Avatar of Light

by Dmitry Bilik

  “Sure. What would you prefer? A comedy, an action movie, a thriller?”

  “Whatever,” she got herself more comfortable on the couch and tucked her legs up under her.

  “Whatever,” I nodded, booting up my laptop.

  I might be a bit slow on the draw, but certain hints I pick up first time round. Which was why I promptly chose Stephen Fry’s Twelfth Night. An admittedly funny film, scintillating even. But it also had another very important property. It lasted for hours.

  Chapter 14

  THE PROBLEM WITH a man’s word of honor is that he has to keep it. You can’t just mention that you’re gonna do something only to retract it later saying that you meant something else. Which is why there is a time to cast stones, and a time to gather them. And my time arrived the next morning.

  Actually, yesterday had ended in the very best of ways. Our watching the film gradually transpired into a much more pleasurable activity. After a few hours, Stephen Fry had gotten tired of playing to an empty theater and called it a day.

  By the time I took Julia home, it was already rather late. Ignoring her reassurances that she would be perfectly fine on the bus, I called a cab for her, managing to convince her that it was for my own peace of mind. I paid in advance and after a quarter of an hour received a text saying,

  I’ve arrived.

  The rest of the evening I’d spent in a state of blissful fatigue. I’d zapped through the TV channels for a while, texted to and fro with Julia, played some StarCraft and then gone to bed.

  Which was why I just couldn’t work out now why my morning was so busy. Some bastard kept hassling me with the doorbell, ringing and then going away only to return later and trying again. Judging by the time, it couldn’t have been Hunter: I still had a couple of hours until my practice. Who could it have been, then?”

  “It’s the boy,” Bumpkin said, materializing next to me. In all this time, he hadn’t even mentioned last night’s visitor as if nothing had happened. “The one who lives next door.”

  Oh Jesus. I’d promised Boris to sort out that school bully, hadn’t I? My big mouth was my biggest enemy. I hurried to pull up my pants and don my sweater.

  “Bumpkin, get me some socks, please,” I said quietly.

  The goblin disappeared and returned almost instantly with a heap of underwear.

  “Bumpkin, I mean some clean socks.”

  Once again he disappeared and returned after a few seconds. This time his load was considerably smaller: five mismatched socks in various shades of black. I chose two that looked more or less similar, put them on and hurried to answer the door.

  It was indeed Boris, cap in hand, his jacket lopsided, his eyes tearful. He must have thought that Uncle Sergei had let him down.

  “Come on in,” I said. “Give me two minutes and we’ll be off.”

  I popped into the kitchen, grabbed a sandwich, demolished it with the speed of a combine harvester in August, splashed some water on my face and picked up an old pack of gum that must have been lying around a kitchen for at least a couple of months, by way of brushing my teeth. “Let’s go!”

  “Try to be quiet,” little Boris warned me. “My mom might hear us.”

  I grinned. “And what can she do, give us a good hiding?”

  Still, we did as he pleaded, sneaking like two field mice past the front door of Lydia the Great and Terrible. Once outside, we said hello to Professor freezing alone on his bench waiting for his “symposium” buddies and headed past the apartment block next door toward the school building.

  “Come on, Boris, tell me all about my adversary. Everything you know about him.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. He’s a total douche.”

  When I heard his brief story, I tended to agree with him. This Pavel Kabanov, or Boar as they called him, was a real piece of work. He’d ganged up with a few similar slimebags to terrorize younger and weaker kids. His pickings were suitably miserable — a hundred rubles here, a hundred-fifty there — but it was still enough for a beer and a pack of cigarettes.

  “Shame classes have already started,” I said as we turned off the sidewalk toward the school gate. “Now we’ll have to wait till the recession.”

  As we approached, flocks of pigeons — of which there were plenty here due to the local babushkas’ generous hearts — took to the sky like vultures. One of them hit me on the head with a wing. Cheeky bastards!

  “No, we won’t,” Boris said. “He never comes in time for the first class, anyway. None of his gang do, they either sleep in or they’re just late. He’s probably behind the school fence by the two garages now, smoking and waiting for the others to arrive.”

  “Excellent. Where’s that?”

  “Over there,” Boris pointed. “Behind the school.”

  “And this Boar, what’s he like?”

  “He’s short, fat and scruffy like a rabid dog.”

  “You can’t call people that. He’s not a rabid dog.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s much worse.”

  “Where’re you gonna be? At school?”

  “Nah. I’ve got Russian literature. I’d better wait here.”

  “When I was your age, I could get a good whack across the ear with a copy of War and Peace from our literature teacher for saying something like that,” I grumbled, addressing no one in particular, as I headed for the garages.

  It wasn’t just “two garages” — it was in fact a shanty town of illegal lock-ups scattered without any system around the waste lot behind the school fence. One day they’d all be torn down, of course, as the city’s gentrifying project was slowly but surely approaching our neighborhood. They’d clear away the old garages, tarmac the whole lot and turn it into a proper parking space. Then the old owners would come back, cement in two lengths of pipe and stretch a cable between them to make sure no newcomer could use it.

  But that wasn’t gonna happen for quite a while yet. In the meantime, I had to tend to matters more mundane than improving the concept of public awareness. I squeezed through a gap in the fence and headed for the two garages that indeed stood apart from all the others.

  Boris had been right. Four teenagers were taking cover behind them, smoking on the sly. Yours truly was in luck: the one standing with his back to me was indeed short and stocky with a disheveled mop of blond hair.

  “Boar,” I said.

  The teenagers hid their cigarettes — one even discarded his, dropping it to the ground — and froze in an uneasy silence.

  Boar looked over his shoulder. His scared gaze took me in; he turned around to face me. Had he been alone, he might have legged it, but he couldn’t lose face in front of his minions.

  “Whaja want?”

  “Can we step aside? Need to have a word.”

  “Who the hell are you, mister? I don’t know you.”

  “Well, I know you. That’s why we need to talk. Why, you chickenshit?”

  This was clearly a blow below the belt. The beauty of these prehistoric street laws is that they work both ways.

  “I’m no chickenshit,” Boar said. Faking defiance, he turned to his buddies, “I won’t be long.”

  We walked a short distance away toward the other garages. All things considered, Boar had no reason to be afraid of me. As commoners go, we were more or less the same weight, the only difference being, no matter how youthful I looked, he could still see I was much older than him.

  “So?” he asked grimly.

  “You know Boris Eliseev? The guy from-” I paused, cursing myself for not asking Boris which grade he was in, “from your school.”

  He flashed me a cheeky smile. “First time I hear about him.”

  He obviously knew what I was driving at but he’d chosen to play stupid. Very well. I’d anticipated this turn of events. If he denied everything, I might have to play my trump card straight out. Provided there were no Guards lurking around, of course.

  “Well, then you have nothing to worry about, do you? He’s a cousin of mine. So he
asked me to cast a curse on anyone who harassed him.”

  Boar jeered. “Oh, sure.”

  “I’ll be keeping an eye on the school for the next hour or so. If you want to talk, I’ll be there. After that, I won’t be able to help you anymore. The curse will come into effect.”

  “Yep,” he nodded. “Is that all? I’ll be off, then.”

  “Be my guest.”

  I had no reason to linger, either, so I went back to Boris. Judging by the fact that my Lying skill hadn’t improved — and also by the guffawing behind the garages — Boar hadn’t believed me. Even my Persuasion bonus in speaking to commoners hadn’t helped me much.

  Very well. We’d have to revert to deterrence methods.

  I nodded to an anxious Boris. “Everything’s settled.”

  I walked past him toward the school gates where the flock of pigeons was still busy scavenging. I chose the fattest one, stretched out my hand toward it and activated Talking With Lower Animals.

  Your Sorcery skill has increased to level 3.

  “Come here.”

  The bird obediently flitted over and alighted onto my hand.

  “Behind this building, there’re two big boxes made of corrugated iron. Next to them is a group of boys making smoke. Little people, you understand?”

  “People, people, people,” the pigeon cooed.

  “One of them has a head of unkempt hair. He’s the smallest in the group.”

  “Smallest, smallest, smallest.”

  “Just imagine he’s a monument in a square, a statue or something. I’d like you to give him a full load. And if possible, also scratch him a little, but not much. Got it?”

  “Got it, got it, got it.”

  “Off you go, then.”

  The pigeon shot off my hand like a hunting falcon. I watched him fly, then leaned leisurely against the school fence.

  “How did you do it?” Boris’ gaze drilled a hole in me. “What language did you speak? What did you say?”

  “Nothing special. I’m a wizard, after all. Didn’t you know?” Smiling, I pulled out my phone, counting down a minute. Disheveled schoolkids sleepwalked past me — apparently those whose classes started later. Or maybe they just couldn’t have made it out of bed in time.

  After about fifteen seconds, I heard a heart-rending scream. Instead of dying away after a while, it began to approach but didn’t quite reach us, stopping halfway to the school building once the spell had expired and the pigeon had taken off on some business of his own.

  Poor bird. He might need the services of an avian therapist after all the things I’d made him do. But not now anyway, because I could already hear the cute baby chatter of rough adolescent voices coming from behind the school.

  “Boar, you’d better clean yourself up, man.”

  “Yeah, you should. That pigeon might be rabid or something.”

  “You stupid or something? Birds don’t have rabies.”

  “Maybe not. But how about bird flu?”

  Judging by the sound of their voices, they were already quite close. Time to start Act 2. I walked over to the pigeons nibbling at some breadcrumbs and activated the spell again, selecting two of them this time.

  “Come to me.”

  The birds obediently perched on my hands. I walked back to Boris.

  “Don’t be afraid. Then everything will be fine. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I set the two birds onto his shoulders. It didn’t look as impressive as I’d expected it to (he was a far cry from the image of a bloodthirsty pirate with a parrot on his shoulder) but it did the trick.

  “Stay there,” I told the birds, then turned back to Boris. “Let’s get closer to the gates.”

  We got there just in time, just as the four truants presided over by Boar had appeared from around the corner. Boar looked really pissed while his minions appeared extremely restless. Just think what havoc a single pigeon can do when caught by a makeshift garage.

  Noticing Boris, Boar slowed down. His group did the same. The area in front of the school front door was dead silent.

  Just then my vision sort of shifted, showing me the scene in a new light. Th bullies simply didn’t know how to react to the obviously nutty duo: a schoolkid with birds on his shoulders and a skinny grownup guy hovering behind his back. Especially when the latter began to tweet something as if conspiring with the pigeons.

  Who seemed to have obeyed him. The two birds took to the wing with the precision of the Russian female synchronized swimming team and started circling Boar as if escorting him without exhibiting any apparent threat.

  It looked admittedly scary, like a scene from a Hitchcock movie. Even a grownup might have panicked, let alone an emotional teenager.

  “Okay, okay! I won’t touch him again! Get them away from me!”

  I told the pigeons to leave him alone. They perched on the fence nearby without taking their watchful stares off him, looking more like guard dogs than proverbial doves of peace.

  I beckoned Boar with a crooked finger. He approached.

  “You’ll never touch Boris again,” I said. “Same goes for his classmates. Is that clear?”

  “Yeah…”

  Your Persuasion skill has increased to level 11.

  Now I believed him. He meant it. I let him go and turned back to Boris.

  “Now you. Don’t even try to pick on him. Don’t show off in front of your classmates. You two should just ignore each other. That’s the best strategy. Got it?”

  He nodded.

  A new message appeared before me:

  You’ve taken the first step toward acquiring the Diplomacy ability.

  You’ve helped a Commoner who is neutral to you.

  +20 karma points. Current level: +1940. You gravitate to the Light Side.

  “Uncle Sergei, why didn’t you tell him not to touch anyone at all?”

  “Because you can’t tell a vulture to become a rabbit. Don’t ask for the impossible. Don’t worry, sooner or later his karma will catch up with him. It always does. But that’s not our problem. Anything else?”

  “Yes…” Boris faltered. There was a feverish glow to his eyes. His cheeks turned red. He paused, then finally managed, looking aside, “Thanks… thanks a lot.”

  “We’re neighbors, aren’t we? High five,” I slapped his tiny mitt. “I’ll be off, then. And Boris, please. Whatever else you do, don’t skip literature.”

  With a Latino swagger in my step I headed back home. I could smell something mind-boggling already downstairs by the front door, and I wasn’t mistaken: Bumpkin, this sadistic cook, was again concocting something mouth-watering. The worst thing was, I couldn’t even taste it. My practice was less than an hour away, and Hunter had promised to show me something truly incredible. According to him, I was finally out of the playpen. So it wasn’t a healthy idea to stuff my face right before training.

  As the appointed hour approached, I had a quick warmup and hurried outside. It was much warmer today — a fact which was offset by the fierce wind. I wrapped my trench coat tighter around myself and set off across the empty yard. No, the fact that I was secretly clutching the Repelling Stone in my pocket had nothing to do with it: it wasn’t even activated. The reason why the yard was deserted was the late morning — or early afternoon, whatever you prefer. Everybody was either at work or at school, and as for the older folk and our front-door bench illuminati, the foul weather must have kept them inside.

  The foundation pit wasn’t too crowded, either. The only living being that was present — a stray dog, a cross between a sheep dog and a mongrel — darted off the moment he saw me. I climbed down the pit and, for want of a better thing to do, activated the Repelling Stone and laid it down on the ground by my feet. Now even if a commoner somehow wandered in here, he’d never notice me.

  The only thing that was starting to worry me was, where the hell was Hunter?

  I looked at my cell screen: my mentor was already two minutes late. This was so not like him. Could so
mething have happened to him while I was waiting for him here like an idiot?

  Just as I put the cell away, I glimpsed a shadow that rose behind me, followed by an almighty whack. I collapsed, my face slamming hard on the ground. My Health bar quivered and began to shrink — not much, but it shrank nevertheless.

  I wholeheartedly disagreed with such a fight opening.

  [ ∞ ]

  I barely had enough time to recoil, so that the blow glanced off my shoulder. At least It didn’t knock me off my feet. I felt the knife in my right hand — I had no idea when I’d whipped it out — while my left hand was readied to cast Electric Arc.