by Toni Kerr
Landon scowled at Victor.
“Opposed to party animals….”
Tristan shook his head, well aware that Victor was on the verge of laughter. “They weren’t fireflies or any other sort of bug.”
“I believe you,” Landon said. “What were they?”
Tristan studied the ash again, pondering the best way to answer. “She had wings and spoke English. This big.” He held up his hand, hoping that if they knew what they were looking at, the shape of her body might be visible.
“I believe you too, but do you mean, like...Tinkerbell?” Victor asked, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“No!” Tristan deflated and had to laugh a little. “Well, maybe.”
“That’s the spirit,” Victor said, giving him a friendly slap on the back. “Just think of Disney’s version: Badbreath is a killer on the loose. Can Tink and her friends—”
Landon glared, quite possibly scolding Victor mentally.
“I’m so sorry,” Victor said. “That was extremely rude and completely uncalled for. I have a tendency to joke around, to make light of serious things at highly inappropriate times, and I wasn’t thinking.”
Tristan re-covered the ash and stood, deciding to leave out the part about being summoned as a dragon. To save a queen’s first born? Was there something inside the deep-blue gem, a sapphire maybe, like the emerald and its Valkyrie?
Obviously, he’d failed at whatever the creature had summoned him for. “Let’s just go.”
“Look, we really do believe you,” Victor added. “Especially since we know you’re susceptible to visions.”
That stopped him. “I am?”
Victor clamped his mouth shut. Tristan waited until Landon finally spoke. “We only think that because of the fire you saw in Ireland.”
Tristan recalled the night when he and Dorian made their escape. They’d gotten separated and the forest was on fire. Flames silhouetted people fighting with swords—an odd choice of weapon considering most of the people he’d met lately had magical abilities. And if they didn’t have magical abilities, they should be using guns not swords.
That was when Landon and Victor had come to rescue him.
“It wasn’t something we could see,” Landon continued.
Tristan took another deep breath. “That’s fine. Whatever.” His first day was not going well. He peeked at the ash to confirm the truth and looked to the top of the rock wall, feeling watched, though he didn’t dare say so.
Would he be allowed to walk away with evidence?
What did it mean that he couldn’t trust anyone? Surely Landon and Victor could be trusted. He’d force himself to trust Donovan long enough to get information on dragons.
“Let’s keep moving,” Landon said, heading for the trailhead. “The path is always well-marked before and after class, but if I were you, I’d meet your classmates at the bottom and hike up together.”
“It’ll be less spooky now that you’ve seen it during the day,” Victor said, pulling a box of red licorice vines from his coat pocket and offering it to Tristan.
Tristan’s mouth watered at the sight of something sweet, but declined in favor of keeping the ash protected. “What does he teach?”
Victor took a few ropes for himself and put the rest away, then motioned to follow Landon. “History.”
Tristan nodded, somehow already knowing. He shook away more preconceived ideas. “Is there somewhere other than this for school? I mean, a building or something?”
Victor laughed. “There used to be organized schools, but they’ve mostly been shut down for one reason or another. People who expose themselves publicly tend to disappear.”
“So it’s an ‘us’ verses ‘them’ sort of thing?” Tristan asked. His shoulders relaxed, feeling less threatened as they walked farther from the clearing. “What’s the actual difference?”
“Eh, hard to say. There seems to be a natural barrier that we can go beyond,” Victor explained. “I like to think it’s because we can use more than fifteen percent of our brains. My guess is that you have fewer boundaries than we do, with visions of the past blasting in on you like that.”
“What makes you think it’s the past?” Although, now that he thought about it, the past would explain the use of swords.
“Well, as far as anyone knows for this day and age, Tinkerbell is a cartoon,” Victor said. “Are visions typically in real time?”
Tristan shrugged, taking another peek at the ash. Surely he couldn’t slip into the past and bring proof to the present, could he? “How can a school work if it’s kept secret?”
“Word of mouth,” Landon answered. “Classes usually take place wherever it’s best suited. Like home school. Except not at home.”
“Nothing’s official. Teachers will either teach you or they won’t. And there’s no one to complain to if you don’t like it. No certificate at the end either.”
“Classes are still typical subjects,” Landon continued. “Math, science, history, stuff like that. For the next few months, I’ll be in Egypt learning ancient languages. Victor just finished studying marine biology on the Great Barrier Reef. See why we don’t need a building?”
“Yeah.” His excitement vanished as he realized how over-his-head everything would be.
“You’ll do fine. Once you learn to mess with molecules, you can start fire, create things, dissipate things...you know, all the basic magic tricks.” An authentic-looking twenty-dollar bill appeared in Victor’s fingers. He folded it in half and offered it to Tristan.
“I can’t.” Tristan held up his cupped hands so he wouldn’t have to say it. “Can you make me a jar? With a lid?”
Victor glanced at Landon, who creased his brow and finally nodded.
In a blink, Victor held a glass jar in one hand and the lid in the other. Tristan uncovered his hand and studied the pile of ash one last time. “You guys still can’t see it?”
They both shook their heads, silent.
It couldn’t be a vision if it was real in his hand, could it?
Tristan poured the ash into the container, careful to brush off every last speck from his sweaty palms, then twisted the lid tight before slipping the jar into his coat pocket. “Okay, let’s see the twenty.”
Victor beamed and the twenty reappeared. Tristan took the bill and searched for any clue that would signify counterfeiting. As far as he could tell, it was flawless. Actually not flawless—it was crinkled with age, had a small tear in the upper right corner, and a barely legible date of 1973. He handed it back.
“Eh, keep it.”
Landon chuckled and started walking again. “The more you understand fundamental elements and the principles of physics, the more you’ll see how and why things exist the way they do. Then, it’s just a matter of using your mind to suit your need. The possibilities are endless.”
“Why did Sabbatini use a wand?” In fact, several of Sabbatini’s men had used wands in Ireland.
“Here we go,” Victor said, pulling out another rope of licorice.
“They’re used for people who can’t focus on their own. And once you get started, you’ll likely never break the habit. Plus, they make any action completely obvious.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Victor added. “Wands can be great fun!”
“Don’t you dare give him a wand,” Landon said, picking up the pace.
Victor rolled his eyes as the trail widened into an overgrown dirt road, allowing the three to walk side-by-side. They stopped on a ridge that overlooked a meadow with a row of half-collapsed buildings. A few of the structures existed only as piles.
“Please don’t tell me this is Darnell.” It could have been a deserted movie set for a western ghost town. He’d assumed, hoped rather, that Darnell would be a busy little college town, especially after what seemed like months of secluded isolation on the island.
Landon walked clockwise along the edge of the grassy field. “It used to be a settlement for the miners, and I suppose it is the origi
nal Darnell.”
Tristan followed, at a loss for words. He still had a lot to be grateful for: companionship, an invitation to learn, a place to live. What else did he need?
“We prefer to think of Grumpy’s as Darnell,” Victor added. “That’s where all the action is.”
The new trail looked as though only deer and small animals had ever used it. An abrupt turn to the left took them into the heavier shade of the forest. Tristan stopped to read a rotting piece of wood, nailed to a tree at eye level with some sort of rib bone. “Hold back ye self or ye will begin death.”
Landon continuing onward. “Eleonora.” He held leggy branches off the path until Tristan could take over holding them back for Victor. “She’s the one taking you in, but I doubt you’ll see her much. She travels a lot.”
“She’s grouchy and short-tempered,” Victor whispered from behind.
“She’s not that bad,” Landon said, also noticeably quieter. “Just a little eccentric, so don’t bother her.”
The trail led to a log cabin, where a pile of snow that had slid from the roof blocked any possible view from windows.
“She likes to keep the snow.” Victor lowered his tone even more as they passed alongside the house.
“Don’t worry,” Landon added, seemingly looking for the best place to start a new trail in the brush. “Your cabin is way in the back.”
Tristan kept silent. Where else could he go? After several minutes of trailblazing through thicker, spindly bushes, they came to a smaller cabin.
“This is it; your new home,” Landon said, emerging from the brush into a small yard.
The ground surrounding the house looked recently cleared, making a rectangular shape of scarce weeds and a light scattering of freshly broken twigs.
“It’s not much,” Victor added, stopping beside Tristan. “But better than the shack you got stuck with on the island. We’ll plant some grass and make a real trail in a day or two; one that goes around Eleonora’s yard and not through it.”
Tristan stared in awe at the cabin, déjà vu gripping him like a vice. “It’s perfect.” He waited for a thought or a feeling to prove he knew this place, but nothing surfaced.
Solid panels of glass filled the front wall, nestled in logs similar to Eleonora’s, but more weathered. Landon pulled a rusted skeleton key from his pocket and held it out.
Tristan took the key, his hands trembling with excitement. “This really works?”
Landon nodded. “Like I said, eccentric.”
“You have running water pumped from over there.” Victor directed Tristan’s attention to a structure that resembled an old-fashion wishing well. “It’s not as crude as it looks. There’s a capped-off pipe that runs about thirty feet down. If you want irrigation, let me know and I’ll run a few new lines.”
Tristan nodded, stepping onto the porch to unlock the door. He paused at the opening, taking in his first breath of warm, pine-scented home. He spotted his bags on the bed to his left. “You guys are amazing.”
“Glad you like it,” Landon said. “We’ll start using the door from now on.”
Tristan laughed, taking in the basically square room. Past the bed, on the left in the far corner, was a small kitchen. The far right corner was boxed off for what must be a bathroom, and along the right wall was a round dining table with four chairs. A small wooden bookcase followed by a woodstove sat by the front door. A long couch divided the room, facing the woodstove, and a small island with a sink sectioned off the kitchen area.
Victor went directly to the refrigerator. “We don’t have a grocery store, so you’ll need to fill out the paperwork before they start sending you stuff.”
“They?”
“We have a big community around the world and most everyone likes to chip in if they can. Food is a biggie. Especially for those of us who stay pretty well hidden.”
“This is your bathroom.” Landon pushed open a door to the right of the kitchen as he made a quick lap through the cabin.
“I really don’t know what to say. The house is amazing.” Only a few hours had passed since leaving Dorian’s island—hours that seemed like a lifetime. A glass bowl of fresh flowers decorated the table.
“Alvi thought they’d make it more homey.” Victor plopped himself down on the couch. “I suggested a plate of cookies, or brownies, or finger foods, but, you know... gotta let the little woman have her fun too.”
Tristan felt better with each breath.
“Basically,” Landon said, shooing Victor’s sandaled feet off the couch, “this is your house and you can do whatever you want to make it yours. Eleonora is the owner, so she should take care of anything you can’t handle.”
“But feel free to ask us first,” Victor added. “Worst case scenario, we’ll build you a new one somewhere else.”
“That’s all right, I love this one!” Tristan took a quick peek in the bathroom, which consisted of a pedestal sink, toilet, a narrow shower, and a cracked mirror with a small shelf below it.
He stared at his reflection.
How long had it been since he’d seen himself? He wouldn’t have thought his face could be much thinner and he definitely looked older. Landon stepped into the reflection and Tristan watched as the cracks in the mirror repaired themselves. “That’s, uh….”
“No worries, you’ll learn it all soon enough.” Landon smiled, then stepped out of view. Tristan followed him back into the living area. “There are oil lamps for light and you have endless hot water. Keep the fire going for heat—there’s a covered stash of cut wood just outside. If you run out, I’ve got plenty more at my house.”
“He likes to chop wood,” Victor added, standing by the front door. “I’ll give you 45 minutes to get cleaned up, then I’ll bring you something to eat for breakfast. I assume you’ll eat just about anything at this point?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Tristan smiled gratefully and scanned the cabin. “Everything is perfect.” He took the jar out of his pocket and stared at it, all his thankful feelings turning to confused puzzlement.
“What’s wrong?” Landon asked.
“It’s empty.”
Victor and Landon both approached the jar and looked at each other, neither saying anything. Tristan tipped the jar upside down to view the underside of the lid, then set it on the island countertop with no explanation. “It was sealed.”
“Closing the lid all the way doesn’t make it sealed,” said Victor, glancing at Landon.
“We’ll give you time to get settled. Take a long shower, get yourself unpacked…whatever you want. Just take it easy and make yourself at home.”
“You do believe me though, don’t you?”
“Sure we do,” Victor said. “But maybe the vision just…ended.”
Tristan examined the empty jar, unsure if he should pretend to understand how visions worked. One thing he knew for sure, it’d be harder to believe what he saw without proof.
4
- OLD FRIENDS -
TRISTAN WANDERED IN RESTLESS CIRCLES, having run out of places to investigate in the cabin. He’d taken the best shower of his life and unpacked his clothing. And then he’d slept so hard, he hadn’t noticed when Landon and Victor brought him lunch. A note taped to the refrigerator said they’d come back for dinner, but that it might be late.
There was also an ornate, decorative drum left on his bookshelf with a note that read: I’ll explain this later - Victor.
Food had never tasted so good. Sliced turkey on thick homemade bread, with mayonnaise and mustard, lettuce and tomatoes. He’d completely forgotten what real food tasted like, having lived on burnt fish for the past several months. Although to be fair to Gram, she had often supplied him with fruit and bread.
The thought of Gram’s death made him think of Dorian. What would she do on her own? Even if she was a royal pain most of the time, he’d still miss her.
Tristan stepped outside and scanned the trees for the falcon. If he had a lake and a fishing pole, he could catch a f
ish to offer as bribery. Or as an apology. He held the last of his sandwich as high as possible, silently begging the falcon to come back.
The dense grove of trees surrounding the cabin didn’t have the pointy tips that the falcon seemed to prefer, but twiggy branches that tangled into a single, impenetrable canopy. He retraced the path past Eleonora’s cabin, careful not to disturb anyone, and headed for the bigger clearing. The falcon could be happy in the crisp, mountain air if he would just show up and give the place a chance.
The meadow was much like it had been earlier, lit by dusk rather than dawn. A herd of deer bounded into the trees as Tristan waded through the grass to the nearest building. The bottom stair split in half with his weight, he retreated and tossed a portion of the sandwich to the roof.
The other structures weren’t any better for the falcon to perch on, but he threw bite-sized chunks to each pile and searched the trees for falcon-friendly branches.
On the far side of the meadow, up a slight incline, someone working at an art easel ducked behind a canvas the second he’d noticed. He glanced back at the food he’d been tossing and swallowed his guilt. It wasn’t exactly littering—something would eat it eventually.
He approached the person to explain himself, in case it was Eleonora who’d caught him wasting perfectly good food.
Wrinkles creased the woman’s tanned skin, forcing him to add a few decades to his original impression of age. Beneath a black beret embroidered with red and gold symbols, jet-black hair hung just past her shoulders in loose curls, though the hairline at her temples was silver.
He stood beside her and studied her artwork. She either didn’t realize he was there, or she was choosing to ignore him. He watched as she sorted through a wooden box of supplies with knobby fingers, finally selecting a plastic, paint-smudged bottle. She squirted clear liquid on the bristles of her brush and methodically worked it in. After several cycles, she placed the brush upright in an old tin can with worn oriental writing embossed on the sides.
Her smock must have had years of projects smeared on it, and it seemed far more intriguing than the canvas she was working on. She finally looked at him with hawk-sharp eyes.