by Kaleb Nation
"An Archon, no doubt about it," Bran said.
"How can I resist?" Polland said. "This cold and heartless city of Dunce doesn’t bear any resemblance to my homeland, so at least my room’s a safe haven for me."
"Do you ever get to see your hometown?" Bran asked.
Something passed over Polland’s face, like the memory of something sad, but he shrugged it off quickly.
"I don’t think I shall ever visit it again," he said wistfully. "These are all I need from there."
Polland nodded toward the long box of plants he was
watering. Bran stepped closer, and instantly he noticed there was something odd about them. Where the flower petals should have been, there were instead mouths, with white teeth and tongues that licked up any droplet of water Polland spilled on its lips as he poured. There were no eyes or even a face, just lips, and the end of them narrowed into a thin stalk in the pot of dirt, just like a flower.
"They’re native to my homeland," Polland said, gesturing toward the teeth. "It gets to be quite a chore when you’ve got fifteen carnivorous Lopsis Volgitix whose teeth need regular cleaning, all while they’re trying to chew your arm off."
The Lopsis Volgitix swallowed the water and licked its lips again as Polland moved on to the next one, pouring some water into its mouth and tossing pieces of meat to the others. The other mouths waited anxiously with their teeth apart, licking their lips and stretching toward Polland.
"Careful, now," he warned. "You trip and fall into this box, and you’re flower food."
One tried to nip at his arm, but Polland dodged it and stuffed some meat down its gullet. Bran had a hard time looking away, but his eyes caught something on Polland’s dresser: a line of photographs of short people in different places. All of them wore tall, conical red hats.
"Those are my family," Polland said, gesturing toward them. "The two together are my parents. Then my older brother Sol, and then younger brother Franklin, Fillip, then sister Nell."
Polland’s parents were standing close together on a hill so the photographer could see the famous Claudius Bell clock tower behind them. Sol had a goofy smile and was looking away, while Franklin was busy with a shovel and Fillip was looking up and grinning at a small crow perched on the top of his hat. Nell was in a garden holding a large carrot half as big as she was, and surrounding her were three blank-eyed gnome statuettes.
"What are the statues for?" Bran asked, pointing to them. Polland glanced over.
"Those are signals," he explained. "Gnomes travel a lot, and some kind people put fake statues of gnomes in their gardens as a sign of goodwill, meaning we can pull up a bit of food in return for some magic put over the garden."
He shrugged. "Others leave gnome statues around the house or in a window, so we know who will let us take lodging for the night. Even outside Dunce, it’s hard to tell who’s on our side."
"Your own network of supporters," Bran said, and Polland nodded in agreement, tossing more food to the flowers. As Polland slid about, Bran couldn’t help but stare at his pointed red hat. Polland must have noticed because he chuckled, and Bran looked away quickly.
"No bother," Polland said. "I’m quite used to it. Look here—"
First he glanced about, then leaned forward and slipped his cap off, much to the surprise of Bran. As he had said before, he was indeed bald on the top of his head, though Bran never would have guessed it with his hat on, as he had a ring of very natural hair going around the sides.
"I thought you couldn’t take it off," Bran said, confused. Polland looked back at him, and all of a sudden he seemed much shorter, as if a quarter of his size had been knocked off.
"Oh…well, see," he stammered. "I’ve got to get over such things. In case of emergencies, like police blowing through the door. Can’t let them see me with it on, can I?"
Polland, though, looked wistfully at the cap in his hands. He glanced at Bran, then back at his hat, and he blushed. He reached behind him and picked up a small washrag and set it on his head.
"Well…" Polland stammered, adjusting the washrag under Bran’s amused stare, "it is bothersome going stark hatless among company…even yours."
Polland held his hat out at arm’s length, sizing it up, and he turned it so that the point was facing away from him, and closed one eye, testing the tip of it. He held it out.
"There you go," Polland said, and Bran reached out and touched the surface of the hat. It had the feeling of fur and was very soft under his fingers, but had hardly any string to it at all, like very soft, thin fuzz. It was perfectly red in all parts. Bran turned it over and looked inside of the hat, and saw that it had a hidden form that narrowed inward so it didn’t slip on Polland’s head, and a golden tag sewn tightly to the side with black lettering that read:
Handcrafted by the Hatcrafters Duvalle Company
Material composed of:
10% ReddinnTM
10% Spirit
80% Love
"Perfect perfection," Polland said, pouring more water. "Ten percent Reddinn, that’s awful spiffy. It’s what makes it fire- and waterproof! Spirit always keeps your head in the right place. And eighty percent love? Tops it off like icing on a cake."
Polland chuckled, and Bran forced himself to laugh with him, though the feeling within him was cold. Polland seemed to notice it instantly, because his merriness faded quickly.
"Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?" Polland said. Bran nodded slowly. Polland put his hat back in place and sighed.
"It’s your mother again?" Polland seemed to be able to read Bran’s face.
"Tell me more about her," Bran said, starting abruptly but gathering up his courage as he spoke. "Her magic, I mean. Doesn’t anyone know how it happened?"
Polland did not answer him for a bit, so that Bran almost thought he might not reply. Bran knew the question had been unexpected, but then he realized that it was probably far the opposite, and Polland had known it was coming and had been avoiding it. After a few more moments, Polland finally shifted the can upward, leaving two of the mouths stretching for more.
"There are legends," he said bluntly. "Few, but they do exist, for I have read them. However, any truth to them would be shrouded in ages of mystery."
"But please tell me," Bran insisted. "It’s really all I have."
Polland tilted the watering can forward again and sighed."I have read some that tell of powers like your mother’s, of Dormaysan, the darkest and most evil," Polland said. "They say hers is only possible through great and terrible magic used to bestow the powers, magic that probably neither you nor I will ever know of. It takes that magic, but most of all, a choice: one to sacrifice all traces of good magic within her soul."
"But if it’s true, and she was unable to do good magic," Bran said, "how was it then that she sent me to the bank vault?"
Polland stared out the window, thinking. The watering can went on running into an all-too-obliging mouth.
"That is a hard question," he finally said. "Research is scarce. But all powers must stay in balance. One cannot bear a magic essence of two halves evil and one half good at the same time: three halves do not make one whole. So for such magic to work, the powers of good must be disconnected and removed somehow and placed somewhere else, like transplanting a heart, so that the evil could replace it. Perhaps if this goodness were kept, as impossible as such may be: maybe, she might be able to do a small bit of good, connecting with what she was before."
Polland shook his head. "But those are deep and mysterious magics, far from the knowledge that I hold."
"But," Bran said, "if my mother also held the powers of the Drimra, could she not have saved a piece of herself in that way, to come back?"
Bran, though thinking of his mother, felt as if his real question was not of her spirit, but of the spirit of Baslyn that haunted him. Polland did not respond, but checked that every mouth had gotten some water. The flowers were standing straight and tall, lips closed and formed into slightly wicked, though
content, smiles. He set the can aside.
"Follow me," he said. They crossed the hall into the sitting room, and though the fireplace was out, warm light fell across the books from the windows. As the bookshelf was many times his size, Polland drummed his fingers on the ledge and examined the titles.
"Hmm," he said. "Where is that one with biographies?"
About three columns down, a book on the high shelf slid out, as if pushed by invisible hands. Polland muttered his thanks and hoisted himself onto the countertop, hopping to grab the book. He sat on the edge, paging through, and Bran slid next to him, reading over his shoulder.
"Here he is," Polland said, finding something about halfway through. On the page to the left was a pencil sketch of a man’s face, shaven cleanly and with thinning hair. He appeared to be a bit bookish, and his gaze did not entirely look forward, as if he was wary of something.
"This man’s name was Karl Yultz," Polland said. "A mage from a century ago. Not many know who he is, though the Drimra look to him as one of the greatest of their missiv."
Polland ran his finger down the biography on the page to the right. The border of both pages was a line of black, and Bran saw from the bunches of pages that they were divided by colored sections. This was a section of biographies for the Drimra.
"Karl had an obsession with death," Polland said lowly. "The mysteries of it, the powers that it held over all creatures, magic and non-magic alike. Death holds the greatest authority over all, the power to end the life of whomever it chooses. Karl devoted his life to the study of how to change it, to manipulate it."
Polland’s face went grave. "But death is not a plaything to be toyed with. The realms in which Karl entered were vastly illegal, the powers too great and destructive."
Polland pointed his finger to a section halfway down the page, which read:
Karl Yultz devised, with years of research, a powerful Drimra magic which would allow him to separate his spirit from his material body: to place it elsewhere, into a host, so that in keeping it preserved and separate, the body, while missing its soul, would not age or decay, until both were brought together again; thus giving him the ability to outlive centuries if he desired.
However, that which happened to the spirit, would affect the body as well: and also, that which affected the body would affect the spirit, due to their deep and vast connection, thus meriting the need for his followers hide his soulless, undecaying corpse in a tomb or crypt, keeping it safe from destruction.
Upon discovery, the Mages Council tried and sentenced Karl Yultz for Severe Magic Abuse.
"It has been done," Polland said. "It is one of the gravest secrets of the Drimra, such that when one dies nowadays, they are always cremated, so their lives pass naturally."
"But what if a dark mage uses the magic?" Bran asked. "There must be a way to stop it."
"Destroy the object their souls are connected to," Polland said. "‘Burn the haunted house,’ that’s the way they put it. Burn it all so there is nothing left. Fire is the only real way to end the life of a Drimra whose body still has life to live."
Destroy it…Bran thought. For Baslyn to haunt him, something had to be carrying the spirit, something that if Bran found it, he might be able to be rid of it.
But what? he thought, as Polland quietly slid the book back onto the shelf.
Chapter 26
The Good-Bye
Bran was still quiet when he got back to Bolton Road. As he came inside, Rosie rushed past.
"Quick, it’s Formal Dinner Night!" she said in a hurry.
"Should we all hide?" he asked.
"No, silly!" Mabel huffed from across the room. "Clean! Disinfect! This house is a dustbin!"
Baldretta was calmly gluttonizing herself with a sack of goodies on the couch. Balder was nowhere to be found, which meant he was most likely in the same place he was ninety-eight percent of the daylight hours. Mabel flew up the stairs as if she was never to be seen again. Luckily, that left Bran and Rosie alone to pick up the house.
Evening came, and the sun began to set, and the street was covered in yellow light when Sewey got home. Rosie was in a rush to get the food made on time, and the platters started to pile up on the table in the kitchen. She finished the main course and got to work with the recipe for Rosie’s Famous Whipped Cream Pie. It was a favorite, and Sewey always got double by taking Mabel’s uneaten share. Bran washed the pots as Rosie finished with them, and Balder was at the kitchen table, gazing with delight at the dishes.
"Look at all that food!" he said, licking his lips.
"Don’t touch any of it!" Mabel squealed. "They’re all special!"
She grabbed a scroll off the counter and, drawing the ribbon, let it spill to the floor. She started to check the things off.
"What’s that?" Sewey asked, coming in.
"The food to prepare," Mabel hissed. "It’s a photocopy of the menu from the Demark’s Formal Dinner Night. Everything’s completely organic, and not a bite was tested on ferrets."
"Hmmm…" Sewey said. "This Formal Dinner Night may not be so bad after all."
He elbowed Balder. "Who needs Pig-Out Week when you can have Formal Dinner Night?"
They cackled. Sewey went upstairs to change. Rosie curled Baldretta’s hair and doused her with hair spray, snapping two earrings onto the bottom of her ears. Mabel dragged Balder upstairs, kicking and screaming, and got him all dressed up also, and ordered that Bran find a suit. He stood in front of the mirror with Sewey and Balder, adjusting their ties in the reflection.
Once the Wilomases were seated and munching away, he and Rosie escaped downstairs to the kitchen to eat, and Rosie surprised him with an entire pan of her Famous Whipped Cream Pie.
"I made an extra one," she said, smiling at him. "We can have it all to ourselves!"
Bran looked at her. Something was very different about the way she was acting. She seemed to glide toward the counter when she got their food, and she set it out on the table, making sure everything was just right. He tried to take his eyes off her, but his gaze wouldn’t break free.
She handed him his plate, and then made her own and sat down to eat across from him. She reached for her cup of water and almost spilled it, and Bran noticed that her hands were shaking slightly, and she tried to laugh it off, but he knew something was on her mind.
"Do you like the chicken?" she asked him. "I hope I made it right."
It was delicious, and Rosie had also given him some warm, creamy mashed potatoes and a bit of corn and some steaming gravy to go over the top. The room was quiet, so peaceful that it felt odd, as if Baslyn had been stifled out of the room, and all of the pain and worries that were on Bran’s shoulders seemed to fall away. He thought about Adi and wondered if she had gotten home yet, and he wondered about himself, and what was going to happen to him. Very quickly he began to worry about Rosie, and Bartley, and what would happen when she got married and left the house. The idea seemed so foreign that it almost felt like he had made it all up. Would he ever get to eat downstairs in the quiet with her again?
"It’s good, isn’t it?" Rosie said, and he nodded. He caught her gaze, but she looked away quickly. He saw that there was something in her smile, something behind it she wasn’t telling.
"Bran…" she began, but she cut herself off. She looked down at the floor for a moment and stopped eating, and Bran looked at her. But her words just wouldn’t come out, and there was a pain that appeared behind her eyes, mixed in with whatever joy and gladness was there.
"What is it?" he asked, putting his fork down.
"Oh, nothing…" She went back to her food, but he could tell her mind wasn’t on it, because all she did was cut her meat up until it was nothing but tiny shreds.
"Bran…" she started again, and her shoulders fell, and she put her fork and knife aside, and looked straight at him.
"Bartley and I are leaving tomorrow, before everyone gets up," she said bluntly. Bran was startled by her words. It felt as if Rosie had just driven
a train straight into him.
"Tomorrow?" he whispered. Rosie nodded.
"I’ve got to get out of here without the Wilomases knowing, or else they’ll do something awful to Bartley," she said. "And I can’t let them know I’m leaving, because they’ll do something awful to me. And I can’t let them know we’re getting married, because then they’ll throw a fit and cause an outcry through the whole town and find some way to ruin it!"
All of a sudden, Rosie started to cry. He had never seen her cry before, not a single time in his life: not through all the rejections at the newspapers, not through all the troubles the Wilomases had made her go through, not through anything. She had always stood strong, but there in front of him, she was crying, and she leaned forward and put her head into her hands, and he could hear her sobbing softly. It pained him to watch her.
"I don’t know what to do!" she said. "I think…I’m going to call it off and not get married!"
Bran looked down, feeling as if everything around him had disappeared, and all the problems he had and all the things that were happening to him were absolutely nothing. Slowly, he got to his feet and walked around the table, and he put his arm over her shoulder and held her. She leaned against him, and slowly she stopped crying, until only a few tears
came from her eyes. Bran could see she was being torn in two pieces: the Rosie who wanted to stay, and the Rosie who wanted to go.
"How about we go outside," he said softly. "Maybe the sunset will make you feel better."
Rosie nodded, and they left the house. There was just a sliver of the sun down the road, mostly blocked by the house that was on the end. The sun was very wide, however, and threw beams all over the thin clouds, making a spectacular horizon of pinks and blues. Rosie wrung her hands, and Bran looked for a place to sit, but he couldn’t find any.
