Bryce Hartwell
Driving up the steep, winding mountain road, I caught a glimpse through the trees. A massive, old building of bright red brick and a dark, tiled roof stood out against the lush green. The roof's sharp angles gave Ravenhurst Manor an eerie, old-fashioned look—like the setting of a horror movie. It was hard to believe my eccentric high school teacher lived here.
I parked a few yards from the main steps. A banner draped across the front entrance was visible even in the dim light: 'Congratulations, Class of 2014.' Figures outlined along the windows added to the buzz inside. Stepping toward the thick, dark stone walls felt like approaching a castle, a mix of awe and anticipation settling in my chest. The entrance doors, crafted from rich hardwood and painted deep crimson, welcomed all.
I picked up the metal door knocker and gave it a firm thump. The loud, echoing sound bounced off the door, filling the quiet air. The chill of the night slowly crept into my muscles. Before I could knock again, the door swung open, revealing Mr. Ravenhurst.
Dressed neatly in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, he looked older but carried the same unpredictable energy I knew from class. This was the eccentric man who once dressed as a fully armored knight and built a working Roman scorpion that shot water balloons. Mr. Ravenhurst, always one of my favorites, appreciated hard work and gave a fair chance.
When he saw me, a warm smile crossed his face, and he stepped aside. I dusted myself off, shaking off the dirt before stepping inside. The chilly night air gave way to the cozy warmth of the indoors.
"Thank you for seeing such a peasant, my lord," I said with a slight bow.
Mr. Ravenhurst caught a quick flicker of a smile before placing a hand gently on his chest. "Come now… a king is nothing without their people," he countered in his thick awful European accent, and we both burst into laughter.
I stood up, noting the party had already started. "Thanks for the invite, Mr. Ravenhurst."
As we walked through the entryway, we exchanged friendly words. I shared my mix of excitement and nerves about heading off to college. He gave my shoulder a reassuring pat.
"Please excuse me for a moment. I think the football team is about to start jousting each other, and I really should remind the quarterback who owns this castle," Mr. Halva said, quickly darting off, leaving me to explore the familiar comfort of his home.
I strolled through the crowded rooms, which showcased an array of artifacts in glass cases. I stepped into a smaller, quieter room off to the side. Mrs. Kwan, the town librarian, and Ms. Elara sat across from each other. Mrs. Kwan, an older woman with long, curly brown hair, had soft green eyes that shimmered in the gentle firelight. Ms. Elara was her opposite, dressed in bright colors that seemed to glow in the darkness, her curly red hair reflecting the flames.
"Did you come to request a reading of your palm? Or perhaps you would like me to inform you about your future?" Elara looked up at me with that smirk I recognized all too well, sipping a strong drink.
Ms. Kwan snapped her book closed. "No… though I'll take any good luck you can offer," I joked, earning a quick smile.
"You wish for luck when no one can control such a thing?" Kwan placed her book in her lap.
"Calm down, Kawa. He's still young, still learning," Elara said, catching both our attention.
Mrs. Kwan rose and walked over with such control that it seemed a rehearsed dance. She sat next to me, reached into a hidden dress pocket, and pulled out a broad, thin box.
"I was going to wait until after, but it appears you require it now." She extended the box.
I took the box, feeling its weight. When I opened it, I was delighted to see three shiny, elegant pens nestled inside the white velvet lining. Crafted from silver, gold, and polished wood, they gleamed in the firelight. I was genuinely speechless, and my initial shock gave way to a warm grin.
"I modeled it after Apep… Thought it would help scare away any of the dumb monsters," Elara said with a childlike laugh.
I slipped the ring over my middle finger. It fit perfectly, the Cobra's head facing up. I noticed the large black eye painted on the back of the flared hood.
"If you'll excuse me, I must refill my drink." Elara gently patted my back and walked off.
I admired the ring a little more before heading off to try to find Mr. Finch. This time, I made it to the stairs.
The second floor was lined with more displays: an original suit of fourteenth-century knight armor, an original Talwar sword from India, and a Samurai helmet supposedly worn by Miyamoto Musashi. Near the top of the stairs, I found Mr. Finch whispering to another man.
Mr. Finch, in his early thirties, wore a bright red sweater vest over a black shirt. His thin-rimmed glasses gave him a snooty look that belied his actual job running the local salvage yard and tinkering with whatever was left over. He often assisted Ravenhurst with his collection of collector vehicles. Next to him was Augustus "Augie" Blackwood, the local pawn shop owner and a highly questionable character. If you knew Augie, you knew he'd talk you into selling the clothes off your back.
The two men were hunched over a display case containing an extensive collection of rare coins, a point of contention between Augie and Mr. Ravenhurst. Augie was an older man, closer to forty. His heavily gelled hair could drill into rock, and he wore a silver chain with a pilgrim's cross over a tracksuit.
I smirked, watching them eye the coins like treasure-hungry thieves. I quietly walked up behind them.
"Do I need to get the king?" I joked, making them both jump.
Mr. Finch quickly crossed his hands like a caught criminal. Augie flashed his devil-award-winning smile and stuffed his hands into his pants pockets.
"Damn, Bryce, trying to give a guy a heart attack?" Augie stepped aside.
I returned my gaze to the metal-frame display case. Most of the coins were very old and rare, many little more than deformed hunks of metal with smoothed-out marks. Still, the metal alone promised value, a prize potentially worth thousands of dollars.
"You know he'll never sell, right?" I glanced at Augie.
"A guy can dream, can't he?" he countered, turning back to the case.
Mr. Finch was fixated on a dull green coin with two small holes. Mr. Ravenhurst had called it one of his favorites, telling a hard-to-believe story about finding it in an undisturbed Inca settlement. The Inca, he claimed, made jewelry from gold and copper. Finch, the salvage man, clearly wanted to examine it, perhaps to recreate the material combination that allowed the artifact to survive for so long.
"You think he would… let me hold it?" Finch's nose was inches from the glass.
"If you get him drunk enough, he might," I joked, earning a chuckle from them both.
"So… you heading out tomorrow?" Augie walked over to the railing, looking down at the party below.
"What, you're going to miss me, Augie?" I asked, earning a light elbow to my arm.
"Before you go…" He reached into his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped in old brown paper and sealed with tape. I was surprised; we weren't best friends, but he did give me part-time research work, identifying unusual items that came through his doors.
"I said I'd pay ya," he reminded me of his classic catchphrase.
I peeled back the paper, feeling the weight in my fingers. It was a dull gray coin. My eyes widened. I could barely distinguish the two faces: one depicted a winged man holding something, while the other showed a person's head wearing a crown, looking directly ahead. It resembled a typical quarter profile, but much older.
"Augie… are you sure?" My eyes were wide with shock.
He only returned a smile. "Kid… if there's one thing I've learned in life, it's know your worth and don't settle for a penny less." His words carried a serious weight. He patted my shoulder. "And trust me, kid… you're more valuable than you know." He turned and walked down the stairs.
"Almost forgot…" Mr. Finch, who had pulled himself from the case, reached deep into his pants pocket.
His eyes were focused off into space as he rummaged. A smile touched his face when he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a pocket knife and held it out. I took it and unfolded the blade; it was deep, dark black, with an otherworldly shine.
"You always said you'd love to have one of my pieces when you're old enough." He crossed his arms.
I closed the knife and chuckled at the memory of first meeting him, thinking he was an artist. I returned to watching the crowd below.
"You know… It's okay to be nervous," Mr. Finch said, walking up beside me.
"That's easy to tell?"
"Everyone… from Genghis Khan to Joan of Arc felt nervous at one point. What matters is what you do when you feel that way." He gave off sage advice that made him sound older than he looked, then descended the stairs.
I enjoyed the rest of the night, talking with friends. The night shortened quickly. When it got late enough, I headed home. I needed to wake up early to start the drive to San Diego.
The following day, I packed my old, beat-up nineties Ford Ranger. I had found it in my neighbor's barn, and with my dad's help, I stuffed a reclaimed engine into it.
As I pulled out of the driveway, I slammed on my brakes. Mr. Ravenhurst came rushing out in front of me from behind a wall of trees. My heart raced, but I had stopped in time. I rolled down my window.
"Damn it, Halva, you almost gave me a heart attack," I said.
He leaned against the truck, his shirt messy and stained from the party. He was gulping deep breaths, coughing as he tried to speak. Worrying for him, I reached into the cooler, grabbed a bottle of water, and offered it to him. He eagerly downed the whole thing.
"Oh, thank the heavens I got here in time. I forgot to give you...." He reached into his inside shirt pocket and pulled out a thick, braided necklace with a strange, foggy jewel hanging from it. "My… my gift for you," he finished, panting.
I took the necklace. It was thick braided paracord, the cloudy, glass jewel held in a bronze cage. I smiled, looped it over my head, and it hung just above my heart. I extended my hand through the driver's door and hugged him. He let out a weak squeal—maybe I squeezed out the air he had left—but he returned the hug.
"It's a Viking Sunstone… they would use it to help navigate and find their way through the seas," he explained, each word costing him air.
With everything I needed, I let go and drove south. The small buildings blurred, quickly giving way to trees and the open road.