The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  Tareef forced his tears under control, told of his father’s capture and finished with a plea. “Please. Help me.”

  The older man nodded, his faced creased with concern. “You must call me Ashraf. Are we not both of the Kalash people? That makes us brothers. I will do what I can.”

  He’s careful about his promises. But he also doesn’t speak nonsense like most adults do when they want to evade kid’s questions.

  “You say these men were wearing clothes of brown and green.”

  Tareef nodded.

  “Wait here.” Rahman left the courtyard and returned a few moments later carrying a book. He sat down next to Tareef and thumbed through the book. He stopped and faced Tareef. “Did their clothing look like this?”

  Tareef pointed at the chest of one of the men in the pictures. “Yes, but there was nothing here.”

  Ashraf nodded. “These are Army uniforms. Men who wear them have name tags sewn onto their chests, unless they wish not to be known. So we know they were army and operating in secret. But that tells us little. Who would have sent them?”

  Ashraf paused and looked away from Tareef, his eyes unfocused. “Come, I will close my office and take you to my home. While you eat and bathe, I will make some calls.”

  The professor had kept his word and had spent the day contacting different ministries and local police stations. Much of their time was spent waiting for promised return calls that never came. They’d learned nothing. Ashraf explained that it would take time for his sources to investigate, but Tareef’s despair grew with each passing hour. It was as if his father had vanished.

  A long burst from Rahman’s cell phone jerked him upright. He stared across the room, holding his breath.

  “Salaam-vaalaikum.” He shook his head at Tareef.

  Not about my father.

  Rahman continued to exchange greetings with the caller he named Jessup. Tareef’s attention sharpened when he heard the professor say he’d adopted a boy.

  Me? Why would he say that?

  Rahman turned to his computer, tapped his keyboard, and peered at the screen. He seemed to grow more excited the longer he stared.

  The professor had explained the computer to Tareef and tried to explain how it connected to the rest of the world through something called the Internet. Tareef’s father had told him such things existed, but he’d thought his father was telling him a story. The reality seemed like magic. With Rahman’s permission, Tareef had spent hours clicking on the screen, staring at pictures and words from around the world. He understood little of what he saw, but that didn’t diminish his fascination.

  He threw off the blanket and crossed to the desk. The computer screen displayed a string of word-like scratches but nothing Tareef could understand.

  Rahman cleared his throat and muttered that the image was interesting. Apparently Jessup asked a question because Rahman answered “Perhaps” and said he’d call back in a half hour. He hung up and turned to Tareef. “The call was from an old friend, an archaeologist. He—”

  “Why did you say you’d adopted a boy? Is my father dead?”

  Rahman looked confused. “Why did I say what?” He paused for a moment. “Ah. I’m sorry, Tareef. I never should have said such a thing. Sometimes men say things to smooth a conversation. I’ve heard nothing about your father. I’m keeping nothing from you, I swear to Allah.”

  Rahman placed his hand on Tareef’s shoulder. “My friend Jessup studies old ruins and what’s in them. He’s found an ancient document and asked that I help him understand it. Go back to the sofa and sleep; this will take some time.”

  “But my father—”

  Rahman sighed. “It’s too late for anyone to be calling about your father. We’ll continue tomorrow. Please go rest, so that you’ll be strong when I need your help.”

  Tareef returned to the sofa, but he stayed awake and watched the professor work.

  Rahman printed several pages and began marking them, often turning to his computer, muttering to himself, tapping the keyboard, and staring at the screen.

  Tareef was starting to doze when Rahman lifted his cell phone and made a call. He talked for several minutes. Tareef heard Ashraf mention Transition. Something about a verse. That a child using this verse could use magic.

  He watched as Rahman became very quiet, his body growing tense as he listened. “I understand, Jessup. I’m sorry. I cannot travel to Washington on such short notice. It’s quite impossible.” He paused briefly to listen again, then said. “Be well, my friend.” He closed his phone and placed it on his desk. His face was red and twisted into a scowl.

  “Is something wrong?” Tareef asked.

  “My friend Jessup asked that I destroy his email. How can I do that? He should never have brought this to me.”

  Tareef sat up. “You said something about Transition.”

  Rahman stared at Tareef’s lavender eyes, frowning. “When did you enter Transition, my brother? How much do you know about it?”

  “When I woke this morning. My father told me that an elder’s son must know about Transition so that he can protect children. That the Transition ritual must be precise and the magic a true wish. That the magic must be something no one has done before. That all children who use the ritual die because everything has been said before.”

  “Your father is a wise man. He did not teach you the ritual?”

  Tareef hesitated. “No.” He added, “But he said he would. Will you teach me?”

  Rahman smiled sadly. “I doubt he said that. Sleep now, I have much work to do.”

  He didn’t say no.

  “What did you tell your friend Jessup about Transition?”

  “Nothing important.”

  Rahman turned back to his desk and bent over the printed pages, muttering to himself as he worked. Tareef tried to stay awake and watch, but the long day finally claimed him.

  • • • • •

  Tareef woke to the sharp spears of the rising sun streaking through the windows. He’d been roused by Ashraf’s quiet voice drifting from the bedroom. Tareef sat up and leaned to the side so that he could see into the other room. Ashraf was talking on his phone.

  “Department 1024.” Rahman paused, then continued. “Confirmed. One hour. The bench nearest the postal drop on the west side of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

  Rahman closed his phone and returned to the front room. “Good, you’re awake. I must leave, but I’ll only be gone for an hour. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  Fear seized Tareef’s chest; he jumped to his feet. “Why? Where?”

  Rahman strode over and sat on the sofa. “Sit and I’ll tell you. There’s nothing to fear.” He glanced at his watch.

  Tareef remained standing.

  “A long time ago the government of Pakistan paid for my education in the United States. In exchange, I promised I would tell them if I learned about anything that could be important to our nation. The book my friend Jessup found could be very important. I’m going to meet someone to tell them about this book.”

  “Why can’t I come with you?”

  Rahman shook his head. “My meeting is with an agent of the ISI, our country’s intelligence agency. This is just for adults.”

  “Will you ask him about my father?”

  “No, Tareef. It wouldn’t be wise to involve the ISI with the business of your father’s disappearance.”

  Even in his remote village, Tareef had heard enough rumors about the ISI to not argue. But thinking about the hated agency raised another fear.

  “You won’t come back.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll return with fresh bread, butter, and lassi for our breakfast, then we’ll begin again to locate your father.” He glanced again at his watch. “I have to go or I’ll be late.”

  1349 CE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Paris

  Kingdom of France

  “I’m not dying, daughter. Even if I’m afflicted with the Pestilence.” A long wet cough. “I’ll recover.
Most do.”

  Her father sat on his straw pallet, leaning against the back wall of their home. She sat with her legs crossed, facing him. The light from a sputtering, stinking tallow candle struggled and failed to push back the night. She stared at the dim outline of his face. Neither of them had eaten the bread and last bits of salted pork that she’d carried from the bakery.

  “Don’t try to shelter me, Papa. The color of my eyes gives proof that I’m no longer a child.”

  His shoulders rose and fell in a weak shrug. “Tomorrow will tell.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes. His wheezing breath made Marie’s skin crawl with goose bumps.

  “Papa—”

  “You were a late blessing, Marie. I’m growing old. Almost forty years. One day I will die, whether from this damned disease or something else. It’s time we talk about what you will do after.”

  Tears slid down Marie’s cheeks. She wanted to deny his words but could not.

  I’m less an adult than I claim.

  “I could ask your Aunt Moreau to take you, but—”

  “No! She’s an old shrew who treated her own children so poorly they couldn’t wait to get out from under her roof.”

  “Peace, Child. I was about to say as much. I’m sorry to say that a life on the streets would be better than living with my sister.”

  The flood of relief that washed over Marie was shattered by his next words.

  “With my brothers dead, I’ve faced a harsh choice.” His racking cough interrupted. When he continued, his voice was a whisper. “I’ve arranged to sell the bakery to Monsieur Colbert, in exchange for taking you in. He’s a good man and will care for you as if you were his own.”

  Marie wailed, “No, you can’t do that! I can run the bakery myself.”

  “Hush! You’re but a girl, no matter the Transition de la Vie. Even if you were grown, you know that women cannot own property.” A rattling cough ate his next words.

  Marie had spent long hours thinking about what would happen if her father were to die. His death would be the saddest thing that had ever happened to her, but she’d desperately clung to the dream that she would carry their business forward.

  “I’ve been a good apprentice, Papa. I’ve learned quickly and done all that you’ve asked and more. I’m as much a baker as any man. Don’t do this.”

  “You aren’t thinking, daughter. How long would it be before someone seizes the shop from you? Days? A week or two? And then what? You’d have no choice but to sell your body for a few bites of rotten food”

  “I wouldn’t! You have many friends. They’re my friends too. They’d help.”

  “Help how?” His voice sounded like stones being ground to dust. “My guild would toss you into the street as soon as they heard you were alone. The law would support them. Enough whimpering. Monsieur Colbert will act upon my death, according to my wishes. Now, let me rest.”

  • • • • •

  His moans woke Marie as the day’s first light slipped through the shutters and into their home. She sat up, startled, surprised that she’d been asleep.

  So real.

  She’d dreamed that she remained awake through the long night, unmoving, next to her father’s pallet. His breathing, so rough and labored as the night began, had eased and softened as she sat vigil. She heard the sickness leave him and cried with joy. He would wake and her world would be restored.

  But not real at all.

  She ran over to him. His chest heaved with the effort to live; his face burned hot against her hand. Dark, wet stains soiled the chest and sleeves of his tunic. She tugged the sleeves above his forearms and cried out at the foul blood that leaked from the same open sores that afflicted Madame Agard.

  “Papa!” She shook his shoulders but he didn’t rouse to her call.

  She sat back and wiped the tears from her face. The thought that had lurked in the back of her mind when her father told her about selling the bakery now consumed her.

  Madame Agard.

  She placed a bowl with fresh water next to her father and left the house. The sun was now above the walls of the city, painting the streets with gold. A mockingbird, spinning in circles above the peak of a nearby roof, called to her, proclaiming the joy of a new day.

  His song is true as my dream.

  She found the sick woman’s home without getting lost, prompting a brief smile as she recalled her confusion the day before. There were people in the street, but they ignored her, striding with their heads down as if they were trying to shut out the world around them.

  She banged her fist on the heavy door. It swung open easily, revealing an interior as black as the middle of the night. “Madame Agard?” No answer. “Madame? It’s Marie Douzaine. Marie. The baker’s daughter?”

  I’m too late.

  She stood before the gaping door, trying to gather the courage to enter when a faint voice drifted out to the street.

  “Come in, child. I’m in the back. You know the way.”

  She entered and stopped to let her eyes adjust to the gloom.

  “Marie? Are you there?”

  “Coming.”

  Madame Agard still lay on the bench against the back wall of the house. She didn’t raise her head as Marie approached. “You may have delayed too long.” The old woman’s voice was faint, her body as still as a corpse. “I’ll be dead before the sun reaches its zenith.”

  Marie choked on the stench of piss, shit, and corrupted flesh. “My father has the sickness.”

  “Of course he has. Otherwise, why would you have returned?” Madame Agard was panting like a dog in the mid-day heat.

  “Will you teach me the words?”

  “There’s no time for you to commit them to memory. You must first heal me.”

  “But how—”

  “I will say the ritual a phrase at a time. You will be my echo. Let nothing distract you or you will fail. When I am well—” Madame Agard paused to gather her breath. “When I am well, I’ll help you learn.”

  Marie was enough her father’s daughter to see the trap in this.

  What if I heal her and she sends me away? But what choice do I have?

  She sat on the floor next to the bench. “I’m ready, Madame.”

  “We must practice a bit, so there are no mistakes. We begin. ‘I invoke my birthright.’“

  Marie hesitated, then said, “I invoke my birthright.”

  “To the Power granted by Transition.”

  Marie sat quietly, wondering if Madame Agard had finished.

  “Marie? You must repeat what I said.”

  “I’m sorry, Madame. I couldn’t tell it was my turn.”

  Madame Agard sighed. “Perhaps this will never work. I’m so tired, all I want to do is sleep.”

  “No, don’t sleep!” Marie said. She thought for a moment. “Here, put your hand on my shoulder.” She shifted slightly so that she was closer to the banquette.

  She gently guided Madame Agard’s bony hand into place. “Squeeze when you want me to follow you.”

  Madame Agard’s grasp was more of a flutter than a squeeze, but the idea worked.

  “Are you ready, child?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of course.”

  Marie was surprised by a ghostly caress against her cheek.

  “There’s nothing to fear with me as your guide. Let’s begin.”

  “I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by Transition. I beseech this Power to grant my request. I honor the requirements of Transition and affirm…”

  Marie felt the flutter against her shoulder. She repeated:

  “I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by Transition. I beseech this Power to grant my request. I honor the requirements of Transition and affirm…”

  The hint of an iridescent lavender glow surrounded and startled her, but she shut it from her mind. She felt chilled and wondered if the coolness came from the same source as the light.

  They continued the ritual old as
time, the call and response in perfect coordination:

  “That I make my request with respect and humility…

  “That my heart is pure…”

  The aura deepened and lit the room. Marie was colder than the coldest winter she could remember.

  “That my request is worthy…

  “That no request like mine has been uttered since time began…

  “That this is my own true wish…

  “That I willingly surrender my life if I am found unworthy or my request is found wanting…”

  Marie’s breath fogged the air. She shivered and fought to keep her voice steady.

  They moved into the final verse, building on the invocation of those preceding.

  Madame Agard’s voice grew stronger and she called out:

  “Hear me: Heal this woman beside me, she who alone in Paris has the power to save my father. So thus I beseech.”

  Marie mirrored the words, excited by the mention of saving her father: “Hear me: Heal this woman beside me, she who alone in Paris has the power to save my father. So thus I beseech.”

  Freezing cold to scalding heat. Impossible light to starless night. The Power that ruled Transition had heard countless pleas for healing over the ages and was not appeased by trivial variations. Death spirited Marie away without mercy or care.

  • • • • •

  Two men—one lean as a sapling, the other wide as a bull—pulled the cart of the dead out of the small alley and onto the Rue St. Denis, turning toward the city gate of the same name.

  “Fellow back there said that last one was a baker,” Sapling said. “Folks around here are going to have to travel some for their bread.”

  Bull shook his head. “Nah. The Guild’ll find someone to take over. What was that bit he was sayin’ about the baker’s girl?”

  “Nothing much. Said she’d gone missing.”

  Bull laughed grimly. “Missing my ass. She’s on the streets. He say how old?”

  Sapling glanced at his partner. “Didn’t know exactly. But she’d started Transition de la Vie, like the one we found with that old woman in that place on St. Marie. You looking for a young one?”

  “Young and fresh. Keep an eye out.”