This choice: Continue reading "The Mystery of the Wandering Wizard" • Go Back...Chapter #45"The Mystery of the Wandering Wizard" (2) by: Seuzz   Chapter Two
The Bad-Tempered Visitor
The boys argued all the way back to Olympia, and they argued all the way through it, for their house lay on the other side of town. Olympia had once been a thriving little city supported by mining and timber industries, but in recent decades the city had retreated into the shade of its former prosperity. But Frank and Joe lived with their adoptive father in a neat little bungalow in a part of Olympia that was still very tidy.
The hot words that passed between them ceased, though, when they pulled around the corner and saw an enormous Buick—as old and grey and weather-beaten as a battleship—parked in front of the house.
Joe groaned. "What's he doing here?"
Frank's mouth was also grim. "I didn't want to tell you."
Joe swung in surprise. "You knew?"
"It's why I suggested we take the bikes out for a spin. He's only supposed to be here for the afternoon. I thought maybe he'd come and go while we were out."
"Then let's go back out and try to find that guy."
"It was two of them, Joe. And we'd better go in. If Father Ed is still here, it's probably because he wants to see us."
"The desire is not reciprocated," Joe muttered. But he followed Frank into the front yard. They briefly greeted their pet mastiff, Galaxy, who wagged his tail and panted happily at them as they stowed their motorcycles and riding gear in the shed in the side yard.
Now disencumbered of a helmet, Joe's brilliant blonde hair shone in the summer sun; Frank's dark hair gleamed at its tips. Frank, being a year older than his fourteen-year-old brother, was an inch taller than Joe, and his physique was already filling out with strong muscles; he gave every sign of becoming a tall and powerful athlete when he attained his majority. Joe was also strong for his age, but he was a sprinter and runner when on his feet, and a fidgeter when forced to sit. Their faces as they mounted the steps displayed quite a lot of their native personalities: Frank's expression was hard-eyed and wary; Joe's eyes glinted with ill-suppressed mischief.
They went inside. "We're home," Joe hollered as he slammed the front door behind them.
A dour figure stepped out of the parlor and glared at them from behind thick, square-rimmed glasses that perched between a turtle-like nose and mouth and a thick mop of grey hair. Despite the summer warmth he wore a thin wind-breaker and a heavy polo shirt. In concession to the season, though, he also wore the ugliest pair of Bermuda shorts that Joe and Frank had ever seen. They dropped almost to his knees, which gleamed so palely they were almost blue. They stuck out like misshapen knobs over black, calf-hugging socks.
"Don't say anything, Joe," Frank muttered in an almost inaudible voice. But it was too late. Joe was already greeting Father Ed.
"Hi, padre," he said in a deceptively mild voice. "We weren't expecting to see you. Or your knees. Nice tan."
Father Ed's lips peeled back in a snarl. "Unlike some people," he said in his nasally, honking voice, "some of us have jobs that keep us inside during the summer!"
"Did you ever see direct sunlight even as a kid?" Joe asked in a faux-innocent tone. "I had the impression you were always inside practicing the violin."
Flames appeared in Father Ed's eyes. "Ha ha," he said mirthlessly. "Speaking of which, how are you keeping up on your fiddle lessons?"
"Just fine," Joe said. "See?" Frank cringed as Joe held up his hand, scraping his index finger along the side of his thumb.
"And what's that?" Father Ed growled. His lips twisted into a fierce frown.
"It's me accompanying your song of lament on the world's smallest violin."
Frank stepped back as Father Ed turned purple.
"Chuck!" the priest yelled at the top of his lungs.
"Joe!" a mildly reproving voice called from the kitchen.
"How come they always think it's me?" Joe yelled at the ceiling.
"Because it always is you!" Father Ed bellowed. "It always is and it always will be, this time and forevermore, amen alleluia!"
Frank fished a couple of bills from his pocket and handed them to an uncomprehending Joe. "Here you go," he said quietly, then turned to the enraged priest. "It's my fault, Father," he said. "I put him up to it."
Joe blinked, but his surprise at Frank's false confession was drowned by the gasp from Father Ed. It sounded like an industrial furnace sucking in an entire atmosphere of oxygen, and the boys could practically hear the roar of the fire in his chest. "Don't think I don't know what this is about, you wisenheimer!" he barked at Frank.
Joe raised his hand. "I'm the wisenheimer, padre. He's the sapientone. Deutsche e Italiano, remember?" he added, pointing to himself and then to Frank.
But Father Ed spared Joe only a brief but ferocious glance. "You and I will have words when we have our retreat next month," he growled at Frank, leaning in close. "Don't think we won't have words, young man! Don't think we won't!" He brushed past the brothers, to stomp out the door, slamming it behind him.
"That was brilliant, Joe," Frank said, and shoved his brother. "Thanks a lot."
"I had him all to myself until you decided to jump in," Joe retorted, and shoved him back.
The boys grabbed at and tussled hard with each other, but the fight lasted only a few seconds before they stepped apart, to bashfully turn toward the figure who had silently appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "I'm sorry, Dad," Joe said, and hung his head.
"What kept you boys?" Charles Brennan asked. "I've been trying to get rid of him for the last hour. The cavalry's never been this late before."
His tone was kindly, and there was a twinkle in his eye, but the boys knew that his manner masked a sense of disappointment in them.
"Is he really not coming back?" Joe carefully asked.
"No, he'll be back," their father said, and beckoned them into the kitchen. "There's business that needs discussing."
"Oh, so that's why he's upset," Frank said. His voice was hollow. "It's because we're so late. I'm sorry, Dad. It was my idea to try avoiding him. I didn't know he wanted to talk to us, so I tried to keep out of his way until he left."
Their father turned to look at them, and the twinkle in his eye deepened. "That was actually very considerate of you. If you explain to him that you were trying to keep your brother off him—" He winked at Joe, who blushed furiously. "I'm sure he'll instantly forgive you."
The boys sat at the dining table while their father finished the little bit of washing up he was occupied with. He was a small man, with patchy white whiskers and only a little bit of hair still on his pate, but his cheeks were ruddy and his limbs strong. In all the years they had spent under his roof, they had never heard him raise his voice. He didn't have to, not because they were so good, but because he had such a powerful air of authority that he only had to speak a word to make them settle down.
"What kind of business is he here on," Frank asked. He rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands. When Father Ed had business with the boys it usually wasn't good news.
"A case," said their father. He wiped his hands on a towel, then sat at the table with them.
Joe's eyes lit up even as Frank's face fell.
Their differing reactions weren't hard to understand once you knew about the boys and their family. Even though their father looked like a retired department store Santa Claus, he was actually the head of a powerful secret society dedicated to investigating and fighting all manner of occult phenomena. Few people knew of the existence of the Stellae Errantes, and those that did kept their mouths shut. But Joe and Frank were training to join it.
So Joe let out a soft "Whoop!" at the thought of a case; but Frank paled because he saw instantly how he and Joe had potentially messed things up. "Why does Father Ed want to discuss it with us present?" he asked guardedly, in case his deduction was wrong.
"Because he wants our help with it, obviously," Joe exclaimed. He too had made the same deduction, but unlike his brother he didn't care that he had offended the cleric.
"Possibly," their father said. "He did say that you boys might now be old enough to lend a hand, and that's why he thought you should be here to hear about it."
"And now we've messed it up," Frank groaned.
"You're always looking on the dark side of things, Frank. Dad makes these decisions." Joe's eyes glinted, for he was confident their father would brush aside Father Ed's hurt feelings.
He flinched, though, at his father's next words: "But I always take Father Ed's advice into account."
Joe returned Frank's dark, sidelong glance by sticking out his tongue at him. "Well, even if we don't wind up working on this new case, we've got one of our own, don't we, Frank?" he said.
"Oh? Did a neighbor lose his dog?" the father asked with faint sarcasm. He was usually quite serious, but he wasn't above teasing Joe when he thought the boy could use a good needling. "Unless it involves a flying carpet, I think you'll find Father Ed's story more interesting."
"Ours might involve a flying car," Joe quipped back. He briefly described their just-concluded adventure and the mystery of the disappearing car.
"We probably just lost him on a switchback," Frank said. "Can you give us a little background on what Father Ed is going to tell us?"
But their father leaned back with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Actually," he said, "your case sounds very interesting, and maybe you should pursue it. It's not every day that a car goes sailing off into the clouds and doesn't come down."  | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author