Bindings

by Carla Jablonski

  Faerie had been amazing. It wasn’t just that it was probably the prettiest, most spectacular place he’d ever seen. It was where he felt like magic was real. More than that—that magic was natural, everyday, and ordinary but in an extraordinary way. He had met talking animals, nasty little creatures, and beautiful fairies who could fly and sing, and even the air there made him want to dance—if he were keen on dancing.

  He almost wound up a prisoner there, when the Queen, Titania, tricked him into accepting a gift. But he managed to find a way out and was able to return home. Then, of course, no adventure would be complete without an attempt on one’s life. And Tim had been there, done that, too. His creepy tour guide, Mr. E, took him into the future, to the “end of time,” and then turned on him and tried to drive a stake through his heart. It was a bizarre miracle that Tim had made it back alive.

  Throughout all the journeys, it seemed like there were always people trying to kill him or take his magic. John Constantine, the bloke Tim liked best of the crew, had explained that Tim’s magic could go either way—good or evil—and that there were powerful forces who wanted to be sure his magic went the way they wanted it to—or didn’t go at all. In other words, if Tim wasn’t going to work for the bad guys, they wanted him dead!

  Am I still in danger? Tim wondered. Since the Trenchcoat Brigade had deposited him at home that rainy night a little over a month ago, exhausted and confused, nothing unusual had happened. In a strange way it was a little disappointing. Now what? What do I do with this information?

  Even though Tim had spent the whole time scared stiff, it was the most alive he had ever felt. Maybe because so many times I thought I was about to be dead, he reasoned.

  Tim thought about things he’d seen and magic he’d done. When they first met, Dr. Occult, the one who had shown Tim the land of Faerie, had turned Tim’s yo-yo into an owl. At the end of time, when Mr. E had attacked him, Yo-yo flew in front of the stake that had been intended for Tim. Yo-yo’s sacrifice had saved Tim, but killed the owl. Back at home after the Trenchcoat Brigade had left him, after Tim had rejected magic, frustrated and disappointed and alone, Tim had managed to somehow turn his yo-yo back into a bird. How did I do that? he wondered.

  But the bird had flown away. And Tim missed him.

  A movement overhead caught Tim’s eye. He squinted up and saw a large bird circling above him. “Yo-yo?”

  Just then he felt a thud against his ankle and glanced down. The football sat beside his foot. “Oh,” Tim said. “I suppose I should do something with that.”

  “Yikes!” he cried, as the opposing team thundered toward him. Oh no! His teammates were heading straight toward him, too!

  Tim tried to kick the ball away, but it had now rolled out of reach.

  Ooof! The large boy who sat three rows in front of him in Literature class slammed into Tim. Tim landed on the ground, winded, his face grinding into the dirt, as three more kids piled on top of him. Then he heard a shout. “Saunders has the ball!” Everyone scrambled away, leaving Tim sore and humiliated, alone on the grass.

  Slowly, Tim sat up. He felt around and found his glasses. Luckily, they weren’t broken. Tim’s ribs twinged where someone’s knees had connected with them. He felt trampled. He stood up and felt worse. He saw that Molly had stopped running and witnessed the entire fiasco.

  “Brilliant,” he muttered, “just brilliant.” He started to jog. He planned to run toward the others, to prove he wasn’t a complete wimp and weakling. But instead, he bypassed the knot of players in the scrimmage and kept going. He picked up speed and tore out of the schoolyard.

  “Hunter!” he heard his gym teacher, Coach Michelson, shout behind him. “Hunter! Where do you think you’re going?”

  Tim ignored him, ignored everything. It was all just a blur as his feet pounded the pavement.

  What is wrong with me? Tim admonished himself. I am such a loser. How can I possibly be this powerful magician that the entire universe is after, when I can’t hold my own on the bloody schoolyard? No wonder Yo-yo abandoned me.

  Footfall after footfall, the running jangled his bruised body, but it felt good, as if he were landing punches on an unseen adversary—and that enemy was his own confusion. He felt like he would explode out of his skin.

  This change, this magic event, this was big. Too big for him to sit still, too big to play stupid football, too big to explain to anyone. Even to Molly.

  His breaths were ragged now. He couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop running. His chest hurt, but he didn’t stop. The pain was real—it made sense. It wasn’t like that magic stuff. Run hard, breathe hard. Logic. His thoughts were now taking on the rhythm of his feet. Fairy Queens? Magic keys? Past worlds? Tim stopped and grabbed a lamppost, bending over and panting. How can that have happened to me? How could it have happened to anyone?

  He slid down and sat on the pavement, leaning against the lamppost, sweat pouring down his face. He knew he’d feel chilled soon, sweating in the cold December air, but he didn’t care.

  No one would believe me. Not even Molly. And I don’t want her to think I’ve gone completely mad. I need her to be my friend. And she wouldn’t be friends with a raving loon. Well, he thought getting to his feet, she probably would. She wouldn’t drop someone just because he deserved to be committed, not Molly. But Tim didn’t want a friend who cared for him only because she felt sorry for him. He did want someone to confide in, but how could he tell anyone about an experience for which he couldn’t find the words?

  Tim glanced around to get his bearings, then laughed. He’d run all the way home. He’d gone the long way, past the boarded-up shops and behind the parking garage. He had added about fifteen blocks to the route, but now his home in Ravenknoll Estates was just a few streets over. He might as well go there.

  If he told her, Molly might think it was all just a dream, Tim thought as he slowly walked up to his front door. He had trouble believing it was not a dream himself. He had met Merlin, back in the time of King Arthur. He had traveled to America with John Constantine in no time at all, literally. Of course it sounded like a dream.

  Then he paused. Only it wasn’t a dream.

  Tim slogged up to the door, then realized his keys were in his jacket in his locker back at school.

  Great. He wouldn’t be able to sneak in, hoping his distracted, depressed father wouldn’t notice. He’d have to knock and explain himself. Well, today already stunk. Why not let it stink worse?

  He knocked. He heard the television blaring from the living room, then noticed the curtain in the front window move.

  His father opened the door. “Tim?”

  Father and son looked at each other. Tim saw his dad’s fleshy face, his thinning hair, the paunch his cardigan stretched over, the missing button. Tim wondered what his dad saw looking at him. Tim figured he himself looked a wreck; he certainly felt a wreck.

  Uh-oh. On further observation Tim recognized that his dad was 100% alert today, for once. The clues were small but there.

  The car accident that had taken Tim’s mother’s life had also caused Tim’s father to lose an arm. Today the empty sleeve of his father’s gray sweater was neatly pinned up. Some days—the bad ones—Mr. Hunter let the empty sleeve dangle, if he got dressed at all. On those days he paid far less attention to Tim, shouting out only for him to come watch some old black-and-white movie on television or to ask absentmindedly how school was, even on a Saturday. Those days, Tim could get away with anything.

  “Have you lost your key again? I swear, lad, you’d lose your head if it weren’t attached to your shoulders.”

  Tim pushed past him and entered the house. His father shifted in the doorway and peered at him.

  “Tim, what are you doing home at this hour? And where are your school clothes?” His father began to follow him. “What happened to you, lad? Did you get into a fight?”

  Tim didn’t answer, just trudged up the stairs to his room, shut the door, and lay facedown on his bed.

&n
bsp; Every muscle hurt. He’d been quite trampled. How was that considered education?

  The downstairs phone rang, and Tim heard his father answer. Good. That meant he’d leave Tim alone a little while longer.

  “Yes?” Mr. Hunter said. There was a long pause, and then his voice had an edge to it. “Is that a fact? I shouldn’t take that tone if I were you. If anyone wants sorting out for negligence it’s your gym instructor.”

  Did I think the phone call was a good thing? Now I’m going to catch it for sure. Tim stood and crossed to his door. He opened it a crack so he could hear his father’s side of the conversation better. It wasn’t hard, since his father was getting louder as he got angrier.

  “Oh no?” Mr. Hunter said. “What do you call it when my boy limps in with a split lip? He’s putting up a brave front, but I think he’s got a cracked rib or two. As a matter of fact, I was about to run him in for an X ray.”

  Tim’s forehead furrowed. His father was defending him to the school?

  “Fine,” Mr. Hunter snapped. “Just so we’re clear on one thing. My Tim is not an incorrigible anything. Good-bye.”

  Tim heard his father slam the phone down. Then he heard the creaking of the stairs. He quickly grabbed a book from his desk, sat on his bed, and flipped the book open, trying to not look incorrigible.

  “Hullo?” Mr. Hunter hovered in the doorway, then stepped into Tim’s room. He seemed ill at ease. Uncertain.

  Tim didn’t know what was coming, so he didn’t know what to do. “Hullo,” he replied.

  “Well, I just thought I’d…” Mr. Hunter glanced around Tim’s room, surprised. “What’s all this? No skateboarding chaps on the wall? Owls, is it now?”

  “I like owls. Doesn’t everyone?”

  Mr. Hunter perched on the edge of Tim’s bed. “Errrr. Beautiful day outside, isn’t it?”

  This is a brilliant conversation, Tim thought. “Yeah. Looks sort of like yesterday. Quite a lot like yesterday, actually.”

  “What I mean is, nice as it is, why don’t you go outside and play?”

  “Play?” Tim stared at his dad. He sensed worry and concern—two emotions his father rarely displayed. Self-absorbed melancholy was more his dad’s style.

  “You’ve been looking a bit peaked, lately.”

  “Peaked?” Who is this man, Tim wondered, and what have they done with my father?

  “Really, Tim, you’re getting to be a regular recluse. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Dad has noticed me? This is news. In addition to surprise, Tim also felt it was too little, too late. “But—”

  “No buts about it,” his dad said, getting up. “You get dressed and get out there and have some fun. Skate or play ball or something.”

  “All right. I’ll go outside and frolic, then,” Tim said. “I’ll get dressed on my own, though. If you don’t mind. I can do that, you know. I can tie my own shoelaces and everything.”

  “Tim.” Mr. Hunter sighed and left the room. Tim changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He threw a sweatshirt over his head, grabbed his jacket, and left the house.

  “Why don’t you go outside and play?” he muttered, repeating his father’s inane recommendation. As if a round of catch was going to solve his problems.

  Does he think I’m a little kid? When a bit of fresh air might have been all that was needed to change my point of view?

  Tim kicked an empty soda can into the gutter. He calls me a recluse? Look who’s talking! I suppose when one sits in front of the telly all day, one has time to notice these things. Besides, Tim thought, bending down and grabbing a broken tree branch, Dad should be pleased about my solitary existence. Tim dragged the branch along the broken-down mesh fence surrounding an empty lot. Chip off the old block and all that.

  He tossed the stick aside. Maybe I should go talk to Molly. Feel her out. It was possible that if Tim explained it all very carefully Molly wouldn’t think he was a complete and utter loon. He knew he’d feel better if he had someone he could tell. Molly’s the best of the best when it comes to keeping secrets. Still…

  He had arrived at the edge of the park and still couldn’t decide.

  “Man-child,” Tim heard behind him. He turned to see a stocky man wearing a long dark overcoat and a hat with a wide brim pulled low over his face. He had a broad, sagging face with eyes that seemed too far apart. The man grinned, and Tim saw he was missing several teeth. Tim immediately had a “Trenchcoat Brigade” flashback and wondered if the whole thing was starting over again. Then the strange man pointed to the sky. “Look up.”

  Curious, Tim looked up. A large bird circled above him—like the one he had seen at school. Then it quickly fluttered away, vanishing behind a building. “Yo-yo?” Tim murmured.

  Someone standing behind him said, “No, not Yo-yo.”

  Tim jerked sharply to one side and took off running. He suddenly knew for certain that the person behind him was going to try to grab him and that the thick man in front of him must have been the diversion. No way!

  Tim twisted and swerved and ran into the park. He quickly arrived at a thickly wooded section, leaping over heavy roots and ducking under bare branches. There were dead leaves on the ground, and Tim could hear the crunching of his pursuers’ feet behind him.

  He put on speed. In fact, he pumped his feet so fast he never saw the net that was stretched between two bushes before it had snagged him.

  “Oof!” he cried out as he tripped and stumbled, caught in his midsection by the net. He saw that two burly men in identical hats and overcoats were gripping the edges of the strong net. When he was just inches from landing facedown on the ground, a powerful hand jerked Tim’s head back by his hair and held him upright. Tim gulped. He felt the cold blade of a knife at his throat.

  “Keep your voice to a whisper if you know what’s good for you,” a deep voice said.

  No problem, Tim thought. He was too afraid to speak.

  The men holding the net seemed surprised to see the man who was holding his knife to Tim. “What are you doing here?” one of them asked.

  What’s going on? Aren’t these goons working together? Tim tried hard not to move. Any wriggle made the man’s grip on his hair tighter, and he really didn’t want that knife blade to press any harder against his skin.

  “Are you here to help?” the other man holding the net asked. He seemed peeved. “Did she think we couldn’t do this on our own?”

  The man gripping Tim ignored the other two men. He concentrated on Tim. “I will release you if you give me your word that you will not run away.”

  “All right,” Tim choked out. “I promise.”

  “Swear by your name,” the man demanded.

  Now that’s another thing entirely, Tim thought. I’m not giving up my name to this bloke. I learn from my mistakes. “No,” Tim replied. He cringed a little, waiting for the man’s reaction.

  A begrudging smile crossed the man’s lean face. “Very well. You know the value of names, I see.”

  The man lowered the knife but kept a powerful grip on Tim’s shoulder. Unrelenting, he quickly bound Tim’s wrists together with thin leather straps. Then he lowered a hood over Tim’s head. Tim felt the man hoist him up onto his shoulders as if he were no more than an overloaded knapsack.

  “Hey!” Tim protested, but the sound was muffled by the hood.

  “You two go home,” Tim heard his kidnapper tell the others.

  “She will be furious if we return without him,” one of the men protested.

  “She’s not here. I am,” the man said. “And now I’m not!”

  With that statement, the world seemed to vanish. Tim felt a rush of air as his abductor transported them away to somewhere.

  Tim had felt this rush before—on his journey through time and space. It could only mean one thing; his abductor was magic!

  Chapter Two

  TIM FELT A POUNDING HEAT. The hood he wore grew stifling, and his shirt clung to his sweating skin. He felt none of the woozy nausea he
had experienced the first time he’d been magicked across planes of reality.

  I suppose I’m getting used to it, Tim thought, becoming an old hand at this magical travel. Maybe I should look into becoming an astral guide—cruise director for magical journeys.

  He felt himself being lowered to the ground.

  “Hold still,” Tim was ordered.

  Tim obeyed—what else could he do? The hood covering his head was removed roughly.

  “Oy!” Tim cried. The hood had dragged his glasses off his face, scraping his skin. He blinked against the punishing sun, then scanned the rocky ground for his specs. He hated feeling as helpless as he did without them.

  A large, gloved hand appeared under Tim’s nose. It held his glasses. Tim squinted up at his abductor.

  Tim wasn’t sure whether or not the man was offering the glasses to him.

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?” the man asked.

  “What’s it to you?” Tim snapped.

  The man moved his hand out of reach. Clearly he wasn’t going to give Tim his glasses until he got an answer.

  “Okay,” Tim grumbled. “I’m nearsighted.”

  The man turned the glasses over and then peered through them. “Ah. You need these to see what’s in the distance?”

  This bloke has never seen eyeglasses before? Where’s he been? “Yes. Can I have them back, please?”

  The man nodded and held them out to Tim, who grabbed the glasses awkwardly, his wrists still bound together. He put them on and took a better look at the stranger.

  The man was tall, and he had a weathered face that bore the unmistakable signs of outdoor life. His long straight hair was lighter than Tim’s, but his eyes were the same shade of brown. He wore a long leather coat, high leather boots, and one glove. His shirt and trousers were of some soft material Tim had never seen, and they were the purplish color of twilight. A large, smooth stone hung around his neck on a leather cord.