by Jake Kerr
I watched as he turned and sprinted through the beads to the front of the restaurant. Part of me was terrified from the memory of the Shadows, but part of me wanted to follow him. How dangerous could it be? He said it himself: This was something he could handle.
Besides, I felt cheated. My grandfather had kept me cooped up in his apartment even though he was some kind of mighty magician warrior. What else did he lie to me about? And now that I was finally experiencing excitement, he left me behind in a kitchen.
In the end, the urge to run out and show him that I was not a child wasn’t enough. I kicked at the floor as I walked back to the booth. The terrifying nature of the Shadows and other unknown creatures weighed too heavily on my mind, as did the prospect of my grandfather's anger if I disobeyed. I sat down. I was useless. A coward.
As I turned my attention back to the kitchen, Mister Ali entered from the front. He ignored me and went to one of the large iron ranges and started to work on some food that had been abandoned in the chaos before.
I was so stunned by the contrast of him calmly cooking amidst the desperate preparations for some kind of battle that I momentarily forgot we were under attack. A clash of metal served as a jarring reminder, however, and the shrieking from earlier increased in volume. A human scream pierced the air and then the otherworldly shrieks quieted down again. It sounded nothing like the battles I had seen in the movies. Feeling lost, I said to Mister Ali, “Can you tell me what is going on?”
"Shhh," was his reply, spoken over his shoulder.
A horrible caterwaul sounded from above my head. It was muffled by the stone, but even the stone couldn’t stop me from feeling the pure wrath in that sound. I still wanted to think of the attack as part of an exciting adventure with my grandfather, but fear kept me in the booth.
The loud booming explosions stopped and were replaced by smaller ones of greater frequency. I looked up and noticed shapes flitting across the windows. Intermittent wails came from above, each one making me cringe. I didn’t know if I could ever get used to that sound. Three men arrived and began to twist and contort their hands over a crack in one of the walls. They soon stopped and, unlike all the others, moved back toward the rear of the restaurant.
Mister Ali started spooning dark rice into a bowl. A particularly loud boom resounded through the walls, but he looked completely unconcerned. He grabbed a fork and a napkin and approached me. Without saying anything, he slid the bowl in front of me, placed the fork next to it, and dropped the napkin onto my lap.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
Mister Ali shrugged, and replied, “You’ll need the energy.” He smiled and waved his hand toward the rice.
There was a sudden series of explosions that weren’t as loud but felt much more powerful, like the air was pressing against my chest. More dust fell from the ceiling, but Mister Ali continued to stand and watch me, a smile never leaving his face. I looked around, and the massive stone walls didn't seem quite so formidable anymore. As every second passed my excitement lessened and my fear increased.
Every so often people would rush through the kitchen, and in the midst of the shrieks, the explosions, and the activity I felt like I was in a sanctuary in the middle of a storm.
Mister Ali motioned toward the bowl again. "Eat."
I took a tentative bite of the rice. Mister Ali continued to stand quietly, and realizing I was being rude, I asked him to take a seat.
He slid into the seat across from me. “Master Thomas, we appear to have time, so why don’t I tell you a story.”
I stammered out an "okay,"
“Wonderful. I take it your grandfather tells you stories at night?”
"Sometimes."
“Fantastic!” Mister Ali leaned his elbows on the table and folded his hands together. He kept his eyes on me. A heart-rending scream sounded from outside the windows. I dropped my fork and looked up. The windows were clear, and there was a silence that lasted a few seconds. It was broken by the loudest boom yet, a sound that didn’t appear to be an explosion but rather as if something huge had slammed into the building. The walls, ceiling, and floor shook, dust billowing from the gaps in the stones. To my horror, a crack formed in the stone above our heads. I looked at Mister Ali in alarm.
He scratched his head and then peered at me, as if nothing at all had happened. “Has he told you the story of Aladdin?”
I pointed at the ceiling. “There’s a crack,” I whispered.
Mister Ali shrugged. “It’s old,” he said.
A whistling came from the front of the restaurant. “Aladdin?” Mister Ali asked again.
“Uh, yes. He has told me the story of Aladdin.”
“Excellent. Ali Baba and the thieves?” I nodded and put my fork down, more full of fear than hunger. “Very good. A trifle of a story, but there are lessons to be learned even in those.” He scratched his chin and then peered at me closely. “How about Ahmed and the mighty stone?”
“Yes,” I replied as the shrieking resumed with the ferocity of a hungry lion, unleashed in a field of gazelles.
“Very good, Master Thomas. It seems that your grandfather hasn’t completely ignored your education.”
Two men burst into the room from the front. They were covered with dust and were dragging a third man, who appeared to be unconscious. They went to Mister Ali and gently laid the man at his feet. They spoke to him in Farsi. Mister Ali nodded and the two men departed just as quickly as they entered.
“Excuse me, Master Thomas,” Mister Ali knelt down and examined the man. I couldn’t see anything wrong with him. Mister Ali stood up and walked deeper into the kitchen. He opened a cabinet that appeared to be rarely used, and I glimpsed a multitude of bottles inside. Some were dusty, some were shiny. There were a few that contained fluids a myriad of colors—deep dark red, pale milky blue, pure green, and others. Mister Ali pushed them aside and selected a bottle from the back. It was dusty and dull looking, the green glass of the bottle hiding whatever was inside.
Mister Ali pulled the cork and poured a clear fluid into the closest glass he could find. He came back to the table and knelt beside the wounded man. Lifting his head with one hand, Mister Ali poured half the contents of the glass into the man’s slightly open mouth. He immediately woke up, coughing.
The man looked around to get his bearings, and then, realizing what had happened, thanked Mister Ali in Farsi. Rubbing his head, he once again entered the front of the restaurant. Mister Ali placed the cup on the table and sat across from me. I looked at the fluid left in the glass in awe.
Mister Ali leaned back in his seat. “I have the perfect tale for the occasion,” he stated casually, continuing as if nothing had happened. “It is the story of Harun Al-Rashid, who once ate in this very kitchen, although it was in a different city at the time. This was many years ago, but the times were similar—”
At this point, there was a whistling sound that quickly got louder and ended in a deep thud from the front of the restaurant, followed by a rush of air that rustled the beads in the doorway. Mister Ali paused. It wasn’t the loudest impact I had heard, but it was different than the others, a jarring that seemed to penetrate the deepest parts of the thick stone walls of the fortress. It didn’t even shake the building. The rush of hot air was new, however, and it had a distinct smell, sharp like gunpowder.
Mister Ali looked as if he was concentrating intently, his eyes squinting. Everything had gone quiet. He stood up and looked at me, his carefree look gone. “I’m sorry, Master Thomas, but I may be needed up front.” More than the explosions, more than the shrieks, more than the wounded man, Mister Ali's change from indifference to concern frightened me the most. He walked out of the room, his step steady and sure.
I waited a few minutes, the sounds from the front of the restaurant a chaotic mix of violent impact and unearthly screams. I couldn’t stand not knowing how the battle was going, so I slid out of the booth with the idea of just peeking through the door to see if everything was okay. The t
hought was frightening, but the thought of being alone was even more so. I pretended I was Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, bravely facing the Sheriff of Nottingham, to help steel my nerves.
The doorway was more like a short hallway of stone, so I slid along to the front. It didn’t take more than a few steps for me to see that the entire front of the restaurant was blown away, and large parts of the roof were missing.
The restaurant was charred from explosions and flames, tables and chairs were in pieces throughout the room. The decorations I loved were shattered. In the distance the street itself was full of wreckage. The front of the department store facing the restaurant was badly damaged. The skies were full of flying creatures that stayed at a distance, while the streets appeared to be empty. Dominating it all was the towering form of my grandfather. He stood tall on the sidewalk, wielding his cane. Whole swaths of figures in the sky would disappear as he aimed it at them. The air would shimmer as if I was looking through heat rising off the desert floor, and then the creatures would just disappear. Grandfather laughed and looked around.
Approaching along the street was a reddish creature of massive size. Flames burned along its skin. It appeared to be attempting to sneak up on my grandfather. I looked around and grabbed a knife off of one of the tables that was still standing. I inched forward, confident in the knowledge that I would be able to save my grandfather by surprising the fiery creature.
I had taken two steps when it turned and looked at me. The malice in its eyes, the deep red depths of its power and hatred froze me.
The next thing I knew I was on the floor, dust falling on my head. My white shirt was singed at the shoulder. When I was younger I had fallen off of a tree and landed flat on my back. I felt the impact across my whole body, and it knocked all the air from my lungs. This felt the same way. I struggled for breath as I crawled to my knees.
“Tommy, you fool, get back in the kitchen!” My grandfather was peering back at me. Mister Oz stood next to him, making motions with his hands.
“Pehlivan, my shields will hold, but the light is faltering.” It was then I noticed that the Persian Garden restaurant sign was shining on them both. It flickered.
“Now, Tommy!” I don’t know if it was anger or concern in his voice, but Grandfather’s tone was not one I could ignore.
I stumbled back to the kitchen and pulled myself back into the booth. After a few deep breaths, I drank some water. Grandfather burst through the bead-covered door into the kitchen. He was covered in dust, his suit was torn, and he was wet with perspiration, but what struck me the most was his white hair, which was no longer slicked back but disheveled and wild.
Mister Ali came in right behind. Before my grandfather could say anything, Mister Ali stated, “We have sustained too much damage to handle Shadows.”
Grandfather nodded, and tapped his cane on the floor. Small sparks flashed with each tap. “Of course.” He sounded terse and dismissive.
“What of the Ifrit in the streets?”
Grandfather shook his head. “If I’m not there to hold them off, the walls won’t hold.” This began a rapid exchange between Mister Ali and my grandfather.
“The alley?”
“Shadows.” Mister Ali nodded.
“The sky?”
“Djinn. I could destroy them but in these close quarters I would put too many innocent people in danger.”
“Shadows? Ifrit? Djinn? I warned you of this Declan!” Mister Ali started pacing. "What are our options now? The Ifrit or Djinn will destroy the rest of our lights, and then the Shadows will destroy us!"
Mister Oz ran in. He was bleeding profusely from a cut above his brow, and I could see metallic armor shining through rents in his robes. He had a curved knife in his right hand. As he approached, the casual joy he showed in the alley was gone. He bowed to my grandfather.
“A Marid approaches, Pehlivan.”
My grandfather closed his eyes, tapping his cane on the tile. After a moment, he opened his eyes and whispered, “We have no choice; we must take the river.”
There was a pained expression on Mister Ali’s face. “I cannot argue, but I don’t know if that is due to wisdom or despair.” He approached me and gently took my arm. “Come, Master Thomas. I’m afraid we have misled you. You are not safe here, and we need to take a journey underground.”
I stood up and looked around. Everyone but my grandfather looked in shock. My grandfather put his arm on my shoulder and said, "I cannot join you, Tommy. I have battled the river before and..." His voice trailed off before he continued. "Let me just say that it will be better for you if I don't come."
"Archmage, you can't be serious!" It was Mister Oz, who held a piece of his robe against the gash on his brow.
There was another explosion, and my grandfather stood up. He looked magnificent and terrible. His eyes were cold and steady, a stark contrast to his wild hair and torn suit. Sparks flew from where his hand grasped his cane. “I cannot travel the river, and the staff cannot stay here to be taken by the Shadows or, even worse, a Marid.”
Grandfather knelt down in front of me and took my arm in his left hand. “Take this,” he said, holding out the cane with his right hand.
Stunned, I opened my hand as he placed the cane in my palm. It was the first time I had ever touched it, and I struggle to describe it now. I imagine this would be the feeling if a blind person was given the gift of sight. I felt one with the cane, a part of my own being that had been kept from me was suddenly restored.
As I started to understand and embrace this new feeling—this new life—that was given to me, my senses came alive. I felt a warmth spread from my palm to my arm to my chest and then my entire body. I looked at the cane, and the strange runes looked entirely different than before. I still could not read them, but I sensed a purpose in their patterns.
I held the cane in both hands and closed my eyes. I forgot where I was and just felt the energy of the cane—the magic—flow through me. When I opened my eyes, I looked upon Mister Ali, his eyes wide and his jaw open, staring at me. My grandfather had a smile on his face.
Grandfather turned to Mister Ali, “You must train him, Ali. You have always known—my fate is to act, not teach.”
“But what will you do?" I asked, my voice cracking. My parents were little more than a memory, but they were gone, and I felt their loss every day. I couldn’t imagine a life without my grandfather. As much as I complained about him, he was still everything to me.
That my grandfather looked different without the cane only made things worse. What I saw only a day before as making him appear weak as he used it to support his body now made him appear weak in its absence.
“Me?” He stood tall. "I am feared, even by a Marid, and they will not expect me to give up the staff. Indeed, I am sure my presence alone will hold them off for some time, and as long as they know I’m here, you will have more time to escape.”
"I will join you as your shield, of course." It was Mister Oz.
"No!" Mister Ali sounded distraught, more so than during the whole attack.
"I must, father. They will be suspicious if I am not at the Pehlivan's side."
His father shook his head. "But there is no need!"
A massive explosion shook the entire building. Debris shot through the door from the dining room, tearing away strings of beads, which clattered across the floor. I heard a groan coming from the front. My grandfather looked from me to Mister Ali. “Go! Time is short. I will do what I can to give you more,” and he ran through the door into the dining room, Mister Oz right behind.
Mister Ali’s eyes shone in the harsh neon light. He paused, looking uncertain for a moment, but then put his arm around my shoulder. “Come, Master Thomas. We have a journey ahead of us.” He led me further back into the restaurant. I could hear more explosions from the front when it hit me—my grandfather might die.
“Grandfather!” I turned my head and looked over my shoulder. “Can’t I use the staff to protect him?” I took two
steps when Mister Ali grabbed my arm.
“Perhaps some day, Master Thomas, but today is not that day,” he replied as he pulled me deeper into the restaurant, gently pushing me whenever I hesitated.
We stopped in a room somewhere in the rear of the restaurant. There were no windows, and it was dark, lit only by a single gas lamp. The room was surrounded on three sides by shelves, which were piled high with restaurant décor—rugs, curtains, lamps, candles, and other pieces. As I looked around, Mister Ali bent down and pulled a ring up from the floor.
I hadn’t noticed, but the stone floor was interrupted by a huge wooden hatch. It looked like an ancient entryway to a wine or root cellar. Mister Ali grunted and pulled the ring with all his strength. It slowly raised off the floor, revealing stone steps leading down to darkness. Air rushed from the hole, smelling wet and stale. It certainly wasn’t a wine cellar.
The hatch stood precariously at a right angle to the floor. Mister Ali walked over and grabbed two torches off a shelf. He lit them in the gas lamp and handed me one. I didn’t like how it felt to have both my hands full, one with the cane and the other with the torch, so I dropped the torch onto the floor, held up the cane, and, without even knowing how, lit the top of the cane with a powerful light.
Mister Ali looked at me with wide eyes. He was about to say something when an explosion interrupted him. He pointed toward the staircase. “Come, we must hurry. At the bottom of these steps there is an underground river and a boat. I have not been down here in many many years, but it is our only hope of escape.”
The room shook in the aftermath of a muffled explosion. Items on the shelves showered down onto the floor, and the hatch fell back in place with a resounding boom. Crumbling stone fell on our heads. “Hurry, Master Thomas! We must go!”
I watched in surprise as he strained and pulled the heavy hatch open with one hand, while his other held the torch. He was short and stout, but his muscles looked massive. He held the hatch open while the building fell around us. I ran to the steps leading down.
