The Missing Magic

by Kallie George

  “Yes, well, a bit of Bettering Balm never hurt anyone,” said Mr. Jams. “Clover, why don’t you give Picnic a walk? He’s bouncing all over the place. We can work on the horns together this afternoon.”

  And so, moments later, Clover was trudging down the path that curved like a dragon’s tail, with Picnic’s collar floating ahead of her, his leash stretched tight like the string of a kite. Not far from the gate, she passed a fisherman pulling a large tank, but she barely noticed, lost in thought.

  Clover knew she was good with the animals. Mr. Jams himself had said so. She belonged at the Agency. Though she hadn’t given much thought to what might happen when school started, she hoped she could keep volunteering there after class and on weekends. But with Oliver doing adoptions, did Mr. Jams have other plans? She didn’t know.

  She did know that she shouldn’t have snooped through Oliver’s things. And she shouldn’t have taken the necklace. Not that she meant to. I’ll put it back before anyone notices, she thought, fiddling with the clasp with one hand. It wouldn’t undo. She’d have to try again, properly, when she wasn’t walking Picnic.

  As they were nearing the fork in the path, Picnic’s bell jingled.

  He came swooping down—right into her arms, nearly toppling her over. “What’s up?” she said, giving his wings a pat.

  An answer came a moment later—in the form of a song.

  It was low and sad, and sounded almost like musical sobbing. Is it a bird? she wondered.

  As she turned the bend, the music-maker came into sight. It was a bird, perched on the sign that said HEART on the big tree at the crossroads. This was no ordinary bird, however. It was magical. It had to be, because what other bird could look like it was on fire? Its eyes smoldered, its feathers blazed red and gold like flames, and the tips of its wings and tail looked burnt. In fact, bits of them were crumbling and drifting down like ash, landing at the feet of…a knight.

  At least, Clover thought he might be a knight because of his silver helmet and the sword hanging from his belt. But she wasn’t sure. He was tall and thin, like the branch of a willow tree, with arms no bigger around than hers. It was hard to imagine him swinging a sword. And his voice, too, was certainly not what she expected from a knight (at least not the knights Mr. Jams often complained about, intent on dragon-head trophies). This knight was speaking in verse:

  “Dear Phoebe, dear pet,

  Fly down, fly to me,

  Soon we’ll be there,

  For…a nice cup of tea…

  Oh dear, you don’t even LIKE tea, do you, Phoebe?”

  The bird shook her feathers, causing a few to drift down like sparks. The knight cleared his throat and tried again:

  “Dear Phoebe, my friend,

  It’s just round the bend,

  It’s a place you can rest

  And build a fine nest…”

  He looked up at the bird hopefully. “That’s better, right?”

  But the bird clacked her beak and then continued her own song. The knight threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

  “Excuse me,” said Clover.

  The knight turned. The visor of his helmet was up. His eyes were light blue, like the sky, but with dark circles under them, as though he hadn’t slept for days. His smile, however, was kind and genuine. “Oh, hello. I don’t suppose you have any fire berries?”

  Clover shook her head. “There might be some at the Agency, though.”

  “The Agency? The Magical Animal Adoption Agency? That’s just where we’re headed. At least, so I hope. Alas, I have never yet managed to visit.” The knight took another look at Clover. Then he whistled. “You must be Clover. Sir—I mean, Mr.—Jams called me when you first arrived. Why, he said…No…only rhyme will do….” The knight cleared his throat:

  “A gentle hand,

  To care and tend,

  A plucky heart,

  She’s animals’ friend…

  Or maybe this is better…

  A girl of heart,

  A girl of grit,

  For the Agency, she’s

  A perfect fit…?

  Oh! Bother!”

  He stopped, and Clover clapped in astonishment. “Thank you!”

  The knight smiled sheepishly. “I know I’m rubbish. I used to be a bard, but I was never any good at it. I’m not terribly good at being a knight either.”

  “So you are a knight?”

  “Oh, yes. Sir Walter Windsmith, at your service. And this is Phoebe, my pet phoenix.” He pointed to the bird, who had stopped singing but was still clinging to the branch. “Phoebe’s nearing her Ash Day. She’s been very moody and tired because of it.”

  “Oh!” breathed Clover. A phoenix—a fire bird! That explained her glowing feathers and beautiful voice. Clover didn’t know what an Ash Day was, but she remembered, from her research on eggs, that phoenixes didn’t have eggs. When they died, they turned into ash, and a new phoenix rose from the ashes. Maybe that was an Ash Day? If so, no wonder poor Phoebe was scared.

  “I don’t have any experience with phoenixes, but…”

  “Maybe Mr. Jams could help us, then…or the expert? Last I heard, Theodore was on a mission to bring a bird expert to the Agency.”

  Clover’s back stiffened. “Actually, Oliver’s an egg expert, so I don’t think he’d be any use with a phoenix. I used to have a pet canary myself. Let me try.” Picnic had clearly settled down, so she put him on the ground. “If you’ll just hold Picnic’s leash.”

  “Picnic?”

  Clover gestured to the floating collar, which was now hovering near Sir Windsmith’s feet.

  “He’s an invisible puppy,” she explained.

  “Ah! Remarkable!” Sir Windsmith rubbed his eyes. “Why, people always say seeing is believing, but certainly not in this case. He’s the perfect subject for a poem….”

  “Sure,” said Clover, handing him the leash. “But I think we should try to get Phoebe down first.”

  “Of course, of course!”

  So Clover reached out her hand and called, “Here, Phoebe. Come here. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

  Phoebe ruffled her feathers. A few of them, mixed with ash, fell to the ground.

  Clover tried again. “Here, Phoebe. Come on.”

  But the bird didn’t budge. Even from the ground, Clover could see that the gold flecks in her eyes looked pale. She was scared.

  “It’ll be okay,” said Clover softly. “At the Agency, we have a special rookery for phoenixes.” It was true, though Clover had never been inside since they had never had a phoenix—not since she’d been there. “You’ll really like it there. I promise.”

  Perhaps it was Clover’s words or her steady outstretched hand, or maybe Phoebe could sense that Clover’s heart was worried too. Whatever the reason, the phoenix lifted her wings, let go of the branch, and glided gracefully down to rest on Clover’s shoulder.

  Although Phoebe was large, she was surprisingly light. Clover stayed perfectly still. She could feel the phoenix’s talons through her cotton dress—not sharp but surprisingly warm, like being touched by a sunbeam. And for a moment, Clover felt like a sunbeam herself, happy and warm and shimmering.

  “Oh! You did it! Wonderful work!” Sir Windsmith’s face lit up as he stroked Phoebe’s feathers. “We must get to the Agency. It is so important. Too much time has been lost as it is, what with Phoebe, and me blabbering on! You will show us the way, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” Clover said, and took Picnic’s leash. “Follow me.”

  As she led the way back to the Agency, she wasn’t worried about the necklace or the summer ending or even Oliver.

  After all, it’s hard to worry when you have a phoenix on your shoulder and a knight by your side.

  It wasn’t long before the Agency came into view. “How quaint!” cried Sir Windsmith. “How charming!”

  It really was. Clover loved Number 1 Dragon’s Tail Lane: the tangle of vines and moss that covered the building, the thatched roo
f that was nibbled in places, and the fence that looked like a set of crooked teeth. And she loved Gump, the gnome who guarded the Agency at night. He looked just like a clay garden gnome, except, if you listened closely, you could hear him snoring. He was asleep now, in the sun, and Clover gave him a gentle pat as she opened the gate.

  Sir Windsmith didn’t follow her. He was lost in thought, a few steps back, murmuring, “Charming, darling…no, those don’t rhyme. Quaint, faint…”

  “Um…Sir Windsmith?” prompted Clover.

  “Of course, of course!” he said, hurrying through. “Verse is my curse, you see, especially when there are urgent matters to attend to!”

  Urgent? Clover looked at the phoenix on her shoulder and wondered just how soon Phoebe’s Ash Day was. Would the bird burst into flames at any moment? Phoebe was so still and calm now, it was hard to imagine. But Mr. Jams would know.

  When Clover opened the front door, she knew the hippocampus had arrived. The smell of salty seawater filled the room, and Oliver was soaking wet. She couldn’t believe she’d missed it!

  Mr. Jams had obviously just got off the phone. The receiver was still in one hand. A piece of toast was in the other. “Unfortunately, no one in the nearby sea kingdom has heard of anyone having lost a hippocampus,” he said, “but the sea king there will spread the word.”

  “Good,” said Oliver, rubbing his dripping hair with a towel. Then he stopped. “This towel has jam on it!”

  “Oh, that must be from…” Mr. Jams said, raising his piece of toast. He caught sight of Clover, who was unclipping Picnic from his leash. “Clover! Back so soon…” Then he saw the bird on her shoulder and Sir Windsmith standing behind her, and his eyes went wide.

  “Troll’s turnips! It can’t be!” He leapt up, his piece of toast flying through the air and landing somewhere behind the desk.

  “But it is! Sure as song,” said Sir Windsmith. “My dear Theodore! Theodore Jams!”

  He strode across the room and bent down, throwing his willowy arms around Mr. Jams in a hug.

  When Sir Windsmith let go, Mr. Jams sputtered, “To…to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  Clover pointed to Phoebe and was about to explain when Sir Windsmith spoke. To Clover’s surprise, he said nothing about the phoenix. Instead he mumbled, “There’s a problem, Theodore. A big one. I need your help. I need Sir Jams’s help.”

  Sir Jams? But…but that would mean Mr. Jams was a knight. Mr. Jams wasn’t a knight! Was he? Clover tilted her head to listen, and she noticed Oliver did too.

  “You know I’ve given all that up,” replied Mr. Jams with force.

  “I know. And I wouldn’t ask unless I had no choice. It’s a long story.”

  “Perhaps we should talk upstairs, Walter,” said Mr. Jams. “Clover, Oliver, please find some dried fire berries in the kitchen for the phoenix. I see Phoebe is nearing her Ash Day?” he said to his friend, leading him out of the front room.

  “Yes, and she’s much more on edge than last time. I think it has to do with the stress of these past days….”

  Their voices trailed away as they headed upstairs.

  Oliver set down the towel and pushed up his glasses. “Hmm, interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, as you know, Mr. Jams used to be a knight. A very well-known one. But my brother told me he renounced his knighthood because he refused to kill dragons.”

  Clover’s mouth hung open.

  “You didn’t know that? He didn’t tell you?” Oliver looked smug.

  “Of course I knew,” Clover quickly lied. “But why is Sir Windsmith here? I thought it was because of Phoebe.”

  The phoenix, still on Clover’s shoulder, gave a little squawk.

  “I’m not sure,” said Oliver, adding, “Knightly endeavors, I presume.” What exactly that meant, however, he wasn’t sharing.

  So Clover headed to the kitchen to find the fire berries for Phoebe. Oliver trailed after her.

  The berries were bright red, like plump rubies, but Phoebe wouldn’t eat any.

  “She really IS nearing her Ash Day,” said Oliver, giving the bird’s feathers a stroke. “It’s funny how books never explain…”

  “Explain what?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just observing her solemn demeanor. As well as all the other signs she exhibits: the dullish eyes; the ugly, crumbling feathers…”

  Phoebe snapped her beak, and Oliver jerked his hand away.

  “I don’t think she likes being called ugly,” said Clover.

  “That’s preposterous. She’s just a bird….”

  Clover was about to argue when a loud thump came from upstairs. She peeked out of the kitchen and Oliver joined her. Raised voices echoed down from the tower, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “It sounds like they’re fighting,” she whispered.

  “I can’t imagine Mr. Jams fighting,” Oliver replied in a hush.

  “Neither can I.”

  Clover could feel Phoebe trembling and stroked her feathers gently.

  A moment later, the voices grew louder as the door to Mr. Jams’s room opened. Clover and Oliver ducked back into the kitchen.

  Footsteps clumped down the stairs. “Very well!” puffed Mr. Jams. “If there’s no other way. As you say, Walter, there’s not a moment to lose. But bother! Bother and billyrocks! Clover! Oliver! Where are you?”

  “Here,” said Clover as she and Oliver stepped into the hall.

  “Ah, good,” said Mr. Jams. The shiny knight’s helmet Clover had seen earlier was tucked under his arm, and he was carrying his suitcase, a sock dangling from it.

  Oh no, thought Clover. Not again!

  “Oliver,” said Mr. Jams, “please fetch me my sword. It is in the front room, on top of the bookshelf.”

  “Certainly,” said Oliver, rushing off.

  “Clover, take Phoebe to the rookery and put her in the middle of the sun since she’s close to her Ash Day. She will stay here. It’s best for her.”

  Middle of the sun? wondered Clover. Mr. Jams was clearly too distracted for questions, so she nodded, her mind whirling. She walked quickly but carefully, so as not to upset the phoenix, down the hall, past the small animals’ room to a room right next to the stables—the rookery.

  The rookery was surprisingly warm and filled with roosting pegs. The walls were painted a happy sky blue, and in one corner there was a beautiful mosaic of the sun, made up of small squares of mirror and tile. In the center of the sun was a round hole, also tiled. So this was what Mr. Jams meant, thought Clover. Gently she placed Phoebe in the mosaic’s nest. “There you go,” she said. There was just enough room for the bird. The phoenix ruffled her feathers and seemed to relax.

  “See, I told you it’s nice here,” said Clover, stroking the bird’s feathers again, her fingers tingling with warmth. They still tingled, even as she left the rookery.

  When Clover returned to the front room, Mr. Jams was attaching his sword to his belt. The tip of the blade nearly touched the floor. “Humph, I’m too old for this,” he muttered.

  “This is the only option,” said Sir Windsmith.

  “I know,” sighed Mr. Jams. Then he turned to Clover and Oliver and said, “As you must have gathered, Sir Windsmith and I are leaving on an important mission. I’m afraid we must depart immediately.”

  “But…but…” stammered Oliver. He seemed surprised, but Clover wasn’t. Since she had started, Mr. Jams was always heading off on one mission or another—which was probably one of the reasons he had hired her.

  “No time for questions,” said Mr. Jams, and Clover knew that once again she wouldn’t find out the details of the trip until he returned.

  “You two must look after the Agency while I’m gone,” he said, adjusting his sword.

  You two? Now that was surprising. Clover had always been in charge of the Agency when Mr. Jams went away—by herself. It was something she was an expert at. Oliver had no experience running the Agency
at all.

  Mr. Jams, however, went on, “Work together and everything will be fine. There’s plenty of bread and jam, and cinnamon and sugar, in the kitchen cupboard. And the supplies for the animals are well stocked. Most importantly, do you promise, both of you, to look after the Agency with all your hearts?”

  “Of course!” Clover and Oliver burst out at the same time.

  Clover flashed Oliver a wary look. He didn’t seem to notice—which was probably a good thing. After all, Mr. Jams had asked her to get along with him, and so she should probably try. Maybe they could work together. Maybe Oliver would even help her polish those horns. This was a magical world, after all, and stranger things had happened.

  After Sir Windsmith said good-bye to Phoebe (in verse, of course) and Mr. Jams packed one more jar of jam, the two set off.

  Together, Clover and Oliver watched as the knights marched down the path, the sound of Sir Windsmith’s latest poem drifting back to them.

  “Knights once again,

  Off to do a good deed.

  Luck be with us,

  And we shall succeed!”

  Clover and Oliver did manage to work together for the rest of the day. They were too shocked by Mr. Jams’s sudden departure (and, for Clover, the discovery of his past as a knight) to argue.

  When it came to introducing Clover to the hippocampus, though, Oliver was as much of a know-it-all as ever.

  “I’ve adjusted the temperature of the room accordingly,” Oliver announced.

  The tank room was muggy and smelled like the seaside. The hippocampus was in the medium-sized tank in the center, the one Clover had prepared, by herself, the day before.

  “Most hippocampi are the size of unicorns,” said Oliver, “though this one”—he gestured with his wand—“is slightly larger. He’s clearly a thoroughbred. You can tell from his scales. See how they are a continuous sea blue, from horse to fish? Observe the width of his fins. And look at his teeth, sharp as a shark’s.”