by Ed Masessa
“There have been many times throughout history when bad things happened despite good intentions. Such was the case with the earthquake. While I was otherwise occupied, a conclave of Wandbearers convened in San Francisco. They had noticed signs of activity of a very dark nature. Henry Leach the Fourth, the great-great-grandfather of our young letter writer, was the Monarch of that conclave, and unfortunately he was up against a very powerful foe. A Wand Master named Dai She.”
“I am not familiar with this name,” Gretchen remarked, slightly confused, as she knew the Guild’s history well.
“We don’t like to talk about him.” Coralis moved slowly past shelves filled with bottled specimens, tapping idly at jars as if coaxing the dead back to life. “As you know, I am the last of the direct descendants of the Aratta Wand Masters. I have always upheld their vow to protect the world. But throughout time, as more were trained in the ways of the Guild, there have been … defectors. Those who chose to follow the misguided teachings of a nefarious Wand Master named Malachai. They call themselves the Scorax. Dai She is Malachai’s only offspring, and by 1906, he had gained considerable power.”
Coralis hissed in a way that only Sallie could understand. Her head perked up and she followed his command, slithering into his robe and retrieving a small twiglike wand. It was pure white and no longer than his pinkie finger. “To find Dai She, the Wandbearers had to focus their combined energy through highly specialized wands, such as this one. Look closely,” he told Gretchen. “You can see it pulse.”
She leaned forward and opened her eyes wide in astonishment. “Why, it has a heartbeat!”
“Yes. It is strong and healthy. It is known as an Argus Wand. In principle it acts like a divining rod—the type that is used to find a source of water. But an effective Argus Wand will find anything the bearer seeks.
“The conclave had met for a solid week. They summoned clean, organic energy and filled their wands to capacity. Then they began their search—to no avail. They should have realized what was happening. Dai She was wielding incredible power, protecting himself from being found by deflecting their energy. But the conclave assumed they only needed more power. They funneled more and more energy into their wands—more than they should have dared. The result was … tragic.”
Coralis paused for a long moment before turning his eyes back on Gretchen. “Does my story frighten you?” His concern was genuine. Gretchen had been living as an invited guest in his castle for almost ten years, but they rarely discussed anything at length, let alone something as serious as this. He never told her so, but he found her presence a great comfort.
He found her … compatible.
She put up with him and all his volatile moods and all his eccentric habits. And the castle liked her as well, which was quite important in the scheme of things.
“Ja, it frightens me, but I am not afraid. You are here and the world is still in one piece, so perhaps there is a happy ending.” She spotted Willoughby the vine circling around the backside of Coralis’s chair, which promptly snorted and kicked at it, sending the vine scurrying for cover.
“Not so happy,” Coralis said darkly. “Imagine if I took your hand to help you up from the floor and suddenly let go. The motion would not affect me, because I was ready for it. You, on the other hand, would fall down hard because you didn’t expect it. That is precisely what happened with the energy from the Argus Wands. When the power struggle between Dai She and the conclave suddenly snapped, it created a whiplash of energy that ran straight to the San Andreas fault line, causing the tectonic plates to shift.
“This sort of thing had happened before, but not beneath a city so heavily populated. Between the collapse of buildings and the ensuing fires, the city was decimated. Thousands of people died.”
Coralis stroked Sallie’s reptilian head as he spoke. If it were possible for a snake to purr, she would have done it.
Suddenly, the snake snapped her head around. A small black rat, barely noticeable, poked its nose out from behind a tall vat of brown liquid. Tiny ears perked up and whiskers twitched in alarm as the air became charged with signals of predator versus prey.
Too late. The krait uncoiled and raced across the flagstone floor. In the urn, the rest of the pole snakes rattled and clanged against one another.
“Oh, all right.” Coralis tapped a pale wand the size of a pencil against the urn. “Go!”
The room immediately erupted in a flurry of snakes and rats of all sizes. “Guess I was overdue for a little housecleaning after all,” he said dryly.
“I think you are right. And it’s good that I am not doing the cleaning,” Gretchen said with a nervous tremor, stepping up on a workbench.
Activity in the room settled down quickly, the snakes proving to be remarkably efficient. When Gretchen finally turned her attention back to Coralis, he was deep in thought. He rubbed his hands as if fraught with worry. “What will you do now?” she asked him.
“It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s happening, but it does take a fool to ignore it.” He picked up the jar with the giant leeches inside. “I have had my head buried in the sand. This letter … ” He gently laid it on the workbench. “This is no coincidence. I knew it the second I touched the envelope. That falcon is five steps ahead of me, and it’s time I caught up.”
He put the jar down. “You’ve heard stories about the powers possessed by the seventh son of a seventh son?”
Gretchen nodded warily.
“Well,” he said with a short laugh, “in this case, I can do you one better.” Then his tone turned serious. “Young Henry is not your average boy. The Leach bloodline is strong, and he is the son of the seventh generation of Wandmakers on his father’s side … and his mother’s side, too. In our world, it is the equivalent of being a musical prodigy. He will have been born with exceptional skills. Whether or not he has the strength of character to use them wisely … ”
He slapped both palms flat against the workbench and turned to Gretchen, his face filled with grim determination. “Please fetch that confounded falcon. It’s time for Master Leach to discover what he can do, and I have just the items to give him a proper nudge. Our feathered friend has a delivery to make.”
Gretchen saw the spark in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in too many years. “It’s about time.”
Henry hopped from the bottom step of the school bus to the curb. He casually took a few steps to the left. Then, as the bus began to roll by, he quickly reversed direction. Two ripe tomatoes and the remnants of a PBJ sandwich flew past his ear.
The back half of the bus cackled with laughter, led by none other than Billy Bodanski. “Leach the freak!” they chanted in unison.
“Hey, Leach, try a peach!” Billy yelled, tossing the fruit at Henry. Fortunately, it hadn’t ripened yet and was hard enough to bounce off Henry’s backpack, landing in the privet hedge that surrounded his front yard. He stared after the bus as it rounded the corner. From two blocks away, Billy’s voice was still audible.
Henry dropped his backpack to the ground with a solid thunk. A tin containing some of his favorite rocks rattled inside as he dragged it up the sidewalk and tossed it carelessly onto the porch. He plopped down on the middle porch step and sank his face into his hands. “My life stinks,” he mumbled.
He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, glancing around quickly to see if Brianna was nearby. She had been getting much better at sneaking up on him lately. She wasn’t due home for another hour, but there were days when his mother picked her up early from the after-school program. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to see Brianna for a minute more than was absolutely necessary.
He certainly didn’t.
Henry stretched to reach his backpack and pulled a calendar from an outer pocket. He took a purple pencil and drew a firm X through the date, checking off the remaining days of school. “Only one more month,” he whispered.
But a month of taunting and teasing was like a lifetime. Why couldn’t Billy
get eaten by a shark? Or if that was too much to hope for, at least catch a disease that would keep him out of school for a while?
Henry threw the calendar across the yard and into the hedge, where it dislodged the peach … which promptly conked a large gray bird on its head.
“What the … ?”
Henry raced over to the fallen bird and stared in wonder. He nudged it with his foot. Nothing happened. The bird was out cold.
“I hope it’s not dead,” he mumbled, and quickly turned around, sure that Brianna would be there watching. But he was alone. He bent closer to the bird and saw faint signs of life. Stupid Billy and his stupid peach!
Although it could have been worse. If Henry’s name had been Andrew, Billy might have thrown a honeydew. That would have certainly killed the poor bird.
“Think, Henry!” He couldn’t just leave it here. He ran his hand rapidly through his short hair. Then he noticed the long talons. “Bird of prey,” he whispered. “Gray, orange, and white markings … ” Henry’s head snapped up, his eyes going wide. Could this be the same bird that had been in his father’s office a few long and miserable weeks ago?
He quickly made his decision, bolting around the house to the garage at the back edge of their property line. He grabbed a pair of his father’s thick leatherwork gloves and flipped over an old plastic crate, dumping his mother’s gardening tools onto the floor. The crate had holes, but none big enough for the bird to escape. Then back to the bird he flew.
It was still out cold. Wearing the gloves for protection in case the bird should awaken, he gently lifted it off the ground. It felt odd to hold—alive yet limp, and lighter than he thought it should be.
The beak was razor sharp, pointed, hooked—perfect for tearing apart mice and rats. It was definitely some kind of falcon, but he would need his Audubon spotter’s guide to identify it properly.
He lowered the bird into the crate with care and was about to take it away when he noticed a small parcel lying on the ground, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied neatly with a single piece of string. The bird had collapsed on top of it.
He turned the parcel over and there was his name: HENRY LEACH VIII, WANDMAKER.
“Oh!” Henry gasped and almost dropped it.
From the corner of his eye he saw the bird begin to stir. “Yikes!” He snatched up the crate and ran back to the garage, where he quickly located a piece of plywood that he placed over the crate. He then strained to lift a sturdy metal toolbox, which he plunked on top of the plywood. The bird was, after all, a large, powerful predator.
Breathing heavily, he slammed the door shut, flipped the light switch, and stared at the captive, unconscious bird in silence. Gradually his breath returned to normal. Ten … fifteen minutes, perhaps longer, he stared. Finally, his throat parched, he decided to get a glass of water.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to the bird, just in case it could hear him. He didn’t want it to freak out and hurt itself. It would probably wake up with a lump on its head as it was.
He zipped across the yard and through the rear door, the wood-framed screen slamming shut behind him.
“Henry? Is that you?” his mother called from the basement, which she used as an art studio.
“Yes, Mom.” He hoped his voice sounded calm. “Just getting a glass of water.”
“Oh my, look at the time,” he heard her say. “Henry, be a good boy and pour me a glass of iced tea.”
Iced tea! Iced tea! There was a potentially dangerous bird in the garage that could awaken any second, and she wanted him to bring her iced tea? “Okay, Mom!” In his hurry, he spilled more on the counter than he got in the glass.
“I’ll leave it out here, Mom,” he said to her through the closed door. She started to reply, but he yelled, “Gotta run!”
The screen door slammed again as he raced across the yard and into the garage. He was so preoccupied with getting back to the bird that he sat down and stared at the crate for a full five seconds before he realized the bird wasn’t in it!
The hastily built cage was completely intact—crate, plywood, toolbox—and sitting atop the toolbox, giving Henry the evil eye, was a large, angry falcon.
Henry swallowed with an audible gulp. He tried to remember what not to do when confronted by a predator. He had seen plenty of animal shows and even recorded a few to watch over again.
Don’t look them in the eye—they could perceive this as a challenge and attack. Henry averted his eyes.
Play dead. Too late for that. But perhaps he could try holding his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and held it as long as he could. He heard his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. When he could no longer stand the lack of air, he exhaled with a loud whoosh.
Too late, he realized his mistake. With a single flap of its wings, the falcon perched atop Henry’s head, its sharp claws poking through his short hair and into his scalp. Henry winced but didn’t panic. A small whimper escaped his lips, and the falcon hopped off, back atop the toolbox.
The toolbox that was on top of the plywood. Not knocked over and spilled on the floor—but right where he’d left it.
“How did … ?” he began, when the bird winked one eye at him.
“No way!” he whispered. The plywood was bulky, and the toolbox was filled with hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, and even an electric drill. This was no small toolbox. Yet somehow, the bird had knocked them off, gotten out … and replaced them? He looked again at the sides of the crate. The only other explanation was that it had managed to squeeze through one of the holes …
The bird slowly shook its head from side to side. Was it reading his mind?
Henry nervously rubbed his hand through his hair.
The bird gave every indication that it could understand him. “That’s impossible,” he said aloud. Again the bird shook its head no. “You understand me?” Henry asked, not quite believing he was carrying on a conversation with a bird.
In reply, it waggled the feathers above its eyes, much as a person would wiggle their eyebrows. “Birds don’t have eyebrows,” he said.
The bird shrugged its feathered shoulders, rolled its eyes, and hopped down off the toolbox to the floor, where it picked up the wrapped parcel.
“For me?” Henry reached for the package, fully expecting the bird to fly off with it at the last second. But as he grabbed it, the bird pulled on the string with its beak. An assortment of crystals tumbled onto the ground, along with a polished black wand with three white pinstripes running the length of the wood. It was about the length of his hand and slightly thicker than his thumb.
“Wow!” he exclaimed as he carefully held it up, twirling it in the sunlight. The pinstripes were actually clear veins that ran all the way through the wood.
Mixed in with the raw crystals was an odd white cube made out of paper. Henry pinched it between his fingers. It popped open and spread out before him, and Henry saw it was a note.
“Coralis wrote back to me.” It was all becoming too hard to believe. “Then you must be the bird that stole my letter.” He looked up to see that the falcon had moved over to the door and was motioning with its head for Henry to open it.
“Suppose I don’t want to let you go? I have a lot of questions … ”
The bird’s mild manner swiftly disappeared. Its eyes turned mean and predatory. Its feathers fluffed out until it looked to be almost twice its original size. In a show of defiance, it fully extended its wings and let loose a terrifying shriek!
Henry almost poked himself in the eye with his new wand as he reached up to cover his ears, the noise deafening in the close confines of the garage. “All right! All right! Let me by!”
As if nothing had happened, the bird withdrew to its normal size and hopped out of Henry’s way. In the open doorway it turned, winked once more, and rose majestically into the afternoon sky.
“Pretty bird!” Brianna called after it from where she stood on the back porch.
Henry smiled. “Pretty smart
bird.”
Henry made his escape after dinner.
He set the volume of his radio just high enough to be heard through the closed bedroom door, so it would appear he was still inside. Then, practicing the stealthy moves of a cat, he snuck out the back door and into the garage.
After locking the doors, he shimmied up a metal pole and hoisted his body over a ledge and onto a second-floor loft. It wasn’t an easy move for someone whose athletic ability didn’t extend much beyond walking, but it was worth it for the privacy. Other than an old car tire, an empty armoire, and plenty of cobwebs, the loft was empty.
When he’d first found this space, he’d instantly known what the children who’d found Narnia had felt like. He had discovered a place that was his and only his. And someday he would turn it into his own private workshop.
A small, dirt-encrusted window usually let in ample light. But the darkness of an oncoming storm left him nearly sightless. He felt around for the droplight, which was little more than a long black electrical cord with a light bulb at one end. He turned it on and waited impatiently for his eyes to adjust; then he took a greasy old towel from the floor and draped it over the window—in case anyone from the house might look out.
Satisfied that he would not be disturbed, he began his preparations. From the bottom drawer of the armoire he removed the guidebook, along with the precious cargo that the falcon had delivered, a small feather the falcon had shed in the crate, his guide to rocks and minerals, the robe from his wizard costume, and last but not least, one of the old books he had found in his father’s office. Getting it all up here hadn’t been so hard once he’d tied a long rope to the plastic crate to haul things up.
A long, low rumble signaled the beginning of the storm. He dabbed at the sweat on his face—the garage was sweltering—and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably as a few drops rolled down the center of his back. It felt like bugs crawling on his skin.