge of gooseflesh to my arms. Suddenly, as if in response, the parchment ignited. The note disintegrated into a stream of tiny glowing ashes that disappeared in the wake of another breeze—this one soft and warm.
A slight gasp escaped my grandfather’s mouth, and I caught him eyeing the barely visible essence of what was left of this latest correspondence with childlike fascination.
“I don’t suppose another note or clue is coming this morning... do you?” I asked him.
He didn’t immediately respond, and I followed his probing gaze that moved from the spot where the note vanished to the area it originated from. Then, he lifted his eyes back to Dad’s beloved meditation spot in the bell tower.
“No, I suppose not,” he said, finally. “I guess we should head on back. But, my hunch now is that we’ve—or rather you’ve—taken a major step closer to finding our mysterious ring, Bas.”
He grasped my shoulder affectionately, and the two of us worked our way to the edge of downtown. As we re-entered our neighborhood, I glanced back toward the courthouse until it was no longer visible.
All the while, I silently repeated the note’s message in my head, determined not to forget it.
Chapter Twelve
I expected a serious chat and chewing-out would await us both upon our return to Twin Magnolias.
But to at least my shock, nothing happened.
I mean, nothing at all. Of course, the place was largely deserted when we stepped through the front door—other than our delightful pooch announcing his joy that someone was here to entertain him.
“Hey, Lucian!”
I scooped him up and headed to the living room, where Grandpa soon joined me. Quietly, we agreed to keep what happened that morning between the two of us.
“Better to let me handle things when—or even if—Florina or your folks mention it,” he said, leaning back in his preferred recliner, next to one of the most ornate mahogany fireplaces in our home—one that mimics the Greek Revival style of our front porch, with similar Corinthian columns, though miniature in comparison. Meanwhile, I sprawled out on the sofa, across from him, with Lucian curled upon my chest.
“What do you mean by ‘if’ they bring it up?” I replied. “I mean, it’s not like they wouldn’t be aware....”
Then it hit me.
I recalled Adrian’s confusion, and ignorance, from the night before about what Wizard von Stroheim had discussed in his downtown office with Alisia and me yesterday morning. And, even Mom and Grandma wouldn’t have known about the details of the conversation if not for my darling sis phoning Mom later that afternoon.
I sat up and looked at Grandpa, who smiled knowingly.
“If Sorin Gabon is indeed a wizard, and he’s also the one sending personal notes to you—which I believe we both know is almost a certainty—then it stands to reason he would have the same privacy privilege as any other wizard,” he suggested, pausing to light his pipe. “Perhaps it’s even more pronounced for a master wizard, based on what Adrian has talked about from his time with Wizard Ninnius.”
“Well, it could be a fun exercise to see how long it takes for this morning’s excursion to become known to everyone else.” I smiled at the p
rospects I might finally have a secret not readily apparent to the psychics in my family, although I knew better than to believe it would last forever. Not to mention, there could be hell to pay once our constables found out about it. “What if I get sent back to prison?”
“To Bajenie?”
I nodded.
“Maybe they’ll send us both this time!” Grandpa chuckled while puffing on his pipe, before coughing slightly. “Not sure this is going to work.”
“What, you’re worried, too?”
“No... I was talking about this cinnamon-apple flavored tobacco Florina wanted me to try.” He laughed, pointing the pipe’s end toward me like Arthur Albright had done a few days ago. “You didn’t smell the different aroma?”
Honestly, I was too distracted by picturing a host of medieval punishments meted out by our guardians to notice much else. Hell, I thought his pipe’s scent was one of the plug-in air fresheners Mom seems to prefer these days. The house almost always carried a cinnamon or lavender scent, and the little suckers seemed to be everywhere throughout both floors.
“Yeah... I can see why you’re not found of it,” I said. “I prefer the old standard, Grandpa.”
“Me too. Once this burns down, I’ll dump it in the sink and hide the rest.” He added an elfin wink.
That was the beginning of an enjoyable few hours of chatting with him—sort of like old times when we lived up north. The move south from Wheaton, Illinois, and the settling into the much slower pace of Denmark, Tennessee, while trying to seem like ‘normal folk’ had made it difficult to just relax for any longer than an hour or so. Of course, my being gone for a year might skew the truth of how he and everyone else had settled in.
Regardless, the mood stayed mellow, and my outlook remained bright as I got to watch the Bears notch their second win in a row that afternoon. Soon after, Alisia showed up with Harris, and then Mom and Dad strolled in, along with Sadee Dean accompanying Grandma.
