The Misadventures of the Magician's Dog (20 page)

“I'm sure,” said Peter.

“We won't get to see Dad.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I know.”

Celia studied him a moment longer. Then she sighed. “All right, then. Let's get it over with.”

It took a little planning. But within what seemed to Peter to be a remarkably short time, they were ready. Holding hands again, Peter, Celia, Izzy, and The Dog began putting things right.

There was a lot to undo. First the plants that had been servants, which Peter left sitting in pots on a nearby nursery's doorstep, and the fossils, which he sent deep underground, wishing them back where they belonged. Then the magician's house, which Peter happily crumbled to dust. Some details were practical, like cleaning up the mess in Peter's bedroom. Others were less so:
Be happy
, Peter thought into the dreaming minds of the magician's old neighbors, the ones whose lives he had messed up. Peter didn't know if this would work, but it seemed worth trying.

When it was all done, Peter turned to his sisters, whose hands were still clasped in his.

“This is really okay with you?” he asked. To choose to lose his own memories was one thing: to force his sisters to lose theirs was something else.

“It's okay,” Izzy said. “As long as Henry gets to stay.”

Celia pressed her lips together. “Go ahead.”

Forget
, Peter thought, staring at their faces.
Forget the mushroom in the box, forget the room full of dinosaurs, forget driving through the night in a little yellow car. Forget the magician. Forget magic
. Izzy's and Celia's suddenly confused expressions told Peter that the magic had worked.
Bed
, he thought, and they were gone.

“I guess that's it,” he said.

The Dog snorted. “Well, almost. You still have to do something about me.”

“Umm. Yes.” This was the one thing they hadn't talked about, any of them. Peter cleared his throat. “I'm assuming . . . I mean, you didn't say . . . but you'll need to tell me how to send you back. To your old master, I mean. Do you want me to take away your memories, too?”

“I could go back,” said The Dog. There was a long pause. “But it might be logical to consider other possibilities, too.”

“Other possibilities? Like what?”

The Dog pawed at the carpet. “Well, for instance, I could stay here. With you.”

Peter felt a tightness in his chest suddenly loosen. “Really? You'd want to stay with me? What about Daniel?”

“I wanted to help Daniel,” The Dog said. “And I'm really glad he'll be okay. But I'd like to stay with you. I mean, if you'll have me.”

“I'd like it if you stayed,” said Peter.

The Dog's tail curled. “Good. Then that's settled.”

“But . . .”

“But what?”

“You won't mind if you have to go back to being an ordinary dog? Because if I'm going to go back to being the boy I used to be, I can't have a talking dog. It wouldn't make any sense.”

“I know,” said The Dog. “I think it will be a relief to just be a dog again, actually. Dog biscuits and fetch: it's not a bad life, after all. I do get a little tired of kibble, but if every now and then you slipped me a bite of steak and onions, well . . .” He tilted his nose thoughtfully. “But you do know, Peter, you'll never be exactly the same as you were? You can forget what happened. But you won't be the same.”

“I wondered,” said Peter. “Do you think I'm making a mistake?”

“I think the reason you're so powerful,” The Dog said, “is that you don't really want to be a magician. You want to be you. That's the reason you're capable of great things—but I don't think you need magic to do them.”

“Thank you,” said Peter. “For everything you've done.”

“You've got it wrong,” said The Dog. “I should be the one thanking you.” He settled his haunches on the carpet. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What are you waiting for? Make me ordinary, already.”

Peter stared down at The Dog's face. The long, warty nose, the sharp, pointed ears. The dark dog eyes. He remembered how those eyes had scared him the first time he and The Dog had sat here: it was only three days ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. What would The Dog be like if he weren't, well, The Dog? No point in worrying
about it, Peter told himself; soon Peter wouldn't remember that he'd ever been different.

And with that, Peter concentrated on the spot two inches behind his right temple and thought the magic out of The Dog.

When he was finished, he looked down. The Dog was still sitting on the floor, in the exact spot he'd been in a moment earlier. “Dog?” Peter said softly.

The Dog thumped his tail but otherwise didn't respond.

Peter reached down to scratch between The Dog's ears. He hadn't, he realized, ever done that before. The fur was rougher than he expected, but it felt good against his fingertips, and for several minutes he kept scratching. Eventually, The Dog's eyes closed, and he fell asleep, his growling snores echoing through Peter's bedroom.

And then Peter was alone.

The Dog had told him what to do; now it was up to Peter to do it. He settled back in his bed and pulled his covers up.
Think
, he told himself. But something felt wrong, and he didn't do the magic. Instead he lay there a moment, staring at his ceiling, the hole in it repaired, now back to what it had always been: water-stained and imperfect. It was once again itself, just as Peter soon would be himself. Which was what he wanted. Right?

And then Peter knew what he had to do.

He slipped out of bed and walked to his desk, stepping lightly past the sleeping dog. He powered on his computer, then watched his emails download. His father's morning email hadn't yet arrived, he saw: it was too early. That didn't matter. Peter hit the New Mail button, then started typing.

Hi, Dad,

I've been thinking about you a lot lately. I miss you. Izzy and Celia and Mom do, too. It isn't the same here without you. Nothing ever feels all the way right, you know? I bet you miss us, too. Sometimes I wonder why you left. I know you've always been in the air force. But you love us, right? So why did you go? Maybe you don't have an answer. But if you do, will you tell me? Because it's something I think about all the time, and sometimes it makes me angry. And it might make me feel better if I understood.

I hope you had a good day. I'll try harder to write you real letters from now on.

Love,
Peter

There. It wouldn't matter if he woke up tomorrow to find out he was once more the boy he had been three days ago; he still would've written this. He moved to hit the Send button but didn't; instead, he let the cursor hover there, above it. He didn't know exactly who he would be tomorrow, but whoever he was, it seemed right to let that kid decide whether he had the courage to tell his father how he felt. Hoping the answer would be yes, Peter pictured his father's face.
Be safe
, he thought.

Leaving the file open on his desktop, he went back to his bed. He slid between his sheets and lay back on his pillow. Then he thought away his memories of the last three days.

I wake up in the middle of the night: the floor is cold and hard, and for a moment I can't quite think where I am. Then I see Peter in the bed, and the last few days come back in a rush.

Dogs don't smile. I know that better than anyone. But for the first time in years, I've woken up happy.

I lick my tail and wonder when I'm going to tell Peter that the spell he did on me may not have worked the way he intended. Maybe I'll give it a week or two, or a month, even. The kid's had a crazy few days. But eventually I'll tell him. I'm thinking his heart wasn't in it—you've got to really want something when you do magic. Or maybe it's just that some people, no matter how much they think they ought to be ordinary, are meant for something more. And Peter, well, he was meant for me.

And I don't do boring.

I jump up next to him and curl into a ball, pressing myself against his side. Tomorrow's a new start, isn't it? Might as well begin by making it clear that I get a spot on the bed. I go to sleep trying to imagine what name Peter will give me. It better not be Darling.