Rift Between Lands (The Trida Series Book 1)

by J. Gertori

  Lifting the visor enough to expose his chin, Sam took a sip. It wasn’t bad, then again, he drank coffee as much as he visited New York’s Time Square—hardly ever.

  “ . . . I’ll do a Midnight Brew with extra mapleberries—largest size ya got,” said a stout man, leaning on the counter.

  “You got it!” said the barista at the front. As the man dug into his suit jacket, the barista reached out, trapping his arm in place. “Put that away, Mr. Digglebee. It’s on the house.”

  Curious about the man’s identity, Sam stepped forward, but two giggling children distracted him. A little girl reached into her mother’s bag with ninja-like precision and brandished a folded wand. With her friend’s jeers to egg her on, she aimed the stick toward a glass case of treats. Sam could see her lips moving before embers shot from the wand. The top row of desserts smashed against the glass then sagged as a smear of icing.

  As the crowd muted from the commotion, Sam caught sight of Rowen. He zigzagged through the coffee addicts and weeded through huts of bags and colorful clothing. Sam held his breath to let the fog inside his visor fade. This constant action made him loopy, though the surrounding smell of burning oils didn’t help. He barreled through another set of shops but crashed into wind chimes that hung above.

  “Hey! You break it; you buy it,” screamed the clerk. She blurted another phrase and jabbed her wand. The fallen merchandise returned to their original spots, but Rowen disappeared into the droves of shoppers walking in every which way.

  Sam had enough of the hudger’s disappearing act; he decided to find the potion store on his own. As he patted his pockets, he had a minor panic attack—he lost his phone. Had it fallen out during the trip into the manor? Did a hudger steal it as he lay unconscious? In truth, he left his phone in his apartment, but the separation anxiety made Sam irrational.

  Colorful banners stretched across the road and tied onto beautiful street lights. Under which, Sam found a silver placard like the signs in the mansion. He grazed the placard’s brim, causing a ripple that revealed a map of the marketplace. The words FIZZAWICK’S BAZAAR adorned the top, while a pinhole indicated Sam’s position.

  “Trixie’s . . . Trixie’s,” he whispered, skimming through the robust directory. Soon after, the sign swelled and separated the shops into categories. Sam cruised through the list and landed on the food section. “Felix & Froggy & Fern, Gravert’s Walnuts, Jellyprawns, Pearsom’s—” His stomach rumbled, so he rushed to the bottom half of the list.

  “Ah!” he blurted, finding the Potions & Healing section. “Alchemy Abe, Evander’s Pipe Room, Ocean Potions . . . Trixie’s Fixers & Elixirs!” He laughed at the small victory. “Alright . . . center area, number twelve.” The boomerang-shaped marketplace had numbers above each shop, making it easy to navigate.

  “Need to go into Morrow Pawn before Trixie’s,” a voice said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Sam clenched his teeth upon recognizing the speaker. “You’ve been enough help, thanks. I’ll take it from here.”

  Rowen slurped on a cold treat. “Fine by me, but how will ya pay fer the elixirs? I mean, they’ll cost a decent amount of quin.”

  Quin? Sam thought. His head drooped as he stopped walking. “How do I change my money?” he said, sighing.

  Rowen squinted. “Even a first-year pact would know where to go.”

  “Of course,” muttered Sam, masking his confusion with a confident pose. He stepped in the reverse direction.

  “That way? Thinkin’ of tradin’ in yer teeth?” Rowen said, chuckling.

  “What? No, no, I’ll be keeping my teeth.”

  “Would make sense if ya got extra ones ya don’t need. A charlaron will pay ya a few chubs. Who knows what they use ’em fer?”

  “Charlarons—they’re like tooth fairies?”

  “Don’t be foolish—a fairy don’t got any use fer yer teeth.”

  “Quit jerking me around. Where I can convert my money?”

  “Currency Corner, right across Trixie’s. But they won’t appreciate the helmet. Save yerself the trouble. Go to Morrow Pawn, trade fer chubs, and we’ll go right to Trixie’s. After, ya can exchange yer money and get yerself somethin’ to eat.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to bring me food?”

  “Had to pay fer the helmet, didn’t I?”

  • • •

  For the most part, the shops in Fizzawick’s Bazaar looked unique from one another, and eye pleasing gaps separated each building. Morrow Pawn, however, took differentiation to a new level. This dreary shop stuck out like a rogue hair growing from a mole. It wasn’t because of its frail planks that patterned the exterior in a shoddy mosaic, nor its sign that hung so low anyone taller than six foot might find themselves unconscious. No, those were forgivable. The placement of the pawn shop irked Sam most, for each of these quirks belonged to a slim store wedged tight between two buildings.

  The pair marched into Morrow Pawn, where Sam ducked and dodged en route to the front desk. Inside its glass case were extravagant trinkets like jewel crested wands, crystal cacti, and beetle-beaded skulls. There were also mundane items like gum wrappers, soda bottles, and a dusty flip-phone. A section devoted to fedoras remained at the bottom of the case—even here, people couldn’t get rid of them fast enough.

  “Might you be selling a used wand or an old class cardigan?” said a jittery man to their side. Sam flinched backward and fixated on the man’s impressive volume of pepper-colored hair.

  “No? Hmm.” He approached from under a bridge of bikes and oddities that formed an archway. “Maybe you’ve got homemade elixirs or enchanted silverware?” A stale odor filled the store as the man neared. “How about cursed reptile ornaments, firebird feathers, carnivorous tea leaves, mumbling marsh flies, coral staffs, thunder beans, or century-aged scotch?” He pressed on, coming close enough for his rancid odor of raw beef to waft under Sam’s helmet.

  Rowen yanked on the fleshling’s calf, pointing upward through the glass case. The peculiar exchange left Sam dumbfounded and unsure if this man was the store owner or an eerie panhandler. Heeding Rowen’s prompt, Sam found a golden call bell on the counter. He flicked its knob, producing a loud chime.

  The man seemed to shrink as a hulking gentleman appeared from a doorway behind the desk. “If you’re looking to trade something extravagant, you come find me,” The odd man said, placing a business card on the glass counter before wobbling away. The card had a silver cat with a long tail, which it chased in a continuous figure eight.

  Sam read the text and muttered, “Fortuitous Finds. Ronaldo Montrose: Pursuer.” By the time he had lifted his gaze, the large fellow had stood before them. Expressionless, the man focused on the back wall. His lunchbox-sized hand covered the business card and crumpled it in his fist.

  “Hi, I’d like to pawn,” said Sam, his voice cracking. To this point, he hadn’t decided what he’d pawn. In fact, he assumed Rowen had an item. They bickered among themselves until the towering man presented his open palm. Sam scavenged his pockets for anything remotely interesting. He cringed at the scraping on the glass as two reddish claws poked from the bell and dragged forward. A spotted hermit crab crept into the stoic man’s hand and repositioned itself to face Sam and Rowen.

  The man raised the crab to his chest, dipped a battered wand into a bowl of tie-dye liquid, and held it between the crab’s twig-like antennae. A bubble formed at the tip of the stick, bouncing as it grew; it separated twice before popping.

  “Present—your—item,” said a hoarse, airy voice.

  Astounded, Sam covered his mouth. The sight of the talking crab seemed to erase his thoughts. Another string of bubbles dislodged from the wand and burst in order.

  “The—ring,” said the voice. “Sell—not—pawn.”

  Sam removed his hand from his mouth and stared at the dirty ring around his finger. In a high pitch, he uttered, “Uh, I’d prefer to pawn. But if you wanna buy something from me, I might have super-old movie stubs in my pocket—”
r />   “Give it to ’em,” grunted Rowen.

  “This ring was a gift. Don’t you have a book of riddles or a pot of gold you can trade?”

  “If I had a pot of gold, ya think we’d be in here?”

  “That’s beside the point. I’m not gonna just—”

  “Yer gonna haggle with a crab?”

  The stoic man let out a deep grunt, silencing the two. Sam removed the ring and glared at the greenish hue it left behind. He twirled it between his thumb before setting it on the glass.

  A minty stench filled the store as ashes fell from the shopkeeper’s wand. The crab’s appraisal popped in the middle. “Thirty—quins.”

  Rowen danced and banged on Sam’s leg.

  “And—five—chubs.” The large man swiped the ring before the final bubble burst. “Scrivo,” said the ethereal voice. A card and coin shot from the wand.

  “This is the quin?” Sam held the small paper. The number thirty hovered on each corner of the translucent money. Below the center portraits were the names Sir Edward and Lady Amelia. He flipped the blue coin in his other hand, “And this is a chub?” As he placed the money together, the coin vanished. Sam dropped the card and inspected his hands.

  The stoic man pointed at the number thirty-five in the corner, underlined in blue.

  “Pull it apart,” Rowen said.

  Sam took the quin in his sweaty hands and stretched it apart. With a playful pop, the paper and coin separated. The duo behind the counter moved to the nearby display case to assist another customer. With nothing left to offer, Sam thanked the unlikely pair and hurried to the front door. He laughed at Rowen, whose foot got tangled in a rope that led to a ship plank encased in glass with the words San Andres. The myriad of underwater knickknacks made sense after having met its owner.

  As uncomfortable as Sam might’ve appeared during the trade, the volume of alluring items packed into this tiny shop convinced him that he’d like to return, even just to see his ring perched among the rest of this collection. They maneuvered around the taxidermy otters and exited into the searing sun.

  FOUR

  Fixers & Elixirs

  The magical ambiance seeped into Sam’s thoughts, manifesting in the form of vigilant curiosity. No longer hell-bent on keeping tabs on Rowen, he navigated the market much easier and stole glances into every shop he passed. Nothing would prevent him from experiencing more wizardry—the more outlandish the better. But most surprising, Sam wanted to share the Morrow Pawn story with someone—anyone. He even considered his upstairs neighbors, Jan and Jim, or the Korean fellow that usually slept on him during morning train commutes.

  Sam bolted to a young woman inside a yellow stand who shouted over her wand, “Samples. Get your samples.” Her name was Buffy, according to her shiny name tag.

  “Hello, would you like to try a sample of M-Mullbor Mason’s, uh . . . Neptune Stout Waffles?” she said, as stiff as her posture.

  “Wasn’t this a candle stand a few days ago?” Rowen said.

  “We offer a range of s-sizes. Twelve ounces to twenty-two ounces—wait, that’s not right.” Buffy diverted her attention to a sheet on her desk.

  “Yeah, this place sold all sorts of smelly wax. A friend of mine got tricked into buyin’ one that made his house stink like old cheese.”

  “Limburger cheese scented,” Buffy said, smiling at the memory.

  “Knew it!” shouted Rowen.

  Sam nudged the hudger away. “You mentioned something about stout and—pinch me if I’m wrong—waffles.” He outstretched his hands like a baby yearning for a bottle.

  Buffy presented a plate of two waffles. Her eyes still glued on her script. “I can’t find the information, but one of these is the Neptune stout. The other’s a Mars malt.”

  “This place sold somethin’ before candles. What was it?” Rowen asked.

  “You’re probably talking about Cuddle Shapers, the shape-shifting pillow. They now have a flagship store in Northchester, Wulf.”

  Sam took a quick sniff of the brown waffle. A tang of dark chocolate slapped his nose. He moved onto the crimson waffle, sneezing from the whiff of prunes and newly cut grass. But even if the food smelled like rotten eggs doused with gasoline, Sam would’ve inhaled them.

  Nearby children emitted a long-winded gasp at the sight of him chomping the waffles from top to bottom like a typewriter rushing through a page. The fleshling twisted toward them; his cheeks cratered with food. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, shooting chunks of waffle. “I’m an adult.”

  “I’m happy to watch ya make a fool of yerself, but there’s no alcohol in those,” said Rowen.

  Sam pushed the food to one side of his mouth. “I knew that,” he said, in a defeated tone.

  Buffy read her notes: “Fight the heat with Mullbor Mason’s seaweed and ginger pick-me-up. It smells like the ocean with spicy, bite-sized squares of ginger and—”

  “I think we got the gist,” said Sam. His neck tensed, and he fought the urge to dry heave. “You nailed the sales pitch that time, but I think you lost us.”

  “Did I, though?” Buffy said, glancing at the hudger who guzzled the canned drink in a single breath.

  She smiled at Sam. “So would you like a box of waffles and a six-pack of drink for him?”

  “Thanks for the eats, but we’re gonna pass . . .” Sam said, watching Buffy’s nervous smile subside, “ . . . for now. Do you have a card, in case I have a craving for salt water?”

  “I don’t, um—well, I do, but I don’t—let me start again. I don’t work for Mullbor Mason. I work for Fizzawick’s. I test different products to see if the mass market wants them. If all goes well, they get a store like Cuddle Shapers did.” She then whispered something that faded into the marketplace.

  “What?” said Sam.

  “I bought four,” Buffy mumbled.

  Rowen belched; his eyes looked glossy having finished the tall drink.

  As they left the stand, Sam hollered, “You’re better at this than you think. You found a way to silence Rowen for a minute—not easy. Lose the script and be yourself.” He lifted his thumb toward her and faded into the crowd.

  Sam strolled through Fizzawick’s with a noticeable pep in his step. Despite being an outsider in every sense of the word, the flurry of shoppers gave him further anonymity.

  The duo arrived at the center of Fizzawick’s Bazaar just before twelve—noted by a clock that hung on a brick post. On the left side of the cobblestone street, Sam found Trixie’s Fixers & Elixirs. While he rested on the bench under the clock’s shadow, Rowen sprinted to the shop. Sam wanted to scream for the stubborn hudger, but by now he understood it would fall on deaf ears.

  From its exterior, one could deduce Trixie’s to be an eccentric store. It had pearly stones and a canopy of magenta flowers, which seemed to dance around its signage. A cold blast greeted Sam at its purple entryway, courtesy of a table with rotating bottles. The largest had ice crusted on its brim, while the other vials whirled a scented breeze.

  “Welcome! Look around and revel in our concoctions,” said a spry voice.

  Sam looked for the speaker and entered a new stage of disbelief as a woman, a fraction of Rowen’s height, flew toward the register. She carried a leafy wand, and a pair of vials trailed.

  “We’ve got a sale on Angel Tonic, Catwood Stout, and Seersucker Solution. Anything else, feel free to ask.” She flew through a display stand toward a group of snickering children. “Don’t play with those bulbs! How many times have I told you, Miriam? Your mother would have my head if she found you here.”

  The woman drifted ahead of Rowen, who stood atop a sketchy set of crates. Two tubes dropped on the desk and rolled to his front. “Alright, pinch of Reminder Unwinder and Hono—”

  “Perfect, Trixie. That’s all,” said Rowen.

  Trixie flicked her wispy fingers as her florescent wings fluttered in place. “That’ll be thirty quins. Taking it now or want it sent home?”

  A glass splattered on the ground,
and the children went silent. Trixie darted around the bubbling bottle in Sam’s hand and drew her wand.

  “Miriam Westwood!” screamed Trixie. Miriam and the boys beside her scrambled, each of them determined to escape the fairy’s wrath. The skinny friend stumbled as he leapt over a crate of bumblebee-shaped glasses; he and Miriam escaped unscathed. Trixie flew to the remaining child: a stocky runt with large teeth that rolled his lip and eyelids that wouldn’t stop blinking.

  Sam watched from his aisle, straightening every potion bottle in his immediate reach.

  “And who might you be, young man?” Trixie said, in a calm tone.

  “Chester Price, M-Ma’am.”

  “Ah, a Price. Chester, dear boy, do you have any clue what you’ve spilled?”

  “N-no.”

  “Then you don’t know what might’ve happened if it were to absorb into your fair skin.”

  “N-no, Ma’am.”

  Opening his visor, Sam got a better look at the scattered concoction.

  “Chester, this particular tonic can split the average adult in two. It’s a painful price to have a copy of oneself.” Trixie hovered closer to the boy. “I’ve never tested it on someone your age. And at this concentration, we might be able to rip you into four pieces. Care to give it a spin?” She nudged her vine-covered wand at Chester. He screamed and sprinted away, barreling into a young, cardigan-clad man in the process.

  “Where were we?” said Trixie, zipping to the register.

  “Correct me if I’m wron’, but wasn’t that a hair dye tonic?” said Rowen.

  “Those little jerks always cause trouble in here. A little white lie won’t kill them.”

  “Yer idea of white seems muddy.”

  “And you’re one to talk. Are you claiming your mischievous days are behind you?”

  “We all mature sooner or later.”

  “Heh, sure,” said Trixie, rolling the hudger’s vials.

  Rowen huffed. “Thirty quins is steep. Not givin’ discounts anymore?”

  “Strictly for Lekly Manor workers, not their mature sons. I’ll need Raske here in person.” She turned her attention to the mess and uttered “Capto” to lift the shards and “Conmoro” to hold them in the air. “Jenna, bring in the mossweed mop.”