Black and Blue Magic

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Silently a dark shadow emerged from the Wongs’ storeroom door. Slowly and cautiously, the robber closed the door behind him and began to creep back up the alley. Frozen with horror, Harry watched him go. There had been no sign of the police, and in just a moment the thief would round the corner, jump into the car, and be gone. And gone, too, would be all the money the Wongs had been saving for years and years, to take care of their old age.

  Afterwards Harry didn’t even remember taking off, but suddenly he was in the middle of a long fast glide, heading right for the robber, who had almost reached the front of the alley. In the half-second before Harry caught up with the tiptoeing crook, it suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was going to do once he got there. It was that unnerving thought that set off a chain reaction.

  First, Harry decided against the whole thing and started to pull up; then he changed his mind and decided to go through with it. Next he frantically decided to pull up again—and right about then, he saw it was too late.

  By that time, Harry’s long smooth glide had turned into a waving, grabbing, flopping tumble of arms, legs and wings; and that was the mess that hit the robber squarely in the middle of his back. It knocked the wind completely out of both of them. It was Harry, however, who got his breath back first. Maybe that was because he was so used to having the wind knocked out of him, or maybe it was just because he was on top. Anyway, after a while, Harry sat up on the robber’s back and looked around.

  There was still no sign of the police. There was also no sign that the crook’s helper in the car had heard the commotion or was coming to investigate. Just then the guy under Harry started to wiggle.

  From long experience with such things on T.V. shows, Harry knew there were two things he could do. One, he could tie the robber up; and two, he could knock him out again. Harry quickly decided on the tieing up method, except, of course, he had no rope. That was when he thought of Madelaine’s clothesline.

  Quick as anything, Harry bounced once on the robber, to hold him for just a minute longer, and then took off for the roof. He lit neatly, right beside the clothesline, but then he ran into trouble. The knots that held the clothesline rope to the poles were old and hard as iron. Harry could see at a glance that without a knife it was hopeless.

  But right at that moment he noticed that a piece of clothing had been left hanging on the line. There was no time to be choosy, so he grabbed it, and a second later was back in the alley beside the robber who was beginning to wiggle again and gasp for breath.

  The cloth was thin and stretchy and worked almost as well as a rope. One end tied the thief’s hands behind his back and the other end reached clear down to bind his feet together. Harry was just pulling the last knot tight, when he heard the far-off wail of approaching sirens. The police were finally on their way.

  The next day everyone on Kerry Street was talking about the attempted burglary. All up and down the street people were saying, “Have you heard this?” and “Have you heard that?” and “You know what I think,” and “How do you suppose?”; but nobody bothered to ask Harry any questions at all.

  Harry had managed to get back to his room and get his wings off and his pajamas on, before all the excitement began. Then when everyone started getting up to see what was going on, he straggled downstairs with the rest, trying to look sleepy and confused. So it never occurred to anyone to ask Harry what he thought about anything.

  Two policemen came to the door the next morning and asked for Mr. Mazzeeck, but Mom told them that although a man by that name had been a guest there early in June, she hadn’t seen him since. Mom told the police the only thing she could think of was that Mr. Mazzeeck had just happened to be back in the neighborhood and had just happened to witness the robbery. The police didn’t seem to go for all those “just happeneds” very much, but it didn’t look as if they had any better ideas.

  One of the policemen asked Mom if she thought this Mr. Mazzeeck could have “just happened” to catch the thief and tie him up before he went on his way. Mom said that it didn’t seem to her that Mr. Mazzeeck was at all the type to tackle a big strong criminal and overpower him, but that you never could tell what people would do in an emergency. The policeman seemed to agree with that, and so did Harry.

  Just by keeping his mouth shut and listening, Harry found out all the things he wanted to know. Mr. Wong’s money had been saved, and the robber accomplice who had waited in the car had been caught, too. The police had seen him driving away and had followed. After a block or two, he’d missed a turn and crashed into a mailbox. Then the police had come back and found the first bandit still tied up in the alley. The tied-up robber hadn’t been any help at all in solving the mystery of who had captured him. All he would tell the police was that he had been hit from behind by a whole gang of people.

  Harry was still keeping his mouth shut and listening the next day when Madelaine came over to gossip with Mom. Mom was working at the sink and Madelaine was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. She was wearing a gunny-sack material skirt over black leotards that came clear down to her wrists and feet, a lot of necklaces made out of sea shells, and her usual long skinny ponytail. She was so excited that she wasn’t using her French accent at all. Harry was listening from the other end of the table.

  “And I feel almost certain, Lorna, that those policemen suspect me of knowing more than I’m telling,” Madelaine said. “But believe me, I’m just as bewildered as everybody else. And believe me, Lorna, I’d be only too willing to take an oath that I don’t know any more than—than Harry, here—about how that crook happened to be tied up in my new pink leotards.”

  And Now for Olive

  It was early in August when Harry noticed that the ointment in his little silver bottle was really getting lower. The realization came as a shock. Before that time he had never thought about the possibility of using up the ointment and coming to the end of everything. After all, since the ointment was certainly magic, why couldn’t it be magic enough to fill itself up each time it was used? But it was definitely beginning to look as if that weren’t going to happen.

  Harry didn’t even want to think about what it would be like to have it over with. Speed and height and power and the endless freedom of the night sky had become so much a part of his life that it seemed impossible that some day he would have to give them up. But there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

  He did start trying to be more careful about the way he poured the ointment onto his shoulders each night, but no matter how carefully he tipped the bottle, the glowing tear-shaped drops seemed to be always exactly the same size. So Harry decided not to worry about it and enjoy it while it lasted. After all, magic is magic, and there isn’t any more use trying to control it to suit yourself than there is in trying to explain it.

  And even if he did have to give it up in the end, Harry knew he would always be grateful for having had it. He would be grateful to Mr. Mazzeeck, and to the old Swami who made the prophecy. And he was grateful to Dad, too. Magic is the kind of thing that has to be wanted in a really special way, and it was Dad who had wanted magic for Harry more than anything.

  There were some other people who would have been grateful to Mr. Mazzeeck, too, except they would never know about him. It was too bad, really, that the Wongs, for instance, would never know what Mr. Mazzeeck had done for them by giving Harry wings. And Tommy and Donna Gibson and their parents would never know either. And maybe that man in the park, too.

  It was toward the middle of August that Harry found out about someone else who had a reason to be grateful to Mr. Mazzeeck. He found out one day when Lee Furdell called to him while he was out emptying wastepaper baskets.

  “If you’ve finished your chores,” Lee said, “why don’t you come over for a few minutes. We haven’t had a good talk for weeks.” So Harry went on over. But instead of sitting somewhere in the back yard as they usually did, Lee led him right on into the house.

  In al
l the years that Harry and Lee had been friends, this was the first time Harry had been inside the Furdells’ house. He couldn’t help feeling nervous as Lee put some cookies and milk out on the kitchen table and pulled up some chairs. There’d been some neighborhood talk about Olive Furdell lately, about how she was an awful lot friendlier than she used to be—and, of course, Harry remembered the time she’d brought out the divinity. But still, having cookies and milk right in Olive Furdell’s own kitchen just didn’t seem like a very safe thing to do.

  Of course, you can’t just say to someone that you’re afraid of his wife, even if he already knows it, so Harry just said, “It’s pretty nice outside today. Why don’t we take the cookies out and eat them on the back steps?”

  Lee only smiled his gentle smile. “Sit down, Harry,” he said. “It’s all right.”

  So they ate the cookies and chatted for a while and Lee told Harry about a new kind of kite he’d read about and asked how the Marriage Plan for Mom was coming along. He said he’d noticed that Clarissa Clyde was still around and he still thought that Harry ought to try to convince her that Marco’s was haunted. They were trying to think of a way to haunt Clarissa without scaring out all the other boarders, when all of a sudden Olive walked in.

  Harry froze in mid-sentence, but Olive only pulled out a chair and sat down and smiled at them. “Well good morning, Harry,” she said. “It’s nice to see you.” And then she asked, “And how is your mother?” and “What are you doing this summer?” and some more of the ready-made kind of questions always asked by people who feel uncomfortable talking to kids. But the amazing thing was that you could tell she was really trying to be friendly and interested.

  So the three of them sat there making stiff polite conversation about the weather and the news in the paper and things like that. Finally, Olive said she had to get back to the shop because she was breaking in a new counter girl who might need some help. After she’d gone, Lee and Harry just sat for a while staring at their cookies.

  Harry had never felt embarrassed with Lee before. With Lee you could always say whatever you felt like saying and it was always all right. But what Harry felt like saying right then just didn’t seem polite, somehow. What he really wanted to say was, “Well, for Pete Squeaks! What’s got into her?”

  But at last Lee broke the ice. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that Mrs. Furdell seems a bit different lately?”

  You’re telling me! Harry thought, but he actually only nodded his head.

  “You’re not the only one to notice,” Lee said. “Several people have mentioned it to me. Hadn’t you heard about it before?”

  “Well, yes,” Harry had to admit. “You know how the people on Kerry Street like to talk about each other. But I just didn’t . . . I mean I wasn’t . . .”

  “It is hard to understand,” Lee went on. “You can’t blame people for being puzzled. But it really isn’t so much a complete change as they seem to think. Olive used to be much as she is now; but that was a long time ago. No one remembers except me.” Lee sat silently, fingering his glass of milk, and then he went on. “There were hard years of sorrow and disappointment, and Olive slowly changed to . . . well, to the way you’ve always known her. And it wasn’t all her fault, Harry.”

  “Well, anyway, I think it’s great,” Harry said. “Why everyone is saying how nice and friendly Mrs. Furdell is now, and . . .”

  “Yes,” Lee said. “I suppose there is bound to be a lot of talk, and there’d be even more if they knew . . .”

  “If they knew . . .” Harry prompted.

  Lee didn’t answer right away. At last he said, “I don’t know why I want to tell you this, I don’t know another living soul I’d feel free to discuss it with. But I know you won’t repeat it. The truth of the matter is that Olive’s personality change didn’t just happen. That is, there was something definite that caused it. Olive thinks she . . . that is, Olive has seen a vision.”

  “A v-vision?” Harry stammered.

  “Yes,” Lee said. “She didn’t tell me about it until just a few days ago, but apparently it’s been going on for quite a long time. She says she felt that one does not see a vision without a reason. And in trying to understand the reason why she should see an angel, she realized for the first time, what she had allowed herself to become.”

  Harry had almost stopped listening, except for one word that all of a sudden was ricocheting around in his head like an echo gone crazy.

  “An ANGEL!” he said. “Where? When?”

  “Right in our own yard,” Lee said. “On the roof of the carriage house. She says she has seen it many times.”

  They sat a while in silence. Lee was smiling and seemed to be thinking of something pleasant, but Harry was stunned.

  At last Harry said, “Maybe I ought to . . . That is, there’s something I should tell you.”

  But Lee held up his hand. “Excuse me for interrupting you, Harry, but before we change the subject, there’s one more thing I want to say. Olive and I are much happier than we’ve been in years, and I have a feeling that you will understand when I tell you that I believe in Olive’s angel. I believe in Olive’s angel and I want to believe in it.”

  Harry shut up.

  A Mummy from Mars

  The day after Harry and Lee talked about Olive’s angel, Harry had a very bright idea. He had been thinking about how he had used his wings to help several other people, even when he didn’t know he was helping, and it occurred to him that he might use them to solve his own problems. And right then, Harry’s biggest problem—besides his clumsiness, which was pretty hopeless—was how to get rid of Miss Clyde and get Mom and Mr. Brighton to marry each other.

  Putting the idea of using his wings together with Lee’s idea of haunting Miss Clyde, Harry came up with a terrific scheme. If he could make Olive Furdell think he was an angel without even trying, why couldn’t he, with a little effort, make Clarissa think he was something scarier. The biggest problem was making sure no one saw him except Clarissa, but Harry soon thought of a way to do that.

  That afternoon he spent some time rummaging around in the attic for something he remembered putting there after last Halloween. After a while he found it in a box of other holiday junk. It was a mask. One of those gruesome rubber ones that pull on over your head. It was one of those monster faces with scars and warts and fangs all over the place.

  Harry’s plan was to wait for an extra dark or foggy night and then fly around to Clarissa’s window and knock on it. She wouldn’t be able to see much except the mask and the fact that it was floating in the air two stories above the ground. That ought to be enough to scare anybody into moving.

  It was a typical San Francisco August, foggy almost every night, so Harry didn’t have long to wait. That very night, when he looked out of his bedroom window, the damp gray mist was so thick he couldn’t even make out the T.V. antenna on Madelaine’s roof. So instead of going to bed or out on a flight, Harry just waited. He sat on the stairs between the second and third floor until he heard Clarissa Clyde come up to her bedroom. Then he went back to his room and got ready.

  It’s not a bit easy to see in a thick fog with a rubber mask over your whole head, and Harry came close to bumping into the chimney as he flew over the top of the house. It would have been his first bruise in a long time. But, fortunately, he just missed, and he made it over and down to Clarissa’s window without any more trouble.

  The window shade was down so Harry didn’t have to worry about being seen before he was ready. He eased up to the window and rested his hands on the outside sill. By hanging on tightly and keeping his wings going gently, he was able to keep his head with its monster face on a level with the window. When he was all set he knocked sharply on the glass.

  For a second nothing happened, and then the shade was drawn quickly to one side, and—to Harry’s horror—there was another monster looking right back at him. It was so awful-looking that Harry forgot about hanging on to the window sill, and before he remembere
d to get his wings going, he had dropped down several feet. If he hadn’t been so experienced at flying, he might have had a serious accident. But he caught himself in time and flew quickly back around the house and scrambled in his own window. Then he sat on his bed in the dark and shivered.

  But even after his heart began to slow down and he was able to think more calmly, he still couldn’t imagine what it was he had seen. It couldn’t have been his own reflection in the glass of the window, because it wasn’t the same kind of monster at all. The one Harry had seen was more like a mummy. There had been a white bandage thing around the chin and the skin was all caked and cracked as if it were covered with layers of clay. Only on top of its head were a lot of round disk-like objects, like maybe it was some kind of mechanized thing from Mars. “A mummy from Mars,” Harry was saying to himself with a shaky grin, when all of a sudden he became aware of a commotion going on downstairs. He had a feeling that he’d been hearing it for quite a while, but he’d been too busy thinking about the mummy to pay any attention.

  Somebody was yelling down on the second floor, and Harry could hear doors slamming and people running around. With all that noise going on, Harry realized he’d have to go downstairs, or Mom would be sure to come up to see why he hadn’t. He leaped off the bed and recited the reverse incantation.

  A few minutes later, when Harry, dressed now in his robe and pajamas, started down to the second floor, the screaming had stopped. When he reached the hall, Mr. Konkel, Mrs. Pusey and a traveling salesman named Mr. Lewis, were talking together at one end of the hall, and at the other end Mr. Brighton was apparently having a spell of silent hysterics. Mom and Clarissa were no place to be seen.

  When Mr. Brighton saw Harry, he stopped laughing enough to motion Harry to come downstairs with him. “What happened?” Harry asked. “What’s all the yelling about?” But Mr. Brighton only put his finger to his still laughing mouth and went on leading the way to the kitchen.