by Kaleb Nation
"Over here’s fine," Rosie said, going to the edge of the sidewalk where the curb met the road, and she sat down on the edge, and Bran moved next to her. His suit was stiff, but he didn’t care, and Rosie stared off to the south, away from the house, not even looking at the sunset, completely immersed in her own thoughts. There was a distant sound, far away, of someone turning on a water hose, and a car horn going off; the sounds almost seemed to soothe the air.
"It is strange, Bran," she said, in a soft voice. "How could I want something so much, but want something else just as much also, so that I don’t know which way to go?"
Bran picked some grass off the ground. He twirled it in his hands, letting it fall into the wind.
"I guess in times like that," he told her, "the only thing to do is pick one and not look back."
Rosie didn’t say anything to him, but just went on staring in the distance, her mind wandering. A cool wind blew on them, but the road was still.
"But I can’t just choose one," Rosie said with distress. "I can’t just go on and change my life, and never look back on the way it was before. I can’t just…just move on, when everything has been so much the same for all these years." She fidgeted with her hands. "It’s almost as if it can’t change, it won’t change; it feels like it should just go on all the way into the future, and never be different, just because…" She sighed softly. "Just because that’s the way it’s always been, and I’ve been happy."
Bran nodded at her. "But things do change, every day."
Rosie’s expression turned grim as she thought.
"I suppose some times are like that," she said. "Whether we like it or not, life just seems to slip through our fingers, and before we know it, the people we knew are different, they’ve grown up and changed…"
She looked toward the pink clouds on the horizon. Bran’s eyes wandered to Rosie’s face, and then away again. Her words seemed to go straight to his heart. His eyes began to trace the tiny rocks in the gravel.
"But I hate to watch things change," she said softly. "Sometimes it hits me, and I look around and I wonder… where am I? How did I get here?" She looked up. "It seems like only a day ago I was…I was your age, Bran, and I didn’t have to worry about working, or driving, or getting married. Then I stop and I look around and all of a sudden I’m here, thirty-nine years old, and everyone and everything’s different."
"But you have to remember," Bran said thoughtfully, "that’s not the only thing that changes. I guess we do too, and just don’t notice."
Rosie nodded slowly. "But how am I supposed to get married? It’ll change everything—every part of who I am, who I’ve always been!"
Bran looked up at the sky and was quiet for a while. The wind rustled a plastic bag down the street, a quiet scraping in his ears, letting her words settle between them.
"Seems to me," he finally said. "I remember a certain wise person telling me about heroes."
She closed her eyes softly, and a thin smile crossed her face.
"She told me a hero is a person who can be in the depths of despair, with nowhere left to turn," Bran went on. "And they still don’t give up."
He turned. "You’re not going to give up, are you Rosie?"
She didn’t reply, swimming instead in her thoughts and his words. He swallowed hard and gazed in the same direction as she was, and they sat there unmoving, until Rosie suddenly reached out and put her arm around Bran, and hugged him tightly.
"This sunset is so beautiful, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, Bran," she said, and she turned and looked at him straight, and he looked at her, and she hugged him again.
"And don’t worry, I won’t ever forget you either," she said. "Even if that Bartley takes me all the way to the end of the world, Bolton Road will always be my home."
She held him tightly, and even though she was smiling and laughed a bit, he could feel tears going down her cheek.
When the sun had finally set and the street was covered in darkness, Sewey called Rosie inside from the window.
"Want to come in?" Rosie asked Bran as she stood. He shook his head.
"I just want to stay here a little longer," he said. She looked a bit saddened, but finally she drew toward the house and left him alone. He sat there, staring into the darkness, until the street-lamp far down the street finally flickered on, casting a dim light that didn’t reach him. The moon was high above in the sky, and lights from a few of the houses illuminated the street.
"It is a cold night to be outside," a voice said next to Bran. He did not jerk to turn around, as if a strange familiarity had come over him.
"What do you want, Baslyn," Bran said, looking over his shoulder from where the voice had come. He saw the figure, bent over in the shadow next to the tall tree in the yard, not a few feet away from where Bran was sitting. His face was barely perceivable, though his eyes seemed to reflect the light as his gaze held with Bran.
"You know what it is that I seek," Baslyn said, his voice cool, as if waiting for Bran to surrender to his demands.
"I don’t even know what you want," Bran hissed, looking away with contempt. "I don’t even know if you’re real."
"Am I not real before you?" Baslyn asked.
"I don’t know what is real anymore," Bran said. He tried to ignore Baslyn standing there, like a shadowy presence that was neither physical nor a simple wandering of his mind. Baslyn’s chill seemed to radiate toward Bran, the coldness of death that nipped at his skin. Bran wished that Baslyn would simply fade away like an old nightmare, but Baslyn stood there, waiting.
"Why haunt me?" Bran finally said. "I have done nothing to you. I have nothing that you own, nothing as your host." He shook his head. "I will never help you with the Curse, to bring it back or whatever it is that you want. So you can leave me, and tell your men and Shambles to leave too. I don’t want any part in your plotting and magic. I just want to be left alone."
Baslyn did not respond, but Bran was too far in his bitterness to even feel afraid of anything then. It was as if Rosie’s words had cast a numbness over him, so that Baslyn did not frighten him, even as he stood so close.
"Then it is an apology I owe to you," Baslyn finally said, though his voice held no remorse. "For I cannot grant what it is you wish. I am bound to you just as you are to me."
"I am not bound to you," Bran hissed, turning to him. "Whatever you want with the Farfield Curse is over."
"Not yet," Baslyn said, his voice still holding the edge of calm control. "When you return me to life, you will have the powers I need to finish the Curse, just as your mother left it."
"And how will you make me?" Bran hissed, his voice staying low. "I think you will find a new person to haunt when you realize I’m not listening to you anymore."
Bran arose angrily, passing Baslyn without so much as an inch between them as he went toward the house. Baslyn did not turn, though Bran heard him give a small, regretful laugh.
"So blind, as always," Baslyn said. "Yet again, I have laid the truth before you, and still you cannot see things as they are."
"I see enough," Bran said over his shoulder.
"And I see enough as well," Baslyn replied. "How is it then that I see all you see, and hear all you hear, and always seem to be around the next corner?"
Bran stopped, a reaction he could not hide when he heard Baslyn’s words.
"You’re beginning to see it now," Baslyn said. "How is it that I follow you, and you alone? How is it that you are the only one who sees me and hears my voice?"
"You are lying," Bran said, not turning, not wanting to face Baslyn again.
"Why would I lie?" Baslyn said from behind him. "You know the truth. The host for my spirit lies within your own self."
The words startled Bran even as he realized what Baslyn was saying, the sheer terror of such magic being done upon him. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t hold with the thought it something like it—Baslyn’s spirit being a part of him.
"So unfortun
ate." Baslyn lifted his head. "I was sure that if our project was discovered, I would be killed; I knew too much to be kept alive. That’s why I had prepared it within you before, as a safeguard, waiting for me to give up my first life." He laughed. "And who could convict you, who would even suspect? My spirit would live on, trapped within you, until the moment when I would emerge with new life."
"I don’t believe it," Bran said, trying to deny Baslyn’s words, turning on him to search his face for any lie, but finding none.
"You had better start believing," Baslyn replied sharply. "You are as bound to this as I am."
The realization of the truth in Baslyn’s words came at Bran like one final, powerful blow being dealt. It was as if Baslyn had just placed him one move away from checkmate, with absolutely no alternatives of escape.
"That’s why your men are so careful," Bran realized. "That’s why they waited so long, for my magic to awaken: for you to come back. If something happens to me, you will die as well."
"And you finally have come to realize it," Baslyn said, his voice like the hiss of a snake. "But there are many things other than death to convince you." A thin smile appeared on his face. "And though I am bound to your being, invisible to others, I see and feel things no mortal can see or feel—" He looked away. "—even those happening across the city."
Bran stared at him. Questions raced through his mind: What could he mean by that?
The corners of Baslyn’s lips moved an inch, as if suddenly, he had seen something he liked very much. He turned his head and looked into Bran’s eyes again.
"What are you doing?" Bran asked, but Baslyn would say nothing. Fear scraped up Bran’s back like claws coming to rest on his shoulders. "Tell me what is happening!" he demanded, but Baslyn only shook his head.
"Where are the black vans?" Baslyn asked.
The question was sudden, and Bran blinked, unable to think of a reply. It was one he had not expected. He tried not to move, but couldn’t keep himself from glancing down the street: there was no van guarding it anymore. And he couldn’t remember seeing one even earlier, all day. A dire feeling passed over Bran’s skin.
"Where are they? Why were they not following you today?" Baslyn asked again.
"I—I don’t know," Bran stammered.
Baslyn smiled. "They were following you, Bran," he said. "All day, everywhere. Every step you took, every turn you made. They were behind you, watching, always following." Baslyn lifted his head. "My time for freedom has just come closer," he said, and then he was gone.
Chapter 27
The Escape of Rosie Tuttle
Midnight came, and the house was finally quiet.
Sewey snored, and Rosie poked one eye open. He gave another, so she slid out of bed and started for the kitchen. Bartley was already wheeling himself up with the dumbwaiter. It was such a tight fit, he looked partially flattened.
"You get the taxi," she whispered after helping him out, and then went to her room to pack.
A while later, she checked the alarm clock beside her bed. Half past one. She stuffed the clock into her bag and rushed around the room, picking up things and trying to make as little noise as possible. She went to the list on her desk. Everything was checked except one final thing.
"As you walk out," she read, "do not forget the envelope. This is IMPORTANT." She crossed her arms. "There he goes, ordering me about. I get away from one Mr. Wilomas only to get married to another."
She heard the sound of a car coming outside.
"There’s my cab!" she said, trying to contain her excitement as she closed the window. She grabbed her bags and the envelope, and was just switching off the lamp when she noticed one last thing, sitting on the dresser. She dropped her bags and rushed to it: a single photograph in a tiny frame. The picture was of her and Bran, standing together. They had taken it on Bran’s birthday the year before.
For a moment she stopped and completely forgot about the car and Bartley. She picked up the photograph and turned it so she could see it straight. Something caught in her throat, but she forced herself to keep her chin high.
"Come now, Rosie," she said. "It’s no time for sad thoughts."
She turned and tried to stuff it into her bags, but try as she could, it just wouldn’t fit.
"Oh, rot," she said to herself. She swiftly covered her mouth.
"Goodness, fifteen years and Sewey finally rubs off on me!" she said with shock. She zipped her bags back up with effort.
"I guess I’ll just have to carry it," she said, tucking it into her pocket. She looked up at her room. It seemed so empty without her things. She shook her head sadly.
"This was a good room," she nodded. "I wonder what strange and interesting people will inhabit it one day."
And with that, she turned, keeping her head high, and started out the door. Her shoes were silent as she went down the stairs. When she got to the bottom, she turned and looked back up, all the way to the top, getting one last look at the place she had called home for so many years. Then she remembered the envelope.
"You," she said, dropping it on the couch, "go here."
She chuckled just a little bit.
"And how I wish I could be here when Sewey finds you," she said to it, and then she turned and marched for the door. But she stopped.
"Wait a minute…" She slowly set her bags down and looked back at the stairs. She bit her lip.
"This is no time to be leaving things undone," she said, and she started back up with slow, intent steps. When she got to the top, she moved for Bran’s ladder and looked up. It was awfully high. But she grabbed the sides of the ladder anyway, hoisting herself up. One step after the other she pulled, until her head went into the attic, and she finally crawled over the edge, her face red with exertion. She wiped her brow and spotted Bran’s bed by the window. He was sleeping.
"Now’s no time to wake him," she said, pulling herself to her feet and slowly walking toward the bed, the boards creaking under her steps. She came to the edge, looking about the room where he had lived for so long, and she looked down at Bran sleeping there. She felt something swelling up inside of her. She was leaving him.
"One day," she whispered, "you will have your very own room, with a new bed and pillows."
She nodded, but she felt her lip trembling. As she stood there, a bit of wind must have rustled through the hole in the window, for the papers on Bran’s desk moved slightly. It caused her to turn and look at the rows of drawings tacked to the board next to his bed, and her eyes presently fell on the one that was sitting in the middle of his desk. When she saw it, she drew closer.
It was fresh and unfinished, the pencil sitting next to it as if Bran had intended to complete it in the morning or had stopped abruptly in the middle of his work. The words written on the paper were what brought Rosie to look closer, and what brought tears to her eyes.
TO
BARTLEY AND ROSIE
ON YOUR WEDDING DAY
The letter B was large, just like on all her letters from Bartley, with what looked to be dim markings of flames on its edges that Bran had tried to erase. Below the words was a penciled silhouette of two people holding hands, and around the page, the sketching of an unfinished border. It was more beautiful to Rosie than any priceless painting in the world.
"And one day, you shall have the best drawing paper money can buy," she said, though her voice was choked so much they hardly came out. Quietly, she reached into her pocket, and pulled the photograph of her and Bran out; and with one last look at it, she set it on Bran’s desk, taking the drawing and holding it close. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.
"There, that’s good-bye for now," she whispered, and a tear started to fall from her other eye, but she wiped it away and started for the ladder, holding the paper. She stopped once, looked back at Bran, and then disappeared into the darkness.
If she had stayed a second more, she would have seen a tear go down the side of Bran’s face, though he didn’t move until the room was
silent again. And she was gone.
Bran opened his eyes—awake, as he had been minutes earlier when he had heard Rosie coming up the ladder. He heard the cab pulling from the house. He hadn’t slept any, and probably wouldn’t sleep at all that night.
He sat up, wiping the edges of his eyes. He couldn’t be that way. He tried to tell himself that she was happy, that she would come back sometime, but nothing could ease the pain away. The air in the house seemed to whisper to him, making him wish that Rosie would come back and he would hear her voice in the doorway or cooking downstairs or bringing in the newspaper.
But nothing happened. All was silent. The house felt dead.
He looked toward his desk, where Rosie had taken the drawing he had been making for them. In its place, he saw the silver frame of a small photograph, and slowly he reached for it.
He remembered when the photo had been taken. She had preoccupied the Wilomases with a special dinner party at the Mayor’s Palace and had brought Bran out for ice cream on his birthday. It was the most anyone had done for him, as simple as it was, but it was something a mother would have done, if Bran had one. And Rosie had been more a mother to him than anyone else…until the time had come for her to leave.
Bran looked at the photograph again, and, unable to hold the tears in any longer, he fell to his knees next to the bed, clutching the picture. In a rage, he pulled at the magic inside of him, suddenly and viciously. He reached and tore his pillow into pieces, feeling magic coursing through his arms. He grabbed another and tore it also, sending shreds over the bed and onto the floor. His eyes fell onto the photograph next, and he reached to break it also. But the moment his hand touched it he saw Rosie’s face in it again, smiling back at him, and immediately his anger was brought to nothing, and he fell against the bed and cried against the side.
He felt a cold hand on his shoulder, and didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
"There, there," he heard Baslyn’s voice, comforting him, the iciness of his fingertips like a sting against his skin. Bran went silent, feeling Baslyn near him, sitting on the edge of the bed.
