The Knock at the Door

"A war?" Aidan’s head lifted from his pillow. "You didn't mention the story involved a war."

"That’s because you didn't ask," Uncle Jonas said casually. "Besides, I was under the impression you were going to sleep."

"Well," Aidan countered, "if a war is involved, I suppose I can stay awake to listen."

"So long as you promise not to interrupt again."

"I promise," Aidan replied, flashing a smile of disarming innocence.

Uncle Jonas simply shook his head, nudging his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Very well," he conceded. "Now, where was I in the story?"

He continued, "Remira, at that particular time, was home to a great many magicians, which was the very heart of the conflict. Our wizard resolved to join the fight without a moment's hesitation. He journeyed to the most powerful sorcerer in the land and pledged his loyalty. In turn, he was immediately dispatched to the front lines."

"What did he fight with?" Aidan inquired.

"Mr. McDowell, I thought we had an agreement, hm?" Uncle Jonas remarked. "Still, I can hardly fault you for simple curiosity. He fought with magic, of course."

"But how?"

"Aidan, he was a wizard. That much should be self-evident," Uncle Jonas said, his patience beginning to fray. "I should also mention that you are testing my nerves. No more interruptions."

"Okay," Aidan mumbled, a sheepish grin on his face.

Uncle Jonas sighed. "Now I've lost my place," he grumbled. "Where was I?"

"The wizard had just gone off to fight in the war," Wells offered quietly, his eyes still closed as he lay motionless on his back.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Wells," said Uncle Jonas. "So there he was, in the thick of battle, and he found it exhilarating. A war fought with magic is a thing nearly beyond imagination. Spells of every hue streaked through the air like lethal pyrotechnics. Some wizards wielded bows that loosed arrows of pure light, others fought with enchanted blades, and some used a combination of both. Oh, it was a terrible and fascinating place to be, a battlefield like that." Uncle Jonas drew a long breath and closed his own eyes, pausing for a dozen heartbeats as he became lost in memory before he resumed.

"The magician fought in many battles. He became known and feared by his enemies, and known and beloved by his allies. Before long, he had ascended to the rank of general, leading armies and liberating cities that had fallen into enemy hands.

"Then, one night, as he rested in his camp deep in the wilderness, an enemy assassin crept in and abducted him. They spirited him away to one of the most foul and wicked fortresses in all of Remira. There, enemy sorcerers subjected the wizard to unspeakable tortures, hoping to wrench certain secrets from his mind.

"But then, just as his will was about to shatter, he was rescued by—"

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Three sharp, commanding knocks on the front door shattered the story's spell. Wells, Aidan, Vance, and Nikolai all whipped their heads toward the sound, their eyes wide with alarm. In the dim light, they exchanged uncertain glances.

"What do you think that is?" Wells whispered, his voice trembling.

"A burglar!" Aidan suggested, his own voice filled with excitement.

"Don't be an idiot," Nikolai sneered. "A burglar wouldn't knock."

"If you're so clever, what is it then?" Vance shot back.

"Boys, not now," Uncle Jonas said, rising to his feet. "I'll go see who it is." He crossed to the front door, peered through the peephole, and then cast a quick look at the glowing clock on the VCR. Flicking on the porch light, he unlocked and opened the door. The four boys craned their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of the late-night visitor.

The man they saw was exceptionally tall, standing at least a head higher than Uncle Jonas. They got a clearer view as their uncle stepped aside to let him in. He was strangely attired in a robe that resembled their uncle's bathrobe in cut, but was fashioned from heavy wool and leather instead of soft cotton. Most peculiar of all was his hair, a shoulder-length mane the color of dark, roaring flames, matched by a short goatee.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon," Uncle Jonas said curtly as the man strode into the living room.

"I know," the man replied, his voice a low rumble. "But I had to come—Jonas, King Haelen is dead and his son—"

Uncle Jonas cut him off with a loud clearing of his throat. "My dear friend," he said, his tone somewhat stilted, "surely you know as well as I that one should not speak so plainly in mixed company."

For the first time, the stranger noticed the four boys. He raised his eyebrows and gave them a curt nod. "A good evening to you, young sirs," he said, before turning back to Uncle Jonas. "Jonas, there is no time for this forced formality. The warlocks are—"

"The warlocks? Forced formality?" Nikolai asked, addressing the man directly.

The stranger seemed taken aback by Nikolai's forwardness. It took him a moment to find his voice. "It is nothing that need concern you," he said, though his tone lacked conviction. His words then tumbled out in a fast, urgent rush. "The king has been assassinated. They believe it was either the emperor or a warlock, and that Haelen's son requires protection. Jonas, you must return to—"

"Very well!" Uncle Jonas interrupted sharply. "I will come. I need a few moments to gather my things and leave a note for my niece and her husband." He started for the stairs, then turned back to the boys, his brow furrowed in a way they had never seen before. "I'm afraid I must end our story here. We shall have to continue it another time."

Wells scrambled out of his sleeping bag and hurried to his uncle's side. "Where are you going?" he demanded, looking up into his eyes. "And what's going on?"

Uncle Jonas knelt to Wells's level. "I have to go far away, Wells. As for what's happening," he said, tapping the tip of Wells's nose gently, "you are not to worry about it." The touch left a strange sensation on Wells's skin, a fleeting pulse that was at once warm and delightfully cold.

"Are you going to rescue the wizard?" Wells asked hopefully.

A faint, melancholy smile touched Uncle Jonas's lips as he stood. "You could say that, yes. Unfortunately, it's not nearly as much fun as it sounds. Now, you boys stay down here with my friend. You may call him Mister C." He moved quietly up the stairs, and they heard the door to his guest room open and close.

Wells slunk unhappily back toward his friends. He pivoted to glare fiercely at the stranger. Mister C had seated himself in the chair Uncle Jonas had just vacated. "Have I done something to offend you?" he asked. Wells now noticed the man spoke with an accent he couldn't quite place.

"You're taking Uncle Jonas away," Wells retorted. "He never gets to visit, and when he does, he always has to leave right away. He's only been here for a day! It isn't fair."

Mister C's expression softened with understanding. "Ah, I see," he said. "For interrupting your reunion, I am truly sorry. But this is a matter of great importance in my... country. You must understand that your uncle is a very important man."

Wells said nothing, turning his back on the stranger.

"I see that is no comfort to you," Mister C continued. "But you must try to understand. Your uncle has responsibilities in my homeland. Responsibilities that cannot be ignored, especially with a war looming."

Wells shot a quick, harsh look at Mister C over his shoulder before turning away again. He glanced at his friends; Nikolai was watching the visitor with intense curiosity, while Aidan and Vance already looked drowsy, blinking at him blearily. Wells sighed and turned back around, yawning before he spoke.

"Mister C," he said, "are you good friends with my Uncle Jonas?"

The man appeared momentarily puzzled. "Yes," he confirmed. "Why do you ask?"

"Uncle Jonas was telling us a story about wizards, and about one who had the ring he wears. If he wears a magic ring, does that make my uncle a wizard?"

A faintly amused look crossed Mister C's face. "He told you about his ring? Well, what do you think? If he wears a magic ring, do you believe he is a wizard?"

Wells retreated to his sleeping bag and lay down. Beside him, Aidan and Vance were already breathing the deep, even breaths of sleep. Only Nikolai remained awake.

"I don't know," Wells mumbled, his voice muffled by his pillow as he yawned again. "Maybe he is."

"I think he is," Nikolai said quietly.

"You do?" asked Mister C. "And why is that?"

"It would make sense," Nikolai mused, glancing over at Wells, who was now snoring softly. "How else would he know all those stories?"

"You make an excellent point," Mister C remarked. Just then, he heard a door open upstairs and rose to his feet. Uncle Jonas stood at the top of the stairs, now dressed in an outfit similar to Mister C's and carrying a battered leather duffel bag. A large ginger cat was weaving around his ankles. "You're ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Uncle Jonas replied. "Are they all asleep?"

"This one isn't," said Mister C, indicating Nikolai.

"Nikolai, go to sleep," Uncle Jonas instructed. "It's late."

Nikolai nodded dutifully, rested his head on his pillow, and closed his eyes. He heard Uncle Jonas and Mister C speaking in hushed, urgent tones, though he couldn't make out the words. Then, the sound ceased. The room fell completely silent.

Cautiously, Nikolai lifted his head and opened his eyes.

The room was empty. They were gone.

And then a sharp, sudden realization struck him: the front door had never opened or closed again.