The Gift of Magic

by Sharon Lee

  Time to go.

  He fished the key out of his back pocket and dropped it onto the tarmac, then slung the pack over his shoulder, ducking a little to be sure he was below the line of the car's roof, and angled toward the shrubs and trees lining the edge of the station.

  He'd just gotten past the shrubs and was almost into the trees when he heard somebody running behind him, and Ben's voice yelling.

  "Hey! Hey! Moss! You come back here, you little—Hey! Somebody help me catch that kid, he's got my wallet!"

  That didn't take long.

  Moss pushed further into the trees, wondering how deep the little wood was. Behind, there came some crashing and snapping as branches broke, and Ben yelling, "C'mon Moss, quit foolin' around; we gotta go!" and the gas guy maybe it was yelling, "C'mon, kid; the boss is calling the cops. Just throw the guy's wallet out here and everything's square."

  "What the hell you talkin' about?" Ben yelled. "He's with me!"

  "Thought he had your wallet."

  "Well, he does. He. . .plays these jokes. But we're together. Mossie! C'mon, it ain't funny no more."

  No, thought, Moss, it wasn't. Up ahead, flashing silver through the leaves, he saw a chain link fence. Behind him, they were still crashing, and to the right. . .

  To the right, it was downhill and more trees and maybe he could lose them, if he ran like hell.

  #

  He dropped to his knees in a little clearing, panting for air and his heart pounding funny like it did, and there were little spikes of pain in his chest, and he just put his palms flat against the dirt, and hoped that this wasn't it, the time that his bad heart went bust on him, and then he hoped that it was, it hurt so bad, and then. . .

  . . .he woke up to the soft inquiry of an owl, and stars above him, between the leaves. He was tired, but nothing hurt, and he took a deep breath of the cool, damp air, tasting salt.

  The ocean, that must be. He was close to the ocean—the Atlantic Ocean, that was. He'd struck out deliberate for the Atlantic Ocean, all those weeks ago, on account of his duty. His promise to his dad. 'course, his dad'd thought—had said!—that Moss would make good on the promise when he was a man.

  Wasn't dad's fault that Moss wasn't likely to live that long. He hadn't caught the fever 'til after dad was gone himself. Strep throat, that was what they thought. . .

  Well.

  Water under the bridge. His dad used to say that. That's just water under the bridge, Moshe, all flowed away and gone.

  That was what happened to the bad things—they all flowed away, to the ocean, and the ocean salt dissolved them. Try to carry the bad things around, and they'd weigh you down into the ground.

  The good things, though, you carried them with you, 'cause good things, they didn't weigh no more than sunlight.

  The owl hooted again, softer, like maybe it was telling him to go back to sleep; he was safe here.

  Moss took another deep breath, smiling at the lack of pain.

  Tomorrow, he thought drowsily, he'd find the ocean.

  #

  The sand on the beach was just like his dad had told him, white, like snow; fine as flour. Surely was pretty, but it was tricky to walk in. His sneakers were sliding and his knees were working, and it was hard to make any headway. He did it, though he was panting like a grampaw, and his heart was kinda beating strange, one thump harder than the next two. No pain, though, so he didn't mind it, much.

  What his dad hadn't told him about, though, was how the air smelled—not just salty, but fresh, like air right after a thunderstorm. Smelling it made him feel like dancing, though maybe not in the dry sand.

  Finally, he made it to wet sand. He could walk better now, almost like on a sidewalk, and he kept on going, to where the waves come in, rolling soft and slow, and every one that found the sand making a sweet little plash.

  Moss stood there, looking out over the bright, glittery, gently rolling waters, and he felt something happen in his chest—not pain, or that squeezing thing that sometimes happened. No. . .it felt, somehow like he was happy—too happy to laugh.

  So happy, his stupid heart wanted him to cry.

  Well. . .

  He slung the pack around and lowered it to the sand, then knelt and undid the buckle.

  There, in the hidden pocket underneath the right back pocket, he found the little pouch, and pulled it out.

  For a long time, they'd just sat out on a shelf in his room, but when Momma's new boyfriend moved in, Moss had thought maybe it would be better to empty his old shooters out into his sock drawer, and put his dad's tokens into the bag, outta sight.

  The bag, he tucked under his t-shirts, and the boyfriend never found it to break, though he'd broken some other stuff he had no business putting his hands on. . .

  Moss closed his eyes and took a breath.

  Water under the bridge, he told himself, all flowed away and gone.

  Leaving the pack where it was, he walked down to the place where the little waves kissed the beach. There were shells, here and there on the wet sand; strings of weed, and stones as shiny as living eyes.

  Just by his foot were two flat, round bones, beige-brown and laying together in the damp. Sand dollars, they were called, his dad had told him, on account they looked like big ol' silver dollars. The two on the beach were damp, and gritty with sand, and though they looked stiff, he knew that they were living critters.

  The one he took outta his pouch, though, that one was white as bone, the critter long dead. He put it on the wet sand near the two live ones, and then reached into the bag for the couple other shells, scattering them onto the sand from his fingertips as he walked a little ways down the waterline.

  When the bag was empty, he upended it, so any sand and grit and pieces could fall out, then shoved it into his pocket.

  He took a deep breath, looking out over the water, and sighed.

  Duty done. Promise kept. The lazy, rolling water glittered a little more, like maybe he'd caught some drops on his eyelashes.

  Another breath, and here came a roller that was taller than the others, seeming to move a little faster, too. Before he could figure out how that might be, it struck the sand with a boom! White spray flew into the air, splashing his face, then the wave was gone, leaving Moss with his jeans wet and his sneakers soggy. The sand around him, where he'd left the shells and the dead sand dollar, was clean, just like somebody had reached out a hand and swept them off the beach.

  * * *

  "Here he comes back, now," Felsic said, leaning on the ticket counter under Noah's Ark.

  Phyllis didn't bother to look up from her newspaper.

  "Lost boy from Away got nothing to do with me. Or with you."

  "Might be he's not lost," Felsic said; "that's what's nagging at me."

  Phyllis rattled the paper.

  "Says here, next month, NASA's gonna be trying to land on the moon. Think o'that, now, eh?"

  "Quite an age we live in," Felsic said agreeably.

  The boy'd been down to the sea; his jeans was wet to the knee, and his sneakers squelched on the land. Might've made an offering—he had the look of it. Gone down heavy, come back light. Wasn't nothing more keeping that boy from floating off to the moon his own self, now that the sea'd taken what he'd brought to it.

  "Hungry," Felsic said, because Phyllis wasn't near as cold as she talked, and she was listenin', even if she was pretendin' not to be lookin'.

  "Give 'im a job," Felsic urged; "can't hurt."

  Phyllis sighed gustily, rattled the paper closed, and stared across the parking lot at the kid an' his backpack an' the dazed way he was starin' around.

  "All right," she snapped. "I'll give 'im a job, if he wants one, but I ain't chasing 'cross the parkin' lot to hand it to 'im. He gets his tail over here like a sensible boy, and looks at the board, then—all right."

  "Fine," Felsic said soothingly. "That's fine."

  A little ripple, that's all it took, the boy might be from Away, but he wasn't one o'the deaf-and
-blind ones. No, he felt the ripple, took the suggestion into his head, and started moving 'cross the lot, toward the Ark, and the signboard over at the side saying Operators Wanted.

  Phyllis saw him moving, took note of his direction and turned a pretend glare on Felsic.

  "Well, boss?" she asked, sarcastic, but that was just her way. "Where you puttin' him?"

  "Jack 'n Jill," said Felsic promptly. "Sally'll do 'im a world o'good."

  * * *

  Sally was a little bit something: She teased, and laughed, climbed up the outside scaffolding like a cat, expecting him to keep up. His momma would've said she was "lively." Moss thought she might be something more—or other—than just that. Her eyes flashed yellow in the shadow sometimes, like cat-eyes. She slipped a little, climbing ahead of him, and he thought he saw claws come out from the tips of her fingers and snag the canvas awning stretched between the slide and Noah's Ark.

  Still and all, he liked her—claws and cat-eyes, too. She'd come back down the scaffold to him when he'd had to rest in his climb, an' asked what was the matter.

  "Little breathy; need a quick rest. I got a tricky heart," he told her, which was more than he told most people, for fear of being laughed at. "Had rheumatic fever when I was a little kid."

  "That mean you shouldn't climb?" she asked. "'cause, if you want, we can just set you down at the gate t'take admission. I can do what climbing needs done."

  There now—that was why he liked her. She didn't make fun, and she didn't disbelieve, or go tell Boss Phyllis he was sick, either; just offered up a plan for how to work the ride out between 'em.

  "I can climb; just sometimes I gotta rest."

  "OK, then," she said, and perched on the bar above him, easy as a cat, until he started cilmbing again.

  Up at the top of the slide, standing on the platform, you could see everything there was to see in Archers Beach and beyond—the sun glittering on the ocean, and the land curving, miles away. He could see it all, despite the glittery sea and the fresh damp air making his eyes water. Sally got him turned around so he could look up the hill at the stores and the people shopping, and the cars and delivery trucks doing business.

  "This is my favorite place," Sally said, close in his ear, like she was telling him a secret. You can see everything."

  Well, you couldn't see Kingman, Kansas, but maybe that was all right, too. Moss took a deep, deliberate breath of wonderful air, and smiled.

  "Sure is fine," he said, and Sally laughed.

  "Where're you from?"

  "Kansas," he said. Sally frowned like he'd said something foreign.

  "Much like here?" she asked.

  "Not anything like here."

  "What brings you to us, then?"

  He shook his head, his eyes damp from the sun striking off all that moving blue water.

  "Made a promise to my dad. He was here, years back. Picked up some shells and stuff on the beach. He gave 'em to me, before he died, and said that I had to go to Archers Beach when I was grown up, and give the shells back to the sea. Made me promise. So, I come to fill the promise."

  Sally didn't make a fuss about that, either, or tell him he was silly. He had the feeling that Sally took promises serious, and he liked her even more.

  "Be going back soon?"

  Going back? thought Moss. What would he go back for? Or to?

  He shook his head.

  "I think I'll stay here. I think. . .my dad wanted me to see something different. He told me how, when he first saw the Atlantic Ocean, he said it changed his whole life, and how he saw the world."

  "He went back, though," Sally said, looking down at the parking lot below them.

  "He did, yeah. He'd made his own promise, that he would go back. He was married to my mother."

  Sally nodded, still staring down.

  Moss looked up, into the deep blue sky. A shadow flashed over his face, and a seagull screamed. Music started from somewhere—sounded like merry-go-round music.

  "We gotta get down," Sally said. "Park's opening for the day."

  He did look down, then, thinking about the climb before him, and trying to guess would his chest seize again, like it'd done on the way up.

  "We'll take the easy way down," Sally said, picking up a rough-wove mat, and dropping it flat to the platform.

  "Here," she said.

  Moss blinked.

  "Sit down!"

  She sounded a little impatient, suddenly, so he dropped to the mat—and gasped when she hit him between the shoulder blades. He yelled, the mat skidded forward, tipped—and hit the slide.

  Wind rushed past his ears as the mat picked up speed. He yelled again, and the rushing air snatched his voice away with the rest of his breath, and he was flying, flying toward the ground in a grand, speeding spiral, and he leaned in the next curve, deliberately increasing his speed, chest aching, and the salty breeze in his mouth, and there was the end of the slide, and a stocky figure in a cap at the end of it, and just beyond a pile of sawdust, and he was airborne, sawdust erupting in a fragrant cloud. He collapsed, gasping, until strong arms came around and half-dragged him up and away.

  "Can't stay there, boy; we got incomin'," somebody—Felsic—said, propping him up against a sturdy shoulder. He heard a yell over the laboring bellows of his heart and here came Sally, her mat already airborne, and she was out, over the edge, hitting the sawdust and waking an explosion. Pine scent enveloped him and he coughed, grabbing at his chest, and it was glorious, and it hurt. . .it hurt. . .

  . . .nothing hurt at all.

  He was laying on the ground, in the shade next to the end of the slide. His head was on Sally's knee, and Felsic was bent over him, one hand on his chest, he didn't hurt anymore, but only kind of light and cool.

  "What's the matter with you, deah?" Felsic murmured.

  Moss tried to marshal words out of the vast sense of cool peace, but Sally was quicker.

  "He said he's gotta tricky heart," she said. "Needed a breather, part way up, climbin'."

  "Rheumatic fever," Moss managed, so they had the right name of it. And if it meant that he couldn't work here, couldn't stay here, then he'd rather die—

  "Don't fatch," Felsic said, and Moss felt the rising panic reverse, and just drain away.

  "That's it," Felsic said. "You rest a spell. Sal—you go open up. Moss'll be along shortly."

  "All right," she said, and Moss felt lips, cool and slightly damp, pressed against his cheek, before she moved his head from her lap to something else soft, and he heard her sneakers scuffing on the tarmac.

  "I can work," Moss said, though without any urgency. "Don't want the boss mad at me, right off."

  "She's fine." Felsic leaned back, hand slipping into a pocket. "This heart business. . ."

  "Means I'm gonna die. But not today."

  "Well, then. That's all any of us got, ain't it? You sit up all right?"

  He did, with Felsic's help, and a couple minutes later, he stood under the same conditions.

  "I'm good," he said. "I can work."

  Felsic nodded and stood.

  "Up to Sally, o'course, but don't be surprised you're on ticket-box today."

  "If that's were she needs me. . ."

  A gong sounded, loud; somewhere nearby a mule brayed in either complaint or approval.

  "That's my call to the Coal Mine. You go on, an' be good, right?"

  "Right."

  #

  The rides closed at eight o'clock. Moss went to get his pack from where he'd stowed it, in Boss Phyllis' office.

  "Sally said you did good today," the boss said. "You comin' back tomorrow?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I'll come every day you need me."

  She gave him a once-over at that, like she heard what he hadn't said, but all she said was, "Showers in the White Way, next door. You hungry, you stop at Bob's over at Grand and Dube and tell 'em behind the counter that you work for me. Same thing tomorrow breakfast."

  Moss looked at her careful.

  "That
's included in, or comes outta my pay?"

  "Included in. That all right by you, deah?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he said again; added, "thank you, ma'am;" grabbed his pack and headed for the showers.

  #

  There was space for him at the counter at Bob's. He told the counterman he worked for Phyllis, and pretty quick a hamburg platter and a big Coke landed in front of him. He ate it all, even the lettuce, and was finishing up his Coke when he noticed somebody at his elbow.

  Well, the placed as packed, and it was probably somebody wanted his place. Moss swallowed the last of his Coke and stood up.

  "Sorry," he said—and right then recognized Felsic.

  "Evenin'," Felsic said. "You have a good day at work?"

  "I did. I like it. Boss said I can come back tomorrow."

  "Phyllis likes an eager worker. You keep eager, and she'll keep happy. You mind if I walk a ways with you?"

  Moss hesitated, looking at Felsic. He didn't get the feeling that this was a set-up, but. . .

  "Just a walk down the beach," Felsic said, nice and easy. "I'll keep m'hands in m'pockets."

  It came to Moss that he liked Felsic, and there wasn't really no harm going for a walk.

  "Sure," he said.

  #

  "You got a place to stay?"

  That was a dangerous question, even if he did like Felsic. He wanted to stay here, in Archers Beach. Might be he was tired; he'd pushed himself hard the last couple days, and it could be his heart was tired. He'd think that, 'cept he didn't feel tired at all.

  He felt more alive than he'd ever had, in all his life.

  "I don't got a place, right yet," he said, not wanting to outright lie.

  "That's all right," Felsic said. "The land hereabouts is welcoming. You just find someplace comfortable and set down roots, if you've a mind to."

  Moss considered that as they walked up the beach. The sand strip was much skinnier now, the sound of the waves striking a constant thunder in his ears. His bones shook with it.

  Sally had told him that the water changed—the tide came in and the tide went out, but he hadn't been, in any way, prepared for the reality of high tide. The thunder and the spray and the salt and the wind—all of it just made him feel like shouting and dancing and take the thunder into his bones. . .