Aster Wood and the Blackburn Son by J B Cantwell Page A

questions.
    “Finian!” he said.  
    Chapman was still recovering from the shock of being released from the spell, but clearly he understood. Together we moved out the door, gripping each other tightly.  
    “Don’t let go!” Kiron shouted over the boisterous crowd.  
    A group of dancers passed by and, seeing us holding hands, tried to break us apart so that they could join. They had almost broken the grip between Kiron and Chapman, when Kiron kicked one of them with the heel of his boot.  
    “Get off!” he growled.  
    The man whimpered, clutching his injured shin. I automatically turned to the sound, breaking eye contact with Kiron, and I saw that same confused look on the man’s face Chapman had worn a moment before. The pain of the kick had brought him to his senses, but only briefly.
    When I turned back to Kiron, he looked away before we could lock eyes. He gazed up at the buildings above, and a vacant smile seemed to melt his features.
    “No!” I said, and I kicked him, hard, in the shin.
    “Ouch! You brat!” Kiron said.  
    But then he understood. The pain had broken the spell, if only for a moment. Pain and bliss couldn’t exist together in the same space, so with each kick or jab, we came back to reality.  
    In this way, kicking and pinching each other, we made it through the square. On the other side, in the old tavern at the corner of one of the main boulevards, we stopped again.
    “Get Finian!” Kiron said, this time looking at Chapman and giving him a poke with his boot.  
    Chapman shook his head like a dog shaking off water.  
    “Yes,” he spluttered. “Finian!” he shouted, bursting through the tavern door with his back. Both Kiron and Chapman took turns looking around. It didn’t take them long to find him.
    At the bar—no, on top of the bar—Finian sat, swaying drunkenly, singing a garbled tune.  
    Kiron led the charge. He dragged us over to him, and grabbed the man by his beard and pulled him off the bar. Then he smacked him, hard, across the face, before gripping tightly onto his hand.  
    Again, the group became clearer with the addition of another. Now we were four. It became easier to think, to not be distracted by the purple and yellow streamers that floated above the tavern as if a great victory had just been fought, or game won.  
    “What happened?” Finian asked.  
    “No time,” Kiron said.  
    “Arin,” Chapman said.  
    And we set off again.
    In this manner we dragged each other through town like some big, weird group of dancers, until we finally had them all. Eight of them and two of us. With each addition to our circle of connected hands, the task to stay focused had become easier. We got lucky when we found three of the men together, all hovering around the same pot of liquid chocolate, spoons in hand.  
    After wrenching the spoons out of their frantic fingers and making sure each hand was connected to another, Kiron lifted his link and pointed it over the far wall of the city.  
    “Don’t let go!” he shouted.
    I watched the jump as we made it, and was amused despite the seriousness of the situation. Chapman’s eyes were wide and terrified, surprised at the sudden pulling sensation that twisted and folded his body like saltwater taffy. I realized that he may have never used a link in his life before this moment. Arin was trying to break the grip of two of the others, clearly alarmed at the strange state of his body as it traversed through space.  
    The only one who stood upon landing was Kiron. The rest of us hit the ground and tumbled in the dirt like bowling pins. One by one, we each sat up and stared around at the others, both loss and awe intermingling on each face.  
    They were free.
    But the situation was grave.
    “What happened?” someone asked.  
    One of the men who had been standing over the chocolate pot licked his lips, as if he hadn’t yet let go of the idea of a heaping spoonful of the stuff melting on his tongue.
    Another scrambled to