A Far Away Magic

by Amy Wilson

  ‘Uh, well. I kind of wanted to go with a friend,’ I blurt, trying to put her off.

  Pretty sure she doesn’t want to lose herself in this book.

  ‘You mean Bavar?’ Her forehead wrinkles. ‘I thought you’d had a falling out. You were pretty upset last night . . .’

  ‘Well yes . . . but we’re still friends,’ I say, wondering whether it’s really true right now. ‘And it’s a really important book for, uh, history – but it’s the kind you can’t take out of the library; you have to read it there, with special gloves on and everything.’

  ‘Really? That sounds interesting.’

  Wow. This is tough.

  ‘And it’s the city library, not just the local one, so I need to get a train.’

  The wrinkles deepen. Why did I say that?

  ‘You seem very keen on your homework, all of a sudden.’

  ‘I just . . . We thought it would be good, to have a little adventure.’

  ‘I think I need to meet this Bavar,’ Mary says in a firm voice. ‘You can go, if he comes here first. There’ve been rumours about the family in that house –’ she waves away my protest – ‘and I’m not one to go on rumours, but still. If you want to be gallivanting around the country with him, I want to look him in the eye and get the measure of him.’

  Well, good luck with that, I think.

  I really hadn’t planned on going with Bavar. I could do with a break from him, after everything. I feel stretched with anger, and there’s no place for it to go. His parents are gone, and so are mine, and for all his sorrow he can’t change what they did.

  ‘Angel?’

  ‘OK, I’ll call him,’ I say.

  ‘He can come for lunch,’ Mary says with a nod. ‘And then you can go to the library.’

  I mean, I could have just said I was going for a walk. I could have just not said anything and snuck out. But she was worried when I was late home last night and came in all red-eyed and prickly, and I felt bad when I saw the circles under her eyes this morning, so here I am on the ‘family computer’ they let me use for homework, looking up his single name and address, hoping he’s got a phone number.

  I’ve never seen a phone there. Do they even know what a phone is?

  I unearth my mobile, close my eyes for a moment while a load of messages roll in from people I used to know, and then I dial.

  ‘You have a phone call.’ Aoife’s voice rings through the house, and second-cousin-four-times-removed Isaac gives me a wolf whistle as I head down the corridor.

  I never get phone calls. Never. Not sure I’ve ever even heard it ring. I take the shiny white receiver from Aoife and stare at it for a moment, before holding it to my ear.

  Silence.

  Aoife flaps her hands at me, mouthing something. ‘Say hello!’

  ‘Hello?’ I say, turning my back on her.

  ‘It’s Angel.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Silence.

  ‘So. About that book I was telling you about. I’m going to find it. And if you want to come with me, you’ll have to come here first and meet Mary.’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘My foster mother. Remember?’

  ‘Oh.’ I flinch. ‘Yes.’

  Sigh from the other end. ‘Otherwise –’ spiky voice – ‘I can’t go.’ Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘And if I can’t go, you aren’t going either. You don’t know what you’re looking for, or where it is. And we need that book, Bavar. I know we do.’

  ‘Angel . . .’

  ‘So –’ bright voice – ‘I’ll see you at twelve. Come for lunch, and we’ll get the train afterwards. OK?’

  Lunch? And a train? My fingers go numb. I can’t do those things. How can I do that? How am I going to get on a train? Will I even fit on a train? What if I bang my head when I get on and everyone notices and then they might stare, and . . .

  I lean my forehead against the cool wall.

  I need to close the rift. So I need to see the book.

  ‘Bavar?’

  ‘Yeah. OK.’

  I put the phone down. Aoife is bobbing around at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Was it Angel?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why was she calling you?’

  I give her a long look. She stops bobbing and glares back at me. ‘I am your aunt, Bavar. After last night I’m not sure I want you out of my sight – I am in charge of your well-being.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what you call it.’ I ignore the flash of outrage that crosses her face. I don’t normally speak like that. I don’t normally speak very much at all. ‘I’m going to her house. For lunch.’

  ‘For lunch!’ Her eyes widen. ‘You’ll need to take something. I’ll have a look; I’m sure there’s something I can throw together.’

  ‘No, it’s . . .’

  But she’s gone.

  ‘I like Angel,’ says my mother from the little portrait by the hall table. ‘She’s sassy. Good for you.’

  ‘Oh, go away,’ I say, marching back to my room. The ancestors heckle as I go, and I turn on the stairs and raise my voice so it booms. ‘There’s an attic, you know. Plenty of room up there.’

  Sudden silence. It’s very peaceful, except for the pounding of my heart.

  . . .

  I’m going on a train!

  ‘Will they even see you?’ I whisper, when I answer the door.

  ‘I don’t know!’

  He looks very pale and a bit sick, and like he might just walk away.

  ‘Oh, it’ll be fine,’ I say, pulling at him.

  He lowers his head to get through the doorway, and has to keep it a bit lowered even when he’s inside. The air around him is thick and warped with his worry.

  ‘Honestly. Just relax.’

  He gives me a dark look, and hunches his shoulders.

  This is going to be a complete disaster. Why did I get myself into this?

  ‘Well, goodness. You are tall!’ Mary says, as she comes towards us. Her eyes are wide with surprise. ‘You must be Bavar.’

  ‘Uh, yes. Pleased to meet you.’ Bavar reaches into his coat and pulls out a lump of something covered in foil. ‘My aunt made this. You don’t have to eat it.’

  ‘Not recommended then?’ Mary smiles.

  Bavar shrugs. I roll my eyes.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, taking the package from her and heading to the kitchen, where Pete is piling a plate with sandwiches.

  I wonder how quickly we can eat them.

  ‘OK?’ he asks as he turns to me.

  I nod, and help him get stuff sorted on the table. Bavar comes in with Mary.

  ‘This is Bavar!’ she says, her voice bright.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course,’ Pete says, pulling out a chair. ‘Come, sit. Let’s eat.’

  He doesn’t look directly at Bavar. He sort of smiles at the space next to him, and Mary starts dishing out food as Bavar folds himself carefully into the chair next to mine.

  ‘OK?’ I whisper.

  I was feeling pretty angry about everything, but it’s very difficult to be cross with someone who looks as uncomfortable as he does right now. He doesn’t really fit in the chair.

  ‘Yep.’

  Mary starts asking questions then in a company sort of voice, and I swear the room vibrates as he answers, but she just nods and smiles, and Pete has a bit of a dazed look on his face, but he looks happy enough too and so I suppose it’s going OK, really. After a while Bavar relaxes, and Pete looks a bit less dazed, and there’s even a fairly normal discussion about books for a while, and Aoife’s chocolate and cherry cake is pretty good, even if it lands on the plates with a heavy splat, but still, it’s a relief when it’s all over.

  ‘Now, I don’t want you out late,’ Mary says, looking me up and down in the new coat. I was distracted this morning so I’ve ended up with a mustard-yellow duvet-style thing, but it’s pretty warm. ‘Looks good,’ she smiles. She leans in, tweaks the hood. ‘Well done. I know it wasn’t easy.’

  I pull back. I don’t know whether s
he’s talking about shopping or lunch, or what, but Bavar is looming in the corner and he looks like he’s about to start melding into the shadows, so I give her a smile and promise to be home by nine.

  She was fine, in the house.

  She was OK, and then we came out, and the air changed, and I could feel her anger, and I don’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who’s angry as mirror shards coming at you? Is there anything you can say when you know why they’re angry, and there’s nothing you can do to change it?

  And it was your fault.

  Or at least, it was your parents’ fault.

  And now she’s living in that little matchbox house with all the matchstick furniture, and now I understand the darkness in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Do you hate it?’

  ‘Hate what?’

  ‘Living there.’

  She puts her hood up as hard, sleety rain begins to fall.

  ‘I don’t hate it. They’re OK.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What you sorry for?’

  ‘What happened.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ she says after a moment. Her breath steams out in front of her; she’s walking too fast.

  ‘I’m still sorry.’

  ‘Train’s leaving in about ten minutes,’ she says, digging her hands into her pockets.

  I can’t read the expression on her face. She never looks down, never bends her head. She doesn’t hide. Ever.

  ‘Stop staring at me,’ she says after a while.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Stop being sorry.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I mean, this is supposed to be an adventure,’ she says. ‘Haven’t you ever had an adventure before?’

  ‘Not like this. Not . . . not with a train.’

  She turns to me. ‘Bavar, have you never been on a train?’

  ‘No.’

  She looks at me a long time, till I want to lower my head. But I don’t. And then she grins.

  ‘Don’t stick your head out the window,’ she says. ‘It’ll get chopped off if we go through a tunnel.’

  ‘OK.’

  The train’s packed. I jump on and stand by the door, hanging on to the yellow bar, and Bavar stands on the platform as other people stream around him.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I shout.

  He just looks at me.

  A whistle rings out.

  ‘Get on the train!’ I let go of the bar and reach out for him. He swallows, pale and sweaty, and I grab his hand and pull and I swear the floor of the train drops as he gets on and he’s breathing too fast and his head is bowed because he’s too tall, he’s just too big for it all.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, though I’m really not sure it is.

  He looks around, his eyes wild. There’s nowhere to hide on a crowded train, and the people around us are looking uncomfortable. They look at me, and at the space around him, frowning. I stare back at them until they look away.

  ‘There’s no air,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, there is. Or we’d all be dead by now. Just breathe.’

  What am I going to do if he passes out? He’ll squash about a dozen people.

  ‘You wanted to do this,’ I say. ‘Remember?’

  He looks at me, his eyes all clouded with about a million worries.

  ‘Look out the window or something; stop thinking.’

  His mouth moves in a nearly-smile. After a while his grip on the post relaxes, just a little bit. The train picks up speed, rattling along, and we pass the big yellow house on the hill, and he watches it all, like he’s a million miles away in his head.

  ‘Never saw it from far away,’ he says, whispering it like he’s talking to himself. ‘Looks small.’

  I’m so busy watching him, worrying about him, that I nearly forget what we’re doing, or why. I nearly forget why it’s important, why my stomach is full of butterflies. I nearly forget the last time I was on a train, with Mum and Dad, heading away on holiday, suitcases bundled into the luggage racks, a packet of pretzels on the little tray, Mum with her coffee, complaining about the little lid that made it harder to drink. Looking out of the window, the sea on our left. Dad lost in a book on the other side of the aisle, until we started pelting him with pretzels. The sun setting over the water.

  ‘Hey,’ Bavar says. ‘It’s snowing!’ He turns to me, and the light in his eyes winks out. ‘Are you OK?’

  I nod.

  ‘You were with them.’

  It’s not a question. He knows.

  ‘I miss them.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I can see that.’

  And he doesn’t say any more. And I kind of like it, that he doesn’t ask what, or why. He doesn’t need to. After a while the snow comes down hard, and he watches it all like he never saw snow before, like he never saw anything before but monsters.

  ‘How do you like the train?’ I ask, after a while.

  ‘I like it,’ he says.

  ‘Me too.’

  The university looms up over us, and it’s harder than I thought, to be here. I suppose I didn’t really think about it that much. It’s not like anything was going to stop me, and besides, I figured, it’s not like I was here very often. A couple of times, when he was working at the weekend, Mum and I would come into town, meet him for lunch. That was all. But I’d forgotten how it hits you, as you walk in.

  Bavar is completely transfixed. He looks like he kind of fits here. He’s looking up, for the first time since I met him. I hassle him onward and end up sort of dragging him, because he can’t take his eyes off all the carvings, the wide doorways, the high, vaulted ceilings. He trips up the stairs, turns as he walks, looks out of the windows to the grassed courtyard below, and generally seems to have completely forgotten why we’re here.

  ‘Up here,’ I hiss at him, as he starts inspecting the portraits hung high up on the walls. ‘Come on, quickly, or we’ll get thrown out.’

  ‘Will we?’ His eyes snap into focus, looking a bit horrified.

  ‘Well, we might. Come on!’

  I lead the way up a narrow staircase, thankful that it’s quiet. We might just get away with it. But when we get to Dad’s study, there’s a problem I hadn’t thought about.

  ‘Mr Duke,’ reads the brass sign on the door.

  I stop and breathe.

  Breathe.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bavar asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I knock on the door, hoping whoever Mr Duke is won’t be in.

  ‘Come!’

  I take a deep breath, and open the door. He’s changed it around. The desk is no longer in front of the window; it’s tucked away in a dark corner. Boxes are piled along the wall, and the shelves are empty of books.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The silver-haired man frowns, standing.

  ‘Mr Falstaff. His books.’ My voice isn’t working properly. I try again. ‘I was looking for one of Mr Falstaff’s books. This was his office.’

  He leans into me. Bavar stands closer, looming over both of us.

  ‘Aren’t you a little young to be here?’ Mr Duke’s pale eyes squint as he looks from me to Bavar, and back again.

  ‘Where are all of his books?’

  His brow furrows. I don’t want to be here any more. I don’t want to explain; I don’t want to see the pity in his eyes when I tell him who I am. He’s going to work it out in a minute anyway; I can tell by the way he’s staring at me.

  ‘The books,’ Bavar rumbles, stepping forward. ‘Tell us where they are.’

  There’s something in his tone. Something magical, something dark and living, that warps the air and reaches out and makes Mr Duke hesitate.

  ‘Gone,’ he says, looking at the shelves, suddenly confused. ‘In the library, I suppose. They always prized his words . . .’ He goes and sits at the desk, runs his hands over the smooth wood. ‘Yes, he was quite the scholar. All that travel they paid for, to find the origin of glowing skies, of all things. Those books of his, full of fantasy. FANTA
SY! And then he stumbled off into the sunset himself. Never quite believed that burglary line. He stalked danger, that man. Went all over the world just to find it! Not surprised he met a sticky end. Not surprised at all.’

  I feel sick. Was this what Dad had to deal with? No wonder he was so desperate to find evidence in the face of jerks like this. I don’t like Mr Duke. I don’t think Bavar does either – he glowers at him, shadows gathering. Mr Duke stares down at his hands on the desk, still muttering to himself about fantasies, how they should have put Dad’s books in the fiction section, not in occult history.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say. ‘I know where the library is.’

  By some miracle I manage to bustle Bavar out of there. Mr Duke’s voice trails out after us: ‘I don’t think they’ll let children in the library . . .’

  Bavar reaches back and slams the door. The brass sign wobbles and falls off. He picks it up, looks at it for a moment, then folds it in half and wedges it under the door.

  ‘That’ll keep him busy for a while,’ he muses, totally straight-faced. ‘Come on. Let’s get that book.’

  ‘Bavar . . .’

  ‘We’re getting the book,’ he says, standing straight, looming over everything. ‘And then we’re going to put a stop to it all.’

  ‘Even if it’s dangerous . . .’

  ‘Even so,’ he nods. ‘If we can find this book, we can do it. That’s what your dad was trying to do. We just have to see it through.’

  This place is incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. From the moment we arrived, I felt a lift in my chest that I can’t explain. Angel is silent beside me, and my ears are ringing because there’s something here. Not magic, exactly, but some kind of power. There are carvings in Latin along the walls, and gleaming columns stretching up around us, ten feet high. It’s like home, except it lives and breathes like home hasn’t for a long time. I urge Angel onward, through the wide corridors, and just hope we can do this. I can see how much she needs it – she’s holding out for it with every breath – and I feel like I owe it to her, now that I know what happened.

  It’s not just me any more.