Irina Syromyatnikova - My Path to Magic

“I wonder which group he belongs to?” Rispin was thoughtful. “I had never met him before. I would like to have a better look at his zombie…”

“No problem, we’ll meet him in the office! Axel must be happy this time.”

Lieutenant Clarence decided to demonstrate his knowledge of the situation (he was tired of the boorish guests, treating him as a speechless vegetable). “He’s from Redstone.”

Gorchik turned to him, surprised, as if a zucchini had started speaking. “What does Redstone have to do with us?”

“He came from Redstone,” the lieutenant explained patiently, already regretting that he had gotten into the conversation.

“What the hell did he do there?” Rispin wondered.

“I do not know,” the white tried to look independent, “but his traveling document was issued by Redstone’s division.”

For some time they stayed silent.

“Why was he sent in?” Gorchik cautiously clarified.

“To study the work of educational institutions. I’m not kidding! It said so in his papers.”

Lieutenant Clarence could not decipher the expression that showed up on the faces of the combat mages.

“Hmm,” Rispin summed up, “we won’t get our bonuses again.”

“Why? Witch’s baldness has been cleaned out well!” Gorchik got angry, but his colleague looked askance at him with compassion, and the former was forced to face the truth. “Well, at least the boss will not beat us this time.”

Lieutenant Clarence tried to keep a straight face and vowed to himself never to deal with that nutty company again. Let them do with each other what they wanted!

The monotonous rumble of wheels continued day and night—the transcontinental express barely made any stops. The conductor was perfectly polite and attentive after realizing his mistake. I flipped the pages of the deceased artisan’s notebooks, which Fox did not want to leave to NZAMIPS for some reason, and I tried to sort out my feelings.

My soul was dull, as if something had been stolen from me, but I could not understand what exactly. Amidst the pages of the notebooks, the last record in which was made twenty years ago, I discovered a large yellowed photograph. The age-faded picture rescued images of people posing on the background of a strange pedestal. A photographer must have captured the graduation moment of some educational institution: three teachers and eight students. Fox, young and cheerful, in a light coat with a handkerchief in the upper pocket, sat first to the left of the teachers. Behind the backs of those in the front row, a girl and boy were hugging; the boy’s face was carefully painted out. He wore a stylish black suit, and the girl looked vaguely familiar; the note on the reverse side read: Millicent MakKoran. It was my mother. Joe was not in the picture.

I couldn’t ignore so many oddities.

I thought if the artisan had told me anything, I would have not believed a word from him. But now I needed to know who my father was and how he died. Why had mother run with me into the backwoods? What was Uncle Gordon silent about, and what was that moronic book about, over which he was killed?

Outside the window rain transformed into wet snow—I was returning to Redstone.

Copyright © 2013 by Irina Lobatcheva, Vladislav Lobatchev.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publishers, except in the event of brief quotations.