Duck Boy (6 page)

“See you then, dear,” Aunt Shannon said in an overly sweet tone. “Aren’t you
going to say goodbye to our guest, Steve?”

“Bye,” Steve grunted to the back of the cupboard, as Lindsay walked to the
front hall.

Steve groaned quietly into a group of porcelain figurines in front of his
nose. He heard the girl’s feet thump gently down the short set of stairs, and
the front door open and close.

Great—a surprise visit from a girl while I look like a
serial killer.

He backed out of the cupboard doors and headed to the porridge pot on the
stove, catching his own reflection in the pot’s lid. His face ballooned and
twisted in the reflection of the dented chrome lid. The lid seemed to say it
all.

And porridge is such a drag.

“You didn’t have to be rude,” Aunt Shannon said when she returned to the
kitchen. “It’s quite impolite to hide from guests.”

“Well, you could have warned me you planned to have company,” Steve
answered.

“You always need to be prepared for surprises, Steve.”

Aunt Shannon crossed the kitchen to peer out a window into the morning’s
frosty face.

“It’s sunny, but a biting frost in the air,” she muttered. “Too cold for my
old bones.” Her gaze rose from the landscape toward the sky. “Edward, are we
having trouble with our phones again?” she asked.

“Dunno,” Edward replied from somewhere else in the house.

“Someone is working on the lines again,” she said thoughtfully. She stood
and mused for a moment, letting the morning sun warm her hands and face.

While his aunt and uncle talked, Steve had been working his way through each
of the cupboards, looking for a bowl for his porridge.

“Bowls are in that cupboard, there,” Aunt Shannon said cheerily, with a
finger pointed towards a bottom cupboard next to the fridge. Steve opened it
and found several hundred vinyl records stacked in piles in the same cupboard.
“You’ll find the bowls in behind the Country and Western albums.”

Records. How retro.

“All right,” Steve grunted. He reached behind the stack of records—the album
on the top featured a picture of a horse and a woman swinging a lasso. His hand
found a small stack of bowls and pulled one out of the pile.

“Why are the bowls behind your records?” Steve asked.

“Because music is more important than food, dear. I can skip breakfast once
in a while, but I simply cannot live without music. Spoons are in the fridge,”
Aunt Shannon added, before Steve had the time to search for them.

Steve trotted over to the refrigerator and scoured the inside for a couple
of minutes before he found the spoons in the “Cheese and Butter” compartment.
He resisted the temptation to ask the obvious question.

As he moved to the stove to take a small helping, Aunt Shannon turned from
the window to the stove and grabbed the porridge pot. Steve sighed and held out
his bowl, and she blobbed in the entire batch, filling it to the brim.

“I really don’t want that much,” he objected quietly. “I’m usually not very
hungry in the morning.”

“You ought to be very hungry—just look at you,” Aunt Shannon replied firmly.
“Eat all of it. You’re too skinny.” She squinted. “And what are those dots on
your face?”

Steve sighed.

“Don’t give me any attitude, young man,” Aunt Shannon said sharply. “You
need to eat well, even if you don’t want to be an alchemist.”

He rolled his eyes and began to walk out of the kitchen, back to his room,
to eat.

“Where are you going?” Aunt Shannon asked.

“I’m going to eat in my room.”

“Sit down here in the kitchen,” Aunt Shannon ordered. “Food belongs in the
kitchen.”

“Country and Western records belong next to your record player,” Steve
quipped.

“You’ll eat in the kitchen, young man,” Aunt Shannon commanded. “Sit.”

Steve returned to the kitchen table to avoid any more confrontations.

“Now what do I need to do today?” Aunt Shannon asked herself. “Oh, yes. I
need to call the library.”

“Why don’t you just tell them that you lost the books and pay for them?”
Uncle Edward asked. “Sooner or later they’re going to catch on.”

“I’ll find them, Edward,” Aunt Shannon replied.

Uncle Edward sighed and returned to his book.

“I’m heading to a book sale this morning,” he informed them, shaking his
head while he read. “I’ll see you two this afternoon.”

“See you, Edward,” Aunt Shannon replied. “Bundle up warmly. And don’t forget
your bus pass.” She turned to Steve, parked behind the steaming bowl of
porridge. “Now, young man, let’s talk while you eat your breakfast.”

Steve gave a feeble smile and limply picked up his spoon as Aunt Shannon
looked on. “Got any sugar?” he asked with a grimace.

His aunt returned to the kitchen sink and opened a cupboard underneath.
“There’s a leak in the sink’s plumbing, and that keeps the brown sugar from
getting those incorrigible lumps,” she explained, responding to the look on his
face. “Thank you for eating your porridge and obliging an old woman, by the
way,” she added with a smile. “There’s hope for you yet. At least you can
listen to my ideas, even though you don’t agree.”

“Sure.” Steve grimaced. It might even pass as a smile, if he was lucky.

“Did you read that book on your nightstand?” Aunt Shannon asked.

He looked up. “Um, yeah. But, that alchemy stuff is pretty weird. All those
experiments with body parts, and burning stuff until it’s blacker than black.
It’s absolutely weird.” He stopped for a moment, staring at his bowl of goop.
“I thought you said yesterday that alchemy would help find my mom. I don’t
think this stuff is going to help. For one thing, changing lead into gold is
impossible. And for another, even if we could change lead into gold, it won’t
help my mom. If we could invent that ‘elixir of life,’ it would help other
people but it wouldn’t help us to find my mom.”

He paused. Aunt Shannon looked thoughtful but didn’t say anything. “Do you
really think lead can become gold?” he asked, as if he was checking to see if
she was still all there. The cord of thought didn’t seem to reach the outlet of
sanity. “I mean, a bit of lead in a beaker isn’t going to change your life, is
it?”

“You’re partly right, Steve,” Aunt Shannon answered. “You can’t change lead
into gold with a beaker. I do think our ancestors were wrong on that point. But
I am quite sure that you
can
change things. It’s not
beakers and lead with a bit of some kind of tincture; that idea is for
puffers.”

Steve nodded and pursed his lips. Hopefully it would look as though he
understood.

“Sorry, Steve. I can see you don’t know what I’m talking about. Now let me
see. A puffer. Hmm. A puffer is an alchemist who doesn’t take alchemy
seriously. In the old days, puffers spent a bit of time dabbling in an
experiment or two, sending feathery puffs of smoke into the air, but they
didn’t commit to the cause.”

“Puffers,” Steve repeated, trying to move her along.

“Right. Well, if you read the old books, most of the ideas you get in those
books are wrong. Some people think alchemy is an early type of chemistry. Some
treat it like a type of psychology. Some think it’s religious, or it’s about a
mystical journey. All these people were right in their way. But the most
important fact about alchemy is that it’s real in every way. For a few
centuries, alchemy was the frontier of technology. In fact, alchemical history
is a cover for genuine alchemy.

“Alchemy has always been about change. Some believe alchemy changes lead
into gold. Some believe alchemy changes people. Some believe it changes
locations, and of course, the big question has always been how to make that
change.”

Steve wanted to stop her, but he could see the fire building in her eyes.
Easier to let her continue.

“Alchemists, over the years, have tried many things. They’ve tried secret
formulas and potions, trying to cook up change one way or another. In my
experiments, I’ve tried nearly all of those things, all the things that others
have tried. Beakers, baking, boiling, burning. I haven’t gotten anywhere. But
then I stumbled into words.”

She sighed blissfully. “Words. Now that’s where alchemy works.
Transformation happens with words much more than beakers. You can change a
thing with words much more easily than you can with fire. I can bend words so
many ways, break them, and put them back together again. And when you change a
word in just the right way, you change the world.” Aunt Shannon paused to make
sure Steve was listening.

“This is where my work has taken me. And it works. I packed up my beakers
long ago.”

Steve smiled and nodded. He fought the urge to raise his hand and ask a
question.

Will this be on the exam?

The thought made him smile—this time genuinely.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

Steve shook his head. “I’m sorry Aunt Shannon, I don’t. I would like to, but
I can’t.”

“Finish your porridge. I’ll take you to my laboratory and show you an
experiment that should prove it completely.”

Steve labored through his bowl of porridge, choking most of it down.

He opened the dishwasher to put his porridge bowl away and found several
socks draped in the dish racks.

Aunt Shannon noticed him open the dishwasher and watched as he pulled out
the dish racks. “I guess that load is finished now. Let me get those for you.”
Aunt Shannon stood and went towards the dishwasher and plucked the socks from
the dishwasher. “There you go. Just put your bowl in the bottom rack there.”

Steve nodded and obeyed.

Aunt Shannon walked towards the fridge, opened the freezer and threw the
socks she was carrying in, then turned to Steve. “Come on. Let me prove to you
that alchemy works.”

She nearly pushed him down the hallway to a bedroom and opened the door.
Inside Steve saw her organ shoved up against one wall. On top of the organ lay
a drill and various parts of a disassembled lawnmower engine. The floor was
littered with boxes filled with odds and sods—pieces of things. And on the far
side of the room, a crude workbench: an old door resting on several stacked
plastic milk crates. On one end of the bench sat the core of the disassembled
lawn mower engine. In the middle of the bench there was a big box of clocks,
and next to the box of clocks, the box of Richard’s remains—the same box Aunt Shannon
had taken from Steve’s room the night before.

“He’s not supposed to be in here, but we won’t tell Edward, will we?”

Steve shook his head, stifling a laugh.

Aunt Shannon turned to her bench, and from the box of clocks pulled out a
single alarm clock. She pointed to the box of clocks remaining on her
workbench. “Would you mind putting these out in the hallway? Otherwise the
whole box might go.”

Steve obligingly carried the box into the hallway, having no idea what Aunt
Shannon had meant. He returned to her study and she handed him a pair of
goggles. She was already wearing a scuba mask herself. “Stand over here and put
the goggles on,” she commanded, pointing to a place a few yards away from the
workbench. The scuba mask pinched her nose, making her voice sound thin and
tinny. “Stand back. You never know exactly how things might turn out. You
know—be ready for a surprise.”

Steve moved to the spot that she had suggested, donning the safety goggles.
He had a clear view of the workbench and Aunt Shannon as she hunched over the
clock.

She looked over towards Steve. Her scuba mask was fogging up from the
inside. “Are you ready?” she asked. Steve nodded. “Are you watching?” Steve
nodded again.

“Good. Let me touch my Benu stone.” She reached towards the plastic box with
the ashes of Richard Best inside. She looked towards Steve again. “You have to
be touching your Benu stone. Otherwise it won’t transform,” she instructed.

She turned and focused on the clock and placed one hand on the box of
Richard’s ashes. With her other hand she grabbed the clock.

“Clock-clock-clock-clock-clock-clock-clock-lock-lock-lock-lock-lock-lock-lock.”
She spoke what sounded like chicken language to the clock and stopped. Aunt
Shannon stared at the clock. Nothing happened. She let go of the clock and
poked it with her hand, as if she was afraid to touch it. Steve stared at the
floor and couldn’t help but smile. The whole scene was so odd. On the verge of
entertaining.

“OK,” she said. “I think the connection was a little weak. Let me give it a
go again.” She turned toward him for a moment, noticing his amused look.
“You’re just asking for a big, fat surprise to whack you on the noggin.” She
wagged a finger at him. “Smarty pants. You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’,” she
warned, turning back to her work.

“Clock-clock-clock-clock-clock-clock-clock-lock-lock-lock-lock-lock-lock-lock,”
she clucked her chicken language to the clock again. She stared at the clock.
Still nothing.

“That did it,” she shrieked. “Look out!” She jumped clear of the workbench,
as if something were about to explode.

Aunt Shannon beamed as the clock began to shake and shiver on the bench top.
Suddenly, Steve heard a giant ripping sound. A brilliant kaleidoscope of light
exploded into the room from inside the clock. Loose paper flailed and flapped
in a tornado around the room. And then it all stopped. The paper wafted its way
to the ground and the room was filled with an earthy aroma—the smell of freshly
turned soil.

Sliding the scuba mask to her forehead, Aunt Shannon wiped a moustache of
sweat from her mouth with her sleeve. “What a stubborn clock.” She looked
toward Steve. “I mean you expect a clock to be stubborn, but sheesh. What a
cantankerous old thing!” On the workbench sat an old padlock. It looked about
as old as the alarm clock had. What was once a clock was now a lock. Steve
blinked slowly. And checked again.

What just happened? This isn’t possible
.