The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  • • • • •

  His mother had remained silent during the drive to their tiny home. As soon as they got inside, she headed toward the kitchen. “You want something to drink?”

  “Coke?” Cokes were rare treats. His mother only let him have one a couple times a week, not because she was worried about his weight—he was all scrawny angles—but because she didn’t think sugar was good for him.

  “Second choice,” she called.

  He shrugged. It’d been worth a try. “Bottle of water would be great.”

  She returned carrying a Coke for him and a Pumpkinhead beer for herself. “Don’t get used to it.” She handed him the drink, sat on the sofa, and patted the cushion next to her. Dylan gulped a big swallow and sat down.

  “We need to talk, kiddo,” she said.

  I’m too tired to talk. All I want to do is go to bed and sleep for a week.

  The coke didn’t taste as good as he thought it would. He set it on the bare wood floor next to the couch.

  When he didn’t say anything, she wrapped her arm around him and squeezed. “You feel worn out, like you did the other times?”

  He nodded, then whispered, “I’m sorry. Really. I thought I had it all under control.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “I don’t want to leave Boundary. I like it here.”

  His mother took a drink of her beer. “I know. Me too. We’re okay for now, but if something like this happens again, we won’t have much choice.”

  She doesn’t mean it as a threat, but it is. And I know it’s true.

  “What do we do now, Mom? We’ve tried everything.”

  “It’s not hopeless, Dylan. This is the longest you’ve gone without losing your temper. You’ve gotten better. I made a mistake by not getting you a therapist as soon as we moved into town. We’ll find a good one and get you some help.”

  “And pay for it how? We barely make it now.” He slammed his fist on the couch. “I fuck everything up. Maybe I should be in jail.”

  “Hush, now. Don’t talk nonsense. And you’re smart enough to express yourself better than that. No more ‘fucks.’“

  Dylan giggled in spite of how lousy he felt. His mom never cussed.

  “I’ll either get some extra hours or take a second job. We’ll be fine. The important thing is to shut off that switch in your brain once and forever.”

  If I was older, I could help. But I can’t even do that.

  “One last thing and I’ll let you rest. I’m not going to be able swap shifts like I did today for an entire month. I’m the junior person, and I have to work nights. You’ll have to take care of yourself during the day while you’re out of school.”

  His mom worked at the Pink Apple Diner and had traded for the day shift so she could meet with Principal Toliver.

  He shrugged. “No big deal. I’ve done it before.”

  “Look at me, honey.”

  Dylan scooted around on the couch so that he was facing her.

  She cupped his chin with her hand. “You’ve never broken a promise to me. I’m asking you to make the most solemn vow you’ve ever made. One based on the love we have for each other.”

  She was so serious that it scared him. And he thought he’d burst when she started crying. “What?” He could barely hear himself; his eyes filled, and his tears matched hers.

  “Swear to me that you won’t try to use Transition magic.”

  Before he could even think about answering, the front door rattled with a banging knock that wouldn’t be denied. His mom jumped up from the couch, wiped her face, and hurried to open the door.

  “Yes?”

  Dylan peered around the end of the sofa to see who was at the door. It is a small man, dressed in a shiny green suit with a matching tie over a white shirt.

  “Ms. Parker?”

  He sounds like Mickey Mouse. Must’ve snorted helium before he knocked.

  “Yes?”

  Dylan noticed that his mom had only opened the door about a foot.

  The man reached inside his suit jacket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to his mom.

  “I have something for you.”

  She took the paper and asked, “What is this?”

  “A notification of a lawsuit that’s been filed against you by the parents of Clint West and a summons to appear in court.”

  “Lawsuit? This has to be a mistake. They said they weren’t going to press charges. “ His mother’s voice climbed to a screech.

  “Wouldn’t know about that. This is a civil action, not criminal.” The guy smiled. “Have a great day!”

  2015 CE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Islamabad

  Islamic Republic of Pakistan

  A warm wind brushed Tareef’s face like a spirit’s kiss as he worked his way toward the asphalt road that cut across the desert plateau. He felt twice blessed—the night sky was clear and a crescent moon lit his path. It was as if the gods of nature meant for him to be alone in this place, at this time.

  Blessed, but safer on the road than wandering in a desert at night. The gods don’t reward a stupid boy.

  He found the road and forged onward, away from Rahman’s house. His mind churned, trying to find order and understanding from what he’d heard.

  My father is dead. He tried to escape and he got killed.

  Tareef didn’t know whether he believed the ISI colonel or not. The man could have been lying. But hadn’t the guard at the jail said something similar? That this father was dead to him? He stopped walking, sat down on the warm asphalt, his nostrils filled with the smell of tar, and choked back a sob. He lifted his head and stared at the moon.

  Please help me.

  As he sat there, the song of the crickets returned. They’d ceased to sing as he’d stomped through the desert. Now they surrounded him, bathing him in their music.

  A forgotten lesson bubbled into his awareness. “The Kalash believe in many gods, and it’s okay to seek help from them,” his father had told him. “But don’t wait for the impossible. Act on the possible, and the gods will be more disposed to assist you.”

  I can do nothing for my father right now. So what can I do? What is possible?

  He sifted through everything he’d seen and heard since he and his father had come to Islamabad, searching for a path forward. He recalled nothing that could help him from the meeting at the Ministry. Nothing from the boardinghouse. Nothing from the professor. Wait a minute. Was that true?

  What else had the colonel said? Something about the professor finishing a translation. Translating what? The same document that Rahman’s friend Jessup had called about the other day? The one that had something to do with Transition?

  His mind calmed.

  I could use magic. The professor could teach me the ritual. Help me find a way to use Transition and live. And then I could use magic to find my father, return us to our valley, and protect the Kalash people.

  • • • • •

  It was late. Tareef had marched for hours along the asphalt ribbon, away from the city. Twice he’d stopped, heart pounding, when the crickets had fallen silent, as if warning him to be still. The first time he’d heard some night creature slither from the sand at the side of the road and whisper past a few feet in front of him. The second time, the screams of a dying animal sliced through the thick night air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He’d resumed his walk when the insects signaled that all was safe.

  His journey was like a waking dream. He saw his father die, alone, beaten, far from Tareef and the people of their tribe. Tareef prayed that this was a false vision; he would know in his heart if his father had died, and he felt only the same loneliness as the day he’d been taken. He believed instead that his father was imprisoned, looking out a small window at the same moon that Tareef watched as it crept to the horizon.

  He imagined using Transition, invoking the magic to forever erase the nightmare of his visit to Islamabad. But
that didn’t feel any more real than the idea that his father had died. Which meant that he’d fail. That he and his father would die apart and far from home.

  But magic is the only chance I have, unless I wish to remain an orphan living with Professor Rahman or wandering the streets of Islamabad.

  The pale crescent completed its arc and dipped behind the distant mountains. Tareef turned and began his return journey, moving rapidly, filled with purpose.

  • • • • •

  The black of the eastern sky was softening by the time Tareef turned from the road and stopped. He was two houses away from Rahman’s, looking for any sign that Colonel Pasha might still be there. Tareef was uncertain what the colonel had wanted but felt in his bones that the ISI officer was dangerous. Nearby houses were dark, but a soft light glowed from the windows of Rahman’s front room.

  Why’s the light on?

  He glanced around. There were no unfamiliar cars on the street. He crept to a side window of the professor’s home and peered inside. Rahman was sitting at his computer, staring at the screen, his face lined and tired. Tareef shifted to a kitchen window and, by the dim light falling through the door from the front room, saw no one.

  He returned to the front of the house, walked up the two steps to the small porch, and reached to open the screened door. It was latched.

  “Who’s there?” The professor sounded scared and uncertain.

  “Just Tareef. May I come in?”

  “Tareef!” Rahman jerked to his feet, bolted across the room, and released the latch. “Of course you can come in! Where have you been? I’ve been worried.”

  Tareef stepped inside. “I’ve been walking.” He looked around. “Are we alone? Why’s the door locked?”

  “Of course we’re alone.” He pulled Tareef into a hug, kissed him on both cheeks, and hugged him again. “I suppose I felt better with it latched. I don’t know why. The gods know that it won’t keep anyone out.”

  Gods, not Allah. His heart is still Kalash.

  Rahman released Tareef and strode toward the kitchen. “You must be famished. Come eat and talk to me.”

  They settled at the kitchen table. Tareef tore into a piece of flatbread, swallowed, ate another, then took a spoon and devoured a bowl of yoghurt. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry. He looked up from the empty bowl to find Rahman smiling at him.

  “Why did you leave?” Rahman asked.

  Tareef considered the question for a long moment, then decided to plunge ahead. “I overheard Colonel Pasha tell you that my father is dead. I think the colonel is an evil man. I don’t believe him.”

  Rahman frowned. “What else did you hear?”

  “That he wanted you to help with a translation. Is this translation the same as you were helping your friend Jessup with?”

  Rahman seemed to not hear the question. “Did you hear anything else?”

  “No. I took off after I heard him talking about my father. Tell me, is the translation about Transition?”

  Rahman sat back in his chair and sighed. “Colonel Pasha brought me an ancient book. I won’t know what it’s about until I finish the translation. It’s not your concern.”

  Tareef held his breath, feeling like he was about to jump from a high cliff, then blurted, “You must teach me the words for Transition magic. That is the only way I can save my father.”

  Tareef thought that he would have to beg and plead. He was surprised when Rahman didn’t immediately refuse. Instead, the professor looked down at the table.

  Tareef waited a minute, then asked, “Ashraf? Will you help me?”

  Rahman lifted his head and gazed across the room, eyes unfocused. Then his attention snapped back to Tareef. His eyes were wet and shining.

  There’s something he’s not telling me. Something that upsets him greatly.

  “Yes, I’ll teach you the ritual. And perhaps the ancient book will give me a way to keep you safe. But you must promise me something.”

  “Promise what?”

  “On your father’s life, you must promise to keep secret what I show you. And you will only use magic in my presence. You can only survive if you follow my guidance.”

  “You will help me save my father? And help us return to our valley?”

  “Yes. But only with your promise.”

  A Kalash proverb popped into Tareef’s mind.

  Take care when a man agrees with you too easily, for he’s thinking only of himself.

  “I swear I’ll keep the magic a secret and only use it when you’re with me,” Tareef said. “Now, I’m ready. Tell me what I must know.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Washington, D.C.

  The United States

  John sat on a bench tucked behind a support column in the Dulles airport, sipping a cup of Black and Tan coffee he’d grabbed at the Mayorga Coffee Shop. He’d decided only in the last year that he liked coffee and preferred small, independent roasters. Mayorga was in Concourse A; his and Stony’s flight on Turkish airlines left from Concourse B. But he had a passion for walking and enjoyed the Latin American company’s take on a good cup of coffee even more.

  It was three o’clock Monday afternoon. Their flight wasn’t due for another three hours, and he didn’t expect to see Stony until a half hour before that. He was always early; she always flirted with having the door closed in her face. He finished the cup, stood and tossed it into a trash can, and launched on a fast walk that would take him around the perimeter of the three concourses, ending at his gate. His cane marked his pace, tapping with each long step on the terrazzo floor.

  His cell phone buzzed against the change in his pocket. He pulled the phone free, expecting to see Stony’s caller ID. He was greeted instead with Senator Nebelhorner’s number.

  “Afternoon, Senator. You settling into your new gig? Finding it a lot more work than you anticipated?”

  “Can the crap, Benoit. You and I both know that you don’t give a shit about how much I work.”

  John didn’t respond.

  Nebelhorner cleared his throat. John suspected he’d developed that habit to announce that pearls of wisdom were imminent.

  Handy, if by wisdom you mean empty thoughts borne on hot air.

  “As you requested, Agent Benoit, I’ve been working with our ambassador in Islamabad to prepare them for your arrival. They will assign you a translator and guide from the CIA station to make it easier for you to move around the city safely.”

  “Thank you, Senator, although three Americans wandering the streets will be a bit obvious, don’t you think? The people we need to talk with will know English, I’m reasonably certain.”

  “And you think your cane and Stony’s ridiculous hair aren’t already obvious?”

  John couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ll give an old dog his due, Senator. When you’re right, you’re right. Thanks for making the arrangements.”

  “Oh, Son, I’ve done better than that.”

  Don’t call me “Son.”

  “This morning, I talked with the head of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence organization. The director-general. A fellow by the name of Amir Tulpur. I’ve told him who you’re looking for, and he’s promised every cooperation.”

  John stopped walking, stunned. He moved close to the wall in the concourse hallway, turned his back to the few people who were passing by, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “You told the head of the ISI that we were coming to Pakistan? And told him why?”

  “I was lucky that he took my call. The U.S. relationship with Pakistan is horrible. We can’t keep springing surprises on those people and expect them to help us. He was very courteous, and we had quite a nice chat.”

  “Did you tell him about the codex?” John’s face felt as if it had been wrapped in a hot towel. His heart pounded.

  “Of course I did, but I never said what was in it. Just that it had important historical value. Which is really all you know for a fact. I couldn’t very well tell him we were making
an urgent trip and not tell him why. You have an appointment with Mr. Tulpur at two p.m. the day after you arrive.”

  “Of all the asinine, bone-headed moves—”

  “Now you just hold on, Agent Benoit. I’ll not have you talking to me that—”

  “Senator, you’ve just disclosed top secret information to the head of one of the most corrupt and dangerous intelligence services in the world. You’re a fool.”

  “You’re out of line, Benoit. And I’ve done no such thing. The DNI agreed with my approach, if you must know. This is an unparalleled opportunity for us to restore trust between our two countries. Now get on your airplane and make that meeting.”

  I can’t believe this. And the DNI agreed? How is that possible?

  “No. I’m canceling the trip. You’ve made it too dangerous, and there’s not a chance in hell that we’ll learn anything. I want time with you and the DNI first thing tomorrow to discuss this.”

  The senator didn’t respond for several long moments. When he did, he sounded amused. “I wondered if you might not take that position, Son. I’m suspending you for insubordination, effective immediately. Remember our conversation about your retirement? Now would be a good time, before I’ll simply fire your ass.”

  Should have seen this coming. But why is the DNI backing him? Unless…

  “Senator, do you have a signed directive from the president authorizing your course of action?”

  “Of course I do. The DNI assures me I’ll have it first thing tomorrow.”

  You’ll never see a directive, you sorry, stupid son of a bitch. Wheels within wheels. The DNI is giving you enough rope to hang yourself before your nomination can even be acted on.

  Nebelhorner wasn’t finished bragging about the scope of his power. “And because I love satisfying your curiosity, Son, here’s the last thing I have to tell you: I’ll be notifying Agent Hill of the change in circumstances. Her new partner will meet her at the airport in time for today’s departure. Now, if you’re quick, you should be able to get over to Reagan and catch a flight back to Cincinnati before the sun sets.”