Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse

by Kaleb Nation

  "You idiot!" the gnome said, now unafraid. "Coming in here while I was trying to sleep, releasing the cotch it took me hours to apprehend from his dubious thievery."

  The gnome pointed an accusing finger at the cotch, who only crossed his arms in return. "I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about," Bran stammered, inching farther away. "Of course you don’t," the gnome said. "You just barge on in here, pulling nails out of the walls. Look at all this junk!"

  The gnome kicked a box out from under the chair in which he had previously been napping. It rattled with bunches of metal items.

  "I’m the one having to sort through all this mess," the gnome said, shuffling its contents about. "Keys and pens and jewelry and pocket watches—"

  "Hey," Bran said, stepping forward. "I’ve seen that watch before! And those keys!"

  It was Sewey’s pocket watch, still as shiny as when Sewey had lost it, and bunches of house and car keys with key rings Bran recognized.

  "Good for you," the gnome snorted, kicking the box back under the chair. "There’s probably hundreds of things from that old cotch cache we dug up over on Hodsbury Street. This little villain’s been plaguing the town for weeks." The gnome sniffed. He had skin that was all wrinkled and light. His eyebrows were bushy and thick, just like his beard. He turned to face Bran. "I’m guessing you’re the Hambric Adi’s been telling me about. I was expecting her to bring you sometime. Call me Polland."

  The gnome did not offer his hand, but only scuttled around the chair to hop back onto it, pushing the blankets around to make an enormous cushion. Bran could only stare as Polland moved about, as if everything was normal with a gnome in a house. Polland looked up and opened his eyes really wide to show that Bran was staring at him.

  "Something wrong?" he grumbled. "You do know how to make one uncomfortable."

  "I’m sorry," Bran said. "It’s just I’ve never seen a real live gnome before."

  "A real live gnome?" Polland echoed. "Maybe we should start a zoo and put me in it, then."

  "No, not like that," Bran said, but Polland cut him off.

  "I will have you know, young fellow," he said, "that there are garden gnomes, house gnomes, clock gnomes, kitchen gnomes, factory gnomes, Western gnomes, Southern gnomes, birdhouse gnomes, Husky gnomes, and all sorts of gnomes. We are a very proud race."

  "I can see that," Bran said. Polland huffed indignantly. "I," he proclaimed, "am an Eastern

  Ridwell gnome."

  "Well, I’d say it’s nice to meet you," Bran replied.

  Polland twisted his face up a bit, and looked a little embarrassed that he was so grumpy to his guest. He finally waved his hand. "Go make yourself useful," he said. "Open those drapes some more so I can see the rain, and maybe it’ll make some of my grump disappear."

  Bran was still taken aback, so he did as he said. The room filled with a flash of lightning from outside. When he turned back, Polland had removed the cover from the food tray on the small table beside him. Underneath, there was a plate with some cheese, bread, butter, and a knife resting beside it.

  "Oh well," Polland said, taking off his glasses. "I can’t say I blame you, being in these parts. All those ideas being put into your head. It’s a sad thing I can’t even step foot outside." Polland nodded grimly. "See, it isn’t you I’m mad at, just makes me grumpy with these laws where I can’t enjoy a good rain on a decent park bench."

  "You have to stay here and never come out?" Bran asked.

  "Yes, sadly," Polland replied.

  "Then why don’t you move?" Bran asked. "Go someplace where you’re free?"

  "I can’t," Polland said, staring into the fireplace sadly. "Adi needs someone here who can speak Gnomish to those poor fellows we break out of the jails, and I’m the only gnome who’s missing enough good sense to do it."

  "So that’s why you’re both here," Bran realized. "You’re the ones who help them escape!"

  "So we are," Polland said. "It’s such a sad thing: our sacred land, owned by Duncelanders."

  "Is that why gnomes keep coming through?" Bran said. Polland nodded again.

  "It’s the Sevvenyears," he explained. "An old, honored religious custom. This place used to be our land, before Droselmeyer Dunce ran us off. Every seventh year in our lives, we journey from far and wide to the sacred Givvyng Tree. Now, we’ve got to sneak about in the dark."

  "That sounds awfully brave of all of you," Bran observed. "Dangerous too."

  "Ah, but Bran," Polland said wistfully. "If you could only sit at the top of the Givvyng Tree—they say it’s magic that makes it grow so big, magic that draws us to it. But perhaps it isn’t magic at all, but echoes of the faith of thousands of gnomes who have journeyed there for centuries." He shook his head. "It’s every bit worth the danger."

  "You can’t just take off your hat then?" Bran said, gesturing to it. "That might make you a bit more inconspicuous."

  "Now, Bran," Polland crossed his arms. "It’s just not proper for a gnome to go about stark hatless, showing his bald head like a heathen."

  "You wear it because you’re bald?" Bran said. "What about the women? Do they go bald?"

  "Silly idea!" Polland said. "Of course they don’t. But if you were a gnome, and it was your tradition, I think you might put up more of a fight than just giving it up, even if it’s just a hat." He sighed. "The day we let them take our hats is the day we cease to be free."

  Bran and Polland were silent for a long while, and the fireplace crackled between them, and Bran felt very quiet inside, as if he hadn’t just met a gnome, but another person. Despite the things everyone in town had told him about gnomes not being people, he felt just like Polland was a person, so that all his former thoughts about gnomes left him.

  Polland straightened his hat.

  "Oh, well, enough misery-talk for a while, eh?" he said. "If Adi brought you here, then that means you’re counted as one of my friends. And that means you get a Friendship Gift."

  Bran was stunned for a moment. "For me?"

  "Of course!" Polland said. "It’s a tradition. And I know just the thing for you." He chuckled. "But I’ve got to make it first, and then you’ll get to see it."

  Bran really didn’t know what to say. Polland seemed so friendly that any last traces of Bran’s fear vanished like a blown-out candle.

  "Bread and butter?" Polland asked.

  Bran shook his head.

  "Some for me, though," Polland said, waving his hand in the air. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then Bran saw something behind Polland begin to move. It was the flowerpot— or rather, what was in the flowerpot. The leaves on the plant leapt forward, weaving around the plate and seizing it like small hands. Then the plate, cradled in the leaves, was thrust into Polland’s lap, while a thick root came out of the dirt and tightened itself around the knife on the table, spreading a thin layer of butter on the bread. Then, as instantly as it had come to life, the plant sprang back to its former position. Polland hardly batted an eyelash.

  "Are you sure you don’t want any?" Polland asked, taking a bite.

  Bran shook his head again quickly, still staring at the plant. "H-how did you do that?" he stammered.

  "What?" Polland looked up. "Oh, you mean the pot?" He crossed his arms. "Well, while I’m up for jail time for being a gnome, I might as well be a mage while I’m at it, hmm?"

  Polland chuckled at Bran’s expression, turning in the chair. It was almost as big as a small couch to him, so he put his legs up onto the arm and looked very comfortable.

  "Yes, always good to keep a flowerpot handy for the miniature tasks," he said. "That is of course if you’re a mage from my missiv."

  "Your what?" Bran asked. He leaned forward instinctively: another word from the secret books.

  "My missiv," Polland said, looking up. "My order of mages: the Missiv of Archon." He took a bite. "I’m an Elemental mage: fire, water, earth, air. My powers are in those."

  Bran remembered the green books. The various forms of magic had
all revolved around the elements. But he couldn’t remember any of them then, nor the names of the others.

  "There are more?" Bran prodded, hoping Polland would go on.

  "Of course!" Polland burst, looking up with surprise. "In fact, there are five altogether."

  He brushed his hands off. "There are the Comsar, the Mental, whose powers revolve around the things of the mind: speaking languages, mind control, computers. Then you’ve got the Netora, the Physical: telekinetics who can lift objects and teleport by having an object from their destination. And you have Illian mages like Adi, the Illusional, who can make conjurations. And finally, there are the Archon mages, the Elemental, like myself."

  Polland took a sip from his teacup.

  "That’s only four…" Bran said, counting in his head. Polland stopped.

  "How…perceptive of you," he said. He glanced across the room, and the cotch was still there, nailed to the floor, though his head was down, and by the shadow, he appeared to be asleep.

  "The fifth missiv is the rarest of all," Polland said. "The Drimra: mages of the Mortal."

  There was a hushed tone in his voice. Bran remembered those books: few, and on the highest shelf in the secret room. They had been the ones with black covers.

  "The Drimra are the easiest to sway to the darker magics," Polland said lowly. "Their magic is hardest to control: powers that deal with the very being in each of us, what makes us mortals."

  Polland shook his head. "Many a good person has fallen prey to his own self as a Drimra. Their powers are too great. The ability to breathe existence, to create monsters, to bring spirits from the dead and call forth the gift given to each of us…" He looked up at Bran. "Life."

  A hush seemed to fall over the room at the weight of his words.

  "Besides those powers, knife stabs and bullet wounds are of hardly any lasting effect to a Drimra," Polland continued. "What else can the authorities do, burn them at the stake?" There was dryness to his words, but he shrugged. "They’re not all evil. Some Drimra choose the path of healers and doctors, so it wouldn’t be right to say that every Drimra has gone wrong; though to this day, I have never known of one to be completely free of himself."

  "But if I’m a mage," Bran said, "which missiv would I be in?"

  Polland shrugged. "Plenty of ways to find that out."

  He clapped his hands once and called, "Minnie Roga’s, please!"

  Bran didn’t know what it meant, but before he could blink an eye, there was a scratch on the bookshelves, and one book slid out from the rest, all on its own. Polland gestured, and Bran hesitantly grabbed the volume, passing it to him.

  "Wait, it’s the wrong book," Bran pointed out. "That’s—"

  "Off to Mount Em," Polland read. "A novel by Henry Mayes, on the outside. But…"

  Polland cracked the cover open, and inside Bran saw the title page for the book on the cover. However, in the bottom corner was a printed black box, just like in the Mages Pages newspaper. When Polland pressed his thumb to it, the title text changed, so that instead it now read:

  The Properties of Missiv Personalities

  Dr. Minnie Roga

  Polland flipped through the pages, ignoring Bran’s shocked expression.

  "Here we are," he said. "The list of missivs!"

  Polland pointed to it.

  Bran had seen that list before, at the bookstore: Netora, Comsar, Archon, Illian, Drimra. They still sounded so strange to him.

  "And these," Polland pointed to the next page, "are their official properties."

  Bran had seen these as well, or at least two of them, from the books he had pried into. Like for Netora and Archon, which he had read, these also followed the same arrangement, and Polland’s finger had stopped over Illian.

  The MISSIV of ILLIAN

  You are a mage of the Illusional, master of things seen and unseen. You are drawn to that which brings knowledge: books, journals, and writings. Your missiv uncovers the wonders disguised, and disguises those which should be unseen.

  "That fits with Adi, to be sure," Bran said, looking about at all the books in the room again.

  "She follows with her missiv quite well." Polland chuckled. "Though, of course, it doesn’t always follow: as witnessed by my art hanging about on all the walls, when I am no Netora."

  "Well, which am I then?" Bran wondered aloud.

  Polland turned a few pages in the book. "Well, do you like gardening?" He sounded hopeful.

  Bran shook his head. "I pretty much murder plants," he admitted.

  "Cross off Archon, then" Polland said, turning pages. "What about writing or books?"

  "I read," Bran replied, "but not as much as Adi."

  "Hmm," Polland said. "You could still be an Illian. What about pets: any cats, dogs…chinchillas?"

  Bran shook his head.

  "Cross off Comsar too, then," Polland turned more pages.

  "I like to draw," Bran tried. "Does that mean anything?"

  "Some of the greatest artists are Netora," Polland said. "It comes in mighty handy if you can use magic as an extra hand when painting or making music, as many are drawn toward."

  "I don’t think I’d mind that," Bran said, seeing visions of pencils flying about his room, shading papers and then sticking them on the board without him ever having to lift a finger. Polland nodded. Bran noticed that he had, probably intentionally, left Drimra out.

  Polland opened his mouth to speak again, but suddenly there came an awful shriek from behind Bran. Polland jumped to his feet in a flash, standing on the chair.

  "Look out!" he shouted, and Bran, unable to react in time, was hit in the head by something. He fell to the side, grabbing the back of his head, and he heard another shriek. Something black dove through the air, and Polland, with a look of terror, began to change. It happened in a second: he shrunk down to nearly half his size and petrified into what looked like a miniature gnome statue. It all happened so fast Bran didn’t have a moment to do anything, and then the black flying shape slammed into Polland, knocking him off the chair and to the floor.

  "Polland!" Bran shouted, diving for him, but Bran was too late. Polland collided with the floor, and little pieces of him smashed against the wood, breaking off. In a flash, Polland transformed back to himself.

  "Help!" he moaned, and Bran rushed to his side. The black shape disappeared from sight.

  "I’m here!" Bran said, unsure of what to do as Polland rolled over. Bran saw that, thankfully, none of his face had smashed: though he saw in an instant that all the fingers on Polland’s left hand had been broken off, and were still made of a crusty stone.

  "Oh, Polland!" Adi’s voice came from the doorway.

  "He’s been hurt!" Bran said.

  Polland was seething. "That stupid bird of yours!" he roared. "Did it again! Right at my face this time!"

  "Quick, the first-aid kit," Adi said, motioning for Bran to go for one of the cabinets. Bran hurried over, found a white plastic box, and carried it back.

  "Can you fix it?" Bran asked, horrified. Polland was breathing heavily. It was then that Bran noticed there was no blood on the severed ends of Polland’s fingers.

  "Don’t worry," Adi opened up the box. "Gnomes are creatures of earth. It’ll be fixed."

  "Not as if this hasn’t happened before," Polland hissed. "All because of that bird! "

  "I’m sorry, it was an accident, I opened the door," Adi said, flipping open the lid on the kit. Inside, there were no bandages or medicines or in fact anything Bran had expected. There were simply tiny bottles of water and bags of different colors of dirt.

  "Wrong box," Bran said, about to snatch it and hurry to the shelves again.

  "No, it’s right," Adi stopped him. She quickly took a small silver bowl from the box, and then poured some of the dirt and the water into it. She smeared it around with two of her fingers until it was mud. She dipped two of her fingers in and then smeared it onto the end of Polland’s broken finger, and then onto Polland’s knuckle. Then she
stuck the two muddy

  ends together, and just as they touched, the clay finger transformed and connected, and Polland moved it. Bran managed to break free from his stupor and help with one.

  "Apologies, profusely," Polland said, breathing hard as they worked. "It’s a natural instinct. Comes from running from the Dep Krokus in my homeland."

  "You just turn to stone?" Bran said. "If you get broken, isn’t that dangerous?"

  "Not as dangerous as a flying, five-nosed, bloodsucking Dep Krokus," Polland said fearfully. "They’ve hunted gnomes for centuries—eat us alive if they catch us. But they’re totally blind. So by turning to stone, they can’t smell our blood anymore." Poland sniffed. "Even in Dunce, away from them, I’m still so skittish I just petrify right off."

  "Good thing you weren’t smashed to bits," Bran said. "I doubt we’d get all the pieces right."

  "You’d have to load my pieces into a jar and take me to the Gnimbler," Polland said, wiggling another finger. "She’s the only one who’s got the skill when something drastic happens."

  Bran smeared the mud over the broken knuckles, and Adi pressed the fingers back into place. As each one touched, it grew from being petrified into fingers, and Polland wriggled them.

  "Much better," he said.

  "Wait," Bran noticed. "You’re missing one: your ring finger."

  He was about to search for it, but Polland stopped him. "No point in looking for that one now, look, it’s here where it belongs."

  He pulled a thin, white string from around his neck, and hanging on the end was a clay finger from the knuckle down, a hole through it for the string.

  "What’s your finger doing there?" Bran asked. Polland coughed loudly. Suddenly, the black shape dove from where it had been perched at the top of the bookshelves, and Polland held onto both ends of his hat.

  "Ginolde!" Adi scolded, and the bird, as if pulled by a string, changed course and flew toward her. It perched on Adi’s shoulder, cawing into her ear.