A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic

by Lisa Papademetriou

  “Oh,” Leila said. “Okay.” She was happy to be going anywhere. She still hadn’t even come close to getting her camel ride. When she suggested it, she was told her uncle was working, and her aunt was swept up in the daily tide of funerals and weddings and births and endless visits to sick cousins in the hospital that seemed to form the pattern of daily life in Lahore. The museum must have been settled on instead.

  The driver hurried to open the doors to the car. Mamoo sat in front, and Leila and Samir sat in the backseat. Mamoo’s driver was much more careful than Asif, but once they were off the quieter streets and onto the main thoroughfares, Leila still experienced the car trip as if she were inside a video game. Obstacles seemed to materialize in front of them at random and unexpected intervals—potholes, pedestrians, donkey carts, motorized rickshaws, once even a camel—and the driver’s primary job was not to drive, but simply to avoid these things.

  “There it is!” Samir announced, pointing to the middle of the road.

  There, on a median, stood an enormous concrete block. Atop the block was a long, black cannon.

  “Oh.” This was not at all what Leila had pictured. She had thought Kim’s gun was a revolver, or perhaps a shotgun. She certainly never expected to see it in the middle of the street.

  “‘Who hold Zam-Zammah, that “fire-breathing dragon”, hold the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot,’” Mamoo recited. Leila guessed that this was some quotation from the book in her hand.

  “Would you like to get a closer look?” Samir asked as the driver guided the car to the curb.

  Traffic darted past on either side of the median at the center of the street. “Not really,” Leila told him. “I can see it from here.”

  “Nonsense,” Mamoo announced, shoving open his door. The driver got out and stopped traffic. Horns beeped indignantly at him. Well, Leila didn’t have much choice at that point.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” she called at the honking cars and motorized rickshaws as she hurried after Samir to the center of the street. The moment she passed, they tore away down the street.

  The median was long, and crowded with bowls of birdseed and large shallow clay pots of water. A throng of pigeons waddled back and forth, pecking casually. “What’s all this about?” Leila asked.

  “It’s a sadaqa,” Samir explained. “Feeding the birds is considered a . . .” He searched for the word. “. . . blessing? A good thing.”

  When they got closer to the cannon, Leila saw that it was on an island of sorts, and protected by a gate. “I guess they don’t want anyone playing on it.”

  “That’s how the book opens,” Mamoo said thoughtfully. “Kim sitting on the cannon, refusing to give his friends a turn. All small boys are the same, I suppose.”

  Across the street, a beautiful brick building looked out over old trees. At its four corners were minarets. “That’s pretty,” Leila said.

  “That’s the museum,” Samir replied. “It’s a landmark.”

  Leila turned again to the cannon. The wheels were massive and towered over her from their place on the pedestal. “It’s made of iron and brass,” Mamoo told her. “The people of the city gave their kitchen tools to make it.”

  “It seems so strange that there are flowers on it,” Leila noted. There was writing, too.

  Mamoo looked at her evenly. “Even flowers can be deadly.”

  “The writing is Persian,” Samir put in. “The gun is called Zamzama, Taker of Strongholds.”

  “What’s the book about?” Leila asked. “Kim. I haven’t read it yet.”

  Mamoo’s glance lingered on the cannon. “It’s about a boy who goes on a search for a magical river with a Buddhist holy man.”

  “He becomes a British spy,” Samir added.

  Well, that spy part sounds good, at least, Leila thought. It sounded like the kind of thing that would happen to the Dears.

  “Kipling’s father was the curator of the Lahore Museum,” Mamoo said. “Did you know that?”

  Leila shook her head. “No.”

  Traffic sped past. Overhead, the telephone wires were lined with birds. Pigeons swarmed around their feet. The sky was full of smoke. And here was this massive cannon, this relic from another age, something from a story. Leila wished that she could think of something profound to say. The moment seemed to require something, but she did not know what to give it.

  “I guess I’ve seen enough,” she said at last.

  Leila wasn’t really a “museum girl,” and the Lahore Museum didn’t appeal to her at first. It had a bunch of stuff in glass cases. The usual things: weapons, jewelry, pottery. There were some rugs laid out on a platform. She was more interested in the uniformed guards, who carried scary-looking guns. They were mildly terrifying. Leila had noticed that there were guards everywhere in the city—even the ice-cream shop where she had taken Wali had a guard outside the door, now that she thought about it.

  But Samir was interested in everything, and seemed to know a lot about the artifacts. He and Mamoo got into an animated argument over the possible uses of a Persian bowl.

  They stopped before a radiant gold Buddha behind a red rope. Samir stood looking at it for a long time.

  “My mom’s kind of into Buddhism,” Leila said. “I didn’t know there were Buddhists in Pakistan.” She was surprised by the collection of Buddha statues—a Buddha on a lotus, a Buddha in paradise, even a fasting Buddha that was all skin and bones.

  “There were,” Mamoo said. “There used to be everything in Pakistan. We are lucky these are still here. For now.”

  “What do you mean?” Leila asked. “Why wouldn’t they be here?”

  “Several years ago, the Taliban blew up the Buddhas of Bamiyan. I’m sure they would like to destroy these, as well.”

  “Those were Afghan Taliban, not Pakistani,” Samir argued.

  “They are all the same,” Mamoo replied. “The Buddhas were irreplaceable. I would have loved to see them.”

  They moved on. Leila felt a little differently about the armed guards now. She was glad they were there to protect the art. After another hour of trekking through the museum, Leila’s brain felt tired. Samir wanted to take Leila to Lahore Fort, but Mamoo suggested that they return home for lunch. “We will see the fort another day.”

  “But Badshahi Mosque?” Samir said. “And the tomb of Muhammad Iqbal?”

  “What do you say, Leila?” Mamoo asked.

  “I really want to see the mosque. But . . . that sounds like a lot. And I’m kinda hungry.”

  “I understand,” Samir said darkly. His arched eyebrow was higher than ever. Leila could tell that he was disappointed, and she felt guilty.

  But she was starving. And half brain-dead from heat and museum artifacts.

  When they pulled into the driveway of the Awan house, Asif ran toward the car waving his arms. Samir put down the window, and Asif looked at Leila, then spoke rapidly in Urdu.

  “What is it?” Leila asked as Samir sprang from the car.

  Mamoo leaned around the front seat. “Apparently, there is a sick goat.”

  “Oh, no!” Leila shoved open the car door, accidentally knocking into the kneecaps of Mamoo’s driver, who had come to open it for her. “Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  The driver put up a hand in a manner that said both, “I’m fine,” and “Please don’t come any closer to me,” so Leila hurried after Samir. She found him in the backyard, bent over the goat. The white beast lay on its side, shaking. It had been vomiting.

  “What happened?” Leila wailed.

  “You bought a sick goat,” Samir snapped.

  Leila felt betrayed by this accusation. “He was fine yesterday!”

  Chirragh came through the back door with a bowl of milky water and a rag. Mamoo appeared and they exchanged a few words. Mamoo pointed to a bush with red flowers, and Chirragh nodded.

  The goat gave a shuddering gasp and retched. Chirragh sat down beside her and dipped the rag into the milky w
ater. Then he grabbed the goat’s head and began to drip the liquid into its mouth.

  “What’s he doing?” Leila cried.

  “It seems that the goat has eaten Scarlet Catsbane,” Mamoo explained. “Chirragh knows a remedy.”

  Leila looked over at the red flowers. A blue-and-black butterfly was perched on a bloom, wings pulsing slowly, as if in meditation, or prayer. “Will it be okay?” Leila asked.

  “My dear, I am a chemist, not a doctor. But Chirragh knows something of this sort of thing, and he believes the goat will recover,” Mamoo said evenly. “As long as it is kept away from the flowers.” Mamoo walked stiffly toward his car. His driver, who had been watching all of this from beneath a mango tree, dashed to the vehicle to open the door for him.

  Guilt weighed down on Leila. After all, she was the one who had tied the goat near the flowers. True, the goat was annoying, but she didn’t want it to die.

  Samir petted the goat’s fur, his hand smoothing over the red henna flower with the same steady beat of the butterfly’s wings.

  “What should we do?” Leila asked.

  “Wait,” Samir said. “I guess.”

  Leila thought about her book, and wondered whether she should try going upstairs and writing a happy ending for the goat. But it had erased Elizabeth Dear. Would it take the goat seriously? That book is the most useless piece of magic in the world, Leila thought. What kind of magic won’t even help you save something?

  There really are some times in life when there is nothing one can do but wait. Later, when she was alone, Leila would write in her magic book. Can’t you cure her? she scribbled, hoping that the book might somehow grant a wish. But she did not do that right away. She found that she couldn’t leave the goat. She had come to think of it as hers, partly, and she felt responsible for its illness. So instead of going upstairs, she went to sit down beside Samir, and they both stroked the goat’s fur until Jamila Tai called the children in for dinner.

  THE EXQUISITE CORPSE

  “Can’t you cure her?” Ralph asked as he stood awkwardly at Edwina’s bedside, leaning against his too-long crutches.

  Edwina slept peacefully, her face resting in profile against the pillow. Her dark hair curled around her neck like a soft wave. Ralph longed to wrap a single curl around his finger, but he didn’t dare. He didn’t want to wake Edwina or shock the doctor.

  “She has been much improved of late,” the doctor said. It was the same smooth-faced physician who had set Ralph’s leg.

  “Until yesterday,” Ralph said.

  “Until yesterday,” the doctor agreed. “But we don’t know what might have caused her to relapse.”

  The previous day, Ralph had waited for Edwina on the wide hospital lawn, but she had never arrived. Ralph crutched his way toward the rear entrance as dusk fell, and caught sight of a stiff, pale-haired figure dressed in black leaving from the side door. Ralph did not need to see the pale eyes to recognize the frigid air that followed Melchisedec Jonas.

  Ralph shivered again at the memory. He knew that it was unreasonable, but he felt in his heart that a visit by Edwina’s guardian had chilled her lungs.

  “Rest is what she needs most,” the doctor said. “Rest and fresh air. I’ve given her laudanum. She should have another dose in a few hours. The nurse will see to it. If Miss Pickle has a restful night, she should seem much recovered in the morning.”

  Ralph nodded good day to the doctor, then sat down on a stool by the bed. He rested his crutches against the bed and gazed at her face. All he wanted was to stare at her face this way for the rest of his life.

  Ralph started forward as Edwina gasped and reddened, her neck straining with coughs. The hacking lasted only a moment, and Edwina did not wake up, but panic had sunk its claws into Ralph’s heart. What if she never woke up? What if she died?

  If that happened, Ralph did not think that he could continue living.

  He looked over at the bottle of laudanum by the bedside and his fingers traveled to his pocket where the silver vial lay. Once the thought had entered his mind, he could not get it to release its grip.

  Ralph looked around. The women’s floor was quiet. An unfamiliar nurse made a bed at the far end of the room. Patients were sleeping or out for air and exercise.

  With the quick fingers of a cardsharp, Ralph removed the vial from his pocket. Carefully, he unscrewed the cap on the laudanum bottle and placed it on the table. Then he tapped a few smoky grains of magic into the medicine.

  “Make her well,” he whispered.

  Then he closed both bottles. It was the third and final wish, but it was the only one that had ever mattered.

  Edwina turned her head, murmuring something in her sleep. Ralph leaned forward, and thought he caught the whispered words, “dear old mole.”

  Ralph believed in magic, and although fear and love held him in sharp talons, he allowed himself to fly away on the feathered wings of hope.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kai

  KAI SHIFTED IN HER pew while her great-aunt listened to the violin, eyes closed, her round body tipped backward like a globe tilting on its axis. Kai had been to church plenty of times—she and her mother went nearly every weekend—but she had never been filled with the desire to strangle someone in a holy place before, and it was making her uncomfortable. It didn’t seem very church-y.

  Pettyfer was up at the front, playing the violin—the violin!—and it was all Kai could do to keep from screaming. For one thing, the piece he played was simple, something any advanced beginner could master, but he wore a smug, superior, unfaltering smile even when he made a mistake. For another thing, the violin was exquisite. Kai knew violins, and she knew it had to cost at least ten thousand dollars. And Pettyfer wasn’t that good.

  Kai loved her violin. It was only worth a fraction of Pettyfer’s, but it had been her father’s. And Kai had earned that violin. Her mother had promised her that she could have it when she “was good enough,” and that moment didn’t arrive until fourteen months ago. It had taken years of playing two hours a day to earn it.

  And Pettyfer—

  Gah!

  She wanted to grab the violin and smash it over his head—except not that violin, it was too nice. She would go buy another, cheap violin and smash him with it.

  Kai looked up at the stained-glass window picturing Jesus with a lamb on one side and a lion on the other. Doodle is a much better person than I am, she realized. She would never want to smash a moth on Pettyfer’s head.

  When he finished and took his smug bow, Aunt Lavinia opened one eye and looked at Kai from the corner of it. “He sure is a special boy, now, ain’t he?” she murmured. A thousand sparks of meaning glittered in that crystalline sentence, like the sun drying up the raging storm in Kai’s heart. The minister stood at the lectern and announced a hymn. The organ hooted and hymnbooks thumped and rustled as people struggled to find their place, and a moment later, Kai tumbled into the music and let herself sing. Her chest loosened with every note.

  After the service, Lavinia had to greet just about everyone in the small church, introducing her “darling niece, Walter’s girl.” Kai had to say “thank you,” as people told her how much her father had meant to them. They would grasp her hands, look deeply into her eyes—one old blue-haired lady even burst into tears. Kai gave her an awkward pat, half wishing that she could burst into tears, too. But her father died when she was three, and she barely remembered him. She couldn’t just cry on demand.

  “Was my father very religious?” Kai asked, once the woman had dried her tears on her sleeve.

  “Oh, not terribly,” Lavinia told her in a low voice. “Church is just something we did on Sundays.”

  “Why didn’t anyone mention his music?” Kai asked.

  “Oh, Walter didn’t play in public much until he was older.”

  Kai nodded. She knew that it had been her father’s dream that she would have the opportunities for violin that he’d had—and that she would surpass them. Her mother t
old her so whenever she hit a snag in her practice, or had trouble mastering a new piece. Well, Kai thought, that’s over now.

  Once they had greeted everyone in the church, including the minister, they made their way out the wide double door and started toward the parking lot. A giant white Lincoln Navigator stopped short in the middle of making a left-hand turn onto the road. A white-haired gentleman in a wheelchair was rolling through the crosswalk, and the Lincoln had stopped to avoid hitting him. Unperturbed, the man carried on crossing the street toward the church as the driver blasted a loud, long honk.

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Lavinia pursed her lips and strode right up to the SUV, where she knocked on the tinted window, which rolled down at a smooth, unhurried speed.

  The man who looked out had blond hair and a flat, gray expression. His paunch nearly touched the steering wheel, and the air-conditioning blasting from the vents ruffled his hair. The woman beside him had tresses that were a highly unlikely shade of blonde and ten fingers stacked with diamonds. She looked straight ahead through the windshield while her husband glared at Lavina. “What?” he demanded.

  “Brother Pettyfer, I was just wondering if we could count on your support for the Places for People project,” Lavinia said smoothly, leaning an elbow on the car window as the white-haired man rolled up onto the sidewalk and passed by, glowering at the car. “You know, the youth group is going to be building houses for some of last month’s flood victims.”

  Pettyfer Senior huffed. “Why don’t those people get flood insurance? Or move someplace that don’t get flooded? Why do they got to live so close to the swamp?”

  “The land is cheap by the swamp,” Lavinia told him.

  “Come on, Dad!” someone whined from the backseat. “Let’s go!” Kai wrinkled her nose at Pettyfer’s nasal whimper. He ignored Kai, and she was happy to return the favor.

  “Everyone in this town wants money,” Pettyfer Senior snapped. “Don’t I pay enough in taxes?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” Lavinia replied sweetly. “Do you?”