Josh and the Magic Vial (3 page)

“Jeez!” he croaked, gagging on the mingled smells of dust, engine oil, and decay. “What a dump!”

He was about to turn and leave, when a scratchy, old voice startled him from behind. “Can I help you, young man?” Lil cawed.

Josh spun round. She had been watching him from her perch behind a display case at the front of the store. Lil was a wizened old crow, hunched with age. Her gray hair hung down in cords. Her crooked old nose almost touched her chin. She sized him up with greedy, dark eyes.

“N-no,” he said. “Wrong store. I'll just be on my way.”

“You seemed interested in the drawings.” She jerked her head in the direction of the display window.

“Yes, uhm, very interesting, but I can't afford one right now.”

“They're not for sale, so you needn't worry.” Lil chuckled. “They are the work of one of my students. I like to show off their accomplishments.”

“Yes, very nice. The technique needs a little work, but . . . ”

Lil hooted. “You don't imagine I'm a teacher of art, do you?” she wheezed, shaking her head. “No, no. Why would I waste my time dabbling with paints and brushes, when I can create absolutely splendid illusions with this?” She held up a gnarled stick he supposed was a wand. “The student I speak of was attempting to recreate his vision of the underworld, but you can't set down a vision on paper, can you?”

“A good artist can,” Josh argued.

“And are you a good artist?”

He rummaged through his backpack and pulled out his sketchpad. Lil looked at the drawings, but seemed more interested in him. Her rheumy eyes kept straying from the pages to his face. Whenever he caught her staring, she offered a sweet, repulsive smile.

“They're very good,” she allowed. “But what land is this, and who are these people?”

“It's the realm of King Carak in the Valley of Hador. This is Gorp the Hurler, that's Hazard, and that's Prince Boniface.”

“Never heard of any of them.”

“Well, no one has, really,” Josh explained. “But they
will
be famous some day.”

“You mean you've made this up?”

“Yes. It's fantasy.”

Lil gazed upon him thoughtfully. “Did you ever think your imaginary realm might be real in some sense?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, this make-believe of yours might be the shadows of a real kingdom that exists in another dimension. Perhaps you have a vague memory of such a place. Maybe your art is a way of seeking.”

Josh laughed nervously, and stuffed his sketchpad back in his pack.

“You came in here to ask me something, didn't you?”

He edged toward the door.

“Something about the drawings, eh?”

“I've got to be going,” Josh said.

She fixed him with a paralyzing gaze. He had to break free. Straining against her, he twisted the doorknob and tumbled out into the street.

“We will meet again, my friend,” her voice trailed after him.

Josh banged the door shut. He sucked in a breath of fresh air. “Not if I can help it you crazy old bird!” he gasped, jumping onto his skateboard and pushing off.

Clack-clack, clack-clack. He was glad to put some distance between himself and Lil's Emporium. If he had looked over his shoulder, though, he would have spotted a slight, ragged figure loping along behind him. It skimmed close to parked cars and vacant doorways, never more than an instant away from hiding. Its baggy army fatigues and gray T-shirt blended with the drab surroundings. A black baseball cap hooded its eyes.

3

I
an Lytle couldn't believe his luck. The skater never looked back once.

“Goof,” he snorted.

A guy should always be on the lookout. Even in nice, upscale neighbourhoods like Kerrisdale and Shaughnessey there were creeps around.

He followed Josh to Rogers Park, waiting for an opening. His quarry crossed the field and climbed halfway up the slope toward Sixth Avenue, then sat down and pulled what looked like a notebook out of his pack. For half an hour or so he scribbled away, deep in thought. Ian watched and waited. “Come on,” he grumbled from his hideaway behind a cedar hedge next to the park attendant's bungalow. “I ain't got all day.” But the kid wasn't in any hurry. He doodled, then thought, then doodled some more. At last he shoved his stuff into his pack. “Good,” Ian muttered. All he wanted was to follow the kid home and report back to Endorathlil. If the kid looked away for a second and left his pack unattended, Ian would go for it; if the mark didn't get too careless, well, tough luck to the old hag. Just so long as he could get this job over with.

But still the kid didn't leave. Instead, he lay back against the slope, hands locked under his head, watching the clouds drift by. “Rich kids!” Ian snorted. “They've got more time than sense.” He watched and waited. Then came his chance. First the kid's eyes fluttered shut, then his limbs relaxed, and finally his head lolled to the side. He'd fallen asleep. “The old bat must have put a spell on the guy,” Ian chuckled. “How else could you explain that kind of luck?”

He waited a few minutes, then moved into the open, jogging across the field. His plan was simple: if the kid showed signs of waking, Ian would simply walk on by; if the kid really was asleep, well, his stuff was there for the taking.

Why Endorathlil wanted this guy's stuff Ian couldn't guess, but want it she did. She'd signalled him with a glance even before the kid left the shop. Then she'd barked out her instructions as soon as the skater had gone. “Follow him,” she'd commanded. “Steal his things.” Ian knew better than to buck an order from Endorathlil when she was in one of her moods — if she didn't get you, Conky would.

As always, his heart thumped and his ears rang as he approached his quarry. The kid was sleeping soundly, twitching like a dreaming dog. Ian smiled, hoisting the backpack . . . the sound of a car cruising along Sixth Avenue caught his attention. He could see it out of the corner of his eye.

“Jeez!” Ian cursed. Cops.

Without a catch he transformed the act of lifting the backpack, into a show of putting it down, turning, and squatting on the grass next to his new pal. Ian pretended to be talking to his slumbering mate as the ghost car glided past. He mouthed words silently, shrugged and gestured, even tilted his head back and pantomimed laughter as the car turned down Ontario Street, then right onto Seventh and out of sight.

Still Ian didn't make his move, thinking they might double back.

While he waited, he watched the kid. He didn't want to steal from him, didn't want to steal from anybody, really. But you did what you had to. In the best of all possible worlds, he'd have a well-to-do mum and dad; his sister Adele wouldn't have to grow up in a neighbourhood like this; he wouldn't have to be in cahoots with the likes of Conky McDougal. But the best-of-all-possible-worlds was not an option for Ian Lytle.
This
world was his reality, and in
this
world the rules were simple: take what you can, when you can, and don't piss off Conky or Endorathlil.

Certain the cops had gone, Ian stood up calmly, lifted the backpack, and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed the skateboard, too, then walked away. Mission accomplished. “Sweet dreams, sucker.”

4

G
orp the Hurler had killed so many orcs his arms were tired. But the Valley of Hador still crawled with them.

“They must be breeding like maggots!” Gorp bellowed, loading another stone into his sling.

That's what made orcs such formidable enemies — not their skill in battle, but their ability to swarm. Poorly armed and worse trained, their strategy was to send wave after wave into the fray, until the enemy was exhausted with killing.

Thunk! Gorp nailed one on the side of the head, cracking its skull like a walnut. The orcs nearby squealed and fought amongst themselves to get away before the sling regained its lethal momentum. “Come on! Who's next?” Gorp bellowed.

Then something unexpected happened. The orcs that had been fleeing wheeled suddenly, like a flock of starlings. They collided with another mob and a wild melee erupted, orcs slashing and hacking at each other furiously.

Josh followed the terrified glance of one of them into the sky and gasped.

“Gorp! Watch out!” he yelled, pointing.

What had frightened the orcs was a gigantic creature — half bird, half man — that hovered above the Valley of Hador like a hawk over a freshly mown field. The valley throbbed to the beat of its huge, leather wings.

“What in God's name is that?” the hurler shouted, turning to face this new enemy. “Who and what are you?” he challenged.

The creature grinned. “Who I am, you shall never know,” it said. “What I am, you are about to learn.”

“Well, well,” Gorp mocked. “Whoever you are, you're a mighty wielder of words.”

Amused, the birdman raised its eyebrows and smiled malignantly. “I like a man who knows how to die,” it said disdainfully. “It makes these little skirmishes somewhat entertaining.”

That said, it drew a broadsword from the scabbard strapped to its back and dove.

Gorp redoubled the speed of his whirling sling. All his training and experience told him to stand his ground, wait until the last possible moment, and then fire.

No human could have dodged the jagged stone Gorp hurled at his winged assailant. But the birdman did not even bother to raise his shield, shattering the stone instead with a lightening stroke of his sword, then delivering a savage backhand stroke as he swooped past.

“Ow!” Gorp thundered, a red gash opening on his shoulder. He staggered backward, almost toppling. Instinctively, he regained his footing, drew his own sword, and spun round to confront his assailant, who would surely close for the kill.

“I trust you will remember me if you survive the joust,” the birdman mocked, waiting for Gorp to recover. “The scar will help, should memory fail.”

“Have at me, ya great reptilian bag of arrogance!” Gorp frothed. “Have at me, you ugly, flapping bat!”

The creature laughed, booming gales of laughter that shook the entire field, as if the very belly of the earth were quaking. “I do not want to kill you,” it guffawed, “but if you insist . . . ”

“Then why
are
you here, if not to fight alongside the filthy spawn who would pollute the land of good King Carak with stinking tyranny? Have at me! I'd rather die fighting against the likes of you, than live under your evil rule.”

“How noble,” the birdman yawned. “Too bad the victor gets to write the official history.”

“Gorp! No!” Josh yelled.

“You should listen to him,” the creature suggested. “He knows why I am here.”

The slinger turned his sweaty, blood smeared brow toward Josh. “What do you know of this creature?” he demanded.

“I'm not sure,” Josh quavered, uncomfortable under his comrade's fierce gaze, “but I think he's come for me.”

“And you wish to go with it?”

“N-no.”

“You've been enchanted, boy,” the hurler decided. “Get away from here while you're still capable of sound judgment. Away!”

Then he turned his face to the enemy. “You'll not have him!” he shouted.

The birdman made a show of yawning once again. “You might have put a bit more thought into your last words,” it mocked. “‘You'll not have him' is hardly a ringing epithet.”

“My meaning's clear enough.”

“Aye,” the birdman loured, “and I suppose it doesn't much matter how you phrase it. Are you ready to die?”

“No!” Josh hollered. “You cannot fight this thing.”

The slinger stood firm, though. He crouched on the balls of his feet, his sword held high. The birdman shuddered, then dove again. Gorp swung hard and missed, the fury of his stroke carrying him forward so that his flank was exposed. The birdman deftly plunged his sword into Gorp's side, then veered away, easily avoiding Gorp's parry.

“No!” Josh screamed, his cry echoing over the Valley of Hador. “No,” he sobbed.

And that's how Josh awoke, shaken and grieving on the grassy berm that slopes into Rogers Park. Stunned, he could not move for several minutes. Gorp dead? Josh could not believe it. If only he could sleep again, and dream a different ending. He couldn't, though. Ever since he'd started drawing Gorp and King Carak's army, he'd been true to his vision, and he must draw this doleful scene, too. He had to get home.

It was then Josh realized something else had gone wrong, this time in his waking world. His backpack and skateboard were gone. “You lowdown, thieving rat,” he yelled at the surrounding buildings. “You dirty, rotten scumbag!”

They remained impassive, as if they'd heard it all before, and didn't care to get involved. Dejected, Josh trudged up the embankment and headed home.

5

E
ndorathlil pawed through the contents of Josh's backpack while Conky and Ian looked on. “Good,” she croaked. “Excellent!” She pulled out a blue jacket and sniffed at it, the way a bloodhound might sniff an article of clothing to get its scent; she rifled through the pages of Josh's sketchbook, her hands shaking with excitement.

“And his address?” she demanded suddenly.

“He lives in one of those big old houses up on Tenth Avenue. He's a rich kid,” Ian reported.

“Hah!” Endorathlil snorted, flipping to the front of the sketchbook. “Our candidate's name is Josh Dempster,” she announced, pointing at a block of letters written inside. “As you've said, he lives on Tenth Avenue, and here's his phone number, too.”

“Candidate?” Ian wondered.

Endorathlil fixed him with a hard, suspicious look. “You mind your own business, and do what you're told,” she warned.

“Yeah!” Conky seconded, cuffing Ian on the back of the head.