Of Mice and Magic

by David Farland

  And the mice were slow indeed. They had to stop to ponder every wonder—the cloud-colored throat of a morning glory flower, the sight of ducks flying in a V. They took baths in the warm rain and let themselves dry in the sun. They nibbled on nettles and feasted on peppermint and wild strawberries.

  In her spare time, Amber asked Bushmaster and Doonbarra all about bats and learned far too little. It seemed that they were much like mice, but that they flitted about at night, hunting mosquitoes and other gnats. But the most interesting thing that Amber learned was that they could not see well. In the daylight, the sun was too bright, and at night there was often no light. So they guided themselves by sound, emitting high shrieks and chitters, then listening to the tiny echoes.

  With such powerful ears, Amber thought, a bat should practically be able to hear you think.

  No wonder Nightwing had covered his ears when his minions had cheered during the battle.

  All during the day, Amber studied and thought and kept watch, worrying for the safety of her friends.

  That night, all twenty-seven mice, one vole, and one sugar glider found shelter in a hollow oak tree where they could sleep among the dry leaves. The clouds overhead drifted west and the moon came out, a bright silver ball, and there in the cavernous tree beneath the starlight, Doonbarra told scary stories about ravenous Tasmanian devils and the ghost of a raven that went about stealing the souls of mice to decorate its nest with, until all of them were so frightened that their whiskers stood on end. Then he lightened the mood by telling them a story about an echidna named Sucky Nose who—but the story got bogged down when the mice began asking what an echidna was. Doonbarra explained that an echidna was a small animal that looked like a hedgehog but that it laid eggs, had wicked spines all over its body, and had a long nose like a straw that it stuck in the ground to lick up ants. He explained that echidnas had poisonous spurs on their feet, and that once the babies hatched, they would simply latch onto their mother’s skin and begin sucking so hard that milk would come out right through the echidna’s hide.

  By then the mice all realized that Doonbarra had been lying to them all along with his strange tales of Tasmanian devils and spirit ravens, and now they were rolling on the ground, laughing as he invented the strange echidna.

  “But I’m tellin’ the truth,” Doonbarra shouted. “There really are echidnas!”

  “Yeah,” Bushmaster laughed. “And they live on the moon—with your mother!” All of the mice rolled on the ground and laughed at that.

  It was in the midst of this that Amber suddenly felt a chill rush over her. Shadows moved in the darkness, just outside the oak tree.

  She whirled and cried, “Watch out,” to the other mice.

  But in the frail moonglow, all that she saw were voles—a tribe of them, each carrying a needle, the silver starlight and moonlight gleaming from their small spears.

  “Hah!” one of them cried. “We sure scared you!”

  Amber gaped. She recognized that voice. It was Meadowsweet, one of the voles from behind Ben’s house.

  Amber found herself suddenly breathing easier.

  “You sure did scare me,” she laughed.

  The voles hopped up and peered into the hollow of the tree.

  “What are you doing?” Amber asked.

  “We came hunting for you,” Meadowsweet said.

  Bushmaster pounced forward, his helmet terrifying to behold, and studied his brothers and sisters. “You came all of this way?”

  “Sure,” Meadowsweet said. “We weren’t afraid.”

  Another vole chimed in. “We’ve got spears now! Other animals are afraid of us.”

  “Yeah,” Meadowsweet said. “We attacked Domino this morning and chased him around so much that he finally climbed a telephone pole and yowled his head off. Now, every cat for a mile around knows what to expect if they mess with us.”

  And so, laughing and joking, the voles entered the hollow of the oak and joined the party.

  Soon, Amber could hear them teaching their silly songs to the mice and laughing in the easy way that voles had, and Amber went alone out in the moonlight.

  She felt at peace for the first time today. If the voles really were putting the fear of small animals into the local cats, then she felt sure that the pet shop mice would make it home in relative safety.

  And even Doonbarra was there to protect them. The mice, tonight, were as safe as they could be.

  Amber went out from under the oak and peered up at the moon. It was silver, and the shadows on its face made it look as if something had been burrowing in it. The stars were glimmering gems.

  There, with the wind moving across the fields as quiet as a baby’s breath, Amber felt more at ease.

  Back in the hole, she could hear Meadowsweet talking loudly. “You haven’t heard of Windborne? Why, he’s only the most famous mouse that ever lived!”

  And suddenly the mice fell silent and listened expectantly as the young vole began telling the story of young Windborne, how a weasel had dug into Windborne’s home and tried to eat him and his younger brothers and sisters while his mother was out foraging.

  But the weasel was too large and got stuck in the narrow hole. Windborne had begun trying to throw up dirt in order to block the tunnel, digging so fast that the weasel, whose snout was only an inch from Windborne’s tail, suddenly began having a coughing fit. Wedged as he was between the rocks, the weasel couldn’t get a breath and finally suffocated. Thus began the legend of Windborne, who slew a deadly weasel while he was hardly more than a kitten himself, and who went on to become one of the great legends of mousedom.

  Amber listened and somehow felt uprooted. She’d lost much by being born in a cage. She didn’t even know her own history. Indeed, she’d never heard a single tale about mouse legends, and it made her wonder what kinds of stories others might tell about her someday.

  My story has just begun, she realized.

  And yet now she had to face Nightwing, and if things went ill, her story would end practically before it had begun.

  Amber noticed an old stump nearby, tall, its sides covered in moss, while bits of bark rose up like jagged teeth around its sides. Morning glory climbed around its sides, as pale and translucent as clouds in the moonlight.

  Wondering what the view from up there might look like, Amber hopped over to the stump, then climbed up the slick moss, finding fingerholds in the grooves of the bark.

  When she reached the top, Amber stared down in wonder. The stump was completely hollow inside, the bark covering it like a shell. Inside the hollow stump, a pool of glassy water had formed. And since the moon was shining straight from above, she could see its reflection and her reflection there in the pool. There was a tiny water plant there, a broad leaf floating.

  But it was Amber’s reflection that caught her attention. She had never seen herself before, except to catch a bit of her own distorted reflection in another mouse’s eyes. Now, she looked down and gasped.

  I am pretty, she realized. I’m very pretty.

  She turned this way and that, looking critically at her own tail, her shiny coat, the gleam of starlight in her eyes.

  Why didn’t Ben ever notice? she wondered.

  “It’s because you are a mouse,” she told herself. Of course, he had said that she was pretty just before she tried to turn him back into a human, but Amber assumed that he said it only to make her feel better.

  Everything was quiet, but suddenly in the distance, Amber heard a single cricket raise its voice in song.

  Amber wondered where Ben might be.

  “Ah, there you are,” someone said. It was an old woman’s voice, scratchy and full of hisses. Amber started so hard that she nearly fell down into the water.

  She whirled and saw a small mouselike creature clinging to the lip of the stump. It was dark in color, almost as black as night, and had a long pointy nose and a very short tail.

  “I’ve come a long way to see you,” the creature said. “Rode a turtle
over the Rockies and almost had you when a lightning bolt lit on him and we crashed.”

  “You’ve come to see me?”

  “And got here just in the nick of time, it seems,” the creature said. “My name is Blackpool. Lady Blackpool, and I was sent here by the good Rufus Flycatcher, the High Mage of SWARM. There is a place for you there, if you would like to go—a place where you can study the magical arts and master them, as is your destiny.”

  “I don’t understand,” Amber said. “I don’t know a thing about magic.”

  “All wise folk were born ignorant,” Lady Blackpool said. “Now, listen up. I’ve seen in a vision that you must take a long trip this night and must fight a great battle at dawn. But there are some things that you need to know.”

  She came and sat down next to Amber and peered into the dark water, gazing at their reflection.

  “The first thing that you need to know is this: magic is everywhere.”

  Amber followed Lady Blackpool’s gaze out across the fields. Rye grass and oats shot up everywhere, along with tangled vines and wildflowers. Here and there, wild Indian tobacco and ferns towered above the grasses. From this height, Amber could even see a forest rising over the hills and the millpond surrounded by cattail rushes.

  “See that?” Lady Blackpool said. “There’s life everywhere, everywhere that you look. Some places have more life—huge trees rising up in forests, deep roots under the soil. Some places have less life—desert sands where nothing can grow. Magic is that way too. It’s everywhere. A bit here, a bit there. Some places have almost no magic at all, and in some places, the magic is as thick as a forest. We can’t see it, can’t taste it. But sometimes . . . sometimes you can feel it.”

  Amber pondered this for a long moment. “But, if the magic is everywhere, then that means that I should always have some magic power, right?”

  “Almost always,” Lady Blackpool said. “All that you have to do is find a place where magic is strong and let it cling to you.”

  “But how will I know when I’ve found one?”

  Lady Blackpool peered far away. “There are places in this world,” she said, “where the magic is thick in the air. Sometimes, when you’re in one of those places, your mind might be racing so fast that you don’t even notice. But if you slow down and listen . . .”

  Amber thought for a long moment. Had she ever been to such a place?

  She wasn’t sure.

  “So,” Amber said, “all that I really need to do to gain some power is to find a magic place? And so . . . if I travel far enough, I should stumble on one, right?”

  “That’s the long and short of it,” Lady Blackpool said. “Most of us wizards are always traveling, always looking for a little patch of magic to keep us going. We’re a lean bunch, haggard, but smart. Kind of pathetic. But some of us settle down. You’re a lucky one, to have a nice powerful familiar like Ben. Someday you’ll be able to just settle down and let the magic flow to you.”

  Amber shivered to think of what a treasure she had lost in Ben, and she looked at this strange little dark ball of fur and wondered what kind of creature it was. Not a mouse, not a vole. It almost looked like a mouse that had been badly mangled, and Amber didn’t dare say anything, lest the old wizardess get embarrassed.

  “Once you find a little magic spot,” Lady Blackpool said, “you have to conserve your power. Using magic takes energy. Using big magic takes a lot of energy. When you turned Ben into a mouse, you used more energy than most mages would in a lifetime.”

  “Really?” Amber asked.

  “That’s right. So, for example, if you wanted to eat a blueberry, you could make one pop out of thin air. But that would take a lot of energy. Instead, you might simply wish that you knew where to find a blueberry—or maybe you might wish to find any food at all. For you see, knowledge comes easy. It doesn’t take much energy to change your mind.”

  Lady Blackpool fell silent.

  As Amber stood peering into the water, she suddenly realized that she had been lost in a daydream for some time. The air around her seemed unnaturally still and silent, and with a profound sense of wonder, Amber realized that this was a magic place.

  Perhaps I should go swimming in the pool, Amber thought. That way the magic will rub off on me.

  But even as she thought it, a huge shadow fell over her, and the light in the pool winked out.

  “Owl,” Amber cried. She looked up, just in time to see a huge owl swooping down on her, its eyes flashing golden in the moonlight. Its enormous wings spread out, casting a shadow that covered the world. It was ready to take her in its talons.

  Amber raised her needle, ready to defend herself, and just as quickly, she realized what she had to do.

  “Carry me to Nightwing’s cave,” she commanded, letting the force of her wish bind the owl into her service.

  The owl grabbed her in its talons, and for half a moment, Amber feared that it would crush her. But instead it only gripped her lightly and then pounded its wings as it thundered up into the stars.

  From down below, Lady Blackpool shouted, “Good-bye, Amber. Fight wisely! I’d come with you, but I’m too tired to go off and fight an army tonight.”

  Amber glanced down to see the strange little creature sitting there on the log at the side of the pool.

  In seconds, Amber was airborne, and she realized that she wasn’t going to die.

  She looked down and saw the great oak tree spreading above the fields. From up high, everything looked brighter than it had below. The stars lit the skies above, and the moon lit the silver fields below. Amber watched the oak tree. The mice inside were safe, Amber felt certain. They had the voles with their spears, and now they had Lady Blackpool to guard them too.

  So she merely rested, clutching her spear, thinking about what lay ahead as the owl soared high, taking her above the silver clouds where the sky was full of wind and falling stars.

  Chapter 18

  A TICK WELL FED

  Food may give life, but it is hope and love that give meaning to our lives.

  —RUFUS FLYCATCHER

  Ben faded out of consciousness, growing ever weaker. The hunger was numbing.

  AS THE MOON SAILED through the sky, Nightwing’s minions searched abroad, bringing creatures in from the forest so that Nightwing could expand his army.

  Several times during the night, Ben was awakened as eagles were brought, beaks bound tightly with ropes braided from sharp-thorned blackberry vines. Snakes were dragged in, hissing and rattling.

  And each time a pair was found, Nightwing would immediately mush the two together, forming a new monster to the gleeful howls and yammers of his minions.

  Ben climbed on Nightwing’s belly and just squatted, his eight legs hooked into the bat’s fur, and dropped in and out of consciousness during the night.

  He was too tired to stay awake and too tormented to sleep.

  In his dreams, Ben sat as a mute witness to the sight of death, the sounds of battle, the cries of torment. When he woke, it was even worse, for the odor of blood and gore saturated the cave. And though the scent nauseated Ben, the smell of blood also aroused him.

  A tick knows the smell of food. Ben fought the craving. But the worst part was that he felt sure that if he remained a tick for long, his hunger would get the better of him, and he would feast upon Nightwing’s blood.

  Sort of like a vampire in reverse, he thought.

  Ben faded out of consciousness, growing ever weaker. The hunger was numbing, driving all reason from his mind.

  I can’t go on living like this, Ben realized. It would be better to die than to live with this hunger.

  And with that realization, a plan began to take form in his mind.

  Without me, Nightwing would be weakened, Ben realized. He wouldn’t be able to carry out his stupid war. He wouldn’t be able to mush helpless animals, turning them into monsters.

  All that I have to do is run away.

  But what then? Ben wondered.

&n
bsp; I could sneak out of here at dawn, after everyone has gone to bed, and go back to Amber. Maybe, if I’m lucky, she’ll turn me back into a mouse.

  Ben realized that it would be a long trip. He was at the coast, some sixty miles or more from his home. Walking home as a human would have been a huge job, but trying to do it as a tick, a tick who hadn’t even figured out how to use all eight legs?

  It was hopeless.

  I’ll never make it, Ben realized. I’ll die long before I reach home.

  And then with finality, he realized, And I don’t really care. I’d rather be dead than a tick well fed.

  * * *

  The owl needed to rest that night. Climbing high in the thin air to skirt over the mountaintops was a tough job, even for a gnarly, old owl.

  And so it was near dawn when the great horned owl glided down over the dark pine forests toward the gray ocean. It skirted just above the treetops as it headed toward the strange lighthouse atop Shrew Hill. Ahead, gnarled little leafless trees raised their branches as if in despair, and Amber could see hot water creating a fog that flowed through the woods, hiding them.

  “Shrew Hill,” the owl said as they approached. “I see guardians about, monsters in the wood. But the defenses are built for a large-scale assault. A single mouse, approaching warily, might get through.”

  Amber had been thinking all night. She didn’t know how much magic power she had left. For all that she knew, she’d used it all just to hijack the owl.

  So she didn’t want to confront Nightwing. No, she’d have to sneak in, find Ben, and then carry him back out.

  If Nightwing slept during the day, then Amber imagined that it would be safest to wait until well after dawn.

  So when the owl dropped her at the edge of the strange woods, Amber thanked him and set him free. The sun was just rising, and as the owl took off and beat his mighty feathers, soaring over the haunted wood, Amber heard the cries of beasts as they shouted warning, “Intruder! There’s an owl loose!”