Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse

by Kaleb Nation

  "Am I not real before you?" Baslyn said. "Have you not seen me, leading you through the town, revealing to you secrets you should never have known?" He lifted his head. "You know because I have led you to see it. I see and feel all."

  "No!" Bran shouted, but his voice seemed weak and stifled in the echoes and the rising noise around him. He struggled to break free, feeling wind against his face from the mirror.

  "You have no choice, Bran Hambric," the image shouted. "You cannot resist what has been placed inside of you. What I have hidden within your own self."

  Bran fought the hold on his hands, shouting as he did, closing his eyes. The room ceased to exist around him in the blinding light.

  "What do you want from me?!" Bran hissed, trying to fight, to grasp anything to free himself.

  "Bran Hambric: you will bring me to life," Baslyn’s voice said again, and it surrounded Bran with the deepest of echoes, pushing him from one side to the other.

  "No!" Bran shouted, and in an instant, as if the powers were breaking, one of his hands came free. It was in that same moment that Baslyn’s face became filled with a maddening rage, and he came toward Bran out of the glass.

  "You have no choice!" the voice roared again, but Bran threw all his strength forward, slamming his hand toward the mirror. There came a great flash, crackling and filling the room, and all of a sudden Bran was thrown backward off his feet, the white exploding around him.

  His back hit with the opposite wall, and suddenly, he was in the building again, and he heard glass falling and shattering on the floor. He rolled over, dazed, but threw his hand out with a force of the first magic that came to him.

  "Eclectri firinge!" he said, the words coming out of him automatically and without thought, the same he had used in Adi’s house. Lancing from his fingers with the force of his unrestrained powers came a crackling burst of blue energy, slamming into the glass of the mirrors and shattering the remaining four at once. He immediately jerked his hand back, terrified of what might happen if he lost control of it, and the magic vanished, jagged shards of glass scattering across the concrete as he shielded his face.

  The room went still.

  He opened his eyes and saw he was clutching something tightly: in his fist was the necklace. In the darkness it did not glimmer, but somehow it seemed as if behind its surface, Bran could feel a power still pulsating, like a creature breathing hard with him after a fight.

  "What do you want from me, Baslyn?" Bran seethed, wiping his forehead and looking back to the broken mirror shards that were spread across the floor. Where the mirrors had once been was plain concrete, a dark, heavy wall—and Baslyn was gone.

  It was then that he heard someone calling his name from far outside the building.

  "Rosie?" he said, jumping to his feet and hurrying to the entrance. When he stepped out, he saw the Schweezer parked a way off on the road, headlights slicing through the heavy rain. He could see Rosie in a red raincoat, holding a lantern and rushing toward where his bike was.

  "Bran!" she gave a cry and dashed across the grass, the lantern lighting up her face.

  "Oh, Bran, I was so worried!" she cried out, seizing him and pulling him close. He was all wet, but she didn’t care because she was soaked as well. She held him for a minute, not caring about the rain, not caring who might be watching; he held her as well, and she was warm.

  "When you never got home, we looked everywhere, and then I saw your bike," she gasped. "I thought all sorts of things might have gotten you!"

  He could feel that she was trembling with fright. Even under the raincoat her hair was damp, and he knew that she had been out looking for him for a long time.

  "I—I got lost," he managed to stammer, not knowing what to say. He gestured toward the building, then toward the road, but nothing more would come out.

  "You got very lost!" she said. "Bran, we’ve been all over this side of town, on every street…"

  "Come on, you two!" the voice of Sewey erupted from the driver’s side window. "Get in, before we get washed away by this rainy rot!"

  "Sewey came too?" Bran said. Rosie nodded quickly.

  "All of them are in there," she said. "Nobody knew where you were…" Her voice trailed off, and she clutched him tightly. "I was just so worried," she said. "But now I’ve found you, and everything will be all right."

  Water dripped from Bran’s hair, and she smiled at him reassuringly, but even as they walked toward the car, Bran was not sure how anything could ever be all right again.

  Part III

  Chapter 24

  The Girl from the Alley

  Nightmares struck bran all night, one after the other, and when he woke from each he was sweating and curled up in fear in his bed. One image permeated each nightmare: it was his own face, every time, mocking him, saying what Adi had told him before, repeating her words and telling him he wielded the same powers his mother had used to create the Farfield Curse. Then in the dream, his face would change to Baslyn’s, and the echoing voices would shatter the ground beneath him, and he fell into a blackness. Each time, he would wake up.

  He awoke a final time early the next morning, and the house was so quiet that the echoes of his dream seemed to fade against the walls. There was a hint of morning light coming from the window. It was golden and bright, so much different than all had been the night before.

  He got up and dressed, and when he passed his desk he saw the paper on which he had drawn the single letter B. Suddenly it seemed all alone and obvious, now that he knew what it stood for, and so he took his pencil again and finished the rest of Bartley’s name. It was a grim motion, almost a distraction from where he was headed that day.

  There are only a few more pieces to this puzzle, Bran thought. He had to meet Astara again; it was the only chance he had of finding out the truth.

  He came down from the attic and crossed the hall, and he heard the television already on in the living room. Sewey and Mabel were up, and Bran heard Rosie in the kitchen, flipping up pancakes. The news was on, so Bran paused in the door.

  "…the rioters were protesting the admittance of Mr. Tomstone the gnome into the Mages Council Guild of Historians," the announcer said, giving a helicopter view of a spacious piece of property in the mountains and a rather large house—or at least what had been a house. It was now mostly a burning pile of rubble. Legions of police were like little ants moving about. In the top corner of the screen, next to the logo for Dunce News Channel 12, was a picture of a tall red triangle with a circle and a line through it, which was known to mean No Gnomes just as a circle with a line over a cigarette meant No Smoking. Next to it was a blue circle with a line through it, much like a No Smoking sign except with stars instead of smoke and a mage’s wand instead of a cigarette—it meant No Mages.

  "They formed very early this morning at his mansion in the Wishywashy Hills. The police were called, and the protesters became violent until, as witnesses report, there was a loud boom, and the Tomstone residence exploded into a hailstorm of shrapnel."

  Bran watched the screen with total attention, his eyes surveying the damage.

  "The explosion took the life of Mr. Tomstone and set the house afire. In the terrible riot that broke out afterward, the lives of three others were also taken. Mrs. Tomstone and the baby Tomstone twins were barely rescued from the house and brought to safety by the police."

  The footage switched down to the ground, where police were leading off some rough-looking men in handcuffs, and then a row of gnomes too, their hands cuffed as well. The Dunce News station pixilated the gnomes so that no one could see more than their outlines.

  "There was also some action from the militant anti-gnome group Grechin as protestors and parts of the Tomstone security were arrested for questioning, as seen here…"

  Abruptly, from the side of the screen, large men in black jackets with folded red cloths covering part of their faces shot out of the police barrier, knocking the gnomes aside. The police officers struggled to fight off t
he men, but it became a frenzy as clubs were drawn and the Grechins started to hit at the gnomes, who could do nothing with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Bran cringed as he saw the police being shoved aside and the gnomes rolling on the pavement, trying to avoid being hit or trampled.

  "Balder, turn it off," Sewey said from the couch. Balder didn’t listen, and one of the gnomes on the screen shouted in pain. People leapt upon them, a frenzy of those trying to help and others trying to beat them as well. It became a sea of mad-ness—the Grechin were notorious for violence, and while even Duncelanders couldn’t bring themselves to voice support of the group, they could hardly condemn them outright, though the sight on the television was startling enough to rattle Sewey.

  "Balder, turn it off," Sewey demanded, but Balder’s eyes were wide and riveted on the screen. Sewey finally fumbled for the remote, slamming down on the button. The screen immediately switched to the Bean Bag Show.

  "I don’t want you watching all that violence on the news," Sewey ordered Balder, throwing him the remote. "Keep it to these kids’ shows."

  "Hey kids, let’s have fun with chain saws and grenades! " Manica-bibble was shouting. Sewey wasn’t paying attention— he still looked uncomfortable from the news. He noticed Bran standing in the doorway.

  "What are you doing?" he asked Bran.

  "I—I forgot to thank you for coming to look for me last night," Bran stammered.

  Sewey grunted. "No point in thanking us," he grumbled. "It was Rosie who was worried about you. I was worried about my car. She wasn’t going to drive it alone, no sirree."

  But Bran could feel a hint of untruth behind Sewey’s voice, because he fumbled around on the couch and tried to ignore Bran even being there.

  "I’ve got to go out this morning," Bran said, trying to slide it in quickly.

  "Where to?" Sewey demanded, pretending to watch the television.

  "Just out," Bran replied. "Around Third Street. Just to get some fresh air."

  "Got plenty last night. Don’t see why you need any more," Sewey said, but Bran was already starting for the stairs. Rosie was in the kitchen and saw him going for the front door.

  "Out so early?" she said, pressing the toaster button. He could hear in her voice that she was still concerned over the night before, though he had assured her many times he was all right.

  "Don’t worry," he replied. "I just want to go ride my bike around for a bit."

  He left before she could say anything else. Everything outside was wet and glistening from the rain, but Bran hardly paid it any notice. As he cut through the neighborhood on his bike, the echoes of Baslyn’s voice had strangely quieted, as if for some reason his presence was stifled.

  Once, he thought he saw the reflection of a black van coming around a corner, but when he turned it was gone. He checked the streets warily as he rode, and by the time he got back to Third Street, there were cars all about. The bank was open, most likely Ben or Adi inside. But he wasn’t headed for the bank. There was something more important.

  He left his bike in the alley and headed toward the back door for Highland’s Books. It was before opening time, just as he had hoped. The door was unlocked.

  "I guess she’s still expecting me," he muttered, remembering how he had told her he wasn’t coming back. He stepped into the back room, the door resonating behind him when he shut it.

  His steps echoed as he walked, remembering the way. Thin rays of sunlight flowed in through the glass above, and Bran could see his way better than the first night. There were a few doors that were closed on both sides, some of them with small, square panes of glass.

  "So you came back," a sudden voice came from behind him, and he straightened up quickly.

  "I’m here," he said, recognizing her voice.

  Astara was standing at the corner, leaning against a pillar of crates. Her arms were crossed, and she looked at him with a smile that said she had proved him wrong. He had come back, and she had known all along he would.

  "I thought you weren’t coming," she said, and Bran smiled just a bit and shook his head.

  "I think I changed my mind," he said. He pulled the necklace out from under his shirt. "I want to know everything," he said, holding it where she could see.

  She looked at him strongly but was silent, thoughts going through her eyes that Bran couldn’t grasp. "There’s a lot," she finally said.

  "That’s why I’m here," Bran replied. "I came back, now it’s your turn."

  She nodded slowly, then shrugged. "Follow me, and I’ll tell you everything that happened."

  She started between the boxes. They went down a row and turned the corner, and then up to a door that was out of the way.

  "First," she said, "that file you found on your mother wasn’t supposed to be empty. Mr. Highland and I burned it, because we didn’t want anyone to get involved."

  Her face went grim. "But now it’s too late for that."

  Astara said nothing more, but pushed the door open and stepped in. Bran was right behind her and was about to say something, but stopped when he came through.

  The room was a small, square space that looked as if it had once been a ragtag office of some sort. There was an old air conditioner in the dusty window, humming a little louder than it should have. On the floor was an assortment of things: dishes, newspapers, a bed that was in worse shape than his own, and a desk that was warped. The walls were lined with cobbled-together shelves, and on the shelves were rows of record players.

  Sewey had an old record player, which he used when he was practicing his saxophone, thankfully a rare event. But Astara obviously had been collecting the old things for years, some of them dusty with their horns broken or missing, others polished and cleaned so they might even be worth something as antiques. There were about a dozen of them, and the shelf below was littered with spare parts, while the table had another phonograph and some tools. There were old vinyl records lying out of their cases all over the floor.

  "Do you like music?" Astara asked when he didn’t follow her through the door.

  "I don’t listen to much, no," Bran replied. Truthfully, what little music was brought into the house were Sewey’s old favorites or whatever was on Radio Dunce, usually songs like "No Home for Gnomes" or "Off with the Pointed Red Hat (And Their Heads Too)."

  "Well, hang around me long enough, you’ll start liking it," Astara assured him as she moved toward the table. As she went, she turned her hand, and from across the room the needle on the record player hopped onto the vinyl. There was a squeak, and a slow rock rhythm started quietly. Bran studied the room further, cases of vinyls strewn about on the floor and tacked to the walls, cassettes in heaping piles on the table, even a few scratched CDs, though these were hung up by string and reflected light as they spun slowly. He saw only a few things resembling music from the recent decade.

  "You like old music?" he asked as the sounds softly filled the room. Astara shrugged.

  "No, not just that. But the old stuff seems timeless," she said. "It doesn’t disappear or get forgotten, like everything else these days."

  By the tone of her voice, Bran felt she wasn’t only talking about the music. The sounds wafted in the air, and Astara brushed some things off the table.

  "Where did you live before here?" Bran said.

  "The streets," she replied.

  "Homeless?"

  "A runaway is closer to it," she said. "Couldn’t live at the Crouch’s anymore."

  "Were they your family?" he asked. She shook her head.

  "No, just the owners," she said. "They had the orphanage back in Crandon."

  "You don’t know your family either?" Bran said.

  "I don’t. I’ve got nothing," she replied simply, shaking her head. "Well, almost nothing. I have this."

  She turned the black band around her wrist. It was plain and thick, something that couldn’t have been worth more than a sib. But as she turned it, he noticed something stamped darkly against the black: a strange, crooked ma
rking in the middle, written in silver. It almost appeared to be a jagged letter S, but before he could look closer, she turned and hid it again.

  "It’s worthless," Astara said. "That’s why they didn’t take it from me. Probably the first letter of my last name, but who knows? It might not even be from my parents. But it’s all I have. And I can’t go back to Crandon to look for any records at the Crouch’s…not since I ran away."

  "What did they do to you there?" Bran asked.

  "Whatever they wanted to," she replied grimly. "It was on the bad side of town: the bad side of Crandon. They locked me in a closet for three straight days once. I nearly went mad, and I wrote on the walls like a lunatic. That just got me in more trouble." She nodded with the memory. "The bruises always healed, but I will never forget that place."

  "You couldn’t get any help from the police?" Bran said.

  "Listen," she said sharply. "Crandon is the definition of lawlessness. The police are worse than the thieves. That’s the role the owners filled: thieves. When they found out I could do magic, they had this plan for me to open the safe of the bank down the street."

  "How did they teach you to do that?" Bran said. "If the Mages Council found out—"

  "They brought in a witch," Astara stopped him. "Unregistered, nothing to do with the Council. A mage for hire, and not usually for good. She wasn’t a Netora, though she had access to books to teach me what they needed."

  "Were they caught?" Bran said. Astara shook her head.

  "No, because it never happened," Astara said. "I was only six years old, but in that place you know to be wary, and I overheard their plans to kill and bury me after the robbery, cover up the evidence. So I got help from the cook to escape on trains going north, to Gordontown, where one of her cousins would pick me up." She sighed. "But I never made it. My ticket money ran out, right at the stop in Dunce." She looked down. "And that’s how I saw your mother being killed."

  Bran forced himself not to flinch at her words. She gestured toward the table and chairs.

  "Want to sit down?" she offered. She sat across from him and leaned back, looking away. The sounds of the record filled the air; the volume almost magnified by the silence between them as Astara gathered her words.