by Kaleb Nation
Every person was wearing something that was yellow: jackets or shirts or shoes, even a few with yellow pants. Bran felt uncomfortable and out of place again. Astara looked about for some place to sit with a good view.
“It doesn’t have to be close,” Bran said. “We can see the fireworks and miss hearing the mayor’s speech at the same time.”
“The concert,” Astara said. “There’s going to be a concert after he speaks, from Hillins Frugal. We came all this way, so we might as well enjoy it.”
“Sheesh,” Bran said. “So we’ll suffer through the speech. But we won’t be able to see, look at the size of the crowd.”
Astara pointed off to the right. “How about up there?” Her finger was tilted upward at a dangerously high angle.
“Beside the water tower?” Bran asked hopefully.
“No, on top of it, you gat,” she said.
He laughed. She did not.
“Wait…” he began, but she had grabbed his arm, pulling him and ignoring his protests.
There was a sea of tall grass surrounding the tower, nearly up to their knees, waving in the wind as they brushed through. The tower was a small one compared to most, no longer in use and its fence long gone—but the city thought it too expensive to take down the rusty metal monstrosity. At one time, it had been a frequent spot for rowdy teenage boys from Droselmeyer High School. They would test out their manliness by climbing to the top and doing various stupid things, like jumping jacks during a tornado or leaping off with a garbage-bag parachute. However, after Bingo Rondle had fallen and broken eighty bones the summer before, kids had pretty much avoided it.
Astara did not seem anxious at all, and Bran wasn’t about to let her go on without him. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but as they stood at the bottom of the water tower and when he looked up, he couldn’t help but feel dizzy.
“H-how do we even get to the top?” he asked.
“There’s a ladder,” she said, gesturing to its obvious spot.
“There’s not one for the lower part,” Bran pointed out. The company who had built the water tower had been smart and chopped the ladder off above where most people’s heads would have reached; the local teenagers usually brought their own ladder.
She still looked at him as if he were stupid. “Come on, Bran. It isn’t that hard.” She turned her back to him, and then leapt into the air—far higher than any normal human.
Bran spun around to make sure no one was watching. “Astara!” he hissed at her, but she didn’t seem to care and had already started scrambling up without him. So he took a deep breath and jumped; the powers came naturally to him as if he used them all the time. He shot upward and grabbed hold of the rungs. They rattled with his impact, and when he realized just how high he had jumped he clung to them tightly.
“Come on, Bran,” Astara insisted. He huffed and started to clamber up, trying not to look down as he rose higher. The ground slowly got farther away, until he reached the top and swung over the edge. Encircling the perimeter of the tower was a thin walkway with bars—but even with the bars, Bran felt his heart beating faster, and he clung to the railing.
“Over here,” Astara called.
The wind was cold on his face. The mesh flooring rattled below him as he made his way around, and he saw that Astara was already sitting with her back against the tower.
“You’re late, he’s just finishing,” she said with a grin.
“Oh no,” Bran said with fake regret. “I feel horrible missing it.”
She shook her head at him, and he slid down next to her. Their shoes hung out over the edge of the tower, and he heard the crowds below give a rousing cheer as the mayor finished. The mayor traded places with a set of four band members with guitars, all dressed in yellow suits with yellow ties, who started to play a rocked-out version of “Here Comes the Yellow Squid,” a traditional Fridd’s Day classic.
But even with the loud music far below, all felt silent on the tower. Complete darkness had set in, so that the only lights on their faces came from those of the party below. Even though it was cold, everything was still and serene.
“Nim’s not here,” Astara said, not looking at him. She had finally noticed—or else she hadn’t said anything before on purpose.
“Nim went back to the man who owns her,” Bran replied after a while of silence. Astara continued to stare down at the concert as the lights began to flash with the guitar rhythm.
“Why did you let her go?” Astara asked. Bran didn’t know how to reply.
“Because,” he said, “the man who owns her is my father.”
And that was all. That was the only reason he knew. Thomas was his father. And by revealing that, Thomas had disarmed Bran of every weapon and defense he had.
So Bran told Astara how it had happened. She said nothing as he spoke. He almost felt as if his eyes should get teary thinking about it, but the cold wind on his face and the bitterness in his heart left no room for crying.
Bran fell silent. The song changed below and then changed again—and still, Astara didn’t speak. It wasn’t until the fourth song that she did.
“It will all work out,” she said.
Bran didn’t feel so sure. “What about the box?” he said. “We still haven’t gotten anywhere with it.”
“So let’s bury it,” Astara said, taking Bran by surprise.
“Bury it?” he repeated. She nodded.
“Why do we really need it?” she said, her eyes still staring down at the musicians. “I mean, really. Problems started again the moment you found that in the vault.”
Bran took a deep breath. She was right. She finally turned to meet his gaze.
“Do you really want to go on forever trying to win a war that people have fought for thousands of years against this dark magic?” she said. “They’ll go on fighting until they get what they want.”
Bran was left open-mouthed. He didn’t know how to respond.
“So we’re fifteen now,” Astara said. “Is it really right for us to get into this war—to find out who these Specters are, why they want you? How do we know they’re not just tricking you? Do we really want to be involved in the war that ended your mother’s life?” She shook her head. “I say we bury it now and try to go on and forget about it. Next time, they might not leave any bookstore left to rebuild.”
Bran sat there for a while, letting the emptiness creep over them once more. He was shocked to hear those words come from Astara of all people. It wasn’t like her to give up. Bran could hear that she was afraid, perhaps not even for herself, but for what might happen to him.
“I can’t give it up,” he said. “This might go on forever, but we’ve still got to fight, because if nobody fights, then we all will lose.” He let out a deep breath. “It’s because of what happened to my mother I’ve got to do it. Because I believe what I read on that paper, and I may very well be their only remaining hope. It’s my duty to help them—because of my mother.”
They were strong words, and held a resounding depth.
Astara seemed to accept this. She leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the sounds below take over again. The band ended their last song, and the announcer said that the fireworks display would begin soon, at the stroke of midnight, after the mayor rang the Watling Bell. A crew began to wheel the ancient bell onto the stage. It was inscribed with many great and epic scenes of the history of Dunce, most of which were concocted tales about grand victories and battles against gnomes and mages.
“I just don’t want them to hurt you, Bran.” Astara broke the silence.
“Hurt me?” Bran said. “How would they do that?”
“I don’t know.” Astara shook her head. “They almost had us a few times. Or have you already forgotten all about that trouble you caused?” She punched him on the arm, and he faked being hurt, falling to the side before coming back up a
gain and lightly knocking her back. She laughed quietly.
Bran felt better seeing her smiling again. “Come on, Astara,” he said. “You know that, together, we can’t be taken down by just a bunch of guys with guns.”
“But what if they do get to you again?” Astara asked, unable to hide her fear.
“We made it out all right,” Bran said.
“But what about now?” Astara asked. “Your father’s suddenly here? This strange box? I just have such a bad feeling inside, like something horrible is going to happen.”
“Look,” Bran said, “we’ve saved each other before. We can do it again if things get bad.”
Astara let his words sink in, and they seemed to comfort her.
“I just don’t want you to think for one second,” she said, “that if they get you again that I’m not going after you. Because I will, even if you don’t want me to.”
Her voice was grave and resolute. Bran wanted to argue with her but found he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Behind her eyes, there was not only a fierceness but sadness as well.
“I’m going to be all right,” Bran said, trying to smile again. “On the other hand, if you’re so concerned about me dying, maybe we shouldn’t make climbing water towers a habit?”
She mustered a faint grin at that, and then they heard the mayor on the loudspeakers.
“May I have your attention, please,” the mayor bellowed. “Fridd’s Day is about to begin. On my ringing of the Watling Bell, the great day will have officially started! Countdown begin…now!”
The crowd started counting down from eleven, as was tradition. When they reached zero, the mayor lifted the gigantic paddle and gave the bell an enormous whack, which sent him spinning and caused the floor of the stage to shake. The bell was so loud it rang high up onto the top of the water tower, and everyone cheered and screamed with joy—and the fireworks exploded, sending up a storm of yellows and golds.
“You know,” Astara shouted over the noise, “I might want to have another go at that box.”
Bran looked at her with horror. She was grinning though.
“Not with magic,” she said. “Maybe if we hang around it we’ll figure something out.”
“How about tonight?” he shouted.
Astara seemed all right with the idea. She stood up with the fireworks still blazing and, before Bran could stop her, swung herself over the edge of the tower.
Bran gasped and jumped to the edge, his heart nearly stopping. She stumbled a step on the landing but caught her balance.
“I hate how you do that,” he hissed, trying to make himself breathe. Astara started to wave her hands, beckoning him down.
“Here goes my death,” he said and swung himself over the railing. In a second, his arm was twisted so that he was forced to let go, otherwise he might have just dangled there. He plummeted through the air, the wind beating at him, pushing his hair all around as he flew. He felt weightless, like he was falling from the highest diving board at the city pool. The ground came closer and closer, and just as he neared the grass, magic slowed his movement, bringing air between him and the ground. He landed heavily on both feet, tumbling forward onto his knees.
“Ooh, that hurt,” he said.
“You baby.” Astara laughed. He grumbled and got to his feet shakily, and she finally offered him a hand. Starting around the tower, Bran instinctively glanced to where he normally parked his bike. It wasn’t there.
“My bike…” he said. “I left it in front of the Nigels.” The police might track it back to him! But a moment after, his mind was put at ease. “Oh.” He remembered with a grin. “It’s still got Sewey’s name carved on it.”
Chapter 13
The Green Light
Back at Bolton Road, things were going magnificently. The guests had arrived in limousines and sedans driven by chauffeurs with white gloves. Even the hubcaps were polished to mirror-like perfection, so that Sewey could see his reflection as he peeked through a slit in the blinds.
The Board of Directors of the Third Bank of Dunce had shown up first: a mess of cranky old men and even crankier old women, the smell of cigar smoke and perfume following them indoors. The men were mostly overgrown sausages, their coats bright yellow and snugly tailored to fit their planetary bodies. Some had military badges and sashes over their coats, and others had ink pens tucked in the edge of their pockets for quick stock exchanges. The women wore high, beehive wigs and had powdered faces, with long curled fingernails and bright yellow dresses that hung loosely about their corpse-like figures.
The Wilomases ushered the guests in, and soon the house was bustling. Sewey scuttled about, making sure the wine glasses were constantly full.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked a member of the board when she appeared at the food table.
“Hardly the Hotel Lumiere,” muttered Madame Manchini, studying the selection of food on the table. She lifted her nose even higher than usual and sniffed so strongly it pulled Sewey’s hair forward like a draft of wind.
“The Lumiere?” Sewey tried to chuckle. “That old place. Probably couldn’t throw anywhere near half the party.”
Madame Manchini’s eyes widened. “I own the Hotel Lumiere,” she scoffed. She spun and left. Sewey was left petrified.
I’m finished, he thought.
“Well, fool?” came a familiar voice, and Sewey turned quickly.
“Oh!” he gasped. “Madame Mobicci!”
She tapped her cane on the floor, and it seemed the earth threatened to crumble beneath it. Madame Mobicci wore no beehive wig, no makeup, and no yellow—but instead wore the same black robe she had worn every single day of every single month of every single year for as long as Sewey could remember. Her old skin would be the envy of any prune.
“We telephoned,” she said. “Nobody answered.”
“Did you?” Sewey said, spluttering. “I didn’t hear the telephone ring.”
“Sewey disconnected the phones!” Balder bellowed like a trumpet from the stairs. “The police kept calling!”
Sewey narrowed his eyes on Balder but let out a fake chuckle. “All this Fridd’s Day jolly has gone to the boy’s head,” he said. “Silly idea, police calling!”
“Police?” said a voice near Sewey. The man was round as a beach ball and wore a row of metal badges and awards like a shiny billboard. His soldier’s name tag, placed precisely where everyone could see, read Colonel Brumtoppa.
“No, no police,” Sewey assured him, attempting to smile.
“Yes, yes police,” Colonel Brumtoppa said, taking Sewey by surprise.
“No, Colonel,” Sewey insisted. “No police.”
“Yes!” the Colonel nearly roared. “Police!”
He jerked his finger toward the window, where suddenly Sewey saw a cacophony of flashing blue and red lights reflecting against the blinds.
There came a loud pounding at the front door. Most of the guests instinctively recoiled, their past business sins returning to haunt each of them.
“Do not worry!” Sewey shouted. “Everything is under control!”
“What is the meaning of this, Wilomas?” Madame Mobicci demanded, catching his arm. “Are you set on ruining the entire Third Bank of Dunce’s Fridd’s Day party in front of all the richest people in town?”
“Not at all!” Sewey stammered in horror, thinking of how many times his head might roll in punishment. “Probably just a parking ticket for a limousine!”
But the whispers had already grown so loud she could hardly hear him. Sewey tore through the jabbering crowd and finally made it to the door, with Mabel, Balder, and Baldretta stumbling behind him.
“Open up!” an officer demanded. The crowd gave a gasp.
“We could barricade the doors!” Balder suggested.
“Open up or else!” the officer said. Sewey, not wanting to take any chances,
brushed his hands down his suit, straightened himself up, and pulled the door open.
“Yes?” he said.
There were at least six police cars and a dozen officers, all spread out and in full gear. The glare of all the lights fell upon the sea of the people behind Sewey.
“Mr. Wilomas?” the chief officer growled. Sewey was relieved to find that it was not Officer McMason, who was probably off for the holiday. But the man at the door was just as intimidating, nearly half a head taller than Sewey, with three times the muscles down his arms.
“Ahd, udh…” Sewey stammered. “Yyeesss…?”
“I’m Officer Rex,” he said. “We have reason to believe you were downtown by the marina this evening.”
“Sorry, wrong house,” Sewey said swiftly, starting to close the door. He was stopped by a well-placed elbow from Officer Rex.
“We also have reason to believe,” the officer continued, “that you are a suspect in a robbery that happened just this morning.”
This accusation caused the crowd behind Sewey to gasp at once.
“Preposterous!” he bellowed. “My entire household has been here the entire day. No one was anywhere near the marina or any robbers whatsoever!”
“Well, then!” the officer said, becoming annoyed. “How do you explain this?”
At that, one of the deputies behind him wheeled forward a familiar, rusty contraption: two wheels, handlebars, and a few metal shafts and gears. Upon further examination, Sewey realized that the old piece of junk was a bicycle on which was carved the name Sewey Wilomas. The officer coughed. Sewey felt the blood draining from his face.
“I’m afraid,” the officer said, “that I will be arresting you now, Mr. Wilomas.”
Sewey opened his mouth to protest, but the lights in the doorway blinked out for a moment. The officer jumped.
“Erm…” Sewey had lost his concentration. The light flickered again, this time going out and then returning with a half-glow—and inside the house, the lights flickered as well, all of them going out at once, then returning.
