by J. Gertori
“Sam—only Artifecs wear robes,” Dara said, throwing her arms to the ceiling.
“But he’s my landlord. I think I’d know if a crazy guy lived beneath me.” Sam thought of questionable moments in the past: the time Gaspare answered the front door and hijacked his ordered food, or when he caught his landlord stumbling home after drowning himself in whiskey—that time a robe would’ve been handy.
“Sir Gaspare’s a great guy—healed my dad more times than I remember. But no way ya’d know if he’d gone mad. Even Artifecs can’t do magic outside Trida. It could’ve been Sir Moltin’ at the hospital. Crissa’s partner mentioned him, and the nurses didn’t get a good look,” said Rowen. “Anyhow, I doubt an Artifec could find ya here. I mean, what would they do beside collapse this entire shack with us inside and flick us into the ocean. I mean, they could also—”
“Dude,” yelled Sam, “feel the room.” He tidied the pile beneath the simmering feather but could only watch as Dara tossed and turned. “You’ll be fine. Crissa will meet us in the morning.”
Dara immersed her wand into a bottle beside her bag until it had emptied. Half of the stick became transparent. She shouted a string of words, twirling her wand to the ceiling in a circular motion. As her magic settled, she plopped to her side and continued to groan.
“Any idea what that was about?” said Sam, angling toward Rowen.
The hudger appeared in deep thought as if he multiplied large numbers in his head. “Think she used an invisibility spell on the cabin.”
“But isn’t invisibility illegal?”
“Protectin’ yer neck’s a good reason to break the rules.”
Sam peeked out the window. To his disbelief, the clubhouse vanished, at least from outside.
Rowen tiptoed to a marshmallow skewer.
“Why the hell are you smiling? You just told Dara a hitman’s after her,” said Sam.
The hudger admired the faded drawings on the lit walls. “Lon’ time ago, the hudgers on my street made a clubhouse between two trees. We’d tell stories of gambits, hexes, curses, and wizards gone bad.” He shot Sam a longing stare, regressing to the tactics of a puppy.
“Lucky me!” said Sam, rolling his eyes.
Rowen jumped in excitement and positioned so the flame illuminated his face. “Man named Albert Yoast made a potion—”
“Grew spikes out his spine and died. Next,” blurted Dara, her back turned to them.
“Much more to the story—whatever. The Damning of Wikuer House is about—”
“A family gathered around the dinner table—youngest daughter drank a tainted vial, transformed into a tiger, and had her family for dessert. Next. And can we refrain from stories where someone dies?”
Rowen growled. He stabbed his skewer above the feather, and with a sudden burst, the marshmallows inflated to the size of footballs. Sam jumped for a skewer of his own.
“The Eternal Lovers,” said Rowen, between bites. He stopped and turned to Dara.
“Go on,” she said, sitting upright.
The hudger broke into a dance; his gloating lasted an exhaustive minute. “This story is passed frem my great-grandad.”
“Instead of family heirlooms, you inherit shady stories?” said Sam.
Rowen volleyed a burning twig at Sam’s leg. “Story involves one of the first Artifecs and a horrible deed.”
“I’m sorry, what’s so special about Artifecs?” said Sam, protecting his groin.
Dara rushed the explanation: “The founding sorcerer, Edmond Lekly, had more powers than the other wizards in Trida. Before his death, he divided those powers between seven wizard—the Artifecs. Each has a specialty—telepathy, enchantment, transformation, yada yada yada. Get it—got it—good. Go on.”
“Wait, so Mr. Gaspare isn’t just a wizard, but a wizard on steroids?”
Rowen cleared his throat. “As I was sayin’, this is the story of Sir Monday, his daughter Emma, and the man with whom she fell in love. Now, there’s contradictin’ tellin’s of this story. Some swear Emma’s lover was a wizard. Some say an original pact. Others say he came frem the sea. But fer the sake of tradition—he was a hudger.”
Sam and Dara inched closer. In the brief lull, Sam brought his skewer to the feather’s warmth and fell backward as the marshmallows expanded in a snap.
“Sir Monday forbade their love, goin’ as far as riftin’ the hudger to Okra Island, to live amon’ animals. But no matter the obstacle, he returned to Emma. The two men clashed fer years, ’til Sir Monday went mad. He started neglectin’ his duties. And without him overseein’ certain potions, impure vials were given to waves of youn’ wizards, passin’ their sicknesses to the next generations. Illnesses Sir Gaspare still deals with today.
“Sir Monday focused on removin’ the hudger fer good. He took to the streets and found a solution: tonics dreamt in the worst corners of Lekly, mixed with hexes frem wizards in Persolus jail. He asked the hudger to join ’em fer dinner. Emma cried of course—tears of joy. She drank with her lover that night, but it was her last.
“Desperate to prove his point, Sir Monday transformed Emma and the hudger into separate species. They completely changed inside and out. Forced to see each other the way Sir Monday always intended—different.” At this point, Dara had crept close enough that the ash birds could land on her knee if they dared. “As a twisted form of compassion fer his daughter, he damned them to live forever.”
“Wow. I’ve heard stories of the Monday family but never this. What did Sir Monday turn them into?” said Dara, her chin cradled in her hands.
“Dad swears one’s a springlocke—would explain why they volunteer to carry hudgers around. Safe to say, nobody knew. Not even Sir Monday’s son, who put out a reward: mountains of quin fer the person that finds his sister.”
“Tell me the Artifec went to jail,” said Sam, devouring a chunk of the gooey, sugary treat.
“Not sure. Sir Monday lost his magic, though. And instead of the Artifec title goin’ to the next in his bloodline—it went a woman frem another family.”
“Well, that was disturbing. Anything else you want to share?” said Sam.
“I got a story,” uttered Dara. Her wand sparked, illuminating her features as her voice sunk deep. “The group of five who searched for the beast of London,” she said in an ominous tone.
Rowen pretended to snore. “Talkin’ ’bout the League of Londoners? That’s how ya follow my story? Wake me when yer done. By the way, there were six.”
The wizard withdrew her wand with a sour expression from having tasted her own medicine. “Then, I’ll match your transformation tale with my own. Have you heard of Heru Colony’s Old Neighborhood?”
Rowen looked suspicious, perhaps deciphering if Dara was sly enough to fabricate a story.
“Ha. Books can only teach so much. Before most of Heru became a wasteland, there stood a beautiful park with an enormous medley tree. Different fruits sprouted from its branches every season, and a variety of animals would flock from Okra. The tree had perpetually orange leaves, golden-brown bark, magenta-colored flowers at its base. And the soil, let me tell you—”
“Can ya get to the point of yer story?” blurted Rowen.
“Fine. The park had a single flaw: a man would come every evening and shoo away the park goers. They called him Old Gump. Well, Old Gump argued that the influx of visitors compromised the park’s serenity. In his defense, several animals had died as a result of being fed things they shouldn’t have. So Old Gump had good intentions, but his tactics were extreme.
“He’d attack wizards, hex gates to freeze anyone who came at night, and bewitched nearby plants to form walls around the park. But Old Gump was fighting a losing battle; he was old as shit and didn’t have much, except for the animals that flocked there, and the medley tree that fed him every day. Old Gump needed to devise a way to forever protect the grounds he called home.”
Dara took a break, which might’ve been to rile Rowen rather than build tension. She humm
ed and made herself a skewer.
“His crazy idea was to become the medley tree. He planned to meld himself into the staple of the park so that he could ensure its safety. Somehow, someway, he made it happen. But he didn’t realize this act would poison the tree and deteriorate the nearby greenery. It’s golden bark rotted and gave off a swampy smell, and fewer fruits emerged from its branches, sometimes none at all. The park fell off the face of the Earth.
“In an ironic twist, the birds and animals he swore to protect became his sole source of food. Some say if you venture into the forgotten outskirts of Heru, and you’re just the right amount of crazy, you can catch a glimpse of Old Gump luring the odd crow into his thorny branches.”
Sam’s eyes bulged, and he chewed much slower.
“That’s it? That story is made up, and not the least bit scary,” groaned Rowen, scooting away from the window. He held his wand tight. “Yer sister’s so against rogue wands, but I’d bet the two of ya don’t know Fiora plants are in them, just like yers.”
“Hardly,” Dara said. “Registered wands use Fiora flowers. Rogue variants use Fiora buds.”
“Same plant—frem the same dead girl.”
“What?” blurted Sam. “Alright, I’m having nightmares tonight.”
“Here’s some history for you, Sammie. Courtesy of The Founding Wizard—”
“Figures. University textbooks never tell the entire story,” said Rowen.
“Edmond Lekly fell in love with a wizard named Amelia Fortuna. Lady Amelia was—and most historians would back me on this—as powerful as Lekly himself. The two had a child: a beautiful girl named Fiora. Sadly, despite healing elixirs, tonics, and spells, Fiora died before her fifth birthday. They buried her in the Manor Garden, where something amazing happened.”
“A breed of flower sprouted over her grave,” said Rowen, hijacking the story. “They spread like wildfire across the garden. With proof that Fiora’s magic lived on, Lekly made the garden invisible as Trida is to the outside. Only he and Lady Amelia—”
“—could see the garden,” Dara blurted. “Nowadays, the Artifecs can see it. But that’s proof in itself that a part of Sir Edmond is with them. Fiora flowers are stable enough for official wands. The buds, however, are too volatile. The idea of free magic is cool, but wand control is necessary.”
“Pfft.” Rowen’s thick brows met in the middle.
“How do you know this many stories, spells, and potions? I thought hudgers distance themselves from wizard studies. In the wagon, you mentioned Arcadia beetles. We didn’t study entomology mixtures at Belle Reets until year three. And I still don’t remember that shit.” said Dara.
“Read ’bout it.”
“What book? A rogue market publication? I swear if I went through years of school—”
“Concoctions: Land to Sea.” Rowen turned away.
“That’s a university textbook. How would you have seen—”
“It’s Dad’s. He got full wizard status at Silver Torch School of Alchemy—one of the only hudgers that’s finished.”
“Rowen, that’s amazing!”
The hudger scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. Dad barely uses spells and don’t even own a wand.”
“Well, he didn’t cut Dara with his fingernails,” said Sam.
Rowen lowered to his back. The others followed, staring at the palm leaf roof that swayed with the gentle breeze.
Dara cleared her throat. “When life gives you lemons . . . mix that bitch with mapleberry seeds and redwood stout. That’ll do the trick.”
Rowen burst into laughter and rolled on the floor. Sam, on the other hand, smiled out of courtesy. He waited for the two to settle. “Hey, I know to be a pact, a relative of yours had to have also been one. How would a fleshling learn if they’re eligible?”
Rowen looked ready to outline the history of pacts, but Dara intervened. “They get a visit.”
“And if they don’t want to work on Trida?”
“The conversion rate is pretty high, Sam. Most pacts uproot altogether and start families here. But there’s a tonic available on the off-chance the candidate refuses the offer. It would be like the visit never happened.”
“Okay—so there would be vacant jobs.” Sam fell to his back, a glint of hope in his eye. To stick around he’d merely have to accomplish what he failed to back home: find a job.
Sam had survived a day on Trida but falling asleep seemed as big an obstacle as any. He reimagined Dara constricted on the floor, and thought it might’ve subdued his response to Mr. Mack’s death. The memory of the dead guard flashed under his eyelids: the swampy stench at the front door, the framed photos of Mack with his boot planted above the hunted animals, then his eyes—vacant and glossy—an inch from the desk. The wrench in his stomach returned, perhaps from the sugar overload.
Rowen’s overalls, Sam thought; it sparked a giggle, but Mack’s image poisoned his glee. He tried reliving his stroll in Fizzawick’s Bazaar, and a smile twitched in the corners of his mouth.
At age seven, Sam got lost in a crowded zoo because he chose to follow his parent’s shoes among the stampede of patrons. Confident they had left the zoo, returned home, and forgot about their lone child, Sam went to the closest exhibit: jungle snakes. But to his surprise, he wasn’t afraid of the serpents; as if his debilitating fear of being lost canceled the fear of this reptile that could swallow him whole. This nostalgic sensation reared its head at Fizzawick’s Bazaar. Gone was his fear of being the ultimate outsider in a place of unknowns, but he worried about the staleness of life without magic and wonder.
Sam’s eyelids drooped. The simmering sound of the feather lulled him to sleep.
“I’ll take one,” grunted Rowen.
“You got it,” said Dara, popping another marshmallow.
TEN
The Nightlife
Sam rose in a sweat, not from of the condensed warmth, but from the nightmare that stirred him awake. He flapped his moist shirt and struggled to catch his breath. At the far end of the clubhouse, Dara lay sound asleep with skewers outlining her body. Sam found Rowen snoring beneath Dara’s books, which he assembled into a fort.
The dream faded fast, but Sam recalled the paper in his back pocket, which, in the nightmare, led a faceless killer to the clubhouse. The robed figure stood near the rocky ledge, moving closer to the elevated shack until they hovered above Dara and Rowen. The killer drew their wand, but that’s when Sam awoke. Just a dream, he thought.
He brandished the blank sheet, which he stole from Mack’s desk. Sam contemplated burning the paper and stretched it to the feather as an ash birds flew across to reveal its invisible contents:
½ cup pickled wipwasp hive, kept frozen
2 ears of lemon corn soaked in Ree water
obsolete offering
the full tail of a dying lion hawk
elmer tree heart and 3 cups of sap
left tongue of a deceased moopur
2 ½ pint wocem reduction
Arco Delvis 7 pm Meek’s
Mack had been hard at work. He had crossed most items off the list, except for “Obsolete Offering” and “Arco Delvis.”
The vivid nightmare nailed itself to Sam’s mind, far too ominous to ignore. If abandoning the group meant Dara and Rowen’s safety, then Sam wouldn’t hesitate to leave them in his dust. Besides, his feeble understanding of Trida’s magic would cause them more harm than good.
Sam returned the warm paper into his pocket and came to Rowen’s side. The hudger’s head peeked from a book-bound fortress. Despite Sam’s urgency, the desire to leave a token of his gratitude was far too powerful to fight. He knelt beside Rowen and placed the heaviest book over the hudger’s face like a tent.
The rickety cabin creaked with every step, but worse, he’d forgotten its invisibility. He placed his foot where the ladder should be, except it wasn’t. Sam plummeted to the dried grass and sharp rocks below. An excellent start to his solo adventure.
Luckily, a flood of chirping cricke
ts drowned out his noisy escape. A distant howl told of how late it must’ve been. The kind of hour when the sketchiest characters roamed the streets back home. Along the horizon, lights flickered through the high meadows like a billboard. He could either backtrack through the hodgepodge of weeds and corkscrew turns only an Avabelle sister could conquer, or trudge toward the mysterious lights, where libations could be waiting. And though familiarity and safety held a sweet spot in Sam’s psyche, so, too, did late night drinks with questionable company.
It didn’t take long for him to realize he’d bit off more than he could chew. The sprinkle of stars provided enough light to wade through the brush, but you’d need owl eyes to see your feet. He proceeded with caution, at least in the first ten minutes of the journey. His fear of vermin inspired a light jog, and soon enough, he tripped into the bed of darkness.
While prying himself loose, he noticed the distant lights moved higher than eye level. The brilliant glare remained a mile or two away, but a glow near the end changed to bright blue and expanded at an alarming rate.
“This can’t be good,” whispered Sam, watching the blue light travel downward. He sprinted but caught a face full of brush and could no longer pass through the tall greenery. So he ran beside it like a guide until, again, he smashed into the leaves. Panic controlled Sam, who stomped into the soil with no choice but to follow the path. After three dead ends and one pathetic dropkick, he concluded the field had stretched into an unforgiving maze. The hum of the blue light came into range. Louder, and louder—crack!
A mighty blow thrust Sam along the shrubbery, ripping the plants as he tumbled to his side. The erratic orb paraded before him like a dazzling light show. The squared hedges formed impenetrable barriers, and rows of triangle fruits lined the leaf walls in a perfect pattern.
“Thought you could steal my wisphounds right under my nose, did you?” shouted a balding fairy, aiming his sharp, silver wand.
“No! This isn’t what it looks like,” shouted Sam, buried under the sun-kissed fruit.
