The Amber Amulet

by Craig Silvey;

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Rhubarb

  Jasper Jones

  The World According to Warren

  Copyright © 2012 by Craig Silvey

  First Published in Australia by Allen & Unwin, 2012.

  This hardcover edition published by Sky Pony Press, 2017.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the authors’ imaginations, and used fictitiously.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file.

  Text design by Sandy Cull, gogoGinko

  Jacket and interior illustration by Sonia Martinez

  Jacket design by Sammy Yuen

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-2189-0

  E-book ISBN 978-1-5107-2190-6

  Printed in China

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  HE MASKED AVENGER CAN make things happen.

  Though at twelve he is considered young for a Justice Fighter, he has already proved himself highly effective in the pursuit of peace. His developing powers are so potent, so vast, that not even he can fully comprehend their extent. He has a number of astonishing abilities. For example, on certain occasions, he can summon a wall of clouds and make the sky roar. Then he’ll point upward and say zap! and sometimes a white vein of electricity will crackle loose and stab the earth. Other times he can sweep his arms and say whoosh! and the air will swoon at his command. When his powers are unfocused, he can only manage to shuffle dead leaves, but other times he can bend the spines of trees and make citizens huddle into their own arms. Soon, when he gains full control of his faculties, he’ll be able to lash his enemies with gales and incinerate them with lightning.

  The Masked Avenger derives his powers by harnessing the dormant energy that lies within objects that citizens overlook. He believes in energy. He’s convinced the world is positively and negatively charged, that it’s imbued with the properties of Good and Evil.

  Energy is ubiquitous. It’s present in sunlight, gravity, electricity, heat, food, movement. It’s even inside the bodies of citizens, urgent and ready for release. But the world is also teeming with trapped energy, potential energy, buried beneath our feet and waiting to be unlocked. And nobody suspects, nobody understands its significance.

  Except the Masked Avenger.

  Only he knows that there’s a secret ultra-concentrated energy in certain gemstones and minerals, and that they emit specific powers according to their molecular composition. These powers, when expertly applied, can be directly transferred into the body, resulting in superhuman capabilities.

  Only the Masked Avenger has learned to access the energy inside these gems and minerals and, as long as he is in contact with them, he alone is privy to their extraordinary power.

  As such, his forest-green supersuit features a vital piece of equipment: his Amazing Powerbelt. It is a leather band of perfectly balanced geological items that neatly circumnavigates his waist. It features quartz for Balance and Reason; jasper for Intensity and Alertness; and a single tiger’s eye for unparalleled Speed and Agility. It also has one dollar eighty worth of coins, the constituent nickel of which affords him a priceless amount of Strength and Endurance. Adhered is a small lump of granite for Poise and Determination. And, most importantly, four rough buttons of amethyst for Truth and Honesty.

  Adorning his wrist is a copper bracelet that his grandmother wore to soothe her arthritis, but he knows it is better used to amplify Empathy and Mercy. Pinned to his heart is his grandfather’s bronze service medal for Bravery and Valor. Two clear silicon discs secured in a wire frame rest on the bridge of his nose. They give his eyes Supersight, and protect them against Debris, Hypnosis, and Poking.

  He also wears a red sheencape and a bandana mask hewn from the same material. These offer him the qualities of Defense and Anonymity.

  His alloy of energy is almost impenetrable, but he does harbor vulnerabilities. If an enemy managed to somehow strip him of these accoutrements, he would lose his edge and need to rely purely on his own Cunning.

  And there are other dangers.

  Fortunately, it is not commonly known that black stones emit troubling amounts of dark energy. This makes them incredibly powerful, but also highly unpredictable and very dangerous. The Masked Avenger worries over these implications. So much so that he has personally written on a monogrammed sheet to the Prime Minister, warning him that if evildoers availed themselves of large amounts of sapphire, onyx, volcanic glass, or meteorite, it would cause nothing short of a Global Cataclysmic Disaster. He also warned against the continued misuse of coal and oil, the destructive nature of which has been well documented.

  As yet, he has received no Official Reply. It may well point to a conspiracy.

  In the end, the Masked Avenger knows it will be left to him to save the world. So he needs to improve his skill set by furthering his research in his secret lair. He needs to be stronger and better prepared. He wishes he had access to more precious materials so that he might unlock further superpowers, such as Flight, Lightspeed, and Invulnerability. He has a suspicion that diamonds will be his key to defying gravity and that a plate of platinum might be his ticket to bulletproof skin. A collection of rubies, he anticipates, will give him ferocious Strength beyond the capabilities of any mortal creature. The application of mercury should offer him astonishing acceleration, and a small bar of gold might well grant him telekinetic facilities.

  And while he’s clearly still refining his unique method of geo-alchemy, there is no denying his results so far. The Masked Avenger presides over a particularly peaceful neighborhood. Franklin Street is clean, orderly, and respectful. Everything here is in its right place, thanks in no small part to his discreetly vigilant watch.

  He wishes it were possible, but he can’t manage to patrol every night, a problem which led him to develop an ingenious solution: the Magnetometer. A little over a month ago, he carefully placed magnets near the doorways of every house on the street because magnets possess the powers of Connectivity and Communion. He keeps a disc of his own in the pocket of his supersuit, creating a satellite for disturbances and danger. Should he feel a strange hot hum at his thigh, he knows Trouble is afoot and somebody is in need of a Hero. It’s a kind of extrasensory perception, the same way a dog can smell a tumor or a snake can see heat. The Masked Avenger knows when things are awry, when the balance between Good and Evil has shifted.

  He is particularly concerned by the woman in the house at the end of the street. Something there is deeply amiss, though he can’t quite put his finger on it. It’s just a queasy feeling he gets. He has placed two magnets
by her door, just to make sure she’s safe.

  ONIGHT HE MAKES HIS patrol. Carefully he pries open the glass hatch of his secret lair and climbs outside.

  He turns to assist the scrabbling emergence of his Partner in Justice, his loyal crime-fighting comrade, Richie the Powerbeagle, whose monogrammed tartan Thunderjacket boasts an aluminum foil insert to ward away dark energy.

  They share a curiously strong interspecies bond. In fact, yet another superskill wielded by the Masked Avenger is an innate dominion over all fauna. He can instantly tame wild animals and conduct their actions. For example, he can rush toward a cluster of ducks and command them to fly! and they will scatter like sparks and glide into the sky. He can creep up to a crouching cat and wave his hands and say run! and it will burst like a bullet.

  His influence on Richie the Powerbeagle is even more profound. Incredibly, he can bid Richie to sit! or lie down! or roll over! or stay there! or come here! or any combination thereof, and it is immediately and obediently complied with.

  The Masked Avenger never faces the unpredictable nature of The Street without Richie. Because, although they are dog and man, theirs is an infallible trust, a unique understanding that ensures their mutual protection and makes them formidable allies.

  The fearless duo sneak to the back gate of the Compound of Justice.

  “Sit, Richie,” instructs the Masked Avenger.

  Richie sits. The gate swings open. They proceed.

  The night is silent, but he won’t let that soften his focus. The Masked Avenger knows too well that Calm and Chaos share the same cold quiet. He stays loyal to the footpath, scanning for mayhem, scouring for deeds that need doing.

  And look! Trouble already! The Wilsons have foolishly failed to present their trash can for collection. Bidding Richie to sit, the Masked Avenger cocoons himself in his sheencape for Invisibility, and creeps toward the homestead. He deftly trundles the refuse vessel toward the curb without alerting the security light. He nods once to his accomplice.

  “Good job, Richie.”

  They move on.

  He crouches outside the house of Mrs. Maud Fitzgerald, an elderly widow who’s as grumpy as she is ungrateful. Not that her demeanor could sway his resolve. There appears to be a faulty hinge on her garden gate. He dips into his patented utility bag and removes his trusty pocket knife. A few tweaks on a few screws sets the gate straight and they continue their rounds.

  Three houses down, a Volvo rests by the curb with a slight slant. This can’t be good. The Masked Avenger approaches carefully. Sure enough, the rear passenger tire could do with some fresh air. He thumbs his chin.

  “You know, Richie, I could probably inflate this with the strength of my own lungs but I’m not sure that will teach them the value of good car maintenance.”

  Richie sits and looks up.

  “You’re right. We have to tell them. It’s the only way they’re going to learn.”

  He kneels and removes a pen and a notepad from his utility bag. Very carefully, he scribes his monogram at the top of the sheet, a broad M with the A piercing it like an arrow, cleverly creating a hidden diamond in the middle. Then he writes:

  He secures the note and gives Richie a wink. They walk on. Near the end of the street, his Magnetometer begins to burn. He stops. Richie the Powerbeagle sniffs the air.

  “You’re right, Richie. It could be trouble.” He cocks his finger and thumb to look like a pistol, placing the barrel against his lips to quiet his comrade. Then he taps it forward, twice.

  As usual, he identifies the house at the end of the street as the source of discontent, the one with two magnets and the woman he frets for. He approaches from the other side of the street, crouching behind a tree. From his utility pack, he removes his brass spyglass. He peers through it. There are lights on but no sounds.

  He has listened and waited out here many times before. She’s a striking woman, but elusive, with flame red hair and strong features. She doesn’t look like she needs to be saved, but the Masked Avenger knows different. From his limited investigations, he knows that she is married. Her husband is rarely home and, when he is, they often have loud fights and horrible quarrels. The nature of their arguments is always blurred by the walls.

  The Masked Avenger has never intervened. Once, he heard something smash, but before he could storm the premises, her husband burst out the front door like an outlaw, kicked a potted plant over, and drove away fast. The woman stood on her doorstep staring out while his Magnetometer seared.

  He thinks about her a great deal. He feels guilty for not having set things right. Tonight, he wonders what he can do. He puts his hand on Richie’s head and thinks hard. In a rush of import and confidence, having already neatly solved three dilemmas, he again pulls out his notepad.

  He decides it’s prudent to first make sure. If you’re going to save a citizen preemptively, you’d better be confident your heroism is both necessary and required. He rests the pad on Richie’s back. His first monogram is a little messy, on account of his nerves. He rips it out and tries again. Not bad. He taps the pen on his chin. Succinct is best. He writes.

  He folds the paper, pauses, then slips across the street to slip it in her mailbox.

  “Come on, Richie,” he whispers. “Let’s head back.”

  Once home, he will report to his Hero Log, citing his deeds done and adventures had.

  And as they go, neither he nor Richie the Powerbeagle notice the curtain in the bay window slowly fall back into place.

  URING THE DAY HE is mild-mannered boy-genius Liam McKenzie. He carries his secret close to his chest, not that anybody would ever suspect him of moonlight heroism. Though there are some boys in his class he would love to show his powers to.

  Still, in order to skirt any suspicion, occasionally he will be inconsistent in his behavior. He will be rude to his teacher, even though he adores her and longs to disclose who he really is. There are times when he will not submit homework that he has completed.

  At home, he will intermittently shirk his chores or not eat his dinner, despite his intimate understanding of the value of Nutritional Energy. He will skirt the boundaries of Trouble and betray his virtues. He can sometimes be, as his mother says, Incredibly Unhelpful. Especially since he is now the Man of the House.

  So far, his red herrings have kept them off the scent. Nobody is aware of his superhuman capabilities or his services to the community. He’s just a shy, whipsmart kid who slips up from time to time.

  The thing is, Liam finds it harder to be a normal citizen than a Superhero. He navigates his nocturnal world with more comfort than his daily travails, which has led him to conclude that his true identity is the one he keeps hidden from view. That’s the real secret of the vigilante: his face is his mask and his mask is his face. He is the Masked Avenger. Liam McKenzie is his act.

  It’s a burden he carries alone. Though on a certain level, of course, he knows that Richie understands. It must be hard for him, too.

  As soon as Liam is sent to bed, the Masked Avenger climbs into his supersuit and secures his mask and sheencape with uncharacteristic haste. He gives Richie a fresh sheet of aluminum and straps him into his Thunderjacket.

  It’s dangerous to patrol on consecutive evenings, but tonight he will accept the risk. It’s still a long wait until the evening settles and most citizens are sleeping, so he slides the glass hatch and stares at the stars. He wonders what incredible minerals those galaxies have to offer. What he could do with a lump of moon rock! He could travel time or discover the secrets of the universe. He makes a mental note to draft a confidential letter to NASA.

  Later, he walks the street with Richie. He notices with pride that the blue Volvo has inflated its tires to the correct pressure. A note on the windshield says: Thank you! He keeps it for his records.

  Other than that, he takes in very little. His work is sloppy tonight, his attention compromised. He’s distracted. In truth, he just wants to get to the house at the end of the street.


  The lights are on, but again it is quiet. There are no signs of activity or disorder, not even the spastic flicker of a television screen. His Magnetometer is curiously steady. He waits and scans. Then, carefully, he yawns open the mailbox, wincing as it creaks. He reaches in and takes the note. He can’t bear to read it in the open.

  In his hurry to leave, he drops the lid and it claps down loud. He ducks and holds his breath. Then he motions to Richie and they hastily exit.

  In his secret lair he spreads the note under a lamp. His eyes widen. There it is. A single red tick that confirms his suspicions.

  She is unhappy.

  HE MASKED AVENGER PACES restlessly into the night. In replying to his Important Question­naire, she has entrusted him with her care. She is now his civic responsibility. He has inherited her unhappiness. Overturning it has become his duty.

  But how? He bounces ideas off Richie, who listens intently, but seems ultimately unimpressed. It’s a difficult problem to solve without knowing to the origins of her complaint. For all his expertise in the fields of mineralogy and metallurgy, he can’t be sure that there is a gem that cures unhappiness outright. He needs something far-reaching and proven. Something truly special.

  He flicks through his geology books and pores over his set of rescued encyclopedias (he found them curbside on one of his patrols). He draws diagrams on his blackboard, writes equations and notations only to erase them out of frustration.

  Then he snaps his fingers.

  He rushes to his desk. He prods the glossary of his official gemtome and quickly locates what he’s looking for. He clears his blackboard with wide strokes and frantically calculates.

  He’s got it.

  He whirls around to look at Richie, his cape following like hair in a shampoo advertisement.

  “Richie!”