Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse (20 page)

"No," Bran hissed. He punched in J-O-R-I-S, but of course he wasn’t stupid enough just to use his name. Bran tried

S-H-A-M-B-L-E-S, and even H-A-M-B-R-I-C, but none of them even made the red screen waver. He punched all the keys at once out of frustration.

"And I was just getting somewhere," he said. He had risked so much for that phone, and now it hardly gave him anything in return. Bran found the volume and turned the ringer to vibrate; he certainly couldn’t answer it. If Joris knew he had it, he’d come for Bran in an instant to get it back. As long as he didn’t know where it was, it might deter his plans just a little.

Bran felt there wasn’t much more to be done with the phone, and so he started to change clothes. He folded up his jeans out of sheer habit, and wasn’t even thinking as he went through the motions of getting ready for bed again. His mind was on other things and bitter at having been let down with the cell phone. He began to set his jeans into the drawer when something fell out of the pocket: the envelope Astara had given him, and the paper she had written on. The envelope slid across the floor and under his bed, and at the sudden sound Bran froze. In getting wrapped up in the cell phone, he had completely forgotten about Astara.

For a moment, he stared across the room at the envelope. He looked down at the paper at his feet. He hadn’t believed her enough to read what was on it. Now he wasn’t so sure of himself. Very slowly, he bent down for the paper, and he read what was written there:

Helter Lane and Jackston Road

Go down the path.

—Astara

"More directions," Bran said with slight disappointment. He had at least expected something more—now she was just sending him somewhere else for the answers. He slowly came to his bed and slid his hand under for the envelope.

Best not get my hopes up,
he thought. But already his senses were jarred by what he had heard at the tavern. Suddenly, he felt as if his mind was beginning to listen to the words Astara had said, though he fought hard against them. He sat on his bed slowly so it wouldn’t creak and reached for the edge of the envelope to tear it open. It was taped shut and had dirt under the edges.

He heard a noise across the room. His hand froze over the edge, his gaze looking up.

All was still. His eyes shifted to the other corner. Nothing. A strange, eerie feeling began to creep up, but he brushed it away and looked back to the envelope, reaching to tear the edge.

There was another sudden sound, on the other side, and Bran jerked his head up again. A small shoebox fell off the top of a stack and hit the floor: a small sound, but it made him jump.

"Who’s there?" he said quickly. He sat frozen on his bed, listening for any movement, any voice that might come from the darkness. His eye caught a movement, in the mirror leaning against the wall, like someone rushing past. He turned his head, but all was still again.

He watched for a minute, but then looked back to the envelope and ripped the end of it quickly, glancing up again but seeing no one. The light from the moon streamed in from the window as he pulled the paper apart and turned it over, dumping its contents into his hand.

Something metal touched his palm. It was small, and as he held it up close to his face, he saw that it was a silver, moon-shaped pendant on a thick black string.

He turned it over—so smooth and polished that it seemed a silvery white. It was curved exquisitely and reflected his face on the smooth side, the points sharp. It seemed so perfect he could almost feel power radiating from beneath its surface, like he was holding something terrible and great at the same time; he could almost feel something moving inside and rushing to break free, but held tight within its silvery shell. Only his mind could perceive it, and even then it was very faint. All he could do was stare in wonderment.

What is this?
he asked himself, turning it over in his hand. He turned back to the envelope and saw a slip of paper stuck at the bottom. He drew it out and read:

Your mother told me to give this to you, and wanted you to wear it.

—Astara

Bran blinked at the paper.
His mother?
He reminded himself not to believe anything from Astara. But instantly, his heartbeat quickened, and he looked back to the necklace. He was very mystified, and slid his fingers over its surface. How could this girl have possibly gotten something from his mother—the same mother he had never met?

It can’t be true,
he thought. Still, he felt around the edges of the string again, lifting it up to his eyes. Then he noticed something: there appeared to be light blue markings underneath the glassy surface of one side, though they were dark and he could not make out what they said. He lifted it into the moonlight to see better, and as he did, something happened.

The blue markings suddenly flashed forward in white, blinding Bran with their light for a moment and then fading the next second so he could see again. It happened so fast that he didn’t have a chance to react; and then, as his vision cleared, he saw that the glow had settled into the surface of the necklace like white drops of light, moving in thin lines across the necklace’s surface and filling the blue markings like water into tiny cracks. He could not move his hands, his gaze riveted on the motion of the lines, his breath quickening as he saw them fill the shapes along the bottom curve, forming letters which spelled the name
Hambric.

He moved his hand to cover it quickly, looking up toward the ladder in case someone had seen the light; and when he heard no one coming, he slowly slid his hand away from the necklace, and saw that the glow had disappeared, leaving behind only the faint blue letters nearly invisible in the dark… though still spelling his last name.

"It’s the moonlight," he realized, lifting it again toward the window. The instant the beam struck it, the letters flashed again like thin white fire, and when he saw them, he pulled it back into the darkness, and the words faded once more.

"Where did she get this?" he wondered with amazement. He was sure it was magic. He looked back to the paper—his mother wanted him to have it?

He pulled the necklace up by the string. It was something very strange to him, and he almost found himself wanting to believe what Astara had said. But how could his mother have given her something to give to him? But as he read what Astara had written, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to do what she said, so he lifted it up, and put it on.

The moment he did, it was as if the world around him exploded at once.

Instantly, there was a burst of white light that hit him full force, electrifying and washing through every nerve he had. Bran fell, losing control of his muscles, and the moment his hands touched the ground, he was somewhere else.

It was a cold, white room bathed in light, everything around him blurred as if there were a sun ray in his eyes. The walls were empty, the room was blank, and in the middle of the space was a bed which rose out of the floor—and it held a body.

The body was white and deathly, shrouded in black robes… motionless. Bran recognized the face, even in the suddenness of seeing it—the same man from his dream! His eyes were closed, hands by his side, but then, the body gave a jerk, as if a tremor had been felt.

There was a sharp intake of breath, choking once for air. In a flash, the eyes of the body flew open, staring toward the ceiling in terror and pain; and then, the next second, the body fell again, and Bran felt his back hit the floor. And in that same second, he was back on Bolton Road again, and he heard the necklace clatter to the floor beside him.

Chapter 16

A Path in the Woods

Pass the sausages, rosie," Sewey said at the breakfast table later that morning, gobbling down heaps of food. He gave Bran a curious glance, waving his hands in front of Bran’s blank eyes.

"Well, what’s the matter with you
now?
" Sewey demanded. "You’ve hardly touched your food. Don’t tell me it’s that burglary last night!"

"N-nothing," Bran stammered. He grabbed his fork and tried to eat some sausage. Even that didn’t taste good. The cell phone was hidden in his room, but he could feel the necklace in his pocket, constantly reminding him of the name that was on it— of the girl, the magic, the creature…and the man he had seen the night before. But mostly what he thought about were the directions Astara had given him on the paper. Now he
knew
he had to follow them.

Sewey shrugged and absently reached for the pile of bills beside him, accidentally knocking it over. It sounded like a miniature avalanche.

"
There’s
my day book!" he said, spying the black leather book that had been underneath. "Ah yes, nothing important today, and nothing important…"

He squinted. "Well, there’s
something
tomorrow, but I can’t tell what it is. Someone scribbled in my book."

He crossed his arms at Bran. "And who here likes to make ridiculous markings on paper?"

"That’s just your handwriting," Bran said, pointing. "It says Formal Dinner Night."

"What?" Sewey said, bewildered. "Formal Dinner Night? Is that code?"

"Fool," Mabel snapped at him. "It means we clean the house and dress up for dinner."

"For
whatever
reason?" Sewey squealed.

"It’s the healthiest thing," she protested. "The
Fitness Witness
told me so!"

"Bah!" Sewey waved his hand. "I’ll have no part in formal dinner whatevers!"

He started to strike it out, but Mabel slapped his hand with the business end of a fork.

"Youch!" Sewey cried. Formal Dinner Night stayed.

Sewey left for work, and Bran left to start on the dishes, his mind elsewhere. Not long afterward, Rosie came into the kitchen and started to put a hat on in the reflection of the mirror. She was dressed up more than normal.

"Where are you off to?" Bran asked, setting a few dishes back in the cabinet.

"To the market," she replied, putting a small daisy in her hat. She dropped her voice. "I’m also stopping by the newspaper to drop off a new article!"

"That’s wonderful!" Bran said. "Maybe it’ll make it this time."

She looked happy, but then something passed over her face, some thought she didn’t like. She stood there for a moment, watching him do the dishes, and finally sighed and moved for the sink.

"Come on, move aside and let me wash!" she commanded, rolling up her sleeves. "I was born a dishwasher like every other Tuttle, and I can’t sit and watch someone else do it without me!"

Bran grinned and stepped to the side, and she started to wash, passing them to him to dry. The room was quiet all except for the clanking of the glass, and Bran could feel that there was something on Rosie’s mind.

"That’s my dream," she finally said. "Get into a big paper, have everyone read it. It’s not like the old days, when we had heroes running around to write about—defeating evils, fighting fires, rescuing children. Now all newspapers want to hear about is weather, wars, and old politicians."

She shook her head. "Heroes have practically disappeared these days."

"Maybe they’ve just gone into hiding since then," Bran mused. Rosie handed him a dish but didn’t put her hands back into the water. She looked out the window and thought.

"Maybe you’re right," she said. "When I think of a hero, I think of someone who goes to the greatest lengths to bring happiness to others, even at great danger and cost to themselves." She nodded. "
That
is a hero."

She handed him a cup. He rubbed the towel across it, and warm water ran down his fingers.

"Bran, maybe you’re a hero in secret too," Rosie said thoughtfully. "
Then
I could write an article on you!"

Bran laughed a bit. "Not me! All I do is spend my nights on a roof, watching for burglars, and in a car, chasing burglars, and at the breakfast table, talking about burglars." He took another dish. "Just wait until I
become
a burglar—then write an article on me."

Rosie laughed as she handed him a set of forks. "But what type of person
are
you going to be, Bran? Are you going to be ordinary like everyone else?"

She shifted the dishes around, the sound of her fingers raking through the water catching against the stillness her words left over the room.

"Will you just give up when things get hard?" she went on. "Let them force you to forget who you are? Or will you find the courage to make the choice—"

She looked up at him. "—and be a hero?"

Bran looked at her for a long time, and she stared back, unrelenting. Her words stuck him as very odd, as if there was something on her mind causing her to say them so abruptly. It wasn’t like her to be so serious all of a sudden. She lifted her eyebrows, finally letting a little smile cross her face before she turned back to the dishes.

"Like you said: maybe they’re all just hiding," Rosie said. "Maybe you
are
one, and you don’t know who you really are."

Rosie’s final words were meant well, but they immediately jerked Bran’s mind back to what Astara had told him:
You don’t know who you really are.
He tried to hide what he was feeling from showing on his face, and Rosie winked and splashed some of the water at him. He jumped out of the way, and she grinned, grabbing a towel to dry her hands, and he used it as a distraction so she wouldn’t notice what he was thinking.

"Well, anyhow, you’ve still got your textbooks to do work in," Rosie said. "I’ve marked some pages down on that list on the table for—"

"Hurry up, you slug, and bring Baldretta along!" Mabel shouted from outside. Rosie sighed.

"I’ll figure it out," Bran said, and Rosie reluctantly scuffled off. Bran had been used to teaching himself from textbooks for years, as the Wilomases held great distrust of the Dunce school system after a book of shapes had been used that included tall red isosceles triangles, far too reminiscent of gnome hats. They had pulled Balder and Bran out immediately. Not that Bran actually cared that much: most of the other Duncelanders his age were spoiled bullies.