The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [17]
Alan’s mind struggled to interpret the faint sounds he heard. Was that scratch on the cobblestones a random passerby, or Ian Charterhouse setting his rucksack down by the doorstep? Was the rattle of keys his father’s, or his neighbors? The thumping footsteps upstairs, were they just his great-uncle Malcolm stomping around?
It was a certain fact of his life, Alan knew, that the second he came up with a dream like this one, one in which someone went to the trouble to surprise him, it would almost certainly not ever happen. He recalled vividly the three years between seven and ten in which he desperately wished for a surprise birthday party, only to realize himself disappointed the second he thought of it. How do I know something amazing won’t happen? Alan though, as he tried to get his mind back into the work. Because I want it to.
“Alan!” Uncle Malcolm’s voice startled him, and young Alan Charterhouse nearly spilled his ink. This would have been disastrous; Mapmaker’s Ink contained large amounts of nitric fluxate-23, a compound made from volatile flux, and could be extremely dangerous. “Alan, come up here, boy! There’s someone to see you.”
Alan’s heart skipped a beat. No. Don’t think about it. It isn’t dad. And if it is, you want to be surprised. Don’t think it. Alan forced himself to be calm as he stoppered his ink bottle and neatly stacked up his tools and pen. Be surprised. Don’t think about it.
He tried harder to remain calm as he climbed the steps to the parlor, but found the urge to hurry irresistible, and after a moment he took them three at a time. “Alan!” His uncle shouted again.
Uncle Malcolm was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He was actually Alan’s father’s uncle, and probably at least seventy years old. He had been a big man once, and still had a barrel-chest, though his arms and legs and become spindly. A fringe of white hair grew in tufts around his head, and generally got less attention than the huge moustache that covered most of the lower half of his face. Malcolm had slowly been moving out of touch with reality as the years went by. He wore his dressing gown and slippers all day, every day, and never left the house.
Like most people that worked with Mapmaker’s Ink, Malcolm’s fingers had succumbed to flux-induced necrosis. They’d been removed and replaced with mechanical brass fingers that looked like metal skeleton hands held together with brackets and wire. They clicked and scraped as Malcolm flexed his hands impatiently.
“In the parlor,” Uncle Malcolm said. “Come on.” He put a cold brass hand on Alan’s back and gently shoved him into the sitting room. Alan’s heart was practically in his throat; he was ready to leap up and embrace…
The man waiting for him was not his father. He was a lean man with a heavy, charcoal-covered overcoat and a red scarf wrapped around his face. He held a leather tricorn hat in his hands, and was standing very patiently, the way an oak tree or a boulder might stand if it expected to be waiting for a very long time.
“Tell you he’s too young to be messing with this,” Malcolm muttered to the stranger. “Twelve years old, shouldn’t be touching no dead things.”
“Thirteen,” Alan said. “I’m thirteen Uncle Malcolm, remember?”
Malcolm looked at his nephew with mad blue eyes. “Twelve. Your birthday was last week. Twelve candles, twelve years. Remember? I remember. Your daddy came home from . . . from . . .” He trailed off and began to squint, as though trying to get a better view of his memory.
“That was last year. Dad was in Gorcia. He’s in Corsay, now.”
Malcolm snorted and shuffled out of the room. “Too young, too young,” he mumbled as he left.
Alan turned to the stranger.
“Let me see your hands.” The man said. His voice had a hoarse, raw edge to it, but it was strong and authoritative. Alan held up his