Caleb McCallister and the Sword of Light

Chapter 1

Footsteps shuffled down the hall and stopped at the stairs leading to the attic. "Caleb! Get a move on!" It was my mom. Shouting at my room. Which was empty.

I drained a glass of orange juice before I answered.

"Caleb Airgetlám McCallister!"

"Relax Mom! I'm in the kitchen."

She stuck her head around the corner. "Just making sure. Don't forget about the field trip."

"I know. I know. Gimme a break."

She sighed, shook her head, and went back to the living room.

My uncle narrowed his eyes as he shoveled more cereal into his mouth. Seamus was a big hulk of a guy with dark brown hair and a scruffy beard to match. He made the kitchen table look tiny, and he was sitting there eating Lucky Charms like a little kid. I stifled a laugh and rifled through the cabinets looking for something to eat.

I bit into a protein bar, and he was still eyeing me. His bright-blue eyes didn't quite match his dark expression. "What?" I mumbled.

He didn't answer. Seamus didn't talk much. It was a minor miracle that he'd even surfaced from his apartment in the basement. He nodded toward the doorway where my mom had disappeared.

I could've pretended I didn't understand. Half the time I didn't know what he wanted, but his meaning was clear enough. "Fine. I'll apologize on the way out."

Pinocchio had a cricket; I got Seamus.

"Be goin ta the harbor, are ye?" My uncle was born in America, just like my dad. Both of them were born and raised in Dorchester, just south of Boston. But my father talked like the Townie he was. If I didn't know Seamus, I'd swear he'd just gotten off a boat from Ireland.

"Yeah. My teacher thinks Fort Warren will be fun because it's haunted," I said. "Why can't they take us to a Celtics game? American ghosts are lame compared to the bánánach." Those were the demons that haunted places associated with death. They were drawn to battlefields the way leprechauns sniffed out gold. Seamus grabbed his elbows and started rocking in his chair. It was something he did when reality got to be too much for him. Just mentioning the Irish legends my grandfather used to tell was enough to set him off. I didn't have time for this, but I went over and put a hand on his shoulder. Despite his age and size, he was more like a little brother than an uncle. "Sorry Seamus. It's okay. Nothing's gonna happen. Mom's gonna be home all day."

The swaying slowed but didn't quite stop. "Ye stay out the bloody water."

"Uh—okay." Not sure why my uncle thought I'd take a swim in nasty old Boston Harbor, but Seamus was always giving me cryptic advice like that. So I let it go. I was already late. I grabbed my backpack and went down the hall.

My mom was reading next to the fireplace. She looked like an Irish cliché. Flowing red hair, a fair complexion with freckles, and curled up in an armchair drinking tea. The resemblance ended there. Sometimes I wished she lived up to the determination and fearlessness the stereotype promised. "I'm out. Sorry I was rude before. I couldn't sleep, and I miss Dad when he's away."

It was partially true.

She looked up from her book with a smile, but the corners of her mouth were tight. "I know it's hard, but someday you'll understand."

"What makes you think I don't get it now? I gotta go."

*****