M Is for Magic Page 6

  A voice said, “Where do you come from?”

  He sat up, not scared, not yet, and looked around him. Trees. Long grass. “Where are you? I don’t see you.”

  Something he had taken for a shadow moved, beside a tree on the edge of the pasture, and he saw a boy of his own age.

  “I’m running away from home,” said the Runt.

  “Whoa,” said the boy. “That must have taken a whole lot of guts.”

  The Runt grinned with pride. He didn’t know what to say.

  “You want to walk a bit?” said the boy.

  “Sure,” said the Runt. He moved his schoolbag so it was next to the fence post, so he could always find it again.

  They walked down the slope, giving a wide berth to the old farmhouse.

  “Does anyone live there?” asked the Runt.

  “Not really,” said the other boy. He had fair, fine hair that was almost white in the moonlight. “Some people tried a long time back, but they didn’t like it, and they left. Then other folk moved in. But nobody lives there now. What’s your name?”

  “Donald,” said the Runt. And then, “But they call me the Runt. What do they call you?”

  The boy hesitated. “Dearly,” he said.

  “That’s a cool name.”

  Dearly said, “I used to have another name, but I can’t read it anymore.”

  They squeezed through a huge iron gateway, rusted part open, part closed, and they were in the little meadow at the bottom of the slope.

  “This place is cool,” said the Runt.

  There were dozens of stones of all sizes in the small meadow. Tall stones, bigger than either of the boys, and small ones, just the right size for sitting on. There were some broken stones. The Runt knew what sort of a place this was, but it did not scare him. It was a loved place.

  “Who’s buried here?” he asked.

  “Mostly okay people,” said Dearly. “There used to be a town over there. Past those trees. Then the railroad came and they built a stop in the next town over, and our town sort of dried up and fell in and blew away. There’s bushes and trees now, where the town was. You can hide in the trees and go into the old houses and jump out.”

  The Runt said, “Are they like that farmhouse up there? The houses?” He didn’t want to go in them, if they were.

  “No,” said Dearly. “Nobody goes in them, except for me. And some animals, sometimes. I’m the only kid around here.”

  “I figured,” said the Runt.

  “Maybe we can go down and play in them,” said Dearly.

  “That would be pretty cool,” said the Runt.

  It was a perfect early October night: almost as warm as summer, and the harvest moon dominated the sky. You could see everything.

  “Which one of these is yours?” asked the Runt.

  Dearly straightened up proudly and took the Runt by the hand. He pulled him to an overgrown corner of the field. The two boys pushed aside the long grass. The stone was set flat into the ground, and it had dates carved into it from a hundred years before. Much of it was worn away, but beneath the dates it was possible to make out the words

  DEARLY DEPARTED WILL NEVER BE FORG

  “Forgotten, I’d wager,” said Dearly.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’d say too,” said the Runt.

  They went out of the gate, down a gully, and into what remained of the old town. Trees grew through houses, and buildings had fallen in on themselves, but it wasn’t scary. They played hide-and-seek. They explored. Dearly showed the Runt some pretty cool places, including a one-room cottage that he said was the oldest building in that whole part of the county. It was in pretty good shape, too, considering how old it was.

  “I can see pretty good by moonlight,” said the Runt. “Even inside. I didn’t know that it was so easy.”

  “Yeah,” said Dearly. “And after a while you get good at seeing even when there ain’t any moonlight.”

  The Runt was envious.

  “I got to go to the bathroom,” said the Runt. “Is there somewhere around here?”

  Dearly thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t do that stuff anymore. There are a few outhouses still standing, but they may not be safe. Best just to do it in the woods.”

  “Like a bear,” said the Runt.

  He walked out the back, into the woods that pushed up against the wall of the cottage, and went behind a tree. He’d never done that before, in the open air. He felt like a wild animal. When he was done he wiped himself off with fallen leaves. Then he went back out the front. Dearly was sitting in a pool of moonlight, waiting for him.

  “How did you die?” asked the Runt.

  “I got sick,” said Dearly. “My maw cried and carried on something fierce. Then I died.”

  “If I stayed here with you,” said the Runt, “would I have to be dead, too?”

  “Maybe,” said Dearly. “Well, yeah. I guess.”

  “What’s it like? Being dead?”

  “I don’t mind it,” admitted Dearly. “Worst thing is not having anyone to play with.”

  “But there must be lots of people up in that meadow,” said the Runt. “Don’t they ever play with you?”

  “Nope,” said Dearly. “Mostly, they sleep. And even when they walk, they can’t be bothered to just go and see stuff and do things. They can’t be bothered with me. You see that tree?”

  It was a beech tree, its smooth gray bark cracked with age. It sat in what must once have been the town square, ninety years before.

  “Yeah,” said the Runt.

  “You want to climb it?”

  “It looks kind of high.”

  “It is. Real high. But it’s easy to climb. I’ll show you.”

  It was easy to climb. There were handholds in the bark, and the boys went up the big beech like a couple of monkeys or pirates or warriors. From the top of the tree one could see the whole world. The sky was starting to lighten, just a hair, in the east.

  Everything waited. The night was ending. The world was holding its breath, preparing to begin again.

  “This was the best day I ever had,” said the Runt.

  “Me too,” said Dearly. “What you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” said the Runt.

  He imagined himself going on across the world, all the way to the sea. He imagined himself growing up and growing older, bringing himself up by his bootstraps. Somewhere in there he would become fabulously wealthy. And then he would go back to the house with the twins in it, and he would drive up to their door in his wonderful car, or perhaps he would turn up at a football game (in his imagination the twins had neither aged nor grown) and look down at them in a kindly way. He would buy them all—the twins, his parents—a meal at the finest restaurant in the city, and they would tell him how badly they had misunderstood him and mistreated him. They apologized and wept, and through it all he said nothing. He let their apologies wash over him. And then he would give each of them a gift, and afterward he would leave their lives once more, this time for good.

  It was a fine dream.

  In reality, he knew, he would keep walking, and be found tomorrow or the day after that, and go home and be yelled at, and everything would be the same as it ever was, and day after day, hour after hour until the end of time he’d still be the Runt, only now they’d be mad at him for having dared to walk away.

  “I have to go to bed soon,” said Dearly. He started to climb down the big beech tree.

  Climbing down the tree was harder, the Runt found. You couldn’t see where you were putting your feet and had to feel around for somewhere to put them. Several times he slipped and slid, but Dearly went down ahead of him and would say things like “A little to the right, now,” and they both made it down just fine.

  The sky continued to lighten, and the moon was fading, and it was harder to see. They clambered back through the gully. Sometimes the Runt wasn’t sure that Dearly was there at all, but when he got to the top, he saw the boy waiti
ng for him.

  They didn’t say much as they walked up to the meadow filled with stones. The Runt put his arm over Dearly’s shoulder, and they walked in step up the hill.

  “Well,” said Dearly. “Thanks for coming over.”

  “I had a good time,” said the Runt.

  “Yeah,” said Dearly. “Me too.”

  Down in the woods somewhere a bird began to sing.

  “If I wanted to stay—?” said the Runt, all in a burst. Then he stopped. I might never get another chance to change it, thought the Runt. He’d never get to the sea. They’d never let him.

  Dearly didn’t say anything, not for a long time. The world was gray. More birds joined the first.

  “I can’t do it,” said Dearly eventually. “But they might.”

  “Who?”

  “The ones in there.” The fair boy pointed up the slope to the tumbledown farmhouse with the jagged, broken windows, silhouetted against the dawn. The gray light had not changed it.

  The Runt shivered. “There’s people in there?” he said. “I thought you said it was empty.”

  “It ain’t empty,” said Dearly. “I said nobody lives there. Different things.” He looked up at the sky. “I got to go now,” he added. He squeezed the Runt’s hand. And then he just wasn’t there any longer.

  The Runt stood in the little graveyard all on his own, listening to the birdsong on the morning air. Then he made his way up the hill. It was harder by himself.

  He picked up his schoolbag from the place he had left it. He ate his last Milky Way and stared at the tumbledown building. The empty windows of the farmhouse were like eyes, watching him.

  It was darker inside there. Darker than anything.

  He pushed his way through the weed-choked yard. The door to the farmhouse was mostly crumbled away. He stopped at the doorway, hesitating, wondering if this was wise. He could smell damp, and rot, and something else underneath. He thought he heard something move, deep in the house, in the cellar, maybe, or the attic. A shuffle, maybe. Or a hop. It was hard to tell.

  Eventually, he went inside.

  Nobody said anything. October filled his wooden mug with apple cider when he was done, and drained it, and filled it again.

  “It was a story,” said December. “I’ll say that for it.” He rubbed his pale blue eyes with a fist. The fire was almost out.

  “What happened next?” asked June nervously. “After he went into the house?”

  May, sitting next to her, put her hand on June’s arm. “Better not to think about it,” she said.

  “Anyone else want a turn?” asked August. There was silence. “Then I think we’re done.”

  “That needs to be an official motion,” pointed out February.

  “All in favor?” said October. There was a chorus of “ayes.” “All against?” Silence. “Then I declare this meeting adjourned.”

  They got up from the fireside, stretching and yawning, and walked away into the wood, in ones and twos and threes, until only October and his neighbor remained.

  “Your turn in the chair next time,” said October.

  “I know,” said November. He was pale and thin lipped. He helped October out of the wooden chair. “I like your stories. Mine are always too dark.”

  “I don’t think so,” said October. “It’s just that your nights are longer. And you aren’t as warm.”

  “Put it like that,” said November, “and I feel better. I suppose we can’t help who we are.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said his brother. And they touched hands as they walked away from the fire’s orange embers, taking their stories with them back into the dark.

  For Ray Bradbury

  Chivalry

  M RS. WHITAKER FOUND THE Holy Grail; it was under a fur coat.

  Every Thursday afternoon Mrs. Whitaker walked down to the post office to collect her pension, even though her legs were no longer what they were, and on the way back home she would stop in at the Oxfam Shop and buy herself a little something.

  The Oxfam Shop sold old clothes, knickknacks, oddments, bits and bobs, and large quantities of old paperbacks, all of them donations: secondhand flotsam, often the house clearances of the dead. All the profits went to charity.

  The shop was staffed by volunteers. The volunteer on duty this afternoon was Marie, seventeen, slightly overweight, and dressed in a baggy mauve jumper which looked like she had bought it from the shop.

  Marie sat by the till with a copy of Modern Woman magazine, filling out a “Reveal Your Hidden Personality” questionnaire. Every now and then, she’d flip to the back of the magazine and check the relative points assigned to an A), B), or C) answer before making up her mind how she’d respond to the question.

  Mrs. Whitaker puttered around the shop.

  They still hadn’t sold the stuffed cobra, she noted. It had been there for six months now, gathering dust, glass eyes gazing balefully at the clothes racks and the cabinet filled with chipped porcelain and chewed toys.

  Mrs. Whitaker patted its head as she went past.

  She picked out a couple of Mills & Boon novels from a bookshelf—Her Thundering Soul and Her Turbulent Heart, a shilling each—and gave careful consideration to the empty bottle of Mateus Rosé with a decorative lampshade on it before deciding she really didn’t have anywhere to put it.

  She moved a rather threadbare fur coat, which smelled badly of mothballs. Underneath it was a walking stick and a water-stained copy of Romance and Legend of Chivalry by A. R. Hope Moncrieff, priced at five pence. Next to the book, on its side, was the Holy Grail. It had a little round paper sticker on the base, and written on it, in felt pen, was the price: 30p.

  Mrs. Whitaker picked up the dusty silver goblet and appraised it through her thick spectacles.

  “This is nice,” she called to Marie.

  Marie shrugged.

  “It’d look nice on the mantelpiece.”

  Marie shrugged again.

  Mrs. Whitaker gave fifty pence to Marie, who gave her ten pence change and a brown paper bag to put the books and the Holy Grail in. Then she went next door to the butcher’s and bought herself a nice piece of liver. Then she went home.

  The inside of the goblet was thickly coated with a brownish-red dust. Mrs. Whitaker washed it out with great care, then left it to soak for an hour in warm water with a dash of vinegar added.

  Then she polished it with metal polish until it gleamed, and she put it on the mantelpiece in her parlor, where it sat between a small soulful china basset hound and a photograph of her late husband, Henry, on the beach at Frinton in 1953.

  She had been right: It did look nice.

  For dinner that evening she had the liver fried in breadcrumbs with onions. It was very nice.

  The next morning was Friday; on alternate Fridays Mrs. Whitaker and Mrs. Greenberg would visit each other. Today it was Mrs. Greenberg’s turn to visit Mrs. Whitaker. They sat in the parlor and ate macaroons and drank tea. Mrs. Whitaker took one sugar in her tea, but Mrs. Greenberg took sweetener, which she always carried in her handbag in a small plastic container.

  “That’s nice,” said Mrs. Greenberg, pointing to the Grail. “What is it?”

  “It’s the Holy Grail,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “It’s the cup that Jesus drunk out of at the Last Supper. Later, at the Crucifixion, it caught His precious blood when the centurion’s spear pierced His side.”

  Mrs. Greenberg sniffed. She was small and Jewish and didn’t hold with unsanitary things. “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said, “but it’s very nice. Our Myron got one just like that when he won the swimming tournament, only it’s got his name on the side.”

  “Is he still with that nice girl? The hairdresser?”

  “Bernice? Oh yes. They’re thinking of getting engaged,” said Mrs. Greenberg.

  “That’s nice,” said Mrs. Whitaker. She took another macaroon.

  Mrs. Greenberg baked her own macaroons and brought them over every alternate Friday: small sweet light-brown bisc
uits with almonds on top.

  They talked about Myron and Bernice, and Mrs. Whitaker’s nephew Ronald (she had had no children), and about their friend Mrs. Perkins who was in hospital with her hip, poor dear.

  At midday Mrs. Greenberg went home, and Mrs. Whitaker made herself cheese on toast for lunch, and after lunch Mrs. Whitaker took her pills: the white and the red and two little orange ones.

  The doorbell rang.

  Mrs. Whitaker answered the door. It was a young man with shoulder-length hair so fair it was almost white, wearing gleaming silver armor, with a white surcoat.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello,” said Mrs. Whitaker.

  “I’m on a quest,” he said.

  “That’s nice,” said Mrs. Whitaker noncommitally.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  Mrs. Whitaker shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t think so,” she said.

  “I’m on a quest for the Holy Grail,” the young man said. “Is it here?”

  “Have you got any identification?” Mrs. Whitaker asked. She knew that it was unwise to let unidentified strangers into your home when you were elderly and living on your own. Handbags get emptied, and worse than that.

  The young man went back down the garden path. His horse, a huge gray charger, big as a shire horse, its head high and its eyes intelligent, was tethered to Mrs. Whitaker’s garden gate. The knight fumbled in the saddlebag and returned with a scroll.

  It was signed by Arthur, King of All Britons, and charged all persons of whatever rank or station to know that here was Galaad, Knight of the Table Round, and that he was on a Right High and Noble Quest. There was a drawing of the young man below that. It wasn’t a bad likeness.

  Mrs. Whitaker nodded. She had been expecting a little card with a photograph on it, but this was far more impressive.

  “I suppose you had better come in,” she said.

  They went into her kitchen. She made Galaad a cup of tea, then she took him into the parlor.

  Galaad saw the Grail on her mantelpiece, and dropped to one knee. He put down the teacup carefully on the russet carpet. A shaft of light came through the net curtains and painted his awed face with golden sunlight and turned his hair into a silver halo.