Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse (2 page)

She slid her fingers on the hard road, struggling to breathe, gripping the black rocks until they stained her fingers. As she lay there, she heard the woman give a small laugh, and saw her legs walking past—leaving her behind to die. The world darkened above Emry, a black cloud drowning out the moonlight like a sheet being pulled over her face. She had known it would end this way.

But at least Bran is safe.

Her eyes started to close as death embraced her. But in that final moment, her gaze fell across the street, and sitting there, hidden in a stack of crates, was a little girl.

The girl’s eyes were stained with tears, her face white and trembling.

She had seen it all.

And as the night of April eighteenth passed and the morning came to life, a boy named Bran awoke in the city of Dunce.

Part I

Chapter 1

Strange Happenings on Bolton Road

Eight Years Later

Hanging outside the gates of the city of Dunce was a sign that read:

no gnomes

no mages

etcetera

And if you didn’t agree, you had best like jail food. Every other city in the rest of the world allowed gnomes and magic, but for centuries the Duncelanders had proudly stayed the exception. Behind their border wall of brick, the police chief put officers on perpetual watch for any short gnomes wearing tall, conical red hats. Helicopters regularly patrolled the borders, and every good citizen was quick to report anything remotely magic, in case a mage was around. They had orders to report any etceteras as well, if they happened to see one.

Since few people came into Dunce, and even fewer left, rumors about the city grew every year. This notoriety gave birth to streets nearly as infamous—and Bolton Road seemed destined to be the most infamous of them all.

In the thirteenth house on the right side of that street, at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night, eight-year-old Balder Wilomas dashed into his parents’ bedroom, claiming he had heard a burglar struggling with the front door. Sewey Wilomas sent him right back to bed with no more scary movies for a week. Five minutes later, in came Baldretta, Balder’s threeyear-old sister, having heard someone at the door too. Sewey sent her back as well, with a bag of chocolates to munch until morning. All this was, of course, until
he
heard the noise a minute later and barreled downstairs, revolver in hand, only to find scratches on the door and some dirty tracks.

"Burglars…" he muttered. "And I’m plumb out of Burglar-Be-Gone spray too." He turned to the others, standing at the stairs. Mabel: his wife. Rosie Tuttle: Mabel’s cousin, who did the housework and cooking. Balder and Baldretta: his two children. And Bran—the Wilomas’ great Accident.

"He’ll be coming back," Sewey added. "And being a banker, I learned exactly what to do."

"Call the police?" Bran suggested.

"No scary movies for a week?" Balder mused.

"Mmbbl?" Baldretta managed to say, offering one of the few candies not stuffing her cheeks.

"No!" Sewey spat. "Bran and I are going to
catch
this burglar."

"I think I’d rather catch some sleep," Bran said with a yawn. But inside he felt that watching for a burglar was far better than just another boring evening—one of many he had spent since that fateful morning eight years before.

The Great and Glorious City Of Dunce, as was its official title, was like an overgrown blot on the map. It covered miles of suburban land so vast that many wondered if it was no longer a city, but rather a small state of its own. If Dunce was a blot on the map, then Bran was a blot on the city of Dunce—the Accident that shouldn’t have happened. As if to prove this time and again, there was a driftwood sign tacked next to the front door of the Wilomas’ red-brick, two-story house that read:

The Wilomas Family

Sewey

Mabel

Balder

Baldretta

But that was all. After eight years, Bran’s name was still nowhere to be found. Eight o’clock on Thursday night found Sewey and Bran on the roof of the house: Sewey with his revolver and Bran with a cigar box of bullets. The air was frigid, and the roof was so steep Bran had to hold to the chimney for balance. Sewey had thoughtfully brought up two pork and mustard sandwiches, in case he got hungry, and had quickly gobbled both down without offering Bran a bite.

One hour passed. Another hour passed. No burglar.

"Keep very quiet," Sewey warned around ten thirty. "I took Burglar Methodology and Tactics in banker school: he’ll be coming at precisely ten forty-five!"

Eleven eventually rolled about, and then eleven thirty. Sewey’s mood worsened. By midnight, he was so fed up that

he climbed down the ladder and returned with a briefcase of paperwork to go over.

"Cold, cold, cold!" Sewey shivered. "Am I the only one in town who cares about this burglar?"

"It’s past midnight." Bran yawned. "Maybe the burglar is where
we
should be:
in bed.
"

"Great rot, Bran," Sewey grumbled. "Every scarecrow who’s gotten past Basic Burglarology knows they’re
never
satisfied with scratching a door and leaving dirty tracks. Mark my words, he’s coming back tonight." He shifted. "Now hold that flashlight still; your shivering is making me write crooked."

For the hundredth time that night, Bran sighed and lifted his arm, which was falling asleep without him. To Bran, dirt on the ground and scratches on the door did not spell
burglar.

"Aha!" Sewey exclaimed, pushing against the chimney.

Sewey hardly ever smiled, and he hardly ever laughed either. More commonly he wore a frown resembling an upside-down banana plastered on his face. His hair and moustache were dark, and though he wasn’t fat, he had gained a little weight since he was younger, which perfectly complimented his balding scalp and general grumpiness.

"File this under Evictions," he muttered to Bran. "Old Widow Todilmay won’t get past
this
banker!"

Bran set it in the stack marked Evictions without a word. Bran himself wasn’t very tall, but he topped Sewey’s shoulders at fourteen years old, and had dark brown hair and eyes of the same color. There wasn’t much out of the ordinary about him. He was just plain, normal Bran. Except of course, for how he ended up on Bolton Road.

Helping Sewey with his paperwork was a constant, nagging reminder of the Accident, of the whispers Bran often overheard when Sewey called him to the bank for one chore or another:
"There we were, all closed up, the vault locked tight, the next day Sewey gets here early and checks the vault like always… and there he is. A six-year-old boy. Just sitting there in the middle of the floor. Nothing stolen, nothing even moved. And the worst part is the Finders Keepers Law regarding Orphans. That’s why Sewey calls it the Accident. According to the Laws of Dunce, because Sewey found the boy, Bran is his ‘forever or until the End of Time, whichever comes later…’"

The strangest part always came after.
"And the note,"
they would whisper.
"It was tight in the boy’s hand, and the only thing it said was ‘
Bran Hambric, born June 17. To: Clarence
’."

But no one knew more. Sometimes, in tones so hushed that Bran had to strain his ears, he often heard another word— never shared with Sewey, but offered as the only possible explanation.

"Magic."

"Pay attention!" Sewey snapped, breaking Bran out of his thoughts. Bran counted the papers in Evictions, but when he got to three hundred he decided to give up on the rest. They sat on the chimney beside other piles, some marked Overdue, others Dangerously Overdue, and still others Very Dangerously Overdue.

It wasn’t like Bran was the only strange thing that had happened on Bolton Road. Just that Tuesday, a dozen red roses had been delivered to their door, addressed to Rosie Tuttle, with strict instructions addressing them to Rosie and Rosie alone.

The card was signed with an enormous, swirling letter B, and the instant Rosie set eyes on it she tore it to pieces and threw it away, and would say nothing about it to anyone.

Instead of minding his own beeswax, Sewey Wilomas had decided to piece the torn shreds together like a puzzle with staples and sticky tape. When he finally got them in order, he caused such a terrible ruckus with every Bob, Binkey, and Balfred in town that the neighbors had called the police, who carted him off for a day’s worth of scrubbing the sewers. Unfortunately for Bran, community service hadn’t phased Sewey in the slightest.

"Overdue payment on the Bogwingle’s…" Sewey mumbled on, scribbling ONE DAY LATE in bright red.

"Another one for Evictions," he said, passing it to Bran.

"But it’s only a day late!" Bran protested.

"Do as you’re told!" Sewey snapped back at him.

Bran resisted the temptation to grumble and slid it into the stack, leveling the flashlight and trying to keep himself awake.

Suddenly, a noise brought his head back up. He glanced over his shoulder into the Wilomases’ backyard. Everything was still, except for that soft sound—like the rasping breath of someone being strangled.

"You know Bran, I’m some really good banker," Sewey said, stretching. "Always keeping these accounts in line, not to mention raising you after the Accident."

Bran sat frozen, listening, but the hiss faded into silence.

"It takes great skill to be a banker," Sewey went on as he stamped another paper. "But to be a banker
and
run a household?
That
is a miracle in itself—Oh, rot! I stamped the wrong one!" He wiped the ink with his hand, which only smeared the

words LATE CHARGE like tire tracks across the page. "Never mind—put it with the others."

Bran hesitated before taking the paper, and then heard the sound again—a rasp that sent a chill through him.

"Bran, stop shivering! You’re jarring the light again." Sewey elbowed his leg.

"Hold on, what’s that sound?" Bran asked, peering into the backyard.

"What sound?" Sewey demanded. "Come now, there’s no use letting your imagination get the best of you. Can’t you see it’s past midnight? Everyone who has half a brain is in bed by now."

Bran squinted into the darkness. There was a rustling, but it disappeared quickly.

"Bran!" Sewey demanded, louder. "Put this one in Evictions right now, before I evict you off this roof…
headfirst!
"

Bran finally set it in the stack, and the noise was gone. He told himself it was nothing to be afraid of. It could be squirrels, or raccoons, or…anything—there were plenty of sounds in the night. The wind blew the papers into his face again, brushing fear away as he fought them back into the pile. All of a sudden an idea popped into his head. He glanced at Sewey. It looked like the time was right. Sewey yawned deeply.

Perfect,
Bran thought, hiding a grin.

"Oh, would you look at this?" he announced abruptly, taking an eviction notice from the stack. Sewey ignored him and went on with his work.

"Old Widow Gray, set to be evicted three days from now," Bran added with a hint of sadness.

Sewey perked up, if only a little; but Bran saw his expression, and knew he was on the right track.

"Remember last year, when you were sick with the Shoebug virus?" Bran asked. "Widow Gray sent a card and even baked you a cake, all to yourself."

Sewey flashed a wry smirk, which he quickly stifled.
Not today,
Bran knew Sewey was thinking.
Won’t get the best of me on this one.

"And she even delivered eighteen rental videos to our door," Bran went on. "I can’t believe a nice old lady like her would get evicted."

"Hmmm…" Sewey said in a low, thoughtful voice. "I remember the cake."

"You were sick in bed for three weeks, and who came over to see you every single evening?" Bran went on, shuffling the papers in the air. "Widow Gray, wasn’t it?"

Sewey shook his head, but it was no use. The problem was that though his heart was fourteen sizes too small, it was still there, and it greatly got in the way of business when Bran poked it in just the right place.

"Oh, rot, just hand it here then!" Sewey burst, throwing his hand out. Bran had it ready and with one long, angry swipe, Sewey drew an enormous X over the entire page. He rolled it up into a ball and furiously tossed it over the rooftop.

"And look at this: Mr. Brooleybob, eviction set for next week," Bran continued, picking up a paper. "Remember when we all went to the Banker’s Banquet in Ellensburg, and you took a wrong turn and we ended up in the desert for three weeks?"

Sewey coughed.

"Which reminds me, remember when we almost got evicted because you spent the house money on Balder’s birthday?" Bran leaned a little closer to Sewey with another. "I think it was Mrs. Todilmay who loaned us the money with no interest. Because, of course, she knew that the bank
where you work
would evict us if—"

"Oh, rot, just hand me the whole stack then!" Sewey barked. He snatched the stack with both hands, and with a great heave, ripped every single eviction notice in two. Next came the Overdue, then the Dangerously Overdue, and finally the Very Dangerously Overdue—all torn and over the roof.

"Well then," Sewey growled when he finished. "Since I’ve just destroyed
all
the work I’ve done this
entire
night, I might as well sign off on my own resignation." He scowled at Bran. "Now for all the trouble you’ve caused, just sit over there,
in the dark!
" He grabbed the flashlight and waved the beam across the roof, toward the other edge.

Bran was about to protest but decided against it, sighing as he sat down next to the ladder. Sewey wasn’t far off, but the light was dim, and the night was very dark.

What a mess,
Bran thought, staring at the torn papers everywhere.
No doubt I’ll be the one who has to clean it—