The Magickers (21 page)

He nodded.

“I would not worry for another few days. Then, if it still hurts . . . you may have a thorn or splinter from the bushes under there. I will get out my special glasses and take a look, all right?”

“Special glasses?” Lenses with Magick, he wondered?

She pulled open a desk drawer and tapped her goggles headgear. He remembered them, then. She smiled. “Gives me bug eyes!”

He let out a quick laugh in spite of his worry. Would she be sitting there laughing with him if she thought he was seriously wounded or infected? He tried not to think about it anymore. “Dr. Patel . . .”

She closed her desk again, still smiling slightly, and tilted her head, indicating she was listening to him.

“Did you become a doctor before you found out you were a Magicker?”

“That is quite a story, and one you should hear, but I think I will save it till some evening at the campfire, now that you all know what we share.” A white envelope shifted on the desk slightly, skittering close to her hand, and she said, “Oh! Jason . . . would you mind taking this down to Ting at Kittencurl Cottage? She has a bit of a headache, and these are some pills for her.”

He took the crisp envelope, felt two oblong pills bulging inside it. The phone rang, and with a nod to him, she picked it up. After listening a moment, she said, “Poison oak? Oh, that can be nasty. I know there's a big patch of it around here somewhere, I should ferret it out and mark it. The kids keep getting into it. FireAnn has cooked up a nice little ointment for that, though, which should take care of it in a jiffy.” She waved at Jason who got to his feet and began to edge sideways out the door.

While she gave instructions for applying FireAnn's ointment, he ducked his head and left, wondering if that was what had been cooking in the great pot in the mess hall kitchen for days. If so, it had to be the best smelling medicine he'd ever sniffed! The envelope rattled in his fingers as he began to trot down the path toward the girls' side of the lake. The clouds had lifted some, leaving the air heavy and damp. Swimming later would feel good. For that matter, so would canoeing, with a splash or two.

“Jason! Hey! Wait up!” Jonnard's deep voice rang after him, and as he paused, the tall boy loped up.

“Trouble?”

“No. I just have something to take over to the other side for one of the counselors.” He shook his envelope.

Jonnard nodded. “Someone not well?”

“Ting's upset over Bailey. Dr. Patel sent her something.”

Jonnard nodded. “Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Sure thing.” He watched as Jason trotted on down the path, and stood there for a long time. The back of Jason's shoulder blades prickled for a moment with the knowledge he was being watched. When he reached the far end of the lake and looked back, the other had finally gone.

Ting opened the door very slowly. “Oh, Jason!” She let out a long breath.

“Dr. Patel sent you these.” He passed the envelope through the crack in the screen door. “Are you okay?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, and I'm worried sick about Bailey and . . . something is here.” She stepped outside onto the porch, her dark hair swinging about her shoulders, and shivered despite the summer heat. “Well . . . it's not here now. It comes and goes.”

“Anything else get stolen?”

“No.”

“Look, I'm sorry our trap didn't work.”

“Oh—it did. But there was no one there when I got up to check it!” Ting waved a thin hand in puzzlement. “Not a sight of anything. No doors closing, steps, nothing. Just the trap and tin cans scattered everywhere.”

Jason beamed. “It worked? Cool. Cookies still there?”

“Gone,” Ting said dramatically. “Not a crumb.”

Jason blinked. “Gone?” he echoed.

She nodded, and then had to push a wing of raven-dark hair from one eye. Behind them, the screen door banged in the slight breeze, and the Kittencurl sign thudded gently against the cottage. The porch itself creaked as if the wind could walk over it. Ting shivered. She looked back over her shoulder nervously, and her fingers crumpled the envelope he'd given her. “I keep hearing . . . noises,” she said hesitantly. “I think the cottage is haunted.”

“Can't be. Only place we've heard about is Dead Man's Cabin. Listen, I can't stay, but if you need anything, we'll help all we can, all right?”

Ting nodded slowly. Then she said, “I know you must think I'm foolish. I can't help it. Ghosts are part of my ancestry.” She sighed.

“You're not foolish. We'll figure out something to do!” He waved, leaving her standing alone on the porch, hugging one thin arm about herself.

What he was going to do, he had no idea.

 

Scheduling at the camp kept him so busy, he almost gave up the idea of thinking. That evening, he plunked down beside Trent at the campfire, tired and yawning. He waved away a charred marshmallow and picked up a stick to toast one for himself.

Trent sneered as he said, “I like mine browned, not burned.”

Eleanora was playing her dulcimer as everyone settled in. Then, in the back, Lucy, a stocky girl with brown hair bunched in stubborn pigtails, asked, “Why did Gregory and Brennard fight, anyway? Why did they ruin everything?”

She stilled her strings with the palm of her hand. “No one is quite sure, actually. No one was there but the two of them. It happened something like this. . . .

“Once upon a time, hundreds of years ago, when civilization was still rather young, two wizards met in a discussion over their beliefs: an old fool, and a young fool.”

“Teacher and student,” Trent blurted out. Then he twisted his hand on the knee of his jeans.

Eleanora turned to him, the firelight making her face glow as it played over her skin. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “That is often the way of it, isn't it?” She smoothed her skirt again. “The young fool claimed Magick was finite. To demonstrate his belief to the master, he held up a pitcher of water and emptied it. ‘When it is gone, it is gone!' he claimed triumphantly. His teacher took the pitcher from him and looked into it. ‘Of course it is gone,' he said. He took his student by the hand and took him down to the riverside. ‘Here is where it is. A pitcher cannot make water, it only holds it. But the seas, the rivers . . . are of water themselves, and make water as well as hold it. Although there may be a day when all rivers and oceans dry up, I do not think it will happen for thousands of years, no matter how many times we may dip our pitcher into it to refill it.' And the teacher stepped back, feeling very wise indeed.”

Eleanora took a soft breath. “But the student said, ‘Then you are still a fool, for if Magick were like water, then any fool could have it and use it!' And he left in a fury. He did not hear the old teacher saying after him, ‘But not any fool can see those rivers or fashion a pitcher to carry the element we call Magick.' ” Her face creased in a faint wrinkle. “That was not the first of their arguments, nor was it to be their last, but it was perhaps the argument that defined both. It had become clear that Magickers disagreed over the source and care of their ability, and two camps formed. Now, you must understand that the two had been good friends as well as teacher and pupil so the old fool was very hurt by the sudden turn of the other. He had long preached that care must be taken of Magicking for its consequences were not always readily seeable. He worried about Brennard's view of Magick and what it might lead to, and in the years to follow, what he heard worried him even more. Brennard and his followers had found a way to leech the Magick out of a person, draining them dry forever. The shock of it left many near death. And why do it? Could Brennard not find the ley lines? Could he not sense the manna which lay about for his use? True, the pockets and troves of manna were not always easily findable, but they
were
there. No need to steal and harm another! Gregory grew deeply troubled. As teacher, and generally regarded leader of the Magickers, it was his duty to stop misdoings. So he challenged Brennard to a duel.”

A murmur of surprise ran through the campers. Eleanora waited till they quieted before continuing. “They met in a remote area so as not to harm others by their actions but—” She paused, then shook her head. “No, that is getting ahead of myself. Just remember what I said about . . . consequences.”

She inhaled, lacing her fingers together and sliding them over one knee. “A great duel commenced. It became clear that all Brennard had been accused of, and more, was true. He attacked Gregory vigorously, first trying to weaken him enough to drain his Magick and then, when that failed, launched an all-out attack to kill him.

“Dark deeds and disdain were bad enough, but murderous intents shook Gregory down to his core, and soon he knew he was in a fight for his life . . . and the lives of all Magickers who opposed Brennard. Gregory, it is supposed, decided that it was kill or be killed, though killing was beyond his beliefs.”

Someone let out a tiny gasp. Eleanora paused but did not stop talking. “Because he would not murder another, he did something more . . . interesting. He bonded himself to Brennard, bonded himself so closely that whatever Brennard did to Gregory returned on himself, hoping he could stop his pupil that way.

“But Brennard would not be slowed. He had a mission, you see, to keep Magick from being burned out and becoming extinct forever. He would take the fight to the end!” Eleanora inhaled deeply again, her face pale, her eyes very bright. “Then Brennard lashed out with all of his strength to fell Gregory, once and for all! With that blow, he destroyed the Magickers as we knew them.”

A hush fell over the gathering, disturbed only by the snap and pop of a pine cone or two amongst the bonfire logs.

“The shock of that attack slew Gregory and sent Brennard into a deep, deep coma. Magickers all over felt the final attack. Some died of the echoes of that blow. Most fell into a coma themselves from the shock, and many died from that, their families unknowing of where they were or how to protect them. Some were thrown across time, those that were closest to both of the wizards. Whatever happened to them then, one thing has become clear now. Magick was lost for centuries. Only now is it being reclaimed, and the same two factions still argue about its properties. We do know this . . . there are those on both sides who will stop at nothing to prove themselves right, and the others wrong.”

She paused, as Tomaz Crowfeather stepped forward to scatter the coals of the burned-down campfire. “Nothing,” she repeated.

15

J
ASON woke at midnight. Shivering despite the summer heat, the camp quiet except for crickets and katydids, his blankets were knotted and thrown aside as if he'd been wrestling with them. He took a deep breath, then sat up. His pulse roared in his ears like high surf at the beach. He could not remember the dream this time. Only that he had fought it. Across the room, Trent breathed hard and moved about restlessly, but did not awaken.

Jason watched him briefly in the dim light. It looked as though Trent might be having nightmares as well, dreaming just like he did, but not remembering the next day. Or perhaps not fully dreaming the terror. Was there something about the other campers that kept them safe from what he had just gone through?

He rubbed sleep from his eyes, not willing to lie back down just yet. He stood up and went to the door, and opened it, just leaving the screen door shut. The porch creaked slightly. He put his nose to the screen to see out. Nothing could be seen in the moonlight-streaked night . . . or at least, nothing but the porch with its heavily shadowed corners. He heard a grunt.

Jason squinted through the cross-grained screen. Two hunched-over figures passed, not on the walkway, but through the fringe of trees and shrubbery bordering it. He couldn't see their faces clearly, but he recognized the heavy-shouldered one by the way he walked. What were they even doing up? Where were Stefan and Rich going this time of night? They'd already bypassed Squibb, their favorite target. Stefan seemed to be carrying something heavy, pressed against his chest.

“You're sure that's what this is?”

Rich laughed low. “You can't tell? I can smell it through the wrapping paper. Soon as we get there, we'll look it over, but I can tell you . . . my cousin sent me what he said he would!”

“You're going to need to hide this.”

“Everyone around here is too nosy. I've got an idea anyway.”

“How much farther?” A yawn muffled the rest of Stefan's words.

They disappeared into the brush, but the crackle and heavy breathing told Jason which way they were headed. He hesitated, then grabbed a pair of hiking shorts and shoved his feet into his tennis shoes. He wanted to know what they were carrying about. What could be smelled through its wrapper? Food? Candy, perhaps? The thought made his mouth water. He slipped into the night after them.

Like grasping hands, shrubs and branches seemed to grab at him as he wiggled past, hoping for silence. A twig snapped under his foot, and he froze, but from the heavy breathing and grunting of Stefan to Rich, he did not think they'd heard him.

But something else had. He heard a movement behind him. Quiet. A soft panting. It stopped when he did. Jason looked back over his shoulder uneasily. He saw nothing but shadows and brush, and yet. . . .

Stefan and Rich trundled off again, in another direction, this time with a wavering yellow beam in front of them. It barely cut through the thickness of the night, but he knew where they were heading, the old boathouse down by the landing in the shallow end of the lake. He set off after them, not wanting to be discovered, but knowing that if he were being trailed in turn, he dared not stand around alone in the dark. Feeling jumpy, the hairs standing up on his arms, he trotted after the two, not so quietly as quickly now. He thought he could hear something trailing him even as he slowly caught up to the other two.