How to Stop a Witch Page 6

  “Stop!”

  Greg continued pushing his walking stick through his practiced movements for several seconds before he realized the attacks had ceased. He spun the stick a final time and planted one end in the ground at his feet.

  His attackers pulled back to allow another boy to pass. This one stood smaller than any Greg had faced, but he walked with an air of confidence that worried Greg even more. His skin was dark but human looking, and he seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Nathan?”

  The boy stopped several feet away and eyed Greg, clearly confused but in no way intimidated. “Nate. Only my father calls me Nathan.”

  Greg exhaled shakily. Who’d have thought Nathan would have been just as confident as a boy as he was as an adult? Was it possible Nathan knew magic before he ever left for Myrth? Greg shuddered at the thought. Then he had an idea.

  “How is your father? I heard he was sick.”

  The length of turned wood Nathan carried might have once been a baseball bat, or it could have just as easily been a table leg, or a banister spindle. Whatever it was, Greg had an idea it would cause major damage to anything that got in its way. Nathan held it up much the way he’d raised his staff on hundreds of occasions as an adult. Greg gulped, remembering the man’s impossibly fluid skill.

  “What do you know of my father?”

  Greg didn’t know anything about Nathan’s father, except that the man had passed away just before Nathan came to Myrth. Still, he knew he better say something.

  “Just that he depends on you and probably wouldn’t want you fighting.”

  Nathan smiled. “Well, he can rest easy, because I won’t be fighting long.” And with that he lunged forward so quickly, Greg barely had time to duck.

  Nathan’s bat cut the air just above Greg’s head. Before Greg could even congratulate himself on his quick reflexes, a second blow came out of nowhere.

  He parried the swing and stabbed out with his stick, catching Nathan by surprise. Still, Nathan was a natural athlete even then. He dodged aside with nearly the same fluidity he would achieve in later years and launched a third attack, which Greg deflected just as skillfully.

  “Come on, Nate,” yelled one of the others. “Quit fooling around. Finish him off.”

  Nathan focused on Greg, searching for a weakness. Ironically, Greg followed the very advice his opponent would one day teach him. He took the moment to clear his mind, and his body naturally moved to sensen position.

  Nathan, if anyone, should have realized the significance of the stance. But instead of taking the moment to prepare himself, he struck. Greg read the blow and knocked it aside. At the same time his foot stabbed out and caught Nathan’s ankle. His mentor stumbled and fell, but then rolled back to his feet and struck out with his bat before he was even halfway up. Once again Greg met the blow and pushed it aside.

  Nathan’s confidence was shaken. His next attack was sloppy, more desperate. Greg easily stepped out of the way and reached in with his own stick, leveraging the wood from Nathan’s grip. The bat flew to one side, and a few of the other boys nearly knocked each other over scrambling to get out of the way. From all around him, Greg heard gasps. He waited to see what Nathan would do. It wasn’t what he expected.

  Nathan’s face broke into a wide grin. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Greg.”

  “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  Nathan looked nearly as surprised as he did when the weapon flew from his hands. “What teacher? Nobody knows how to fight like that but me and my dad.” He studied Greg’s face for a moment. “How come we’ve never seen you around before?”

  Because I just came here from another planet, Greg thought. “I’m not from around here,” he said instead, “and everybody there knows how to fight.”

  Nathan stepped forward and reached out a hand, causing Greg to flinch. His grin widened. “Relax,” he said, laughing. He put an arm around Greg’s shoulder and pulled him around to face some of his friends. They each stepped up in turn to shake Greg’s hand, and while they seemed much less threatening now than they had a moment ago, Greg still felt far from comfortable having them all within arm’s reach.

  “Now will you tell me how you know my father?” Nathan asked.

  Greg wondered how long everyone would stay friendly if he told them the truth. “Uh, I don’t really. I just know of him.”

  Nathan stooped to pick up his bat. “Well, I’m sure he’d like to meet you. There aren’t many kids around here who know chikan, and none who can beat me.”

  “None except Greg, you mean,” said one of the boys, but he shut up rather quickly when Nathan’s bat soared past his head.

  “It’s almost dinnertime,” said Nathan. “You should come eat with us. My dad and me, I mean. I was serious before. I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”

  “Sure,” said Greg. He needed to get Nathan alone so they could talk.

  Nathan said good-bye to his friends and led Greg away. Behind them a couple of boys began sparring with their crude weapons, mimicking the moves they’d seen Greg use, but Greg could tell they knew nothing of chikan.

  Nathan led him past two buildings, then turned and walked down a desolate alley. Greg became increasingly nervous, but he still had his stick. He felt confident he could defend himself if need be.

  Ahead, a large pile of bricks had spilled out onto the sidewalk. Nathan turned there and stepped through a hole in the wall, motioning for Greg to follow. The building they entered was little more than a shell. They passed through it and into another alley. A few hundred yards further, Nathan stopped and pulled back a weathered piece of plywood used to seal up a hole in yet another building. He stepped through the opening, and Greg followed.

  The plywood fell back into place, cutting off all light. Greg’s grip tightened on his stick.

  “This way,” said Nathan, and Greg felt a touch on his elbow.

  The area was deafeningly quiet. The two of them moved through the darkness to a stairway, up two flights, and into a hallway lit by a single window set in the far wall. Nathan knocked on one of the doors midway along the hall. Two quick taps, a slap, and another quick tap. In a few moments Greg heard the sound of a latch being drawn back.

  A second latch was pulled back, then a third. After five more, the door opened. Greg’s breath caught in his throat.

  The last thing he’d been expecting was for Nathaniel Caine’s face to poke out and greet him.

  Story Time

  It wasn’t quite Nathan’s face. The features were similar, but the eyes were more sunken, or maybe they just seemed that way because the skin was so sallow. At the moment the mouth was frowning.

  “There you are. I’ve been worried sick. Out fighting again, I suppose.”

  “Uh, no, Dad,” said Nate. “Just messing around. I found someone who knows chikan.”

  “Hah. I knew you were fighting.”

  Nate exchanged glances with Greg. “But he’s really good. His name’s Greg. Say hi, Greg.”

  “Uh, hi,” Greg said awkwardly.

  Nate’s father looked at him for the first time. “You sick, son? You look pale.”

  “Dad.”

  “Well, if he’s sick you’d want to know, right?”

  “He’s not sick.” Nate motioned Greg inside and closed the door.

  Mr. Caine hobbled across the room to a chair that looked like some sort of elaborate mousetrap. He started to say something but began coughing instead and couldn’t catch his breath for a long while. Finally he looked back to Greg through watery eyes.

  “Well, he sure looks sick. I haven’t seen skin that fair since . . . well, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen skin that fair. Maybe in Grandpa’s old photo album. People seemed a lot lighter-skinned in those days . . . then again, that may have just been the film.” He coughed once or twice more, then spoke in a strained voice. “Say, are you sure you’re not sick, son?”

  “Dad, he’s
not sick. I just told you he beat me at chikan.”

  “No, you said he knew chikan. You didn’t say nothing about him beating you.” He winked at Greg. “So you beat him, did you?”

  “I guess,” Greg muttered.

  “You should have seen him,” said Nate. “He fought Benny and Bobby Bristo, Danny, Sam, and Big Pete, all at the same time.”

  Nathan’s father regarded Greg with renewed respect. “Five at once? Impressive. So, where’d you learn the art, son? Your parents, I’d wager. They obviously have Earthen roots, no?”

  “Earthen roots?”

  “Dad has this crazy idea that only the Spectrals originated here,” said Nate.

  “You have ghosts here?”

  “Not specters. Spectrals . . . you know, every color of the spectrum. Say, where are you from, anyway?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Greg said.

  Mr. Caine’s head snapped toward Greg, and in spite of the deathly look about his face, his eyes flashed with excitement. “What do you mean?”

  Greg pretended not to hear. “You were saying something about spectral people?” he said to Nate.

  “Yeah. Dad thinks the Spectrals evolved here, but the Earthtones, as he calls people like us, originated on another world he calls Earth. Pretty crazy, huh?”

  Greg wasn’t sure how to respond. Nathan once told him that magicians from both this planet and his own were brought to Myrth to fight the Dragon Wars, and that some from Earth may have returned here instead of their own world. Calling them Earthtones didn’t make it any crazier.

  “I said, ‘Pretty crazy, huh?’”

  Greg realized he’d been daydreaming. “Who’s to say?”

  Nate scowled. “Don’t humor him,” he whispered.

  Mr. Caine took to coughing so hard, Greg wasn’t sure he’d ever regain his breath. “I knew it. You’re from Myrth, aren’t you?”

  Now it was Greg who started coughing.

  “What are you talking about, Dad?” said Nate.

  Mr. Caine pried himself from his chair and motioned the boys toward an old wooden table. “Come, sit. There’s much we must discuss.”

  “What’s going on, Dad?” said Nate, but Mr. Caine wouldn’t speak again until the two boys were seated and he’d poured himself a large cup of water from a chipped pitcher. His hands trembled so badly, water spilled over half the table, but he managed to drink a few drops and then offered some to Greg out of the same cup.

  “Er, no, thanks.”

  Mr. Caine took a second drink for himself, then set the cup back on the table with a clatter. “So, you are from Myrth then?”

  Greg wasn’t sure what to say. He wondered how long these two would wait if he said nothing at all.

  “Where’s Myrth?” Nate asked again.

  His father frowned. “You’d know if you ever listened when I’m talking.”

  “Dad.”

  “Myrth is a world of magic.”

  Nate laughed. “I think I’d have remembered that.”

  “I’ve never told you much about it because you always roll your eyes at me whenever I bring up your origins.”

  “But that was about Earth. I thought this time you said Myrth.”

  Mr. Caine shot Greg a see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with? look. He stifled another cough and poured himself a second cup of water.

  “Well, maybe next time I talk, you’ll listen.” He turned back to Greg. “You never answered me. You are from Myrth, right?”

  Greg debated ignoring the question again but guessed the man might notice. “I did come here from Myrth, yes.”

  Mr. Caine looked as if he might faint. Of course, he’d looked like that from the start.

  Nate regarded Greg doubtfully. “You’re from another world.”

  “Of course he’s from another world,” said Mr. Caine. “Just look at him.”

  “He looks normal to me.”

  “Ridiculous. Normal people can’t do magic.”

  Nate turned back to Greg. “You can do magic?”

  “He came here from another world, didn’t he?” said Mr. Caine.

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong,” said Greg. “I’m not a magician.”

  “You’re not?” said both Nate and his father. Greg couldn’t decide who sounded more disappointed.

  “If it makes you happy, I did get sent here by one. Actually, a whole group of them. And they’re going to bring me back soon.”

  “You’re kidding?” said Nate.

  “I knew it,” said Mr. Caine, banging his fist on the table. His cup bounced up and clinked into the pitcher, but didn’t topple over.

  “Why would a bunch of magicians send you here?” Nate asked.

  “Yes, tell us,” said Mr. Caine. “Did you do something bad? Were you exiled?”

  Greg started to answer, but then caught himself. Sure, this was why he had come here, but how much should he tell them? On Myrth, the adult Nathan was always saying how dangerous it was to know too much about the future. Greg needed time to think.

  “Sorry, I can’t say.”

  “Why not?” asked Nate.

  “Magicians,” his father said. “Terribly secretive lot.”

  “I’m not a magician,” Greg objected.

  “Wouldn’t know it to listen to you. I’ve been waiting all my life for proof that Myrth exists. Now here you are, and I can’t pry a word from you.”

  “Can you at least tell us something about it?” asked Nate.

  “Um . . .” said Greg. He at least had to tell Nate about the first two prophecies, or they might never come true—er, have come true—either way, he had to tell him.

  “We’ll give you dinner,” Mr. Caine bargained, and Greg’s expression must have changed, because the man banged the table again. “I knew it. Don’t tell me I don’t know how a young boy thinks.”

  Nate stood and walked to a counter in what might have passed for a kitchen. He removed a loaf of bread from a dented canister, returned to the table, and tore off one piece for Greg and another for his father.

  “Er, thanks,” said Greg. In his mind he ran through every moment he’d ever spent with Nathan. How much did the man already know about the future when he met Greg, and how much did he learn along the way? Well, he at least knew about the existence of the first two prophecies. Greg started out by telling them how he once set out to slay a dragon.

  Nate and his father listened with awe as Greg discussed meeting a strange man in white among the shifting pools of lava within the Molten Moor, but he made sure to mention being alone when he set out to confront Witch Hazel, remembering how Nathan had refused to step foot across Black Blood Creek.

  Soon he was describing how he and Lucky hauled a large sled up the winding tunnel through the Infinite Spire, and of his confrontation with the dragon, Ruuan. But he skipped the part about running into the Army of the Crown along the way. Nathan seemed just as surprised by that chance encounter as Greg was. Likewise he didn’t mention the bollywomp attack, or the stampeding falchions in Fey Field.

  “This is incredible,” said Nate. “You’re making it up.”

  “No,” said Greg, “I’m not.”

  “Of course he’s not,” said Mr. Caine. “You don’t lie to magicians.”

  “Dad, we’re not magicians,” said Nate.

  “No, but the people in Greg’s world are. You don’t just go breaking habits overnight.” He returned to coughing then, and Nate and Greg exchanged worried glances as he fought to catch his breath.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  “I’m fine,” Mr. Caine insisted. “Tell us more,” he said to Greg, his voice little more than a gasp.

  “Uh, okay.” Greg thought hard about how much advance knowledge Nathan had of the second prophecy. His memories were getting all mixed up. It seemed as if Nathan knew very little about Greg’s last trip to Myrth beyond the fact that Greg exchanged the key piece of the Amulet of Tehrer for the missing pieces of Ruuan’s amulet. But Greg wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t
help but worry as he relayed even this much.

  He made sure to hint that it wouldn’t take the witch long to restore the amulet, so Nathan would know to be there when they needed him, but he was careful not to mention a third prophecy at all. Unfortunately there was not much more he could reveal.

  Nate looked disappointed. “But you hardly told us anything about the battle.”

  “There’s not much to tell. We were surrounded by trolls, and a lot of good men died. I might have too, if not for my skill in chikan.”

  “Lucky you’re so good,” said Nate.

  “Not luck. I worked hard to learn.”

  Mr. Caine shot his son a look. “See?”

  “You could be just as good if you wanted,” Greg told Nate.

  “Who says I’m not?”

  Greg laughed. “I thought we settled that earlier.”

  “Who are you kidding, boy?” said Nate’s father. “You’ll never be as good as you could. All you’re interested in is the mechanics. You never listen when I tell you about the important things.”

  “Aw, Dad.”

  “No, he’s right,” Greg said.

  “What would you know about it?”

  “Chikan is more than just a way of fighting. It’s a whole way of thinking. True power can only come from inner peace.”

  “You sound like Dad.”

  “Oh, then you have heard me,” Mr. Caine said. He started wheezing again, and once again Greg was afraid he wouldn’t stop.

  “Maybe you should go to bed, Dad,” said Nate. “You don’t look so good.”

  Mr. Caine nodded but was unable to speak. He allowed the boys to guide him to a cot in one corner of the room. Nate draped a blanket over him while Greg adjusted the single pillow beneath his head. Then, as Greg started to draw away, Mr. Caine reached out and grabbed his hand.

  “Thanks for coming here,” he whispered. “About the chikan . . . I’ll try to tell him again. Maybe now that he’s met you, he’ll listen.”

  Greg wasn’t sure what to say. “Yes, you should do that. He needs to know about sensen and the meditation. I can’t tell you why, but it’s important.”

  Mr. Caine offered a faint smile and nodded as if he understood, even though there was no way he could. “I’ll teach him,” he said. “I promise.” He closed his eyes then and lay still, drawing breath in ragged gasps. Nate and Greg both stared at him worriedly. Finally Nate motioned for Greg to follow him to the door.