by Toby Forward
“Do you remember other things?”
Tim remembered. He told Smedge.
“Good boy. Now, will you come with me to Professor Frastfil and tell him?”
Tim woofed a sad yes.
Smedge put his hand into Tim’s armpit, lifted him up and he was a boy again.
“Come with me,” he said.
Tim followed him from the sunlit garden through the door into the shade. ||
Tamrin got ready
to swing the brass bell when she saw the small group of houses ahead on the road.
They’d been, if not silent, then guarded in their speech since leaving the barn. Tamrin knew she had been lazy and she was uncomfortable. Perhaps there had been things in the barn they’d missed because she hadn’t bothered to look? Perhaps she could have taken more of a turn with the cart?
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Winny didn’t answer her.
“I don’t do much with other people,” said Tamrin. “I’m not used to it. To helping. To doing what I’m told.”
Winny nodded. The cart was heavy. She kept her breath for pushing.
“Are we collecting?” asked Tamrin. “I’ll look properly this time.”
They had passed several houses and reached one with a path up to the door. Winny turned in and put down the cart handles. The house was long and low. Two storeys, with old red tiles. Small windows and a wide door. Tamrin could smell smoke; a brick chimney, twice the height of the house, stood back and to the right.
“Not here,” said Winny. “We’re delivering. Come on.”
She took the handles again and pushed the cart round the side of the house. Set back a little, and joined to the chimney, was a second building, bigger than the first. Dusk had edged in, and the glow of a fire within the second building looked both inviting and dangerous.
“Old iron,” shouted Winny. “Get your old iron.”
A man appeared in the doorway, blocking the view of the fire. He was big, wide-shouldered, his face back-lit, obscured. He held out his arms. Winny ran to him and hugged him.
“What have you brought me?” he asked.
“Come and see.”
They walked towards Tamrin, his arm over her shoulders.
“This is strange old iron,” he said, looking at her.
“This is Tam,” said Winny.
“Hello, Tam.”
He held out his hand for her to shake. She ignored it.
“I’m Smith,” he said.
“That’s not a name, it’s a job.”
“So it is,” he agreed. “But it’s what you can call me. Are you hungry?”
She was. She was also afraid now. It was too soon. Winny hadn’t told her they were there. And what about the tailor?
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m not staying. I’ve got to find someone. Thank you for the company,” she said to Winny. “I’ve got to go now.”
Winny stepped forward, put her hand on Tamrin’s shoulder.
“Please stay and eat. Stay for the night. We’ll pick up the trail tomorrow. I haven’t forgotten your tailor. I promise.”
“Tailors, is it?” said Smith. “I can tell you a thing or two about tailors. Come on.”
He seized Tamrin’s hand and led her inside the house.
There were three places set at a table in the kitchen and the appetizing aroma of something roasting. Tamrin discovered she was very hungry and her legs ached. Even the little she had pushed the cart was more than she was used to.
The only two kitchens she had ever known were Vengeabil’s lair and the high, arched space of the college kitchen. This was like neither. It was smaller than Vengeabil’s. And where his was kitchen, study, dining room and workshop all in one, this was just a place to cook and eat.
None the worse for that, though. Tamrin looked at it and approved. There was no nonsense here. Everything was useful. She didn’t have to steer her way past an experiment or a pile of books. She could sit down at the table without having to check that the chair was clear first. So she did.
“You must be starving,” said Winny. She poured Tamrin a beaker of cordial and put it in front of her.
“Elderflower and rosehip,” she said.
Smith dipped a ladle into a bowl of hot fat and meat juices and poured it over the chicken that was roasting on a spit over the fire.
Fresh bread, crusty and brown, a dish of butter, peas and sliced runner beans, a jug of gravy, and finally the chicken, glistening and golden, were set in front of Tamrin. Winny refilled her glass, Smith carved the bird and they fell to eating and talking as though they had known each other for years.
Tamrin didn’t forget the tailor, but her first mouthful of the soft, moist chicken persuaded her that she could afford to wait until tomorrow to follow him. His trail would still be clear. And that reminded her.
“What were you going to tell me about tailors?” she asked Smith.
“Nothing.”
He forked another piece of chicken on to his plate.
“You said you were.”
“I said I could. I’m not going to.”
“Why not?”
“Not yet, anyway. I might one day.”
Winny frowned at her father.
“He’s like this,” she said. “Pay no attention to him.”
“What sort of wizard are you?” he asked Tamrin.
“Who says I’m a wizard?”
“You think I don’t know a wizard when I see one?”
He gave her a challenging look.
“How do you know?”
“Because,” he said, lowering his voice so that she had to strain to hear him, “because you haven’t done any magic.”
“If I wasn’t a wizard I couldn’t do any magic, so that doesn’t make sense,” she argued.
“Ah, but you could if you wanted. You chose not to. That’s the difference.”
Tamrin knew what was wrong with this argument. She just didn’t know where to begin to show it was wrong.
“Tell me,” said Smith. “Where did magic come from? At the beginning.”
Tamrin was becoming full. The chicken was so good that she didn’t want to stop eating it. She took a small slice, and a little more bread and some beans. It gave her time to think. She dipped the bread into the gravy and ate it.
“There are different stories,” she said, when she had swallowed the bread. “About where magic comes from.”
“Which one is best?”
“The mirror,” said Tamrin.
“How does that story go?” He sat back, comfortable from his meal, folded his arms and waited.
“I’m not allowed to tell you,” said Tamrin.
Winny started to clear the plates. Tamrin began to help her but Winny touched her hand and stopped her.
“You two need to talk,” she said.
“So you won’t tell?” asked Smith.
She shook her head.
“Why?”
“If I know it, then it’s wizard stuff and not for the likes of you,” said Tamrin.
She thought that Smith was going to hit her. His face twisted and he clenched his huge fist. She flinched back.
“The likes of me!” he shouted. And he erupted into the longest, loudest, most violent laugh Tamrin had ever heard. By the time he was finished his cheeks were wet with tears. “Oh, Winny. Thank you for bringing Tam. I haven’t had so much fun in years. The likes of me?”
Tamrin felt very foolish and she didn’t know why.
“Because I’m just a man who makes horseshoes?” he said.
Tamrin looked away.
“Because I’m a man who stands at an anvil all day with a hammer in his hand? Is that it? The likes of me? Not like a clever college-educated wizard?”
“They’re not clever,” she said quickly.
He puffed out his cheeks.
“No, they’re not,” he said. “You got that right at least. Now, are you going to tell me the mirror story?”
“No.”
&n
bsp; “Is it the one where the king gets someone to make him a mirror of polished steel? The first real mirror ever made? Is that it? Where the king’s wife is expecting a baby and she’s the first person ever to see herself in a mirror? She stands in front of it and there are two of her. A queen and a reflected queen. She sees herself and faints. When the baby is born the next day, it’s laid in its cot. And the next time they look at it, there are two of them. Is that the story? What happened to the second baby?”
“It was taken to the forest and killed,” said Tamrin.
“Was it? Is that what the story said?”
“Yes.”
“And what happened to the mirror?”
“It was covered over so no one else could look at it. It was put away and never seen again. No one knows where it is.”
“But the magic had already spilled out,” said Smith.
“Yes.”
“Fancy,” he said. “The likes of me knowing a story like that. A working man with hard hands and strong arms.”
Tamrin didn’t like this. One moment Smith was a welcoming, friendly person, the next he was challenging her, laughing at her. And why had there been three places already set at the table when she arrived? She changed her mind about staying for the night.
“I think I’ll be going now,” she said. “Thank you for the food.”
She pushed her chair back and went to the door. It wouldn’t open. There was no bolt, no lock, just a light catch. She rattled it and tugged. The door wouldn’t move.
“Stay the night,” said Winny. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“No. I want to go.”
“It’s dark out,” said Smith. “You’ll get lost. It’s dangerous at night.”
Tamrin tested for a sealing spell on the door. She couldn’t find one. She made a spell of her own to spring it open. It stayed firmly shut.
“I can’t open the door,” she said.
Smith stood up and came towards her.
“Smiths make good locks,” he said. ||
Part Two
DOUBLEDRAGON
It was a Friday, one year save a day
since Flaxfield had died. They should have eaten trout but Sam couldn’t face it. He went down to the river to look at the fish, brown swirls in the water, heads to the current, tails rippling.
Starback nuzzled against his legs.
Sam let his fingers play with a thin leather cord round his neck, an odd-shaped weight hanging from it.
“I’ll make an omelette,” said Sam. “Let the trout swim in peace.”
He looked downriver, in the direction that Flaxfield’s body had floated off. Sam had cut the willow wands to plait the basket they had laid him in. His memory could smell the sweet herbs around the old wizard’s face.
“He shouldn’t have left us,” he said. “Not like that. Not yet. We weren’t ready.”
He climbed the path back to the house and found the kitchen empty. He poured water into a basin, washed his hands carefully and then his face. He was scrupulous in his determination to keep clean. He remembered last year, when he had discovered that other people found him dirty. Smelly.
Starback chased a bee around the kitchen. His claws clattered and scratched on the floor. The bee drifted higher, bumped on the ceiling. Starback sprang up, spread his wings and chased it round. Sam frowned and Starback swooped back to earth.
“Are you hungry?” asked Sam. “Of course I am,” he answered.
He fetched eggs from the pantry, and butter and cheese.
“No trout?”
Sam had not heard Flaxfold come in. She moved quietly.
“Do you mind?” he asked. “We can eat omelettes.”
Flaxfold pushed a strand of grey hair back from her face and tucked it into her scarf.
“Cheese in mine, please,” she said. “And I’ll cut some ham to go with it. Would you like some?”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll give it to Starback.”
She was old and stout, yet Sam had never heard her short of breath and she moved swiftly and lightly on small feet. The ham was a joint she had cured herself, hanging from a hook in the ceiling of the pantry. Her knife was sharp enough to cut thin slices like pages of a book.
Sam beat the eggs and dropped butter into the pan. It sizzled against the hot iron. He poured the beaten eggs in before the butter could burn and he moved it around with the back of a fork.
“There’s a Finishing tomorrow,” said Flaxfold. “Will you come with me?”
“Is it far?”
“We’ll need to set off before it’s light. But we’ll be home the same day.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
He slid her omelette on to her plate and scooped another gout of butter into the pan.
Flaxfold dropped some ham without looking. Starback swept past her and snapped at it, catching it before it hit the floor. She smiled and tossed him another piece. The rest she put on her plate.
“It’s a year today since Flaxfield died,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Though Friday seems the better day to remember.”
She touched his cheek.
“Did you think I’d forgotten?” she asked.
Sam was up before dawn, though the sun had begun to interrupt the darkness and the stars had gone.
He stood in the garden by the ash tree under the study window. He looked up at the slate-grey sky.
Another part of him soared overhead. Starback and Sam were one. Dragon and boy at one time. He was still not really used to it. No one had warned him that it would happen. He had thought he was ill. He was ill. He had thought he was dying. He was close to dying. He had looked through the door into the Finished World and had nearly stepped through it.
He hadn’t died. He had changed. Starback had changed. He was Sam and he was Starback. He could stand on the earth and he could fly overhead, both at the same time. He didn’t know how he did it. He didn’t know sometimes whether he was boy or dragon or both or neither.
He talked to Flaxfold about it. No one else. He tried to explain it to her. She never asked questions. She just listened.
“Breakfast?” she asked.
Sam turned and smiled.
“I never hear you coming,” he said.
“You’re always somewhere else. Are you hungry?”
The dragon landed close to her with a flourish and folded dry wings.
“You’re always hungry,” said Flaxfold. Starback nuzzled against her.
They ate in silence and Flaxfold packed more food for the journey.
“There’ll be food after the Finishing,” she said. “But it’s always sensible to take something just in case. It’s a long journey.”
It was a dead girl. She had drowned. Twelve years old. Short hair and strong face. When Sam saw her he thought it was Tamrin and he stepped back and looked away.
A second look told him that he’d been tricked by the size and likeness of the girl. And the suddenness. He hadn’t been expecting a young person. Most Finishings are for the old, though accidents and violence are everywhere and the young die, too.
He took control of himself and made preparations. While Flaxfold made ready to carry out the Finishing he assembled the herbs and flowers they had gathered on the journey. He examined the instruments the family had laid out ready for the ritual. They’d chosen a book, scuffed and worn, one that had been read by others before it came to her, and a bracelet made of small, square stones, multi-coloured and linked with silver, a cup, perhaps the special one that only she used. Sam picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Rough clay, with a band of glaze about the rim to please the lips, a simple line-drawn pattern round the side, impressed before firing.
“Are you ready?” asked Flaxfold.
It was a gentle rebuke to tell him to hurry up. She wouldn’t embarrass him in front of these strangers by telling him to get a move on.
He looked at them. Her family and neighbours, gathered to Finish her. He
nodded.
Flaxfold began the words. Sam handed her the herbs and instruments at the proper time. He ignored the tears, the silent grief, the set faces, the averted eyes. This would be done well and then they would go.
At the right moment he nodded to the group. It was not for him to choose. That was their part.
“Are you ready?” he asked. “It’s time.”
The girl’s father stepped from the others, holding the hand of a smaller girl, the little sister.
The father carried the book and the bracelet, the little girl brought the cup. They laid them by the body and the little girl said the words.
Sam felt proud of her. She kept her back straight, her voice steady, her eyes on her sister. She was nervous, of course, but she did it well, as well as anyone could. She would be a comfort to her family when they had gone.
As soon as the last words were said the door to the Finished World opened for the dead girl to go through. Only Sam and Flaxfold saw it. To the others it was like a slant of sunlight or the dazzle of glare from water. Flaxfold let go of the girl’s hand. She brushed away the lock of hair from her face, tucking it in. Sam felt the different air brush his cheek, saw the shimmer of light by the girl, heard the slightest murmur from the place beyond.
He stood between Flaxfold and the door. As the girl slipped through and disappeared the door shifted. The room tilted. People staggered and grabbed for something to hold on to. Like the deck of a ship in high seas the floor lifted to one side. Sam slipped and put his hands out for support, skittering towards the door.
“Sam,” Flaxfold called.
He turned his head and saw confusion on her face and something that in a less reliable person he would have thought was panic.
“Come back,” she shouted.
He leaned away from the door, knees bent. His flailing arms tried to restore his balance. One of them plunged into the space where the door still stood open. The others in the room saw only his right arm disappear as far as the elbow.
A hand seized his arm and drew him in. He pulled back. By pulling he helped the one the other side to step through.
A woman appeared in the doorway, slender and tall, face half-hidden, more than half, by the folds of a grey hooded gown.
