Guardian of the Talisman

GUARDIAN OF THE TALISMAN
is the first part of the planned "Falconara" trilogy

"...the wizard's death depends on a magic needle. That needle is within a hare; that hare is within a large trunk; that trunk is hidden in the branches of an old oak tree; and that oak tree is closely watched..."

The European myths and legends, vol.2, Tale of the Dark Wizard

The real story, however, was quite different...

A long time ago, the Dark Lord Skallerim trapped his death in a needle. He sealed the needle inside an emerald called the Izmargahd and hid it in the Shadow world, out of reach of any mortal being, and thus he became immortal.

Millenniums passed. The story of the Izmargahd became a legend, and then a fairy tale. But the emerald continued a life of its own.

The world of fourteen-year-old Nick Falconara is shattered by the news that his father disappeared without a trace during an archaeological expedition. Nick thought life couldn’t get much worse. He was wrong. He is sent to a special school – a place where “to go on a summer vacation” means to be Killed in Action and to be “expelled” means to be canceled.

As he tries to stay alive, an ancient emerald with mystical powers passes into his hands, setting in motion a strange chain of events that goes far beyond anything he could have imagined. Now Falconara should not only find his father, but also save the life of his friend Katie Lynx.

As Falconara embarks on a journey beyond the world, he will face the ultimate evil, threatening to destroy everyone he loves.

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Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Prologue

Guardian Of The Talisman - Being the First Part of Falconara

Prologue: The Death of the Beast

The night sky in the east glowed scarlet. The orange glare of the dying flames danced on the pristine strip of snow, which separated the crooked fence with the burning houses behind it from the frozen river. Viceroy Setog stood on the top of a hill gazing down at the smoldering village. The cold wind drove away the smoke rising over the temple ruins. Shadows ran wild through the streets filling the air with screams—the last defenders were finished. Setog looked up into the sky strewn with fading stars of Songara. In the light of dawn, only the Warrior star, Toz, bright as a sparkling diamond, continued to shine for those who prayed to it for luck. Setog shivered with cold, sniffed the frosty air and gave a low growl. The captivating light of Toz evoked an all-but-forgotten desire to howl at the star, just as he used to do a long time ago, when he was free and when, after a long chase, he caught and killed game. Fighting the urge, he clenched the hilt of his sword, bowed his head, eyes closed. A moment later, he heard the crunch of snow, and the heavy stench of sweat mixed with blood filled the air.
“Your honor.”
Setog sensed fear and hate in the hoarse voice. He turned around. Gorvang, the patrol commander, watched him with caution. The large and broad Zangorean, the tallest in the assault detachment, barely reached Setog's shoulder. Gray flakes of ash covered the shaggy hair tied in a knot on the back of his head. The oiled leather armor gleamed under the dirty cloak trimmed with the tawny fur of a sandwolf. He was holding a bloody sword. When Setog stared at him, the Zangorean shifted his feet uncomfortably and dropped his gaze. Even he can’t meet my eyes, Setog thought with contempt.
“We found her,” said the mercenary.
The Master was right. The star has nothing to do with this. Luck is always with us.
“Her eyes?” Setog asked in a low muffled voice and sniffed. The smell of blood stirred up the deep emotions. Gorvang gave him a wary look, grabbed the hilt of his sword and stepped back, the snow crunched under his boots.
“Violet,” he said. “Violet as …” He looked around and pointed to the hillside. “Like a shadow on the snow at dawn.”
“And the marks?”
“On both her breasts,” confirmed Gorvang.
His cold breath reminded Setog that a long winter lay ahead. I hate snow. He gazed into the distance, beyond the dark blanket of the forest where the first rays of the sun gilded the bluish top of the Dragonback mountain range. Damn cold! Damn country!
“Bring her to me.”
He turned and started down the snow-covered slope into the ravine where the guards set up his yurt. Gorvang spat under his boots and looked at the viceroy’s back. “Filthy monster,” he mouthed. The Beast, as the mercenaries called Setog behind his back, was a hideous creature. His huge body, covered with dark fur, could be easily mistaken for a human if it was not for the monstrous head of a jackal. A stripe of the stiff black guard hairs ran from the back of his head down the neck and around his blunt muzzle. His clawed hands never lost their animal traces. The half-beast’s ugliness was bad enough to strike terror in the heart of the bravest men. But nothing could compare to his amber eyes, almost human, filled with flames of insanity.
“What about the rest?” Gorvang asked.
Setog stopped and turned around. Gorvang felt as if he should not have asked.
“It’s your loot—do whatever you want. But after that, as always, hang them all.”
“We don’t have enough trees,” said Gorvang, looking back at the village.
“You have a forest.” Setog pointed across the river.
♦
She was trembling either from cold or from fear, most likely from both. She was an ordinary girl. Nothing about her appearance hinted that she was the aena, the one his Master sought for so long. Setog put the goblet of honey wine on the table, leaned back in his chair, and examined her from top to bottom. The girl kept her head down and sobbed, wiping her tears with one hand. Her other hand clenched the ripped halves of the dress in front, trying to cover her naked breasts. A thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders—a sign of courtesy from Gorvang—did not warm her up at all, but at least shielded her from prying eyes.
“How old are you?” he asked, trying to sound as gentle as possible.
“Fifteen.” Her voice was weak.
“Come,” said Setog. “Closer.” Even sitting in the chair, he was towering over her. “Show me the marks,” he said, watching her closely. “Do not be afraid of me.”
Sobbing, she pulled the rags apart revealing the trefoil birthmarks. The Snow Sable signs. He reached out and with one clawed finger pulled a strand of fiery red hair from her face.
“Look at me.”
She shuddered, holding back sobs, and looked upon him. Her gaze passed over the terrible muzzle of the beast and shifted away. A tear rolled down her pale cheek as her lips trembled. Setog studied her face for a while. There was nothing special about her. If it was not for her violet eyes, she would be like hundreds of other girls, captured, stolen or purchased by him. The Master was hard to please. He rejected every single one of them: either he did not like the color of their eyes or the birthmarks were in the wrong spot or wrong shapes. This time, they had a good fortune. He had never seen such eyes. Yes, she is the aena. These are born once in a thousand years. He heard the rumors that their blood could work magic, but he could only guess the real reason the Master searched for her for so long.
He inspected the girl once again and with a wave of his hand dismissed her. When the guards took her away, he drew a curved dagger. Holding his gnarled long-clawed fingers over the oil lamp, he slashed under his thumb. A drop of blood flashed and fell into the flame, and then viceroy Setog muttered the Word.
♦
He did not have to wait for long. When the cold air touched his back, he turned around. A deep shadow thickened in the corner of the yurt. It grew before his eyes, spilling wide and black emptiness, absorbing everything around—a piece of the rug, a table, part of the walls. The icy wind breathed into Setog’s face, and out of the darkness stepped the Master.
Setog was pleased to see that this time, he came as a human. He did not know what the Master’s real face was, and every time he was about to see him, he stiffened, not knowing what to expect. Today he saw a tall old man, wrapped in a black cloak with a high collar. His face, with a flat nose and a wide thin mouth, was lifeless. From the right temple of the Master’s bald, skull-like head hung a lonely braid. Several sparkling gemstones decorated his short gray beard. His black, opaque eyes ran across the room, touched the rugs hanging on the walls, and fixed on the viceroy. Setog dropped to one knee and bowed.
“Setog,” said the Master resting his heavy hand on the viceroy’s head.
“We found her, my Lord.” Setog was looking at the Master with devotion.
He noticed the Master’s large pointed ears, pressed against his head, and for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps the Master created him in his own image. The thought made him happy.
“Would you like to see her, my Lord?”
“Later.” The Master crossed the room and sat in the chair. “I need to talk to you.” He gave a dismissive wave with his hand.
Setog settled himself cross-legged on the floor. For a long moment the Master stared at the flickering flame of the lamp. As a gust of wind shook the rugs on the walls, and the flame danced, the Master turned and looked at his servant.
“Setog, why do you serve me?”
The question took Setog by surprise, and for a moment he did not know what to say.
“Because I love you, my Lord.”
The old man leaned over, looked into his eyes and shook his head. “That is not true. You do not know what love is. You have only a dog’s devotion, but”—the Master sat back in his chair— “that is enough for me.” While Setog pondered over those words, the Master patted him on the head. “Do not worry. It is for the best. Love would bring you nothing but misery. Tell me, what do you want most of all in the world?”
“To serve you, my Lord.”
“And what would you do without me? If you were free?”
Setog hesitated. He knows everything, he thought.
“Then I would become the Master,” he confessed.
The Master nodded. “I had guessed at your secret desire a long time ago. But there can be only one Lord and there are two of us.”
“Forgive me, my Lord.” Setog bowed his head. “It was wrong of me to say such a thing.”
“You do not have to apologize. You served me well and I want to reward you.”
Setog pricked his ears. “My Lord! Your praise is the best reward for me!”
“Words …” The Master snickered. “Just empty sounds. You are worthy of a true reward!” He rose to his full height. “You will be a Master, but not here. I will send you to the Shadow world. There you will become the ruler and the Lord of the entire nation, and perhaps the entire world. It will depend on you whether the people worship you or another deity. Remember, the more they fear you, the stronger your power will be over them.”
At first, Setog did not know what to think. The dark rumors about the Shadow world were too unnerving and frightening to be a comfortable place even for a deity. Yet, what would be better: to be a god over there or stay a servant here? He hesitated just for a moment.
“Set,” he said. “They’ll call me Set, and I’ll be the ruler of the world!”
“So be it.” The Master nodded. “Now, the most important thing.”
From the folds of his cloak, he pulled out a small wooden box. Inside, wrapped in black velvet, lay a semi-transparent gemstone in the size and shape of a hen’s egg. It glowed and shimmered with different shades of green. A metal snake coiled around it; her eyes gleamed with ruby light. Inside the stone, a needle floated in thick heavy liquid.
“The Izmargahd!” whispered Setog. “The Egg of Life!”
He had heard about the legendary talisman but never thought he would see it with his own eyes. The talisman was the most sought-after treasure. People had dreamed about it and searched for it for hundreds of years. Some said the talisman could grant wishes; others cursed it, saying it carried the mark of forbidden magic.
Spellbound by its cool emerald shimmer, Setog reached out to touch it, but the Master stopped him.
“Oh, no! Do not touch it! It is very fragile.”
Setog looked up at the Master. “Fragile?”
“Like an egg. You will take it to the Shadow world. There the gemstone will become the hardest emerald in the world, the real indestructible Izmargahd.”
“I don’t understand,” Setog said, puzzled. “What should I do?”
“You do not have to do anything. Just keep it safe and cherish it. Your life depends on it.”
The Master paused, lowered his head, falling into deep thoughts.
“And mine, too,” he added under his breath.
♦
It was dark when the Master called for the aena. Setog hardly recognized in the young woman the terrified girl he saw several hours ago. Her white dress made her look like a noble bride of a wealthy family. She struggled against the guards as they tied her to a pole in the center of the yurt.
“I believe in you,” said the Master, finishing with his instructions. “I know you will be a great ruler. Farewell.”
Setog sat in a chair holding a small wooden box which grew heavier every minute. The viceroy’s ears flicked and trembled—he had never been so frightened.
“Will I see you someday, my Lord?” he asked.
“I hope not.” The Master pulled out a blade. “Do not be afraid. I will make it quick. We start with the aena. Her blood will help us.”
He turned to the girl. Her wide-open eyes froze in horror. When she saw the dagger, she jerked on the ropes and screamed. Setog closed his eyes and prepared to wait.
♦
The flame of torches flickered in the wind. It was well past midnight, but no one in the camp slept. The rumors of the Dark Lord’s arrival spread among the mercenaries, and everybody hoped he came to reward them for capturing the aena. They gathered around his tent only to find it surrounded by a tight ring of the viceroy’s personal guards. But it was not the guards who kept the mercenaries away from the yurt. Something terrible was happening inside. A deep, low voice muttered strange words that made everyone feel uneasy. As the flashes of bright blue light illuminated the tent, the snow around it melted and turned into muddy puddles. The tension filled the air when a terrible scream came from the yurt. The crowd fell silent. Some men grabbed at their swords, others stepped back, alarmed. A pale hand pushed the heavy curtain aside and the tall fearful figure of the Dark Lord stepped on the snow. The guards bowed their heads, and the mercenaries fell back—everybody knew of his terrible temper. When the yurt behind his back burst into bright flame, the crowd gasped, and the guards drew back, shielding their eyes. The howling fiery whirlwind circled the yurt, and the high flames rushed toward the dark sky. A roar came from inside, the earth trembled, and the yurt, engulfed in hot flame, crumbled. The wind drove the ashes, raising them in the air and spreading over the heads of petrified people.
“Setog … viceroy …” cried out voices.
The Dark Lord surveyed the crowd, raised his hand and announced in his loud and terrible voice:
“Setog is gone. The beast is dead.”

Chapter 1

Chapter 1. New Friend

This story began on a cool October day when the last of the gossamer webs still glittered in the sunshine and pumpkins on porches waited for evening to turn into Halloween jack-o’-lanterns. That day, eighth grader Nicholas Falconara promised himself he would never talk to anyone about his father again. He should have known that nothing good would come out of it. People might say whatever they want, but he would never let them make jokes about his family. But, as he discovered, winning a fight was easier than keeping his word.
He stood by his opened locker when his classmate Lisa Zubrowski came up to him.
“Hi. Have you had a fight again?”
Nick pretended he didn’t hear. He locked the door, threw his backpack on his shoulder, and they walked down the corridor.
“Any news from your dad?”
Lisa always wanted to know everything about his father’s expeditions. Of all the people Nick knew, she deserved it more than anybody else because you wouldn’t find a more enthusiastic supporter of the fairytale world theory, something that Nick had trouble believing in.
“I talked to him this morning,” Nick said. “The communication was bad. He said it’s hot out there and rain’s pouring like hell. It’ll take two days for them to reach the camp.”
“Wednesday then,” Lisa said. “And why on earth did he have to rush with his flight? I checked the weather before his departure—it’s going to rain all week.”
“Dad said Professor Sheldon found something they’d spent years looking for.”
Lisa stared at him. “What is it?” she whispered.
Nick shrugged. “I guess something so important that they didn’t want to discuss it over the phone.”
“Whatever they found,” she said, looking up into his face, “the most important thing is your dad returned to his research. Everything will be fine.”
They went out into the hall and stopped. Nick looked around for Jeremy Wootz. Jam, as his friends knew him, was late as usual. I should’ve come with dad, Nick thought, watching people bustled around the hall. As for the school—who cares? After all, he could do homeschooling.
Jam, dressed in his Hartland varsity uniform, appeared in the hall, followed by a new kid, fair-haired, wearing a light sports jacket.
“Nick! You won’t believe it! I found you a partner.”
With a sly smile, Jam jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Lisa’s glasses flashed as she scanned the newcomer. Nick did not have time to ask what exactly he needed a partner for because the kid pushed Jam aside, stepped forward and asked:
“Are you an Inter Milan fan?”
He pointed to Nick’s black-and-blue striped T-shirt with the Italian soccer club badge.
“Always was, always will be. Why?”
The kid’s face broke into a smile. He opened his jacket and showed his jersey. Nick recognized the black and red colors of the AC Milan soccer club.
“No kidding!” Nick said with delight. “So now there’s two of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Soccer fans. Two in the entire school.”
Although the clubs were fierce rivals, meeting another soccer fan here in Hartland was like meeting an old friend.
“Well, I guess in that case we need to stick together. My name’s Ethan Werner.”
They were in the same chemistry class and exchanged a few words during the break. At lunch, they discussed the latest world cup news and the chances of each team. By the end of the day, it seemed to Nick he had known Ethan for ages. And the fact that Ethan lived nearby and had been playing tennis for several years made things even better.
♦
Two days later they played their first match. Ethan played well, and his one-handed backhand was amazing.
“Wow!” Nick said with envy after they finished the game. “It’s been so long since I played a game like this one. With Jam, it’s mostly basic groundstrokes.”
Ethan stood in front of him, spinning the racket Federer-style.
“Didn’t you say you play with your dad?”
“We do,” Nick said, “when he has time.” His father loved tennis, but they did not play together as much as Nick wanted.
“My dad has a lot of time on his hands,” Ethan said. “But he doesn’t play tennis. He doesn’t even like to watch.”
“So what does he do?”
“He is the greatest grass fighter.”
“Grass fighter?” Nick asked, perplexed.
Ethan snorted.
“He fights with grass. He mows the lawn, sometimes on weekdays and always on weekends, holidays and vacations. Between mowing, he runs sprinklers to water the lawn and uses garden hose extensions to reach the brown patches that might appear around the edges. He dumps tons of fertilizers so that the grass grows faster, which means he has to mow it more often. On random days, he applies weed-killers, bug killers, everything-killers. From time to time, he runs a professional-size aerator.”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” Ethan said. “When you hear a pause of silence, you would think he’s done with the lawn for today. And the next second he starts up his goddamned gas-powered edger and goes around the sidewalk, along the driveway, around the house, deck and flower beds. In those rare days when everything possible is done to the grass, he changes the oil in the tractor and the mower, pulls them apart, cleans and lubricates them.”
“Why does he do that?” Nick asked, imagining for a moment the chain of labor-intensive activities that looked more like a dung beetle work.
“God knows.” Ethan sighed. “At first, I thought he was just killing the time. And now I understand he sees it as the only true meaning of his life. Just think! He’s a tax inspector, for god sake! I don’t even know what is worse, the grass or taxes.” He shook his head. “What about your dad? What does he do?”
Nick hesitated for a moment. “You could call him an archaeologist.”
“Sounds like you’re not sure.”
“Well, he works as a computer engineer. That’s what he does for a living. But his real passion is the archaeology. One particular branch of it.”
“Which is what?”
Although Ethan showed a genuine interest, Nick did not rush with his answers. Every time he talked about it, it looked as if he tried to offer a believable excuse or somehow justify his father’s obsession.
“Do you know how the archaeologists do their research?” he asked. “They use documents like ancient chronicles or records of medieval cities. After they read about an event they search for proof, which they call an artifact. If they find it, then the chronicle is reliable. That’s how they reconstruct past events. But there’s another form of archaeology. It’s called mythological archaeology. My father specializes in it. The M-archaeologists search for artifacts that are mentioned in legends, myths. In fairy tales,” he added and looked at Ethan, half-expecting him to laugh. Most people didn’t take his father’s obsession with fairy tales seriously. But Ethan did not laugh. He sat beside Nick and laid the tennis racket across his lap.
“Wait a minute. What does it mean?” he asked. “If these—what-do-you-call-them—logical archaeologists?”
“Mythological,” Nick corrected him automatically.
“Okay, mythological. If they discover something, say, an object from a fairy tale, then the fairy tale—”
He broke off and looked at Nick with the question in his eyes.
“Maybe not quite a fairy tale,” Nick finished for him. “Or not a fairy tale at all.”
“Wow! How come no one thought about this before?”
“Why no one? There were other people who searched for the artifacts.”
“Really? Did they find anything?”
“It’s a long story,” Nick said evasively.
He did not want to talk about it. The touchy subject caused frequent arguments between him and his dad. Basically, he was the one who argued. As for his dad, he only presented facts, leaving Nick to decide who was right. And that’s where the problem was. When his father told him about the acoustic oscillation generator—better known as the magic pipe of the Pied Piper of Hamelin—or a portable space-time device disguised as a pair of worn hunting boots—yes, the very same famous Seven-League ones—Nick just shrugged. He did not believe in nonsense like fairy tales. For Nick, all these ‘magic’ objects, or ‘artifacts’, as his dad called them, belonged to the same category as UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster, and the Tibetan yeti, all of which lost their appeal when he was in the third grade.
Take, for example, the gravitational narrow-band reflector known as a flying carpet. When his dad found it, he thought he made a discovery that would change everything. The problem was that the carpet simply refused to fly. Tattered and faded, it hung over the sofa in father’s study, as levitation resistant as a rock, living proof that magic does not exist. Nick thought that Dad was ready to admit defeat. He was wrong. What Nick saw as a failure, his father saw only as a temporary obstacle. One needs to know the spell, concluded his father. This carpet cannot fly without magic. The powerful convictions and boundless optimism were something that set him apart from other people. How else could you deal with a lifetime obsession when everyone else viewed it, at best, a waste of time, and at worst, a sign of quiet insanity?
♦
The next evening, Ethan visited Nick to watch the last year’s soccer match between Italy and France. An hour later, sweaty and hoarse from shouting, they moved into the kitchen. Nick pulled a pan out of the fridge and put it on the stove. Soon the delicious smell of garlic and basil filled the kitchen.
“Wow!” Ethan said, sniffing behind Nick’s back.
“Well, get ready. Mrs. Zubrowski cooks the world’s best Italian meatballs.”
“Lisa’s mom?” asked Ethan, surprised.
Nick nodded. He put the plates on the table and pulled out a bowl of lettuce from the fridge.
“So how often does she cook for you guys?” asked Ethan. He was sitting at the kitchen table, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
“For me,” Nick corrected. “Only when my dad leaves with the expedition. When he is at home, we cook together. We’re not as good at cooking as she is, but we have fun. Dad says that every man should learn to cook.”
“What about your mother? Does she like to cook?” A small, condescending smile appeared on his lips.
“My mother died in a plane crash, along with my sister, three years ago.”
The smile vanished from Ethan’s face.
“Oh. I’m sorry!” he said. “So, now you live with your father?”
Nick nodded.
After dinner, Nick showed Ethan his music room. He powered up his 500-watt Marshall amplifier, picked up his Gibson guitar and played a couple of songs by the popular band Electric Shock.
“Not bad,” Ethan said rather indifferently.
As it turned out, he was not interested in music at all but showed real enthusiasm when Nick took him upstairs to his father’s office. At the furthest corner of the room, by the window, stood a writing desk with a row of tall bookcases behind it. A dark leather sofa sat against the opposite wall with a shabby and worn tapestry hanging above it. Ancient maps, exotic masks, and framed photographs covered the walls. A photo of two young men standing side by side drew Ethan’s attention.
“Who are they?”
“On the left, wearing a hat and what it looks like a long skirt, is my father. And the other is his friend, a tourist from Austria. Back there, in Burma, dad saved his life that summer. That was before I was born.”
“Interesting,” Ethan muttered, examining the picture closely. He looked up at the colorful peacock tail hanging from the top of a bookshelf, walked around the floor-standing world globe and stopped in front of a portrait of a beautiful woman. “Is this your mother?”
Nick nodded. Ethan touched the wooden figurine of a leopard frozen in a jump. The black lacquer peeled off in places and a web of hairline cracks covered it from top to bottom.
“My father brought it from Zanzibar, where he was following the trail of the Maghreb sorcerer.”
Ethan turned to him. Nick smiled at the expression on his face.
“If you read Aladdin, you remember, there was a wizard who asked Aladdin to retrieve an oil lamp for him.”
“Aladdin’s wonderful lamp?” Ethan asked.
Nick enjoyed the effect of his words.
“Well, at that time it was just an old oil lamp.”
“An old oil lamp,” Ethan repeated with emphasis. “A lamp with a genie?” He laughed and threw up his hands. “I see that your father—” Nick stiffened expecting to hear a joke. “He’s a real archaeologist,” Ethan said, looking around. “So in school why the hell are they saying that—”
Nick waved. “Don’t listen to anyone. They know nothing.”
“I agree,” Ethan said. “So, where is your father now?”
“I wish I knew,” Nick said after a pause and sighed. “Somewhere in Cambodia.” He could not shake the uncomfortable feeling. His father should have reached the camp yesterday. Why isn’t he calling? Nick spun the globe, his gaze drifting over the oceans and continents as if in hope to find the answer.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2. Who Tricks the Tricksters?

The next day, when Lisa learned that there was no news from Nick’s father, she shook her head.
“It’s Friday already, and we still haven’t heard a word from him,” she said and frowned at Nick as if he was the one to be blamed for his father’s silence. “Maybe their generator broke or they are busy and just don’t have time.”
“I don’t know. I hope you’re right,” Nick said. His dad never went silent for so long. Lisa looked up into his eyes.
“Hey, cheer up.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget, today is Halloween. Listen—” She glanced around and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you have to invite Werner?”
“What do you have against him?” Nick asked. “He’s a cool guy.”
“Sure, he’s ‘cool,’” Lisa said with sarcasm. “He also likes soccer and plays tennis.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Lisa pursed her lips.
“Can’t you see? He’s fake! I don’t trust him.”
“C’mon, Lis. You met the guy five days ago. You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t want to know him at all!” she said, stamped her foot, turned, and marched down the hall.
Nick had known Lisa for a long time and such a reaction was unusual. He caught up with her at the classroom door.
“Lis, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing! Let me go.”
Nick pulled her aside. People were hurrying past by throwing curious glances at them. Oh, great! Rumors will fly around the school tomorrow.
“Let’s do this,” Nick said. “He’ll come today—and please don’t argue—I’ve already invited him. It would be too embarrassing to go back on that. But the next time you’ll decide who to invite.”
Lisa looked away, pretending to be pondering.
“C’mon, quit playing the time. We are running late.”
“OK. Let him come this time,” she said graciously. “I’ll bring a pumpkin pie.”
“Who baked it, you or your mom?”
Lisa eyed him with suspicion. “My mom, of course. Why? If you’d like me to bake a pie—”
“No,” Nick said quickly. “I meant to say you can try, but why take the risk? Your mother makes them pretty good.”
“Pretty good, eh?” Lisa repeated with emphasis. “Last year you weren’t so reserved in your judgment.”
“Okay. She makes them really delicious,” Nick said, and they laughed.
“At six then?” Lisa asked.
“At six.”
“You aren’t going to bring the mask from last year, are you? I still have nightmares about that freak.”
“That’s what a freak mask is for,” Nick said. “To turn your dreams into a nightmare. But don’t be afraid. Today, I’ll be a dullahan.”
“A what?”
Nick lowered his voice to imitate a TV commercial. “The headless rider on a black horse who carries his own head under his arm. Whoo.” He raised hands above his head, moved fingers and swayed in slow motion.
“Falconara! Stop fooling around.”
Mrs. Rosanna, their biology teacher, gave Nick a disapproving look as she passed by to the classroom. Lisa and Nick followed her.
♦
The best part of Halloween was trick-or-treating. There was a time when Nick, like all other kids, used to dress up in a costume and go door to door asking for candy. Two Halloweens ago when his father went on a business trip, Nick hatched up a better idea. He dressed up as a dead man and colored his face with face paint. Green smudges around his eyes made them look creepy. With the white blanket over his head and a flashlight illuminating his face from below, he greeted the guests.
When Lisa and Jam joined Nick last year, the Falconaras’ house gained popularity. This year Jam was an alien android. Dressed in all black, with plastic elbow and knee pads, wearing a helmet with flashing LEDs, and covered from head to toe in cables and tubes, he looked intimidating. On the other hand, Lisa looked totally harmless in her fluffy dress. Jam told her that her costume belonged to a fairy rather than a witch.
“You won’t scare anyone with this!” Jam argued. “Get yourself a broken nose or a hump. Everyone knows that a witch is a hag.”
“I’m not a hag. You can get a nose for yourself, but I like it this way,” Lisa said, spinning in front of a mirror and straightening her flowery dress.
In the evening Mrs. Zubrowski brought the pumpkin pie and apple cider. Before leaving, she reminded Lisa to be home at ten o’clock.
“Mom! Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Lisa pleaded.
“At ten,” Mrs. Zubrowski said with a tone of finality.
Ethan showed up without a costume. Lisa threw a meaningful look at Nick. He shrugged but decided not to say anything. Jam, however, could not resist.
“Ethan, where do you think you are? This isn’t math class. This is a Halloween party. Halloween, do you understand? What are you going to do without a costume or at least a mask?”
“Who said I don’t have a mask?” Ethan said.
He turned away, pulled several items out of his pockets and did something with his face. Then he wrapped himself in the sofa blanket and turned back.
Nick flinched.
“Wow!” Jam whispered.
Ethan had gone and instead they saw a dwarf wearing a cloak and a pointy hat. His cunning eyes watched them cautiously from behind a pair of the thick-rimmed glasses. When he shook his head angrily, the tip of his large rubber curved nose jumped up and down over the menacing bushy mustache that covered his upper lip. Now they all were ready.
♦
The first visitors appeared around six o’clock in the evening. They were the youngest kids who came with their parents, and Lisa handled them in her usual way. She babbled or murmured something that was supposed to sound like incantations, waved her magic wand and handed out candy. The boys, meanwhile, watched the old black-and-white Dracula, looking forward to nightfall.
When the first stars appeared in the violet-blue sky, the older kids from the neighborhood began circling around. Lisa had her observation post on the second floor in the loft and was quick to spot the next approaching group.
“They’re coming!” she announced and picking up her dress, hurried down the staircase into the lobby.
The fun began.
Jam, in a robotic voice, was demanding from the visitors an immediate surrender while a laser pointer attached to his helmet was shooting a red beam into the night sky. He reached out with his arm, his hand in a hockey glove equipped with blinking LEDs. A grumpy dwarf was peeking out from under his elbow insisting on selling to the visitors an outdated math textbook and becoming agitated and angry when people refused to buy anything from him. Wrapped in a bed sheet, Nick stood on a chair behind them, waving his arms and making sounds like an owl, and pretending he was about to fall out of the door on the heads of the guests. And if Jam’s glove suddenly buzzed, and the lights flashed, and if someone pushed Nick over and he actually fell out on the porch, everything would end up even better than planned.
After several successful pranks, Lisa called everyone to the table.
“Smells delicious,” Jam said, choosing a plate with the biggest piece of pie.
“Remember last year’s corn maze at the Apple Joe Farm?” Nick asked. “Their store smelt like this.” He took a bite of pie and sipped from a cup.
“Those were cinnamon roll smells,” Lisa explained. “My favorite.” She was an expert on rolls, as well as Danish, croissants, strudels, panettone and other delicious things. The watch on Nick’s wrist made a gentle sound and Lisa jumped in her seat.
“Your dad’s calling!”
Nick slipped from the chair and ran upstairs. “Don’t finish it without me!” he shouted over his shoulder.
♦
Communication was poor. Interference lines ran across the screen, his father’s face zoomed in and out, freezing up every other second.
“Hello, Nick.” The voice, though distorted with the background noise, was still recognizable. “How are you?”
“What happened?” Nick asked. “You haven’t called for a week!”
His father glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Nick. Are you alone?”
“We’re having a Halloween party. The guys are downstairs.”
“Halloween? Of course …” He rubbed his forehead, looking tired and somehow worried. “I need you to do one thing for me. There is a small mahogany box in the safe.”
“The one with the clay tablet with the Babylonian map on it?”
His father nodded. “Yes. Take the box and hide it elsewhere, the Zubrowski house, for example. And tell no one about this.”
“Dad?” Nick asked, more alarmed than puzzled. “What’s going on?”
“All I can tell you now is the tablet must not be found.”
Nick nodded.
“I almost forgot,” his father said. “I changed the safe code before I left. It’s your mom’s birthday and your—”
The image flickered and his father’s face froze, the connection broke down and the screen went black. Nick tried several times to call but to no avail. As he was leaving the room, he came face to face with Ethan.
“Got lost in the dark. Where’s the bathroom?”
“Downstairs near the kitchen. Or you can use this one at the end of the hall,” Nick pointed.
When he returned to the table, Lisa demanded a full report on Nick’s conversation with his father.
“There isn’t much to tell,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “He’s fine.”
“Fine?” Lisa asked. “Is that all you can say?”
A sudden rustle at the front door saved Nick from the further interrogation. They looked at each other in surprise.
“Did you lock the door?” Lisa asked.
“I did. And I turned off the lights on the porch,” Nick said.
“Then never mind. They should’ve known we don’t want any more visitors.”
They returned to their pies only to be interrupted by a new rasping noise.
“Persistence is a virtue,” Lisa quoted their history teacher’s favorite saying.
“Looks like late guests,” Jam said gleefully, rising from his chair. “Well, they asked for it. There’ll be no mercy.”
He put on his glove and adjusted the laser pointer on the helmet. Nick threw the bed sheet over his head.
“Don’t scare the kids. It’s late,” Lisa reminded them.
Nick grinned, walked to the door, opened it and froze. These were not kids. A tall figure wrapped in a dark ragged cloak floated a few inches above the ground. The deep shadow of the hood hid his face. Thick fog was swirling around his feet. A sudden gust of breeze swayed the figure from side to side, like a candle flame in a draft.
Nick swallowed.
“Er—can I help you?” he squeezed out the first thing that came to his mind.
The stranger did not say a word. His hand moving toward Nick froze. Nick looked closer and realized it was not a hand at all. He saw three quivering toes, with the middle being the longest. The fourth toe was facing backward and just like other three ended with a black two-inch curved talon. The gray wrinkled skin with bumps and hairs was not human. Like the foot of a bird, Nick thought. A really large bird. Tricking the tricksters, was his second immediate thought. Some parents had decided to get even with him. The next second he jumped when the figure stirred suddenly. A hiss came from under the hood. Nick leaned over to see the stranger’s face, but it was too dark, and the hood was too deep.
“Babylon,” the visitor said in a harsh voice. He moved his hideous hand toward Nick but stopped again as though he hit an invisible barrier.
“Wow!” Jam’s voice from behind Nick’s back. “A full-size, motion-activated Grim Reaper!” He stepped forward and stood at the doorway. “Resistance is futile. Surrender and your life will be spared.” He pointed his gloved hand toward the stranger. The Reaper cocked his head as though in amusement. Nick did not see his face, but he had a strong feeling that the Grim Reaper was looking at the glove. The flashing lights on the glove gave a short crackling sound, puffed in smoke and melted.
“What? What the hell?” Jam yelled, backing away and ripping the glove off his hand. He tripped over the edge of the carpet and came crashing on the floor, knocking down the console table. The glove flew off his hand and landed at the stranger’s feet.
“What’s going on?” Lisa stepped into the foyer, holding a cup of cider in one hand and a piece of pie in another.
“I can’t believe it! Short circuit!” Jam said, pointing to the smoking glove.
“Map,” the Grim Reaper demanded in an almost unintelligible voice, his hand reaching out.
He moved, trying to enter the house, but something was holding him back. The torn rags of his dirty cloak fluttered about him as though he was facing a strong wind. As he leaned forward, the folds of his ragged robe pulled back from his arms revealing slimy greenish skin, but no matter how hard he tried, an invisible barrier prevented him from taking a step forward. Violent convulsions shook his body. The hem of his robe caught fire. The Reaper made a choking sound and slowly raised his head. Nick looked into his face and froze with his mouth open.
“What are you waiting for?”
Lisa squeezed in front of Nick and with a wide swing, emptied her cup of apple cider into the fire. Thick steam rose from the Reaper. He cringed, shivered, and began to melt like a snowman in April. The flames disappeared. The Reaper’s outstretched, clawed hand scratched the air and twitched violently. Nick, Jam, and Lisa huddled on the doorstep, watching the Grim Reaper turn into a ghost, the street lights glimmering through his fading form. After a few seconds, it was all over. The Reaper was gone, leaving behind a wet, stinking spot with a few blotches of fog.
“What the hell just happened?” Jam whispered.
“Who was it?” Lisa asked. “What did he want?”
“Said something about Babylon,” Jam muttered, stepping carefully over the threshold and peering down the empty street.
“Babylon!” Nick gasped.
He spun around, dashed through the room and sped up the stairs two at a time. When he burst into the office, Ethan was standing by the open safe, holding the clay tablet. The open mahogany box lay at his feet.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “Let me go and everything will be fine.”
Nick lunged at him but Ethan leaped behind the table. Nick threw himself across his path, grabbed his leg and they crashed to the floor. Struggling, they rolled over and knocked down the globe. Ethan fought with his right hand, his left clutching the tablet. Nick tried to grab it, but at that moment Ethan gave him a terrible blow. For a split second, Nick lost orientation and loosened his grip. Ethan jumped to his feet and disappeared into the hallway.
“Stop him!” Nick shouted, scrambling to his feet.
He heard stamping feet followed by a scream. Something big crashed in the living room. Nick galloped down the stairs. Jam, face down, lay next to the giant overturned Moroccan amphora. He groaned and stirred, like a rhino stuck in a swamp. Lisa sat on the floor against the sofa, pinching her bleeding nose. She grimaced at Nick as he looked around.
“He’s gone,” she said grimly.
Rubbing his head, Jam crawled to the sofa and sunk down next to Lisa. Nick ran a towel in cold water and handed it to Lisa.
“Guess you don’t need a fake nose anymore,” Jam said, throwing a sideways glance at her.
“Thank you,” she said sarcastically and sniffed. “You’re lucky you didn’t put your nose out the door instead of your stupid glove.”
They laughed. Nick felt the bruise under his eye and looked at the amphora lying on its side.
“Sorry about the vase,” Jam said. “Your father won’t forgive me.”
“A couple of scratches are not the problem,” Lisa said. “What will he say about this?”
With her foot, she pushed the huge vessel. It rolled over. There, scattered in the rusty dust, lay tiny shattered pieces—all that was left of the Babylonian Map of the World.