The Evil Wizard Smallbone

by Delia Sherman

  The world was full of sounds and smells: water running under thick ice, the scratching of a small animal in the undergrowth, the distant scent of goats and chickens and smoke.

  She licked her chops and yawned. She was hungry.

  Following her nose, she trotted toward the goats until she ran into a barrier that set her fur on end. Ice stabbed through her veins, and she tumbled backward, then picked herself up and fled, yelping. After a while, she stopped, shook herself, and sniffed again. Fish, salt, smoke, prey. And stronger than all of these, warm and beckoning, the smell of her pack, of her mother and father, of safety, of home.

  Shortly afterward, the coyote that was Dinah Smallbone bounded out of the woods onto a hard surface that smelled of oil. Her nose told her she’d found her pack, but all she could see was two-legged animals far bigger than she running around like prey and making loud noises that hurt her ears. Panicked, she tucked her tail between her legs and made a mad dash for her den.

  She hit another barrier and sat down with a surprised yip. Caught between the terrifying noises behind her and the smell of home before her, she scratched desperately at the barrier, whining and howling until she was hoarse and spent. She curled up against the barrier and went to sleep.

  She woke up in a dark place that smelled of stone and salt and meat and water. And there she stayed for what seemed to her like a long, long time.

  Nick hated winter. Winter was chilblains and freezing feet, cold food and not enough of it. Winter was school and being bored out of his mind and fights at recess and having to go down to the principal’s office and listen to lectures about the importance of anger management and impulse control.

  Winter was when Nick’s mother had died.

  One day, she’d been laughing and cooking pot-au-feu and reading fantasy books to him at bedtime. The next, it seemed like, she’d been coughing and skinny and pale. Uncle Gabe said it was only a cold, but a lady who worked at the cleaning service said colds didn’t last three months and talked her into going to the hospital.

  She never came home.

  That winter was when Uncle Gabe went from crabby to mean, from a guy who liked a couple of beers when he got home to a guy who got drunk at work. That winter was when he lost his job at Beaton Garage. He was a genius mechanic, so the Sunoco station took him on, and he got into a fight with a customer and had to move on to Joe’s Motor and Body Shop.

  Winter was the pits and lasted way too long. If Nick had a choice, he would have skipped it entirely.

  This winter was a little different. Nick was warm and dry and had plenty to eat. He didn’t have to go to school with dimwits who made fun of his clothes and called him names and jumped him at recess. He had Mutt and Jeff and Tom to keep him company, more science fiction than he could read in a year, and he was learning magic. All in all, this winter was better than most, or it would have been if it hadn’t been for Smallbone.

  Nick couldn’t figure Smallbone out. Nothing about him made sense. He was a wizard who said he knew all kinds of spells, and yet he did barn chores by hand, like an ordinary person. Nick’s dirty clothes disappeared and clean ones appeared to replace them, but all the meals had to be prepared and cooked. The stove ran by magic, but the kitchen fireplace had to be fed with wood that had to be chopped and hauled. All the evil wizards Nick had ever read about had minions — plural — to help them spread their evil empires. Nick was Smallbone’s only minion, and as far as he knew, the evil empire consisted of some farm animals and a bookshop no customer in their right mind would ever stop at.

  And there was the fact that, after forcing Nick to accept that he couldn’t leave Evil Wizard Books no matter how hard he tried, Smallbone proceeded to ignore him. He spent all day up in his tower workshop, coming down only for meals that he ate while reading a book propped against the sugar bowl. Sometimes he’d stick around afterward and tell Nick how to make some dish he liked, but mostly he didn’t speak at all. It was as if he was trying to pretend he still lived alone.

  As puzzling and bizarre as the old man’s behavior was, it did leave Nick plenty of free time. Every morning, he got up to a world of swirling white and fought the wind as he followed Smallbone’s magic path to the barn, fed and watered the animals, gathered the eggs and milked the goats, then came back to make breakfast. Every night, he fell asleep to the wind rattling the windows and Tom purring on the pillow by his ear. In between, he played with the dogs and — whenever he felt reasonably sure Smallbone was safely out of the way — read E-Z Spelz for Little Wizardz in the nest of cushions he’d made for himself in the back of the bookshop.

  He’d started with a spell for lighting a candle without a match. It was kind of like learning to ride a bicycle. At first it was hard, and then it was like something switched on inside his head and he didn’t even have to think about how he did it. Other spells were harder. They called for ingredients he couldn’t find and rituals you needed time to complete. He was always aware that Smallbone might come in and turn him into something horrible.

  He didn’t want to go through anything like the spider episode again. It wasn’t so much being a spider that bothered him — the spider had been perfectly fine with it. But that spider hadn’t been Nick. It had just been a spider, and the Nick who remembered his mom and hated his uncle had been nowhere.

  It was enough to give anybody nightmares. Nick had them anyway, mostly about Uncle Gabe, but sometimes about Smallbone, too, and they were horrible. He always woke in a rage, thrashing around and trying to yell.

  One night, he lit the bedside candle, pulled E-Z Spelz from under his pillow, and opened it at random.

  Spells of Protection are easy to cast. People have been casting them for thousands of years, and the paths of magic are worn smooth. Bow-Wowzer Meowzer is a beginner’s spell. It depends almost entirely on Will — which makes it perfect for a stubborn cuss like you. It won’t keep the old man from turning you into a frog if he feels like it, so you better keep working on that Control. But it should keep him — and anybody else you don’t invite in — out of your room.

  Next morning, after Smallbone had stumped up to his tower, Nick went looking for a yardstick, a handful of salt, and some iron nails. He took them up to his room, locked the door, and propped E-Z Spelz against the pillow.

  The spell itself was dumber than dumb, like something a little kid would make up to keep the monsters under the bed from coming to get him. Following the instructions, he dribbled unbroken lines of salt (not too thick, not too thin) along the threshold and the windowsills. He stood on a desk chair and laid a nail on the door frame and one above each window. He used the yardstick to find the exact center of the room so he could stand there and turn around three times, dribbling salt in a circle with his right hand and reciting.

  E-Z Spelz didn’t explain why or even how this worked. Nick had to make up his own mind about how reciting, “Bow-Wowzer Meowzer, Bow-Wowzer Meowzer! Fly, bad spirits, fly!”— with or without throwing salt around — was going to protect him. But he had no doubt it had done something. The air felt thick and a little prickly, like just before a thunderstorm. There was that smell, too, like hot metal, that he was beginning to recognize as the smell of magic. For a moment, Nick thought he might pass out or throw up. Then there was a kind of snap, and everything went back to normal. Except Nick knew, absolutely and without doubt, that Smallbone couldn’t come in to spy on him or turn him into something creepy while he was asleep. Smallbone couldn’t come in at all.

  Nick smiled. And then he laughed. And then he whooped out loud.

  He opened the book again. Maybe he could find something that would help him get away. Maybe he could break the confusion spell on the yard or fly over it or —

  You’re a young wizard. Remember, you need to learn to walk before you can run, and patience is a virtue.

  Patience is a virtue! Nick couldn’t believe it. Why did everybody have to lecture him all the time and tell him what to do? He wanted to be a wizard, not a Sunday-school teac
her! He slammed E-Z Spelz closed, threw it under the bed, and ran out of his room. Suddenly, it was too small and the house was too big and he had to get out and go somewhere or he’d burst.

  He pulled on a jacket and headed for the barn, which was warm and shadowy and full of the small noises contented animals make. Nick petted Groucho, stamped at the chickens to watch them run, and threw Ollie’s ball in his water trough. Ollie got it out, splashing water everywhere, and rootled it through the straw, his tail whirling happily. Somehow, it wasn’t as funny as usual, especially since Nick didn’t know the spell to float the ball back and Smallbone would be mad if he didn’t find it in its bucket.

  Nick climbed over the rails, and Ollie looked at him. His tail was still twirling, but without the fence between them, the pig looked very big — even bigger when he turned and took a step forward. Nick backpedaled, slipped on a pile of something squishy, and landed flat on his back in the muck. Panicked, he kicked out at Ollie, who was coming to investigate.

  It was a solid kick, and it caught the pig on his sensitive snout. Ollie squealed like a whistle and scuttled to the back of the pen, where he stood with his hindquarters to Nick and panted anxiously.

  Nick picked himself up and climbed out. He hated everybody and everything in the world, but mostly he hated the way he smelled. An unpleasant session with some straw and a quick scrub under the pump got rid of the worst of it, but he was left with a dripping jacket and a damp butt and the uncomfortable feeling that he’d been a complete jerk. He liked Ollie. Like the goats, Ollie played with Nick. Unlike the goats, he didn’t make Nick feel like a birdbrain.

  He hung the jacket from a peg to dry, then sat on a bale of hay next to the pigpen with his back to the rails.

  He was wondering how you apologized to a pig when he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder and a rubbery snout snuffled at his neck.

  After supper, when Smallbone was at the barn, Nick fished E-Z Spelz out from under the bed and opened it, prepared for another lecture on patience and control and maybe kindness to animals.

  Magic is dangerous. Which is why you need to learn to make a pentagram.

  A pentagram is a Little Wizard’s Best Friend. A pentagram helps you focus. Any spell you cast inside a pentagram will be stronger. If the spell is particularly dangerous, the pentagram will contain it. If you can’t have a senior wizard to help you with your spelz, you’d better have a pentagram handy.

  Ready?

  Nick found himself nodding.

  Good. You’ll need a yardstick. Also a piece of string with a thumbtack on one end to mark the center and chalk on the other to make the arms even. And when you’ve got a perfect one, you can learn to cheat at marbles.

  One morning Nick woke to silence and a hard, pale sky. The snow had stopped, but the air was cold enough to freeze snot. By the time he’d finished the chores, the weather had cleared. In the sunlight, Evil Wizard Books looked like a crystal palace in a snow globe, chimneys and roofs all frosted and glittering.

  When Nick returned with the milk and eggs, Smallbone had already made breakfast. “Eat up, Foxkin. We’re going into town. I’m out of tobacco and I haven’t picked up my Christmas ham.”

  Nick’s heart gave a lurch. A town meant people, a telephone, maybe even a police station. A town meant a possibility of escape. Which was all he really wanted, right? The bookshop and the animals and magic were all fine, but they didn’t make up for Smallbone and his acid tongue and the constant fear of bug-hood.

  Smallbone gave Nick a look under his bushy brows. “Just in case you’re thinking of making a break for it, remember that the townsfolk are Smallbones, every one of them. They know what’s due their evil wizard, even if you don’t.”

  Nick returned the look with interest. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

  A little while later, Nick was trudging through the woods behind Smallbone. He was carrying an empty straw basket on his arm for purchases, and he’d tucked a bacon sandwich and E-Z Spelz for Little Wizardz in his jacket pockets, just in case.

  Smallbone’s path wound through the woods, climbed a steep rise covered with prickly blackberry, then plunged downhill to a rocky beach. Nick squinted up at the seagulls mewing and gliding down the sapphire sky, and wondered where he was.

  “When you’re done gawking,” Smallbone said, “you can help me with the skiff.”

  A sturdy boat was turned upside down on the rocks like a turtle, with its oars beneath it. Nick brushed the snow off and helped the old man drag it down to the water.

  Smallbone’s beard twitched. “Don’t suppose it’s any use asking if you can row.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll teach you come spring. Hop in and don’t fidget.”

  Nick threw the basket in the boat and stepped in gingerly, gripping the sides as he felt the boat lift and stir under him. Smallbone pushed the skiff off the sand, scrambled aboard, sat down facing Nick, and headed out into the Reach.

  Nick had never been in a boat before. He gripped the sides while the wind cut through his jacket like a saw and the cold waves stung his hands. When he looked ahead, there was Smallbone, all bristly white hair and glittering glasses, scowling as he pulled on the oars. Nick turned his eyes to the little islands that were scattered along the Reach, ringed with rocks like massive loaves of brown bread sprinkled with floury snow. Some were big enough to walk around on, but most were too small to hold more than a few trees. The world smelled of pine and wood smoke and cold.

  Nick felt like laughing.

  Before long, they rounded a rocky point and headed into a deep, sheltered cove. Nick made out a weathered dock surrounded by a flock of boats like oversize geese. Behind them was a row of gray and white buildings and a white clapboard church with a sharply pointed steeple topped with a black weathervane shaped like a seal. The whole scene was dusted with glittering snow, like the most touristy kind of Christmas card.

  Nick tucked his frozen hands into his armpits. He didn’t care what Smallbone said: somebody was bound to help him. He’d find a nice woman — women usually felt sorry for Nick until they got to know him — and spin her a tale about family in Bath or Boothbay or whatever, and he’d be on his way in no time.

  With an expert flick of his oars, Smallbone pulled up against the dock, threw a rope over a post, tied it fast, and took off, his black coat flapping, his black hat jammed down over his wild white hair like a stovepipe over a bird’s nest. Nick scrambled after with the basket.

  There weren’t many people around. An old guy was coiling rope next to the gas pump on the wharf, and there were a couple of pickups parked in the lot, but Nick didn’t see anybody he felt he could talk to. The stores were boarded up tight for the season. With nowhere to run, Nick followed Smallbone down the street. They passed a neat white clapboard house with an old-fashioned public phone booth to one side of the front walk and a sign to the other identifying it as the Smallbone Cove Public Library. A woman was looking out one of the windows. Maybe she’d lend him a quarter for the phone. Maybe she’d hide him in her cellar.

  Nick caught her eye and smiled. She looked a little startled but smiled back.

  Down the street, a woman in a red parka was heading toward them, waving a red-mittened hand. “Mr. Smallbone,” she called, her voice ringing in the nippy air. “Thank heaven you’re here! I was just coming to see you.”

  Smallbone ignored her.

  She patted the basket hanging on her arm. “I’ve got your meat order right here. And there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Smallbone didn’t answer.

  “Please listen, Mr. Smallbone,” she said, tight and desperate. “I invoke the Contract.”

  Smallbone stopped so suddenly that Nick nearly crashed into him. “The Contract, eh? You making a formal petition, Lily Smallbone?”

  The woman gripped the basket. “I am.”

  Smallbone scowled, his hat tipping forward. “Land o’ Goshen, Lily, you know better than this. There’s a time and a place for peti
tions and this ain’t neither the one or the other.”

  Lily opened her mouth. Smallbone trained his spectacles on her. She closed it again, turned, and stomped back the way she had come.

  Wondering what had just happened, Nick followed Smallbone and the woman to what looked to be the only open shop in town. It had “country store” written all over it, from the rustic wooden benches on its porch to its sparkling bay window filled with jars of candy and homemade jam. There was a wooden plaque over the door: SMALLBONE COVE MERCANTILE EST. 1780, LILY AND ZERUBABBLE SMALLBONE, PROPS. A red gingham sign on the door told passersby that it was OPEN.

  Nick followed Smallbone into the warmth and took a deep breath flavored with vinegar, wood smoke, and fresh-baked bread. Two men in heavy sweaters playing checkers on a pickle barrel beside the shop window looked up and stared at him with eyes so dark they were almost black. Nick smiled, trying to look pathetic and trustworthy. They returned to their game.

  The woman called Lily deposited her basket on the shop counter next to a glass case filled with fancy baked goods. She took off her parka, revealing a sweater decorated with seals and a round face that was probably pleasant when she wasn’t in a temper. Her sleek brown hair was splotched and streaked with gray.

  “So, Mr. Smallbone,” she said briskly, “how can I help you?”

  Smallbone produced a creased paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Here’s my list. Cornmeal, salt, tobacco, ham, vanilla, washing powder, ammonia, bacon, corned beef — the usual. Oh, and you can give me some of them fresh cinnamon buns — a dozen will suffice. Some other odds and ends. You can see for yourself.”

  Lily took the list without looking at it. “With respect, Mr. Smallbone —”

  Smallbone’s beard bunched. Lily looked at the list. “Jeans. Wool jacket. Underwear, boy’s size fourteen. Flannel shirts.” She cocked her chin toward Nick. “This gear for him?”