The Warlock's Curse (8 page)

Between bites he could barely taste, Will snuck sullen looks at his father, just waiting for the old man to broach a subject, any subject. Having just spoken with Uncle Royce, he was once again struck by how different the brothers were. Uncle Royce was compact, with dark hair and dark eyes and a fair complexion that didn’t turn at sun or wind. Perhaps Father had once been pale like that; but even though he had always left the hard labor of the horse farm to his hired men—and later to Nate—he was as bronzed as if he spent every day in the saddle. His hair might once have been dark, but now there was as much silver in it as a Reno mine.

“Well, Jenny.” Father cleared his throat, which Will always understood to mean that he was preparing to say something tedious. “How are you liking Miss Murison’s? I am told it is quite a good school, as girls’ schools go.”

“I enjoy it very much, Mr. Edwards,” Jenny said, the picture of politeness. Elbows off the table, back straight, eyes on Father like he had asked her the most fascinating question in the world. Whatever else could be said of Miss Murison’s, it had certainly had a civilizing influence on the scuff-kneed girl Will had once been friends with.

“Are there any subjects of particular interest to you?”

“I am most interested in applied mathematics,” Jenny said. “Quantitative analysis, statistics, that kind of thing. Lately I have been studying the works of Louis Bachelier. Have you ever heard of him, Mr. Edwards?”

Father’s brow knit thoughtfully. “I can’t say that I have.”

Jenny’s face fell ever so slightly. “Oh well, very few people have.” Then, as if remembering some particular of training from Miss Murison’s, she gave a pretty giggle and picked up her fork with an elegant movement. “Quantitative analysis isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, I suppose.”

Father did not comment, but cut a slice of turkey into a precise shape and dabbed it into the gravy. After a long silence, Jenny attempted another conversational sally, this time towards Will.

“I was wondering, William,” she began, rather formally, “when I was helping your mother in the kitchen, I happened to see a very large wooden crate behind the house. What’s in it?”

Will glanced daggers at his father. It couldn’t have been a more perfect—and dangerous—question if she’d been coached to it. Because the big wooden crate contained Will’s third birthday present.

“It is a new electric power plant,” Father answered. “The one we currently have is underpowered and antiquated. This new one is large enough to power the house and the barns and all of the outbuildings. It is, by all accounts, an exceptionally fine piece of equipment. We expected that Will would find it fascinating.”

Will pushed potatoes around on his plate. The fact that Father was right—that the power plant was top of the line, and under other circumstances he would have been thrilled at the prospect of setting it up, rewiring all the old farm buildings, making the genie of electricity dance beneath his fingertips—cut no ice.

“Oh sure,” Will muttered. “Just what every boy wants for a birthday present.”

“But you’ve always been interested in machines,” Jenny ventured.

“I tell you what I’m not interested in,” Will said, feeling heat rise up under his collar. “I’m not interested in getting stuck here in California as the Edwards family
mechanic.
”

“That wasn’t the intention of the gift,” Father said mildly. The conversation was drifting onto treacherous shoals. Will didn’t care. In fact, he was glad of it.

“I know
exactly
what the intention of the gift was,” Will said. “It was supposed to make me feel better about not going to Detroit. And like I said before, there’s nothing that’s going to do that.”

“Detroit?” Jenny asked. “What’s in Detroit?”

“You know Tesla Industries, right?” Will said.

“Of course!” Jenny said. “Who doesn’t? All the kids in San Francisco are just mad for their wireless musical cabinets. Teslaphones beat Victrolas all cold, not having to buy discs.”

“Teslaphones are just
toys
compared to what Tesla Industries is really doing,” Will snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Tesla Industries is the leading center of Otherwhere research in the country—in the whole
world
. They’ve got an apprenticeship program that only accepts a tiny number of applicants every year. One of my teachers at the Polytechnic put me up for it ... and they offered me a slot.”

“That’s wonderful!” Jenny gasped and clapped her hands together.

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Will shot an acid glare at his father. “At least, it would be, if I could go. But it’s been decided that it’s not in my best interests, you see. I’ve got a power plant to rig up, after all—”

“Really, Will, do we have to go over this again?” his father said wearily. “Now? At the dinner table?”

“We can talk about it anywhere you like. All I want is one reason for not letting me take the apprenticeship.”

“I have already given you several—”

“One
good
reason,” Will spoke over him.

Father lifted his hand wearily, raising a single finger. He looked at Will long and hard. “Traveling two thousand miles away from home and putting yourself under the complete control of a man like Nikola Tesla is idiotic.”

“He won the Nobel Prize last year!”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t a
genius
,” Father said. “But even geniuses—
especially
geniuses—can surround themselves with the wrong kinds of people. His company’s policies regarding secrecy and privacy and the abdication of rights on the part of his contracted employees are completely outrageous. Did you even
read
the apprenticeship contract, Will?”

Will was hot with indignation. “Of course I did!” he said, even though he actually hadn’t, as that document had been a hundred and thirty-two pages long and printed in very small type. But he had very diligently skimmed it.

“Then perhaps you simply failed to notice that they do not allow you to have any contact with your family? Indeed, with anyone outside the program at all?”

“Surely they’re doing research that could make them millions of dollars, Mr. Edwards,” Jenny said, wide-eyed. “Of course they must be secretive. They have to protect their intellectual property, don’t they?”

“I suppose they do, Jenny,” Father said, apparently surprised at suddenly finding himself in a two-to-one battle. Will was surprised too, but grateful. “But I would be shocked if their apprentices were made privy to work of such extraordinary value. Rather, I suspect some form of indoctrination—”

“Indoctrination!” Will blazed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,
William
,” Father said, in a warning voice, “that corporations—all organizations, as a matter of fact—must compel the loyalty of their workers. In the army, they call it basic training. Tesla Industries probably draws future employees from their pool of apprentices. And so they swear them to this absurd secrecy in order to make them feel like part of the group.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Will said. “It sounds wonderful to me! I would be happy to stay as an employee of Tesla Industries.”

“Of course you would!” Father said. “That’s the whole point, Will. Organizations of this type do not give you a choice. You will be happy to be an employee because they will make you happy. They will make you part of a machine. Your ability to think for yourself will be reduced to what is good for the company.”

“Yes, unlike here, where my ability to think for myself is reduced to what’s good for the
family
,” Will shot back.

Father sighed. “Will, I know how intelligent you are, and how talented. But as I have said, I do not believe Tesla Industries is a good place for you. Not right now.”

“Mr. Waters can vouch for the program personally!” Once again, Will attempted to invoke the name of Herman Bierce Waters, M.E., Vice Director of the California Polytechnic, whose strong recommendation had gotten him the apprenticeship. “He would hardly do that if it wasn’t completely trustworthy!”

“Mr. Waters’ assessment is immaterial,” Father said, icily. Then, clearly searching for a way to pour oil on troubled waters, he said: “How about a compromise. If you will wait until the spring, we will discuss it again then.”

“They probably won’t even want me anymore by then! Besides, what’s going to be different in the spring than now?”

“Lots of things. The foaling will be done and—”

“The
foaling
?” Will was furious now, and everyone at the table was riveted to the awkward scene. “If you’re going to make up excuses, can’t you at least make one up that doesn’t insult the intelligence you claim to believe I possess? Nate’s always taken care of the foaling, and besides that, he’s got two dozen
rancheros
to help him—and even the greenest one is more use than me! There’s only one reason to wait until spring—so you can keep me under your thumb, wiring up your goddamn electrical plant, long enough for the offer to expire!”

“There is only one reason you need concern yourself with, young man!” Father roared in return, all patience lost. He slammed the table with his fist. “Because I am your father and I say so!”

“Oh, Wordsworth, please don’t yell,” Ma’am said. She always called Father by his despised middle name when she was annoyed with him.

Frowning, Father returned his attention to his dinner plate, responding as he always did when
he
was annoyed, in a tone mild yet palpably acerbic: “As you wish, my goddess.”

“And you, Will”—Ma’am glared down the table at him, a look sufficient in intensity to make him curl back in his seat—“your father has made his decision. You’re needed here. We’ll discuss it again in the spring. If they want you now, they’ll want you then. Honestly, a few months isn’t going to make a bit of difference—”

“It makes a lot of difference to me!” Will said, standing abruptly and throwing his napkin down with a melodramatic flourish. “But as usual, what’s important to me is the last thing anyone in this family concerns themselves with!”

“William, sit down.” This, from Uncle Royce. It was the last straw.

“Ben has the right idea,” Will snarled. “About all of you. No wonder he didn’t come home.”

Will stormed off to the barn. He climbed the ladder to the hayloft, then threw himself down on a pile of old feed sacks in a narrow, awkward corner—no good for storing hay—that a much younger Will had appropriated as his own secret fortress.

Everything was just the same as he’d left it when he’d gone away to school three years ago. There were still dozens of dogeared dime novels (now thick with dust) shelved on a pair of milk crates stacked atop each other. There were a lot of
Vanguard Girl
adventures. Also the
Rover Boys
,
Pluck & Luck
,
Diamond Dick
, several numbers of the
Tip Top Weekly
, a few
Brushfork Banditos
—and dozens of editions of the most popular of the pulp series, the
True Life Tales of Dreadnought Stanton
.

Oddly enough, of all the books on the shelves, only one was actually his.
The Adventures of Pinocchio
, the gift Uncle Royce had given him on his eighth birthday. He’d hated it from the minute the woodcarver Master Cherry hit the wood with the axe and the wood shrieked in pain. But apparently Father had thought there was something important in Uncle Royce’s gift; enough that he felt compelled to read it to Will. It was a trial for them both, and perhaps one of the only things they’d ever agreed on—they both hated that book as much as Uncle Royce seemed to find it admirable and instructive.

All the other books were Jenny’s, brought out to the farm with her during the summers she’d come to stay. Like every other American kid below the age of dull maturity, she had adored dime novels, detective magazines, adventure serials ... anything with a generous helping of adventure and danger. She had been particularly partial to the Dreadnought Stantons, and there were at least four or five new ones of those every year, each more lurid and hair-raising than the last. Jenny found them especially interesting because they were about a real-life person—the warlock Sophos of the Stanton Institute in New York City.

When he and Jenny were kids, the first thing she always did when she came to visit was show him the new books she’d brought. She’d always hoped Will would share her excitement over them.

But Will never could. Reading had always been difficult for him—so difficult that a specialist doctor in Sacramento had been consulted. The doctor had said that Will suffered from a condition called “word blindness.” Will had (and still did) thought the diagnosis silly, for he could
see
the words just fine. It was just that they tended to slip and slide around, as if he were trying to pick a ball bearing out of a bowl of peeled grapes.