This choice: Show the book to your dad again • Go Back...Chapter #5Father Knows Best by: Nostrum   You're late getting home for supper, and your dad raises his eyebrows when you explain that you were up at the university library doing research. "On what?"
"Um, kind of a chemistry thing."
"You're not taking Chemistry."
"But you did," you blurt out.
Your dad looks amused. "Yes." Then his eyes narrow. "Why the sudden interest on your part?"
You hesitate, then plunge in. "Remember that book I showed you, the one we couldn't get to open? Well..."
--
Your father chastised you when you explained how you got the next page to turn ("You could have gotten an infection!"), but he's as curious as you were, and together in his office you study the block of Latin you've uncovered. "So," he says, "you have any idea what it says?"
"Sorta." You point. "This is a list of ingredients. And the next paragraphs tell how to mix them up."
"What kind of ingredients?"
"Um...quicklime, some ice cubes..."
Your dad snickers. "Sounds innocuous enough."
"Except you have to set the stuff on fire. And there's something with a mirror too."
Your dad grunts. "Sounds more like an arts & crafts activity. Or—" He cocks his head. "Could be an old alchemical formula."
"Alchemy?" Your heart beats with excitement. "Like magic?"
Your dad gives you a look. "There's no such thing as magic. But this is interesting." His expression turns thoughtful. You find yourself holding your breath.
"Tell you what," he says. "Make me up a shopping list of the stuff it needs, and you and I will try it out to see what happens. Tomorrow evening, after supper, in the garage.”
Wow! You feel your face brightening.
But then he tells you what he wants in return.
--
"WHAT!?" Caleb explodes when you tell him at lunch the next day. "The fuck?"
"I needed an advance on my allowance, and this was the only way he'd give it to me! It's not like I'm happy either! He's even making me get a haircut", you groan. That was like the final insult, for you've just now got your hair to the perfect length; sporty and messy and devil-may-care as it sprouts in stiff tufts from under your cap.
Caleb shoves you. "Man. Opportunity of a lifetime, wasted on a cocksucker like you."
"That doesn't mean I'll get the job."
"It's at your dad's work! Of course you will!"
"Chance of a lifetime...", Caleb mutters. "Like, do you even know what you're going to do when you graduate?"
"I don't plan on working there, I'll tell you that much! But tell you what I can do", you exclaim with a sudden thought. "After I'm done working there, you know, after I've done enough to make my dad happy, I'll recommend you as my replacement. How's that? Deal?"
Caleb glowers. But he takes your outstretched hand and shakes on it.
But peace and friendship aren't entirely restored between you. Caleb has been your best friend since third grade, and you can always tell his moods. And you can tell he is still disappointed at your betrayal at taking from him the job he so badly wanted for himself, and which you had promised to help him get.
--
Supper is pleasant for once, and there's almost a conspiratorial air between you and your dad as you eat. Neither of you mentions aloud the project that you're working on, but you don't have to. The twinkles that pass between you are talk enough.
Even better, he blocks your little brother from following when he gestures you out to the garage with him.
He insists on handling the ingredients as you, with smudged and partial notes on the process, supervise. They don't seem very dangerous, and there's a very skeptical expression on your dad's face as he mixes them in the metal bowl called for by the experiment.
But as he sets the bowl onto the symbol inscribed on the page of the open book, it starts to pop and bubble. He pushes you back. "Stand clear," he says, and adjusts his safety glasses.
Clearly he's worried it will explode. But neither of you are prepared for the awful, acrid stench that rolls out of the bowl and fills the garage. Fortunately, the door is up, and your dad turns a large fan onto the bowl, dissipating the odor into the night. "So, what next?" he asks.
You study your notes, then flip forward to tear a sheet of paper from your notebook. There's an elaborate design drawn on it – intricate symbols inscribed along the rims of wheels, themselves inscribed with symbols and enclosing and enclosed by still more wheels. It's a copy of the one used by the spell, and you lay it flat on the work table.
"It says we have to use this thing," you explain. "I traced it out of the book this afternoon, after school, so we wouldn't spill anything on the book."
"Good thinking," your dad says. Then he adds, "You still have homework to do?"
"Uh ... Yeah. But not a lot."
"Mmm. Okay, so now what?"
Under your direction, he sets the convex mirror atop the traced symbol and pours the liquid solution over it. The stuff hardens almost instantly. Your dad whistles. "Interesting reaction." He takes the lighter you extend him and puts the flame to the shell. A pale blue flame envelops the hemisphere.
"Amazing", your dad muses as you watch the dancing flames. "But makes sense. Use fire to remove the volatile element faster." He continues in the vein, speculating to himself on how and why the elements are behaving as they are. You can't follow his thought, but you can tell that even he is mystified by it all. He does allow, with a twinkle in his eye, that the experiment is "fun."
It's fifteen minutes before the fire burns out, and you leave it alone for five more minutes, in case the component is still hot. The mixture has turned into a solid white, almost bone-like, color; it feels like smooth stone, or maybe even like a pearl, when you finally touch it. It is also cool. Your dad stops you from picking it up though. That job he saves for himself.
As he lifts the shell from the mirror, he jerks in surprise and almost drops it. You catch the mirror as it flies away. When you look up, your dad is studying the shell with an expression of astonishment.
It is no longer a hollow hemisphere, but a concave oval. And the curve has acquired bumps, ridges, and depressions. As your father lifts it to examine it, he murmurs aloud the same thought you have: "It looks like a mask."
That it does. The ridges and bumps form a brow line, cheekbones, a nose, and lips. The depressions form eyes. It resembles nothing so much a classic tragedian's mask, only this one has no expression at all.
Your dad rubs it, and examines the fine coat of dust that comes off onto his fingertips. "Fascinating," he says.
"So? What's the verdict?"
He plays with it, tries bending and flexing it, turns it over and over. He stares hard at it, and glances back at the pile of ingredients that went into making it. "I don't know," he finally confesses. It might be the first time he's ever admitted to something like that in your presence.
"Is it magic?" you ask.
And this time he doesn't sneer or snort. "If it is," he says, "it's the most amazing parlor trick I've ever seen."
He jerks again when the door into the laundry room opens and your mother looks out. "Harris," she calls, "can I get your help in here?"
"Sure thing, hon."
"What are you doing out here?" She comes out and looks around with a frown. "What's that smell!?"
"We're just cleaning up from a little science project. Be with you in a minute."
"I need you like thirty seconds ago."
"Alright, I'm coming."
He pushes the mask into your hands and fetches a clear plastic bin and a permanent magic marker, using it to label the bin's side: Will's weird arts & crafts mix. "Pack up and clean up, okay?" he tells you. "Oh, and Will," he says from the doorway, "thanks for showing that to me. It was fun. Wasn't it?"
"Uh ... Yeah," you agree. He smiles and you smile back.
It feels good, getting his approval that way. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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