Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse

by Kaleb Nation

  "Bran," she said slowly. "I know it hurts you, never knowing her. It has to. But even though you never knew her, the things she did are still left behind."

  Astara lowered her voice. "Your mother was murdered, because they were searching for you, and she wouldn’t tell them where she had left you. So they killed her."

  Bran was completely taken aback. Murdered because she wouldn’t tell them? How could Astara possibly know this— more about his own mother than he did?

  "Who was searching for me?" he blurted out. "Why?"

  "People your mother knew," Astara said. "The others who helped her create the Farfield Curse."

  Something ominous in Astara’s words seemed to catch in Bran’s mind, echoing with a flare of evil in it. The Farfield Curse. He had never heard it before, and yet it seemed as if it were something familiar: darkly recognizable, like the name of an infamous serial killer.

  "What is that?" Bran asked, his voice instinctively lowering.

  "Your mother created a curse, Bran," Astara said, her voice going to a whisper. "The Farfield Curse is what they called it. It’s a secret not even most mages know about, something so terrible I can’t even find out what it was. But your mother

  was a part of it: a great criminal plot that was being worked years before either of us was even born."

  "My mother was a magic criminal?" Bran said, hardly believing it, even as his words echoed what Astara had said. She nodded slowly.

  "It’s all secret," she said. "The plans, the plotting. It went on for years. You won’t find a mention of what she did anywhere, at least not in any records we have access to."

  Bran was left in a stupor, unable to comprehend the words she was speaking, as if a wall in his mind was instinctively blocking them out. His mother a criminal? The two words didn’t even seem to fit in the same sentence together, and when he thought them, all of a sudden his face felt hot and his fingers curled into fists. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

  "I—I can’t believe it," Bran said. "Please, this has got to be a joke."

  "Does it sound like I’m joking?" Astara said with disbelief. "Do you think anyone would joke about this, bringing the police here just to talk to you? Why would I go through all that trouble?" She shook her head. "Bran, your mother died while trying to save you. And even though she stalled them, they will search for you until every corner of the world has been checked."

  Her words were dark and shattering; they were nothing that Bran wanted to hear or believe. They wrecked everything he had ever clung to about his mother. She was dead? He had told himself for years that somehow his mother might be alive somewhere. He had imagined it so many times that he had come to believe it without question, so that when Astara told him it wasn’t true, her words were a knife, striking down his mother right before him.

  "You didn’t know her at all," Bran said, feeling anger rising inside of him. "She might be alive, and out there looking for me right now. She might not have been able to take care of me years ago, that’s all. You probably didn’t see her once. You’re making it all up!"

  Astara motioned for him to be quieter. "Everyone is going to hear you!" she hissed through clenched teeth.

  "I don’t care if they hear," Bran said. "You brought me here and lied—my mother is not a criminal."

  "I didn’t lie," Astara said. "You just don’t want to believe the truth."

  Her words came at him like a slap to his face. Why were her words upsetting? He knew better than to believe her.

  "You’re making it up," Bran said again. "You can’t even tell me how you know my mother."

  Astara opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly, there came a piercing sound from the windows, and Bran heard the horn of the Schweezer going off, and Sewey shouting his name.

  "Sorry, my time’s up," Bran turned away from her toward the door, feeling relief that he had been distracted from listening to more.

  "Wait!" Astara said quickly. "You don’t understand."

  "Maybe I don’t want to understand," Bran said. "Just leave me alone."

  He heard her scribbling on something with a pen, and he looked over his shoulder and saw her rip a piece of paper off a clipboard on one of the crates. She shoved it at him.

  "Here," she said. "This is how I know your mother."

  Bran hesitated but finally took the paper, pushing it into his pocket without reading.

  "I think after that you’ll believe me," she said. "If you don’t, at least I’ve kept my word."

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, white envelope.

  "This too," she said. "Believe me or don’t: I made a promise to give you this."

  He met her gaze, unsure of what she was saying, but took the envelope as well.

  "Don’t open it until you get home," she whispered. "You’ll be glad you waited."

  Bran looked at it but promised nothing, still frozen in the doorway at the strangeness of her actions. He didn’t know what to say in return.

  "Meet me back here in two days," she said, stepping from him slowly. "I’ll tell you everything that happened."

  "I won’t be there," Bran said, shaking his head as he turned for the door.

  "You will," she replied, in a way so certain Bran began to feel uneasy. What could she do that would change my mind so much? At the moment, he didn’t really care.

  "BRANNN!" He heard Sewey’s voice again. "I’M LEAVING!"

  He stuffed the envelope into his other pocket and hurried back the way he had come. Just as he shot out of the alley toward the bank, there was a flash of headlights, and behind them, the angry eyes of Sewey Wilomas. When Sewey saw him, he honked the horn.

  "Bran!" he shouted. "This is no time to be wandering across the street in alleyways!"

  Bran hopped in, and Sewey huffed and puffed like he was going to blow the bank down.

  "Couldn’t find a filthy gnome anywhere," he said. "And not a filthy clue either!"

  They rocketed out onto the road and were quiet for a while, until Sewey spoke up.

  "What the rot were you doing in that alley?" he demanded grumpily.

  Bran wasn’t ready for Sewey to ask that, and he started stammering for an answer. "I…um…"

  "Stop it!" Sewey burst. "If you don’t have a sensible thing to say, then just be quiet!"

  Bran didn’t feel like talking anyway. There were few cars on the road at that time and even fewer businesses with their lights on. Sewey careened over a crosswalk and passed a stop sign without pause, and nearly hit an early-morning newspaper truck. He slammed on the brakes.

  "Rot!" he roared. The car screeched to a halt, though the truck passed unscathed. "Look, the trucks are already out. It’s so early, why am I even going home?" he asked aloud. "I’d never get to sleep this way, and I’d just lie in bed like a sick old crab and feel miserable."

  "I think I’d rather get twelve minutes of sleep than none at all." Bran said, irritated.

  "Then you can be a sick old crab and sleep in the backseat," Sewey said, "while I go off to the pub and cool my nerves."

  "Are you sure the pub’s the best place for that?" Bran said.

  "Who do you think you are: my father?" Sewey roared. "I’m an adult, I can do what I want!"

  Bran knew Sewey hardly ever went to a pub except when he was at the Biannual Wilomas Family Reunion with his relatives, and they visited the one owned by his great-grand-uncle Groshnus. However, Sewey seemed set in what he wanted to do, and he turned the car around, looking for a good pub to stop at. He couldn’t seem to find just the right one, and they eyeballed almost every pub all the way from Seventh to Eighty-Seventh Streets.

  "What’s wrong with this town?" Sewey asked. "Where have all the good pubs gone? They—"

  He was about to say more, but suddenly, there was a flash of motion in front of the car. Someone leapt from the side of the road in front of them, as if he had appeared from nowhere.

  "Sewey, look out!" Bran shouted, and Sewey slammed on the brakes.

&n
bsp; "What the devil!" he roared. Bran was slung back and forth, the brakes squealing all around them, the car skidding down the road and swerving.

  "What’s going on?" Sewey roared.

  "A man jumped out!" Bran said, looking all around. "He was right in front of us!"

  "What?" Sewey’s head rolled about. "I see no man!"

  Bran looked again, but suddenly there was no one there at all. He rolled his window down quickly and looked down the street.

  "I’m sure someone was there!" he said. He knew for certain he had seen the man.

  "Close the window!" Sewey ordered. "It’s very late, and early, and I don’t have time for this."

  "But we almost hit him!" Bran objected.

  "Not a word!" Sewey said. "There’s no one there, and that’s final!"

  Bran fell back into his seat. Sewey was just about to start driving again when he realized where they were.

  "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Here we are!"

  He raised his arm, and Bran looked at where he was pointing. It was a large, wooden building with lights on inside and a sign showing OPEN on the front door.

  "It’s the Flob Hopkin’s!" Sewey said with a chuckle, pulling forward to park on the side of the road. "I haven’t been here in ages! Practically the last of the good pubs, I’d say!"

  Eying the pub suspiciously, Bran saw through the windows that there were still some people in it and not too many ruffians, and the place was well lit. It had been kept well on the outside at least, a large wooden sign hanging over the door with a picture of a pint of Duncelander Ale spilling over, and the words Flob Hopkin’s Tavern and Inn painted beside it.

  "Come on," Sewey said, and Bran followed him through the door. The wooden ceiling was very high, and the walls were made of dark bricks on which hung many animal heads and trophies from great hunts. There were round tables set out in rows in the middle of the floor, with booths against the walls and a few men about, most of them hanging to the corners. The air smelled of smoke and beer, but it was mostly a quiet place. A heavy, black raven sat on one of the fans in the ceiling, going around slowly and watching the people below. When Bran stepped in, the bird gave a loud screech and flew off. Sewey leaned to Bran’s ear.

  "Watch out," he warned. "There are adventurers at places like this, maybe Wild Westmen, or even hardened criminals! Tell me if you see one, and I’ll report him to the authorities."

  "What do hardened criminals happen to look like?" Bran whispered back.

  Sewey paused, looking around the room. "Hmmm…like that man there." He pointed at a man sitting in the far corner of the tavern. The man was leaning over with his eyes closed, sitting across from two other men whose faces Bran could not see. He was in dark clothes and had thick, blond hair; he was quietly listening to the other men and circling a silver cell phone in his fingers on the table. He didn’t look like any Duncelander Bran had ever seen.

  "They look like him," Sewey went on. "Always find their type, looking for treasure, looking for love, or looking for their lost father—but always looking for trouble. I’ll keep an eye on him. Maybe I can get him thrown in jail for something before morning breaks."

  Sewey started toward the man but stopped just one booth short, sliding into the seat to face him. Bran had to sit down with his back to the men, but none of them noticed him or Sewey at all, even when Sewey went on clearing his throat for quite some time.

  "May I assist you?" an old woman stepped forward with a tray under her arm and a pitcher in her hand. She had silver hair tied in a tight bun and two cigarettes in her mouth.

  "I, er…" Sewey stammered. "I’ll take a water for Bran, and some Duncelander Ale for me."

  "Sorry chapperoo," she growled, burying the end of one of her cigarettes into the table. "Intoxicating beverages ended five minutes ago. Have to get water if you’re thirsty."

  Sewey was about to protest, but the woman just shrugged.

  "Or motor oil," she sneered. "It’s on special today."

  Sewey gulped and settled with the clearer of liquids. She lit up another cigarette and went for the kitchen. The three men behind Bran started to talk in soft whispers, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying because Sewey kept scratching himself. They waited for a long while, and Sewey started to fidget with the salt shaker and ended up spilling it all over the table. He started to draw in it with his finger.

  "I wish they’d hurry up!" he said. "What could possibly be taking so long?"

  "Maybe you should go check?" Bran said.

  Sewey brushed the salt to the floor with disgust. "Maybe I shall," he retorted, and he started for the counter, kicking the pile of salt with his slippers as he passed. Bran was left alone— and for that, he was grateful. He rubbed his forehead. Getting up early and sleeping hardly any hours were beginning to take its toll on him.

  He remembered what Astara had told him, as much as he tried to forget it. Her words were like a foul taste in the back of his mouth. He didn’t even know why he had been fooled into going there in the first place. It only made him feel doubtful, and he wasn’t going to let himself believe any of the nonsense she had made up.

  Still, he looked around to make sure no one was watching, and slowly drew out the white envelope she had given him. It was worn and dirty and old. He studied it closely, running his fingers along the torn edges and turning it over, taped in half so it formed a square package. There was something hard and bulky inside. He couldn’t tell what it was because it was a very odd shape. She had obviously gone through a lot of trouble to give it to him.

  Don’t open this until you get home…he remembered her words. Why couldn’t he? He didn’t have any idea why she would say that. He held it to the light and tried to see through, but couldn’t make out what it was, so he shrugged and set it back on the table between his hands.

  He listened to the sounds of the people around him and to the fans, trying to distract his mind from Astara. He fell into a half sleep leaning against the wall. The whispers of the men behind him gradually grew clearer, until he could faintly make out their words. He didn’t have anything else to do, so he concentrated on listening.

  "Aye, that’s right," one of the men whispered, and his scratchy voice sounded like it came from the stouter one. "You’ve got no business going about town looking for him: ’tis not safe."

  "Take it from a local," the thin man said, and his voice half-drunk. "Best if you leave, Joris, and give up while you can, before somebody tries to toss you into the jails."

  "It’s the boy I want, not the runaround you’re giving me," Bran heard another man’s voice, and it was filled with a commanding air about it.

  "I want to know anything and everything either of you can

  tell me about him," he said. "Cooperate with me on this now, or both of you will turn up dead before next week."

  Bran gasped softly, and he heard the two men shift uncomfortably. The strong whisper that the man had used felt like a knife, as if he could kill them right there in the tavern.

  "Aye, sir, you don’t needin’ be threatening us now," the stout man said. "What me and Larry’s got to know is why you’ve been movin’ about in these parts, lookin’ for him here?"

  Bran was very still because he was listening hard. His breath had slowed down until he could barely hear it going in and out of him, and the man’s voice lowered even further.

  "I hunt the boy Bran Hambric," he said. "That is all you need to know."

  Bran froze in the chair. For a moment, he didn’t believe he had heard right.

  "Aye," the stout man said. "We’ve heard some of Bran before."

  "What do you know?" the man asked. They were quiet for a while, debating on telling him.

  "Heard he was living in town," the stout man finally said, "with the Wilomas family of Bolton Road. Ain’t his real parents: found him, in a vault, couldn’t leave ’im after that. Still keeps the name Hambric, I think, ’cause of the paper they found with him."

  The man sipped from his drink. Bran was list
ening so intently, all the sounds of the tavern faded away—but then he heard something above him and shifted his gaze up. It was the black raven, perched on the light, its head turned down to watch him. It gave a loud sound again, and Bran sank lower into the booth, fearful the men might hear the noise and turn around.

  "There was that truck too," the stout man was continuing. "People say he was at the park on Sunday and stopped a truck with his bare hands."

  "Doesn’t go to school either," Larry said. "They’ve got some cousin teaching him with textbooks. No one sees much of him."

  The bird rocked back and forth, looking down at Bran intently. It opened its beak and flapped its wings, as if catching its balance, tilting its head at him.

  "No…" Bran hissed through his teeth, though he didn’t dare let his voice be heard. The bird cawed again. Bran heard one of the men slurp something from his cup. The bird rocked forward, as if he was about to jump and take flight.

  "No, don’t!" Bran whispered strongly. The bird gave a loud sound and leapt off the light, but instead of flying off, it gave a sudden dive in Bran’s direction.

  Bran heard its wings flapping down; it landed on the table next to his arm. Bran froze and the bird tilted its head, looking at Bran closely. It had a thin line of feathers down its back that were bleached white in a strange manner. It tilted its head at the envelope, almost as if it wanted it.

  "Shhh…" Bran tried to quiet it, being very still so he didn’t draw attention, but in the next second, the raven moved.

  With an enormous shriek, it leapt into the air in a sudden flurry, diving at Bran with its sharp beak. Bran shouted as he felt it dig into his shoulder, driving like a nail into his arm and screeching wildly in his ear. He slung his hand around and caught the raven once, but it only slid across the table and leapt up again, diving at his face and knocking him backward.

  Bran fell out of the booth, hitting the floor and hearing the wings of the bird in his ear.