The Language of Spells

by Garret Weyr

  Leopold loved money more than anything else in the world. His love of it increased his powers because magic demands that the people who practice it give up something precious: time, money, or something they love. And once that precious thing is given up, it can never be returned, no matter what.

  Haven’t you ever wondered why, in a world where magic still lingers, you are unable to use it? The reason is simply that only a very few people can give up something they love. And of those very few who can give up something precious, most choose not to.

  Leopold Lashkovic both could and did.

  The fact that what he loved was money made him far more powerful than a practitioner who simply gave up time or a beloved item. Because Leopold was giving up two things on magic’s list of demands—money and a beloved item—he was very, very talented.

  Leopold’s objects—tiny teapots, huge vases, ornate hand mirrors, and ruby rings—were made mostly with the usual things: bronze, silver, gold, precious gems, and pearls brought up from the bottom of the sea. But he would mix one secret ingredient with these ordinary elements to produce an object that could be sold for as much money as the emperor needed.

  The secret ingredient was almost always a creature whom Leopold lured from the forest with one of his magic bells. Usually it was a young creature, for they were still full of curiosity and willing to follow a beautiful sound.

  Like most members of the emperor’s guild, Leopold was anxious to capture a unicorn. You would think that such an advanced practitioner of magic would know that a unicorn was worthless, but living in the world of men can make even the wisest sorcerer believe in foolishness. Therefore, Leopold had been working on his bells for years, trying to find the right sound to lure a unicorn. He had bells for rabbits, wolves, deer, foxes, and even chipmunks. He’d caught a flying horse more than once, but the bell Grisha had followed had been Leopold’s latest effort at unicorn hunting.

  “Not bad, not bad,” Leopold said, when he was done changing shape from child to man. “A dragon’s almost as good.”

  And then Leopold began to rummage through his pockets, speaking in a language that Grisha had never heard. This was extremely frightening, because Grisha, like all dragons, had been born knowing German, English, Japanese, Chinese, Norwegian, Hungarian, Serbo-Croatian, Czech, Ukrainian, and a smattering of French. He had a terrible feeling that Leopold was talking in the language of spells.

  Leopold pulled a glass vial from a pocket near his left ankle and began walking around Grisha. As he walked, he waved his hands, and a great cloud of grit, dust, and sand rose and flew over, under, and through Grisha’s scales. It moved into all of the soft bits a dragon tries to protect: nose, eyes, and paw pads.

  Unable to sneeze, but desperately needing to, Grisha felt his scales tighten. And then, all at once but also slowly, he felt himself melting, bubbling, dissolving, and turning into a cool, elegant surface. Grisha could still see, hear, and think, but he was no longer the young dragon who joyfully walked through the forest. He was a teapot.

  At first, all our dragon could do was panic, which is hard when you can’t move or breathe. And since Grisha couldn’t swing his tail from side to side or scream for help, he was reduced to pointless thoughts racing around his mind.

  He was unable to take a calming breath, and each time he remembered that he couldn’t breathe, his thoughts would scream out: I can’t breathe. Oh, no, no, no. Finally, exhaustion settled Grisha’s mind. The chill that comes when you are enchanted into an object focused his panic into one thought: I’m so cold. I’m so horribly cold.

  It was a painful and chilly journey from forest life, so full of sun, foods, and sounds, to a small teapot that offered only the limited comfort of gold and rubies.

  But Leopold Lashkovic hadn’t simply turned Grisha into reds and golds. His entire shape had become that of a small teapot. His long neck and head were a spout, and his tail was a handle. His body swelled out to allow for hot water and tea leaves. His wonderful wings were curled up into a lid, and his once magnificent feet were now simply part of the teapot’s base. His eyes were still gold, but no longer a dragon-shade of gold. They glowed as all precious metals do, not as eyes full of sight.

  Leopold Lashkovic picked up the pot and studied his handiwork.

  “Perfect,” he declared. “This will fetch a nice sum.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  DRAGON IN A TEAPOT

  LEOPOLD CARRIED GRISHA TO THE ROYAL COURT OF the emperor, who was so taken with the teapot that he refused to sell it, keeping it for himself. Leopold was very annoyed, since the whole point of his creations was that they be sold to make money, and he wondered what it was about this ordinary-looking dragon that had caught the emperor’s fancy.

  Leopold studied the teapot and tried to determine whether Grisha had some sort of hidden power. But in spite of his cleverness, Leopold could not identify what made the captured dragon special.

  Franz Joseph, the emperor, never wondered if the teapot had a hidden power. Instead, he was content to have the gold-and-ruby dragon in his jacket pocket or nearby whatever room of the palace he happened to be in.

  Grisha tried to take an interest in his new and perplexing surroundings, but for the first ten years or so, he was too sad to pay attention. He had been barely fifty or sixty when Leopold Lashkovic captured him, and he spent the next decade thinking his life couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  Life in the teapot was a cold, unmoving, isolated one. It was so unbearable that he often wished the emperor would drop him. If the teapot would shatter, then maybe his terrible existence would end.

  So, it’s come to this, Grisha thought. You want to die. Buried deep inside his gold-and-ruby self, Grisha thought he heard a rebellious NO! But it was hard to tell. In spite of once having exceptional hearing, Grisha was now incapable of hearing even himself.

  Often, after slipping Grisha into his pocket, Franz Joseph would go to the palace’s great hall, where all of his ministers were waiting with folders full of complaints and problems.

  The emperor had to sit still for a very long time, which meant that Grisha was stuck inside a jacket pocket. It’s the worst kind of dark, he thought. In the forest, the dark promised evening’s sounds and breezes. The dark inside of a jacket pocket promised nothing.

  Finally, Franz Joseph would return to his rooms and order his meal. One evening, he also asked for a fire to be lit. He put Grisha on a small table next to his favorite chair, threw his jacket on the floor, and sat down. Normally, the emperor preferred sleeping and working in a cold room, so this was the first time Grisha had seen a fire since his captivity. It was also the very first time in his life he’d seen a fire begun on purpose that wasn’t part of a dragon’s breath. He was too far back from the flames to feel any of the fire’s heat, but the familiar sight of orangey gold leaping into the air was wonderful.

  Grisha noticed that around the wood, the fire was quite blue. He tried to remember if that had been the case in the forest, but a forest fire was always an accident and something everyone rushed to stomp out. No one ever stopped to study its colors.

  The hot meal arrived, and Grisha looked closely at the strange things humans ate. He had been present when Franz Joseph ate dinner before and had also gone to banquets in the emperor’s pocket, so he knew what humans called food. But other than noticing that they didn’t eat acorns, he hadn’t paid any attention. That night, however, the dinner tray was placed right next to the small dragon teapot.

  He looked at the lumps of light brown meat nestled on a bed of wide yellow noodles. Humans called it goulash. A gold and crystal glass held a dark red liquid that was wine. On the emperor’s tray was a plate of soggy-looking lettuce that no self-respecting rabbit, poisonous or not, would touch. No one in the palace ate much that resembled what a dragon might like to eat, Grisha observed.

  Eating was one of the many things Grisha missed, and he wished that he’d appreciated his meals more. Franz Joseph ate only a little and hardly touched
his wineglass. He didn’t appear to have enjoyed much about his meal, and in trying to imagine why, Grisha saw that the emperor had deep lines by his eyes. When the emperor wasn’t chewing, his mouth was pulled into a tight, thin line. From time to time, he rubbed his temples as if his head ached.

  He’s unhappy, Grisha thought, astonished. After all, the emperor was a free man. He was able to walk outside, stand in the sun, sit near a fire’s warmth, and eat anything he liked. Why would he be unhappy?

  Just then, Grisha realized something incredible. He wasn’t cold! Not even a little bit. The forest had taught him to explore his world with curiosity and now Grisha understood why. When watching the world, he forgot his own troubles. Simply taking an interest in the world meant that he stopped wishing to shatter into pieces. He was still lonely, often sad, and usually freezing, but now, at least, he wanted to live.

  During the next almost five decades that Grisha spent with Franz Joseph, the dragon never figured out why the emperor was unhappy. However, Grisha watched his owner carefully, and when he was in a dark pocket, he listened to what he could. Some of the talk was interesting (laws, weapons, and visitors from distant lands) and some was not (taxes, crops, and sanitation). Grisha kept hoping that he would hear about another dragon, but he never did.

  And then one summer, some fifty years after Grisha’s capture, it seemed that all anyone spoke of was a fierce and bloody war that had broken out across Europe. The archduke of one country was shot and killed in another country, making every king, emperor, and minister angry enough to send huge armies into battle. If that sounded like a silly reason for a war, well . . . there were other reasons, but hardly anyone remembers them.

  Grisha could tell by the emperor’s constantly trembling hands and the hushed voices around the castle that everyone was deeply afraid. He wished he could offer advice. Find a dragon, he wanted to say. The more talented your dragon, the better your chances of winning are. He had no way of knowing, of course, that guns and cannons had replaced both swords and battle-ready creatures of magic.

  Grisha tried mightily to understand the different things he heard. Franz Joseph received weekly updates about invasions, military ministers, commanders, and bombardments. With no idea of what a bomb was, Grisha wondered whether “bombardment” was an emperor’s word for magic.

  At night, when the palace was quiet, he would think about the dragons his age whom he had avoided because of their tedious boastings. Battles were places where metal swords and spears crashed against one another, horses reared up, and dragons roared out fire as they trampled soldiers underfoot. While free in the forest, Grisha hadn’t wanted to think of such things. Now, far from home, Grisha fervently wanted the chance to fight. I’ve heard enough, he thought. He wanted to live his own story instead of only listening to others’.

  And then, before Grisha could discover if any dragons were fighting in Europe, the emperor fell ill and died.

  Grisha realized that he had spent more time with the emperor than he had with his own family. I have more memories of Franz Joseph than of my father, Grisha thought, so shouldn’t I miss him? But he didn’t, as it is next to impossible to miss someone who never spoke a word to you.

  As Grisha was trying to sort out his feelings, he was unceremoniously wrapped up in old newspaper and tucked into a box. All of the emperor’s possessions were packed up, to be sold or given away. Grisha looked around his box. Careful observation revealed that he shared the small, dark space with cuff links, diamond-edged picture frames, and a set of gold-and-silver coffee cups. He imagined nodding hello to each of them. But, of course, he couldn’t move, and nothing in the box greeted him.

  Grisha was soon collecting dust in the window of a shop, which was a new kind of prison. The coffee cups had been bought right away, as had the cuff links and picture frames. Grisha resigned himself to an eternity of watching the same street, but also felt his natural cheerfulness slowly returning. For one thing, the sun regularly found its way onto the spot where he stood, which meant he no longer had to work to forget how cold he was. Instead, during those periods when the sun glinted off his gold-and-ruby exterior, he was warm and toasty.

  The street, while never changing, did offer the sight of people coming and going. Grisha tried his best to observe them, but they moved so quickly it made him dizzy. So now he had some warmth, but also a queasy feeling to go along with the lonely ones. And even though he’d never been terribly talkative while in the forest, he found himself desperate for someone to talk to him.

  I don’t even have to talk back, Grisha thought, which was just as well, since he couldn’t say a word.

  Finally, on a warm summer day, Grisha’s life took a turn for the better when a man happened to pass by the shop. Something clearly caught the man’s eye and, for several moments, Grisha had the feeling that the man was looking right at him: his true dragon self, not the teapot jail. Then the man took out a pocket watch. Grisha held his breath, hoping the man wasn’t late for something that would take him away. The man looked from the watch to Grisha several times before he snapped it shut and entered the shop.

  The clerks and even the shop owner made quite a fuss over the gentleman, ordering up a tray of savory sandwiches and some strong tea with sugar and milk, which were scarce during the war, so right away, Grisha knew that this was no ordinary customer. And just when he’d decided the man was clearly too important to care about a dragon-shaped teapot, Grisha was retrieved from the window and placed in the man’s hands. It felt as if they were studying each other carefully.

  Yakov Merdinger, for this was the man’s name, wasn’t simply a charming, clever man who worked at his uncle’s bank. It was a widely known fact that Yakov had money—which, as the war dragged on, fewer and fewer people did—and that he used it to help others. He was famous throughout Budapest and beyond for knowing How To Get Things Done.

  It was well known that the banker’s clever nephew could find food, railway tickets, heating fuel, and even butter, despite all of those things being very hard to get. Once Yakov had those items, he knew how to give them to those in need. And he did it without ever making anyone feel that they were receiving charity or pity. He had, people said, a magic touch. That wasn’t true, but he liked that it was said.

  As a very young man, Yakov had wanted to be a magician. He was interested in learning how magic could help others. For a few years, he had even traveled with a circus and studied with some of the best scientists and magicians in Europe. In the end, though, he realized he was limited.

  Magic, you may remember, demands that the people practicing it give up something precious: time, money, or something they love. You can never take back what is given up, either. Yakov simply wasn’t willing to give magic all that it required. He wanted to do other things in life as well—work for his uncle, enjoy life in Budapest, and help the poor.

  So he gave up his dream of becoming a magician without ever forgetting it. The only thing he allowed himself to save from the world of magic was a potion he’d purchased early in his studies that allowed its user to see magic in a world where it had mostly vanished. He put a few drops of the potion into his coffee every morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of the magic he so loved.

  And so, unlike anyone else, Yakov was able to see through Leopold Lashkovic’s spell.

  While he didn’t know the particulars of the dragon in the teapot, he knew that there was a living and breathing creature in there. That was why he had stopped what he was doing, gone right into the store, and paid a nice price for a small teapot. He took it home to remind him of his old passion.

  Which is how Grisha, at long last, made a friend.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LIFE WITH YAKOV

  IN HIS NEW HOME, GRISHA SAT ON A DESK, WHICH he was very grateful to find was right by a window. Yakov was careful to always place a hot bowl of soup or cup of coffee by the gold-and-ruby dragon. As he did so, he would often say, “I suspect it’s cold in there, my friend.”

 
Grisha appreciated the warmth and wished he could thank the cheerful, kind man. It was so good to be around someone who knew he was alive—and even though Yakov was clearly busy, he never forgot small courtesies.

  Grisha had quite a bit of time to study his new companion, and had come to the conclusion that Yakov was perhaps not what humans called handsome. Yakov was short, and his features were not precise or imposing like the emperor’s. But Yakov smiled a lot and his eyes gleamed in a way that let you know he was happy.

  Yakov liked to listen to the news on the wireless, but he also loved music, and Grisha began to appreciate how a violin, a cello, or a piano could be as lovely as a running stream or the sound of horses playing. After he and Yakov listened to music, they would both sit in silence for a while before Yakov announced he was going to bed.

  “Sleep well,” he would say to Grisha. “May we meet in the morning.”

  The banker and the dragon had barely settled into a routine when the war ended. All over Budapest, there was a sigh of relief. People no longer called it just plain “the war,” but instead used “the Great War” because it had been so big and bloody. There was almost no time to get used to the peace, for Yakov’s uncle decided to send him out of the country. Yakov’s new job would be running the bank’s English branch.

  “We’re off to London,” Yakov told Grisha, who thought, I hope it will be warmer there.

  Yakov packed a small suitcase of clothes and two trunks full of books. He put the carefully wrapped teapot in a leather case that held all of the bank’s important papers. Grisha traveled in style, tucked inside a silk-and-cashmere blanket.

  The English sky was gray and the air was almost always damp. People drank endless cups of tea in an effort to warm themselves, but it never really worked. Not unless you drank it wrapped in woolens while sitting directly in front of a fire. Since almost no sun came through the windows, Yakov put Grisha as close to the fire as possible.