Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse

by Kaleb Nation

  I can see you, Bran Hambric.

  The voice echoed from a man: from somewhere, from nowhere, from everywhere. Swirling black shapes danced around Bran, moving like a whirlpool of watery, smoky shadows.

  You will bring me to life.

  Bran was so paralyzed he couldn’t shout, and the shapes began to slow. As their pace went down they seemed to fade into the background. And suddenly, he saw the face.

  The face was of a man, standing above him: milky white and smooth, with black circles framing piercing, dark blue eyes. It was sickening, the man looking as if he had just come out of his grave, his skin tight against his skull. What little hair he did have was mostly hidden by the black cowl.

  "Who are you, Bran?" the man asked. "Who are you?"

  His shout echoed like in a long, dark hall, the force of it slinging Bran backward, as if the words had sent a blast of wind at him. It threw him off his feet like a thousand pounds of water against his chest, like the truck from the park, throwing him across the street. Bran hit the ground on his back and slid, falling with a shout, the marble surface breaking underneath him.

  And the voice came again, now in a whisper:

  I can see you…

  The words echoed, though the man was gone.

  Bran Hambric, you will bring me to life.

  Bran pulled away, wrenching within the powers that held him like webs, spinning themselves, tightening.

  "Who are you, Bran?" the voice echoed. Bran shouted wordlessly, fighting the bonds to break free—and all of a sudden he rolled over, and found himself back in his bed, in his room.

  He bolted up, his eyes wide with fright and his forehead damp with sweat. He gasped for breath, terror still in his heart, his fearful gaze flying over the room, along the boxes, the crates, the old furniture. He thought he saw a movement behind a box, then another, and his eyes darted to the other end of the room, but nothing was there. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as the dream cleared itself from his head like the last echoes of a dying man’s voice. He fell back against the wall and glanced at the clock: 2:14 a.m.

  So much for catching up on lost sleep, he thought terribly. Everything flooded back all of a sudden—Adi, the bookstore, the telephone call. It was as if he had never even slept at all. He listened hard to the wind whistling through the hole in his window and tried to calm himself.

  However, just when he was about to settle down again, an awful, nerve-wrenching noise erupted from downstairs. He sat up in bed with a start.

  "What now?" he asked with exasperation. It came a second time, like a bell choir getting into a fight, bells and all. By the third time, he knew what it was.

  "The telephone," he shook his head, throwing the sheets off his legs.

  Who would be calling at this time of the night? he wondered as he came down the ladder and hurried across the hall. However, just as he reached the top of the stairs, he heard a door slam, and Sewey came running out, tripping over his own feet again.

  "Great Moby, what’s going on?" Sewey blew angrily as he pushed Bran aside on his way down the stairs, grabbing the phone.

  "Hello, Wewey Silomas here…ah, Swilly Swollymoo…WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

  Bran stood at the top of the stairs, listening.

  "Yes, officer, what, who, where, how—" Sewey asked. "The bank? Ah, yes, no, it was locked up…definitely not, yes, sir, no, sir, three fuzzy sheep, sir, two, sir, how, sir, silent alarm, sir? Oh, sir! I’ll be right there, sir. Good-bye, sir."

  Sewey hung up the phone and spun to face Bran.

  "You, get my cigar box of bullets!" he commanded. "We’ve got a very dangerous emergency on our hands! The TBD’s being robbed!"

  "Being?" Bran said as Sewey bounded up the stairs. "Don’t you mean it’s been robbed?"

  "No, being! " Sewey called. "The burglars don’t know we’ve caught on because it was a silent alarm. Mr. Brewer’s on his way, and so are the police, and so are you and I. We’re going to catch that thief red-handed!"

  Bran instantly didn’t believe it was as bad as it appeared. He wasn’t about to get excited over a frog or snail setting off the alarm, which had happened many times as the windows in Sewey’s office were commonly forgotten and left open. And besides that, the alarm was only wired to half of the windows, so the burglar probably would have had to arm it himself just to get it to go off.

  Bran was dressed and waiting at the front door before Sewey was even ready himself. Sewey went on running around upstairs, this way and that, then back this way, then back that way again.

  "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" Sewey shouted throughout the house. "Burglars! Burglars!"

  Sewey skidded to a stop and thought for a few seconds. "GNOME burglars! That’s it!" he shouted, clapping his hands. "Why didn’t I think of it before? Wake up everyone: there’s a GNOME BURGLAR!"

  "Gnome burglar?" Rosie yawned, coming out of her room. "Who’s got a gnome burglar?"

  "I’ve just about!" Sewey said, starting down the stairs on the tips of his slippers. "Hurry!" he told Bran. "You’re going to make me miss them!"

  "Them?" Bran asked. "Now the gnome is two gnomes?"

  "Maybe three or four, or a hundred!" Sewey said, waving his hands. "Who knows?"

  Bran leaned against the wall next to the door as Sewey dashed to the kitchen, stuffing some muffins from the fridge into a paper sack, then running to get something from the pantry.

  "But then watch us get there," Sewey said as an afterthought, "and it’s just some kid throwing rocks at our window."

  With those words, a sudden thought erupted in Bran’s mind that made him stand up straight as if he had been electrified. In a moment, he realized exactly what was going on.

  The girl from the telephone! he remembered with dismay. All of this is her doing!

  It all fit together so perfectly he was astonished at how smartly she had pulled it off. All of a sudden, he was nearly petrified with how things had fallen into place. And there he was, going just where she had wanted him all along. His heart began to race. Why was she going through so much trouble just to get him there?

  "Hurry up!" Sewey said, rushing for the door and still in his slippers. Bran had to shake his thoughts away and rush out to follow him. They shot off into the night, over corner and curb, through rosebush and hedge, with Sewey Wilomas at the helm. Before Bran even had a chance to try and sort anything out, they were swerving onto Third Street. The bank was guarded by two police cars, lights flashing on the buildings around them, but there weren’t any burglars that Bran could spot. The glass on one window and on the front door of the bank was broken.

  Across the street…Bran remembered what the girl had said, looking across from the bank. There was a restaurant there, but it was closed, and he saw an alley between it and another shop.

  She probably wants me to meet her there, he thought. The alley looked very dark from where he was. He began to get a creepy feeling about it all, meeting her in the alley at night when he didn’t even know who she was.

  "See some gnomes in the alley?" Sewey whispered, and Bran turned forward again.

  "Er, no gnomes there," Bran said. "I suppose they must have gotten far away."

  "Invisible gnomes!" Sewey said, hitting the dash. "Or sneaky ones, at least."

  "There’s Mr. Brewer," Bran said, pointing at Sewey’s coworker.

  Sewey shrugged.

  "And there’s Officer McMason," Bran said. Sewey frowned. The officer was examining the door and spotted Sewey as he drove up, and gave him a little wave.

  "Oh, rot, why’d he have to come?" Sewey lamented. They pulled next to Mr. Brewer’s car and walked toward an officer. Sewey opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, she moved for the bank with a fingerprint duster, and Sewey was left with his mouth open.

  "Sewey!" came the voice of Officer McMason as he started for them. Sewey shriveled up.

  "Not him!" he growled. Sewey began to look into the sky, as if he wasn’t there at all.

  "Hello, Sewey!" the
officer said. "Up so late?"

  "Up so early," Sewey corrected none-too-goodheartedly. "It’s the morning."

  "Oh, yes, of course," Officer McMason chuckled. "How’s the hunt going along?"

  "I’ve still got a few days," Sewey murmured. "Now to business. Please explain all this."

  "I suppose it was just a bunch of kids," the officer said, sipping a coffee and watching the action as the officers searched the building for evidence.

  "Kids?" Sewey asked with disbelief. "Then where are the gnomes?"

  "No gnomes," the officer chuckled uncomfortably. "Just a vandal or two, breaking windows. We haven’t found any tracks or fingerprints yet, only a few rocks."

  "Rocks?" Sewey said, confused. "Did the gnomes turn into rocks?"

  The officer shook his head. "Nope, no gnomes at all."

  "No gnomes, hmmm…" Sewey said. He drifted toward the bank doors, so Bran followed him. He saw Mr. Brewer standing inside, watching the officers as they lifted papers, pushed things aside, and made a big mess. Bran felt bad because he was the only one who knew the girl hadn’t come to take anything, but he knew he couldn’t say a word without sounding guilty himself.

  "Vile villains," Sewey declared as he entered.

  The lobby wasn’t damaged much, just some broken glass.

  The officers didn’t look too happy, and Bran guessed they were still clueless.

  Mr. Brewer led Sewey down the hall toward the vault, and Bran was left alone in the lobby. He tried to kick a few things around and act like he was searching for evidence, but it wasn’t very convincing because he knew there wasn’t anything to find. His eyes kept drifting toward the door, as if a magnet were pulling him toward the alley. He knew she was waiting.

  Calm down, think about it first, he told himself. But he wanted so much to know the truth. For years he had dreamed of knowing his past, and for years he had gotten nowhere. It seemed to seize control of his mind—the words she had spoken, the tone of her voice that told him she wasn’t lying. Now might be his only chance. Thoughts went through his mind, telling him his life depended on going across that street, as if he was about to discover something terrible but he had to know what it was. He had gotten that far, and he wasn’t turning back. With one final glance to make sure no one was watching, he started for the door.

  I hope this is worth it, he thought. He crossed the street, and when he got to the other end, he stopped. Everything was dark between the buildings. He could see a turn at the other end where another alley crossed, and there was trash littering the ground all the way.

  "Couldn’t remember to bring a flashlight, now could I?" Bran said aloud with a hint of wryness. He started into the dark, biting back any fear that still held on. The shadows of the high buildings covered him in a deep darkness like a blanket over his head, and he could just faintly see his feet and hands in front of him. There were a few broken windows on the sides, which reflected the moon, and some thick, closed doors, all of them dark and dirty. There came a few squeaks from a mouse, and he saw it shoot off from some boxes, sending empty crates tumbling down. He didn’t let it perturb him as he came to the end, where it split in both directions.

  "Down the alley," Bran remembered. "Turn right, then left, then the first door on the right."

  He found it amusing how she had been right—she had told him he’d want to remember it. It seemed to only make him grimmer inside as he continued on. He walked with his hands out, brushing the Dumpsters as he passed. When he came around the final corner, he saw two doors: one on the right and the other on the left. The end of the alley faced Fourth Street.

  "The door on the right," Bran said, moving for it. He stepped around some bags stacked against the wall and came toward the door, stopping in front of it—scratched, torn, and metal, with dents and graffiti all over. He looked toward the top and was surprised at the words he saw.

  "Highland’s Books?" he exclaimed, stepping back to look at it better. The words were in thick black letters with a number over the top, and he looked down the alley on the other side and saw the other door had letters over it too.

  This is the alley behind the stores, Bran realized. He guessed they got deliveries back there, but he was still very confused as to why he had been led back to the bookstore. He didn’t like the looks of it either. He took a deep breath and reached for the handle: it was cold, smashed on one side, and to his surprise, the door creaked open, unlocked for him. He peered into the darkness that was beyond.

  The back of the bookstore was the same as he had seen the day before. Piles of boxes and crates were all around, tarps over some so that they formed a long row that almost looked like a hallway. It was empty and quiet. A rat scampered off at the sudden moonlight, and Bran stepped through, closing the door halfway behind him.

  "Hello?" he asked into the darkness, his eyes searching between each tower. There were too many shadows…too many places for someone to hide. He felt as if he was entering an ambush.

  I’ve got to find her, he thought. I can’t turn back now.

  He took a step forward, his shadow blocking the moonlight so that it shone softly on both sides of him. The room was as abandoned as a sunken ship, still and haunting like a prison cell. Three small windows sat high on the ceiling with bars over them, and the light they let in was like straight beams of white steel that cut through the dust floating in the air. His breath echoed around the room as he searched the walls, until he came to a corner and stopped.

  Where is she? Bran wondered, looking around.

  However, the moment he thought it, there was a scrape behind him.

  "Be quiet," a girl’s voice whispered, and Bran jumped.

  Chapter 14

  The Man at the Tavern

  In a split second, Bran jerked around, raising his hand, and in that same moment, he felt something burst inside of him, erupting from his palm toward the girl. He didn’t have a moment to think before it happened. He felt a burst of power shoot down his arm, and as if he had struck her with a giant rush of wind, she was picked up off her feet and slammed backward into a stack of crates.

  Bran gasped and instantly the power disappeared.

  The girl coughed, and two crates fell to the side from the top of the stack. She didn’t stop for a second and pushed her hand out, and all of a sudden, Bran was pulled off his feet and slammed to the ground. He didn’t have a moment to catch his breath before the back of his head hit the hard floor.

  He shouted with pain and pushed himself away, jumping to his feet and against a stack of crates in the darkness, breathing hard and putting his hands in front of him.

  "What are you doing?" he shouted.

  "Be quiet!" the girl hissed. The back of his head throbbed, and he winced when he touched it.

  "A mage!" he said with anger in his voice.

  "As if you’re any different," the girl spat back. They were

  silent for a few moments, watching each other, trying to catch their breath. He was unable to make out any of her features in the dark. In a moment, his anger fell away, and he unclenched his fists.

  "Either way, I wish you wouldn’t do that to me in the dark," he said. "You’ve got police crawling all over this place now."

  "I had to get you here somehow," she hissed. Before Bran could speak, she shifted from the shadows. A beam of moonlight crossed her face, and suddenly, he recognized who she was.

  "You!" he shouted. "You’re the girl who was here yesterday!"

  "Shhh!" she said, but there was no doubt in his mind. It was Astara, the girl with the broom.

  "Why did you do this?" he demanded, his voice echoing. "What’s going on with this shop?"

  "Be quiet!" she said harshly, putting a finger to her lips and looking around. "You know more about this shop than you should: leaving books all over the floor in the room. I’m not stupid."

  "I want some answers, now, or I’m not listening to you at all," Bran said. "I want to know who you are, how you found me, and why there’s a hidden room fu
ll of—"

  "That’s enough about the room," Astara cut him off. "Don’t talk about it."

  "What is it?" he demanded.

  She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to say, but she finally gave in.

  "If you really need to know," she whispered, "Mr. Highland works with the Mages Underground here in Dunce. He’s a

  distributor of the outside newspaper—not just to mages, but to others as well, people sympathetic to the cause."

  "The books," Bran pressed. "There’s enough for a hundred jail sentences in that room."

  "Those are for the mages hiding in town," Astara said. "We distribute them as well. There are code words they say at the counter, and then Mr. Highland brings them up."

  "And I suppose you just looked Sewey up," Bran said bitterly, "found out he worked at the bank, and knew if something happened I’d know to come along."

  Astara nodded. Bran shook his head.

  "I don’t know how you pulled it off, but you’re good at it."

  She said nothing, but even then Bran knew she was pleased. He looked about the room.

  "Well, you’ve got me here," he said. "I’ll listen. But only for five minutes."

  "You can’t begin to understand it all in five minutes," she said, and something in her voice signaled urgency. "You’re the one who’s filling in the missing pieces. There’s so much you don’t know about your mother or why she left you."

  "Please tell me," Bran said, forcing himself not to flinch at her mention of his mother. "I don’t know anything about my past, and even if I can’t believe you, it’s more than what I’ve got now."

  Astara glanced down for a moment. When she looked up again there was a strange light in her eyes, as if there was a story behind them, written with pain and sorrow. Just looking at her seemed to read volumes of it to Bran.

  "Your mother’s name was Emry Hambric," she said slowly. "I know you’ve heard it before."

  There it was again, that name. Bran clenched his fingers together.

  "Yes, I’ve heard it," he replied with a hint of frustration in his voice. He felt as if her gaze could pierce into his soul, and she could see all the pain and loneliness he had felt for years, never knowing his parents.