Wild Magic (17 page)

CHAPTER
FORTY

Finn was lying on a couch, tending his wound. Despite the ferocious heat outside, his home was cool and shaded, and he was grateful for that. He was feverish enough without sunstroke making things worse.

The floor was strewn with bloody bandages and spilled water. A faint odor hung in the air: not unpleasant, but enough to attract flies. Finn had to dress the wound as swiftly as possible.

He worked with practiced hands, his thoughts unraveling along with the fresh bandage.

“I can't believe I'm facing this again,” he said to himself. “The rats were there. The child was there, I know he was. I came
so close
to being cured! I still don't see why it went so badly. I did exactly what the stag told me to do. The curse should be gone, and instead . . .”

He tied the bandage and lay back against the couch. Closed his eyes to shut out the pain and despair. The children of Hamelin had been his last hope. Centuries of pain and waiting had all come to nothing. Now he didn't want to go on. He was fit and healthy. He could expect to live for hundreds of years. But did he want to? Alone, without a wife or family or friends? He could see nothing but loneliness, centuries of it, stretching into forever.

Foooomf !
Flyte flew into the room faster than a slingshot.

“I have seen him!” cried the hawk. “The special child!”

“I don't think so,” said Finn wearily. “I took every child, Flyte, and they all touched the stone. The special one wasn't there.”

“He is now.”

“What?”

“I have seen him. A boy. He is a Hamelin child—I remember him. Though he has changed. He was lame before. He isn't now.”

Finn stared, openmouthed. “It must be him,” he said at last. “His power is strengthening him, now that he's in Elvendale. But how did he get in here?”

“Does it matter?” said Flyte. “He is here. That is all you need to know.”

“He's at the Standing Stone, you say?”

“No. That would be easy. He is in the worst place possible.”

“The forest?”

The hawk nodded.

Finn took his head into his hands and closed his eyes. He could feel himself growing cold, despite his raging fever. “Why?” he whispered. “Why does he have to be there? Have I not suffered enough?”

“Follow him,” said Flyte.

“No,” said Finn. “I cannot. Not into the forest.”

“You must.”

“I cannot!” cried Finn wildly. “Look at me, Flyte! The mere thought of going in there has reduced me to
this
.” He held out trembling hands.

“You must conquer your fear,” said Flyte. “You have everything to gain and nothing to lose—except your life. And I believe you care little for that these days.”

Finn shook his head. He wasn't convinced.

“Think now,” urged Flyte. “The boy is alone in the forest. You must find him before something else does.”

Finn stared at Flyte: a dead, fish-eyed gaze.

“If that boy dies,'” said Flyte, “you will be cursed forever. Is that what you want?”

Finn stared on. Time seemed to be standing still. He could feel nothing but the throb of his wound.

“Well?” said Flyte. “Is it?”

Finn shook his head. He rose awkwardly to his feet and ran his fingers through his hair. The color had drained from his face. He felt hot, cold, and giddy all at the same time. But something had to be done.

“You're right,” he said. “I have to find him.”

“So,” said the hawk, “what would you have me do?”

“Right now?” said Finn. “Find Aspen. The sooner we're there, the sooner it's over.”

CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE

Jakob walked deeper into the forest. The laughter and voices had gone. Instead there were whispers drifting between the trees, fluttering like moths. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he suspected they were talking about him. Deep in his heart, he knew he had made a terrible mistake. He shouldn't have entered the forest. Now he couldn't find the way out even if he wanted to. As soon as he had entered, the trees had closed in behind him.

“Remember who you are,” he said to himself. “You're Sir Jakob of the New Legs. You have no fear of dragons or trolls or . . . whispering things. You can face any danger. Fight any foe.”

He went on. After five minutes, he had convinced himself he really could face any challenge—which was fortunate, because he was just about to encounter one.

Jakob hardly noticed it at first. It was covered by a lattice of brambles. But there was something about the shape that made him curious. He pulled at the tangled stems and there, hidden underneath, was a well. A low, square, stone well with intricately carved sides. It was full to the brim with dark, still water.

Jakob was hot and thirsty. He put his lips to the water and started to drink. And as he did, a head appeared from the bottom of the well, silently rising up through the water until it bobbed on the surface like an apple.

Jakob fell back and stared in horror at the head. It was just a head, nothing more, with a face that was neither young nor old, male nor female—simply a bit of everything. A mass of tangled hair floated around it, slimy as pondweed. The lips were long and thin, like two slugs kissing. The eyes, when they opened, were gray as gravestones.

Slowly the thin lips moved and the head spoke.

“I am the Well of Wishes,” it said, “and to anyone who finds me and drinks my water, I offer three wishes. Think carefully before you speak. Choose wisely now.”

Jakob was speechless for a moment. Then he started to grin. “Well, this is a bit of luck!” he said at last. “Thank you for your offer—and your advice. I
will
think carefully—if I may have a few minutes?”

“You may have as long as you want,” said the head. “I am in no particular hurry.” The eyes closed. A ghost of a smile passed across its cold lips.

Jakob thought carefully. He knew what he wanted, but he had to make sure he got things right. He didn't want to be like the man in Marianna's story who wished for a sausage and got it on the end of his nose.

“I wish—I could see my sister, Marianna,” he said at last.

The gray eyes opened and the head nodded. “Watch,” it said. And with that it started to sink back down into the water of the well. Then the water turned cloudy, like the sky when a storm is coming. But slowly it began to clear and Jakob could see a vision forming. There was a lane, overhung by trees, with a ditch running along one side . . . and then a man walked into the picture.

Jakob blinked in surprise. “That looks like Papa.” He peered closer. “It
is
Papa! But where's Marianna?”

A fox came into the picture, trotting along the road at the man's heels. And as Jakob watched, the fox paused, turned, and looked straight at him. Its face grew bigger and bigger until it filled the well. Then the water went cloudy again. The vision disappeared and the head returned to the surface.

Jakob could hardly speak. “Was that Marianna?” he managed. “Was that her? The fox?”

The head nodded. “She has fallen under an enchantment.”

“Is she here?” asked Jakob. “With my father?”

“So many questions,” complained the head.

“I have to ask, otherwise I can't make my wishes,”

said Jakob. “You told me to choose wisely. That's what I'm trying to do.”

Silence.

“Please,” begged Jakob.

The head sighed: a sound that seemed to travel through time, collecting the boredom of endless centuries.

“Yes, yes, and yes,” said the head. “She is here in Elvendale with your father.”

Jakob thought for a moment. “Then I wish— Marianna could be here with me.”

“Easily done,” said the head. It puckered its lips and began to whistle.

Jakob could hardly hear it at first: the sound was incredibly high-pitched, like the call of a bat. But it seemed to work. Within seconds, he heard a patter of paws on the forest floor and a rich russet head appeared through the undergrowth.

“Mari?” he said. “Is that you?”

The fox cocked its head to one side and came closer. Jakob looked into its eyes, but he couldn't see any sign of his sister. Then he heard more pattering and a second fox appeared, then a third and a fourth. They all looked the same. Jakob started to get flustered. He couldn't choose. And he was just about to say,
I wish I could tell which one's Mari
, when he stopped himself, just in time.

“No!” he told himself. “There's only one wish left! Don't waste it. You'll need it to change her back.”

More and more foxes were arriving. There were dozens of them: red as apples, red as cherries, red as Christmas holly berries. But there was still no way of telling which was Marianna. He couldn't pick the friendliest—three were jumping up at him, trying to lick his face. One was sucking his fingers. Two were rubbing against his legs. Five were barking.

“Oh, I don't know what to do!” cried Jakob. “I want to help my sister, but I don't know if she's here. She might be miles away—and if I wish she was a girl again, she might change but never find me. It's quite a puzzle.”

“Such is life,” said the head.

Jakob fell to his knees before the well and looked straight into the pale eyes.

“Please,” he said. “Please help me.”

The eyes narrowed. “Comb me.”

“What?”

“Comb me,” said the head. “Comb out my hair. Make me pretty.” A golden comb appeared on the well rim, glinting against the dark stone.

Jakob rolled up his sleeves and hauled the head out of the well. It was surprisingly heavy and the skin felt oily to the touch. Jakob sat down, took the head into his lap, picked up the comb, and started to untangle the matted hair.

The head purred with pleasure like a tabby cat. “Wait until morning,” it said in between purrs. “Your sister will be here by then.”

“Can she be cured?” said Jakob. “Can the spell be broken?”

“Yes,” said the head, “but first you must pick her out from all the other foxes. If you choose correctly, you can make the wish.”

Jakob felt his heart sinking. “I
will
pick her out,” he told himself. “I
must
. She can't be a fox for the rest of her life. I've got to save her.”

Though how he was going to find Marianna with dozens of foxes to choose from, he couldn't begin to imagine.

CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO

Marianna was walking along a lane with her father when she heard the call. She stopped and sat down.

“What's the matter?” said Moller.

“I don't know,” said Marianna. “I feel funny.” She tilted her head and listened hard. “I can hear something—a whistle. It's calling me. I have to go.”

“You can't,” said Moller. “It could be the Ratcatcher.”

“No—don't say that! It's bad enough I have to go.”

Moller put his hands over her ears. “Don't listen to it.”

“I can't help it,” said Marianna, pulling away from him. “It's in my head. In my heart. I can feel it pulling me. I have to go.”

Moller wrapped his arms around his daughter and was surprised to find she was trembling. “I won't let you go,” he said. “We can fight this together. Try, Mari, try!”

“I
am
trying,” snapped Marianna, starting to wriggle. “But it's too strong.”

Moller tightened his grip. “I won't let you go, Mari. That Ratcatcher can whistle till sundown—he won't get you.”

“Oh, yes, he will, if that's what he wants. You can't stop him. Why do you think you can save me now, Papa? You didn't save me last time.”

“That's not fair, Mari.”

“Isn't it?” She twisted in his arms and glared at him with her hazel eyes. “Where
were
you last time, anyway? Drunk in an alley? You were the only one who wasn't there. The
only
one. You didn't even try to save me.”