Witch & Wizard: The Gift

by James Patterson; Ned Rust

  Suddenly I realize I’m seeing this with eyes that are above water. I’m floating…

  Like a dead fish, or a living human being?

  I jolt up onto my feet and realize I’m alive and human again, standing in about three feet of water. The spell must have worn off. I whisper a prayer of thanks to Mom and Dad, who I feel are out there, watching over us somehow. Then I give quick thanks that the spell didn’t remove my white Brave New World Center jumpsuit, which is now sopping wet.

  I swirl around, looking for Wisty. Thank God—there she is! She’s just now hauling herself up the wooded bank of the river. She’s dazed, but her eyes light up when she sees me.

  “Whit!” she calls. “Wasn’t that… wasn’t that just the most amazing ride ever?”

  Chapter 70

  Whit

  IT MIGHT NOT SURPRISE you to find out that I wasn’t just an athlete in the old days, I was also a fourth-degree Falcon Scout. So I know that generally when you’re lost in the woods, the first job is to find shelter.

  But on a night as perfect as this one, we’re not stressing about it.

  We’ve already walked several miles—west, back toward Freeland—and though it’s starting to get a little cool, we’re just going to sleep under the stars.

  The sun has dipped below the horizon, and things are starting to get pretty dark. From here on out, we’re strictly going to be feeling our way around.

  “Bring a flashlight?” I ask my sister jokingly. “We could use it to find two sticks. And then we could rub them together, and —” Suddenly the tree trunks ahead of me are flickering with dancing orange light.

  I spin around to face Wisty. And there on the ground, with my sister sitting cross-legged in front of it, is the most perfect campfire I’ve ever seen, complete with encircling stones and a nearby stack of wood.

  “Fire looks a little hot,” I say, referencing the six-foot-high flames nearly licking the overhanging branches of the trees.

  “No problemo,” says Wisty and, as if she were turning a dial on a stove, drops the flames down to a more manageable foot or two.

  “And without your drumstick,” I observe. “I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve always done better out of school,” she says. Her pale face is flushed, glowing. She looks like she’s just risen from the dead. “I know it sounds dumb, but it feels so good. To just be able to use my power. Without being crushed. It’s like I didn’t even realize how heavy the weight was until it was gone.”

  “I know what you mean. I feel it, too.” And it’s true. Without even focusing too terribly hard, I’m able to produce three hot dogs on the ends of three bamboo skewers. It’s almost as if there’s been a backup of energy and potential from all that time I hadn’t been using any of it.

  “Sweet,” says Wisty as she takes her dog. “Maybe you did learn something at the BNW Center.”

  “I don’t give them credit for anything beyond learning to love lima beans,” I joke. “Which, actually, is a handy skill when times are lean and mean. Remember when Mom and Dad were, like, the emperors of discount vacations? I swear we spent more time in the woods than we did indoors.”

  Wisty nods, and we start roasting our dogs. “Remember that time it was raining so badly and Dad slipped and fell off the path into the swamp and all the food was in his pack and it got ruined?” She laughs.

  “Yeah. It was a long hike back to civilization for dinner,” I say, but I’m remembering something else now about that day. “Weird…”

  “What?”

  “I never mentioned this ’cause it didn’t mean anything to me at the time. I overheard Dad saying to Mom something like ‘We could just solve this the easy way, Liz.’ And then Mom said, ‘We promised each other never to take the easy way. Especially with the kids. They need to learn the hard way.’”

  Wisty takes it in. “You think they meant magic? Or whatever it is that we’re doing—‘realizing our potential’?”

  “I think they didn’t want us to just rely on magic to get what we wanted. I guess that’s why they didn’t teach us about it at all. They wanted us to —”

  “Learn to do stuff the hard way? So we’d understand what the rest of the world was going through?”

  I nod. “Could be.”

  “Well, Mom and Dad, wherever you are…” Wisty looks up at the sky. “We’re learning the hard way. The really hard way. Hope you’re happy. Somehow, I really hope you’re happy.”

  Chapter 71

  “I’LL ASK IT AGAIN in case somebody’s actually listening this time: do I have to do everything around here myself?” demands The One Who Is The One.

  The One Who Tallies the Internal Revenues, Byron Swain’s father, stands behind him and shakes his head in disgust.

  The One’s overseers of pedagogical technology, facilities, and discipline are standing over the smashed circuit boards that had formerly contained the ERSA computer program—the system that had been in charge of the Brave New World Center. All three are fairly shaking under the wrathful eyes of The One.

  “Your Eminence, it would appear they escaped through the toilet fixture because Byron Swain —”

  “For the last time, and I assure you this is the last time I will ever remind you, citizens are not to be addressed with Old Order names! These can lead to insidious individualistic tendencies. His name is now The One Who Infiltrates The Resistance Leadership! And his punishment will be nothing short of torture, I assure you.”

  The One smiles at Byron Swain’s father, then studies him for a reaction. The man offers not a flinch of discomfort.

  “The fact that there are not filters on the toilets, the fact that the dampening shields were not consistently employed, and the fact that this moronic computer program of yours decided to grant a toilet request to the two most powerful dynacompetents in our custody are just the beginning of where the true failure lies!”

  “We’re already in the process of correcting those problems.”

  “Not necessary. Those of us who are competent enough to wear the insignia of the New Order will deal with this. Those of you not competent shall have the insignia removed. Or, rather”—he chuckles—“the insignia will have you removed.”

  With that, he throws out his hands and vaporizes the three BNW Center administrators—everything, that is, but the “N.O.” insignia on their uniforms.

  “Somebody pick those up,” he says, pressing the intercom button on his desk. “And send in the Informant.”

  Byron Swain is escorted into the room at once. Though his hair lacks its hallmark camera-ready coif and his eyes are puffed with weariness, he holds his head high.

  “Your Eminence,” Byron begins, looking The One di-rectly in the eye.

  The One raises his stick threateningly. “Who dares to speak to me before I speak?”

  “I do, sir,” Byron continues with his steady gaze. “I know I have failed you, sir. I have been a traitor to this Great Order. I fully accept my punishment. I am ready.”

  The One pauses, then studies Byron. “So very brave indeed! I wouldn’t normally expect that from any son of”—he gestures to his minister of internal revenues—“that one.”

  “Nor would I, sir,” Byron says without missing a beat, inspiring chuckles from The One. There will be no more merciless beatings from his father after his execution, so Byron feels empowered to speak the truth for once in his life.

  The One is rapt with bemusement. “I like the spirit, boy, I do, I do. I’m so saddened that my dreams for you have been… delayed.”

  “Delayed? Sir?” Having expected nothing less than death, Byron cannot process his meaning.

  “I’m well aware of your… inclinations toward our escaped redheaded witch. Since she rejects you, you wish nothing but to die. To die as the hero that saved her life. So tragic! The stuff of stage drama. Thank goodness we’ve outlawed all of that whimsical drivel and nonsense.”

  Byron begins to get nervous. “I wish nothing but to be executed in shame for m
y betrayal to you, sir.”

  “You lie!” The One thunders, quite literally, as his anger shakes the entire building. “Your punishment will either kill you, quite excruciatingly, I might add, or else it will transform you into the kind of man we need for positions of high leadership in this Order.”

  “Sir?” Byron says again, his throat drying as he feels his well of courage—the one that has taken days to fill—starting to run low.

  “You are now officially in charge of the Kill Team to once and for all rectify this situation.”

  Byron swallows. “The Kill Team, Your Eminence?”

  “In our efforts to apprehend and control The One Who Has The Gift, we have spent altogether too much time and too many reliable resources —”

  “Exactly three point seven million B.N.s,” interjects The One Who Tallies The Internal Revenues.

  “Such waste!” screams The One. “Clearly my single-minded pursuit of her has been too much of a drain. And so I have decided, since we cannot wrest The Gift from her, we will remove the threat she poses. Put simply, we will kill her. Or, rather, you will kill her.”

  “Sir?” Byron says yet again.

  “You started out so well, boy. You impressed me, if but for a moment. Alas, like so many commoners, you’ve fallen prey to nothing but adolescent physical attraction. Waste, waste, waste! I do so hope that you’ll return to your senses.

  “Regardless, you will kill the girl. Your team will kill the girl. Or else you will bring her back alive, and I will kill her, slowly and painfully, in front of your pathetic puppy-dog eyes.”

  BOOK THREE

  THE END OF THE ALLGOODS

  Chapter 72

  Wisty

  WHIT AND I HAVE BEEN TRUDGING through a steady drizzle for many miles now, and it seems as if every single tree trunk along the highway has been stapled with posters of us. They’re recent pictures—my brother and I in our flashy white Brave New World Center couture:

  WANTED for TREASON, TREACHERY, TRICKERY, WIZARDRY, WITCHCRAFT, and POLLUTING the ENVIRONMENT with their PERNICIOUS INFLUENCE

  “Lord, what a girl has to do to finally get popular,” I say with resignation. “It’s so unfair. At least that mug shot of me is better than my stupid yearbook photo!”

  “Even with the bald head? Um, I’m not so sure, Wist…”

  “I’ve decided it’s totally fierce,” I tell him. “Resistance chic. I think it’ll catch on.”

  Whit snorts. I don’t expect him to get it anyway, given his fondness for curvy chicks with flowing locks. With my prison-pale skin—two shades lighter than its normal “freckled and fair”—and my raw scalp and dirty baggy jumpsuit, I’m so totally the opposite of his type.

  But Emmet might like it. I bet he would. I miss him—and everyone else in Freeland—so much right now.

  “Are we there yet?” I quip as we make our way through a portion of the woods parallel to the highway in the outskirts of a small city. I can hear raucous cheering in the distance.

  “We’re still a few miles off. The border of Freeland is constantly receding,” Whit explains. “I wonder if that’s a New Order rally we’re hearing or a Resistance rally. Hard to tell in these parts.”

  “Should we check it out?”

  “Let’s,” he says. “Carefully.”

  We turn away from the highway and head up a side street that leads into town. After a few blocks, we spot the fringes of the mob, swarming in a park situated in front of a large stone building. We can’t make out their chanting yet.

  “It’s all adults. Clearly not Resistance,” observes Whit. “We can’t get any closer without being noticed. We’re the poster kids of the week around here.”

  “Well, then,” I muse, “maybe we shouldn’t be kids anymore.”

  Whit whistles as he figures out what I mean. “You think you can do it?”

  “Maybe together we can,” I say, and take his hand. “I’ve got no plans to enter my geezer years alone.”

  I remember a tidbit from a poem Dad used to read to us, and I make Whit recite it with me:

  When I was young! ah woeful When!

  Ah for the Change twixt now and then!

  And then… it’s the strangest morphing experience I’ve had by far. Usually it’s swift and smooth, as if I’m as soft and moldable as a chunk of cookie dough being squeezed through some higher power’s fingers. This time, it’s slow and… painful. Creaky. As if my spine is being crunched down, and the rest of me aches in response, right down to the soles of my feet.

  Whit groans, equally unexcited about his new body. “Don’t tell me this is how years of playing contact sports is going to wreck me in old age.” He moans. “My back is killing me. And both my knees. Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

  I try taking a deep breath, and it’s just not the same. “My lungs feel… weird… smaller. Cramped up or something.” Suddenly all of Mom’s griping about me not standing up straight enough somehow seems to make sense.

  The odd sensation of something tickling my neck makes me jump, and I smack what I think must be a spider but what turns out to be—hair! I take a coarse strand in my newly veiny hand and check it out. It’s whiter than an ash heap!

  “Bye-bye, Resistance chic!” I sing woefully.

  “Well, I guess you don’t need to worry about growing your hair back,” Whit comments.

  “And I guess you do,” I retort, eyeing his very oblong balding head.

  “Or else I’m just going to have to shave my head like you.” My brother strokes his shiny scalp and patchy hair with a knuckly, liver-spotted hand.

  “I highly recommend waxing instead,” I joke. Whit responds with a chuckle that morphs into a more penetrating look of alarm.

  “Wisty, I will so kill you if you can’t change us back.”

  “Lighten up. We’ve always been able to revert, right? Not always at the most convenient moment, of course, but the spells never last forever.”

  At least I hope not.

  Chapter 73

  Whit

  WISTY AND I ARE CLOSE enough now to hear what these citizens are chanting about, and it’s pretty vile.

  “Books equal chaos! We want order! Books equal chaos!”

  We wander/hobble into the crowd and gradually nudge our way forward to a spot where we can see what’s going on.

  “Books equal chaos! We want order! Books equal chaos!”

  Who are these people who’ve been utterly convinced that books lead only to chaos, fear, evil?

  The scary thing is, they look normal. I suppose they are normal. At least, in their own minds. They probably wake up and have a cup of coffee and feed their whiny kids and hug their families. I spot a couple of the grown-ups here with a toddler on their shoulders; there with a baby in a backpack.

  But there’s something different and creepy about them, too. There’s something missing from their eyes. They’re alive, they’re living, but there’s not much spark of life or real passion.

  The imposing stone building behind the park has a set of stairs leading up to its colonnaded entryway and is flanked on either side by two stone lions. The inscribed name over the enormous filigreed doors has been blasted away, but it’s plain that this was at some point a big city library.

  Judging from the pile of books out front, it’s currently empty enough for a soccer match or a mega–rock concert. The pile is taller than the top of a goalpost.

  And right now it’s being doused with kerosene by a bunch of jackbooted New Order officials. A boiler-bellied man at the top of the steps is speaking into a megaphone and holding a torch above his head.

  I don’t know what it is about the New Order and their policy of hiring the most obscene-looking adults they can find, but they don’t seem to be at risk of being understaffed. Take the meanest vice principal you’ve ever met, cross him with a praying mantis, and add in a tendency to bark like a German shepherd, and maybe you’ll start to get close to what this N.O. guy is like.

  “In the name of The One Who Is The One!
” he yells. The crowd goes wild at this gibberish.

  “In reparation for all those who have been lost forever to the wandering of the imagination! Lost to the obscene lust for dreams… and to knowledge for knowledge’s sake!”

  My “elderly” ears are about ready to shatter with the roar of the crowd, and I have to plug them.

  “As punishment against those who have squandered their duty to Order and Society by indulging in the wastefulness, inefficiency, and lack of productivity that these cursed volumes engender!”

  Wisty can’t take it either. She slips up and gives me a look of complete disgust.

  “And as a warning to all who stand here today as imposters”—I swear he’s looking straight at us now—“those of you pretenders who do not truly believe in everything that the Order has done to transform us and provide for the stability of our future, you shall burn, too. We will find you, and you will burn!”

  The crowd noise is earsplitting now. “Burn! Burn! Burn!” they chant. I think one of my half-deaf eardrums actually pops.

  Wisty tries to make up for her slip and chants along with them. “Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn those crummy old books!”

  I say a prayer that my sister doesn’t accidentally make herself light up.

  “Let us begin our ritual to cleanse our town, our community, our lives, of these germs and aberrations. We shall count down from five, and then we shall be free! Five!”

  The crowd joins in. “Four! Three! Two!” The ground trembles underneath their foot-stomping. “One!”

  And now the torch is arcing, end over end, through the air toward the kerosene-doused stack of books, thousands of books, many of which I recognize by their covers.

  I tense up and dispatch all of my concentration and energy toward the torch. It takes more effort than I would have thought. But then the torch stops in midair, hovers, and then zooms straight back at the potbellied official. To my utter delight, his hair catches fire.