Part 1
Alone in New York
Chapter 1: Your Mother
A stick. That was all it was. But he held it in his hands and stared at it like it was an undetonated grenade. In another place, that could have been true; in Germany, or England, or France. It was a cold summer of 1914. War was blooming.
He glanced around the semi-busy street, as if to see if anyone was watching. Nobody ever was. There were plenty enough small, dark-haired boys on the streets, though not as many of them moved with their heads hung quite so low, swallowed by their shoulders. He tucked the stick inside his inner coat pocket and walked back home with his arms wrapped around his chest to hide that it was there. Not that anybody would have noticed. He was good at hiding things.
In his room, he stashed it among other things under his bed.
The next day it was out again. He stared at it, and held it like it was made of some fragile gold. It was at least eleven inches long, and tapered at the end. No branches. A very specific kind of stick.
"What is that?" gasped a voice from the doorway. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
Chastity stomped in and grabbed at the thing, "Is that a wand, Credence?"
"No!" he insisted, trying to keep it away from her. A scuffle ensued. Chastity's shout could be heard down the hall.
"What's going on here, children?" Mary Lou Barebone, leader of the New Salem Philanthropic Society, suddenly stood in the doorway.
Chastity instantly responded, "Credence has a wand."
"No, it's not, I promise!" he pleaded. Mary Lou's face was a tight line as she advanced on the boy.
He cowered against the wall, "Please..." Her face was stone. She held out her hand.
Hesitantly, he brought out the stick from behind his back and handed it to her. Her eyes widened when she saw it, but for a second nobody moved.
In one quick motion, Mary Lou snapped the stick in half. Both children winced at the crack! Now left were two, fine ends, each with a long, jagged, flat tip. The mother's eyes furiously bared down on her son. He backed up against the wall and whimpered as she advanced on him, her face full of fury. In one hand she grasped the serrated half-stick, the other she held out. Slowly, as if against his will, he put his hands out on top of hers.
Slap! He screamed. Chastity cowered behind the bedpost. Mary Lou raised the stick and hit her son's hands again. He was shaking all over. Two red lines were already becoming visible crossing his palms.
She raised her arm again. He pleaded with her, "No – please! – I can't – I can't-" but she didn't seem to hear. She brought her arm down, and with the slap there came a horrible rushing sound. Three screams were heard at once, but one seemed to be coming from far away, and was replaced with the sound of roaring. Some massive force exploded out of the wall. Mary Lou stumbled backward, barely avoiding the wind-like energy that came hurtling towards her. It missed her by a hair and tore through the door like it was paper.
"Run!" her mother told Chastity. Chastity ran – tearing through the common room and down the stairs to the kitchen. She hid in a small nook between a cupboard and the door.
Mary Lou got up slowly. Her son was gone. Run out, though she hadn't heard him. In the hall with the banister, there was the sound of tearing and banging, but more than that. It sounded like something was ripping apart the walls. She edged to the doorway. An invisible void was consuming everything, tearing up the floors. Her son was in the middle of it, amid the wreckage that the thing was making, but unharmed. Mary Lou stood frozen. The truth was finally coming to light. Her hand that held the stick clenched into a fist.
The wall was finally naked. Her son shivered as the force, with a last bash, through itself upon him like a hungry dog on discarded steak. It disappeared with the blow and the noise vanished. The boy hugged the floor and gasped in the wreckage. Her magical, destructive son.
The boy saw as an all-consuming rage took the New Salem leader. She didn't yell or scream, but the stick in her hand became a weapon as she brought it down upon him, eyes full of murder. He scampered out of the way just as the stick cracked again on the ground. It broke into splinters. He backed away, eyes wild and terrified. "Don't hurt me," he pleaded.
His mother hardly seemed to see him. Weaponless, she advanced, a glazed look covering her face. "There will be a second Salem..." she murmured, and outstretched her arms.
He bolted, covering the stairs faster than it seemed possible with his small legs. He ran the cupboard where his sister was hiding, terrified, and out the door onto the streets of New York. Mary Lou followed, encumbered by her long skirt. She heard her daughter's whimpering, and stopped.
"Which way did he go?"
"Outside, out the door," Chastity blubbered.
The woman edged towards the opening, a space that let in a square of New York summer daylight. It hadn't closed all the way. She peered through the crack onto the street. A few pedestrians, some tall, brown buildings made of brick, that was all. No small boy. No shadowy magic.