by Jake Kerr
He turned to me. "What do you think, Tommy?" He flipped on the flashlight and shone it in my face. "Boo!"
Grandfather wasn’t amused. He stopped in front of Mister Oz and replied, “Well, apparently they didn't want to wait." Sighing, he added, “I’m getting old and careless, Baraz. Why would I leave the house without a flashlight?”
Mister Oz slapped Grandfather on the back and held up the box connected to the electric lamp. “You would walk around the city carrying this?” He smiled. “Besides, why would you leave the house with a flashlight? We’ve had twenty years of peace, and much of that is due to your kindness to the Shadows.”
My grandfather grunted. “Peace, kindness… the fact that we are using these words tells me how old and careless we have gotten, Baraz.”
Mister Oz nodded solemnly, but immediately smiled again. “You are too hard on yourself. Who would expect the Shadows to do such a thing? They have been quiet for all this time."
"No, Baraz. I was foolish to expect—to hope—for peace and quiet." He looked at me and his frown lessened a bit. I could feel the tension leaving his body under the iron grip I had on his sleeve. “This is no one’s fault but my own.”
He reached down and put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s about time Tommy learned about his legacy. Come, let’s talk about this over dinner. It is dangerous business when the Shadows not only break their treaty but attack the one who saved them.”
Mister Oz fell in step with Grandfather. “Indeed, my friend. The Shadows are lucky Vingrosh was not there. He would have torn them to shreds for attacking their savior.”
“Vingrosh was there.” The news must have stunned him, as Mister Oz stopped suddenly, grabbed my grandfather’s shoulder, and spun him around to face him.
“Are you sure, Pehlivan? I find this almost impossible to believe.”
“I am sure. He said that my time was done in this world and that he wanted the staff.” My grandfather shrugged and started walking toward the restaurant. “He was surprised I didn’t just give it to him, and I can’t blame him. My time is done, Baraz."
Mister Oz was quiet, but I noticed him shaking his head. As he entered the door in front of us, he turned over the sign in the window so that it showed “closed.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE CHEF'S TABLE
My parents died in a subway crash when I was three years old, which led my grandfather to never use the subway again. Even trains made him nervous. As a result my life centered around locations within walking distance of his apartment in Manhattan Valley or, on special occasions, a horse-drawn carriage down Central Park to Midtown.
The closest theater to us was the Ziegfeld, and our weekend carriage trips to the theater were a welcome escape from my Grandfather’s claustrophobic apartment. But even the glamorous Ziegfeld couldn’t compare to the excitement of the Persian Garden.
Entering the Persian Garden was like entering a foreign country, a place marked not just by strange furnishings and people but also new and exotic smells—rich spices and incense that caused my head to spin. Everything made all the more intense by the subtle lighting of candles and gas lamps.
In the past, the carved wood of the chairs and the booths and the rich and colorful tapestries led to flights of fancy over every meal, but after my experience with the Shadows, the subdued lighting gave everything the potential of being something sinister. Every flickering light cast a moving shadow, and I wondered which would be the one that would flow across the floor and envelop me in darkness. To make matters worse, as I looked around I noticed for the first time that there wasn’t a single artificial light. Grandfather seemed unconcerned, however, and he strode purposefully through the main dining room toward the back, followed by Mister Oz.
Normally we ate at a large booth near the front of the restaurant, but we passed right by it. In fact, we passed all of the booths and tables and entered the kitchen through a doorway filled by hanging beads. As the beads slapped against the back of my head, I took in a room that could have come right out of the previous century.
The kitchen was a mixture of wood preparation counters and large iron ovens and stoves, the kind which have long since been abandoned for smaller and more modern equipment. The walls were stone and the floor a colorful tile. Four men were busy preparing meals, all of whom were wearing robes and sandals and intent on their work.
There was a small wooden booth in the back which looked like it could fit about four people. My grandfather slipped into a seat, followed by Mister Oz, who sat across from him. My grandfather snapped his fingers and then patted the seat next to him when I looked his way. “How’s your hand?” he asked.
“Almost back to normal.”
“That will teach you,” he replied as I slid beside him. He reached above my head and flipped a switch on the wall which I hadn’t noticed. The table was immediately bathed in white neon light. In the environment of the warm restaurant and its archaic kitchen, the effect was cold and ugly.
Mister Oz smiled and said, “Your paranoia is returning.”
Grandfather shrugged as a young man came up to the table and slid glasses of water in front of us. He said something in Farsi which I couldn't understand. Mister Oz nodded and answered him. The waiter strolled off, and Mister Oz turned to my grandfather. "Should we call for my father?"
"No." Grandfather shook his head. "He didn't understand before, and I doubt he understands now. He'll just bring up pointless distractions." Mister Oz nodded.
Grandfather took a long drink from his glass and then set it on the table in front of him. He ran his fingers through his unruly hair, and then folded his hands, resting them on the table, slow and deliberate. He peered at Mister Oz. They were silent as I looked from one to the other.
“What is happening, Grandfather?” I asked. I thought of the magical creatures, which I had considered long extinct. The fear of the attack was starting to fade, and I had to admit that I was rather excited about the possibility of magic—real magic—in Manhattan.
He reached over and tousled my hair without looking at me. “That’s the question now, isn’t it?” I considered a more specific question, but he was no longer paying any attention to me. “For twenty years all I have wanted was to be left alone. I left England, rejoined my family, dealt with tragedy.” Grandfather paused, tapped his glass with his finger, and then continued, “You and your father have been great friends, honoring my request and defending my privacy." He leaned forward. “But I hear things, Baraz. I know there is trouble on the Continent. I hear of an illusionist with great power in Germany. I know that young fool Cain is consolidating his power in England. And now this," Grandfather waved a hand toward the front of the restaurant, "with the Shadows."
He leaned back and sighed, while Mister Oz remained quiet and attentive. "I have been foolish, Baraz, to expect that the burden of the staff could just be forgotten, to think that magic would just fade away along with my family's legacy." My grandfather took another drink from his glass.
"Magic is fading, Declan." I looked over my shoulder, startled. The voice came from an older man dressed in colorful robes standing to the side and behind me. He was short and stout, with a wrinkled face. Despite his age, his hair was thick and black, without a hint of grey. It was wavy, but cut short. His eyes shone, and more than anything he looked like a kindly old man lecturing a child. I had seen him before in the restaurant but had never met him.
"And to think they say that wisdom comes with age," Grandfather stated.
The old man smiled, and I immediately knew who he was. His smile was broad and identical to one that I had seen many times, that of his son. “You're Mister Oz's father!"
The old man looked at me. "Indeed I am, and you are Thomas, the grandson of the Pehlivan."
"What's a Pehlivan?" I asked, as Mister Oz mirrored his father's smile. I remembered that Mister Oz had called my grandfather that in the alley.
Grandfather raised his hands and in an exasperated voice said, "Oh, now you
've done it, Ali. You may as well join us and spin a tale or two."
Mister Ali laughed and sat down across from me. He turned to my grandfather. "So Master Thomas knows nothing?” Grandfather must have nodded, because Mister Ali laughed again, but it wasn’t the deep joyous laugh that marked his son. This was one of resignation. “It is why the staff usually skips a generation, Declan. I should have expected this. You all hold on too long.”
"Does it matter? You are the one that says magic is dying." Grandfather shrugged and took another drink of water, finishing it off.
Mister Ali nodded. "This is true." He paused and then added quietly, "Perhaps it is time to give up the staff."
My grandfather replied with a cold stare. No one said anything, and I could feel the tension in the air. Grandfather eventually spoke. "That is what Vingrosh told me."
It was Mister Ali’s turn to stare. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or worried or shocked. My grandfather remained quiet and stern, and Mister Ali eventually shook his head and then looked across the table at me. "We can discuss that later. I owe an explanation to young Master Thomas."
The waiter stopped by with some bread, which delayed whatever Mister Ali was going to say. I found the waiting intolerable. I had known of magic, of course. Everyone knew of the exploits of Merlin and how he changed the history of England, but that was centuries ago, and, like most people in 1938, I found magic so watered down that it was more of a sideshow curiosity than anything worth my attention. There hadn’t been a truly great magician since Merlin himself, and like every boy my age I was more interested in movies, automobiles, airplanes, and guns. But all of this talk of magical creatures, illusionists, Shadows, and a legacy involving me pushed every other thought and interest aside.
I picked at my bread, my appetite drowned by curiosity and adrenaline. Mister Ali smiled warmly. He had the kindest eyes and smile I had ever seen. "Pehlivan is Persian for hero, Master Thomas. To many in the world, your grandfather is considered a great hero."
"A hero?" I immediately thought of Errol Flynn. The thought of my grandfather as a swashbuckling adventurer captivated me. I had only known him as the old man who didn’t like to leave his apartment and moved slowly with his cane when he did. "What did you do?" I turned to Grandfather, but he nodded toward Mister Ali.
"It is a long story, but the essence is that your grandfather helped the allies win the Great War."
"Ha, 'helped' is an odd way of putting it," Mister Oz interjected, spitting out bits of food in his hurry to make his point.
"Yes, Baraz," his father said patiently, "But 'helped' is how we want them to put it."
"Helped? How? I thought that it was America joining the war with our troops that helped end the war." I was getting an idea that the truth was being hidden on purpose, and I wanted to know more, especially as it appeared my grandfather had a large part in the Great War that no one knew about. That didn't seem right.
Mister Ali looked like he was going to say something but his son spoke up first. "The truth is that your grandfather is the greatest Archmage to ever wield the staff. He destroyed the Kaiser's troops. He broke the Kaiser's will. He laid waste to—
"Enough!" Mister Ali exclaimed. "Master Thomas doesn't need to know more than his legacy." I looked at my grandfather, but he seemed detached from the conversation and just continued to eat.
Mister Ali gave his son a stern look and turned to me, "You know of magic, of course?" I nodded, although in truth I knew precious little. "Well, there are few, very few, great magicians still in the world, but they avoid attention for reasons that we can discuss later. The important thing to know is that all of the magicians in the world pale in power to the one wielding the staff that you grandfather wields.
"My son was correct. Those that wield the staff are called Archmages, and your grandfather is one of the greatest. But your grandfather, to his credit, also realized that such great power is dangerous, and he left England and rejoined your parents twenty years ago to let the magic of the world fade away as it was meant to."
My bread lay uneaten in front of me as I was focused wholly on the story. "So my grandfather's a great magician?"
"No, Master Thomas. He wields the staff, and the staff is a source of powerful magic. That makes him greater than the greatest magician. Very few can wield the staff. In fact, only members of your family can wield it, for reasons lost to history."
I looked over at my grandfather, who was wiping his mouth with a colorful napkin. "But where is the staff?"
At this Grandfather laughed. "Why it's right next to you, Tommy." He looked at me and patted the cane, which lay on the seat between us. "It can change form, but I've never been able to figure out how to do it. My own father made it a cane before he gave it to me. I believe it was his idea of a joke, but I've grown quite fond of it.”
"Does that mean I'll have it someday?"
I was speaking to my grandfather, but Mister Ali interjected, "I'm afraid not. As we mentioned, magic is fading, and the staff is now more of a danger than a benefit to humanity. Best to let it fade away, as well."
"In that you are wrong, Ali." My grandfather looked across the table, his eyes focused and intense. "Vingrosh and the Shadows appeared just outside your doors. They threatened me and my grandson. Things are changing, and I'm afraid now is not the time to give up the staff."
Mister Ali shook his head. "Shadows? What did they want?"
"The staff."
Mister Ali banged his hand on the table. "Then why didn't you give it to them, Declan? Can't you see? Shadows can't use the staff, and they can make it disappear forever. It's exactly what we talked about twenty years ago!"
My grandfather looked at Mister Ali. "You've always been too soft to understand magic, Ali. When a Shadow demands the staff is exactly the time when we can't give it up. Why can't you understand that?"
Mister Oz broke in, "He's right, father. We can't give up the staff until magic has left the world. It's our only defense."
Mister Ali looked angry, his face turning red, the smile nowhere to be seen. Pulling himself out of the booth, he stood and turned toward us. "Declan, you and I have seen too much together for you to believe such nonsense." He then turned to his son. "Baraz, you've listened to too many of the Pehlivan's stories. You are both wrong." And with that, Mister Ali left the kitchen, pushing aside the beads in the doorway with such violence that one of the strings fell, clattering to the floor.
There was an awkward silence, broken by Mister Oz. "He doesn't understand, Pehlivan." He sighed. "He never did."
My grandfather nodded and turned to me. "Tommy, now is not the time, but you will someday wield the staff." He nodded toward the cane lying beside him. "I've been too complacent, too trusting. It is time that I prepare you for the challenge that awaits. I don't know what is going on in the world, but it appears we are once again facing troubled times."
Just then I heard a deep resounding boom, and the entire restaurant shook.
Dust fell from the ceiling onto the table. There was a silent pause as Mister Oz and my grandfather looked at each other uneasily.
One of the waiters ran in, the beads clattering against the door frame as he shoved his way through. “We are under attack!” He pointed to the front of the restaurant.
A second boom shook the building.
I looked at my grandfather, thinking back to his concentration and concern over the attack from the Shadows. This time he was smiling.
CHAPTER THREE
THE OLD FORTRESS UNDER ATTACK
Sliding out from his seat and moving briskly toward the beaded door leading to the dining room at the front, Mister Oz moved with a grace and speed I had never seen him use before. The restaurant workers, so recently chopping greens and stirring soup, arranged themselves behind him. There were no words spoken, no commands given. They didn’t appear any different than when they were working in the restaurant, other than they now wielded wicked-looking knives pulled from under their robes. One grab
bed a staff from a corner that I hadn't noticed.
I felt a shove and half-fell out of the booth as my grandfather pushed himself to his feet. I looked up at him. He cut a fierce figure, his knuckles white as they gripped the cane in his right hand, his eyes glinting in the neon light.
The restaurant shook again, but I didn't hear a sound, which only made it more frightening. I scrambled to my feet and looked around. My perceptions changed. I noticed the solidity and mass of the place. Without the decorative trappings out front, the Persian Garden had the look of a fortress. The walls were hewn from huge pieces of rock. There were two windows recessed in the wall along the side of the kitchen, which appeared more like windows you would find in a castle wall than a restaurant. They provided little light, but you could still see the glow of the sun behind them.
More men arrived in the kitchen. Dressed in the colorful costumes of the Persian Garden wait staff, the men rushed to the front of the restaurant bearing scimitars and knives rather than plates and glasses.
The restaurant was quiet, and I wondered if Mister Oz's workers had beaten off whatever had made the percussive noise when a screeching filled the air. In the midst of the din and a harsh light outlining his frame, my grandfather stood still. And then it came: Another boom, louder than the others, shaking the restaurant so much that I feared the heavy stones above our heads would fall.
Grandfather leaned down and looked me in the eyes. He was smiling and looked excited. I don't think I had ever seen him happier. “Tommy, just like in the alley, there is danger outside, but I don’t want you to be afraid—you are in the safest spot in all of New York, and while I am powerless against Shadows, this—” He waved his hand toward the front of the restaurant. “This I can handle. So just sit here and wait for me to come back. I need to go help Mister Baraz." He put a hand on my shoulder and gently tapped my chest with his cane. “Be brave.”
