The Real Boy

by Anne Ursu

  But still. Callie said he was kind. And so he had to go up.

  With a deep breath, he put his foot on the bottom rung, grabbed on to the one by his shoulders, and pulled himself up. One rung. Then two. Then three and four. He was eye level with a small book called The Fortunate and the Fallen. He closed his eyes for a moment and then moved up another rung. And another.

  He did not look down or up, just straight ahead, watching as the subjects of the books changed from plant magic to theories of luck and fortune to small enchantments to magical creatures and beasts. The higher he looked, the fewer titles he could read—some were written in Latin, others in languages he didn’t even recognize. There were even entire alphabets he’d never seen before.

  If there was a book to help Callie help the boy, it would be here.

  Oscar gulped and went up two more rungs, so he was now several Oscars high. His heart seemed like it was going to give up on him and leap back down to the floor. But the books called to him. This was no plant magic; this was the stuff of the heavens, of demons, of forces Oscar couldn’t even imagine. This was wizard magic: Curses and Hexes; Creating and Maintaining Illusions; Metamorphosis and Animation; Old Enchantments, New Magic; Theories of Vivification; Secrets of the Wizards.

  And this: Magic and the Mind.

  Gripping the ladder with his right hand as tightly as anything had ever been gripped, Oscar pulled the book off the shelf and put it in his satchel, next to the block of wood he’d picked up earlier that day. And, because he couldn’t resist, he took the one about the wizards, too—he could put it under his bed, where it could keep the misfit books company.

  That done, he climbed back down—which did not seem at all less treacherous than going up, really, especially when you had a stolen spell book and the entire history of local wizardry in your bag.

  When he got down, he settled himself in a chair and began to flip through Magic and the Mind.

  It was nothing like a plant book, which had careful illustrations and intricate diagrams and easy explanations, the sort of thing you could study and then keep in your head to refer to whenever you needed it. Some of those books were organized by plants, some by the kind of magic—prosperity, luck, beauty, health, protection, love . . . But no matter what, the pages were so clear: when someone named a problem or Caleb told Oscar to prepare an herb, the image of the page popped into his mind unbidden. They were all there, like there was a compendium in his head, and all he had to do was sort through and find the right one.

  This book was all nonsense, with still more nonsense scribbled in the margins. The sentences stretched out and then tucked back into themselves, and then turned around again and wandered off in a different direction. There were no instructions, not that he could see—just strange scribbles and diagrams that meant nothing, and words that meant even less.

  With the plants, there was a system—cultivate them, pick them, dry them, prepare them. There were rules, ritual, patterns. And there were things you could hold in your hand. If there was any system to the magic in this book, it relied on rules in languages Oscar didn’t even know.

  All he could make out were some of the labels of spells, and even those didn’t necessarily make sense: the Black Mirror, Unbinding Powers, Blood Calling, the Breath of Life, and Living Enchantments. There were spells to make a man think he was haunted, spells to make him forget, spells to make him believe, spells to sicken his mind. Oscar could see no spell for restoring memories—but there was one for implanting them. A strange thing, to plant a memory, like a lily in a vegetable garden.

  Oscar closed the book. What had he been looking for, exactly? A spell that a hand could find that the only true magician in the Barrow did not know about? A spell an apprentice could do and Master Caleb could not? He’d been pulled along by a whim, like a distant flicker in a labyrinth.

  Orphan. Misfit. Idiot.

  Oscar squeezed his arms around his chest and glanced over at the sleeping cats. No spell for memory. No way to help Callie. And—it was funny—a whole book on magic and the mind and there was nothing in it about fixing a boy who was not quite right.

  When Oscar woke up the next morning, he laid out the map of the day in his mind. He got dressed, ate some bread, gathered water, and ran his errands in the marketplace—it was Friday, and that meant getting cheese from Madame Catherine and her Most Spectacular Goat. He spent some time dusting and sweeping in the shop, as a good hand does. The shelves looked fuller, happier than the last time Oscar had seen them. Caleb had clearly been busy the last two nights preparing potions and charms. There was even a new shelf with thick, folded blankets. Oscar snuck a peek at the information card: Will obscure what lies beneath.

  Then he went back to the cellar and got to work. He had found no answers last night, but he was in his pantry doing the things he was good at, where the questions did not need answering. That was why he was here, why Caleb had picked him in the first place. And Caleb was in the shop, watching over it like a wizard tree in the forest. As long as it stayed that way, everything would be all right.

  After a few hours in the pantry, Oscar went back up the stairs to the back room to use the still, to extract some oil from the harvest of the day before. Crow came up with him, for she had an innate sense of when it was Most Spectacular Goat Cheese Day.

  As he worked, voices tumbled in from the shop, a cloud of noise. They were Barrow voices, rumbly and rough like bark. Twice, someone asked Caleb whether he planned to get a new apprentice soon. “My daughter is showing some aptitude . . . ,” they each said.

  Even when Wolf was alive, lots of Barrow parents would come in proclaiming their children were showing evidence of a gift, though such gifts were rare. The duke paid parents of apprentices handsomely for giving their children to the service of the magic—after charging the magic smiths an even more handsome fee. Still, Oscar did not understand why anyone would bother lying—the duke wouldn’t certify an apprentice with no magic.

  The voices kept floating in. Most of the people who weren’t trying to sell off their children told Caleb that they were sorry about Wolf, he’d had such potential, a shame he’d had to go messing with things beyond his ability.

  “Yes,” Caleb said. “A shame.”

  “I was worried at first,” one woman said. “That there might be something out there.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” Caleb replied.

  “I am certainly relieved to hear you say that. I know you’ll keep us safe.”

  “It is my duty and my honor,” Caleb said, mouth spreading across his face in a smile that existed only for her.

  Oscar could always tell without looking when the shining people entered the shop. They just sounded different, like the words cost them nothing to say, not even a thought. The air gave way for their voices—it was their land, after all—and the words glided their way to Oscar. A man wanted a charm to give him luck at cards. “I don’t seem to have any of my own,” he said, with a laugh.

  Oscar frowned at the eucalyptus he was chopping. It was hard to believe that a City person wouldn’t have luck. Why wouldn’t they, when they had everything else?

  Quiet for a while, some words and phrases here and there—the cloud of noise thinned into little wisps like the steam rising from the still. Caleb’s boots clunked their way around the shop, his voice enchanting customers, one sale at a time. Then: “May I help you, Miss Callie?”

  Oscar snapped up and peeked through the doorway. There Callie was, in front of the envelopes of herbs, her hair in a thick long braid and her cloak wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders. He had nothing for her; he had gone looking for help for her but had come up empty.

  “Yes, thank you, Master Caleb.” Callie sounded so different than when she talked to Oscar. Every word sounded like it was standing up straight.

  “I need more treatment for hives,” Callie was saying.

  Oscar froze.

  “What you gave me yesterday worked splendidly,” she continued,
“but I’m afraid the whole family has them now.”

  All he could do was hold his breath and watch, as Caleb arched an eyebrow and studied Callie, who was looking up at him like a cat waiting for breakfast.

  “Hives, Miss Callie,” Caleb said finally. “That must be a very uncomfortable family. We have many things in stock.” He waved his hands over to the packaged herbs and the decoctions. “Unless you’d like me to mix something for you? Do you know the source of the hives?”

  Callie’s eyebrows knotted together. “Barrow ivy.”

  “I see. That will require something special. We’ll put something together for you. And,” he added, a smile creeping across his face, “where is Madame Mariel?”

  Callie’s hand flew to her neck. “Tending to the family,” she said. “The hives, you see.”

  “Ah,” said Caleb. “Yes, very dedicated, our Mariel. Let me see what I can make for you.”

  Caleb turned. Oscar watched. Callie was regarding the magician with the oddest expression, like he had words on his back she couldn’t quite read. It was how Oscar felt all the time.

  The front door opened then, and two City girls walked in, older girls about Wolf’s age—one with tumbling black curls, the other with silky straight hair, and both with faces that seemed sculpted. If Wolf had been here, he would have started panting.

  The girls parked themselves in the corner by some potions and were chirping back and forth about an appointment with Madame Lara, the soothsayer.

  Caleb tossed an “I’ll be back with you soon, Miss Callie” over his shoulder, then circled over to the girls. He greeted them, his voice now rich as well as enchanting. And soon both of them were gazing up at him, eyes sparkling like jewels in candlelight.

  “You went to see Madame Lara, eh? Did she have good fortunes for you both?”

  The girls giggled again. “Yes,” said Curly Hair, “but she sent us here for some love potion. She says we’ll need it to get our heart’s desires.”

  “Madame Lara is wise,” he said. “I can help you with that. But would you like something to help give you guidance in your endeavors, too? In case you need some direction when you cannot see Madame Lara?”

  Both girls gasped. “Soothsaying?”

  Caleb grinned. “Of a sort. Madame Lara is the one with powers. But I can help you tap into your own”—he tilted his head—“instincts.”

  “Yes,” said Curly.

  “For both of us,” said Silky Hair.

  “It’s a very special potion,” Caleb said, leaning in close, softening his voice like he was telling a marvelous secret, one only everyone else in the shop could hear. “I’ll have to prepare it.” He grinned again with one side of his mouth and then, without changing his gaze, called in the direction of the back room.

  “Oscar, are you there?”

  Oscar nodded. But nods communicate little when someone is not looking at you. He took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway. “I am,” he squeaked, keeping his eyes down.

  Caleb looked back. “Please bring up some cherry bark and belladonna,” he called. “I have a special item to make.”

  Oscar smashed his lips together. That wasn’t for Callie.

  “This is exciting,” Curly gushed. She turned toward her friend, and as she did so her velvet bag swung around and hit the shelf of dark glass vials behind her, full of carefully prepared tinctures. A whole flock of them came tumbling off, plummeting down, exploding as they hit the floor. Oscar put his hands to his ears and yelped. Crow appeared in the doorway, lantern eyes big, ears thrust forward.

  Splinters of glass flew everywhere, and puddles of thick liquid spread out to meet one another. Silky screeched and picked up her deep red skirts—now dotted with splashes of tincture of camellia. She looked at her friend, aghast.

  Curly Hair stepped back. “Really,” she said to Caleb, jewels dimming, “you should shelve these more carefully.”

  Callie made some kind of small noise then, but Oscar didn’t have time to parse it. He was too busy thinking that there was nothing wrong with the way the tinctures were shelved, as long as no one hit them with her purse. As he informed the girls, apparently, because they both snapped their heads to look at him.

  “Oscar!” exclaimed Caleb.

  Well, it was true.

  The girls’ eyes fell on Oscar, then darted to Crow, who was still standing as if she did not know whether to attack or flee. Oscar ached to bend down, put his hand on her back, and whisper that it was all right. But he could not move.

  Curly Hair turned back to Caleb. “Master Caleb, why do you keep such creatures in your shop?”

  “She’s not a creature!” Oscar exclaimed. “She’s a cat.” Anyone could see that.

  “Oh, I see!” said the girl. “You keep it because it’s amusing.”

  Both girls laughed, so full of mirth they might burst with it and shatter all over the shop. Oscar took a step back. He wanted to turn and run, but another gaze was holding him—Callie’s. She was looking at him so quizzically, like he, too, was falling off the shelf in front of her. Oscar lowered his eyes, then turned and headed back to the cellar.

  Oscar spent the rest of the day in the pantry, dicing whatever dried camellia he had left into small pieces. Camellia was an exotic plant, not found even in this forest, so this would be it until Caleb could import some more. Oscar would then put the pieces in jars, fill the jars with alcohol, and seal them. He would shake them once a day, every day, for four weeks, then pour the tincture into vials and bring them up to the store. All the shining girls would have to wait until then to attract bountiful love.

  Something had gone wrong today: the girls had laughed and Caleb had snapped, and a whole shelf had come tumbling down. But Oscar would remake the tinctures, and everything would be all right again—he would make it all right.

  He looked down and kept chopping. There was more noise than usual coming from the shop above, or maybe Oscar’s ears just hurt more now. But as the afternoon wore on, the footsteps sounded more like stomping, the talking sounded more like yelling, and the door did not so much close as slam. His whole body hurt from the noise.

  Eventually night came, and with it Caleb’s footsteps on the stairs. Oscar froze. You can do it, the magician had said. I know you can.

  Well, now Caleb knew the truth.

  In a moment, the magician was filling the doorway. There was darkness on his face. Oscar’s stomach felt like he’d swallowed a whole jar of Barrow ivy.

  “Oscar,” Caleb said. “I want to speak to you.”

  “Yes, Master Caleb,” Oscar whispered. He kept his eyes focused firmly on the floor.

  “I am going back to the continent. My business calls me there.”

  Oscar sat up. “To the continent?” he repeated.

  Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

  “Now?” Oscar asked.

  “Yes,” Caleb said. “I’ll be gone several days. You will mind the shop, as we discussed.”

  Oscar’s eyes darted to the pantry shelves. They crashed to the floor behind his eyes. “But . . . what about Wolf?” Oscar asked suddenly. It hadn’t been what he’d wanted to ask. Not really. He didn’t know what he wanted, other than some truth Caleb could give him, something solid and smooth and sure.

  Caleb put his hands on the door frame and exhaled. “Wolf’s death was a tragedy. It was a terrible accident. But it has nothing to do with us.”

  In the distant hallway the lanterns flickered.

  “The shelves were fine,” Oscar said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Caleb’s gaze held him completely and would not let go. “Oscar,” he said after a time, “you have worked hard for me. I knew you would.”

  “You did?” Oscar dared a glance up.

  “Yes. I handpicked you at the Home. They recommended other children. But I picked you. Do you know why?”

  Oscar’s breath caught. His eyes widened and he shook his head slowly. He dared not say anything, lest Caleb change his mind and not te
ll him.

  Caleb leaned in. “Because the wards told me you were the one who would never get picked.”

  Oscar’s eyes darted up to his master’s face for a flash, and then dropped to the floor. A snap of the fingers, and suddenly he was hollow inside.

  “I needed someone who would work hard,” Caleb continued. “I needed someone who would be loyal. The boy nobody wanted, that was the boy for me.” The magician let go of the door frame and straightened himself up. “You are an odd little boy,” he said, speaking right to Oscar’s hollow places. “And it is acceptable to be an odd little boy down here in the pantry with only the cats to notice. But when you are minding my shop, you will not be odd.”

  As always, Caleb’s words sounded sure, themselves a charm. But now they hit Oscar like a punch. There was a warning in them, too, something that called up the void at the end of the world. Oscar tried the words for himself. You will not be odd. He tried to wrap his hands around them and squeeze. But there was nothing there; his hands were empty.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Deal

  That night, the shadows of the past revealed themselves to Oscar, as the Wolf in his head laughed. The truth had been there in his memories the whole time—he just hadn’t looked hard enough.

  Something was wrong with him—and down deep he’d known his whole life. Maybe the wards had even said something. (You are not right, boy.) Maybe the other children had. (What’s wrong with you?) Maybe it had happened while he watched one child after another walk off with a family from the Eastern Villages, with a merchant or a farmer. (You know no one will ever take you, right?) Maybe he’d even said it to himself.