Seven-Day Magic

by Edward Eager

  Susan stepped to the blackboard and did as she was told. Grannie moved to the teacher's desk again, and Susan noticed that while she was holding the spelling book in her right hand, her left hand rested on another book, on the corner of the desk. It was a red book, smallish but plump, comfortable and shabby.

  As Susan finished writing "xanthophyll" on the blackboard for the third time and turned to go back to her seat, she let her hand brush against the desk (and against the red book) and wished that Barnaby and the little girls would find their way into this adventure somehow.

  Later on she was to be glad that she had. Right now she turned her mind to the next lesson.

  The next lesson was arithmetic, and John was standing by his desk struggling to divide 264 by 12 when the door opened and three figures walked in. The three figures looked startled, to say the least, and as if they weren't sure how or why they had come.

  "Good morning," said Grannie from the teacher's desk. "You are new pupils?"

  "I guess so," said the largest figure.

  "This is not a guessing game," said Grannie sternly. "Say 'Yes, ma'am.' What is your name?"

  "Barnaby," said the figure, "and she's Abbie and she's Fredericka."

  "Barnaby, Abigail, and Fredericka," said Grannie, "you may find seats. I shall not mark you tardy since it is your first day, but be on time in future."

  Fredericka found the last empty seat, down front. Susan moved over quickly and patted the place beside her, and Abbie, with a look of grateful recognition, slid into it. John was still standing by his desk to recite and was so startled at seeing Barnaby that he made no move. But a boy called Clarence Oleson moved over and patted the place by him, and Barnaby took it. Susan's heart misgave her. She did not trust Clarence Oleson's expression.

  "We will resume the recitation," said Grannie.

  As John went on with his problem, Abbie whispered, "Where are we? What's happening?"

  "It's the magic," Susan whispered back. "Grannie found the book and wished. She's the teacher, back when she was in her prime."

  "Silence," said Grannie, in no uncertain tone.

  After that, silence reigned until recess.

  During recess, John and Susan and Barnaby and Abbie and Fredericka met in conference, and John and Susan told the others everything that had happened. And then Clarence Oleson came swaggering up and proved to be just as mean as Susan had thought he would be from his look.

  "Well, you're a little sawed-off hunk of nothing, aren't you?" he said to Barnaby. "Are you called Barnaby because you were born in a barn? On our farm we always drown the runt of the litter!"

  Barnaby's hands made fists, and he moved toward Clarence. But John got between them.

  "Lay off," he said.

  "I can take care of myself," Barnaby muttered angrily.

  "I know you can," said John. "But right now you're not going to."

  "Who asked you?" said Clarence. "No big galoot of a new boy is going to tell me what to do." And he reached past John to tweak Barnaby's ear.

  At that moment Grannie appeared in the schoolhouse door. Her eagle eye rested coldly on Clarence for a moment, but she said nary a word and merely rang her hand bell. Recess was over, and the children trooped back inside.

  After recess, Clarence's behavior continued at a low level. The lesson was reading preparation, and Clarence kept pushing sideways in his seat, crowding Barnaby over till he was right at the edge. Then Clarence made a sudden movement, and Barnaby sprawled crashingly into the aisle.

  Grannie looked up sharply at the sudden noise. Clarence was sitting far over on his own side by now, with an innocent expression on his face.

  "Silence," said Grannie.

  Barnaby picked himself up and his hands made fists again, but he kept his control and started to study once more.

  Next Clarence produced a pin and stuck Barnaby with it hard.

  This was the last straw, and Barnaby hit him.

  I have said that Barnaby was not at his best with his fists. But in this case righteous anger lent strength to the blow. And Clarence hadn't expected a sawed-off little runt to show fight and was taken by surprise.

  "Teacher," he bawled, only partly in pretense, "he hit me!"

  "Barnaby," said Grannie. "Come here."

  Barnaby went there.

  "Hold out your hand."

  Barnaby held it out. Grannie produced a ruler and hit his hand three times, quite hard.

  "There is to be no fighting in class," she said sternly. "Remember that."

  Barnaby's face was white, but he kept his voice steady. "Yes, Teacher," he said. He couldn't very well say, "Yes, Grannie," and he had forgotten Grannie's maiden name, if he ever knew it.

  Grannie regarded him, and her grim expression softened. She smiled slightly and nodded to herself as if in approval. "Good," she said. "And now..." and she produced an extremely large pin from her desk, "you may take this and stick Clarence with it."

  There was a murmur of awe from the whole class.

  Barnaby looked at the pin. Then he looked at Clarence with distaste. "I couldn't," he said.

  "Very well," said Grannie. "Then / shall!" And she advanced down the aisle, pin in hand. With her black eyes snapping and her splendid tall handsomeness, she presented a truly terrifying picture of justice aroused and on the warpath, and Clarence fairly writhed in anticipation.

  "Please, Teacher, don't!" he cried. "I'm sorry, honest, Teacher!"

  Grannie (or Teacher) eyed him with contempt. "So you can't take your own medicine, eh?" she said. "In that case, hold out your hand." And she hit his hand four times with the ruler, harder than she had hit Barnaby's.

  The murmur of awe and admiration in the room swelled to what was almost a cheer.

  "Silence!" said Grannie. "Barnaby, you may sit with John in future."

  Barnaby slid into half of John's seat, and the class quieted down. But Abbie could not contain her feelings. "She is like Lucinda Matlock," she cried in Susan's ear, "in the poem! She's just a wonderful strong pioneer woman of America! I always said so!" Then she broke off as she felt Grannie's gaze upon her.

  "Abigail," said Grannie, "you have something to tell the class?"

  Abbie hung her head and blushed. "I was saying," she stammered, "that you remind me of a poem."

  "Indeed?" said Grannie. "Then pray recite it for us. You may rise."

  Abbie stood up. "Well, I'm not sure I'll remember all of it," she said, "but I'll try." And she did.

  If you would like to know the whole poem that Abbie recited, you may find it in a book called Spoon River Anthology. But it had not yet been written when Grannie was in her prime, and she listened to Abbie's recitation with interest, particularly to the last part where it says:

  "What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,

  Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?

  Degenerate sons and daughters,

  Life is too strong for you—

  It takes life to love Life."

  "Humph!" said Grannie, when Abbie had finished. "Not much of a poem, if you ask me. It doesn't even rhyme."

  "Nowadays poets don't, always," said Abbie bravely.

  "Lazy things!" sniffed Grannie. "Mr. Longfellow would never do such a thing. Or Alfred Lord Tennyson. Still, what it says is perfectly true. It does take life to love life. Remember that, all of you."

  The class nodded as if hypnotized. As for Abbie, looking at that splendid young face and those blazing eyes and thinking of the long, full life Grannie was still to have, she was sure that one person, at least, would always remember.

  Everyone's attention had been so riveted on Grannie and Abbie and the poem that almost no one had noticed a sound that was beginning to be heard outside. But John, always one for noticing things, had noticed. The sound was the sound of wind rising.

  His eyes went to the window, and he half got up from his seat, raising his hand.

  "Please, ma'am," he said. "There's a storm coming up."

  Now as the others look
ed, the window went blank with the snow that was darkening and thickening the air. The sound of the wind rose to a howl. And Susan knew, from reading about them in the Little House books, that one of the terrible sudden prairie blizzards had come.

  "Children," said Grannie with quick decision, "I am going to dismiss school while there is time to get back to town. Go and get your coats."

  Everyone ran to put on coats while Grannie dealt with the dampers of the coal stove. When Grannie opened the door, the wind took Susan's breath away. No one could see a foot before his face, but Grannie turned toward town and started forward.

  "All join hands and follow me," she said, taking Susan's hand in hers.

  Abbie found herself next to Barnaby in the line. "Take my sleeve," he told her. He seemed to be holding something in his hand, but Abbie couldn't see what it was through the blinding, muffling snow.

  The children staggered on into whirling blackness for what seemed like hours and was probably all too many minutes.

  "I'm afraid we've lost the way," Grannie finally shouted. The wind carried her voice away, but Susan could just make out the words.

  Behind them Barnaby seemed to be trying to free his sleeve from Abbie's grasp in order to do something or other with whatever it was he held in his hand, but Abbie hung on tight and he couldn't.

  Suddenly Susan tripped and fell forward into comparative dryness. "In here!" she called.

  The others followed her into the opening she had stumbled upon. Grannie had thoughtfully brought matches and a tinderbox with her, and now she struck a light. For a moment Susan couldn't imagine where they were. Then she realized. She and the others were inside a sod house built into a bank, like the one Laura lived in in On the Banks of Plum Creek. Susan recognized it from the picture in the book.

  "It must be a deserted claim house," said Grannie. "We must have turned the wrong way. Now we're farther from town than ever."

  "At least we're dry," said Fredericka.

  "And warm," said Abbie, for inside the sod house it was surprisingly cozy.

  "Maybe whoever held the claim left a lamp," said John.

  He and some of the other boys searched and found one lamp with a little oil in it. Grannie lit the lamp and counted noses. All the children of the class were here and safe.

  "But these storms last three or four days sometimes, don't they?" said Barnaby. "Did the person who left the lamp leave any food?"

  Everyone searched again, but no food was to be found. For the moment they were dry and comparatively warm, but if the storm went on, how long could they last?

  "Well," said Barnaby slowly, "I had an idea. I thought we might get lost, and I brought this." And he showed what he had been holding in his hand.

  What he was holding was the hand bell from the schoolhouse.

  The young teacher who was really Grannie looked from the bell to Barnaby with a peculiar expression, rather as if she didn't know whether to be angry or glad.

  "Taking school property without permission is against the rules and you must be punished," she said finally, in a voice that was just as peculiar as her expression. "Hold out your hand."

  Barnaby held out his hand.

  The teacher who was Grannie looked around rather distractedly as if she expected to find her ruler somewhere in the air. Then she slapped Barnaby's palm once with her own strong hand. Then she looked sorry.

  "All the same," she said, "it was a very good idea, and I should have thought of it myself." And she shook the hand she had struck warmly.

  "And now," she went on, turning to the others, "everyone stay safe inside here while I ring the alarm from the doorway."

  "Can't I ring?" said Barnaby. "I thought of it."

  "We could take turns," said John.

  And in the end that is what they did. But Grannie, as teacher in charge, made a rule that the person ringing the alarm mustn't wander out of sight of the doorway and mustn't stay outside for more than five minutes at a time by her watch, for fear of freezing.

  When it was Susan's turn to ring the hand bell, she gasped as the wind of the blizzard struck her. She had forgotten for a moment how cold and loud it was. Surely no one would hear her ringing through all this howling. But she swung the hand bell as hard as she could. Then she listened. Was that a sound, far away, beyond the wind's uproar? She rang again and listened once more. The sound, if it was a sound, seemed nearer.

  "It's my turn again now," said Barnaby, surprising her by appearing at her side and shouting in her ear.

  "Listen," shouted Susan. She let Barnaby swing the hand bell this time. Then they both listened.

  "Sleigh bells!" cried Barnaby. "Someone's coming! Better get inside in the warm and tell the others!"

  And "Sleigh bells!" Susan cried, running into the sod house. Now Grannie and the others crowded round the door, and everyone took turns ringing as loud and strong as each one could. Always when the hand bell stopped, the sleigh bells seemed closer.

  At last a sleigh loomed big and darker than the snow around it, and someone called, "Quick! Hop in!"

  "Why, forevermore!" cried Grannie. "Carl Ingoldsby! What are you up to, catching your death of cold gallivanting around in this weather?"

  Susan looked at John and John looked at Susan.

  Carl Ingoldsby had been the name of Grannie's husband, the grandfather Susan and John had never seen, who had died and been buried out on the Western plains long ago. And yet here he was, young and come a-courting, or at least a-rescuing!

  "Save your breath and get in!" shouted Carl Ingoldsby, just as snappily as Grannie had shouted at him.

  And somehow Grannie and all the children crowded into the sleigh.

  Carl Ingoldsby turned the horses, and they went trotting off into the whirling blackness. Apparently Carl Ingoldsby knew the way, even in a blinding snowstorm. Or perhaps the horses had a sense that would guide them home.

  Whichever was true, before long the lights of the little town on the prairie showed faintly ahead. Carl Ingoldsby seemed to know where each child in the school lived, and the sleigh stopped at house after house until only John and Susan and Barnaby and Abbie and Fredericka were left. And of course Grannie.

  Susan was just wondering what would happen to them and whether they would be set down on a cold dark Main Street, to find their way home through the years to the future, when the horses dashed into the open doorway of a stable. She could see it was a stable because a lantern hung by the door, but once inside, darkness reigned again and Susan could hardly make out the forms of Grannie and Carl Ingoldsby, where they sat looking at each other. Neither one made a move to get out of the sleigh.

  "Thanks for the sleigh ride," said Grannie, rather airily Susan thought.

  "Don't mention it," said Carl Ingoldsby. "Happy to oblige. Anytime."

  There was a silence.

  "I suppose..." Grannie's voice broke off and hesitated. "I suppose you saved all our lives, in a way."

  "Oh, I don't know," said Carl Ingoldsby. "The storm might have stopped. Or somebody else might have found you."

  "Well, thanks anyway," said Grannie.

  There was another silence.

  "What," said Carl Ingoldsby, "if I were to ask you to ride home again someday?"

  "Why not try asking," said Grannie, "and see?"

  Carl Ingoldsby gave a chuckle. "Independent, aren't you?" he said.

  "Yes," said Grannie. "I am."

  "What," said Carl Ingoldsby, "if I were to ask you to ride home with me someday and stay?"

  This time the silence lasted a long while. Susan's eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the stable now, and she could see that Carl Ingoldsby's arms were around the young Grannie, and she was not resisting. And Susan noticed something else.

  All through the school day and all through the storm and the sleigh ride Grannie had held the magic book clutched in one hand. Now the book fell from her grasp as she put her hand up to touch Carl Ingoldsby's cheek.

  And Susan picked it up.

&
nbsp; As she said afterwards, anybody could tell the adventure was over.

  And of course once the book was in Susan's hands, it left off being the true Western story it had been for Grannie and became the old familiar magic book the five children had come to know and distrust so well. And Susan wished.

  This time there were no colors to run together and shoot up like fireworks. The dark stable merely became darker. And then it was as if someone had switched the light on again.

  There were Susan and John, at home in their living room, and there was Grannie, rocking and dozing in the chair across from them.

  As Susan watched, Grannie woke with a start. Then a smile spread slowly over her face. "I must have been dreaming," she said.

  Susan and John felt very much the same. And yet if it had been a dream, how had the book come from Grannie's hands to Susan's, where it now sat safe and fat and red and mysterious?

  Grannie was still smiling. "I was dreaming of your grandpa," she said. "He was a fine-looking man. Fine pair of hands with a team of horses, too. Fine man, generally." Then she struggled up from her chair. "Time for bed," she announced. "Where's that book I was reading?"

  Susan held the magic book concealed and went to fetch the book of Western reminiscences from the library. "You mean this one?"

  Grannie took the book. "It'll do. It's not the one but it'll do." And she suffered herself to be helped upstairs.

  Later on John caught Susan alone for a moment in the upstairs hall. "Do you suppose Barnaby and the others got back, too?" he wondered. "Do you suppose they think it was a dream, too? Or would they know?"

  It was too late to call, for Barnaby's father always went to bed early when he had a big television show next day, and the bell would wake him.

  But at that moment John and Susan's telephone rang. Susan got there first.

  "Oh good, you're back, too," said Barnaby's voice. "So are we."