Small Magics (16 page)

“Eileen—” Magda warned.

Lionel looked down the length of his nose at his daughter. “Were you now?”

“I said as much last night,” said Eileen, her voice rising. “Not that you were listening since you were having such a fine time planning what you were going to do to Thomas.”

“Eileen,” the warning in Magda’s tone was unmistakable. “Enough.”

Lionel waved his hand at his wife in a gentle, silencing gesture. “It’s all right, love. She’s right enough in what she says. I was furious all right, boy, and was certainly ready to give you a piece of my mind, but then…” He shook his head, shame creeping back into his voice. “I don’t know what happened. Suddenly I was ready to beat the hide off you, boy. I could have killed you right then, and I nearly did. I have no idea…”

I do,
thought Thomas as Lionel trailed off. Out loud he only said, “I know.”

Lionel shook his head again, shaking the confusion off his face and replacing it with a stern look. He turned back to his daughter. “As for you, we had hopes you would grow up somewhat less reckless than your brother.”

“Hey!”

“Quiet, George.” Lionel didn’t take his eyes off Eileen. “After last night, however, I can safely say that that you haven’t. What you did was dangerous and careless and could have gotten you killed!”

Eileen looked rebellious, but said nothing. Lionel glared at her until she wilted and turned her eyes to the floor. Lionel glared a while longer, then sighed. “At least you’ve got courage enough to make up for what you lack in sense. Both of you,” he added with a nod to Thomas. “And what, pray, gave you the idea of challenging me to a duel? Me, who is close to you as your own kin?”

“Well—”

“Not to mention twice your size.”

“Well—”

“And then challenging the rest of the village and the bishop?”

“Well,” Thomas said a third time, speaking slowly and clearly to make the words heard through the thick towel he was keeping pressed to his face, “I thought I might have a better chance against your sword than your belt.”

Lionel’s eyebrows went up, then he snorted with laughter. “True,” he said, “though I might just surprise you come dawn tomorrow.”

“Now you stop that,” Magda scolded. “The boy’s had enough grief already without you teasing him.”

“Teasing?” The smith looked about ready to protest further, but left off at a glare from his wife. “Fair enough, then. How’s the nose, boy?”

“Better. Still bleeding, though.”

“We’ll wait for it to stop. Then I think we should pay a visit to your house and talk to your father.”

“I’m going with you,” said George. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Magda, looking from father to son. “I’ll not have you making a mess over at Thomas’s house.”

“I wasn’t going to,” protested Lionel.

“You’re not going to get the chance,” said Magda. She took the cloth from Thomas and handed him a fresh one, then shook a finger at Lionel. “And don’t bother arguing. We’ll none of us be doing anything at all until after we’ve all had breakfast and a nap. It’s been a long night and there’s not one of us who’s had any sleep. After that, we’ll talk about what to do.”

Lionel looked at his son. “She does make a good argument.”

“Aye, she does.”

“Aye, I do. So get this boy off to bed—sitting up, mind you—while we get the kitchen sorted and breakfast made.”

***

Thomas didn’t get up until noon. He had thought he would sleep the entire day away, but his dreams were ugly and violent. Men he couldn’t see grabbed at him, hit him, and the bishop’s face with its sunken, deep red eyes leered at him until he forced himself awake and out of the bed.

His bruises and sore muscles had stiffened nicely while he lay there, and he could barely manage to get up. He made himself move, preferring the pain to the dreams. He dressed himself in the shirt, breeches, and boots his father had given him. He would rather not have worn them, but they were the only clothes he had that weren’t covered in blood or smelling of the fire.

When he came down the ladder, the entire family was at the table, speaking in low voices that hushed the moment they saw him. Thomas managed a smile. “Talking about me?”

“Aye,” said George. “And your father.”

“Come to any decisions?”

“None,” said Lionel. “Though not for lack of arguing.” Magda raised a warning finger at him, and Lionel left the topic. “How are you feeling, lad?”

“Sore, stiff and tired,” said Thomas. “Thank the Four and you that I can breathe through my nose or I’d be feeling worse than I did this morning.”

“The stiffness will pass,” said Lionel. “Sit.”

Thomas did as he was told, feeling the bruised ribs pull as he eased himself into the chair. There was silence a moment, as Lionel and Magda shared glances that plainly said
you go first
to the other.

“Mother wants to tell the Reeve,” said George before either of his parents could say anything. “Da would rather go talk to your father himself.”

“Someone has to go talk to the man,” began Lionel.

“Aye,” Magda said, cutting him off. Her tone made it quite clear that she’d said as much several times already. “But it won’t be you!”

Thomas had a vision of how badly that particular conversation would go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lionel. Father’s not in a mood to listen right about now.”

“What about your mother?” asked Eileen. “Or your brother? Could they talk to him?”

Thomas shook his head, “Not right now. He’s angry enough that he won’t listen to anyone.”

“He was last night,” said Magda. “Do you think he will be still this morning?”

“Aye,” said Thomas.
And as long as the bishop still has him.
“I do.”

Someone knocked, loud and sharp, at the front door and everyone around the table started. For a moment, Thomas was certain it was his father or the bishop, come to get him. He was half-way to his feet when Bluster called from outside. “Lionel! Magda! Are you in?”

“Aye,” called Lionel back. “Come in.”

Bluster opened the door and stepped in. He was flushed and sweaty, like a man who had run a fair ways, and looked very tired. He waved at them all and walked across the house to join them in the kitchen.

“So you are here,” said Bluster to Thomas. “I thought as much.”

“Aye,” said Thomas, wondering what he’d done to rate any attention, especially the day after Fire Night. He was surprised Bluster wasn’t still in bed.

“Your father said he didn’t know where you’d gotten to,” said Bluster. “Said you’d left last night in a huff and didn’t say where you were going.”

Thomas did his best to keep his voice neutral. “Really?”

“Aye.” Bluster took a long look at Thomas’s face. “He didn’t mention any black eyes, though.”

“Was it his father who sent you to find him?” asked Lionel, stepping between them.

“Nay,” Bluster shook his head. “John was asleep when I got there. Said he’s not so young as he can stay up all night without feeling the consequences. No, I actually went there looking for this one here. And since he wasn’t at his parents’ house, the only other place he could be…”

“Would be our house,” finished Lionel.

“Aye.”

“Why did you want to see me?” Thomas asked.

“Wanted to talk to you about that juggler,” said Bluster. He looked over at George and Eileen, “All three of you, actually, so it’s just as well you’re here, Thomas.”

Fear opened a hole in Thomas’s stomach. “What about Timothy?”

“It seems that he was planning to leave last night.”

Other business,
the bishop had said. Thomas had barely heard it through the haze of blood and pain the night before. His throat was suddenly dry, and it took him a moment before he could manage to say. “Planning?”

“Aye. We found his wagon a ways up the road. A right mess it was, too.”

The hole in Thomas’s stomach became a yawning pit. “Where is he?” Thomas heard the tremor in his voice, tried to suppress it. “Where’s Timothy?”

“Under the wagon,” said Bluster, regret in his voice. “We didn’t dare move him what with the condition he was in.”

The pit pulled his strength into its depths and spat out fear to take its place. “Where?”

“Half a mile north—Hey!”

Thomas pushed past him, running.

“You can’t help him, lad!” called Bluster.

Thomas ignored him and ran on, leaving the house behind. It was a rough, limping run that felt like it barely covered any ground at all. Every movement stretched protesting muscles; every jolt shot pains through his body. Thomas told himself the pain was unimportant and tried to force his legs to a faster pace. He stumbled instead and nearly fell.

A strong hand attached itself to his elbow, pulling him upright. George, who hadn’t been able to beat Thomas in a race since they were ten, had caught up and was keeping pace. Eileen was right behind him. George kept his grip on Thomas’s elbow and helped him keep his feet.

Thomas, immensely grateful, could only manage a nod. His attention all went to the road in front of him and to keeping upright.

They ran through the centre of the town. George was beginning to puff, and Thomas could hear Eileen’s strained breathing behind him, but neither slowed. There were people out, now, cleaning up from the fair and going about their business. Thomas managed to avoid running over anyone, though he had to dodge around several. George, still holding Thomas’s arm, knocked at least one person off balance. The man’s angry words and Eileen’s shouted apology followed them out of the village and across the town common. They reached the road and followed it back the way Thomas had come only three days before; up the hill and around the bend into the woods.

Timothy’s wagon lay in the dirt at the side of the road. Two of its wheels turned in the air, the other two were dug deep into the earth, miraculously unbroken beneath the weight of the vehicle. Underneath, near the front, Thomas could see Timothy in his brightly-coloured, patched clothes. Sister Clare was kneeling beside him, cradling his head. Sister Brigit, Liam, and four or five of the village men were also there, standing back and looking at a loss. Thomas stopped in front of the wrecked wagon. “Don’t just stand there,” he demanded, between gasps of breath. “Get it off of him!”

“We can’t,” said Liam.

“It’s killing him!”

“It’s already killed him,” said Sister Clare, quietly. “He’s bleeding underneath the wagon. Moving it will only make it worse.”

“How can it be worse?” Thomas demanded. Timothy’s face was grey, his eyes closed. Underneath the wagon, his legs were flattened, his pants stained dark red and wet. A pool of blood was overflowing by the little man’s waist, sending a thin trickle of red twisting slowly through the dirt of the road. “Timothy! Timothy!”

“Let him sleep,” admonished the nun. “It will make his passing easier.”

“Passing is already easy,” said Timothy. He sounded hollow and distant, as if talking was bringing him back from some place far away. His eyes opened and squinted at the young man beside him. “Can’t feel a thing.”

“Timothy!” Thomas crouched down beside him, hissing in pain from the motion. “We’ll get the wagon off you. We’ll stop the bleeding—”

“No, you won’t,” Timothy said. A coughing fit took him as soon as the words left his mouth. Blood flew from his mouth as his neck and chest twisted. The effort took his strength away, leaving his eyes unfocused and his mouth gaping as he tried to force air into his lungs. Thomas wanted to grab him, to shake him back to life even though he knew it would do no good at all. At last Timothy’s eyes came back into focus. His voice was fainter than before. “Sit a while, lad.”

Thomas knelt on the wet ground next to him, trying to hide the pain the motion cost him. Timothy saw anyway, and his lips pulled into a shape that could have been a smile. “Rough night all around, then.”

“Aye.” Thomas could feel tears starting to well up. He forced them back. “Timothy, who…?”

“Same as before…”

Another round of coughing shook the juggler and left him once more gasping for breath. Thomas blinked hard, felt the tears rolling down his face. He was about to dash them away with his sleeve when Timothy’s hand shot out, and closed painfully tight on Thomas’s hand.

“A word, lad,” Timothy’s voice was hoarse, his breathing laboured, “in your ear.”

Thomas leaned over the heaving chest and put his face beside Timothy’s. Timothy licked his lips. The first word was incomprehensible, and the little man tried again. “It’s true. The magic…ball of light…true.” A shudder passed through the man’s body. His grip tightened. Timothy gasped for air again then continued. “No one ever saw… You did.”

Thomas strove to make sense of the words. “I don’t—”

Timothy interrupted. “Bishop…bastard…took the best part of me.” He fought for breath again. “Wants the small magics. Will take…”

“What?” The little man was in great pain now, his eyes rolling back and his face contorting. Thomas held him as best he could. “What will he take?”

“Ailbe,” Timothy gasped. His eyes lost their focus then came back, sharp and clear, but not truly seeing. “Want sky.” His voice was scared, child-like. “I want to see…”

Thomas sat back. Timothy’s face contorted with the effort of getting air into his lungs. His hand, still gripping Thomas’s, clenched painfully tight, then relaxed. His twisted features smoothed and his wide-open eyes stared, sightless, into the blue sky above him.

Thomas sat there, crying, until George helped him to his feet and away from Timothy’s body.

***

Bluster arrived at some point, though Thomas wasn’t sure when, with Lionel behind him. Lionel and the other men from the village pushed the wagon upright, freeing Timothy’s body. The two nuns wrapped Timothy in the blankets he had shared with Thomas and his friends only two nights before. Bluster and the others lifted the body up into the back of the wagon. Eileen sat beside Thomas, her face wet with tears. George paced back and forth, swinging his big arms helplessly.

Bluster came over to the little group, looking solemn. “A bad business this is,” he said, surveying the three young people. “Bad all around.”