The Magician's Tower

by Shawn Thomas Odyssey

  And then Oona’s breath caught in her throat as she remembered the words.

  “Of course you will win, darling,” her mother had said. “I have the utmost confidence.”

  And now here Oona was, five years later, getting ready to enter the contest. She wished that her parents could be there to see it. She wanted so badly to make them proud.

  “On second thought,” she said, turning to Samuligan, “Uncle Alexander is right. Breakfast is exactly what I need. Pancakes please, Samuligan. With lots of butter, and strawberries!”

  Oona was astounded. It appeared that nearly all of Dark Street had turned out to either participate in or watch the contest. From the enormous fountain in the shape of Oswald the Great at the gate entrance, to the soaring red brick wall at the far end, Oswald Park was jam-packed with people of all shapes and sizes. On the other side of that brick wall, Oona knew, was nothing at all—a vast emptiness known as the Drift, where Dark Street swung around and around like an enormous clock hand, coming to rest only once a day, at exactly midnight, when the Iron Gates at the north end of the street opened for one minute upon New York City before closing again and moving on.

  Nearly thirteen miles long, Dark Street was home to thousands. Considering that the contest took place only once every five years, it should have been no surprise to Oona that so many people had shown up, yet she could scarcely remember having seen so many of the street’s citizens in one place at one time.

  It took her longer than she would have liked to make her way to the front of the stage at the base of the crooked tower.

  If she had thought that the daylight might have added a tinge of beauty to the monstrosity of a building, she was sorely mistaken. Every rickety curve, kink, and wobbly defect revealed itself in the bright light of day. Oona was forced to crane her neck to see the mysterious pyramid at the top of the tower, where it rocked precariously against the purplish-blue sky. Her stomach turned at the thought of going up there.

  With Deacon resting on her shoulder, Oona had only just reached the front of the stage, having forced her way between two overly dressed women, when a high-pitched girly voice grated in Oona’s ears.

  “Read me a story from my storybook, Daddy!” the voice whined, and Oona could feel Deacon’s claws tighten on her shoulder at the sound of it.

  Sir Baltimore Rutherford leaned casually against the front of the stage, his young daughter Penelope sitting on the edge beside him. With her scarlet hair pulled back in tight pigtails, and her electric-blue dress puffing out around her like a bell, she looked a bit like a large rag doll, one that had been magically brought to life. She waved a storybook in her father’s face.

  “Not now, Penelope, dear,” said Sir Baltimore. “The contest is about to start. We’re here to support your brother.”

  “But I want to hear the story of the evil chipmunks and the wicked farmer!” Penelope chided.

  “I told you, Penny,” Sir Baltimore said, “we’re here to watch Roderick.” Then, as if speaking more to himself, he added: “And he’d better win … or else …”

  But Sir Baltimore did not finish his thought out loud, having suddenly noticed Oona. He tipped his hat. “Ah, Miss Crate. See, Penny. Here is Roderick’s most dangerous competition … that is, if she is at all like her father.”

  He laughed idly, but Oona detected a note of seriousness to his tone.

  “Hello, Sir Baltimore,” she said politely.

  Roderick appeared quite suddenly at his father’s side, with Isadora Iree in hand, the two of them looking striking as usual. And then Oona’s heart fumbled in her chest. Adler Iree stepped through the crowd and tipped his hat.

  “Sorry I missed you last night, Miss Crate,” he said in his thick Irish accent.

  Oona nodded, displaying what she hoped was the socially acceptable amount of a smile, though she felt like beaming at him. With his scruffy old top hat resting cockeyed on his head, he gave Oona a roguish wink. Oona felt a fluttering in her stomach, and her cheeks grew warm.

  “Did you meet my BOYFRIEND?” Isadora asked Oona before she could reply to Adler.

  Oona suppressed a smile. “I believe you introduced us last night. Are you all participating in the competition?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Isadora. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I suppose you are entering as well?”

  Oona nodded. “I am.”

  Isadora stepped closer and crossed her arms. “Of course, you’ll have the advantage with all of that magic stuff you know.”

  Oona peered up at Isadora, who stood several inches taller, despite the fact that Isadora was less than six months older. Oona knew by Isadora’s tone that she was getting at something. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Oona asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Isadora. She narrowed one eye, inspecting Oona from head to foot. “I’m just saying that, well, if you were forced to play by the same rules as the rest of us, without magic, you probably wouldn’t even make it past the first set of challenges.”

  “Oh, dear, don’t fall for that,” Deacon whispered in Oona’s ear. “There are no rules against using magic in the contest. Any advantage you have is fair game.”

  But Oona wasn’t listening. She pointed her chin like a spear at Isadora. “Is that a challenge?”

  Deacon groaned.

  “It is whatever you make of it,” Isadora replied.

  Oona’s face grew warm. She had fallen for a challenge of Isadora’s once before, when the insufferable girl had dared Oona to find Madame Iree’s missing dresses before the Midnight Masquerade … and in the end, Oona had come out the winner. But this was different. Here, Oona had the clear advantage of using magic to overcome whatever obstacles lay within the Magician’s Tower. Her magical abilities would come in quite handy … but it irritated her to think that Isadora believed Oona needed magic to win. The truth was, Oona nearly always found nonmagical solutions to be preferable to magic anyway, and she quickly decided she would have none of it.

  “Fine,” she said. “I won’t use any magic at all during the contest, and then we shall see who is the better.”

  Isadora grinned like a fox. “We shall.”

  Oona felt a lead weight drop into her stomach, realizing too late that she had done exactly what Isadora had wanted.

  “Attention!” called a voice. “The contest is about to begin. May I have your attention, please?”

  “That was unwise,” Deacon whispered in Oona’s ear.

  “Oh, hush,” Oona said, feeling foolish enough as it was.

  The architect took to center stage and spoke through an enormous cone that amplified his voice. The crowd hushed. “The first four contestants to make it through both of today’s challenges will continue on to tomorrow’s challenge,” he announced. “Good luck to you all.”

  Then came a pause in which Oona could feel Deacon’s claws grip at her shoulder. The pause turned into an even longer silence, and then a clock tower chimed in the distance, twelve strokes marking the hour.

  “The first clue can be found on the flyer announcing the tower contest!” the architect said through the cone. He adjusted the ridiculously tall hat on his head, adding: “That is all.”

  He set the cone on the stage before plopping down in a chair, where he crossed his legs, unfolded a newspaper, and began to read as if he were sitting idly in his own living room instead of in front of hundreds of eager eyes.

  And then there was pandemonium. Like an explosion, the crowd began to force its way toward the park entrance, participants and spectators alike attempting to get to one of the flyers that had been hung all over the street.

  There must have been hundreds of flyers, Oona realized: red-colored pieces of paper, each announcing the opening of the Magician’s Tower Contest. She remembered seeing them plastered all over town, in shop windows, on lampposts, the closest of which was … where?

  She looked around, certain there must have been some flyers posted in the park itself, but surprisingly, there were none to be seen. />
  Of course, she thought, the architect wouldn’t have made it that easy.

  “Shall I fly off and get you a flyer?” Deacon offered.

  Oona opened her mouth, on the verge of telling him to hop to it, when she suddenly remembered something that made her arms prickle with excitement.

  “The gypsy caravan!” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Deacon.

  Oona did not answer. She remembered seeing one of the contest flyers hanging from the gypsy’s back door only the night before. She whirled around. The caravan was still parked near the far end of the stage, which was quite convenient, seeing as the sea of slowly moving people was heading in the opposite direction.

  Oona raced toward the caravan. She circled around the wagon, and there it was: the flyer she had seen the night before. She tugged it from its tack and hurriedly read.

  TAKE THE ULTIMATE CHALLENGE.

  BE THE ULTIMATE HERO.

  IT’S THE MAGICIAN’S TOWER CONTEST.

  TOUR THE DEPTHS OF THE MIND.

  OVERCOME PHYSICAL TASKS AT RISK OF LIFE AND LIMB.

  MUST BE AT LEAST THIRTEEN YEARS OLD TO ENTER THE TOWER.

  WINNER RECEIVES A PLAQUE AT THE MUSEUM

  (COURTESY OF MCMILLAN’S TROPHY SHOP)

  AND WILL GO DOWN IN MAGICAL HISTORY.

  The rest of the flyer appeared to be nothing more than an artistic sketch of the tower itself.

  “Do you see a clue anywhere?” Deacon asked.

  “I’m looking for it, Deacon,” Oona said irritably. She removed a small magnifying glass from her dress pocket and began moving it steadily along the illustration. The magnifying glass, which was gold plated around the rim, with a well-worn wooden handle, had been her father’s very own glass—and, according to Oona’s uncle, her father had been the best head inspector the Dark Street Police Department had ever known.

  Indeed, the magnifying glass was so special to Oona that she often felt like she was seeing through her father’s eyes when she used it to look for clues. Sometimes she got the feeling that he was there beside her, urging her on, forcing her to see what was really in front of her and not just what appeared to be there.

  Presently, she peered through the glass at the flyer. It took no more than several seconds to find the hidden clue.

  “Aha!” She pointed at a set of numbers that had been cleverly disguised along the edge of the illustration of the tower. “Look, Deacon, do you see? The numbers.”

  Once her eyes made them out, the magnifying glass became unnecessary to read them.

  “I do indeed,” Deacon said. “But what do they mean?”

  Oona stared hard at the numbers. Running down the side of the tower illustration, from top to bottom, they read: 67, 2, 7, 10, 4, 1, 3, 2, 1.

  “A strange bunch of numbers,” Deacon observed.

  “Strange in what way?” Oona asked.

  “Well, I see no immediate pattern,” he said. “Except for the ‘three, two, one’ at the end.”

  “The end, Deacon?” Oona asked. “And why are you assuming that the numbers run from top to bottom?”

  “Well, it only seems natural to read them from the top of the page down.”

  Oona considered this. While what Deacon had said made sense, Oona couldn’t help but feel as if there was something a little too obvious about it. It was a feeling she had, an intuition that she should look for some other logical way to read the numbers. A moment later, she had it. She felt a surge of excitement, and more than a pinch of pride at having figured it out so quickly.

  “Reading the numbers top to bottom would be natural, yes,” she said. “And yet, look where the numbers are, Deacon. What are the numbers supposed to be in the illustration?”

  Deacon leaned closer, cocking his head to one side. “I don’t follow you. They simply look as if they are part of the tower.”

  Oona nodded. “Yes, Deacon. And it is my experience that the numbers in buildings run from the first floor, at the bottom, and go upward in sequence.”

  “Ah, I see your point,” he said. “The numbers could easily be read from bottom to top. One, two, three, one, four, ten, seven, two, sixty-seven.”

  Oona stared up at the tower. She saw no indication of numbers anywhere.

  “Perhaps they are referring to the different floors of the tower,” Deacon said.

  Oona considered this, but shook her head. “No. The tower is tall, but nowhere near sixty-seven stories.”

  Deacon continued to stare up at the tower as Oona peered at the illustration. She read through the words of the announcement again, then returned to the numbers. The answer was in there somewhere.

  An idea came to her. She counted the sentences in the announcement.

  “Look, Deacon,” she said, holding the paper up. She flicked at it with her finger. “See this? See how the announcement is written in lines, like a poem? Each sentence, or part of a sentence, is given its own line.”

  “I do,” said Deacon. He hopped eagerly from one claw to the other.

  “There are nine lines,” she said, and then ran her finger along the illustration of the tower. “And here we have nine numbers.”

  “Indeed,” Deacon said.

  Oona felt a slight tingling sensation just behind her eyes as she ran her finger up the row of numbers, and then back down the rows of sentences. She knew she was onto something.

  “I’ll bet that these nine numbers refer to the words in these nine sentences,” she said.

  Deacon began to shake his head, seeing the flaw in her theory. “But what about the number sixty-seven? None of the sentences have sixty-seven words.”

  “That is true,” Oona consented, “but I think I have that figured out as well.” She returned the magnifying glass to her pocket, and, after fishing around for a few seconds, pulled out a pencil. “Look here. If we go from the bottom floor of the building to the top, the first number is one.”

  Oona circled the word Take, which was the first word in the first sentence: Take the ultimate challenge.

  She then circled the second word in the second sentence: Be the ultimate hero.

  “Take the,” Deacon said.

  Oona circled the third word in the next sentence: It’s the Magician’s Tower Contest.

  She studied the numbers again. 1, 2, 3, 1, 4, 10, 7, 2, 67.

  “Here is where the pattern changes,” she said, and pointed to the forth number in the sequence: number one again. She circled the first word in the forth line: Tour the depths of the mind.

  “Take the Magician’s Tour,” Deacon said, reading the circled words aloud. “What is that?”

  “I believe we’re about to find out,” Oona said, and, following the sequence of numbers, she quickly circled the fourth word in the line that read: Overcome physical tasks at risk of life and limb—and the tenth word in: Must be at least thirteen years old to enter the tower.

  After circling the seventh word in: Winner receives a plaque at the museum—and the second word in: (courtesy of McMillan’s trophy shop)—Oona understood the clue perfectly. And she also realized that her original theory about the last line had been right.

  “You were correct, Deacon,” Oona said, pointing at the final line with her pencil. “There are not more than sixty-seven letters in the final line, which reads: ‘And will go down in magical history.’ ” She circled the last two words in the sentence. “But there are words six and seven.” Beaming at the paper she added: “What say you, Deacon?”

  Deacon read: “Take the Magician’s Tour at the Museum of Magical History.” He paused a moment to consider the clue before exclaiming: “Well done!”

  “And now,” Oona said, “we know our next destination.”

  Glancing around, Oona noticed that—with the exception of the architect himself, who sat calmly on the stage reading his newspaper—she was the only person left in the park. A light breeze wound its way through the trees all around her, causing the bells hanging from the gypsy caravan to tinkle playfully against t
he side of the wagon.

  Oona walked toward the caravan, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Where are you going?” Deacon asked. “The museum is in the opposite direction.”

  Oona felt a tug of anxiety, but couldn’t seem to help herself. Now that there was no one around, it seemed a perfect time to do a little snooping … to see if the Punchbowl Oracle thief might have left behind some clue.

  “It’s all right, Deacon” Oona said. “I’ve no doubt solved the first clue before anyone else. I’m sure there’s time.”

  Deacon squawked. “Don’t be so sure. There are some mighty smart people competing against you.”

  His tone was harsh, and Oona felt sure that she deserved it. She knew how arrogant her statement must have sounded, but still, Deacon wouldn’t have understood her real purpose for wanting to find the thief. He had no idea how terrible it had been for her to lose her mother and sister, and then to be forced to live with the knowledge that it had been her fault.

  But what if what Madame Romania from Romania had hinted at was true? she wondered. What if the burden was not hers after all? Oona could not fathom how that could be, but if the punchbowl could show her …

  “I’m just going to take a few moments,” she said, searching the ground as she circled the wagon, “to see if there are any clues.”

  Deacon shifted restlessly on her shoulder. “This is ridiculous. We are wasting time!”

  “Wasting time?” Oona snapped, but then bit her tongue.

  “Dear me,” Deacon said. He fluttered away from Oona to the ground.

  Oona was silent as she scanned the ground, feeling both guilty for having spoken so sharply at Deacon—who she knew had only her best interests in mind—and frustration at finding nothing. At last she straightened, shaking her head.