by Edward Eager
"Move on," said a passing policeman.
The boy moved on, and Abbie ran to join the others, who were looking in at a window of one of the houses.
Inside the window a poor but happy family was finishing its Christmas pudding and drawing round the hearth, where chestnuts sputtered and cracked, while the father of the family poured holiday drinks from a jug.
"God bless us every one," said the crippled son of the family, raising his custard cup (without a handle).
But Barnaby was not among those at Tiny Tim's Christmas dinner.
Inside the Old Curiosity Shop across the street, where the four children ran to look next, Little Nell and her grandfather were hopefully packing for their long, wandering journey into the country.
But Barnaby was not among the other curiosities in the shop.
"This is no good," said John. "That Dickens wrote about seventy books, didn't he? We'll never find the right one this way."
"And maybe the right one isn't Dickens at all," said Abbie.
"We need a system," said John.
"Well," said Fredericka, "there's that bookshelf at home by Barnaby's bed where he keeps all his favorite ones."
"Why, yes," said Abbie. "We could go home and make a list and then try them all one by one."
"Reading from left to right," put in Susan, who liked things to be methodical.
John shook his head. "Our book wouldn't stand it," he said. "It'd wear out." And indeed the few pages in his hand were already looking weather-beaten, what with exposure to the tropic sun followed suddenly by snowflakes melting all over them. "Besides, think of all the other books he's read from the library. He could be in any one of them. And he's taken out hundreds more than any of us. Lots that we've prob'ly never heard of, even!"
"Wait," said Abbie, for these words had given her an idea. But it needed thinking out, and maybe she would be betraying a secret.
"You remember," she began slowly, "that book of his own that he's working on?"
"Is there really one?" said John. The others had heard of Barnaby's book, but they'd never given it much thought. Probably it was just another of his ideas.
"Yes, there really is," said Abbie. "At least he has these adventures he makes up when he can't sleep, and he's put some of them down on paper. Well, I was thinking, if you were mad at people and running away from them, wouldn't a story of your own be just the place you'd go and hide in?"
"What's his story about?" said John.
"He wouldn't ever tell me very much," said Abbie. "All I know is, he calls it 'Barnaby the Wanderer,' and it's about this boy sort of like him, except he goes wandering around on his own having adventures all by himself. So you see the being alone part works out, too."
"Where does he wander?" said Fredericka.
"Just about everywhere, I guess. All over the world, and I know he goes into the past, but not the future, because Barnaby said once he hasn't worked that part out yet."
"That's something," said John. "That narrows it down. He's somewhere in the present or the past, and he's somewhere in some country."
"Our book'll know," said Abbie. "Just wish to be with him and let the magic figure out where."
"But would our book know about a book that's not finished yet, and it's still just in somebody's mind?" said Susan.
"I think," said Abbie, "that our book would know about everything."
"Let's try," said Fredericka.
For the third time the four children joined hands and for a third time John wished.
"We want to go after Barnaby the Wanderer," he told the magic, "wherever he's wandering."
And the magic took them there.
Barnaby the Wanderer wandered along the road.
It was a good road to wander along because it wandered, too, all over the map and in and out of the centuries. Today, for example, when he went through that last valley, it had been Old Roman times, but now that he was climbing the hill, it was Merrie England and the Ages were Middle.
He had been delayed a little in the valley because Julius Caesar was conquering Gaul down there at the moment, and the leader of one of his cohorts had suddenly developed the falling sickness, and Barnaby the Wanderer had to step in and save the day. When the battle was over and won, Caesar wanted him to join the army and be second in command. But Barnaby the Wanderer would never stay, no matter how hard people begged. Always he must wander on.
Right now he wandered up the hill into the Age of Chivalry. He could tell it was the Age of Chivalry because of all the castles scattered here and there about the landscape and all the knights he could see riding in different directions on different quests. But Barnaby the Wanderer was the most gallant knight among them. And soon he had a chance to prove it.
As he reached the crest of the hill, a lady galloped toward him on a palfrey, closely pursued by a giant on a black steed. Barnaby the Wanderer knew the giant well by sight. He was a particularly mean specimen who made a habit of kidnapping ladies and taking them to a dolorous tower, where he married them and treated them in a Bluebeard manner. But this time he had met his match.
Barnaby the Wanderer drew his lance and barred the way.
"Oh gramercy," remarked the lady, reining in her horse and preparing to watch the combat with interest.
"Out of the way, minikin," said the giant rudely, sneering down at Barnaby the Wanderer from his vast height. "Your puny lance would be but a mere pinprick to such as me! Besides, you're too short to reach! Yah!"
Barnaby the Wanderer wasted no breath in answering back. His strength was as the strength of ten because he was Barnaby the Wanderer. With a mighty heave he sent his lance vaulting into the air. Its point entered the giant's throat in the space between helmet and breastplate, and he toppled from the saddle and crashed to the ground. Barnaby the Wanderer whipped out his sword and wapped off the giant's head, thus rendering him harmless.
"Oh, thank you!" cried the lady. "Did you do this for love of me?"
"No, I didn't," said Barnaby the Wanderer. "I did it to show I could and because he thoroughly deserved it." And mounting the giant's horse he rode off into the sunset.
"Stay with me," called the lady after him in languishing tones.
But Barnaby the Wanderer would never stay. He had a rendezvous with destiny.
As he rode on, though, he rather wished he had someone with him to talk to and maybe boast a little about recent events. He remembered some friends he used to have, in another time and country, and wondered what they were doing now. Probably they were wondering and worrying about him. Very well, let them wonder. He must follow his fate alone.
At this moment the sun went behind a cloud and a mist rose from the earth.
"This is unusual," thought Barnaby the Wanderer. "For me the sun shines always fair."
But this time it didn't. The mist grew until it
mantled the entire landscape. Trees turned to huddled shapes, and who could say where was land and where was air? Suddenly the horse shied and would go no farther, but stood shivering and staring into the blankness with the rolling eye of fright.
Barnaby the Wanderer dismounted and tied the horse's reins to a bush. At least it looked like a bush and felt like a bush, but what with the mist growing ever thicker it might have been something else.
"Where am I?" thought Barnaby the Wanderer.
But he wandered on, leaving the horse snorting with fear behind him. Nothing must keep him from his chosen road. Besides, what with the mist now eddying and wreathing in tendrils about him and seeming to cling to his clothes and trying to hold him back, he could see better on foot and closer to the ground. But he wished he had not chosen to walk alone, just this once. He thought of friends left behind and wished one or all of them were with him now. No matter. He would show them. Or if he never returned, they would be sorry when he was gone.
What made the mist nastier than most mists was that it seemed to have a voice, or voices.
"Hist," whispered the mist.
Barnaby the Wanderer stood still.
"List," whispered the mist.
Barnaby the Wanderer listened.
"Listen, listen, do not hasten.
Enter not the Western postern
Where the ghastly cistern glistens,
Lest you learn the last, worst lesson,"
whispered the mist.
"Humph!" said Barnaby the Wanderer aloud. "No mere mist can mistlead me. I am Barnaby the Wanderer!"
"Mere, mere, mirror!" shrieked a sudden voice in his ear, followed by a peal of witchlike laughter.
"Ponder the pun," added a quieter voice in his other ear. But when he reached out his hand, there was no one there.
Still, he knew where he was now, or thought he did. He was in a time that never was on land or sea, in that Grimm, Thurber-ish country where witches are worse than ever was in Oz, and there are gloomy castles with thirteen clocks all stopped, and a Todal that gleeps and a Golux that harkens and warns.
He thought of other creepy legends, of the headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow and the Come-at-a-body that has more legs than arms and more hair than either. And he thought that this was not a time or a place to be alone in.
Still, all the more glory to him who explored it and lived to tell the tale, thought Barnaby the Wanderer on second thought. And he took out his pocket compass, though he could hardly see it through the moist mist, and turned toward the west.
As he stepped westward, the mist seemed to thin, and ahead the land was bright. Suddenly the foggy, dewy strands fell away, and his heart lifted as he emerged into a sun-drenched clearing. Straight before him was a gate, flanked on either side by a tall thorn hedge.
When Barnaby the Wanderer had last seen the sun, it was setting, but now it shone at high noon. Perhaps in this part of the country they had Daylight Saving, he thought. Or more likely here the time stood still.
The gate was built of stone and prettily planted about with clumps of narcissi, now in full bloom and scenting the air. There were letters carved on the gate's pediment, and he wandered closer to read them.
"Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Center Here," said the letters.
Barnaby the Wanderer thought he had read this sentence before, somewhere. But he thought that whoever had carved it on the gate hadn't gotten all of the words exactly right.
He hesitated. A gate might well be a postern, and this was almost surely the Western one, and he remembered the warning words of the mist. He had no wish to abandon hope or to learn any last worst lesson, either. But he was curious to see what was inside.
Then for the first time in a long while he remembered the magic book, which he'd put in his pocket for safekeeping, back when he was fighting the giant. He slapped his pocket to see if it was still there, and it was. Surely it would protect him. Not that he needed protecting, of course. Barnaby the Wanderer would always come out on top and without any help from anybody.
The gate was ajar, and he slipped through it.
For a moment he was disappointed at what he saw.
What he saw was a garden with a pool in the middle. And the pool didn't look like a ghastly cistern at all. It looked like an ordinary (though very handsome) marble pool. Probably there would be goldfish. He stepped closer to look.
There were no fish in the pool, only water, but water that was clearer and brighter than any he had ever seen before. And there, staring up from the water (and seeming to smile at him as Barnaby himself smiled in recognition) was his own reflection.
But never in any glass had he seen himself so clearly. Now for the first time he realized just how handsome and brilliant and wonderful he really was, more so even than he had always suspected.
"I am Barnaby the Wanderer!" he cried in tones of glad discovery.
And he fell on his knees by the pool to look closer.
Then as he looked the image changed.
Written in the face in the pool he suddenly seemed to see all the base, unworthy thoughts he had ever had and all the bad things he had ever done, rude, inconsiderate things and careless, forgetful things and hasty, hotheaded, spiteful things. And the face in the pool now seemed to him mean and selfish and hideous beyond belief.
He tried to tear his eyes away, but he couldn't. Something held them there. And he realized that he was under a magic spell and that the magic was stronger than he was.
In a panic he scrabbled in his pocket for the book and wished to be anywhere else in the world rather than here, but home with his family and friends would be best of all.
Nothing happened. Except that the face in the pool seemed to grow bigger and look worse.
Then he remembered that one of the bad things he had done was to tear the magic book, and now the magic had probably leaked out of it and he was probably doomed to kneel here staring at his own ugliness forever.
"I am Barnaby the Wanderer!" he cried, to reassure himself.
But that magic charm didn't work, either. And Barnaby the Wanderer knew despair.
From despair to remorse is but a step. He went over his worst deeds in his mind and regretted every one of them.
Then as the sun beat down and the face stared from the pool, all of the past seemed to blur and run together in his brain. His head ached, and even today's adventures faded and were forgotten. When he tried to think of home, he couldn't remember where he lived or the names of his sisters.
"I am Barnaby the Wanderer!" he tried to say again. But he had forgotten the right words. "I am Barnaby the Barnaby" was what came out. And after that, "Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby" was all he could find to say. He thought it was someone's name, but he had forgotten whose.
The magic book slipped from his fingers and fell at the edge of the water. In the pool the face seemed to swell until it filled the world and dominated the universe. Barnaby leaned closer, staring into its eyes. But he had forgotten what face it was, or why he was looking at it.
And the waters of the pool lapped nearer and nearer to the magic book.
If John had worded his wish differently, the magic might have taken the four children directly to the narcissus-y pool. But he had asked to follow Barnaby, wherever he was wandering; so now he and Susan and Abbie and Fredericka found themselves walking a winding and hilly road.
The first thing they met was the corpse of the giant. Susan and Abbie shut their eyes, but John and Fredericka surveyed it with interest.
"Pretty good," said John, "for a little fellow." And his tone made amends for the "runt" he had meanly uttered before.
"David and Goliath," agreed Fredericka, "would be putting it mildly."
The mist delayed the four children a little, but not so long as it had Barnaby, for it was not in a talking mood at the moment. The horse tied to the bush proved a puzzlement, but kind Abbie undid its reins and it galloped happily away to be a free wild horse forever.
Westward the land was brighter, and the four children turned toward it. A second later they came into the clearing. The gate stood open, and they hurried through.
They were just in time.
The lapping waters of the pool had reached the book by now, and a second later they might have carried it away, to what dark depths of oblivion who could tell?
But John ran forward and snatched it up and put his few last pages with it. And now that the book was whole again, the spell was broken, and Barnaby wrenched his eyes away from the face in the pool and turned and saw and knew them.
"You came," he said. "Thanks."
John put the two pieces of book into his hands. "Here," he said.
Barnaby looked at the book. Then he handed it back. "No," he said. His eyes were on John's. "Take it," he said. "It's all yours."
And everything between them that could never be talked about they had said in those few words.
There was a silence. Susan was watching John.
"Aren't you going to wish?" she asked. "It's your turn now. What was that adventure you wanted?"
"The Three Musketeers," said John slowly, "but now I don't know."<
br />
"Why do we need them?" said Fredericka, jigging up and down on the edge of the pool. "All they'd prob'ly do would be come riding to the rescue, and we've already rescued Barnaby perfectly well by ourselves!"
"Don't!" said Barnaby, in quick alarm. "Don't boast; it's dangerous. And come away from that pool before you look in." He pulled his sister to a safe distance; then he turned back to John.
"Wish something," he said. "I'll feel a lot better about everything if you do."
"All right," said John. "First of all I wish we were home."
And they were.
8. Giving It Back
"And now," said John, "the next thing to do is take that book back to the library."
There was a chorus of protest from the others, sitting beside him on the steps of the big white house.
"Why?" was the general sense of everyone's remarks.
"Because I think it's time," said John.
"Without any adventure of your own? It doesn't seem right," said Susan. "In every book I ever read there was a wish for each one."
"Well," said John, "I've been thinking it over, and this is what I think. If I have a wish, then it's all sort of rounded out and the magic can end and maybe never start up again. But if I don't and we take the book back, then there's still unfinished business. And maybe someday the magic'll come back and take up where it left off."
Everyone gasped mentally at the nobility of this self-sacrifice.
"You mean we'll find the book again someday?" said Fredericka.
"That," said John, "or in some other form."
This was an exciting idea and showed definitely that Barnaby was not the only one who could have these. But Barnaby was still unhappy about the justice of it.
"I'll always think it was my fault," he said, "and it will be. Can you condemn a fellow human to the pangs of guilt?"
But he meant it.
"Well," said John slowly again, "I'll tell you what let's do. We'll take the book back, but we'll take it back my way."
