by Aiden James
I began to think this was a wasted surveillance move on my part, since without the neighbors interacting with me, I couldn’t tell if the warmth toward us that had been there from day one had waned. As I stepped out onto the city sidewalk to nip the branches and leaves I couldn’t reach from inside our yard, a young man’s voice startled me from behind.
“You’d be better served not to cut ‘em back too far,” said the man, a handsome African-American with warm brown eyes and a generous smile, and dressed in faded overalls. He looked maybe a year or two younger than me… but knowing that blacks tend to age better than whites, I considered the likelihood he might be in his early twenties. He shook his head amusedly, and I hoped it was because of my obvious lack of horticultural skills and not something he picked up from my thoughts. “I can show you how to do it quicker, if you’d like me to.”
“Would it mean I’d have to pay you?” I asked warily, thinking about the bitch session I heard last night at one table, where two older ladies from around the block talked about the clever cunningness of some of the neighborhood’s panhandlers. “I can figure it out myself… with practice, I’m sure.”
“I’d imagine so,” said the dude, laughing lightheartedly. “I suppose you’d make an easy mark if I was one of them. If I was a damned panhandler.”
I wasn’t expecting that response, and wasn’t sure how to react.
“I live down the hill on Chaffin’s Bend with my mom, and Julien told me that y’all might be needin’ some help around here,” he continued, stepping toward me and motioning for me to give him the hedge shears I was holding protectively. “‘Name’s Harris Martin. May I?”
“Sure.” I shrugged and handed him the shears. “Do you need the gloves, too?”
“Nah… I’ve been doing this shit for so long, my calluses don’t need any protection. Should just take me a few minutes…. Watch what I do, and the next time you’ll have it down pat.”
So, this was the third Harry that Julien told Dad and me about. It wasn’t the same guy I glimpsed the night before, and I felt ashamed that I had assumed the only upstanding African-American family in the neighborhood was this kid’s family living near the bottom edge of our property. Obviously, there were others that weren’t part of the ‘hood’; or if they were, they weren’t like the punks living nearby, dealing drugs and befriending our mortal enemies.
“Sebastian Radu,” I introduced myself. “But my friends call me Bas.”
I extended my right hand, and he moved the shears to his left hand so he could accept my offer of a handshake.
“Glad to know you, Bas,” he said.
“Same here…. So show me what I need to do.”
By the time Harris finished his five-minute demonstration, I had picked up most of it. I’m sure it seems like a warlock should be able to master anything with little or no instruction and practice. That’s true only if we are relying on spells to get us through our earthly existence. But to learn an actual skill or develop a natural talent takes the same motor training activities that any other human being must master. True to my family’s aspirations, I wanted to be as much like everyone else as possible. Spells were for emergency use, only… or mostly.
“Tell your dad that it looks like I’ll have time to flush the drain spouts and reattach the gutters that have come loose in the back of your house,” Harris told me, before moving on to his original destination further down Old Dominion. “I used to work for the Clarkes when they lived here. So, I know your place really well and can repair almost anythin’.”
“I’ll do it. In fact, I’ll tell him as soon as I’m back inside the house.”
“Sounds good. We’ll be talkin’ to you soon, Bas.”
“I look forward to it, Harris.”
I’m not sure why my heart felt uplifted, as people tend to come and go frequently in my world, and it’s the same deal for Alisia. Maybe it’s because I had only identified with one Denmark resident thus far, and that being Julien Mays. But I honestly looked forward to visiting again with this kid, Harris Martin, hopefully very soon.
I turned to re-enter the gate, anticipating Dad’s surprised reaction to my encounter—unless Mom had already told him. To my surprise, Julien was stepping onto the sidewalk from the street. I didn’t even hear him step out of his house or make it through his gate. Guess he could add ‘approach of a ninja’ to his other impressive skills.
“I see you’ve finally met Harris,” he said, extending his hand to me as I had to my new friend a short while earlier. “You just had a trimming lesson from Denmark’s finest.”
“Yeah… I believe so,” I agreed, returning his friendly smile with one I hoped was just as pleasant and didn’t reveal my sudden anxiety under his scrutiny. “What brings you out on a hot afternoon? No pressing writing assignments?”
He laughed. Dressed in a white T-shirt and jean cutoffs, along with his favored sandals, he looked cooler than I felt at the moment. Chicago had its share of heat and humidity, but it’s nothing compared to the sweltering heat in late June that apparently pervades much of the south. I felt like I was about to melt, or spontaneously combust.
“Sometimes it does me good to get out… let the ideas percolate,” he said. “And the ideas can be really random sometimes. Random ideas lead to crazy thoughts and even crazier questions….”
He paused to look up at my house, and I followed his gaze. It stood majestic, stoic, and quiet… as if listening in on our conversation. Was Mom, Grandma, or even Alisia listening in, too? I couldn’t detect anyone near the windows, and everything was closed up as tightly as Fort Knox, to keep the tyrannical heat from seeping inside.
“Have I mentioned anything about the ghosts in our house, yet, Sebastian?”
“You have ghosts in your house?” I wasn’t completely surprised that a bestselling horror author would talk about ghosts—hell, he had brought it up not long ago in our house. But I’m sure most people would agree that his broaching the subject of ghosts residing in his house at that casual moment was at least strange… if not ‘left field’ bizarre.
“Yes, we do… three to be exact, which gives us two less than you have,” said Julien.
I reacted with a blank expression.
“Oh come now,” he persisted. “You’re going to act like you don’t believe in spirits, or that you’ve never felt anything odd going on in your lovely home? The spirits inside your house are benign, and everyone who steps inside the place feels welcome. Surely you do, too. Meredith sees Sophie Atwater in all her Victorian finery in the ladies parlor nearly every time she steps through your front door…. You ever feel like someone’s watching you?”
“Inside the house?”
“Why, of course. No need to act coy.”
I didn’t believe I was acting coy. But I also didn’t like thinking of Mrs. Atwater hanging about, watching my family move through our daily activities. In all honesty, spirits can be a disconcerting nuisance for warlocks and witches. And, hearing more about this ghost made me wonder why my folks didn’t wait to have the house cleansed before moving in. Especially, since it has long been assumed in our circles that residential spirits can have an adverse impact on spell casting.
“I can tell from the look on your face, Sebastian, that you’ve sensed something in there,” said Julien, chuckling again. “Ned Clarke used to tell us he would hear the brushing of her gown against the Persian rug in the parlor, when he was working late at night, and could almost picture Sophie watching him finish the day’s paperwork from the doorway. I’d bet you and your dad have sensed something similar by now.”
Impressed by the humorous delivery of this little tale, I laughed with him, hoping to hide my nervousness about learning the previous owner could also hear the rustling of the dress. I had heard it just three nights before, in fact.
“There might be someone there, I guess,” I confessed, afraid of how much to reveal to this man, this author, who seemed to possess a keen sense for bullshit. “But you already knew t
hat from what Mom talked about the other night.”
He nodded thoughtfully and cast an almost longing gaze toward the windows of the haunted front parlor.
“Yes…. She did talk about it, and I now know how much eavesdropping you and Alisia did that night,” he said. A soft twinkle danced in his eyes, one that spoke of orneriness. “Speaking of Alisia… what she pulled off last night was quite impressive.”
I noticeably stiffened. But at least the mystery of what was discerned the previous night had been answered.
“But it’s nothing compared to your grandfather’s magical skills.”
A sudden lump formed in my throat. Julien laughed warmly and patted my shoulder.
“Oh, don’t worry, son. Meredith and I will forever keep this knowledge to ourselves,” He assured me. “People like to talk around here, but it’s often innuendo and rumor about an author and his wife that reside on Old Dominion Road. I’m sure they’d regard a statement like the one I just made as pure fantasy. And they would still think that way even if they someday saw the old man floating up to the Beauregard’s roof and back down again. Regardless of what they or anyone else might think, at least your grandfather enjoys one helluva view.”
He patted my shoulder once more and headed back to his side of the street.
“We can continue our conversation about ghosts and what really goes on inside your wonderful home some other time,” he called to me, just before reaching the other side of the road. “Always a pleasure, Sebastian. Give my warm regards to everyone, and we’ll talk soon!”
I almost asked him about the ghosts residing in his house, but instead, I said nothing. I waited for him to step inside his front door before heading up the long walkway to my front door. Along the way, Julien’s words repeated in my head, and I was struck by two of them the most. ‘Wonderful’ and ‘home’ seemed especially incongruous together. I couldn’t see a way to view the pair any differently.
Not as long as our secrets were known and old enemies prowled the neighborhood.
Chapter Eleven
“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Grandpa?”
“Yes,” he told me, stepping out of the passenger’s side of the Mustang. We had just arrived at Harrison Crawford’s banjo repair shop and music store, cleverly named Needful Strings. “It’s important to do what we can to make the ‘unusual’ and ‘strange’ blend in with what is commonly accepted in society.”
In other words, camouflage the artifacts of magic, I thought to myself. Seriously, that was the phrase I had often heard in the past, when we lived in suburban Chicago. It was especially true whenever the neighbors began to regard us suspiciously.
I stepped out of the driver side, pressing the alarm button on the key ring to make sure the car was locked tight and secure. Harrison’s swanky little banjo shop might be located across the street from the biggest Christian landmark in the city, the First Southern Baptist Church of Denmark (which literally took up two full city blocks when including the parking lots), but that hadn’t deterred the nefarious element of the city from breaking into cars parked along Rufus Street—even in broad daylight. Even Grandpa pulled the violin case he brought with him closer to his chest, protectively.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise!” said Harrison, from behind the counter, where he worked on his latest banjo restoration project. He hadn’t looked up until we were standing directly in front of him, despite the bell above the entrance jingling as we stepped inside his place. “I thought you might never get around to accepting my invitation last month to pay me a visit, Georghe. So, you brought me a violin to take a look at?”
He laughed playfully, and the look in his light green eyes betrayed prior knowledge about what lay inside the old, beat-up case. He brushed aside his dark brown bangs that defied the fact he had recently celebrated his sixtieth birthday.
“I brought one of the conductor batons I told you about,” said Grandpa, casually looking over his shoulder both ways before setting the case on an open space on the counter. “After seeing pictures of the most recent banjo you added the mother of pearl inlays to, along with your signature art style, I decided it was time to pay you a visit.”
“From the pictures my oldest boy Samuel showed you the other night?” asked Harrison. “At the barbeque at Julien and Meredith’s place?”
“Yes,” Grandpa confirmed.
“You want pointillism or standard, as far as the painting is concerned?”
Harrison opened the case, revealing the wand. Nearly eighteen inches in length, the wand’s actual measurement was a cubit. An appraiser in 1940 mistakenly thought the rosewood wand, which came from an ancient Romanian spruce in a forest that no longer existed, was a mere five hundred years old. I can assure anyone that the wand is more than twelve hundred years old… but it has rarely seen the light of day.
He gently lifted it out of the case and brought it near to his eyes for a closer examination. I held my breath, despite Grandpa’s earlier assurances at breakfast that he had cast a spell after midnight to ensure the wand remained dormant until after the artwork was added and he had reclaimed it. That was how Tuesday, day thirty-five, began in our household. Needless to say, we were all curious as to why Grandpa picked that particular moment to do this—especially since it meant disarming one of the most powerful wands in our family with the Matei crisis threatening to get worse.
But at least we didn’t have to coax him down from a rooftop that morning.
“I prefer the pointillism, since it is what sets your artistic approach apart from anyone else I’ve ever seen,” Grandpa advised. “But I realize it could run you into some extra time doing it. Money is no object, as I value the workmanship you are known for…. How long would it take to place the inlays in this fashion, and paint the symbols I mentioned before?”
Grandpa pulled out a piece of folded notebook paper bearing symbols he had carefully drawn. My pulse quickened as I recognized them, shaking my head subtly. Grandpa must’ve recently decided to go against what he promised my father, since the notion of camouflaging magical aspects of this powerful wand was a load of bull. It would soon be something along the lines of the classic magician’s wardrobe and instruments featured in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
“You mentioned at the time you were planning to have it ready for Halloween this year,” said Harrison, still studying the wand. “That would give me enough time to make sure it was perfect for you.”
Grandpa took out his wallet and removed a wad of one hundred dollar bills, counting out ten and placing them on the counter.
“How much would sooner be if I include an ‘appreciation bonus’ like this?”
An awkward tension suddenly filled the air around us, and I believe it was mostly due in part to Harrison’s surprise and my horror. Seriously, the feeling intensified noticeably, to where a low electric current was palpable to all of us—even Harrison, if he had known instinctively how to define it, as we did.
“Well… I suppose I could have it ready for you by August,” said Harrison, smiling nervously. “I’m not used to being enticed like that, I’ll admit. Good work can only be rushed so much.”
Grandpa eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled and nodded. A deal had been struck.
“That will be fine. And, this is on top of what you normally charge,” Grandpa told him. “I don’t want you to make any exceptions based on our friendship. I pay honestly and fully, always.”
“Well, I don’t mind doing a discount,” said Harrison, and an impish glint appeared in his eyes. “And, you wouldn’t have to go gangster on me to get it.” He laughed.
Grandpa and I laughed, too, while the tenseness that was beginning to relax quickened around us again, like an anaconda squeezing its prey. To distract myself, and hopefully pull the uncomfortable energy back down, I gazed at the shop walls around me, more impressed by the pointillism art pieces that would go for tens of thousands in New York and other art meccas, but were merely part of the decor and
charm of Needful Strings. Haunting profiles and melting clocks spoke to Harrison’s preference of themes dealing with time and aloofness—at least that’s my interpretation. Though admired in the music biz as a meticulous luthier, I felt Harrison had missed his calling as a world-class painter, locked in the obscurity of this southern rural town. I’d bet my sorcerer future that the man could be a millionaire tomorrow, if he packed up the paintings in the shop alone and carted them to the Big Apple….
“I would never go gangster on a friend,” teased Grandpa.
“Oh no? Then what’s with the violin case—it looks like the ones the Chicago crime bosses once toted their Tommy guns in.” Harrison gently set the wand back inside the case, closed it and carefully set the latches before placing it inside a secured cabinet next to his workbench.
“I guess it does,” said Grandpa, coyly, acting as if he had never considered that observation before. “This case did belong to Al Capone once…. I suppose the world is safer with a baton in it instead.”
More laughter shared between the two of them, while I looked on, still wondering why my grandfather wanted to alter a cherished family relic in the first place. The only good thing was Harrison had no idea the wand had been a warlock’s sacred and cherished tool for more than a millennium, instead of the orchestra director’s version Grandpa purported it to be.
When we returned to the car, and on our way to take care of some other errands before meeting the rest of the family for dinner at the most tolerable restaurant in town, I asked him if he was sure this was the right decision.
“Yes… it is, Sebastian,” he said. “It’s always good to have an insurance policy in case things don’t go as planned.”
“Meaning what?”
