Children of Magic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  Puck distracted him. “I think you should meet Mr. Lyne halfway,” he said thoughtfully. “A concert, only not a concert. Just a—” He frowned, looking for a word.

  “A festival?” Crystal suggested.

  Star said doubtfully, “I don’t know, Mom. Festival sounds—I mean, what if it doesn’t work? What if nothing comes out?”

  “A meeting, then,” Puck said.

  Star turned his whistle in his fingers, considering. “A meeting. Maybe, Dad.” He suddenly smiled. “Yes. A Losers’ Club meeting. If Mr. Lyne says it’s okay. There are a couple of kids who can help.”

  “You just need a place.”

  “Yes. The courtyard is too small, and the cafeteria is busy serving lunch. The jocks will cause trouble if we use the lawn outside the library . . .”

  Crystal said, “What about that big meadow? With all the benches around it?”

  “The football field? But they have football practice there, or soccer, or whatever.”

  “At lunch break?” Puck asked. “I’ll bet it’s free at lunch break. I’ll call Mr. Lyne back.”

  It took some doing, some persuasion of Mr. Lyne by Puck and Crystal, some help from Emmy and Hannah to spread the word, but two days later the Losers’ Club was to meet in the bleachers at one end of the football field. Star walked across the parking lot and up the cement ramp with Emmy and Hannah, his whistle in his pocket, his stomach full of butterflies. A few small clouds floated high above, but the day was warm. The usual members of the Losers’ Club were already waiting on the benches, and other kids were wandering up to find seats, the tennis team all in a group, the chess club coming in twos and threes, the rockers with their band tee shirts and spiky hair climbing right to the top, waving and calling, “Starman! Cool!”

  It looked as if the whole school had come out. There were girls and boys Star had never seen, sitting on the benches, standing on the dirt fringe below the bleachers, hanging over the railings. Mr. Lyne and the vice-principal stood with folded arms beside the empty ticket booth, and the jocks who had driven Star off the library lawn huddled on the field, their heads turning as Star and Emmy and Hannah walked down the aisle. One of the jocks said something to the others that Star couldn’t hear, and they all laughed.

  Hannah said, “Look, the beef-for-brains guys are here.”

  Emmy said, “Hannah! Shut up!”

  In the shade of the Visitors’ Locker Room, Star caught sight of his parents and several of the cousins, come to support him. Seagull Whiteheart was there, and Joyful Clearwater, and Splendor, her hair gleaming in the sunshine. Star rubbed his stomach, where the butterflies swarmed, and sat where Emmy pointed. He drew his whistle from his pocket.

  “Hey, Starman,” someone said.

  Somebody at the top of the bleachers called, “Play for us, Starman!”

  The thick-necked guys on the field imitated the call, whining, “Starman! Starman!”

  Emmy whispered, “Ignore those guys, Star.”

  Hannah said loudly, “Losers’ Club rule: never listen to anybody whose neck is bigger than their head,” and the kids around her laughed.

  Star closed his eyes. He felt as if he were at the center of a kaleidoscope, colors and shapes turning around him, shifting and twisting, coalescing, flying apart, coming together again. Everything meshed, his butterflies, the Losers’ Club, the jocks, the Beings. He breathed it all in, and breathed it out again through his whistle, almost before he knew he was doing it. The sound was thin and fragile in the open air.

  His melody lasted a long time, because there were so many people, so many feelings. There were all the kids, each with their own concerns. There was Mr. Lyne, worried about fire regulations, and about losing control. There were the cousins, marveling at the Normal school. And there were Puck and Crystal, who were full of—full of what?

  Star’s melody slowed, descended, came to an end. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. Puck and Crystal were full of pride. That had been the crowning touch to his breathing music. His parents were proud. And from both of them, there was a sense of—of joy!

  Why?

  He looked up, and found Emmy smiling, Hannah grinning. Voices said quietly, “Wow, Starman,” and “Best ever.” No one was leaving. They were just hanging out together, smiling, beginning murmured conversations. It was just the Losers’ Club, having fun.

  And then one of the jocks on the field began to tootle on a kazoo.

  It was a raw imitation of Star’s music, the harsh sound of the kazoo mocking the delicate sound of the tin whistle. Star heard a few embarrassed titters from the bleachers, and his cheeks flamed.

  Hannah growled, “Those booger heads!”

  Emmy stood up, and shouted, “Stop that! Shame on you!”

  They called back, “Shame on you, shame on you,” in high falsetto voices. Emmy burst into tears. Hannah put an arm around her. Star sat helplessly, staring at them, wishing the Beings weren’t here to see his embarrassment.

  And then someone said, “What’s that? What’s happening?” and he glanced up.

  One of the small, high clouds had floated down to hover directly over the boys on the football field. Rain-drops began to fall from it, lightly at first, and then hard and fast, great fat drops that splashed on the boys’ heads and rolled down their cheeks.

  Mr. Lyne said, “What the—”.

  Hannah said, “Awesome!”

  Star was afraid to look at the cousins. Seagull would be glowing. What about the Rules?

  The group on the field tried to move away from the cloud. It followed them.

  Star knew that once he started, Seagull would not stop until the cloud had emptied itself. The boys began to run, dashing for shelter. The cloud pursued them, the rain falling faster and faster, until their clothes were drenched. The kids in the bleachers and on the fringe started to laugh, and Emmy raised her head, tears forgotten in amazement.

  The boys crowded into the Home locker room, and the little cloud evaporated. From the school, the buzzer sounded, and the students all rose. Mr. Lyne and the vice-principal left the ticket booth as the kids, still laughing, began to make their way out of the bleachers. Puck and Crystal and the cousins started across the football field toward Star.

  When the bleachers had cleared of everyone except Emmy, Hannah, and himself, Star moved down the aisle to meet his parents.

  Somebody called to him, “Later, Starman!” He turned to wave, and then turned back.

  He froze.

  Emmy and Hannah were just behind him. Mr. Lyne and the vice-principal were approaching at a right angle to the path of Puck and Crystal and the cousins.

  But Crystal was glowing like an incandescent bulb. Sparks glimmered from her hair and her hands, and her caftan shone as if it were aflame.

  “Mom . . .” Star groaned. The Rules!

  He had just reached the bottom fringe of the bleachers, and Emmy and Hannah were about to step down beside him. Mr. Lyne waved to Star as if to tell him to wait. And his mother, all unaware, quickened her step toward her son. Did no one notice, not Puck, not Seagull, not the other cousins? Did Splendor—

  And then, all at once, Star knew that Splendor had noticed. Crystal Wondersmith disappeared, as neatly as if she had never been there at all. The three little groups converged, the principal and vice-principal, Star and his two Normal friends, the cousins. Introductions were made, hands were shaken, thanks and farewells said. Emmy and Hannah hurried off to class. Mr. Lyne and the vice-principal strolled away to the main office, leaving Star with his father and his cousins.

  And his mother. Splendor waved one slender, scarf-draped hand, and Crystal, sparkling all over, reappeared as if nothing had happened. Fragments of light clung to Star when she hugged him.

  The cousins exclaimed over the school, the football field, the bleachers.

  “But,” Splendor said. “They all like you, don’t they?”

  “Well, I don’t think the jocks do.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Splendor said
. “They came to hear you, after all.”

  “Oh, Starchild,” Crystal cried. Even her happy tears glittered. “You do have Talent!”

  “What?” Star looked around for his father. “What does she mean?”

  Puck’s eyes were almost as bright as Crystal’s. “Why, son,” he said. “Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?” All the cousins were smiling at Star. Splendor’s smile was the widest.

  Puck gripped Star’s shoulder. “Why, Starchild—son—you’re a Gatherer!”

  “There hasn’t been a Gatherer in a hundred years,” Crystal said.

  “You can come back to the School for True Beings!” Splendor said mistily. Seagull and Joyful and the other cousins nodded.

  Star stared at them, and then at his parents, stunned. “A—a Gatherer?”

  “It’s your music, son,” Puck said. “Your breathing music. It gathers people.”

  Long minutes passed as Star thought about this. The Beings waited respectfully, understanding the immensity of the moment.

  A Gatherer! A Talent after all! Star could hardly take it in. All he did, after all, was breathe in feelings, and breathe them out . . . but it was true. Here at the Normal school, where there were so many differences, people gathered together when he played. Even the jocks, even though they made fun!

  He tucked his whistle into his pocket, and patted it. “This is wonderful,” he said. “But I think I’m in the right place. I’m needed here.”

  “That’s right,” Puck said. “Good for you for knowing that, son.”

  Crystal said, “Oh, Starchild. You’ll be a wonderful Gatherer.”

  “I hope so. But now, I’m late for class,” Star said.

  Everyone chuckled quietly, and the Beings started off toward the parking lot. Splendor said, “See you at the next festival, Starchild.”

  “See you, Splendor,” he said. He waved at her, and then hurried off to class.

  As he went, he shook his arms and hands until the glow faded, and he looked Normal.

  FAR FROM THE TREE

  Melissa Lee Shaw

  Melissa Lee Shaw’s short fiction has appeared in Realms of Fantasy; Analog; Silver Birch, Blood Moon; Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers; Writers of the Future; and the French anthology Il Etait Une Fée. She is currently at work on a fantasy trilogy set in the same world as “Far From the Tree.”

  NALIA HURRIED ALONG the road that ran through Fallon’s Bend, picking her way around the muddy ruts left by ox-carts and carriages headed to or from the royal city of Kellinvale, or the more distant ports further up the Laskia River. Long habit guided her to the trail on the edge of town that led to her favorite weeping willow, its slender leaves buttercup-yellow with autumn’s cooling.

  As usual, her best friend Jemmy sat in a comfortable niche about twenty feet up, where the willow’s massive trunk split into three. From the slump of his shoulders and the tightness around his eyes, Nalia knew that his mama was busy showing her wares to a new customer.

  Nalia ducked beneath the long, swaying streamers of leaves and climbed up beside him. “Been here long?” she said, bracing her bare feet against one trunk. Jemmy, as always, wore stiff leather shoes.

  Though he didn’t answer, he acknowledged her presence with a flick of his leaf-green eyes. He held up a piece of wood the size of two fingers outstretched. “I’ve been practicing,” he said. “Watch.” Closing his eyes, he stroked his fingers delicately along the piece of wood. The mildest hum burred from his throat.

  Beneath his touch, the wood softened, flattened. Nalia watched, entranced, as the grain of the wood started moving like sluggish river water, curling here, straightening there. So absorbed was she watching the movement that she didn’t notice at first the shapes made by the new pattern of the grain. “Oh, Jemmy! Faces!”

  He smiled faintly, rubbing his thumb over the smoothed wood a few times. Opening his eyes, he examined his work.

  “Let me see,” Nalia said, reaching for it.

  “In a minute,” he said, twisting away. “I have to make sure it’s done.”

  She rolled her eyes, but waited till he dropped his creation into her hands. “Wow,” she said, turning it. “It’s—Jemmy, it’s us, right? You and me?” A boy’s face in profile, a few lines suggesting a shock of dark hair falling into his eyes, facing a girl’s, her lighter hair tied back with a twist of cloth. “It’s lovely.”

  “It’s nothing much,” he said, though she could tell he was pleased. He wedged his creation between two close-growing branches, near the trunk. “We’ll keep it here,” he said.

  She nodded. “That way it won’t get lost.”

  And then he was skittering down the tree, quick as a squirrel, shouting, “Come on, Nal! Hurry up!”

  “Hey!” she cried, scrambling down, but he was already far ahead. She had to run hard to keep him in sight. Whooping here and there as he leaped a fallen trunk or a small stream, he led her on a convoluted course through the forest. Quick as he was in the trees, though, on the ground, she was faster. Soon she ran beside him.

  They turned toward town, and the morning market. Panting, Nalia said, “Who is he?”

  Jemmy scowled. “Who?” he said, though he obviously knew.

  “The new customer.”

  “How should I know?” he said, kicking at a small stone. “Some merchant, on his way to Kellinvale. Kept wiping his nose with this disgusting handkerchief.”

  “Looking for fine garments for his wife. Silks and satins,” she said dreamily. “Blues and reds and greens.”

  “There’s Twig,” Jemmy said, nodding at a spindly little boy trudging along, a burlap sack slung over one shoulder.

  “His name,” she said, “is Speare.”

  “Look at him,” he said scornfully.

  She stopped. “Not everyone is strong. That doesn’t make my brother worthless.”

  “I know, Nal, but—”

  “He works hard,” she said. “It takes him hours to deliver all his loaves, but he won’t even eat till he’s done. You of all people should know you can’t judge someone because of something they can’t help.”

  Jemmy kicked a clod of dirt with the mud-streaked shoes that hid his deformed feet.

  “Nor,” she said, fixing him with a firm look, “because of what other people say about them.”

  “Sor-ry! I was just kidding and you know it.”

  “Sometimes people kid about you,” she said.

  “Sometimes you,” he said, “are such a girl.” And he took off running again, weaving between carts and women laden with wicker baskets.

  Nalia bit back her indignation and followed. She caught up with Jemmy near the honey-cake stand and its delicious smells. Staring wistfully at the fried, golden-brown treats and the clay pot of honey, the two lingered nearby. On occasion, the vendor gave Nalia a free sample, since her father supplied him with the dough, but never when Jemmy was with her.

  The vendor snapped at Jemmy, “Get out of here, you fatherless brat. Go on, get!”

  “Don’t you talk to him that way!” Nalia cried.

  “You need to watch that one,” the vendor said. “You’re a good girl, you’ve got a fine father, but that boy—he’ll come to no good. Apple never falls far from the tree.”

  “Then his father was a good man,” she said hotly.

  “Your own father should be more careful who he lets you keep company with.”

  “Oh!” Nalia grabbed Jemmy’s arm and stalked away. “Tomorrow, I swear, I’m spitting in his dough.” A glance at Jemmy’s face showed the dark, brooding look she hated to see, because it meant he was angry and hurting inside. It’s not his fault his father’s not around, she thought. Why do grown-ups place such importance on the stupidest, most trivial things?

  As the pair wandered through the market, Jemmy relaxed. His whole life, people had treated him with suspicion and disdain. By now, he was used to it.

  But Nalia wasn’t. She had always sensed that Jemmy was doomed, from the sideways looks
people had given him ever since she could remember, the way they muttered under their breath when he passed, raising their hands in signs to ward off ill luck. She couldn’t stand the thought that everyone judged him so unfairly, nor that he might someday suffer for it.

  For his sake, though, she smiled. The two sauntered through the bustling, lively throngs, past chicken merchants, men with wind-scarred faces and chapped hands selling fish fresh from the Laskia River, farmers selling cabbages and onions and bags of grain, tomatoes and plums and early pears.

  A hard shove made Nalia stumble. “Hey!” she said, and spun around, face hot.

  It was bad enough to see tall, skinny Cinda standing there, with that vicious grin. It was worse to see Asher, Cinda’s chubby twin brother, lounging beside her. Either twin alone was bad news; both together, and only fleet feet would save you from bruises and scrapes. At twelve, they would even take on older kids if they caught them alone. Ten-year-olds like Jemmy and Nalia didn’t stand a chance.

  “Look, Cin,” Asher said. “It’s Squirrel and the cripple’s brat. How’s your mama, Squirrel-boy? Any customers lately?” He smirked.

  Jemmy’s hands clutched into fists. Nalia grabbed Jemmy’s arm and pulled him into a nimble, zig-zagging run that took them weaving between market patrons. The cries and cuffs that followed in their wake, though, did little to hide their direction.

  “Come on,” Jemmy said. “This way!” He led her behind the meeting hall, skirting along two of its sides before darting behind the adjoining wooden shed. Quick as thought, he scaled the wall and flipped up onto the shed’s low roof, then reached down and helped her scramble up.

  “They’ll spot us!” she said, but he grinned and hauled himself up onto the meeting hall’s high, slanted roof.