The Magician's Tower

by Shawn Thomas Odyssey

  Oona hooked the pendulum onto the clocks, one after the other, moving relentlessly down the bookshelf along the third level. She could hear Roderick doing the same on the second floor below, and, with a feeling of sinking dread, Oona understood that it was now simply down to luck just as much as it was to how fast they could move.

  Several minutes later, Oona was nearly done with the entire bookshelf she had started with, getting ready to begin the next one, when she placed the pendulum in the last clock on the bottom shelf.

  The bell rang overhead and a second later she heard a click. She looked up just in time to find an entire bucket of water spill out of a hidden hatch and drench her from head to foot in icy cold water. Oona gasped for air, the chill biting into her skin as her dress absorbed the liquid like a sponge.

  She blinked the water from her eyes, quickly rung out the bottom of her dress, and then moved on. It was just as she reached for the next clock that a bell rang out. Oona’s heart skipped several beats, but it was Roderick who cried out in surprise. Oona spun around, only to discover Roderick hanging upside down, his ankles cinched together by a rope. Several seconds later the rope released him and he hit the ground hard enough to echo across the room.

  As Roderick staggered back to his feet, Oona had another realization. It concerned the bell that rang every time a trap was sprung. Each time the bell rang, there was a brief period of time before the trap was actually activated.

  She had a hunch that if she was quick enough, then she could potentially avoid any future traps if, instead of just waiting for the trap to do its darndest to her, she instead listened intently for the bell. The instant she heard it, she would jump out of the way. This, she decided, was a solid plan and worth a try.

  With a feeling of jittery anticipation in her stomach, she placed the pendulum on the next hook. Nothing happened. Nothing happened on the clock after that either, nor the next. By the time she was through with half of the new bookshelf, she felt as if her nerves were on fire. More than once she thought she heard the beginning sounds of the bell and started to jump, only to realize she had simply imagined it.

  It wasn’t until the second to the last shelf that she was able to test her theory. Placing the pendulum on the middle clock—a heavy, baroque-style timepiece with ornate, gold-leaf designs—Oona heard the bell strike overhead and immediately jumped to one side. In almost the same instant, a hidden hatch popped open in the floor, revealing the very top of a slide—a slide that seemed to have popped out from beneath the balcony—that extended all the way to the bottom floor. Oona exhaled through pinched lips. She had just saved herself the trouble of having to climb all the way back up to the third floor.

  She nodded decidedly, feeling quite relieved, as well as impressed with herself for having discovered the trick. She now had her strategy.

  An hour later, Oona finished with the third floor, having avoided two boxing gloves on springs, three trapdoors, and a canister of glue and feathers, which, like the bucket of water, had spilled down from a compartment hidden in the balcony overhead.

  Meanwhile, from the sound of it, Roderick had taken quite a beating down below. She was even beginning to feel somewhat sorry for him as she climbed the ladder to the fourth level, when, all of the sudden, a huge gong sound rang out from above.

  “I got it!” Roderick shouted, and Oona’s heart sank. Roderick had found one of the working clocks. That was it. It was all over. Roderick would be the next to reach the door, and Oona would be out of the contest completely.

  She leaned over the rail on the fourth-floor balcony and peered down. Roderick had his key in hand and was beginning to climb the ladder. He looked horrible, drenched in water, one half of his jacket covered in a thick substance that Oona could only assume was glue, and a scattering of feathers sticking to the glue on his jacket and to the top of his head.

  Oona turned from the railing, squeezing the palm-sized pendulum in her hand so hard that it hurt. She hated this feeling. Roderick was going to pass her up, just as Isadora had done, and there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it. She walked to the nearest bookcase and jammed the pendulum down on the hook so hard she was certain that the clock would break.

  The instant she slammed the pendulum into place another gong sounded overhead. A chill rolled down Oona’s back, not from the cold damp of her sopping wet dress, but from the sudden rush of excitement. The clock-face opened and out came a cuckoo bird, just as it had with Isadora’s clock, a note and key clasped in its beak.

  Oona didn’t hesitate. She snatched the key and leapt for the ladder, nearly colliding with Roderick. Her dress slapped him in the face as she scrambled up the ladder rungs. Roderick screamed like an animal, catching hold of her dress and yanking. Whether he had done it to catch his own balance, or out of spite, Oona didn’t know, but her hands slipped. She felt herself beginning to fall backward, her arms swirling out at her sides.

  Her foot jerked off its rung, kicking Roderick’s hand. His fingers released their grip and Oona fell forward, clasping the ladder with all her strength. Roderick slipped down two rungs before catching his own balance and once more beginning his assent.

  Oona climbed.

  Roderick was certainly a faster climber than she was, but there was no way for him to get past her. She reached the top balcony and heaved herself over the edge, looking quickly around for the exit. It seemed only a second had passed before Roderick was up as well. They both spotted the door at the same time, some ten yards away.

  Oona had just begun to sprint, an electric, tingly sensation coursing through her veins, when she felt a hand on her back. Roderick shoved her from behind and she went down, hitting the floor with a heavy, wet smack. A moment later he was vaulting over her, shouting wildly, but his foot caught on her skirt. He fell forward with a cry of panic and surprise, toppling head over heals to the floor.

  Oona didn’t wait to see what would happen next. She catapulted off the floor and hurdled over Roderick’s scrambling efforts to get back to his feet. She was past him in less than a second, her legs pumping furiously. Roderick cursed, rising hastily to his feet. He was just behind her, calling her this name and that, all semblance of chivalry gone.

  Oona paid no mind. She threw herself at the door, ramming her key into the lock and twisting in one fluid motion. At that moment nothing else existed, only the determination to get through that door first. To beat Roderick. To win. A second later and it was over.

  Oona flung open the door and was greeted by the grinning face of the architect. She almost couldn’t believe it.

  She had done it! She had beat Roderick Rutherford, and she was going to the final challenge against Isadora Iree.

  Her breath heaved in her chest, and a stitch ran down her side. Her hair was all in a tangle, and her wrist throbbed slightly from when she had taken her fall, yet Oona could neither remember ever seeing the sun shine so brightly, nor feeling such a sense of relief. It was a glorious day indeed.

  I’m guessing you’ve made it into the top two,” said the Wizard. He stood in the front yard, a pair of hedge clippers in hand. He was frowning at the rosebushes, as if unsure of what to do with them. Oona was surprised to find her uncle in the garden at all.

  The Pendulum House front yard had grown quite untidy over the years. Trees sagged from the weight of overgrown limbs, and knots of thorny vines snaked through the tall weeds like ground cover in a rain forest. Just getting from the front gate to the front porch had become an obstacle course, with thorny barbs catching hold of Oona’s dresses at every turn.

  “Hello, Uncle,” Oona said. “Samuligan mentioned that you were called upon to deal with another case of pixiewood poisoning this morning.”

  He nodded. “And let’s hope I’ve dealt with the last of it.”

  “To be sure. But this is the last place I’d expect to find you, Uncle. Why the sudden urge to garden?” Oona peered at the hedge clippers in his hand.

  The Wizard shrugged. “Oh, I suppose it had so
mething to do with seeing all of those branches and vines growing out of that cook’s head. I managed to cure him, of course. He’s already got his color back, and the branches have all but disappeared, but it just reminded me of what a sad state my own gardens were in.” He waved his hand about the yard. “Someone needs to tidy up this mess.”

  “You could have Samuligan do it,” Oona said. “He’s just parking the carriage now.”

  The Wizard shook his head. “Of course I can, but where is the challenge in that?” He took in her haggard, soaking-wet attire. “Speaking of a challenge …”

  Oona smiled at him. “Yes, Uncle. You guessed correctly. I am one of the top two. I have made it to the final challenge.”

  “Good for you,” he said, then, raising a finger to one of the closed rosebuds, he uttered: “Abra-ord-ion-all.”

  The rosebud opened, showing its gorgeous red petals as they danced in the subtle breeze.

  “Well done,” said Deacon from Oona’s shoulder.

  “Hmm,” Oona said. “That’s a new spell.”

  The Wizard raised his eyebrows. “Actually, it’s a very old spell. Quite obscure. In fact, it is one of the first nonconductor spells I ever learned.”

  “According to the Encyclopedia Arcanna,” Deacon suddenly proclaimed, “roughly eighty-three percent of all known magic requires the use of a conductor such as a wand or staff through which the magic can be focused and aimed.”

  Oona shrugged, as if it all made very little difference to her. Her mind was too exhausted to be overly awed by a simple magic spell. There were other ways of getting a rose to open after all, she thought, such as trimming the overgrowth so that it actually received an ample amount of sunlight—no magic required. Still, she did not wish to ruin the moment for her uncle.

  “My predecessor, Armand Flirtensnickle, taught it to me,” her uncle said thoughtfully, “though I haven’t used it in a very long time. Haven’t even thought of that spell for years. Nearly forgot it altogether. I must have thought it was an insignificant spell that was good for nothing more than opening and closing a flower. Yet now, I wonder.”

  Oona stared up at her uncle, her arms hanging heavy at her sides. She hoped this would not turn into a long-winded lesson. What she wanted more than anything was to go upstairs and rest. But her uncle continued to look thoughtful, and as his apprentice she knew it would be impolite to interrupt.

  The Wizard scratched at his bald head, the enormous structure of Pendulum House framing him from behind.

  Four stories tall, with its numerous, interlocking roofs and the prow of a full-sized ship jutting from the second floor, the house towered above them in all of its magical glory. Five stories overhead, the ironwork weathervane rocked slowly in the warm breeze, and as she peered up at the numerous windows and various architectural details, Oona got the feeling, as she often did, that the ancient house was listening in on their conversation.

  “I can remember Wizard Flirtensnickle teaching me that spell,” the Wizard continued in a far-off sort of voice, as if he were traveling back in time to when he had been an apprentice. “I can remember the words he used to teach me its significance. He said that there are times when we humans open like a flower, our petals reaching outward for the answers we seek.”

  The Wizard once again tapped the rose with his finger.

  “Orx-ord-ion-ah,” he uttered: the counterspell.

  The rose closed at once, its petals clamping shut so quickly that one of them detached, hovering briefly in the air before seesawing slowly to the ground.

  “But often,” he continued in that same thoughtful tone, “the answers that we are looking for are on the inside, and no reaching outward is necessary.”

  He fell silent, and began pruning the thorny vines. Oona shook her head, wondering what on earth her uncle had been going on about … looking outside and inside? It sounded like a lot of nonsense to Oona, and she wondered briefly if her uncle was feeling all right.

  Soreness and fatigue overtook her.

  “Well, I’m very tired, Uncle,” Oona said. “I think I’ll head up and get out of this wet dress. Take a nap.”

  The Wizard nodded, but he pulled back from his cutting before uttering to himself: “On the inside.” He peered attentively at the overgrown bushes like a sculptor contemplating a block of marble, and Oona made her escape.

  Several minutes later she was empting the contents of her pockets onto her dressing table before wrestling out of the waterlogged dress. She slipped back into her nightgown, despite the earliness of the afternoon, and before long she was curled up in her bed, sound asleep.

  Hours later, she awoke and peered blearily at the clock on the wall. It was nearly six o’clock.

  She jerked up in bed. “Deacon!”

  Her foot struck the book of faerie tales at her feet, sending it flying across the room. Deacon leapt into the air with a squawk of surprise.

  “What? What is it?” he asked.

  “You let me sleep the day away!”

  Deacon landed on the bedpost. “I thought you deserved it. After all, there was no take-home clue for you to concentrate on.”

  Oona jumped to her feet and marched to the wardrobe, flinging it open. “Yes, Deacon, that is true, but there is still a mystery to be solved.”

  Once dressed, she stooped to pick up the book of faerie tales from the floor. It was as she straightened with the open book in her hand that Oona felt her breath leave her body and not return for several long seconds.

  “What is it?” Deacon asked, instantly aware that something was not right.

  Oona stared at the open book, at the page before her. She shook her head, trying to take in its meaning.

  Deacon soared to her shoulder and peered down. There, on the left hand page, was the beginning of a story: an obscure faerie tale, according to the book’s title. Deacon made a gasping sound before reading the title of the story.

  “The Tale of the Punchbowl Oracle.”

  Oona said nothing, only continued to hold the book as she eased into her chair and began to read. Deacon read silently from her shoulder. Thirty minutes later Oona slammed the book shut and slapped it down on the dressing table, causing puffs of powder to plume up from an open canister.

  Oona and Deacon sat in silence, absorbing what they had just read. Her hopes drained from her like water through a hole in a bucket.

  Finally, Oona said: “The Punchbowl Oracle. It’s nothing but a faerie tale.”

  Deacon nodded gravely. “And even in the story, it is nothing but a fictional creation. That cunning old farmer made it up in order to distract the hero from his true quest.”

  Oona nodded absently, recalling how the story had spoken of a young prince on his way to rescue a fair maiden. Trapped in a treacherous dragon’s lair, the maiden would not have long to live, and so the prince raced to her aid. But the journey was long, and the night before he was to reach the dragon’s lair, he knew he would need to rest. Fortunately for the prince, he came across an old farmer who offered him a place to sleep. The prince accepted gratefully.

  That night over dinner, the farmer told the prince of his precious Punchbowl Oracle—a magical crystal bowl that could answer any question.

  Naturally, the prince, who wished to know if he was going to succeed in conquering the dragon the next day, asked the farmer if he could see the punchbowl. But when the old farmer went to retrieve the mystical object, he discovered it had been lost.

  “I must have left it somewhere on the farm,” said the farmer. “But my memory is not what it use to be. I don’t know where it is.”

  Since the farmer was old, and had bad knees, the prince offered to look for the bowl, partly because the old man seemed so upset about having lost it, and partly because the prince was nervous about fighting the dragon and wished to know the outcome ahead of time. For the next two days he searched the farm high and low, yet he found no sign of the bowl. Finally, on the third day, the prince decided that, bowl or no bowl, he had to be on hi
s way to save the maiden fair. The prince graciously bid the old man farewell and rode his armor-clad steed to the top of the mountain where the terrible dragon was known to dwell.

  “You have arrived too late.” The dragon laughed. “I have already eaten your precious lady. Had you not stayed so long with the old man, you might have saved her.”

  “How do you know about the old man?” asked the prince, horrified that he had arrived too late.

  “Because the old man is a friend of mine,” said the dragon. “There is no Punchbowl Oracle, you fool. It was just a lie to distract you from your quest. You silly princes … you fall for it every time.”

  The story had ended on a rather gruesome note, with the dragon gobbling up the bereft prince, and then flying to the old man’s house, where the two of them played a game of dominoes and laughed about the whole thing. Oona could see why it was such an obscure faerie tale. Who, besides that strange little Penelope Rutherford, would wish to hear such a dreary tale before bedtime?

  The popularity of the story, however, was presently the least of Oona’s worries. The realization that she had been fooled hit her hard, along with the understanding that if the gypsy woman had lied about the bowl, then it was likely she had lied about having the so-called “sight.” Her hint that Oona was not responsible for the burden she held was nothing more than a faerie tale in and of itself.

  Oona was enraged.

  “We must find Madame Romania from Romania at once!” she said vehemently. She was on her feet and reaching for the door. “We need to find out why she made up this business with the punchbowl.”

  Deacon ruffled his feathers. “We do indeed.”

  Madame Romania from Romania did not answer her door. Oona knocked several more times on the back of the caravan, but to no avail. The shadows from the trees stretched out like groping hands in the failing light.