Wizard Heights - Book 1 - The Legend of the Sorcerer King

by Alexander Scott

  "Indeed sire," replied the old man, and, rising to standing, with a swirl of his cloak tails, he departed.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, Charlie awoke in a feverish sweat. It had all been a dream, he told himself. It must have been a dream. The city ... the night ... the Victorians ... the steeples ... but, it couldn't have been a dream, because there were his shoes, caked in mud beside his bed, and in his mind, as real as could be, the memory of flying in Whitstable's rowboat high above the town—how the wind had felt on his face, and how the world had seemed so small beneath him—that could not have been a dream.

  Getting dressed, Charlie ran down stairs, grabbed something to eat, and, running to the school bus, made it just in time. Sitting on his own toward the back of the bus, Charlie was relieved to see that Whitstable was nowhere to be seen. He didn't see him at school either. However, during the morning's geography class, as Mr. Peters was writing on the blackboard, Mr. Fauntroy came in and had a few whispered words with him. Mr. Peter's hand froze in mid-sentence as he cocked an inquisitive ear toward the principal. From the back of the class, Charlie strained to hear their whispered conversation—it was about Whitstable, that much was clear, but as to the exact details, Charlie couldn't hear them well enough to be sure. All he did hear was a few concerned words, "… grandfather ... no answer," and then Mr. Fauntroy left.

  Charlie pondered this. If they had tried to contact Whitstable's grandfather, then they wouldn't have any luck. Not unless they chipped off the ice and thawed him out—Whitstable had said that he was cryogenically frozen. But who knew whether Whitstable was telling the truth? He seemed like the kind of kid who could make up a story for any occasion.

  Charlie wondered if he should tell Mr. Peters what he knew of Whitstable’s grandfather. Then he quickly realized that he could not. If he did, that would surely lead to a conversation about last night and all of the strange things that had happened, and Charlie didn't want to talk to anyone about that. It had all been too odd—not to mention, frightening.

  As Charlie was reflecting upon this there came the twang of an elastic band and he felt a sharp pain on his cheek. Looking to his left, he saw Clyde Rayburn sitting two desks away, laughing like a demon. Charlie rubbed his cheek and felt a rash coming up. Clyde Rayburn's face darkened. His jaw tight, he clenched his fist beneath the table. "Tell your weird friend that we're gonna get him!" he said.

  Charlie pointed at himself as if he had been falsely accused. "He's not my friend!" he weakly replied. But then Mr. Peter's saw him talking, and did what he always did when he saw a pupil talking—he asked them a question.

  "Charlie Goodfellow," he said, "what is the capital city of Peru?"

  "Acapulco?" responded Charlie uncertainly.

  The whole class burst into laughter.

  All in all though it was not a bad school day. Apart from dodging Clyde Rayburn and his gang, Charlie did all right. When the school bus dropped him off that afternoon, he didn't go home, but instead walked to the gothic gates and collected his bike. Then he cycled home, put the bike in the garage and entered the house through the kitchen door. He expected to see his parents and Emily eating dinner, but he noticed that there was no smell of gravy or potatoes, no clatter of cutlery on plates, no sound of Family Spending Spree or Mr. Treebles on the TV. Walking in through the back door, he found his parents and Emily sitting at the kitchen table. But they weren't eating anything. They were just looking at him with drawn faces.

  "Come and sit down, Charlie," his mother disturbedly said, patting the seat beside her, so Charlie sat down at the table, with his hands in his lap.

  "There's something that we want to speak to you about," said Charlie's father, eyeing his son seriously over the rims of his glasses.

  Charlie tensed. He knew immediately what it must be—his parents had discovered the pillows in his bed last night. They knew that he had snuck out to Wizard Heights. Or maybe they had found out that he had ditched school the other day. Now he was really going to get it…

  "It's not an easy thing to say," said his father, kneading his fingers pensively. "In fact, it has come as quite a shock."

  "What?" asked Charlie, unable to contain himself. "What is it? Tell me!"

  Charlie's mother laid her hand upon Charlie’s hand. She regarded him with doting eyes. "What your father is trying to say," she said, "is that, well, something ... awful has happened. Something terrible..." She looked away and then dabbed a tear at the corner of her eye with a tissue. "Charlie," she said, her eyes glistening, "your father ... has lost his job!" She crumpled into sniveling tears as Mr. Goodfellow shamefully buried his face in his hands.

  Emily boisterously banged a wooden spoon upon the table.

  "It's true," said Mr. Goodfellow, throwing up his hands. "The whole department has been laid off!"

  "Today was a very painful day," said Mrs. Goodfellow. "I had to cut up my gold credit card, and my department store charge cards, and my Titanium card with the triple points. You know, the one that I adore—with the air miles and the rebates on a line of luxury luggage and name brand kitchen accessories?" She anxiously twisted her handkerchief between her fingers, and looked away desperately. "All gone!"

  Mr. Goodfellow held his wife’s hand and looked earnestly into her eyes.

  "Don't worry, sugar-puff," he said, "we'll get them all back, every one. Just you wait and see."

  "We'll all have to tighten our belts and make sacrifices," continued Mrs. Goodfellow. "Just today, I had to send back our new vacuum cleaner."

  "The XL5," nodded his father sorrowfully. "That's six easy payments of 59.99 that we won’t be able to make, Charlie," he said.

  "And you, Bill," said Charlie's mother, "tell Charlie about your sacrifice..."

  Mr. Goodfellow lowered his eyes. "I... I..." he began. He couldn't seem to get the words out.

  "This is very painful for your father," said Charlie's mother.

  Charlie's dad finally he blurted the words out. "I've had to send back the new golf clubs I ordered," he said at last. "The ones that are endorsed by professional golfers." He bit his knuckle and stared away in a paroxysm of inner turmoil.

  "You know how your father adored those golf clubs..." said Charlie's mother, barely able to hold in her emotion.

  Charlie’s parents shared a moment, lost in one another’s eyes.

  Charlie couldn't see what all the fuss was about. For a start, his mother never did any cleaning of any kind, never mind vacuuming. As for his father’s golf clubs—he never even used them. He just propped them up in the corner and talked about how he was going to use them one day.

  "You see," continued his mother, "we all have to make compromises until your father gets a new job."

  Charlie could feel it coming. He realized now that they had been slowly building toward something. Like a wave growing bigger and bigger, here it was about to crash over him.

  "We all must make concessions," continued his mother, "even you."

  "Me?" replied Charlie. "Why me? I didn't tell you to buy this expensive, new house or a luxury vacuum cleaner. I didn’t tell you to buy golf clubs that are endorsed by professional golfers. Why should I suffer? It's not my fault!"

  "Now, now," replied his mother. "It's not about apportioning blame. It's about what you can do to help share the burden. We've decided to take in a lodger, a boy who has been orphaned—to help pay the mortgage. He needs somewhere to stay for a while, and you know that we've got that spare room. The school contacted us today." She raised her eyebrows optimistically. "They said that you know him?"

  Charlie broke out in a cold sweat. He just stared at his mother, unable to say anything.

  "You're going to get along wonderfully!" said his mother, enthusiastically patting Charlie’s hand. "I can tell!"

  "Get along?" repeated Charlie. His stomach felt queasy and he had gone pale. His hand traveled involuntarily to his forehead. "Who is it?" he asked, hardly daring to hear the answer.

  "His name," replied
his mother, "is—"

  But Charlie was not waiting to hear those fateful words. He dashed through the kitchen, into the hallway, and up the stairs. All the while, his mind raced. He had to know who the kid was! "It mustn't be him!" he feverishly told himself as he leapt up the stairs, three at a time. "It can't be!"

  At last he reached the door of the spare bedroom. It was ajar. From inside he could hear someone softly humming an old-fashioned tune. Pushing the door open, Charlie saw a boy sitting at the writing table before the window with his back to him—a kid with lemon-blond, perfectly combed hair, a starched, white shirt, sleeveless sweater vest, slacks, and old-fashioned shoes. A boy who turned around, making the blood in Charlie's veins freeze.

  A boy whose name was Augustus Whitstable Febulant.

  Whitstable grinned.

  "Hello, Charlie," he said. "We're going to live together now, like brothers. We're going to be the best of friends. Isn't that great, Charlie? Isn't it?"

  Charlie stood on the threshold of the room, rooted to the floor as if it were quick drying cement. He stared at Whitstable in disbelief and was unable to say anything. In fact, he thought he was going to be sick.

  Chapter 7

  "He'll only stay for awhile," his mother had said. "He's got nowhere else to go."

  "You'll get along with him," said his father. "He's just like you."

  "Just like me?" thought Charlie. "What a joke!" As he stood at the bus stop with some other kids in the fog the next morning, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together to stay warm, he wondered how anyone could think that Whitstable was remotely like him.

  The pale-faced boy stood behind him in a full-length, tweed coat and earmuffs. His little nose tipped cherry-red with the cold, he smiled to himself knowingly.

  "What will we do after school?" he asked Charlie, his eyes alive with the possibilities of adventure. "Will we go and hunt for fishes in the stream? Or maybe we could make a camp in the wood? Or maybe your mother will make us oatmeal cookies? I like your mother, she's nice."

  "Leave me alone!" said Charlie, speaking so sharply that Whitstable jumped. "Do you think that I actually wanted you to come and live with us?" He narrowed his eyes. "Don't think I don't know that you're up to something!"

  Whitstable frowned defensively. Then the school bus arrived and, with a sneeze of its compressed-air brakes, the doors whooshed open. Charlie climbed on board and went to the back of the bus. Some of the other kids followed, and then came Whitstable in his tweed coat and earmuffs.

  In his seat near the back of the bus, Charlie lowered his head and pulled out a comic from his backpack. It was Salamanderman #49—his favorite—the one in which Salamanderman battles Bulgar Ulgamost from the planet Pheta 9.

  Whitstable shuffled along the aisle and stood beside Charlie. "Can I sit next to you?" he asked.

  "No," replied Charlie, without looking up.

  Whitstable sat down anyway and the bus noisily pulled away from the curb.

  "I have a comic, too," said Whitstable, peering over Charlie's shoulder. Charlie just turned the page and looked disinterested. Pulling a comic from his old-fashioned, leather satchel, Whitstable flattened it out on his knees. Then he too began to read.

  Charlie peered out the corner of his eye at Whitstable's comic. Its pages were yellowing and not at all glossy. The artwork was in black and white and depicted wierd Egyptian-style spaceships that looked like pointy skyscrapers with checkered designs and hieroglyphs on them. It was called Invasion Earth, and it was about as strange as the kid that owned it.

  Charlie went back to his own comic but he soon felt Whitstable looking over his shoulder again.

  "Daddy-o!" said Whitstable, "Salamanderman is some kind of strange chap, isn’t he?"

  "He's a mutant," replied Charlie in a surly tone. "He slipped on a discarded chemical wipe and fell into a vat with toxic salamanders."

  "I bet he could zap a few Martians with that ray-gun," said Whitstable enthusiastically.

  Charlie pulled his comic closer to his face, so that Whitstable couldn't snoop. "He doesn't use a ray-gun," he said, sullenly. "That's old-fashioned. Salamanderman uses a phase-distortion ultra-blaster, with a precision-mounted eyepiece and infrared tracking sensor."

  He buried his nose in the comic and hoped that would be the end of the conversation.

  "I've got one of those!" quipped Whitstable brightly.

  Charlie's eyes slowly slid toward him. "No you do not," he replied flatly.

  "Yes, I do!" quipped Whitstable. "Your mom gave me some of your old comics to read yesterday. I read all about the phase-distortion ultra-blaster, so I thought I'd make one myself. You know, out of spare parts... " Whitstable stared out the window and absently said, "It's good...It melts things..."

  Charlie frowned and turned the page of his comic book again.

  "She's great, your mom," said Whitstable. "Will she make us some cakes tonight?"

  "You leave my mom alone!" said Charlie.

  "I won’t hurt her!" said Whitstable, defensively. Then there was an awkward moment when there was nothing but the city flashing by the windows. "But I think she could do better than being married to your father," continued Whitstable, idly inspecting his fingernails. "Actually, I think she likes her hairdresser..."

  Charlie didn't know what to think of that comment, but he didn't have long to ponder Whitstable's words, for his attention was quickly drawn to something else.

  The bus had slowed to a stop light, and Charlie saw that standing upon the street corner were three motley characters that might have more properly belonged in a Charles Dickens' novel than downtown Pleasant Valley. One was a fellow in a velvet waistcoat, breeches, and a crowman's hat, another, muscular of build and dressed in a funereal long-tailed suit and tattered top hat, looked like he could break bolts off of rusty screws in a Victorian steelworker's factory. The third could not be mistaken anywhere—it was the old man who had pursued Charlie in the forest by the gate. He surreptitiously slid a musket into his eighteenth century tunic, and glanced about predatorily.

  "Him again," said Charlie, shrinking from the window, his eyes stricken, as the bus moved off. "What's he doing here?"

  Whitstable rolled his eyes.

  "Oh, he's called the Ratman," he said matter-of-factly. "He works for the Chancellor, Silum Avernicus Craven. He knows everything there is to know inside the city, and lots about what's happening outside of it, too. In fact, he probably knows where you live, who your parents are, and a lot more besides."

  "But why would he know that?" asked Charlie, barely able to breath.

  "Because you've made some very nasty enemies," said Whitstable, matter-of-factly. "His paymaster, the High Chancellor is one of the most powerful officials in the city. You must have done something to annoy him. Trespassing perhaps? They don't like visitors, you see. Especially outsiders. I'm surprised that the Ratman didn't tell you that..."

  Staring worriedly into space, Charlie recalled what the old man had said to him, "We don't like visitors around here..."

  "What will they do?" he asked, his nerves on end.

  "Oh, probably try to murder you in some grisly and secretive fashion," said Whitstable. "They'll probably corner you in some dark, dripping alleyway after school time, draw out long, Victorian knives, and—"

  "Yes, yes, that's enough..." said Charlie. He stared distraught into space. "But what am I going to do?"

  "How would I know?" said Whitstable with a careless shrug.

  The bus was drawing up in the parking lot. With a squeeze of its air brakes, kids were disembarking. Whitstable gathered up his bag. He passed down the aisle between the seats, and Charlie worriedly followed him.

  "What you need," said Whitstable, "is a friend and an ally. "Someone that you can rely on. A fellow of unquestionable character. A stalwart, reliable sort who will stick with you, through and through."

  The bus was drawing up in the parking lot. With a squeeze of its air brakes, kids were disembarking. Whitstable ga
thered up his leather satchel. He passed down the aisle between the seats, and Charlie worriedly followed him.

  "But, can't you do something?" asked Charlie. "After all, I don't—"

  And that's when Charlie stopped in mid sentence, for he had stepped off the final step of the bus, and as he did, his foot sank onto...

  What Charlie stepped down onto was not a concrete sidewalk—not unless concrete yielded beneath the foot and stuck to the sole of a shoe like chewing gum.

  Charlie looked down with bewilderment.

  The sidewalk was melting and the streetlights drooped toward the ground like wilting flowers, bending beneath the weight of their lamps.

  "I don't believe it," said Charlie, looking about with amazement. "Everything has gone soft!"

  The school maintenance man, who was wearing overalls and a cloth cap, plodded through sludge in rubber boots. "It started last night!" he said infuriatedly. "It's all melting! Can't do nothin’ about it!"

  As he said this, the numbers on the school clock began to slide down its face.

  Charlie found Whitstable grinning proudly behind him. "I did it for you, Charlie," whispered Whitstable. "I know how much you hate school, so I melted it with the ultra-blaster! Soon there won't be any school left and we can spend all of our time together!"

  Charlie was almost beside himself. "You did this?" he said with incredulity. He could hardly speak—he was stunned.