by Aiden James
To my knowledge, this was the first time I had ever heard my grandmother use such salty language to describe a mortal’s behavior. I wasn’t the only one standing there with my mouth gaping open, as Alisia and Mom wore similar expressions.
“Well, it’s true—Twyla’s mother is a despicable human being!” Grandma responded defensively, before letting the matter go with a shrug. “We could use your help in decorating Sadee’s upper and lower patios, Sebastian.”
“Sure, I’ll help,” I said. “Just sad to hear Twyla’s leaving.”
“She has a crush on you, Bas.” My sister winked naughtily. “Rhiana might have a little competition when Twyla comes back to Denmark, eh?”
“Maybe in about ten to fifteen years,” I shot back. “But by then, Twyla might be carrying a switchblade to go with that Mike Tyson punch she currently possesses—depending on where she ends up.”
“Hopefully, this is temporary for her. In the meantime, you need to build some bigger muscles, buster, so that a punch to your bicep from a little girl doesn’t sting,” teased Alisia. “Or, I can toughen you up right now.”
Before I could react, she slugged me in the arm. At the moment, I was carrying my breakfast to the table, and I damn near spilled everything.
“Oww—why’d you do that?”
“Ha! That’ll teach you to keep secrets from me!” she laughed, while Mom and Grandma looked on in amusement. By then, Adrian and the Albrights had departed, or this might’ve turned into a symbolic stoning.
“Just for that, I’m joining a local gym on Monday. Or, if I take Grandma up on the ‘special shakes’ she’s been asking me to try, I could look like Hercules in no time. Then let’s see what happens the next time you sucker-punch me!”
I doubt any of them took my body-building threat seriously. Although, Grandma did make the offer of creating the protein shakes that include ingredients that would surely make a constable or two raise an eyebrow, since I was only half-joking about looking like Hercules. Rumor has it that this formula was what she gave Uncle Adrian when the Matei brothers used to pick on him back in the 1950s. He now looks like frigging Charles Atlas, or for a more recent comparison, Jason Momoa.
With the mood in our home significantly brightened, everything was mostly smooth sailing for the rest of the morning. Twyla’s birthday party was quite fun, but also bittersweet in knowing we might not see this precious little girl for a while. I overheard Sadee mention to Grandma that Mr. Tidwell was seeking full custody due to his now ex-wife’s inability to stay off meth and crack-cocaine.
Sometimes, witnessing the strife and struggles that mortals deal with serves as a humbling reminder that our trials and tribulations are often pretty minor in comparison. Even my current situation in not knowing what will happen with Daciana is small potatoes in the grand scheme of things. Heartaches that last decades eventually fade for us, and in the span of what might encapsulate an entire mortal lifetime. Even if it took damn near a century to recover, I’d still have at least three more centuries in the prime of life.
Something to definitely consider if for some reason what looked positive for me at present turned to shit by tomorrow afternoon.
“I’m gonna write to you, Bas, when I get to Tampa!” Twyla told me, when it became time for me to leave the party and join Dad and Grandpa at Harrison’s luthier shop, Needful Strings. Her gorgeous sky-blue eyes glistened with sorrow, and it tore at my heart. “And, you’d better write me back!”
She stuck her tongue out and gave me an enormous raspberry, considering her diminutive size—despite being taller by several inches from a year ago.
“I will write—I promise!” I gave her a warm hug and then headed for Old Dominion Road by means of the Deans’ driveway.
Harrison’s shop is just a few blocks away, to the east of our neighborhood and just north of the downtown square. Often, in the past, I’ve watched him ride his bicycle to and from work. Or, stroll to his shop with his lovely wife, Jennifer, as the couple employed walking sticks topped with comical-looking ceramic face handles created by Harrison and fired in his shop’s kiln.
Grandpa and Dad view him as a modern version of Mark Twain, although Harrison’s profound expressions are mostly found in his unique art works. Driven by a creative spirit that in many ways rivals anything a witch, or warlock, can concoct, it’s little wonder why they spend quite a bit of their spare time with him and Julien Mays—our other notable and eccentric Denmarkian artistic treasure.
“You’re right on time, Bas!” Harrison enthused, once Dad ushered me inside the shop, where Grandpa was assisting Harrison in preparing the latest painting for transport to the alley Grandpa and I had visited this past Sunday. “Would you like to have a look? You’ll get to see how the metallic pigments catch the light in the shop differently than they will react to sunlight once this sucker is hanging in the alley.”
“Sure... wow!”
He adjusted his glasses and brushed off his woodworking apron while waiting for me to finish my appraisal.
This latest work was a five-foot by twelve-foot dreamlike landscape featuring familiar downtown Denmark landmarks amid ‘town folk’ and ghouls either sharply defined or hidden in shadow. I was drawn in completely. Creepy and yet hauntingly beautiful, the imagery was surreal and yet at the same time quite familiar; as if it had been captured from the abstract places I often visit in my more lucid dreams.
I could scarcely look away. Even when Grandpa and Dad offered their comments and prodded me to share mine.
“Bas!”
“Huh?” Dad’s push on my shoulder brought me back. “Oh, sorry... I got lost for a moment. This has got to be my all-time favorite, Harrison!” I gushed. “What’s it called?”
Doubtless, I have failed to adequately describe how wickedly cool this painting is. If anyone is curious or skeptical about my assessment, they’ll need to pay a visit to Denmark and check it out for themselves.
“Not sure about a final name for it yet, since the brass title plate won’t be ready for a few weeks anyway. But it will have something to do with this Covid pandemic shit we’re all dealing with.... So, you think it’s that good?” Harrison sounded skeptical. “Even better than the painting you’ve referred to as my ‘melting clocks masterpiece?’”
He laughed, while I reflected on my comment from a year ago—one that was sort of echoed by Grandpa in his ‘Salvador Dali’ comparison for the same work.
“Yeah,” I affirmed. “It’s frigging awesome, man!”
“Cool. Now help me hang it.”
Dad assisted me in carrying it out to Harrison’s VW van from yesteryear parked out front. Once Grandpa helped secure and protect the painting inside the van, the four of us traveled to the alley next to the new Italian restaurant, Camoriti’s.
To my further surprise, the alley looked completely different from the past Sunday. All of the trash and debris had been cleared away, and it appeared the walls and cobblestone walkway buried in dirt and God-knows-what-else had been pressure-washed.
After Harrison backed the van into the alley, we clambered out and began the process of hanging this amazing artistic creation.
We were in the midst of securing the painting in its designated spot furthest away from the downtown square’s main walkway, when a familiar voice startled me from behind.
“This looks fantastic, Harrison! Don’t you agree, Sebastian?”
I whirled around to find Attila von Stroheim standing just a few feet away. Dressed in jeans and a sweater, he looked more like one of the locals than he had last Saturday in his vintage Austrian attire, when we met for the first time. He nodded admiringly at the painting—which is no small compliment, considering his own artistic talent on display in his art gallery just a block away.
“Well, thank you, Attila,” said Harrison. “I doubt it would ever stand up to what you’ve got hanging from the rafters and on the walls of your fine gallery, but it’s a good representation of what I hoped to attain.”
�
�Ahh, but you sell yourself and your unusual talent short, my friend,” Attila replied. “In fact, I would be honored to display your next inspired work in my gallery—if you would be so kind to extend that honor!”
“The honor’s all mine—consider it done!”
I could tell from Harrison’s wide grin that he was at least flattered, and surely honored as he stated. Dad and Grandpa nodded approvingly, trading their glances between our town’s chief constable and Harrisons’ latest work. And, as Harrison had predicted, the metallic pigments seemed to dance more under the sun’s rays than they had from the standard lighting inside Needful Strings.
“It’s my favorite work of Harrison’s,” I said, in response to Wizard von Stroheim’s question directed to me.
“I can see why,” Attila replied, gazing up into my face with an intensity I hadn’t experienced in our previous encounter. His brown eyes were aglow with an amber sheen more pronounced than my grandmother’s peepers would be whenever she had a serious bone to pick with any of us. “Gentlemen, would you mind if I had a word in private with Bas?”
“Not at all,” said Dad. Grandpa nodded in agreement, while Harrison merely shrugged.
“Thank you... Sebastian?” He motioned for me to follow him.
“Sure,” I said, while trying to steady my heartbeat and ignore the return of the sandpaper feel inside my mouth.
Attila led the way to near the entrance of the alley—a good thirty to forty feet away from the others, and still ten to fifteen feet away from the pedestrian traffic moving along the square’s walkway.
“I take it you’ve talked to your mom and grandma about my conversation with them yesterday,” he began, after stopping near the soon-to-be completed entrance to Camoriti’s.
“Yes, we talked briefly yesterday afternoon.”
“And?”
“Well, quite frankly, it was a little unsettling to learn my every move, thought, emotion, etc. is under constant surveillance,” I said. “Even so, I am surprised that everyone’s access to my thoughts has suddenly stopped.”
A completely honest answer, and a safe place to start. Instinctively, I worried that straying too far from the truth would be ill-advised against a wizard of Attila’s ilk.
“Do you recall your promise to me this past Saturday?”
“What, to advise you if I had heard directly from Sorin Gabon?”
He chuckled softly while nodding.
“Well, unless it’s something subtle, I haven’t heard from him directly... although I did have a dream of Daciana. But you already know that, correct?”
“Yes, and it was our office that alerted Paris and Bucharest about her brazen attempt to reach you,” he confirmed.
His pronouncement chilled me. In addition, the manner in which he studied my face was especially unnerving—more so than anything I’ve ever experienced with anyone in my own family—including Grandma and Adrian. Admittedly, I purposely stayed vague in my initial responses in an effort to draw out how much Attila could pick up, be it something psychic or an educated guess based on my mannerisms and the nervousness I was trying like hell to hide.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t ignore the inherent danger in underestimating a wizard much older than Adrian, and whose prowess and experience on Earth gave him an enormous advantage over anyone in my personal circle.
“Anything since?”
I shook my head. “No... and I am just as curious as you are as to why suddenly, while playing with our puppy in my bedroom, somehow my thoughts have become as sheltered as my father’s.”
“Ahh, it is a curious fact that has long confounded your relatives in Europe as to how Gabriel, the oldest son of Georghe Radu, is the only one in the entire world with an ‘unreadable mind’,” he said. “Your grandfather is also difficult to read, but that has more to do with his mind’s stability—no offense intended. But, as for you, young Sebastian... I seriously doubt this change in you is permanent. And, if I were you, I would be careful of assuming you won’t be held accountable for secrets kept today, if they lead to chargeable offenses down the road.”
He lightly pressed a forefinger against my chest to emphasize his point.
“So, I will ask you directly: Has Wizard Sorin Gabon reached out to you since the first note?”
“No, he has not,” I said, picturing Pinocchio in one of those silly television insurance commercials.
“And, nothing from Daciana beyond the dream you mentioned?”
“Being that she’s getting married tomorrow, anything else from her would only reopen the wounds I’m trying to heal,” I replied.
“Yes or no, Bas.”
“No.”
He studied me in excruciating silence for damned near a minute... hell, maybe it was longer.
“All right,” he said finally. “Just remember what I told you, as it will be the only warning you’ll be given. If tomorrow’s event goes as planned, then nothing more will come of our conversation today. However, if anything goes awry in Romania and is traced back to you in any way, Sebastian, then I won’t be able to protect you from a harsh sentence to be handed down by the EEC. Am I clear?”
I nodded, mimicking his serious expression with my own.
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Let us pray that our future conversations are only pleasant.... It looks like your father and Harrison are waiting on you to rejoin them. Take care, Bas.”
In a flash, he was gone.
I casually glanced across the square to see if I might catch a glimpse of this diminutive wizard. A formidable opponent, I might add, should I later end up regretting my evasiveness. But he was nowhere to be found. I grimaced at the thought he might merely be invisible, waiting to see if I would unwittingly lead him to the truth he knew I was hiding.
I forced a confident smile as I headed back to rejoin the others, who had finished the job of mounting Harrison’s amazing painting upon the alley wall. I tried to lose myself in my father’s and Harrison’s conversation on the way back to Needful Strings concerning the next projects intended to complete the alley we had just left. But all I could think of was what tomorrow might bring.
Really, it was quite simple. Either I’d be in misery, if the wedding went through as planned; or, I’d be filled with elation over a possible reunion with Daciana... one that also carried the dreaded likelihood it would be short-lived.
Hardly a win-win outlook... but what else could I do?
The domino-line was nearly set up, and very soon there would be no more debates about what could happen.
Just reality and an answer. Hopefully one I could live with.
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday, just before sunrise.
Listening for the rock-ribbed rooster across the street to give the okay to start my day proved agonizing. Especially, since I awoke just after 3:00 a.m. following a disturbing dream where I had slipped off a broomstick and was headed toward the fires of Hell at breakneck speed.
I’m pretty sure I returned to the real world from this nightmare with a shout... or worse, a shrill scream like the one erupting from my throat in the dream. So very realistic, and even the skin on my face and arms began to sting as painful blisters formed in clusters as I sped toward eternal flames that I had always pictured as merely figurative.
Then I awoke, chilled by coolness in my bedroom that swept across my sweat-covered body. The bed covers lay partially on the floor.
A glance to the window facing Chaffin’s Bend revealed it was ajar once again—just like it had been when the mockingbird serenaded me previously. But this time there wasn’t any creature—friend or foe—offering a song or message.
Just the brisk early morning coolness carried by a slight breeze to my bed.
I quietly stood and moved to shut the window, listening to the stillness. No one seemed to have stirred in our household, so maybe I hadn’t uttered the shout, or scream, as I feared. Perhaps it was just a slight yelp... like what happens to a murder victim right before a vi
olent intruder places a gloved hand over their mouth while rousing them from sleep.
I shuddered.
What could any of this mean? Or, was it just odd events that meant nothing more than a reflection of my paranoia and nervousness? After all, so much of my immediate future would be determined this very day.
I returned to bed, reclaiming my bedcovers’ warmth until, finally, Mad Max’s daily shriek pierced the morning air. Dawn’s arrival immediately followed, with the sun’s tender rays seeping in through the twin windows behind my bed’s headboard.
Okay, Bas buddy... time to face the music and pay the piper!
For some reason, I found it increasingly difficult to remain optimistic. Surely, this dismal outlook had been steadily fed by the fact nothing earthshattering was happening yet. I quietly chided myself for expecting Wizard Gabon to somehow carry Daciana to me and then whisk us both off to some fantastical refuge while everything got sorted out.
Sorted out... how? What does any of that bullshit look like?
Questions such as these were steadily tearing down my assumptions—either delusional or fed by misperceptions on my part. Even the darker expectations of a Matei meltdown, as their cherished ‘peace prize’ skipped out on a wedding more than five thousand miles away, wasn’t happening yet. Surely, the wedding’s early afternoon start time in Bucharest was about to begin.
If the event got canceled, the first place an angry Matei contingent would likely attack in revenge had to be our beloved Twin Magnolias. Right? No doubt, Serghei and his wicked uncles—and even Valerian, Irina, and Magdalena—knew the location of my bedroom and should already be hovering outside—Wizard von Stroheim’s threats of lengthy imprisonment be damned.
For a moment, I pictured an assault of wand shots, unquenchable Molotov cocktails, or at least a rock with a death-threat letter attached to it to come flying through one of my four bedroom windows. But then reality crept in... a throng of morning songbirds delivered cheerful melodies from their scattered perches in the trees and along the powerlines. Their songs carried an assurance that all was well in our Denmarkian world.