Wizard Heights - Book 1 - The Legend of the Sorcerer King

by Alexander Scott

  "Charlie Goodfellow," said Whitstable, his eyes wide as if alighting upon a treasure.

  Charlie almost choked as the two boys' eyes met. Don’t let him sit next to me, he thought. Don’t let him sit next to me...

  "Oh, you've already met?" said Mr. Peters. "Wonderful! You have a friend already. We'll put your coat over here and you can go and sit next to Charlie."

  "I don't know him!" rasped Charlie breathlessly.

  Nevertheless, the boy sat down next to him. "Hello, Charlie," he whispered. "Why did you run away yesterday?" Then, noticing that the other kids were staring at him, he said, "There sure are some strange kids here..."

  "You're the one who is strange!" replied Charlie, beneath his breath. His eyes darted toward the clock. There were only fifteen minutes until the end of class—then he could escape. He tried to concentrate on what Mr. Peters was saying and not listen to the strange boy.

  "Thank you, Mr. Fauntroy," said Mr. Peters as the principal left the room. "Now class, in 1812, what did Napoleon do? Can anyone tell me?"

  "Invade Russia," said Whitstable. "Hey, Charlie. It is Charlie, isn't it?"

  "Very good!" said Mr. Peters. "You're off to a promising start, Whitstable."

  Charlie stared hard at the blackboard. "I don't know who you are," he said to Whitstable from the side of his mouth, "but go away."

  Mr. Peter's saw Charlie's mouth moving. "Charlie Goodfellow," he said, "when Napoleon entered Russian in 1812, how many men did he have?"

  Charlie's mouth gaped uncertainly. "I ... er … um," he said.

  "Almost half a million," whispered Whitstable, nudging Charlie’s arm. "Tell him, Charlie!"

  "Almost half a million?" asked Charlie uncertainly.

  "Cor-rect!" said Mr. Peters. "And can anyone tell me how many returned to France after Napoleon's retreat?"

  "Ooh, ooh, I know!" said Whitstable, reaching his hand up as high as he could.

  "Yes?" said Mr. Peters.

  "Less than one hundred thousand," said Whitstable brightly.

  "Very good," said Mr. Peters. "You know European history, young man!"

  That's when the school bell rang for recess. Without being prompted, the children began packing up their books and struggling into their coats. As for Charlie, he gathered up his things and dashed for the door. "Wait for me, Charlie!" said Whitstable, hurrying after him. Charlie bustled down the busy hallway with Whitstable close at his heels. "I want to talk to you about the place that you visited yesterday," said Whitstable from close behind him.

  "I don't want to know anything about it!" said Charlie, not even stopping to turn around. "Leave me alone!" He pushed open the door of the boys’ bathroom, went into a stall, and locked the door behind him. Maybe here, he thought, I can get some peace.

  He was wrong—Whitstable followed him into the toilets and stood outside the cubicle. "Oh, I'm sure that you must at least be a little curious," he said.

  "Look," said Charlie hotly. "I don't know who you are, or what you want, so why don't you go away, OK?"

  There was a pause. Then, leaning back on the stall door, Whitstable said, "Oh, don't talk like that, Charlie—it's most undignified."

  "Undignified?" said Charlie. What kind of kid would use the word undignified? "Where do you come from, anyway? And how do you know my name?"

  "I come from Wizard Heights, of course," said Whitstable, "At least, that's what I call it, and I know everything about you; where you live, where you grew up, what you do on the weekends, your cat's name. I even know what your favorite sandwich is."

  Behind the stall door, Charlie’s eyes quested curiously.

  Wizard Heights? he thought. What on earth is that? And as for his favorite sandwich... "What is it then?" he asked, frowning.

  Whitstable sighed. "Peanut butter and jelly," he said.

  "Ha!" said Charlie. "Anyone could have guessed that! All kids like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!"

  "Yes," said Whitstable, "but not all kids like to put pickles in their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

  Charlie abruptly opened the stall door. "How did you know that?" he asked seriously.

  "Told you," said Whitstable smugly, "I know everything there is to know about you."

  At this moment, the door of the restroom burst open and several boys walked in like they owned the place. It was Clyde Rayburn and his friends. Clyde was the biggest kid in their class. He was built like a tank, had a crew cut, and wore combat fatigues to school. Charlie had heard that his dad was in the army.

  "Well, well, well," said Clyde, sneering Whitstable up and down. "What do we have here? It's the new kid."

  Charlie looked from Clyde to Whitstable nervously, and noticed that Whitstable didn't look concerned at all—far from it. In fact, he looked perfectly nonchalant.

  "And what kind of get-up is this?" asked Clyde. He flicked Whitstable's bow tie with his finger, and at once, Whitstable's eyes, like daggers, were on him.

  "I warn you not to touch that, sir," he advised. "It is the finest silk. An ounce of this silk is worth more than you'll ever earn in a year, so please do not touch it."

  Clyde raised his eyebrows appraisingly. Placing his hands on his hips in a mocking, feminine gesture, he pranced about on the spot. "The finest silk," he said. "Please do not touch it..." The other boys got a kick out of that. Clyde screwed up his face and brought it close to Whitstable’s. "You talk funny," he said menacingly. "Where you from?"

  Whitstable eyed him coolly. "I, sir, am from Wizard Heights," he said, hoisting his nose away.

  "Wizard Heights?" asked Clyde, barely containing laughter. "Whoever heard of that? You must be dense!" The boys burst out laughing.

  Whitstable merely snorted and looked Clyde up and down with derision. "You sir, are the one who is dense!" he declared, fixing Clyde with a triumphant glare.

  Clyde's face fell as the insult sunk in, and Charlie started to feel nervous. He had seen what Clyde could do to those who upset him. He had given the last kid who dared talk back to him a broken arm. Grimacing, Clyde rolled up his sleeves.

  "What ya gonna do with ‘im?" asked a boy with curly black hair and x-ray specs.

  "The same thing we always do with new kids," said Clyde. "Flush his head down the toilet! But this time it's gonna hurt real bad!"

  He grabbed Whitstable by the collar of his shirt and hoisted him off the ground.

  "I told you not to touch me," shrilled Whitstable.

  "You! Outside!" said Clyde, pointing to Charlie. "Unless you want to join him!"

  Some of the boys barged Charlie towards the door, and in truth, Charlie was glad to go. He didn't know what was going to happen, but whatever it was, it wouldn't be good.

  They threw him out and the door slammed behind him. Outside in the polished hallway, Charlie's conscience began to work overtime. Maybe I should go in and help that kid, he thought. But then again, he couldn't do that. If he did, he'd only get beaten up and have his head flushed down the toilet, too. And that kid had kinda deserved it, what with being so rude to Clyde and all. Well, kinda. But what if he told a teacher? There was sure to be one nearby. But if he did that then Clyde's gang would know that he had told on them. He was the only one who'd been in there and left. No, there was nothing that he could do. That kid would just have to put up with the punishment that was dealt to him. It was a hard choice, but there it was. Still, with a name like Augustus Whitstable Febulant, he had probably been beaten up before.

  Charlie turned to leave, but he hadn’t taken a single step before he heard yelling from inside the bathroom.

  "I warned you!" cried Whitstable. "I warned you all!"

  "Shut up, meat brain!" yelled Clyde. And then there were bashing sounds and the banging of a stall door. Charlie tensed. His head sunk lower toward his shoulders with every biff and bash that he heard from the bathroom. He felt bad for the kid now. He had, after all, only been friendly by talking to Charlie.

  Then there came a scream that made Charlie jump. It was t
he kind of scream that ladies make when they see a mouse. There was a brief flurry of startled conversation and all at once the door burst open and the boys bustled out of the restroom, falling over themselves in their hasty attempt to leave. They ran frantically down the hall with disturbed looks upon their faces, occasionally glancing back in fear. Some of them looked like they wanted to cry to their mommies. Charlie looked toward the restroom door with amazement. What had happened? he wondered. Had they beat that kid up a little bit too much? Was there blood? Did they break his nose?

  With trembling fingers, he started to push the door open, but as he did, the door opened from the inside. Clyde Rayburn appeared in the doorway. Only it wasn't Clyde, exactly. For he now had a hairy, pink, twitching pig’s snout. He looked at Charlie with wide, confused eyes, and oinked loudly. Charlie scratched his head in bemusement and watched Clyde walk dazedly down the corridor, continuing to oink plaintively at passersby.

  Lastly, Whitstable appeared. Calmly adjusting his cuffs, he leaned upon the doorframe, polishing his nails on his blazer. "What a porker," he said, grinning guilefully at Charlie. "Oink! Oink!"

  Chapter 5

  Charlie thought that was odd. So odd, in fact, that he decided to leave school at once. He took the rest of the afternoon off and wandered about town for a bit. Then he played Frisbee in the park with his friend, Ian. In the evening he went home, ate some dinner, watched TV, and tried to forget about the strange kid. That was easy because his dad asked him to mow the lawn, and then Charlie had some homework to do. After that he went to his room and read Salamanderman #41, the issue where Salamanderman battles the evil Krog Sisters and manages to rescue Lafar from the clutches of Salvador. After that it was dark, so Charlie changed into his pajamas and lay in bed staring up at the picture of the man who had once been Salamanderman’s best friend, the late, Egixir Valputaro, which was tacked to his ceiling. Then he closed his eyes and began to drift asleep.

  Or he thought he was, for there came a little tap-tap-tap on his windowpane. He sat up, and looking out of the window, saw a small shape on the moonlit lawn in the backyard. Charlie opened the window and stuck his head out. To his dismay he saw that it was the strange kid from school.

  "Hey, Charlie!" said Whitstable, half shouting, half whispering. "Are you going to come out?"

  Charlie withdrew from the moonlit window and sucked in his breath. Then he hissed, "I don't know you! Go away!" He was about to close the window when the pale boy spoke again.

  "You do want to know the secrets of Wizard Heights, don't you?" he asked.

  Charlie froze. He thought about it. Then, returning to the window, he hissed, "Secrets? What kind of secrets?"

  The pale kid's mouth turned up at the ends and his eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "Wonderful secrets!" he said.

  Charlie pondered this for a moment. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock on the table beside his bed. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked. "It's almost midnight!"

  "It's the best time to visit Wizard Heights!" said Whitstable. "You have to see it with me to understand."

  Charlie rolled his eyes and cursed the strange kid under his breath—first for getting him out of his bed on a cold night, and secondly for offering him an adventure that was so intriguing as to be impossible to resist. Finally he gave in. "Hang on," he said with irritation. "I'll come down."

  He closed the window. Then he quickly and quietly pulled on some jeans, struggled into a sweatshirt, and laced up some sneakers. After placing a pillow beneath his blankets to make it seem as if there was a body there, he nimbly tiptoed down the stairs of the house and out through the kitchen door.

  He found Whitstable in the moonlit backyard, waiting for him. Just as before, the boy wore a bow tie, and he also wore an old-fashioned, long woolen coat with some mittens that hung from his sleeves on thread, a scarf, a stripy, knitted hat, tweed trousers that were tied at his ankles by pieces of string, and some old-fashioned, brown leather shoes.

  "Augustus Whitstable Febulant," said the boy, formally offering Charlie his hand.

  "I know who you are," said Charlie, scowling and refusing to shake it.

  "Why didn't you shimmy down the gutter?" asked Whitstable, nodding up to the corner of the house.

  Charlie regarded the gutter with incredulity. "Are you crazy?" he said. "People only do that in movies. If I did that I'd break my neck!"

  Whistable thought about it. "Oh," he said and then, casually, "Shall we depart?"

  Charlie saw that Whitstable had a bicycle with him. It was an old-fashioned contraption that looked like it dated from the 1940s, with wide handlebars and a brown leather seat that had creaky springs beneath it. Its frame was elegantly crafted in a swooping design and it had shiny mudguards over both wheels. On the front of it was mounted a shopping basket.

  "Do you like it?" asked Whitstable, joyfully ringing its bell.

  "Shhh! Don't do that!" said Charlie, patting down the air with his hands. He looked up to his parent’s bedroom window fearfully. "My parents don't know I'm out here y' know."

  "Sorry," said Whitstable. Charlie rolled his eyes. He was beginning to think that Whitstable was the kind of kid who said sorry a lot, but that it never stopped him from doing the things that he wasn't supposed to do.

  "Look," said Charlie, who was now beginning to wonder if this outing might be a very bad idea. "Is it worth all this? I mean ... Wizard Heights?"

  "Of course it is!" said Whitstable. "Just you wait and see, Charlie."

  Again, Charlie was perplexed at the familiar tone that the boy took with him. It was as if the kid thought that he knew him. "How do you know where I live?" he asked, eyeing Whitstable suspiciously. "Are you with the police or something?"

  "Heavens, no!" said Whitstable. "But I do know everything about you. And how? Well, you'll just have to wait and see. Shall we go, then?"

  Reluctantly, Charlie retrieved his bike from the garage. Being a modern mountain bike, it had bright neon colors and rough terrain tires—a complete contrast to Whitstable's bicycle. But then again, Charlie himself was quite a contrast to this strange kid. Anyone would be, unless they had just walked off the set of an old black and white movie. Regardless, the two uncommon companions rode out onto the empty streets.

  "You're lucky you met me," said Whitstable, cycling alongside Charlie with the night's breeze lifting his blond hair. "Nobody else in Wizard Heights will show you what I will."

  "Why?" asked Charlie.

  "Because its all a big secret," said Whitstable, "They don't like strangers, you see."

  Charlie pondered this. If the occupants of Wizard Heights truly were wizards, he thought, then it seemed likely that they would try to disguise the true nature of their home—most likely with magic. Still, he wasn't sure that he could trust Whitstable yet.

  "What about your grandfather?" asked Charlie. "Won’t he be upset if you bring a stranger to Wizard Heights?"

  Whitstable just pedaled for a moment. Then he cast Charlie a sneaky, sideways glance and his mouth turned up at the ends like a cat's. "He won’t be bothering us," he said with relish. "He's dead."

  Charlie stopped pedaling. He glided along in a state of concern.

  "Well," said Whitstable with a philosophical shrug, "not dead exactly—just cryogenically frozen."

  Again there was an awkward pause. Then Charlie swallowed and, somewhat mortified, said, "Ah, I see…" He wondered if this might be a good time to turn around and go straight home, but it was too late for that—the gothic gates were looming in the darkness before them.

  "We'll leave our bicycles here," said Whitstable, ditching his in some ferns. "Come on."

  Charlie hid his bike in the ferns and the two boys, like moonlight creatures, slipped between the gates and into the forest.

  Charlie was overwhelmed by the forest nocturnal. Everywhere he looked was buzzing, clicking darkness.

  "Wizard Heights is the place to be, Daddy-o!" said Whitstable, taking a deep breath and admiring the stars in a se
a of velvet blue amongst the tree canopy above them.

  Removing a lantern from his coat pocket, he lit it with a match, and the warm golden glow revealed his self satisfaction.

  Charlie cast Whitstable an odd, sideways glance. No one said Daddy-o anymore, except actors in old movies that his grandfather watched. Again, he was wondering if it had been a good idea to come out at night with this weird kid, and Whitstable must have sensed it, because he thrust his hands in his pockets, looked at the ground, and absently whistled as if he had been caught saying something that he shouldn't. Then he quickly tried to divert Charlie's attention by saying, "Nothing happens over here by the gates, we have to go to the city to see the sights."

  "City?" said Charlie, confused.

  "You'll see what I mean," said Whitstable, strolling merrily down the path. "Follow me."

  And so, with raised curiosity, Charlie followed Whitstable down the winding bracken path that he had walked the previous day.

  It didn't take them long to reach the lake. Once again, Charlie stood upon its edge, regarding the moonlit waters in which the milky way was reflected

  "Looks fairly ordinary to me," he said as a shooting star passed overhead. "Just as it was yesterday..."

  "Silly me," said Whitstable. "Here. Put this on."

  Taking an ornate bronze, pendant upon a chain from his coat pocket, he placed it over Charlie's head.

  "Get on there! Out of the street!"

  Charlie leapt back from where he stood, and just in time—an elegant black carriage, pulled by four dappled mares, thundered by.

  Charlie glanced about, disoriented. Now, instead of standing on an empty bank of a lake, he saw that they stood within a gas-lit, cobbled Victorian street that was teeming with people. Everywhere they looked, crowds of city folk came and went. Some were nose-in-the-air richly dressed men in frock coats, top hats, cravats, and capes with equally snobby women upon their arms, dressed in elegant satin dresses, while others wore dowdy clothes, and hawked baskets of flowers on their arms, or shiny charms born aloft by monkeys. Pirates, gypsies, and Arabs were gathered beneath the Victorian street lamps, huddling about gold and bronze trinkets, and haggling over the price of jewelry.