Naturally! No bodies, no file. It was normal practice, but Lieutenant Clarence looked genuinely distressed.
“They probably have a shortage of staff,” I comforted him (I didn’t tell the man that it was foolish of him to expect help if there was no crime), “especially of the go-getters. In the last four years supernatural activity has increased, but the staff hasn’t; growth has been cut off. At Redstone, things got better only after the ghouls had eaten the former chief of the “cleaners”. I am not kidding.”
“But you’ve come!” Lieutenant Clarence snapped.
Because I didn’t know.
“My brother is a student at your boarding school.”
My Lyuchik lived in the snake’s lair! I had to take him out of here. But where to? Could there be a guarantee that another school would be better? And the chance remained that all the missing people lived happily somewhere on the South Coast… Hmm, alongside the suicides. No worries: I had two weeks to solve the problem and draw conclusions—but time was running out.
“Well, your suspicions are understandable, lieutenant. Though it does not look like the work of the supernatural. It rather reminds me a killer-maniac—we’ll work on that. Do you have any information about the missing people?”
“Of course!” he smiled again. “I have compiled detailed files.”
He took a cardboard box from somewhere under the table and started pulling plump folders out of it.
“Can I take them with me?”
“Yes.”
“Another request: let my involvement in the case remain a secret. Why scare the townsfolk in vain? The presence of a dark magician is a serious challenge to their nerves.”
I didn’t mention that I could be denied access to Lyuchik, too.
“Of course, I understand,” the lieutenant nodded with the look of a habitual conspirator.
“If people ask what I was doing at your office, please tell them that you are keeping an eye on me.”
He nodded, twice as energetically as before. And we parted. Already at the door, I asked the question that was tormenting me: “Tell me please, who works in the ‘cleaning’ department here?”
His eyes became a bit guilty. Oh!
“I understand. Thank you. Goodbye.”
To get out of this madhouse as soon as possible! I took just one folder—no time for more reading. I was curious to see what the police could dig out in principle about a person who did not commit any wrongdoing. The driver, who introduced himself as Alfred, took me back to Mrs. Parker. He could not refrain from standing up for his boss: “Do not think badly about Mr. Clarence, sir; he performs his duties with all diligence. He does a lot for the town.”
“Uh-huh. For example, in the area of animal protection.”
Alfred did not protest loudly but, apparently, he got angry. “Do you really think that if a man is kind, he will not be able to stand firm at the right moment?
I sighed and said frankly: “Lieutenant Clarence, as one of the white, is physically incapable of performing the work he has taken upon his shoulders. Successfully, I mean. You were lucky that nothing happened here! If I were in your shoes, I would buy some brochures on how to avoid the supernatural (Krauhardian NZAMIPS prints a lot of them currently), and rely on myself only. Everyone will be safer that way.”
Alfred stayed silent. I hoped that he would ponder my words, at least.
Half an hour later I was back on the veranda of Mrs. Parker’s mansion, but not in the same state of blissful indifference as before. I got further proof that there was no paradise on earth! I should not show my change of mood to Lyuchik—no need to scare little tykes. I sighed and began to recall some formulas for meditation—I was about to demonstrate wonders of self-control to the world.
* * *
Mrs. Hemul watched from the window the second visit of the dark magician, about whom pupils were whispering the entire morning. The awful monster, smiling good-naturedly, helped his brother unwrap the gifts. Given the amount of gifts, it was truly titanic work. Mr. Fox breathed heavily over the directrix’ shoulder, constantly rubbing his palms and making her feel madly nervous. Had Luciano come to the thrilling meeting alone, it would not have attracted so much attention, but the white from Krauhard (a compilation of words that hardly made sense) brought a friend along.
“Petros is not poised to talk to the stranger!” Mr. Fox whispered indignantly in his boss’ ear. “You know how susceptible he is!”
The skinny, sickly boy was thought to be a distant relative of the assistant principal and an object of his constant care.
Mrs. Hemul was inclined to disagree with her colleague: with uncanny insight, for some meager fifteen minutes, the dark managed to ingratiate himself with the child, gave him a bag of candy and a big glass ball with a Christmas unicorn. The beautiful, shimmering iridescent toy totally fascinated the kid. Taking a seat right on the walkway, Petros admired the run of the illusory horse, scooping handfuls of candy from the bag and, without looking, shoving them into his mouth. Before, the painfully shy boy took nothing from strangers! Had it not happened on the territory of the school, right before her eyes, Mrs. Hemul would have been the first to rush and rescue the child from a potential pedophile.
Luciano suddenly discovered that, when unpacked, the gifts occupied twice as much of the space, and the process went in the opposite direction.
Perhaps, if the situation with students had not been so alarming, Mrs. Hemul would have satisfied the request of the assistant principal. But there was something wrong with the school in Mihandrov, and even the best empaths weren’t able to prescribe a medication to it. The director herself left her sons (two wonderful twins) in Artrom when she accepted the job in Mihandrov. For now, the parents of her students still believed the Board of Trustees, but if the alarming events, acknowledged by the commission, didn’t come to a halt within a year, the authorities would close the school. No one wanted to be responsible for the possible death of students—and the oldest educational institution in the district would cease to exist. Less than six months remained until the end of the one-year probation.
But what were they doing wrong? The intuition of a practicing magician, a rather strong one, prompted Mrs. Hemul to think that the answer was closer than they imagined, and the dark stranger was a part of it. He had fumbled with the children for half an hour already, and from a distance it looked like he even enjoyed the kids’ continuous chatter. It was not normal! Neither a harsh word nor an aggressive gesture from him. Indifferent like a cat.
Petros, wanting attention, clutched with his dirty hand the sleeve of the dark’s light jacket. Now the dark would show his true nature… No, he leaned over, listening, and seriously replied. Appealing to both boys, he united them in conversation, and then left kids to talk to each other. A skilful trick! Gesticulating vigorously, Petros dropped the ball. Oh my God! The glass ball bounced harmlessly along the walk—protective magic in action. What foresight… She became uneasy by such mastery of the situation by the dark.
Mrs. Hemul decided: “You are wrong, Mr. Fox!” Noticing the change in her mood, the assistant principal slightly stiffened.
“I think Mr. Tangor’s visit is our best luck this year. Perhaps he is our last chance to improve the situation in the school. We’ve tried everything—except asking the dark for help. If you have a different opinion, please keep it to yourself or appeal directly to the Board of Trustees. While I am the director here, Mr. Tangor will be free to visit the school and communicate with any of our pupils.”
“Petros does not need the intervention of a rude, selfish…”
“Petros seriously lags behind in his development, even if we account for the initiation of his Source. Don’t you agree that it is disturbing when the period of primary fragmentation of consciousness is delayed to ten years! Luciano is the only one with whom Petros communicates regularly, and his brother is the first adult in the presence of whom he doesn’t hide in a shell, like a frightened snail. I advise you to appreciate
it.”
Her relations with the assistant principal were spoiled; Mrs. Hemul realized that by how resentfully the man had twitched his chin. People think that hierarchical concerns are the prerogative of the Dark, but the white mages are cut from the same cloth, and sometimes the whites’ blood boils too. Mr. Fox thought of her as an irresponsible greenhorn. Whatever; perhaps, later he would understand her motives, although at his age… doubtful.
Chapter 29
My trip had a chance to become a real resort vacation. I got up at dawn, did some exercises, had lunch, came back to take a nap in the room, and by 10 a.m. went to school to entertain my little white. What could attract an adult dark mage to the white youngsters’ company? One thing: with no effort on my part, they literally hung on my every word, and it was like a balm for my wounded pride. Deceased Uncle Gordon was right when he said that my lust for power was enormous.
Well, of course I thought about our conversation with Lieutenant Rudolph; however, I hoped he did not expect that one dark mage would solve all his problems. In my opinion, it would be much more productive to gather people to scour the neighborhood and the town; perhaps the missing just fell in some pit. Yeah, all nine people… My attempts to sort out the situation looked more like catching a black cat in a dark room. A totally counter-productive activity.
However, I was not afraid of the maniac—my Lyuchik was clearly not to his taste. But all these suicides…
For nearly a week, every day at 10 a.m. sharp, I came to the gates of the school and stayed put there until 5:30 p.m., even had lunch in the local cafeteria. We did nothing serious: played, walked, jump-roped (why am I even mentioning it?!), and talked. The flip side of the thin spiritual organization of the white was incredible tediousness—they could linger on every emotional experience for weeks, and not in a corner, quietly, but with everyone whom they could draw into conversation. Joe once explained to me that they needed to chatter over and rationalize any strong emotion, either positive or negative; otherwise it would put pressure on the nerves and drive them into the coffin. Lyuchik chattered without stopping, and I habitually nodded and thought about totally unrelated things.
For example, I thought about universal splendor. I ought to have gotten accustomed to the local beauty and returned to the dark mage’s normal cynical and pragmatic mood long ago, but blessed idleness persistently entangled my soul. It was unnatural, like the pleasure from smoking marijuana, a forbidden joy that sooner or later you would have to pay for. When a dark magician experiences discomfort, the rest of the world should stock its amulets.
In a flash of brilliance, I realized I should ask Lyuchik’s opinion about this place.
“You, yourself, do you like it here?”
My younger brother did not babble enthusiastically; instead, he seriously pondered my question (which already said a lot to me), then suddenly replied: “No.”
“No?”
“It’s boring here. And I don’t feel like doing anything.”
That was an answer worthy of a Krauhard’s resident! He was bored and wanted to leave, despite all sorts of eye candy. I appreciated it.
“Then perhaps you’ll go with me to Redstone? We’ll live together; there are also schools for the white in there.”
“What about the others? How about Petros?”
Hmm, Petros. My brother had managed to make a friend, whom, in the beginning, I took for an idiot: the boy a year older than Lyuchik continuously smiled, all the while shifting his beady little eyes and every now and then jumping up and down on the spot. Did he have some sort of tick? The dark mages, if they needed company, choose somebody on equal footing, but the white pick up all sorts of rubbish; it would be simpler to keep a pet for the company. The first time I met him, I could not resist the temptation to laugh at the boy—I reached out and began clapping him on the top of his head, like bouncing a ball. He stopped and somehow shrank. I ought to cheer him up.
“Exercising? Good for you! It’s very good for your health. I was also ordered by the coach to jump-rope, but I don’t know how.”
“Really?” Lyuchik asked suspiciously.
“True!” I replied with some pride.
Not everything I say should be understood literally, but the coach did give me that advice. But who was pulling my tongue? On the same day they found somewhere a long piece of twine and began mocking me, talking in two voices, each on his own subject. I could not say now that I did not care about the coach’s advice—that would have ruined my image. In between we played their favorite game. Guess which one? Me being their horse! And the school had six real ponies at that! By the end of the week I realized that the white kids were not so harmless after all.
Frankly speaking, only the presence of these splinters didn’t allow me to dive into the blissful moronity, because you cannot sleep on a hedgehog. For some reason, probably due to the complete change in my life rhythm, meditation formulas quickly lost their strength, and I was poised for action.
I needed to distract the kids with something else, or they would totally exhaust me.
The problem was that there were no other sources of strong impressions nearby; the white do not create problems for each other. The boarding school reminded me of a dollhouse in which handsome doll-teachers talked about loftiness with younger dolls, but the kids wanted to run and fool around; it’s in human nature to play at that age. And here I was, a typical genius: we should go camping, on foot, preferably with an overnight stay. Thus, children would be busy walking, and I could pretend I was thinking about the work, at least occasionally. What remained was to get permission from the local bosses.
* * *
Mrs. Hemul watched with interest as a group of younger pupils (those who spent the Christmas holidays at school) crawled under the green fence (they thought they were invisible), and the dark magician walked directly across the lawn from them, defying paved paths, shameless, as befitted a man of his nature. Passing by the children excitedly rustling branches, he clapped his hands and startled the kids, who poured out of the bushes with shrieks and laughter. Though, they did not run away too far.
It was a new entertainment for the youngsters, to watch the magician. Toys and books and previous play activities had been forgotten. As soon as the familiar figure—hands in the pockets—appeared at the gate, the children were blown away as if by the wind. All poured into the park, hiding in the bushes and peeping at the innocent amusements of Krauhard’s brothers. Not every white mage would tolerate calmly so much attention, but the dark couldn’t care less. He treated them as if he was a farmer and they were the annoying chickens, but children seemed to like his attitude.
And these were their white kids! Charming, cultured kids!
In other circumstances, this situation would be funny, but now it only intensified the anxiety. Children (especially the ones with the Source) can feel when something goes wrong. Deep down, they sensed their hope in that man, like Mrs. Hemul herself; the children suffocated in the school, and they were drawn to him as to an open window. The older ones got used to the school’s spirit and became deaf to the inner voice, and that made them helpless before the obscure threat. Mrs. Hemul saw it quite clearly now. She was thinking of closing the school right away, in the middle of the school year, all the more so because half of the students had already gone home.
The dark ran up the stairs of the administrative building. ‘Mr. Fox is alone in the teaching room at this moment; will they be able to come to an agreement?’ But to intervene immediately meant to damage the dignity of the elderly assistant principal, so Mrs. Hemul patiently waited for ten minutes and then went after the dark.
She caught the guy when he came out of the office, looking quite pleased with himself, with a warm smile and brazen eyes. How could a man with eyes like that deserve children’s trust? Mrs. Hemul felt like a little bird that was about to be caught by a sassy yard cat.
“How are you?” the impudent animal purred.
“Fine, thank you,” she chirped, fr
ightened.
He was gone. Wow, just with a glance he made the respectable teacher lose her balance!
Mr. Fox could stand meetings with the dark much better than her; he just looked a little more pensive than usual.
“I met Mr. Tangor in the corridor,” the directrix began uncertainly, trying to calm her heart.
“Uh-huh. He wants to take children for an overnight trip outside the school.”
“And…?”
“I advised him to take a tent and children’s backpacks; we have some that nobody uses.”
“A wise suggestion.”
Did the assistant principal decide to halt the developing feud?
“Petros visibly perked up,” Mr. Fox said suddenly. The acknowledgment of the obvious seemed to present a problem for him, especially taking into account who was the cause. “You know, yesterday he put a frog in my drawer.”
“Did he?”
“Yes,” the assistant principal smiled helplessly. “Of course, I explained that it was cruel to treat animals like that, and together we carried it back to the park. He said he loved me,” Mrs. Hemul noticed that the teacher’s eyes filled with tears, “and he looked so happy.”
The director approached the coworker and gently touched his shoulder. Every teacher reached the moment when his or her student grew stronger, more independent, estranged, with interests of his own. Sometimes it was difficult to accept.
“Petros is very talented. He will be a great magician, if he decides to go through the initiation, but now he is a little boy. He needs a role model, a guiding star. It seems we are not a good fit to this role.”
My Path to Magic mptm-1 Page 29
