The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  Afrida bent to read the address and shook her head. “What’s this? Get out!”

  Anger fueled Tareef’s protests. “Get a yellow car or I’ll tell the police you aided my father. They’ll take you away to rot!”

  Afrida stepped back, surprise on her face. “You are mean to an old lady. Evil.” She paused for a few seconds, said, “Come with me,” and started toward the front door.

  “No, you’ll trick me. Go into the street and get a yellow car. I’ll watch from the door until you pay the driver.”

  Afrida mumbled “Evil” under her breath and turned back to her room. She returned with a few rupees crumpled in one hand, and walked from the house to the street. Tareef watched as she raised the hand with the money, waving at passing cars.

  A yellow car stopped and she bent to talk with the driver. She handed the rupees through the window and called back to Tareef. “He will take you. Now leave my house.”

  Tareef ran to the car and jumped into the front seat. The driver was a young man with dark brown skin and a smile on his face. “Most unusual. Is she your grandmother?”

  Tareef snorted and looked out the window at the closing door of the boarding house. “She’s a witch. You will take me where I need to go?”

  The driver nodded. “The street is near Quaid-i-Azam University. I think. I’ll find it. Who is coming with you?”

  The look of pain and fear on his father’s face flashed before Tareef.

  “I am alone.”

  “Most unusual.”

  • • • • •

  “I’ll show you the Faisal Masjid on our way to the university. It is the largest mosque in the world.”

  The yellow car driver, only a head taller than Tareef, moved constantly, touching the front of the car, the papers on the seat between them, the few hairs of his mustache. He hadn’t quit talking since they left the boarding house. His name was Ali. He was a student at the university. He had no girlfriend. He’d like a girl friend, very much. He’d asked Tareef’s name and tribe and had seemed fascinated by the Kalash.

  Tareef had hardly heard him, his attention overwhelmed by the crowds, buildings, and smells of Islamabad. He’d been frightened when he was with his father and Professor Rahman. Now he felt like crawling under a stone to hide. He squirmed in the seat and closed his eyes to avoid the passing chaos.

  Ali’s voice was soft against the din of the city. “It’s okay. The university is only ten or fifteen minutes away, depending on how lost I get.” He paused. “If I may ask, when did you begin Transition?”

  Tareef had been so distracted that he’d forgotten that his eyes had changed. “Just this morning. But I don’t know the words to use the magic.”

  “Praise Allah. My cousin died using Transition magic.”

  “Do you know the words?” Tareef asked.

  “No.”

  Ali had answered so quickly that Tareef suspected he was lying. But it didn’t matter. Only Professor Rahman mattered. He opened his eyes into a squint and felt his curiosity about the crowds and buildings displace his fear.

  It’s not that different. Buildings instead of mountains. Just more people.

  They rode in silence until Ali turned the car from the busy road onto a wide approach to a massive white building. A line of trees stretched down the center of the road; more lined each side. “It’s near the library,” Ali said. “I think.”

  They approached the building—Tareef thought it was even more grand than the minister’s building—and slowly moved around it, searching.

  “Or maybe it was close to the Social Studies building,” Ali said. He turned and drove down a road not much wider than an animal track, scanning signposts. He turned again and continued searching, then slammed on his brakes. “Here. This is it. I knew I could find it.”

  Tareef looked out the car’s open window at a two-floor structure set back from the road. He turned to Ali. “Thank you. Salaam Aleikum.”

  “Aleikum Salam. Will you be okay by yourself?”

  Tareef feared he might start crying if he answered. He turned and twisted the door handle.

  “Wait,” Ali said. “With respect, have you used a telephone?”

  Tareef shook his head.

  “Get someone to teach you how to use telephones.” Ali took a pen and a note pad from the seat, scrawled a number, tore off the page, and gave it to Tareef. “This is my cell phone number.” He showed a small device to Tareef. “If you need help, find a telephone and enter this number. I will help you, Insha’allah.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then lifted himself slightly off the seat and withdrew a folded piece of lambskin from under his bottom. He flipped open the skin, revealing a thin stack of rupees. He took half the stack and handed it to Tareef. “You need some money.”

  Tears flooded Tareef’s eyes, and he angrily brushed them away.

  He will think I’m a girl.

  He turned and left the car.

  • • • • •

  Tareef confirmed that the number of the building matched the paper he clutched in his hand and approached the Institute of Asian Civilizations. The concrete block building was two floors high and covered with peeling, dirty-yellow paint. Purple morning glories climbed the walls, reaching for the flat roof. He scuffled along a short gravel walkway that led to a solitary glass door. As he approached the door, he slowed and glanced around to see if anyone was watching him.

  I don’t belong here. They’ll call the police.

  He lurched forward and swung open the door into a cold space the size of the smallest hut in his village. He froze. A man who could have been the twin of the cab driver looked up from a cluttered metal desk that squatted in the center of the room.

  “Yes?”

  Tareef croaked, his mouth too dry for words. He forced a parched swallow and tried again. “I need Professor Rahman.”

  Desk-man’s eyebrows lifted. “And who are you?”

  “Tareef Khan. Elder Abdul Khan’s son. He’s been taken by the police.” He stumbled forward and showed desk-man the crumpled piece of paper. “The professor knows me.”

  Desk-man frowned and shrugged, as if fathers being taken was of no special importance. “I’ll see if he’s in. Wait here.” He stood and left the room through a glass door in the wall behind the desk.

  If he’s here? Where else could he be?

  Tareef was dizzy; sparkles of light teased the corners of his vision. He squatted on the floor in front of the desk, breathing as if he’d been in race.

  He heard the door swing open, then a familiar voice. “There’s no one here. Is this a—”

  Tareef jumped up at the sound of the professor’s voice, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. “Here I am, Professor! I’m here!”

  Rahman jerked back. “Tareef? Where’s your father? What’s happened?”

  Tareef slumped back to the floor, crying and unable to answer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Borghi, Province of Forlì-Cesena

  Republic of Italy

  Scholard jerked alert, wondering how long he’d been sitting on his bed, staring at the open aluminum case resting on the floor. The sun was setting, illuminating his room in the Villa Borghi Hotel with a fading bronze light. He’d been imagining how the artifact came to be hidden in the wall of a second century monastery.

  TRANSIRE. Late Latin. Common for “Transition” in ancient texts.

  No professional archaeologist would open the pages of a book this old except under the controlled conditions of a laboratory. Specialized book cradles, UV-free illumination, temperature and humidity control, multi-spectral imaging—the specialized tools and techniques were nearly endless. Jessup wasn’t a researcher. He’d been trained to recover, protect, and return any objects he found.

  And yet, the lure of peering inside the codex overwhelmed him. He’d heard rumors of other finds but knew no one personally who’d been so fortunate. He would search for the remainder of his life and find nothing, he was certain. It wasn’t t
he contents of the relic that lured him—it contained nothing new, how could it? But its age was irresistible.

  Transition has loomed over Earth’s children since humans emerged from the fog of time. Untold numbers have died. This is my one chance to touch a piece of that ancient history.

  The artifact would be taken from him as soon as he returned to Washington. It would be locked in an archive, hidden from all but one or two researchers approved by the DTS.

  Jessup rose, strode to the small desk opposite the bed, brushed the tourist brochures onto the floor, and grabbed a towel from the bathroom to cover the surface. He lifted the metal box from the floor, set it on the desk to one side, and opened it. He stared, mesmerized, at the codex as he pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves.

  Last chance to stop before I do something stupid.

  He shook his head, lifted the book, and placed it on the towel. An invisible fog of mold and old brick floated in the air.

  Please, please, don’t fall apart.

  He pulled the desk chair up, sat, and opened the cover in slow motion. The text was faded but legible. He’d been right—there were two pages between the vellum covers.

  Not Latin. I can’t read it. Goddammit, I need help.

  His grandmother had been born in Appalachia and spoke in folksy truisms. One of them was “in for a penny, in for a pound.”

  He thought for a minute, then took his cell phone and located the number for an old school buddy. He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine; he guessed that it would be after midnight in Islamabad.

  Ashraf will understand.

  He took a picture of the front cover and the two pages and attached the images to an email with a three word message: “Calling to discuss.”

  The phone rang a twice before a tired voice answered “Salaam-vaalaikum.”

  Scholard knew his friend’s voice well enough to catch the unasked question in his unfailing politeness. Something along the lines of “Who is calling me at this hour?”

  “Vaalaikum salaam, Ashraf. This is Jessup Scholard. I apologize for calling at this late hour. How are you, my friend?”

  “Jessup! It’s always good to hear your voice. All is well. All is well. I appear to have adopted a child, but that is a good thing, I think. And you, how are you?”

  One of the things Scholard loved about Muslim cultures was the extended courtesy of telephone greetings. But he was so anxious to learn if Ashraf Rahman could help with translation that he plunged headlong into the call, quickly describing his find and asking his friend to open the email and to examine the images.

  Rahman dropped off the call for a couple of moments, then returned, his voice excited. “Most interesting. It’s similar to early Vulgar Latin, but that’s not quite it. Let me think. Let me think.”

  Rahman was an international expert in ancient languages and on the staff of the Institute of Asian Civilizations. He and Jessup had become friends when they were grad students at Columbia.

  “It’s very early vernacular Italian.” The last vestige of sleep was gone from Rahman’s voice. “Not recognizable as modern Italian. Earlier. Think an old Latin dialect with a Gallic influence, as might have been spoken in Lombardy.”

  “Can you decipher it?”

  “Perhaps. I will call you in a half hour.”

  • • • • •

  An hour passed before Rahman called back. Long enough for the folly of Jessup’s actions to begin to penetrate. He was wishing he’d left the book in the case when his phone rang.

  The excitement in the professor’s voice leaped out of the phone. “I need more time, but I believe I have a broad understanding of the text. If I’m correct, this is a momentous find.”

  Jessup shivered. His grandmother would have said someone was walking over his grave. “Tell me.”

  Rahman went silent for several long moments. “I won’t try to provide a specific translation until I’ve had more time. But you were right, the codex concerns Transition.”

  “And?”

  “It contains an additional verse for the Transition ritual. Maybe a long-lost element or something that had been recently discovered when the codex was concealed.”

  Jessup’s heart was pounding. He was sweating in spite of the frigid air in the hotel room. “What’s the purpose of this verse?”

  “I believe it sets aside Transition’s uniqueness requirement. A child using this verse could wield magic at will.”

  Jessup sat in stunned silence. His mind skittered from one catastrophic implication to another.

  “You’ve made a mistake. Or the codex’s claim is false. Such a thing is impossible.”

  “Perhaps.”

  But if it’s true and becomes known, our world would end. No one would be safe.

  The full impact of Jessup’s actions washed over him in a tidal wave of regret. What if this verse was real? And what if it got out? He had to contact the DTS director immediately and tell her what he’d done. He thought about how that conversation was going to go. He’d opened the text. A text about Transition. No, about circumventing Transition’s uniqueness requirement. Worse, he’d involved someone outside the agency.

  In a voice harsh with fear, he said, “Listen closely, my friend, I beg you. Destroy my email. Destroy these images. Join me in Washington to help my government assess what I’ve found.”

  1349 CE

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Paris

  Kingdom of France

  “Papa!” Marie Douzaine called to her father. He was working in the back of their small shop, putting the last of the day’s bread in the large brick oven. “Monsieur Oulette is here for his pain de mayne. He’s—”

  She paused, not wanting to offend the wellborn man, who was their best customer. But the Great Pestilence had taken countless lives in Paris, and she was scared. “Not well.”

  The man’s face was as red as a beet, and he wore a high collar and long sleeves that concealed his skin.

  Mon dieu. He has more than a cold.

  Marie stepped back, pressing against the rough wall that separated the parts of the shop.

  The sounds from the back ceased when she said, “Not well.” Her father rushed into the front, carrying four round-bellied loaves of bread. He placed them on the bench, pushed them forward, and stepped back. “Here is your order, Monsieur. I used only the finest, most expensive white flour.” He turned a loaf over. “Signified by my mark.”

  Oulette coughed. “Merci. I apologize for startling your daughter. I have a bit of a cold, but with all the…the…unpleasantness, I understand her fright.” He sneezed loudly and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  He can’t even bring himself to face the words.

  He glanced over at Marie and smiled. “Your lavender eyes are enchanting, Mademoiselle Marie. Perhaps now that you’ve begun your Transition de la Vie, your father should teach you the words so that you can protect your family with magic.”

  Her father’s face darkened. “Monsieur jests, but there is no humor to it. Do not offer temptation when only another way to die awaits.”

  “I’ll be leaving Paris for my country home,” Oulette said. “The rural air has to be healthier than the stench of the city. This will be my last order until I return.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a silver coin, and stretched across the counter to place it in her father’s hand. “A little something additional. I shall miss your wonderful bread.”

  Her father protested the overpayment but put the coin in his pocket. He startled Marie by losing all caution, leaping around the bench, and embracing the noble.

  “Godspeed, Monsieur. I look forward to your return.”

  “As do I.” Oulette bent double in a coughing spasm, righted himself, and walked from the shop.

  A worried frown creased her father’s face. “Anyone who can leave Paris is doing so. And it seems most of those who stay, die. It’s time we began delivering bread to keep people out of the shop.”

  “What Monsieur Oulette said about usin
g magic—”

  Her father shook his head violently and raised a hand to stop her. “I do not know the ritual words. Even if I did, do you think you’re the only child who’s wanted to use the magic of Transition de la Vie to protect from disease? No. And because you would not be the first, the magic would kill you. How would your papa survive without his only daughter? I’ll hear no more of this.” He turned and marched back to his oven.

  Her mother had died when her brother was born. The baby boy—Jacque—died two days later. Marie had grown to understand that her father’s joy died then also.

  Now she watched Paris wither, the carts of the dead unable to carry away all the rotting corpses. She’d overheard customers tell her father about whole villages in the countryside that now stood empty. Death from Transition seemed less dangerous than the unavoidable sickness that stalked them all.

  • • • • •

  Marie’s cart bumped and jerked over the cobblestones of the narrow street. Her father remained with the store to tend the oven and prepare loaves for the customers who continued to come to the boulangerie. The sun overhead warmed the early spring day, but the streets were half vacant, as they had been since people began falling ill. The first four deliveries had taken most of the morning; she had one more to make.

  Their bakery was on a small side street just off the Rue St. Denis, a short walk from the Porte St. Denis gate of the walled city. The major streets in Paris had names, but sign posts were infrequent, even rare. And the smaller streets had no names at all or were called by different names by the various people living along them. She was so confused by all the turns that she’d probably need help to find her way back to the shop.

  Three people had guided her this far, using landmarks to point the way. She stopped the cart next to an old woman tossing the contents of a slop bucket into the street. “I’m looking for Madame Agard’s house. Can you help me?”

  The woman thought for a minute, then nodded at Marie. “Go to the next cross street, then left. She lives three or four houses from there. The only one of stone.”