by Kaleb Nation
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.
He was only able to work for a little while, just long enough to make sure that Mabel wouldn’t turn the car around and come back early. When he was certain they were really gone for the day, he went to the kitchen drawer and took out some spare house keys.
"Time to solve all this," he said, taking the necklace from his pocket. It barely glinted in the light from the windows, though he could still read the blue letters on the side that told him it had been real. He didn’t dare put it over his head again for fear of what enchantment it might have, but instead took out the paper that Astara had given him the night before.
Helter Lane and Jackston Road
Go down the path.
—Astara
I’m going to follow it, he told himself. His mind was made up. It was time to end all the mystery and questions. He wanted answers, and he was going to get them. He checked the map and started outside.
It was warm that day, and not many people were out. Bran got his bike from the side of the house and glanced down the street. The black van was gone.
Probably wasn’t anything after all, he told himself. Or else they followed Mabel thinking I was with them,
he thought next. It was grim, so he tried to forget it. He took a turn right where he usually went left for the bank, and started off.
He rode for what felt like an hour, checking his bearings every few minutes. There were some sharp turns, and he almost crashed when his bike went into a pothole. Crossing a bridge, he found himself in a more rural part of Dunce, where the trees overshadowed the roads with their branches, and he came to Helter Lane very quickly.
After a few minutes, the pavement ended, and the wheels of his bike crunched against a light, dirty road with rocks all over. He went on a little further and was just about to stop for a rest when he saw an old and weathered street sign up ahead, almost covered by the branches of an overgrown tree. The place was very quiet and deserted as he pulled up.
"Jackston Road," Bran read the sign, wiping his forehead. He looked down the street and saw that it went a long way out of sight, up and down hills; the road behind him seemed to swirl in his gaze as the sun beat down on his back.
"Is this it?" he asked aloud, though there wasn’t a soul around to hear him. Wind rustled through the grass. He took the paper out again.
"Go down the path," he said. He looked through the trees on both sides of the road and spotted some cleared space. He started for it, and as he came closer, he saw that it was indeed a path that went deep into the woods and out of sight. His curiosity leapt.
"She’s been right so far," Bran told himself, almost with disbelief. Everything she had said was turning out to be true. He knew he couldn’t get carried away. Not yet. But he had to go on. He wasn’t going to turn back then, not knowing the truth. The brush was thick at the beginning of the path, but got thinner the deeper he went. It was cooler in the shade of the woods than it had been on the road, the smells of the grass and trees surrounding him. He didn’t quite know what to expect as he went deeper, and he scratched his arms a few times on the branches because he was so busy looking around.
I probably should have told someone where I was going, he thought. He looked back the way he had come. He could just barely see the faded colors of his bike at the edge.
Too late now, he thought, and all of a sudden, while he wasn’t looking where he was going, he tripped over something hard which threw him forward off his feet. His head hit a branch, and he fell to the ground with a gasp of pain.
He winced at the sting on his head and rolled onto his back, staring up into the trees. They seemed to spin around him as his forehead throbbed, and he blinked to clear his eyes. He sat up slowly and saw that he had run right into a large piece of granite sticking out of the ground.
"Great," he said angrily, pushing to his feet. He rubbed the front of his head again, looking all around. He saw that the trees were farther apart where he was, and they let the sunlight in so he could see the leaves and the dead branches that had fallen to the ground. It was a very serene place, and a curious spot to have a piece of granite just sitting there.
As he looked closer at it, though, he noticed it wasn’t a plain piece of granite at all—there were soft markings inset into its surface, covered with dust. It struck him as odd, but he knelt anyway to rub the dust off the stone. It was strangely smooth on the front, and as he brushed it off, his heart began to beat a little faster, because he was beginning to see words.
This thing’s not just a rock; it’s a headstone for a grave! he realized. He hurried now, brus
hing off the top row of letters with his fingers, the throbbing pain on his forehead forgotten.
"To be remembered, from this day forth," he read the stiff, straight letters on the headstone, brushing off more with his hand. "This headstone was placed to mark the grave of…"
His hand stopped at the bottom. The rest of the headstone was buried under the grass. His heart began to beat faster as he dug roughly with his hands and pushed the leaves and grass out of his way. There was dirt smeared all over the front, and he started to wipe it off with his hands.
"There’s an E," he said with anticipation, "an M…"
His hand stopped. No. It couldn’t be.
"It says Emry Hambric!" he gasped quickly, and with another handful, all the dirt was gone, and there were the letters, right in front of him.
"To be remembered, from this day forth," he said softly. "This headstone was placed to mark the grave of Emry Hambric."
He stared at it, struck motionless at what was before him. He read the words again, hardly believing his own eyes. It was that name again. The name Shambles had spoken. The name the girl had said. The name he knew inside belonged to his mother. And there it was…on her grave.
Looking at the words made tears came to his eyes, angry tears that stung his face. The name was there, no matter what he did, no matter what he said; it was etched in stone before his eyes. That was all that was left of his mother, and somehow, Astara had known about it.
He looked toward the road, blurry through his teary eyes, and in anger he tore the grass with his hands. He read the words until he was so sick he had to lean his back against the stone with his head to his knees, alone, not wanting to face the stone ever again. She was dead.
He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket and read the directions again. Astara had led him right to the grave. He ripped the paper to pieces and threw them into the grass. She had been right about everything now. His mother was dead? He knew it was true. She had been a criminal? That had to be true also. Astara had no reason to lie about it now. She had been right all along.
Chapter 17
Noises in the Kitchen
It felt as if no time passed between leaving the grave and arriving back on Bolton Road, Bran’s mind so far elsewhere that he was hardly watching where he was going. Mabel’s car was still gone. He went up to the attic and stayed there, staring at the wall across the room and thinking to himself, angry and bitter at the same time. The house was so empty it seemed to quell his feelings, and he just sat there alone, as had always been.
Out of habit he pulled at the roll of blank newspaper that was leaning against his desk, ripping off a sheet and putting his pencil against it. At first he couldn’t make his arm move, but the second he started, his motions became furious, almost as if his anger and confusion were fueling his fingers. He almost didn’t know what he was drawing, line after line seeming to form something his mind kept a secret from him, until he stopped and looked at what he had done.
The page was darkened from his motions, but the marks held true to what he had seen in his mind all along. It showed the strong, dark trees, shadows cast all about the woods, just as he had seen not an hour before. There was a dirty path that stopped where a tall stone stood out of the ground, a beam of sunlight from a hole in the trees dashed across the page, shining straight upon the headstone. But there was one thing missing. On the headstone, there were no words.
Bran stared at the blank stone, empty of the markings that had pained him so much. He couldn’t bring himself to write them, couldn’t make his arm move the pencil to it again to etch the words that proved his mother really was dead.
Usually when he drew, he would feel better. But this time, he did not, even as he took a deep breath and quietly pinned the paper next to the others on the board. He didn’t look at it or any of the others, because he knew inside none of them would make him happy. But slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled the necklace out. His fingers clutched it tightly; and as they did, something within the necklace almost seemed to make his pain fade away.
He turned it over, tracing it with his thumb. He took a deep breath and looked around the room: he was alone. But was he really? He could still feel eyes on him, always watching, from every darkened corner. He remembered what had happened the night before, the last time he had tried to put the necklace on. He knew there was something important about it. Every time he touched it, something seemed to happen.
I’m going to try it again, he thought. He slid his fingers through the black string and lifted the necklace, not even looking as he did, his eyes on the room. Very slowly, he lifted the necklace and brought it over his head, still hesitant. When nothing happened, he began to lower it, until he felt the string touch his neck. Still nothing.
"What’s going on?" he asked himself, running his fingers down the string. It was almost as if he had expected it to happen so much, he was even more shocked when it didn’t. He slipped it under his shirt to hide it, and then suddenly, he heard something.
It was a soft buzz coming from the top of his dresser. Immediately, he turned his head, though he didn’t move from the chair. He could see the light of the screen on Joris’s phone reflecting off the wall, bright colors, as the phone buzzed with a call coming in. Bran was motionless, as if the person calling might hear him if he moved.
He didn’t know if he should look to see who was calling or not touch it at all in case it might accidentally pick up: he chose the latter. A few seconds later, the call ended unanswered. Bran took a deep breath, his fingers nearly trembling with fright.
But then, suddenly, there was something else. It was so soft he might not have noticed if he hadn’t been so quiet. It came from below his feet, as if someone were moving about hastily in the kitchen, and immediately it made Bran alert, for no one else should have been in the house yet.
He froze, as the sounds ceased, and then he heard them again: the refrigerator opening, and closing, something being softly set on the counter.
The burglar? It was Bran’s first thought.
He wasn’t exactly sure what to do, but he slowly turned in his chair to face the hole that went down to the house, listening intently. As he did, however, his elbow accidentally brushed his roll of newspaper, and before he could catch it, it fell to the side and slammed into the floor.
He winced, and immediately heard whoever was downstairs shuffling about quickly. He heard nothing for a few seconds, and then there was a slam, like one of the kitchen cabinets had been closed. Bran leapt into motion, dashing down the ladder for the kitchen. He rushed downstairs, but the kitchen door was closed, and he shoved through it.
"Who’s there?" he demanded before it was even open, but he was greeted with an empty room. He rushed to look behind the door, but there was no one there either. His eyes ran across the room, from the small table on the side to the pantry door, to the refrigerator and the counters. His eyes stopped, for on the counter was a plate, and on the plate was bread, ready to be made into a sandwich.
Before Bran could even react to seeing it, there came another sound: a soft squeak from the dumbwaiter cabinet on the far wall. Bran dashed toward it, pulling the cabinet door open, just in time to see the empty dumbwaiter shelf stop at the kitchen level.
He stared, sure of what he had just seen though hardly believing it. The dumbwaiter was old and very large, and even though it went from the basement to the kitchen and up to the dining room, the Wilomases never used it and preferred to see Rosie and Bran carrying plates of food up and down like a small row of servants. He looked around the room again. No one was there, and he was the only person in the house—or so he had thought.
Part of him still said it was his imagination, all the burglaries making everything sound to him like another intruder. But another side told him that he was sure of what he had seen; something in the air that told him someone had just been in that room moments before.
A very odd idea came to him when he looked back to the dumbwaiter, one that
seemed so far-fetched that at first he discounted it. He was not usually afraid of much, but the unfortunate fact was that he was abysmally claustrophobic, and just thinking of any intruder cramming themselves into that tiny dumbwaiter shelf nearly made his knees start to shake.
Another idea immediately followed it.
No, Bran told himself. I’m not doing it.
But inside he knew he didn’t have time to be afraid, and if he didn’t do something then whatever had been creeping in the kitchen might escape—or even if it was his imagination, he would live in fear for the rest of the evening that someone would leap out at him. There were doors from the basement out through Sewey’s shed in the backyard, and though they were locked on the outside, Bran knew a determined burglar might be able to break through. So, biting back his fear, he grabbed one of the chairs and set it against the cabinet to climb in.
On second thought, he realized that it might actually be the burglar again, and since he didn’t have anything else he grabbed one of the short knives from a drawer. He shoved himself into the dumbwaiter and set the knife next to him.
It was quite a large dumbwaiter, but a small space when stuffed with a person—especially when that person was afraid enough just looking into tight spaces. He had to bend over in an odd fashion to fit, the wood creaking as he shifted. The compartment was much like a shelf with a ceiling, with two ropes going through to make the dumbwaiter go up and down.
It’s just an elevator, Bran told himself. A very small, extremely tight elevator…that could very well break at any second, sending me plummeting to my death.
He reached for the ropes, taking one last glance into the kitchen. He felt dizzy already. But he pulled on the ropes before he could let his fear get the best of him, and started down. He tried to keep as quiet as he could, hoping he might catch the intruder by surprise. The dumbwaiter squeaked dreadfully once, and then in a second Bran’s eyes cleared the kitchen level, so that he was immediately engulfed in darkness. It did nothing to alleviate his phobia.