A

By Frank Ferland

Frankie, a 14-year-old student, passes an extraordinary test and now has his own opinion about a legend from his hometown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books on Demand
• Release date: May 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9783744844031

Frank Ferland

Frank Albert Ferland, born on July 9, 1947, in Bremerhaven, Germany, began writing this, his first fantasy novel, more than 13 years ago. His aim was to show that it is also possible to pen a story with no violence. After retiring, he finally found the time to finish it with active support from Uwe Schmid and Claudia Matusche. The original German text was translated into English by Leslie Ocker. This book is dedicated to his two now-adult children, Caroline and Sebastian.

Book preview

Aas in adventure, apple, afraid – but I’m not afraid," I said out loud. Feeling a little self-conscious, I looked around to see whether anyone had heard me talking to myself. Ominous, dark clouds had rolled in, blanketing the landscape in darkness as I rode down Alleestraße towards Aarau on my mountain bike.

This afternoon, right after school, I had gone straight to visit my best friend, Freddie, who lives in Bergweilen, the village next to mine.

By the way, my name is Frank, but all my friends call me Frankie.

Frankie, ride safely, keep to the right, and don’t forget to turn on your lights, called Freddie’s mom as I left the house. By the time you make it home, it’ll probably be even darker, and it looks like a thunderstorm is coming!

Sure, don’t worry! I yelled back as I set off on my bike.

Freddie, Martin, and I had spent the afternoon with a few other boys, playing soccer and doing stuff on the computer. Freddie’s mom is a really nice lady. For lunch, she made us our favorite food – pancakes with applesauce – as a reward for the good grades we brought home on our report cards today. It was the last school day before two weeks of spring break. So cool!

Freddie, Martin, and I had sped straight from our middle school in Soren to Freddie’s house in Bergweilen, about a mile away. From there, I always have to ride another mile to get home to Aarau. Martin and his parents live right beside Freddie. Their mothers were waiting at the garden fence when we rode up. My parents weren’t home yet because they had some kind of important business meeting.

Hi boys, said Mrs. Sievers and Mrs. Blaschek at almost the same time, how did you do on your report cards?

We got off our bikes, leaned them against the fence beside the entrance to the Sievers’ yard, and took off our backpacks practically in unison. Then we pulled out our report cards in their colored plastic sleeves and showed them to the two women.

I only got a C in math instead of the B I was hoping for, but that’s OK because I got an A geography even though I was only expecting a B. Otherwise, it’s all B’s and C’s, except for my A in phys ed, of course, Martin Sievers explained to his mother, who was standing in the gate, listening attentively.

And other than Martin’s nerdy A in geography, I got the same grades as he did. My geography grade was a C! said Freddie Blaschek happily. His mother threw her arms around him, kissing him on the left cheek. Dad’s gonna be so happy about how well I did!

She looked up from the report card to meet his eyes. Great job, Freddie. All that studying really paid off!

This time, you boys really earned a nice school break, Mrs. Sievers gave Martin an affectionate pat on the back. Then she turned and smiled at me, And how did you do this semester, Frankie?

Super, I grinned. My average was 0.2 grade points higher than my last report card. The only thing that bugs me a little is my B in phys ed. Maybe it was because I missed two periods last semester when I caught that stupid flu from Dad! But I’m really looking forward to going home tonight. Dad promised a reward if I got my grades up, I grinned, rubbing my hands together.

Then come on inside, kids. You too, Martin. I already asked your mother. I’m making pancakes with applesauce.

The three of us stormed into the house behind Mrs. Blaschek, running straight into the kitchen, where the mouth-watering aroma of pancakes hung in the air.

Not so fast, gentlemen. First, I’d like to see some nice and clean hands! Off you go!

The three of us squeezed into the tiny guest bathroom. Afterwards, there was water everywhere.

Hey, Freddie, make sure you clean up after yourselves in there! called Mrs. Blaschek from the kitchen.

Freddie rolled his eyes, grabbed a guest towel from the shelf on the wall, wiped over the sink, faucet, mirror, wall tiles, and floor, and tossed the soggy towel like a basketball from the hallway into the silver laundry basket that stood in a corner of the pantry.

And it’s another three-pointer for the great Freddie Nowitzki! laughed Martin.

Finished, panted Freddie as he turned to follow Martin and me back towards the irresistible smell of freshly griddled pancakes.

During summer vacation last year, Freddie and his parents visited a relative who lives in the United States, in Smithfield, Pennsylvania, to be exact. I think it was a cousin of Mrs. Blaschek’s. In any case, the old country Blascheks were so impressed with the American kitchens that, the following winter, Freddie’s father hired a company here to build something similar for their own kitchen.

In the middle of the relatively small room stood what looked like a huge block of wood with doors, compartments, and drawers on every side. It was covered with a medley of shiny silver hinges, fittings, knobs, and hooks. Hidden inside the compartments and drawers were dishes, pots, cutlery, and all sorts of useful and superfluous things. There were even rummy, Sheepshead, and Uno cards, a dice tray with dice cups and dice, and various board games, including chess, Nine Men’s Morris, Monopoly, Parcheesi, and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, all packed into the cabinet in no particular order.

The large countertop resembled real stone but was actually made of Resopal or a similar material. It extended about eight inches past the edge of the wooden block on all four sides. Built into the middle was a glass-ceramic cooktop with four cooking zones of various shapes and sizes. A stainless-steel range hood that flared out at the bottom hung from the ceiling above it. Dangling from the hood were several pans, pots, and kitchen utensils, including ladles of all sizes, salad tongs, and large meat forks. The range hood also had a special control panel for adjusting the fan speed, lighting, and so on. All around the wooden kitchen island, as the Americans call it, were bar stools made from the same type of wood. Each of them had arms, a back, and a brownish-yellow seat cushion decorated with tiny red flowers.

Mrs. Blaschek reached into the convection oven built into her side of the island – which looked somewhat like a bar counter – pulled out a large, white porcelain platter piled high with steaming pancakes, and placed it on the enamel tray beside the cooktop.

We hopped onto the bar stools with varying levels of deftness. Freddie didn’t quite make it onto the seat and almost banged his big head on the edge of the countertop.

Smooth move, ex-lax! I had to laugh out loud.

Zip it! answered Freddie, grinning.

Buon appetito!

You again with your Italian … just because you went to Bardolino on Lake Como one time on vacation, said Freddie to Martin with an exasperated look on his face.

It was Lago di Garda, quipped Martin.

OK, that’s enough, you two. Time to eat. Enjoy your pancakes. You earned them. Mrs. Blaschek put a large plastic bottle of Spezi (cola mixed with orange soda) in front of us, and we grabbed the first pancakes, using our fingers of course.

My oh my, what’s happened to your manners? Mrs. Blaschek pointed to the forks and knives that were lying on paper napkins. Although it might be nice to have less silverware to wash, we do have to maintain a certain level of civility!

Beside each of our plates was a small glass bowl filled with applesauce, which, as Mrs. Blaschek explained, had been made by Mrs. Sievers. Maria’s much better at making it than I am. I think she uses an old family recipe from our great-grandmothers’ time. But she always says that I make the best pancakes, she boasted with a smile.

I slopped a big spoonful of applesauce onto the middle of my oversized pancake, accidentally splattering some on Martin, who was sitting across from me.

Hey, you dope! Martin grabbed the napkin and wiped the applesauce off his shirt.

Hellooo, can we please show a little more decorum? said Mrs. Blaschek, wagging a finger at us.

I spread the applesauce over the pancake in all directions and rolled it up with an Ouch! That’s steaming hot!

Martin and Freddie finished rolling theirs at almost the same time. Then, as always, we looked at each other and started our countdown: Three, two, one, down the hatch! We all bit ravenously into our pancake rolls.

Ah, h-ha!

Mmmhh!

I could eat this every day!

Freddie winked at his mother and, with a full mouth, asked, Hey Mom, ‘en’s Dad shumming ‘ome sha-day?

"He didn’t say anything this morning before he left, so I assume at around five thirty as usual. Why do you ask? And by the way, if you wouldn’t shove