Tomorrow's Magic Page 4

“I've devoted the evenings of these weeks to an intensive training program,” she announced proudly as she set the box on the table. “I brought Little John because he's a lot better at learning things than Marian or Robin, and Tuck is just hopeless.”

  First she took some bread crumbs out of a pocket and sprinkled them on the table beside the box. Then she lifted the lid and tilted the box on its side. A huge purplish cockroach darted out, stood still a moment waving its feelers, then settled into eating bread crumbs.

  “Well, what do you think of him?” she asked. “I don't think you've met Little John before.”

  “He sure is big,” Welly said, marveling at the four-inch length.

  “And he's smart, too. Look at this.” She fished around in her pocket and produced a small clay ball. Placing this on the table by the roach's head, she tapped him gently on the back. At first he ignored her and continued munching crumbs. Then, with an annoyed twitch of his feelers, he turned to the ball and began pushing it with his head and front legs. When he reached the edge of the table, Heather rewarded him with a fried potato slice.

  “Hey, that's pretty good. Can he do anything else?”

  “He can climb through hoops, but you have to put some food on the other side. And he can pull a wagon. I made a little one out of clay with a grass harness and tried to get him to pull Marian in it, but she kept scuttling off.”

  “Do you think he'd push the ball for me?”

  “Probably. Take his chip away first.”

  Welly snatched away the half-eaten potato, leaving the bug furiously waggling its antennae.

  “Now put the ball down by his head. Give him a little tap … another. Right, there he goes.” At the edge of the table, Welly returned the roach's prize.

  Heather sat on the chair and watched her charge proudly. “I wish I could have found Marian tonight. She's a lot prettier, really. More blue than purple and sort of … What's that?”

  A distant sound cut the air, a thin, high wailing. Welly shivered. “Don't know. That's the sound I told you about. It comes every so often at night. I don't like it.”

  The sound stopped. Heather waited breathlessly and scowled at Welly when he shuffled his feet. Then they heard it again, slightly deeper but still very faint.

  “Do you suppose it's ghosts?” she asked. “Ghosts of the dead monks who built this place? Or maybe banshees, wailing on the roofs of folks who'll die?”

  “Hush up! I'd rather suppose it's the wind or even some wild animal beyond the wall.”

  “Haven't you ever tried to track it down?”

  “No!”

  “Let's!”

  “Let's not! Suppose it is ghosts?”

  But Heather had already sprung from the chair and was easing open the door. Silently she slipped out. Welly followed reluctantly and stuck his head into the hall. “There, it's stopped,” he said quickly. “Come on back.”

  “No, there it is again, louder.”

  Welly had to admit it wasn't as muffled, but that made it worse.

  “It's coming from that way,” Heather said, pointing left. “Bring the candle.”

  Welly groaned but went back to the room. He grabbed the candle; then, seeing the potato-eating roach, he steeled his nerves, scooped it up, and hastily replaced it in the metal box. Candle in hand, he returned to the hall. Such an insane expedition was not quite as repellent with company—and light.

  Silent as spirits, they slipped along the hall, Heather in the lead. The flickering candle in Welly's hand cast grotesque shadows over the walls. Soon they passed into the older, more dilapidated part of the building. The air was musty, and the empty rooms were festooned with dust. The monk's ghost theory seemed more plausible.

  Welly was about to suggest they turn back when they heard the sound again. Closer now, it drifted down a stairwell from the floor above.

  An exultant gleam in her eye, Heather hurried to the foot of the spiral stairs and began climbing. The return of Sherlock Holmes, Welly thought bitterly; but reluctantly he followed.

  The corridor above seemed even more desolate. The stale air was cold, as though these higher walls were thinner. Taking the candle from Welly, Heather crouched down and examined the floor and its strewing of dust.

  “It's more disturbed over here,” she whispered, pointing the candle to the left. “Let's go this way.”

  “Do ghosts kick paths in dust?”

  “Shh! Maybe banshees do.”

  They had taken only a few steps when the sound came again. Much louder now, it floated from around the corner. The inhuman cry bristled Welly's hair. He knew he couldn't possibly turn that corner.

  But as the wailing trailed off, it was followed by soft choking sobs. If it was a ghost, thought Welly, it was pretty sorry about something.

  They stepped around the corner and saw a closed door. It was clean and straight on its hinges, unlike most of the rest. The sobbing came from the other side.

  Welly and Heather looked at each other, then tiptoed to the door. Handing Welly the candle, Heather turned the knob. The door was unlocked. She pushed, and with a faint creaking it swung open.

  Something was in the room, something breathing in soft gasps. Welly slipped in, raising the candle high. Its dancing light showed a small room, bare except for a chair and a narrow bed. A dark shape on the bed tossed and moaned.

  They stepped forward, and the light fell on a human face, eyes closed, features twisted as though in pain.

  “It's Earl!” Heather gasped.

  “I didn't know he lived up here!” Welly said. “I guess that school wards get the worst rooms.”

  Suddenly, eyes still closed, the boy on the bed jerked and began the strange wailing, made more chilling by seeing it rise from a human throat.

  “We've got to wake him!” Heather said. “He's having some horrible dream.”

  She ran to the bedside, grabbed the boy's thin shoulders, and began shaking. With a start, Earl opened his eyes and sat up so suddenly it nearly toppled Heather over. He looked around wildly, snapping out strange words.

  “Hold it, Earl!” Welly said. “Calm down. It's us, Welly and Heather. Wake up!”

  Slowly the wild look faded from his face. Earl blinked and shook his head. “One of the dreams,” he said shakily. “Sorry … sorry I disturbed you.” He shuddered, then began shaking uncontrollably.

  Heather grabbed a blanket that had slumped to the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders. “It's awfully cold up here.”

  “Yes, but I'm always like this after that dream.” His teeth were chattering now. “Sorry. Can't stop it.”

  “Look,” Welly said, “let's get you out of here for a minute. Down to my room. At least until you warm up.”

  Earl looked up at him searchingly, then nodded his head. “Yes. For a minute. The dreams, they leave a … a feeling in the place.”

  Shakily Earl got out of bed, his bare feet white on the gray stone floor. He stepped quickly into his boots and, grabbing his jacket off the chair back, pulled it over his thin nightshirt. The three left the room and silently made their way downstairs to Welly's, checking at corners for monitors.

  As they moved along, Welly wondered over this turn of events. He'd come to think of the older boy as strong and totally in control. Now they found him exiled in a cold, shabby cell and bothered with nightmares like a small child. Welly liked him no less for it, but he hoped Earl wouldn't be uncomfortable at their discovery.

  Once safe in the room, they bundled Earl into Welly's bed and piled blankets around him. Gradually the shivering subsided, and his pale face looked less pinched and taut.

  “Do you have dreams like this often?” Welly asked hesitantly.

  Earl nodded. “Every few weeks. Too often, much too often.”

  “Tell us about them if you like,” Heather offered. “If I talk about nightmares, they start seeming silly and a lot less real.”

  “These are always just as real.” He sat up, but for a minute said nothing more. Then he began talking
in a low, pained voice. “It's faces, mostly. Faces and feelings. Horrible feelings. Great forces going through me and around me, and I can't stop them or control them. I should, but I don't know how.

  “The faces are the worst, though. Some are beautiful, and some are not; some are very, very evil. And I know every one of them.” He looked up despairingly. “But I can't … I can't quite remember. They have names, and I can't name them. If only I could, maybe they'd all go where they belong … and I would, too. Maybe. But I never quite reach them. I can't remember!”

  He shuddered, dropping his face to his hands, struggling to control himself.

  Heather turned firmly practical. “These faces, do you think they're people you really knew? Before you lost your memory and came here? Your parents, maybe?”

  “Maybe. I don't know. But they are real people, and I knew them. I'm sure of that. Sometimes I see things happening, things that almost make sense, but not quite. And I never have the words to describe them afterward, even to myself.”

  He looked up at the two of them. “But I shouldn't trouble you with all this.”

  “And why not?” Heather said stubbornly. “We're friends, aren't we?”

  Slowly Earl smiled, his gaunt face softening. “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, then, maybe we can help you figure things out.”

  “No. Nobody can help. The dreams are with me all the time, shoved in the background, maybe, but the oddest things will bring them out: a word in a lecture or a strain of music, a certain view or the way someone laughs. There're answers somewhere; there must be. If I keep looking, maybe I'll find them. But if I don't even know what I'm looking for, I can't ask you to help.” He smiled and added, “Any more than you have already.”

  “Well, one thing we can do,” Heather said resolutely, “is provide some light evening's entertainment.” She motioned him to the table and opened the roach's traveling case. Soon they were all gathered around, Earl wrapped in a blanket, watching the antics of Little John. They sent the roach through the ball trick several times. Then Heather produced a hoop of braided grass and coaxed him through it.

  “Not very impressive, I admit,” she said sadly. “Remember that band of traveling entertainers last year? They had real domestic dogs and trained them to do all sorts of things like jumping through hoops. But roaches just don't jump very well.”

  Earl fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a thin wooden flute. “Let's see how he likes this. I made it several years ago when I had mice in my room. They used to come out and listen.”

  He settled into the chair and draped the blanket over his bony knees. Then, raising the slender wooden pipe to his lips, he began playing, head tilted to one side.

  The music was thin and reedy, rising and gliding through haunting little melodies. It bubbled through the children's blood and made them want to dance. The effect on the roach was striking. At first he sat, twiddling his feelers, then slowly he began swaying back and forth, candlelight gleaming off the shining purple carapace.

  “He's dancing!” Heather exclaimed. “He really likes it.''

  As Earl continued to play, Welly pulled open the table drawer and sorted through the clutter: bits of string and leather, interesting stones, shards of broken pottery. Pulling out a small scrap of paper, he rolled it into a cone, crimping the edges to hold the shape.

  Carefully he balanced the conical hat on the roach's flat head. Heather laughed delightedly as the insect continued its swaying dance, hat slightly askew. After a minute, the hat toppled off and fell onto the tabletop. The roach stopped his dance, wiggled his feelers, and with his front feet pulled the paper hat toward him and began to munch it.

  Earl stopped playing as they all laughed. “So much for art!” he said.

  Suddenly they froze. There was a voice outside in the hall. A monitor!

  In a flash, Heather scuttled out the window; Welly blew out the candle and dove into bed. Earl, too tall to hide under anything, jumped into the dark corner behind where the door would open.

  There was a solid rap on the door. “What's all the noise in there?” When nobody answered, the door opened. An older boy stood in the doorway, a candle lantern swinging in his hand. By its swaying light, Welly sat up with an imitation of drowsy, newly awakened innocence.

  “Whaaa …?”

  “I heard voices in here. It sounded like laughter—a girl's laughter, maybe.”

  “No, sir. It wasn't a girl. It was me, I guess.”

  “You? Do you often laugh in your sleep?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I mean, not laughing, sort of crying, whining like. It's the dreams, you see. I have these terrible dreams sometimes. With all these faces and people doing things. They really scare me. And I'm told I cry in my sleep.”

  The boy grunted and stepped into the room. Crouching down with his lantern, he looked under the table and bed. He glanced behind the door where Welly hung his coat on a peg.

  The monitor stepped back into the hall. “If you have to be a crybaby, kid, do it more quietly!” He pulled the door closed, leaving silence heavy in the room as his leather boots scuffed down the hall.

  When the sound died away, Welly slipped from his bed and, after several attempts, lit the candle. Earl was still standing behind the door, only partially concealed in the folds of the hanging coat.

  “Why didn't he see you?” Welly whispered. “He looked right at you.”

  “I'm thin. And if people expect to see something like a hanging coat, that's generally what they see.”

  “I wish I was thin,” Welly said morosely. “People can expect to see anything they want, but if I'm there, they see a fat boy with thick glasses.”

  There was an insistent rapping at the window parchment, and its edge lifted slightly. Heather's voice blew in with a gust of cold. “If the enemy has departed, I'll take my roach and run. It's cold out here.”

  Welly looked quickly at the table and found that the roach had dragged the paper hat into his open tin box and was contentedly chewing. Snapping down the lid, Welly passed the box out the window.

  “Thanks for the entertaining evening,” Heather said as she tucked the box under her arm and vanished into the darkness.

  Welly fastened the window again and turned to Earl. The older boy had opened the door a crack and was cautiously peering down the corridor.

  Closing the door again, he said, “I'll head back now. The monitor shouldn't come this way for the rest of the night.” He paused, then smiled awkwardly. “I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you the other day. But I just …”

  “No. It's all right. We understand. I just hope you don't mind my using that …”

  “No, that was good thinking. Got us out of a bad spot.” He put his hand on the doorknob, then turned back to Welly. “I want to thank you both for trying to help. It's good not having to handle everything alone.”

  When Earl had gone, Welly blew out the candle and crawled into bed. He drifted into drowsiness, hoping he wouldn't have any dreams, not like Earl's, anyway. Good he'd heard about them, though. It had helped with the monitor. He wasn't much at storytelling, not like Heather.

  August that year fulfilled the promise of the early thaw. It snowed only occasionally at night, and the light powdering vanished during the long summer days. The orchard's few gnarled trees were in leaf, and an occasional bird was heard cooing and calling among the eaves. The sun stayed up late, and after classes, all the students were drawn outdoors.

  One evening, some of the students put together a loose ball game. Two teams were formed, and a straw-stuffed leather ball was tossed back and forth, players trying to get it over opposite goals.

  Welly leaned against a wall and watched. He wanted to play. He wanted to jump and spin and catch the ball in midair. He wanted to cleverly dodge and duck around astonished opponents. But he knew better than to try.

  The others jeered at him for never playing, but he knew it would be worse if he did. They'd throw a ball at him, and instead of catching it, he'd duck
. He always had and always would. He was terrified that a ball would hit him in the face and break his glasses. Then he'd be blind as a bat.

  Blind as a bat. He wondered exactly what a bat was. Surely they must be extinct. But when they'd lived, had they minded being blind? Still, he believed they'd had wings, and that could make up for a lot.

  He thought about wings and flying and catching a ball in midair when his reverie was broken. A scream rose from behind the orchard wall. He recognized Heather's voice. Pushing off from his wall, he ran toward the orchard gate.

  Inside, Welly skidded to a halt and stared at the scene before him. Heather crouched at the base of a tree with Nigel standing over her. She held the body of a squirrel. It hung limply against her chest as she rocked back and forth shouting at the boy, “Killer! Bloody murderer! You think you're so great, you can kill for fun. You're just a bloody tyrant!”

  Nigel laughed, swinging his slingshot casually in his right hand. “Squirrels are vermin and ought to be killed. I'll do it if I feel like it. Same goes for human vermin when I'm Duke. Remember that, Horseface!”

  Welly had been standing rigid, fists clenched, eyes hazing with anger. Now a cord snapped, and he leaped at Nigel, flailing the older boy with fists, feet, and knees.

  Nigel recoiled, throwing an arm over his face. Then he kicked his assailant hard in the side. Welly staggered back and was socked in the jaw. He sprawled backward in the dust.

  With cries of “Fight, fight!” a crowd gathered around them. But Welly saw only his sneering enemy. He launched himself from the ground, driving his head into Nigel's stomach. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs; then Nigel was up, his fingers twisted in Welly's hair, raining blows on his chest and face.

  He did not pause until a hand gripped his shoulder from behind, and Earl's voice came cold and hard. “So, that's your idea of being a duke—killing or beating anyone weaker? ”

  Welly was dropped like an old sack, and he scrabbled over the ground for his glasses. Nigel straightened, turning slowly to face Earl.

  “No, I'll kill or beat anyone who gets in my way. Including you, misfit!”

  Nigel's friend Justin signaled frantically to him but was ignored. So he slipped up behind Nigel and whispered, “Not him, Nigel. A year ago, he—”