Simon and Milt Bevell and the Sorceress of Oden

“Argh,” Simon groaned and slapped the nightstand, knocking the alarm clock to the floor. “Whaaaa-whaaaa-whaaaa-whaaaa,” the alarm droned. Simon flung his arm over the side of the bed and fished for the cord. He gave it a yank and swatted it again until the incessant crowing died. He yawned and pulled the blankets back over his head. Somewhere a door slammed. Footfalls echoed through the house, doors opening and closing. More clattering in the hallway and then the bedroom door flung open. “Simon, hey Simon!” “Go away!” Simon moaned; his voice muffled. “Have you seen my butterfly net?” Simon pulled the blankets back and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his hair sprouting up like a rooster’s tail. “Why do you need a butterfly net?” “Bullfrog hunting, duh!” “Milt, you can’t catch bullfrogs with a butterfly net!” Simon replied, screwing his eyes shut and shaking his head. “You don’t know that…” Milt said, kicking through a mound of dirty laundry. He made a sour face as he peeled a pair of gym socks off the side of Simon’s trunk. “Can you at least clean up your side of the room? I live here too, you know.” “Yeah, yeah,” Simon grumbled, eyeing Milt’s side of the room. Bed made, laundry neatly stacked on his trunk, and a planter of herbs growing on a shelf in the corner. Simon slumped back onto his pillow. “You, okay?” Milt asked, side-stepping piles of books that cluttered the small, wood-paneled room. “Because you look like one of those zombie guys from that Plants vs Zombies game. It’s a super fun game, but the zombies are totally creepy and gross – just like you!” Milt winked and shot Simon finger guns, before dropping to the floor and reaching an arm underneath the bed. Simon rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to admit the last five nights he’d had weird, unsettling dreams about their dad and a stranger in a red cloak. “Found it!” Milt shouted, crawling out from underneath his bed, net in hand. “Great, then you should probably go before I go all zombie on you and start eating your brains.” Simon stretched out his arms and with bared teeth, made a strangled, “rawr.” “Yeah, well at least I have brains to eat!” Milt stuck out his tongue, waggling his fingers on either side of head. “Real mature, Milt.” Simon tossed a pillow, narrowly missing him. “Dude, I’m eleven, that word isn’t even in my vocabulary. Mature, pfft,” Milt puffed. “That’s an old person word.” Milt backed out of the room, still waggling his fingers. “Clean your half of the room,” he shouted and disappeared down the hallway, swinging the butterfly net side-to-side. Simon kicked the blanket off and tumbled out of bed. He picked through the clothes on the floor and grabbed a wrinkled t-shirt and a pair of jeans that looked reasonably clean. He stacked his books against the wall and stuffed his floor clothes into the laundry basket, what didn’t fit, he kicked under the bed. “Good enough,” he sighed. He crammed his feet into a pair of sneakers and shuffled down the hallway, skipping purposefully over the weak floorboards that groaned with age and wear, only to catch the toe of his shoe on a tear in the threadbare carpet. He lurched forward with the grace of a spider on roller skates and tumbled headfirst into his mother’s room. He landed near the old leather trunk at the foot of her bed. She called it her ‘traveling chest,’ not that they ever traveled, mind you, but it’s where she stored a few curious items she’d acquired during her travels, before she met Arlo Bevell, Simon and Milt’s father. Simon furrowed his brow. The contents had spilled onto the floor as if the trunk’s wide maw had coughed up a hairball. He knelt beside the trunk and sorted through the detritus; one jar of triangle-shaped chips labeled Draken teeth; a spool of crimson thread; two vials of Alicorn powder, that shimmered like crushed white glitter; a velvet lined box containing two marble-sized gems, that looked like a pair of eyes; a Simurgh feather, and a red cloak. Simon shrugged and tucked the items back inside and closed the trunk. One might consider these odd items to have in your house, but not when your mother is a fortune teller. Thirteen-year-old Simon Bevell and his eleven-year-old brother Milt live with their mother in an old brownstone above The Crystal Ball. Amanda Bevell peddles charms, dabbles in the art of magic, and offers the curious a glimpse into their future. But Simon doesn’t care about the future; his interest is the past. Arlo Bevell, a palm reader, disappeared when Milt was just a baby. The last memory Simon had of his father was Arlo tucking him into bed. And the fight. Angry, snarling words shouted as Arlo accused Amanda of lying and betraying him. It ended with the apartment door slamming shut and Amanda retreating to her room in tears. That was ten years ago. Amanda didn’t talk about it, and Milt was too young to remember their dad. The disappearance of Arlo Bevell remains a mystery. Simon shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen. He grabbed a soda and made his way through the living room past the lumpy, brown sofa to the bay window that overlooked Belladonna Avenue. Every Saturday morning, Simon settled into a wooden rocking chair and sat for hours watching with interest at the mundane lives of his subjects below, pitching them endlessly into the sublime text of his latest daydream where he, Simon Lucerne Bevell, was the hero. Brownstones lined the cobblestone walk and despite the polluted Hemlock River, Belladonna Avenue was the bustling center of Shadow Grove. The time-worn buildings housed the boutiques, eateries, and specialty shops attracting the hoity-toity from the outlying neighborhoods. The Tea Kettle was a tea and coffee shop owned by Mrs. Nimble. She was a short, robust woman with a kind face. She made excellent scones and a wonderful cup of hot cocoa on frosty winter days. Every afternoon she delivered a cup of tea to Amanda and doted on Simon and Milt as if they were her grandchildren. JL Decker’s bookstore, specializing in classic and rare novels, was on the opposite side of the avenue. Simon loved the bookstore. He wasn’t sure if it was the crackling fire, or the plump chesterfield armchairs and sofas, but when he was there, he felt like he’d stepped into another world, where reality faded, and magic began.