Ask the Bones (9 page)

 

 

 

T
he wizard leaned into the wind, cursing the storm. The gale was so fierce it endangered ships along the rocky coast. But the wizard thought only of the salt spray whipping his face and the icy rain dripping down his neck.

He usually stayed close to his hearth when such vile weather battered Iceland. But today his favorite dinner was being served at the inn—boiled sheeps' heads and pickled blood loaf. How could he possibly stay home when such delicacies awaited him?

When he arrived, he shook the rainwater from his shoulders and sat down at a table by the window. An unpleasant neighbor was sitting across the room, so the wizard mumbled a few magical words. Then he watched as the neighbor swigged down a mouthful of milk—and turned ashen. The milk that was fine just moments before had suddenly become sickeningly sour.

The wizard smirked, but for only a moment, before he became gloomy again. He was a failure, capable of only the simplest tricks. He could turn milk sour or send those who annoyed him into sneezing fits.

But somehow the immense powers of his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather had eluded him.

He slowly chewed the last bite of pickled blood loaf and looked out the window at the raging waters beyond the harbor. He saw a small ship there, rising and falling with the waves. Its icy decks were awash, its mast broken in two. And as he watched, he saw a wall of water crash down upon the ship and thrust it from sight.

He saw sailors bobbing to the surface, clinging to bits of wreckage, and he watched his fellow villagers brave the storm to rescue them.

All the while, the wizard sat by the window, unconcerned. It wasn't until the survivors were huddled around the inn fire, bemoaning the loss of their precious cargo, that the wizard's interest was kindled.

“Our bags of coins are spilled all over the ocean floor,” cried one sailor. “We can never reclaim them.”

The story of sunken treasure jolted the wizard's memory. He jumped up, wrapped himself in his cloak, and raced up the hillside to his home.

The wizard's house was built like all the others in the village, of stone and timber, faced with sod. But no one had a hearthstone quite like his.

The wizard knelt before the fire, pressed the back corner of the hearthstone, and watched it swing upward on sturdy hinges, exposing a secret hiding place beneath. And in that secret place was a book, its leather cover falling apart, its pages tattered. But this precious book, handed down for generations, contained the very passage the wizard needed.

He paged through it until he found the words he dimly remembered—a spell for redeeming treasure from the depths of the sea.

He began reading aloud:

The wizard's eyes were aglow until he read the warning:

Surely, thought the wizard, he wasn't about to die. So he memorized the words he'd read, replaced the book in the hole beneath the hearthstone, and pressed the stone back into place. He was going to do exactly what the book said, with no mistakes.

The next morning he followed a young shepherdess up the slope of a slumbering volcano that towered above the town. The mountain had not spit forth ash and fire since the wizard was a child.

While the sheep nibbled on scarce bits of moss and grass between the rocks, the girl napped. And while she napped, the wizard quietly snipped off her golden braids, without a thought about how she would feel when she discovered her loss.

He rushed home with the maiden's hair, but his book gave him no magic formula for making a net. So he struggled to tie the hair into knots, forming a mesh with openings so small that no mouse could slip through.

When the winds died down, he rowed out to the spot where the ship's treasure had sunk. He dropped the net of maiden's hair on the water and watched over it from sunrise until sunset. Finally, just before dark, he saw a mouse's paw entangled in the net. In one quick motion, he scooped it out of the water and into his pocket. Then he buttoned up his pocket and rowed home.

He had the barrel ready for the tide mouse, with the wheat and water and a bed of maiden's hair. But he had not yet stolen a coin.

So the next morning he waited until his neighbor went fishing. Then he sneaked into his house, snatched a coin, and raced home to tuck it under the mouse's bed.

All that night he sat beside the barrel brooding. Would the coins pour in? Or would his magic fail as it had so often in the past? He checked again and again, growing irritable. Even angry. But just before sunrise the mouse's bed rose, pushed up by a stack of coins.

“At last!” the wizard cried. He rejoiced that morning and each morning thereafter when he scooped up the coins.

He now had so much money that he often treated himself to boiled sheeps' heads and pickled blood loaf. And still the coins piled up.

Having such wealth pleased the wizard. But more than anything, he relished his newfound power. He had mastered the magic of his ancestors. How proud they would have been.

Year after year, the coins came, and year after year the wizard grew older. He knew he didn't need so much money, but how could he give up his magic mouse?

It wasn't until he grew quite feeble that fear began to overwhelm him. What if he still had the mouse in his possession when he died?

Every storm rolling across the sea began to look like a mouse squall headed his way, ready to destroy the land and send him to an agonizing death. But each time, he gritted his teeth and told himself, “Tomorrow. I will give the mouse away tomorrow.”

Then one morning the wizard felt sharp pains in his chest, and he could no longer contain his terror. When he looked far across the ocean, he saw huge thunderheads above the waves, lightning ripping across the sky, and sheets of water pouring down.

He must give away the mouse. He slipped it into his pocket and headed down to the harbor. The only man he found there was a fisherman repairing his nets. The man laughed when the wizard described what the mouse could do.

All the while the storm was coming closer.

Finally the wizard pulled forth coins that the mouse had drawn from the sea—coins that looked as if they had lain on the ocean floor ever since the shipwreck.

He knew he should tell the fisherman about the danger of keeping the mouse too long. But there was no time.

The mouse squall was almost upon them.

“Look,” he said. His hands trembled as he held out the coins.

“Well,” said the fisherman at last. “I'll give it a try.” And he accepted the mouse, tucking it into his own pocket before he walked away.

The wizard could still feel his heart pounding in his throat. But now he saw the storm veering away to the north. He heard a tremendous boom but thought nothing of it, for he had just saved himself from an agonizing death. He took a deep breath, only to cough violently. For suddenly the air was thick with volcanic dust and sulfurous fumes.

He heard a crackling roar and turned in time to see a stream of boiling lava pour down the side of the old volcano. It had already swallowed his home, his book of magic, his coins, and all.

Now it was going to swallow him.

 

 

 

T
he boy felt uneasy, traveling to a distant land with a merchant he barely knew. He was going to meet the man's daughter, his future bride. But he had never left Prague before, nor had he been separated from his family.

Joseph was only twelve when the merchant approached his father to arrange for the betrothal. It seemed as if the two rich men had made a fine match for their children. But when the merchant wanted Joseph to visit his castle, the father hesitated. The boy's Bar Mitzvah was only six months away, and the trip to the castle would take weeks.

But Joseph was an exceptional student. The merchant promised not only to help the boy with his studies but also to bring him home long before his Bar Mitzvah. So the boy's parents reluctantly agreed to let him go, and Joseph set forth to meet his future bride.

He could not believe his eyes when he and the merchant finally reached the castle, high on a hill. It was immense, with hundreds of rooms and a great tower that brushed the sky.

When they opened the massive front door, the merchant called for his servants. But no one answered. He called to his wife and daughter. But no one came. “They must be visiting elsewhere this week,” he said, as if he weren't the least bit surprised.

Yet it seemed strange to Joseph. And when three full months had passed with no sign of the merchant's family, he became anxious. Besides, the merchant had not given him any help with his studies. Indeed, Joseph had not seen a single book anywhere in the castle.

Joseph passed the time wandering up and down the corridors. He discovered that doors were open to every room except one. And the one locked room was at the very top of the castle tower.

Finally he asked the merchant if he could see what was in that room. “Of course,” said the merchant, and they climbed up the tower stairs.

When the merchant unlocked the door, he led the boy inside. Joseph was delighted to see that they had entered a library filled with books. “You will find everything you need for your studies here,” the merchant said.

But while Joseph hurried over to the bookcase, the merchant slipped out the door—and turned the key.

Joseph was trapped.

He ran to the door and tried to open it. He tugged at the handle only to find that it was firmly locked from the outside.

He pounded on the door with his fists and called to the merchant. But the only response was the sound of footsteps descending the stairs—until an eerie voice spoke from somewhere in the very same room.

“I see they have found a new victim,” it said.

The boy wheeled around and saw a sight so shocking that he almost fainted, for across the library, sitting on a round table, was an old man's head, severed from his body. And that head was speaking to him.

“Who ... who are you?” cried Joseph.

“Eighty years ago I was a young boy like you,” it said, “when I, too, was trapped in this room by the evil demon who pretends he is a merchant.”

Joseph shuddered. “But what happened?”

“On the day of my Bar Mitzvah, the merchant came to me with his fellow demons. First they cut off my head. Then they wrote a spell on parchment and placed it under my tongue.

“That spell reveals all secrets to me and forces me to reveal those secrets to them. But a speaking head is good for only eighty years, and now they need a new one.”

Joseph felt as if the ground had split open beneath his feet. “The merchant wants my head,” he moaned. “That's why he brought me to this terrible place.”

“But it's not too late for you to escape,” whispered the head. “Listen carefully.”

Joseph forced himself to move closer so he could hear, even though the sight of that severed head made him feel faint.

“Your only hope,” it whispered, “is to escape through the secret passage. See the bookcase behind you? Push hard on the third shelf.”

Joseph pushed and was amazed to see it swing open, revealing a dark passage. He was about to rush in when the speaking head called him back.

“Wait! If you don't take me with you, I'll be forced to reveal how you escaped and where you can be found. But if you do take me, I can guide you.”

Joseph went back to the table and gingerly lifted that gruesome head. He put it under his arm, entered the dark passage, and pulled the bookcase shut behind him. Joseph stood trembling in the dark. How could he move ahead with no torch?

“Count seven hundred and three stairs,” the head told him. “Then feel for a door.”

Joseph knew he had not climbed that many steps on his way up to the tower room. Was the speaking head in league with the demons? Did he dare let it guide him?