The Young Magician tlt-1

by Michael Foster

  ‘Do you make a lot of money?’ Samuel asked as the tall, dark fellow began counting all the coins from his hat.

  Again, the man laughed and now bent over to roll up his little rug. ‘Very little, actually, but just enough to make it worthwhile. Just be sure not to try my tricks,’ he told them with a warning finger and a stern eye. ‘I learned everything I know over many years. It takes much practice and doing anything with knives can be very dangerous, especially in little hands.’

  ‘What happened to your skin?’ Tom asked, scratching his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Why are you so brown?’

  At this, the strange man squinted one eye shut and opened the other wide, eye-balling Tom closely, as if in fascination. ‘Why are you so pasty and pale?’

  Samuel was a little worried by the remark, but Tom only giggled at the man’s exaggerated expression.

  ‘How do you throw those balls?’ Tom asked enthusiastically. ‘Can you teach us?’

  ‘Questions! Questions! Children are ever full of questions!’ the man complained, but it was all in jest. ‘Start with one ball and practise every day until you can do two, or three, or five or six or seven. All good things always begin very small. Now, I’m sorry, I must go, children! I’ve no chance to show you more tricks today. Be good for your mothers!’

  With that, he turned and strode into the inn with his sparkling surrounds vanishing after him. Samuel was still standing in awe, when he heard Tom gulp. It was only a moment’s warning and Samuel had no time to move before a firm hand had snatched his ear and had it stinging with pain.

  ‘Samuel!’ his mother growled and began to drag him back up the street by his ear. ‘How many times have I told you not to go running off?’

  The whole way home, she did not say a word. She was obviously very angry with him and so Samuel did not say anything in return. They both merely sat in silence as Aaron drew them home.

  Samuel addressed the task of chopping wood with a certain lack of vigour. He had been chopping for some time and there was not much kindling to show for his efforts. Father and his brothers did it much better, so why couldn’t they come and do it? It wasn’t his fault Tom had convinced him to go and see the strange man. He raised the small hatchet once more and let it drop, its head stuck part-way into the thick branch.

  Father came striding down from the orchards with a spade over one shoulder and he shook his head when he saw Samuel’s efforts.

  ‘You should listen to your mother,’ he said, squatting beside his son. The usual healthy shine around his back was strange. It looked different. ‘She only wants the best for you,’ Father continued, heedless of his son’s examinations.

  ‘Did you hurt your back?’ Samuel asked.

  ‘I hurt it badly a long time ago and it sometimes gives me trouble, today more than usual. Does it look hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Samuel replied. ‘But not too bad. Not as bad as Jason was.’

  His father laughed. ‘That’s good, because Jason was very sick, indeed, but now I think he’s almost better.’

  Samuel nodded in agreement.

  Father smiled and stood and then gave Samuel a firm pat on the shoulder. He lifted his spade back onto his shoulder and continued past the house towards the river, rubbing his back absent-mindedly with one hand. Before his father had even disappeared, Samuel decided his tiny pile of kindling was quite sufficient for his mother’s needs and wandered off to play amid the apple trees in the warm afternoon sun.

  The next day, Jason finally rose from his bed for the first time in several days. Despite his weakness, he insisted on accompanying Father into the orchards to help and Mother had finally agreed after he had promised not to do anything more than sit and watch. At least the fresh air would do him some good. Samuel was delighted that Jason was almost better, for while his mother had been busy caring for Jason, he had been burdened with all the extra chores. When Jason was fully better, Samuel would be free to explore and play games and have adventures as before.

  It was particularly fine later that afternoon and, as Samuel was engaged in the fine art of lining up sticks on the front step and then tipping them successively over the edge, the sound of horseshoes came clip-clopping up the road towards the house. There was a stranger perched atop a frisky young thing of a horse, which was trotting along between the apple trees. Upon spying Samuel, the visitor waved his hand in greeting.

  ‘Mother!’ Samuel called out. ‘Someone’s here!’ And he ran out to meet the stranger eagerly.

  His mother came out after him, patting clouds of pale flour from her hands and apron, for with the others all gone to Tom’s house to help mend their fences, she had busied herself with some baking.

  ‘Good morning to you, Madam,’ the man hailed as he brought his mount to a stop before them, its flank glossy with sweat. He spoke strangely, deep-voiced, and curling his words as some of the foreign merchants did when they passed through the village. His clothes, once fine, were stained and more than a little dirty, as if he had been wearing them for a few days too many. His mouth was engaged in a constant chewing action and Samuel had no idea what he could have been eating.

  ‘Good morning to you, too, Good Sir,’ Samuel’s mother replied. ‘What can we do for you?’

  The man was grinning. ‘I see you run a fine orchard, but it’s just directions I’m after. Could you kindly put me on my way towards Cotter’s Bend, if it’s at all possible?’ As soon as his words had stopped, his chewing resumed.

  ‘From which way did you come?’

  ‘From Lowren, Madam.’ His smile was far too big, seeming to almost reach from ear to ear-and his teeth were awfully yellow. Samuel kept staring up the man, open-mouthed, like a fish splayed out in the markets.

  ‘Then you go back up to the highway and keep on for a short time that way back towards Stable Waterford, and the road to Cotter’s is shortly after. Just ask further once you get to the village-if you find yourself getting confused.’

  The man tipped his hat, still grinning, still chewing, and, turning his snorting mare, started her dancing back up the track. Samuel’s mother promptly lifted her skirts and returned inside to her baking, shaking her head and mumbling to herself. The man, almost out of view, leaned from his saddle and plucked an apple from a nearby branch. He then stopped a moment, and half-turning his mount, he touched his forehead in salute and waved back to Samuel. Samuel was sure he could see the man grinning even from here, but for some reason he found himself not inclined to wave back.

  Turning once more, the man clicked his tongue and set his frisky ride trotting back towards the road. What a strange man he was, Samuel thought to himself, and what a strange healthy shine he had, too.

  That night was fine and dry and crisply cold. The countless, tiny stars were bright and clear, far more numerous than usual, and looked like a glittering blanket strung between the mountain tops. They winked down at him and Samuel wondered what they really were-tiny holes in the veil of night, or swarms of fireflies hovering high in the sky? Everyone had their own explanation, but Samuel was yet to be convinced. His eyes grew fuzzy and he had to look down, rubbing them with his tiny fists. Quickly picking up some firewood, he hurried back inside and placed the pieces beside the crackling stove.

  The music from James’ fiddle was making a merry tune and was complemented well by Sarah’s soft humming as she worked on her embroidery. Mother was busy at the stove, clanging the pots together as she cooked, while Father, Jason and Lee were at the table, discussing tomorrow’s work. The harvest was imminent and they would all soon be busier than ever. James would occasionally stop his playing and add something to the conversation.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s about time you taught your son how to shave, Peter?’ Mother asked from her cooking. Peter was what she sometimes called Father.

  Father looked at an embarrassed Lee and inspected him for a moment. Lee self-consciously rubbed the wispy hairs that curled out from his chin.

  ‘Aye, so it is.’

/>   ‘What?’ Jason laughed. ‘There’s barely a hair there!’

  ‘That will do, Jason. Leave your brother be,’ Mother told him and Samuel laughed. It was funny when his family told each other off like that. Many of his friends told Samuel how their families argued and fought, but Samuel’s family seldom did so. At worst, there were some raised voices or a few bad words, but everyone was quickly happy again. It’s true, his mother would get very angry with him on market day and when he was lazy and he received the occasional spanking, but if Samuel tried very hard to be good, everyone was happy almost every day. He knew that his family cared about each other.

  James abruptly stopped his playing and looked out the window. ‘I think there’s someone here,’ he said. Sarah stopped her sewing and there was a sudden eeriness in the house.

  Father pushed his chair back and stood, clearing his throat as he did. ‘Well, I’ll have a look.’ He barely managed a step towards the door before it burst inwards and men came storming in, shouting at the top of their lungs and waving sticks wildly before them. Sarah and Mother both screamed and Samuel’s heart leapt up into his throat.

  Father began to shout at them, when the first man struck him. Father raised his hands to protect himself, but fell to the floor as the man hit him over and over. The other ugly men hurried past. Samuel saw one of them was the man who had asked for directions and he still bore his wicked grin-wilder, more maniacal, than before.

  Samuel’s brothers were wrestling with the men while Sarah was huddled up and screaming in the corner where the fiddle lay broken. Samuel scuttled under the table, watching the legs of his brothers and the men struggle back and forth amid their grunts and shouts. Father lay on the floor by the doorway, staring towards Samuel. His wide, white eyes glared through a mask of blood. His healthy shine was gone.

  ‘Peter!’ Mother screamed, just before being struck also.

  In through the doorway stepped another man-tall and well dressed. He had short, neat, dark hair atop a high forehead and he bore just a hint of a smile upon his lips. He nudged at Father with his foot, then stood in the doorway and watched on with calm deliberation.

  Something had Samuel by the back of his shirt and he was dragged out from under the table. In a moment, he was out of the back door and into the cold night air. The grisly scene, still visible through the doorway, shrank away from him as he was dragged away down towards the trees. He struggled and screamed until he was turned about and he found that it was his mother who had him. She plucked him up to her waist and they were once again running from the house and into the darkness.

  A shout rose clearly above the grunting and swearing, carrying through the still night air.

  ‘Jason!’ It was Lee shouting and Samuel thought it sounded awful. Lee’s voice was thin and desperate and sounded too short, as if something dreadful had stopped the sound part-way.

  Mother was sobbing and heaving as she struggled with Samuel through the paddock. Samuel saw the stars, nestled beside the narrow sliver of moon that had crested the hills and a few goats bleated with curiosity as they passed. Mother did not stop running or crying, even after they made it amongst the trees and Samuel could hear, just as well as she, the men’s calls that followed behind them.

  Dark laughter echoed after them through the trees. Mother’s breathing became more rapid and frantic as her steps became irregular and she began to stumble. The branches scratched Samuel’s face and he cried and sobbed as much as she. There was a jolt and a moment of vertigo and then Samuel crashed onto the ground. Mother regained her feet and this time she began dragging Samuel by the hand. His heart thudded hard inside his chest as he struggled to match pace with her-she was nearly pulling his arm from its socket. After a few frantic moments, she lurched to a halt and dropped to her knees as surely as if something had struck her. Samuel was sure a drum was beating in his chest, booming in his head.

  ‘Go on, Samuel!’ she sobbed between labouring breaths, her hair matted to her face. ‘Go to Tom’s house!’

  Samuel could only nod through tears as he let go of her hand and ran off down the narrow path that snaked towards Tom’s house-blackness snaking through blackness-while his mother lurched away in the opposite direction.

  A laugh sounded closer, not far behind and a coarse cry of ‘Got you!’ broke the silence. Mother’s shrill scream then cut the air and curdled Samuel’s blood.

  ‘Where’s that little mongrel?’ another voice could be heard demanding, but Mother’s sobs only carried though the trees in reply.

  Samuel stopped, suddenly afraid for her and he turned and ran back towards them, holding one hand over his own mouth to try and subdue his sobbing. Crawling through the bushes as silently as he could, he could see them through his tear-filled eyes, standing in the wan moonlight. Two men stood over his mother, who knelt in the dirt. She held her face in her hands and was wailing and pleading all at the same time, making her words incomprehensible amongst her grief. A terrible shadow had surrounded her healthy glow and it ate at her like a disease, creeping in towards her and smothering her light. It emanated an inescapable vileness that seemed to stab Samuel in the heart; it was almost as horrific as the men themselves. Samuel tried to squeeze his eyes shut to blot out the scene, but his eyes refused to obey him and he felt frozen in place.

  ‘Oh, forget the little crapper,’ the taller man said. The moon shone down through a crack in the trees and lit his face. His crooked nose threw a twisted shadow across his face, but that could not hide the silver scar that ran all the way from his eye to his chin.

  The other man spat on the ground and smiled widely towards Mother. Only now did he stop his incessant chewing. ‘Now don’t make any trouble or I’ll make this worse, witch,’ he hissed and leapt upon her.

  She screamed and beat upon his shoulders as he laughed and wrestled on top of her. All the while, the scar-faced man watched on dispassionately. Soon, Mother stopped her cries and was silent. Her healthy glow was gone, consumed entirely by the blackness around her.

  A silver blade shone in the spitting man’s hand and he bent and wiped it on Mother’s skirt hems. She remained silent and unmoving. ‘Suit yourself,’ he told her and he looked quite indignant. ‘Hell-damned bitch wouldn’t keep still.’

  ‘Now she will,’ the scar-faced man returned bluntly.

  ‘That’s what we’re here for. Don’t be upset just because I got to her first. It was my turn, anyway. Ah, damn it! I think I got blood on me! Well…what about the boy? Shall we track him down before he makes trouble? The boss wants to be sure they’re all good ’n’ dead.’

  The scar-faced man then looked directly at Samuel and raised an outstretched finger. ‘We won’t have to look far. He’s just there.’ His wicked smile returned as he glared towards Samuel and he held his knife up, as if to show it off in the moonlight. He nodded at Samuel and bared all his crooked, yellow teeth.

  With a start, Samuel backed out of the bushes and scampered through the trees, their branches biting his face, cold tears streaming down his cheeks. Great boot steps crashed through the undergrowth behind and then the spitting man was beside him, grinning as he easily matched Samuel’s tiny steps. His smile vanished as he collided with a thick trunk and dropped like a sack into the shadows. Samuel was away again and willed his legs even faster beneath him.

  With horror, he realised he had strayed from the track to Tom’s house and the river suddenly loomed below him. For an instant, he teetered on the edge, almost tumbling into the silent waters, soil collapsing from under his bare feet.

  ‘He’s over there!’ came a shout and Samuel leapt back into life, clambering along the top of the steep bank, grabbing the bushes and branches for support.

  The soil crumbled under his shuffling feet and Samuel tottered backwards. He snatched out for an anchor and grabbed hold of the long, spiny leaves of a black-jack tree. They slid between his fingers and cut deeply. He let go with a yelp and fell, splashing into the darkness below.

  ‘Over here!’
came a voice.

  The water was so cold Samuel almost yelled again, but he put one hand over his mouth and held the noise in as best he could. He knew the men would be attracted by his splash and so he ducked under the water and kicked his feet, swimming like a trout. Underneath, the river was absolute blackness and ghostly silent. When he had swum as far as he possibly could, he carefully surfaced, filling his desperate lungs as silently as he could. The craving in his chest slowly eased as he took longer and more deliberate breaths-yet the noise of each still seemed deafeningly loud. He kept his mouth barely out of the water and scanned the banks for the men. They were standing a bit further back, illuminated in the pale moonlight, searching for him near where he fell. Samuel carefully back-paddled away from them, keeping close to the bank where his feet could just touch the bottom. Every trickle and every tiny sound he made carried easily across the water, but somehow the men still did not look towards him.

  ‘Ah, damn him!’ he heard one man finally say, his frosty breath forming a cloud before him. ‘It’s too cold and it’s as black as sin out here. I can’t see anything and I’m not getting wet on a night like this for some brat. Let’s just tell the boss we gave him the test and he failed. That will keep him happy. What’s one more dead kid?’ The other nodded and they were gone-vanishing abruptly into the trees.

  Samuel stayed in the river for a long time, numbed and shivering. At first, he was too terrified to move, but after a time he realised if he stayed where he was, he would probably freeze to death. He waded along until he recognised the flattening in the bank with the dark shape of the swing rope hanging over it. He dragged his heavy legs onto the river’s edge and realised he was almost paralysed with cold. His body was so cold it burned like fire. Hugging his arms around him, he hauled himself from the river and hurried as well as he could up the rough, winding path towards the faint light of Tom’s house.