The Fire Chronicle

by John Stephens

  “What’s it say?” Emma asked.

  The wizard bent forward to translate. “It says, ‘Dear Moron’—oh my, what a beginning—‘you are about to enter private property. Trespassers will be shot, hanged, beaten with clubs, shot again; their eyeballs will be pecked out by crows, their livers roasted’—dear, this is disgusting, and it goes on for quite a while.…” He skipped to the bottom. “ ‘So turn around now, you blithering idiot. Sincerely, the Devil of Castel del Monte.’ ” Dr. Pym straightened up. “Not very inviting, is it? Well, come along.”

  And he climbed over the wall.

  Michael thought of asking whether it might not be wiser to call ahead, but Emma was already jumping down on the other side, and he hurried to follow. They had not gone ten yards past the wall when there was a crack, and something zipped through the branches above their heads. Michael and Emma fell to their stomachs.

  “Do you know”—Dr. Pym had stopped walking, but was otherwise standing perfectly straight—“I think he just shot at us.”

  “Really?” Emma said. She and Michael were flat on the ground. “You think?”

  Another crack, and a chunk of bark flew off a nearby tree.

  A voice shouted down something in Italian.

  “Oh, honestly,” Dr. Pym said, “this is ridiculous.” He called up the hill, “Hugo! Will you please stop shooting at us? It is extremely irritating!”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  Then the voice demanded, this time in English, “Who is that?”

  Keeping his head low, Michael peered up the slope. There was a small stone cottage just visible through the trees, but he couldn’t see where the man was hidden.

  “It’s Stanislaus Pym, Hugo! I would like to speak with you!”

  There was a harsh laugh. “Pym? You dunderhead! Couldn’t you read the sign? Trespassers will be shot! Now about-face and take your doddering carcass down the mountain before I do the world a favor and put a bullet through that oatmealy mishmash you call a brain! Ha!”

  “Hugo!” The wizard spoke as if to an unruly child. “Do you really think I’ve traveled this far just to go away? I’m coming up!”

  Michael thought he could hear the man muttering angrily.

  “Hugo!”

  There was a bellow of rage, and then, “So come up, why don’t you?! I always knew that respect for personal property was beyond your limited mental capacity!”

  And there was what sounded like someone furiously kicking a tree.

  Dr. Pym looked down at the children. “It’s safe now.”

  “Are you sure?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah,” Emma said. “Maybe you should go first.”

  “It’s fine. Trust me.”

  The children rose and brushed the dirt from their arms and legs. It was another fifty yards to the cottage, but the man didn’t appear till they were ten feet from the door, when he stepped from behind an overturned cart. His appearance was in every way striking. He had a short, wide body and a wide face. His clothes looked much worn and little washed. His hair and beard were wild and black and neither had been trimmed for some time. Thick brows obscured his eyes, but the message in them was clear: this man was ready to fight the world. He held a rifle in his left hand.

  “Stanislaus Pym,” the man sneered. “Isn’t it my lucky day? Surprised it only took you ten years to find me. You must’ve had help.”

  “You should not have disappeared, Hugo. It made things very difficult.”

  “And you should try not being such a great pompous carbuncle! But the world is not a perfect place.”

  Then he turned and pushed through the door of the cottage. Dr. Pym and Emma followed, Emma immediately pinching her nose against the smell. Michael came last, pausing just inside the door. Beside him was an old wood chest, and on the chest was a framed black-and-white photograph. In it were two men in long black robes standing before a stone building. The taller of the men was also the younger by a dozen years, and he held what looked like a rolled-up diploma. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his hand rested on the shoulder of the second man, a short, heavyset man with wild black hair. The black-haired man was the Devil of Castel del Monte.

  Just then the real Devil of Castel del Monte appeared and slapped down the photograph.

  “No snooping,” he growled.

  Michael stood there another few seconds, waiting for his heart to stop pounding in his chest. He had no idea why the wizard had brought them there, or who the black-haired man was. But one thing he did know: the tall young man in the photo was his father.

  “Shut the door, my boy, if you would.”

  Michael wondered if that was such a good idea. The man’s cottage smelled like a barn. And in fact, an entire half of it was covered in piles of dirty straw and appeared to have been ceded to the goats. Three of the animals idled near the back wall, eating their dinners and watching the visitors with dull expressions. The left side of the cottage seemed designated to the man’s use. Besides the chest, there was a lumpy-looking mattress. An old wooden table and two chairs. A battered gas lantern. A fireplace in which a few glowing logs lay smoking. A collection of unwashed pots, pans, cups, plates, bowls. And hundreds of books. Many of the books showed signs of having been chewed on or partially eaten, perhaps by mice or the man’s four-legged roommates or, Michael could almost imagine, the man himself in various fits of rage.

  As Michael closed the door, the man was wrestling with a goat that was munching its way through a sheaf of papers.

  “Let go, you scoundrel! I’m warning you, Stanislaus!”

  It took Michael a moment to realize that the man was speaking to the goat.

  “Hugo,” the wizard said, smiling, “did you name this little fellow after me? I’m touched.”

  “Don’t be,” the man grunted, still engaged in a tug-of-war over the pages. “He’s the stupidest goat in Italy. I wanted his name to adequately reflect the depth of his ignorance! Yours was the obvious choice— Arrgh!”

  The goat had jerked backward, and the man lost his grip and thudded onto his rear. With a bleat of triumph, the goat clattered out the open back door and across the hill, whipping the pages this way and that.

  “Ten years I’ve been working on that book!” the man shouted, jumping up and shaking his fist at the departing goat. “Anytime I make the least progress, one of those idiots goes and eats it. Though they’re probably better judges of the material than the so-called experts.” He glanced at Dr. Pym. “Present company included, of course.”

  “So is that what you’ve been up to all this time?” the wizard asked. “Writing a book? What is it about, if I may ask?”

  “It’s called A History of Stupidity in the Magical World, and needless to say, you figure prominently. I even thought of including your photo, but I didn’t want to scare off potential readers. Ha!”

  “I certainly have made my share of mistakes,” the wizard replied.

  “Listen to him! Mr. I’m-So-Reasonable! If I were you, Pym, I doubt I’d ever stop punching myself in the face!” A small kettle hung on an arm above the fire, and the man poured himself a cup of the hottest, blackest coffee Michael had ever seen. It bubbled from the kettle’s mouth like boiling mud. The man said he would offer them some, but he was afraid that would give the impression he wanted them to stay. Then, without warning, he whirled about and fixed his fierce gaze on Michael.

  “Do I know you?”

  “No,” Michael said awkwardly. “We’ve … never met.”

  “Hugo, these are my friends Michael and Emma. Children, this is Dr. Hugo Algernon.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” the man said, crashing onto a chair. “Let’s just get this over with. What is it you want? Recruiting me for another of your boneheaded schemes? You may as well forget it. You hoodwinked me once, but never again!”

  The wizard had pulled up the second chair, while the children had found seats on an upside-down washbasin, which, by all appearances, had never been used.

  “I am
here,” Dr. Pym said, “for two reasons. But I must say how exasperating it has been to have to track you down—”

  “No one asked you to.”

  The wizard sighed. “I am here to give you a warning. And to ask a question.”

  “A warning? From you? Ha! Let’s have it!”

  “Jean-Paul Letraud and Kenji Kitano are both dead.”

  Michael could see that the news had an effect on the man, even though he tried to act as if it didn’t.

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Jean-Paul I found out about on Christmas Day. Kenji was a few weeks after.”

  Michael looked at his sister and saw the same expression on her face that he imagined was on his. “Dr. Pym—”

  “Yes, my boy, that was what called me away on Christmas. Jean-Paul and Kenji were both friends and fellow magicians. I would’ve told you earlier, but the signora’s café did not seem the appropriate place to go into detail.”

  “Who was it?” Michael asked. “I mean, who killed them? Was it—”

  “Who killed them?” the hairy man roared. “Who do you think killed them? The Dire Magnus! The Undying One! The—”

  “Yes,” Dr. Pym said, cutting him off. “Or, more specifically, his followers.”

  Hugo Algernon leapt up and began stalking back and forth, smashing his fists together and snarling. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, Stanislaus. Do you remember? I do! I remember! I remember when you brought us all together.” And he imitated, poorly, the wizard’s voice, “ ‘We must act now. We must end his power once and for all.’ ” He let out a harsh laugh. “That worked out well, wouldn’t you say? Ha!”

  “It did work,” the wizard said calmly. “His power was greatly diminished.”

  “Oh, diminished, yes, diminished. Tell that to Jean-Paul and Kenji. I’m sure they’ll agree with you. Diminished, ha!”

  Dr. Pym sighed. “I did not come to argue, but merely to tell you to take precautions. He is tracking down all who once stood against him.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Emma said. “What’re you talking about?”

  “My dear—”

  “Emma’s right.” Michael tried to sit up and look as older-sibling-esque as possible. “I’m sorry, but you’re always saying how now’s not the time to explain stuff, and then you take us someplace and we have no idea why we’re there and crazy people shoot at us—no offense, Dr. Algernon—but it’s not fair! Who’s the Dire Magnus? What’s he want? What’re you two talking about? We deserve to know what’s going on!”

  This was one of the longer speeches Michael had ever made, and when he finished, he was out of breath. Emma was staring at him, wide-eyed with amazement.

  “Ha!” Hugo Algernon smacked the table. “The boy’s got spirit! Go on and tell them, Pym! Tell them everything you’ve managed to learn about the Dire Magnus in thousands of years! It shouldn’t take more than ten seconds!”

  The old wizard frowned, but finally nodded. “Hugo is trying to be cantankerous, but he makes a fair point. Our—my—knowledge of the Dire Magnus is sadly incomplete. I believe him to be a man. And a powerful sorcerer, certainly. Beyond that, he is a mystery. His origins. His true name. I cannot tell you. What I can say is that I have been upon this earth since the first cities rose in the desert and there has always been a Dire Magnus. His power waxes and wanes. He rises and is beaten back. And since the Books were created, it has been his one goal to possess them.”

  “Not bad,” the man said. “Twenty seconds. You knew more than I thought.”

  The wizard continued, “I have, over time, made attempts to confront him. The last was forty-odd years ago. I gathered together a group of magicians, wizards, witches, mages—Dr. Algernon here among them. We hunted him down. We fought him. Many of our friends fell. But we prevailed. He was destroyed.”

  Hugo Algernon let out another dismissive “Ha!” and threw his empty mug over his shoulder, starting a small stampede of goats out the door.

  “Or so we believed.” Dr. Pym rubbed at his eyes. “What we found was that death was not a prison for such as he. Even trapped in the land of the dead, his spirit continued to wield influence and power over his followers.”

  “And now,” said Hugo Algernon, “he’s settling scores.”

  “He is doing more than that, my friend. He is building an army.” The wizard looked at the children. “You asked about Gabriel. While I have been tracking down and warning those who once helped me fight the Dire Magnus, he has been monitoring the enemy’s movements. Since you last saw him, he has been in almost constant danger.” Dr. Pym turned back to the man. “The enemy’s strength is growing, Hugo. You can hide on this mountain and say the world is filled with fools. But a war is coming. And it will find even you.”

  For a moment, the fierce, bearded man seemed checked. Then his mouth curled into a sneer.

  “Warning received and already forgotten. Now, what’s your question? Be quick. I’ve got to find your namesake before he eats the rest of my book. I’ve come up with a new chapter while you’ve been talking. It’s called ‘Paranoid Old Fools’! Ha!”

  “Very well,” the wizard said. “I would like to know about the last time you saw Richard and Clare Wibberly.”

  Outside, the shadows had begun to lengthen, and Dr. Algernon turned on the lantern. Before setting it on the table, he held it to Emma’s and Michael’s faces. He stared at Michael for several long moments.

  “I knew it. You’re the spitting image of your father.”

  “Really?” Michael could feel himself grinning. “I mean … really?”

  “I said so, didn’t I? Are you deaf?”

  “No—”

  “You look just like him. Don’t make me say it again.” He looked at Emma. “The two of you twins?”

  “No!” Michael said, somewhat hotly. “I’m a year older.”

  “Well, technically,” Emma said, “we’re both twelve. Technically.”

  Michael was about to argue when the man spoke.

  “Where’s the third one, Pym? There’s supposed to be a third.”

  “Sadly, she was unable to join us tonight. But we expect to see her again soon.”

  “Yeah,” Emma said. “Very, very soon.”

  The man grunted and placed the lantern on the table.

  “I don’t know what Pym’s told you. Not much, I wager. But most of us who trafficked as magicians ended up straddling two worlds, the magical and the mundane. We had actual jobs; some idiots had families. Besides my other, call them extracurricular activities, I taught folklore and mythology at Yale. Your father was a grad student. And unlike most of the students, he was not a total idiot. I could tell right away he knew that magic was real. You get that in folklore departments. People have figured out the truth, but they can’t come to college and study magic. So they study folklore and myth, sensing that those stories reflect how the world used to be. That was your dad.

  “I was foolish back then, almost as foolish as Dr. Pudding Brain here. I thought that magic had a chance. That people like your dad could help. So I brought him along. Taught him everything I could. I remember he had an unusual affection for dwarves—”

  “Dwarves?” Michael nearly jumped to his feet. “Really? I have a certain, call it interest in dwarves.”

  “He means he’s in love with them,” Emma said.

  “Was he fond of anything in particular?” Michael asked eagerly. “Granted, there’s so much to choose from. Where do you even start.…”

  Hugo Algernon scratched at his beard. “Well, he was always quoting this one line from old Killin Killick. Something about a great leader—”

  “Lives not in his heart, but in his head!” Michael finished. “I know that quote! I was just talking about it today! Unbelievable.” He clapped his hands together, smiling from ear to ear. Not only did he and his father both admire and esteem dwarves, they’d also each separately singled out the same quote. If that wasn’t a sign of,
well, something, then Michael didn’t know what was. “Do you remember how he felt about elves? I imagine he thought they were pretty ridiculous—”

  Dr. Pym coughed. “Perhaps we could stay on subject. Hugo, if you could continue?”

  “Fine, fine. So in his second year, I told Richard about the Books of Beginning.” Hugo Algernon looked at Dr. Pym. “How much do they know about the Books?”

  “I’m sure they would be interested in anything you have to say.”

  “Here’s what you need to remember: the Books of Beginning are three incredibly old and powerful books of magic. If you believe the stories, they could literally remake the world. Most reports start with the Books in the Egyptian city of Rhakotis, guarded by a gaggle of what had to have been the most mossy-brained magicians of all time—granted, that’s just my opinion, though I’m no doubt correct. Everything’s fine till one day—this is about twenty-five hundred years ago—Alexander the Great shows up, burns the city to the ground, and the Books vanish.

  “So, your dad hears all this and gets a bee in his bonnet. Why have the Books never been located? How amazing would it be if he found the Books? On and on. I told him to forget it. People had been looking for the Books for thousands of years, real magicians and wizards, and no one had ever found diddlysquat.

  “Anyway, Richard took his degree, left, got married, decided the world wasn’t crowded enough, and had you sardines—I mean, children. Next thing I know, Pym here’s taken him up. Read some article your dad wrote. Thought he’d made this big discovery.” Again mimicking the wizard, he spoke into a pretend telephone, “ ‘Oh, cheerio, Hugo, I’ve found the most promising young man, tut-tut, I’m such a great galumphing booby.’ He was my student first, you—”

  “Just finish the story, Hugo.”

  The man scowled but went on. “So time passes, and one day, I’m in Buenos Aires. There was this old wizard who’d lived down there. Mad as a hatter, but an excellent archivist and a collector of rare manuscripts. He’d died, and I was going through his library. House was a wreck. Held together by dust and mouse droppings. Anyway, I’m there working when the library floor gives way. Almost broke my neck. But when I could finally look around, I saw I’d fallen into a kind of vault. Stacks of old books and documents. I spent a year going through and cataloging everything, and then … I find a letter. It was in an extinct Portuguese dialect. Thing was murder to translate. But I had a feeling about it. A man writing to his wife. Apparently, he was on some kind of eighteenth-century business trip. Buying pigs or llamas or something. And he writes how he’d gotten into town late and all the inns had been full and he’d had to share a room with a sick man. His roommate was feverish. All night, he raved how he and a few others had taken a magic book out of Egypt long ago and had hidden it away. He kept saying, ‘I must make the map.… I must draw the map.’ ”