A Boy Without Magic (Missing Magic Series Book 1)

by Guy Antibes

  ~

  The baker paid Sam for the week and claimed that his son had learned enough following him to be able to deliver by himself. Sam looked at the coins and put them away. He wished he could have made more money, but his father had been right. Sam had already paid for the book rental. As a result, he ended up at school earlier than normal. He brought his book bag into the schoolroom and sat alone. He wouldn’t be leaving his books unattended again.

  Miss Featherstone walked into the classroom.

  “It ended up that Gob Carter’s bag was the one with the damaged cover, but Wally did the reporting,” she said after she had put her things on the teacher’s desk.

  “Fara Kirtle probably did everything,” Sam said. “I found out that there are only two known patches of fingerberries around Cherryton. I visited the one farthest away on the weekend. My sister’s friends said the other patch is on the Kirtle Farm. Mr. Washjoy confirmed that the berry juice was fingerberry.”

  Miss Featherstone’s eyes flashed with glee. “You are a resourceful boy. What about your books?”

  “Mr. Washjoy has a cleaning powder that eliminates the red berry stain. It is generally used for wine, but it took care of the stains on the books,” Sam said. “How do I approach Schoolmaster Bank with this information?”

  “You don’t have positive proof that the Kirtle girl damaged your book bag, do you?”

  Sam shook his head. “No. Do I have to prove it?”

  Miss Featherstone nodded. “I’ll make sure that the schoolmaster has me inspect the damage when it happens again.”

  “Again?”

  “If Wally Scrivener hates you as much as you say, and I believe he does, observing how he treats you in my class, he will strike again,” she said.

  “Then please check with the sixth-year teacher to see if Fara leaves the classroom during the time the next this kind of thing occurs.”

  “I can do that, too.”

  Sam sat back. He had done all he could do. If Fara Kirtle were gone from the class both times, then it would be certain she was the culprit.

  ~

  Two days later, Gob Carter left the room. He looked back at Sam when he did. Sam caught Miss Featherstone’s attention. A few minutes later, Schoolmaster Bank entered the room. “Miss Featherstone, Sam Smith, come with me.”

  Miss Featherstone nodded and told the class to continue on without her.

  Gob hadn’t returned. Sam wondered if his strategy worked or not.

  When Sam walked into the office, Gob Carter sat next to Fara Kirtle. Miss Featherstone stood next to the window. She turned around but didn’t say anything.

  “You’ve been accused of being active again, Sam,” Bank said. “Wally Scrivener’s pack has been torn apart. Come with me.” He looked at Miss Featherstone. “You may make sure these two fine students don’t leave my office.”

  His teacher nodded.

  Sam looked at the seventh-year book bags. At least his wasn’t among the pile. Someone had poured red stain over all the book bags. “Is this your doing?”

  “I don’t have any fingerberry juice,” Sam said.

  The schoolmaster looked at Sam. “Why would you say that?”

  “The book bags are covered with it. Look at this one,” Sam said.

  “There isn’t anything other than a pollen cloth covering the bag,” Bank said.

  “I can’t see the cloth. All I know is there is a big stain on the bag.” He pointed to four others with similar stains.

  “You can’t, that’s right.”

  “Look on Fara’s hands or on her clothes to see if there are any splatters of fingerberry juice. She poured the stuff in my book bag when she damaged the covering on Wally or Gob’s book bag the first time. Fara is Wally’s girlfriend.”

  “Oh,” Bank said. “I wondered why Miss Featherstone dragged the girl into my office. You can’t see any damage on Wally’s book bag, can you?”

  Sam had to shake his head. “I don’t even know what his looks like.” And that was the truth.

  Schoolmaster Bank asked to see Fara’s hands, and he noticed the rim of dark red under her fingernails and on the cuticles.

  “Miss Featherstone, come with me.” The two teachers left and returned with one of the stained book bags.

  “Miss Kirtle, did you put the fingerberry juice on this bag and cover the stain with a duplicate pollen cover on the bag?”

  Her face turned red, but she shook her head and folded her arms and crossed her legs. She didn’t say a thing.

  Gob looked at the schoolmaster and Miss Featherstone. “You figured it out.” He sighed and then gave Sam an angry look. “I can’t get anything past you,” he said, “Freak.”

  Sam winced at the venom in his voice.

  “Miss Featherstone, please retrieve Mister Scrivener from your class.”

  Wally admitted to the prank since Gob had all but confessed. For some reason, the schoolmaster felt the need to suspend Wally, Gob, Fara, and Sam for two entire weeks.

  “I include you only because I don’t have absolute proof.”

  “The girl had the juice under her fingernails,” Sam said, showing the schoolmaster clean hands.

  Schoolmaster Bank raised his finger. “I have made my decision.”

  Sam went home without thanking Miss Featherstone for her help, but then he was punished as if he had been the one to put fingerberry juice on the bags anyway. So much for the help.

  “What are you doing home from school so early?” Tessa Smith said to her son.

  Sam gave her the entire story.

  She sighed. “I can see his point. Carter, Scrivener, and Kirtle are pillars of Cherryton. They can’t point to Schoolmaster Bank and say he wasn’t fair to their children. Perhaps you can spend the next two weeks at your father’s forge.”

  “Might as well,” Sam said. He went to his room and shut the door. He tried not to feel sorry for himself, but it was hard. The only good thing about the experience was that he had snooped, and his snooping was a success, even without using a bit of magic.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ~

  S AM DIDN’T ACCOMPANY HIS FATHER, Tru, and Mark to the smithy. He decided to let them get started without having to tell him to get out of the way all the time. That was exactly what had happened during Sam’s previous visits to his father’s forge.

  He showed up an hour later and watched his father and Tru create pollen molds for castings. All they did was move their hands and shape something that he couldn’t see around an implement. Pollen molds just didn’t work for Sam.

  “Mark doesn’t do this?”

  Tru shook his head. “He is still practicing,” his oldest brother said. “You have to get the consistency of the pollen just right. Too light and the mold won’t hold up to the firing, too heavy and you might damage the piece when removing the mold.”

  “You can do this with clay, can’t you?” Sam said.

  Rolph nodded. “We use clay sometimes, especially if there is a fine detail on the piece. Pollen molds are easier and faster. No matter what you use, the mold has a one-time use.”

  “I know where the clay is. Let me help,” Sam said.

  “You can make an ornamental cap for a fence,” Rolph said. “Tru, get him one.”

  Sam looked at the ball. It had a piece that would fit in a square receptacle. Sam chose a wooden box that was large enough for the ball and enough space for the clay and greased the sides and the metal form. He’d seen his father do the same enough times when he had peeked over the smithy fence to see what Rolph and his older brothers were doing.

  He packed the clay around the ball and then removed the clay form from the box. He carefully cut the clay, removing the form before using water to adhere the sides back together.

  Rolph had checked on Sam’s work a few times. He peered at his son, making Sam uncomfortable.

  “What is wrong?”

  Sam examined the clay mold and shook his head. “It should cast all right,” he said.

 
“No, it won’t. The mold is missing something.”

  Sam thought about the process he had followed and then realized what he was missing. “A pouring hole.”

  Rolph nodded. “The clay has to air-dry for a few days. Any dampness might cause the mold to break when I pour the molten iron. If you apply heat, the mold can contract too quickly, causing cracks.”

  Sam found what his father called a gouge and cut a hole. “It’s probably better to make the hole when you form the mold from the metal.”

  “Right.” Rolph went back to this work.

  Sam wasn’t about to watch something dry for two or three days, so he watched his father and his two brothers work on a big piece.

  “This is a plow,” Tru said.

  “Why don’t you cast it?” Sam asked.

  “Casting gives you a decorative shape, but the piece will likely not be strong enough.”

  “Get out of the way!” Mark said, walking in. “You have no business being here.”

  “It’s not that I’m an apprentice, Mark,” Sam said. “I’m helping out during my school suspension.”

  “They should have kicked you out for what you did.”

  Sam shook his head. “And what do you think I did?”

  “You destroyed all the pollen covers on the backpacks. If you can’t see them, I guess you didn’t want them there.”

  “That’s not what happened. Where did you get that information?”

  “I have my sources,” Mark said.

  “You should talk to the Schoolmaster or Miss Featherstone, then,” Sam said. “Fara Kirtle did the damage at Wally Scrivener’s request.”

  “Blame Wally,” Mark said sarcastically.

  Rolph slapped Mark’s arm. “Enough of that. Don’t say another word about it. Let’s get this done.”

  The plow blade was heating up in the forge. It would be too heavy as an iron casting, so it had to be made of steel. Tru and Mark pulled on a chain that drew it up out of the hot coals while Rolph moved the crane to a large iron block.

  Sam watched the three of them work at Rolph’s direction to start pounding on the edge of the plow, drawing out an edge. Shards of yellow-hot metal flew out. Sam noticed, for the first time, that they all wore pollen shields. He could see metal hit the shield and stay suspended in the air a few inches from their bodies. A large shard flew past them and bit through Sam’s pants, hitting his thigh.

  “I’m burning!” Sam said. He ran to a quenching bucket and splashed water on this leg before removing the metal from his leg. The fragment bounced onto the stone-flagged floor.

  “We can’t stop to help you,” Rolph said. “Run home and have your mother look at your burn. We have to work this while it is hot.”

  Sam ran out of the smithy and through the streets until he got home. “I got burned!” he called out to an empty house. “Great,” he said as he pulled off his pants to inspect the burn.

  The shard wasn’t huge, but the flesh looked red and ugly. He suspected he’d be branded for life. He grabbed some burn ointment that his mother often used on Rolph’s hands and slathered it on before finding the cut off pants that he wore on hot summer days.

  Having done all he could do, he sat in the kitchen looking for the willow powder that his mother gave out for pain. He found it and took a good measure and then went into his bedroom to lie down. Sam woke in darkness with an upset stomach. He thought he might need something to eat.

  His mother and father sat talking in dim light at the kitchen table. Sam looked at the family’s clock. It was past midnight.

  Tessa rose and went to her son. “Sit. You must be hungry.”

  Sam nodded. “I’m sure the burn will leave a scar,” he said as he took an empty seat.

  His mother turned the knob on the lamp, making it brighter in the room.

  “Oh, indeed it will. It is still raw.”

  Sam nodded. “I took some willow powder, but I think it made me go to sleep.”

  “It would if you took a heavy dose,” Rolph said. He leaned over to get a better look at Sam’s leg. “Your mother will put a bandage on it. Take tomorrow off to rest and return to the smithy day after tomorrow.” He got up. “It is time for bed. Good night. I’m sorry about your leg.”

  He seemed a bit gruff to Sam. “Is he mad at me?” Sam said after he heard the door to his parents’ bedroom close.

  She looked down the hallway and rubbed her arms. “I wouldn’t call it anger. He’s disappointed that you can’t help him.”

  “But I can’t do magic.”

  Tessa shook her head. “He is disappointed with the situation, not with you. It’s not your fault you can’t make pollen molds. It’s not your fault that you can’t create a protective apron. It’s not your fault, but it doesn’t erase the fact that you can’t do those things.” She patted Sam on his shoulder as if that would help take away the pain she had just given him. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  ~

  Sam felt a bit better by lunchtime. “I’ll take the lunches,” he said to Tessa.

  The walk to the smithy took a bit more effort than Sam realized. He arrived and set out the lunches. He went to check on his mold and found it smashed into pieces.

  “Who destroyed my mold?” Sam asked.

  Mark curled his lip. “I dropped something on it by accident.”

  Rolph and Tru looked at Mark, astonished at his comment.

  “What, exactly?” Sam said.

  “The flat-nosed shovel for the horse-seller.”

  Sam got up and walked around the work-in-process and found the shovelhead that Mark talked about. He lifted it up and saw the remnants of smashed clay. It had compressed on the shovel. Mark hadn’t dropped anything. He had used the shovel to destroy his mold.

  “You did it on purpose,” Sam said.

  “Prove it, if you are such a great snoop.” Mark sneered at him with a darkened face filled with malice.

  Sam retrieved the head and showed the clay on its back. “If the shovel head were dropped, the clay left on the shovel wouldn’t have been so spread out. It was smashed against my mold, on purpose.”

  “Think you’re something special after your triumph in school?”

  Sam took a deep breath, glaring at Mark. “Right, a triumph. You let that slip, too.” He turned around and stalked back to the house without waiting for the dishes.

  “What happened?” Tessa said.

  “Mark happened,” Sam said. Suddenly, his leg began to ache. “I’m going out for a walk. I’ll be in the woods somewhere.”

  Sam took his wand with him and left the house, after grabbing a couple of apples. He didn’t know what to do about his middle brother who hated him. He took many deep breaths and sighed a lot as he tried to keep from getting too angry. He had learned early that anger about his disability never helped, but today it seemed his temper sought to get the better of him.

  He sat on the ground, leaning against a log, and drifted off to sleep.

  “What have we here?”

  Sam opened his eyes and looked up into Wally Scrivener’s face.

  “A talentless turtle,” Mark said.

  Sam sat up. “You should be at the shop!” he said.

  “I am where I am supposed to be right now.” His brother kicked him where his burn was.

  The pain made Sam’s eyes water.

  “Crying?” Gob Carter said.

  Sam looked at the venomous eyes of a pack of snakes and put his hands over his head as the blows began. The three tormentors began to kick him until someone struck him in the head and everything went dark.

  He woke in the darkness. Sam’s body screamed with pain, especially his burn. He put his broken hand on his wound and found that one of his tormentors had jammed the tip of the wand into his leg and left it in. Sam pulled it out and screamed in the night.

  He sat up and leaned against the log, thinking he heard shouts. Had the three of them decided to finish their task? Torches began to bob through the trees.

  “S
am!”

  That was his father’s voice.

  “Over here,” he said. He hoped the croak of his voice was loud enough.

  In a moment, he was surrounded by five men, Tom Washjoy, his father, and two of his father’s friends, along with Tru.

  “What happened? Your mother said you had gone into the woods, but you never returned.”

  “Gob, Wally.” Sam’s jaw exploded in pain. He couldn’t speak anymore.

  “You look a mess,” Tru said. “So that was where Mark went. Gob came by the smithy checking on his father’s latest order, and the two of them left for a long time.”

  “Wan, leg,” Sam said.

  Rolph picked up the wand and looked at the tip more closely in the light. “Blood. Wally Scrivener and Gob Carter will pay for this.”

  “Mar-” Sam managed to get out. The smell of the pollen torches finally made it to Sam’s nose. He winced at the smell, but the smell was the least of his worries.

  “Let’s take him to Harrison’s,” one of the men said. “His cottage is a lot closer than the town’s healer.”

  Rolph nodded. They lifted Sam up, who couldn’t help but groan as they did. They put him down again.

  “We’ll have to make a stretcher.”

  The men went to work and in moments carried Sam atop a pollen-made stretcher. Every step, every stumble in the dark brought more pain to him. He thought back to the angry faces. How could he return home to more of that? Sam just didn’t think he could be comfortable around his brother with the memory of the raw hatred on Mark’s face.

  Something snapped inside, and everything went black again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ~

  “U H HUH,” SAM SAID AND GROANED. He couldn’t make his mouth work properly. The sun streamed through the diamond-paned windows into the main room of a modest cottage. Even though it was late spring, a fire warmed the room.

  “Awake, are you?”

  “Un Huh.” Sam could only make the most elementary sounds.

  “I’ve had to work on you for some time. You are an anomaly,” the man said.