Neverland's Library: Fantasy Anthology

by Mark Lawrence

  “Then here is our second gift to you,” the blue one said. “Use it wisely.”

  And away they popped.

  Once again Tom checked his pockets. His fingers found only old dirt and lint. The second gift was as elusive as the first, but Tom felt excitement growing as he headed for home.

  #

  Pa was indeed furious.

  “Where in heck have you been all day, boy? There’s work needs doing, and I ain’t about to do it all on my lonesome. That’s a lesson you ain’t learned yet. Fetch the belt.”

  The leather strap felt cold and stiff in Tom’s hands as he lifted it down from its hook. Tom didn’t need any reminding how it would feel against his skin, or how the memory of it would linger long after the pain itself subsided. Pa had only ever taken the belt to him once before, and Tom had surely deserved that one, having nearly burned down the barn when playing with matches.

  But I ain’t done nothing wrong this time. I just want to find the magic.

  He kept quiet. That wasn’t anything Pa wanted to hear. Tom assumed his position as Pa swung the belt. And right at that point, an anger he never knew he had in him flared.

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong,” he shouted. “Stop.”

  Pa stopped.

  So did everything else.

  #

  The farm was quiet and still; no wind blew, no kettles whistled, no burning wood cracked and split in the range. Tom looked up. Pa loomed above him, belt raised. The leather hung in a sigmoid curve high above. Pa’s face was contorted in rage and, something else, something Tom was seeing for the first time; Pa looked like administering the punishment was going to hurt him somewhere deep down. It was only now that he was perfectly still that Tom could see it; a single tear glistened in Pa’s right eye.

  “Pa?” Tom whispered.

  Pa didn’t move. Tom slid away from underneath the belt and walked round the big man, studying what had happened. Pa was as still as the statue that stood above the Crawford grave in the churchyard, and looked nearly as dead.

  “Pa?” Tom said, almost a shout this time. He pushed at Pa’s arm. There was no give in it; it was as solid as cold stone.

  “Ma!” Tom wailed, and headed for the kitchen. Ma was there at the stove again. But like Pa, she was perfectly still, unmoving. She’d been caught stoking the fire under the plates. Tom bent and looked in. The flames were as still and cold as his parents. He reached out gingerly and touched at what should have been the hottest part. It felt more like ice than fire.

  “Ma?” he whispered, but there was no response.

  He was at a loss as to what to do next. He went and stood in the doorway, looking out over the farm towards the creek. It was as if the whole world had stopped. A moth had been caught mid-beat, hovering at the porch lantern. Tom took it in his palm and studied it. It looked like a perfectly carved miniature statue.

  Something giggled out in the dark by the creek, and now there was movement, blue and green and silver, dancing.

  “Tell us a story, Tom,” they sang. “Tell us an old story and you’ll have your third gift.”

  “Bring my Ma and Pa back,” Tom shouted, almost crying in fear and frustration. “Bring them back right now.”

  The green light flew, faster than thought, to stop right in front of Tom’s nose.

  “Only you can do that, Tom. It’s your gift, after all.”

  “Well if you can’t help, just go away.”

  It went away.

  One second it was there in front of his nose, the next, with only a pop to show for it, it was gone. There was nothing but dark and silence out over the creek.

  But Tom had started thinking.

  It’s my gift.

  And they gave me two of them.

  He reached with his thoughts, feeling his Ma’s warm embrace, the heat and weight of her as she held him. He pushed, hard.

  “Start,” he whispered. “Please start.”

  A confused moth fluttered away from the porch, Ma swore under her breath as she nearly burned herself at the stove, and Pa’s shout echoed through the farmhouse.

  “Tom Miller. You get back here right now. I ain’t finished with you, boy.”

  Tom went. He knew the belting was coming, but it was something familiar, something he could feel on firm ground with. He had tears in his eyes as the belt finally came down, but it wasn’t pain he felt.

  #

  He forgot about magic for a while after that, caught up in the daily routine of schooling and harvest. Some afternoons he’d stop at the bridge and wait, but nothing spoke to him; nobody wanted his stories. Besides, Tom had taken a bad scare, and wasn’t right sure he wanted another in the near future.

  So he worked; he bailed, he shucked, he cleaned out the stables and he played the dutiful son.

  Pa was happy.

  “One day, lad, it’ll all be worthwhile. One day all of this will be yours.”

  Tom was appalled at the thought.

  And while sitting through the Reverend Martin’s impenetrable droning at the Harvest festival service, he started to dream again, of dancing lights and gifts, of stories and of magic. He took to lingering at the bridge for longer stretches of time, and often could be seen there as the sun went down in the west.

  But still nobody spoke to him, and he started to fear that the magic had gone as quickly as it had come.

  I could try something?

  That thought was the merest whisper in his head, and it was kept down by fear. But it was growing louder all the time.

  #

  And finally, harvest season was over and done. Tom had been waiting impatiently for this day for a long time. The carnival arrived in town, bringing sideshows and circus, stalls and as much candy as a boy could eat without being sick. And Pa was so pleased with Tom’s diligence over the previous weeks that he allowed the boy a looser rein than in previous years.

  “You’re nearly a man now, Tom,” Pa said, and handed over two dollars. “Have some fun while you’re still a boy. Just be home by nine, or your Ma will fret.”

  The things under the bridge were still quiet, but there was a different kind of magic in the air; the carnival was just getting going as the sun set. Tom was soon dazzled by the colors and music, the feats of strength, the bearded lady and the Carolinas Ape Man. His two dollars seemed to vanish all too quickly on a succession of games of chance and food that looked too good to ignore. He only had a dime left by eight o’clock; it was still far too early to leave. He strolled around, looking for one last thrill.

  His heart almost stopped when he saw the tent.

  The Great Suprendo. The Last Magician.

  He spent his last dime and followed a small group of people inside. A small stage was set up at the far end, the only thing on it being a table draped with a velvet cloth that hung to the floor. A thin man, younger than Pa but not much, stood to one side. He was dressed like a city gent, in the black wool suit, stiff white collared shirt, black cape and a tall hat that sat slightly askew making him look lopsided. Tom was disappointed even before the act started.

  He ain’t no real magician.

  Tom’s suspicions were confirmed over the next twenty minutes. The man went through a perfunctory series of card tricks, pulled a bored looking rabbit from his hat, and joined up three iron rings into one as if it was the best thing in the world. He looked as bored as his audience was the whole time. Tom considered leaving, but just as he turned away the man announced his last trick.

  “All the way from the west, where the magic is still real.”

  That was enough to get Tom’s attention, for at least a minute until he saw it was only going to be another bored piece of sleight of hand. Finally Tom could no longer stop himself. When the man brought a rather bedraggled dove out of his jacket sleeve and sent it fluttering into the air, Tom whispered.

  “Stop it. Just stop it, right now.”

  Everything went deathly still, the dove caught in mid-flutter just out of the magician’s reach, the crowd al
l staring forward, mostly with bored, disinterested expressions on their frozen faces. Tom pushed his way to the front. The man – Tom couldn’t bring himself to give him the title he had taken with so little ability to back it up – had his gaze following the flight of the dove. Tom had to stand on tiptoe to reach it, and when he did it felt heavy, like a rock in his hands as he pulled it close to his chest. He climbed up onto the table and sat cross-legged, facing the crowd, the bird nestled in his arms.

  “Start,” he whispered.

  He saw the faces of the crowd change from bored stares to astonishment in less than a second.

  And why not? It must seem as if I’ve popped in out of nowhere.

  The applause started just as Tom released the dove. With a startled caw it flew off overhead, depositing a streaky white lucky gift on the so-called magician’s head and completing Tom’s enjoyment of the moment.

  #

  It didn’t last nearly long enough. The crowd filtered away and Tom was left, still sitting on the table.

  I did real magic. Can’t they see that?

  The man behind him touched his shoulder, gently, as if afraid something might happen.

  “How did you do that?” he asked softly.

  “You’re the magician, why don’t you tell me?” Tom said, getting down from the table and starting to move away.

  “Please, tell me how it’s done?” the man said. He was pleading now, almost begging. “I need something new, something to bring back the spark.”

  “Then use some real magic,” Tom said. “Not this pretend stuff.”

  “There is no real magic,” the man replied. “It all went away, into the West, long ago,”

  Tom reached out a hand and pushed with his mind. The table lifted a foot off the stage and started to head for the tent entrance before he let it down. The man was astonished.

  “How did you do that? You’re just a boy.”

  Just a boy.

  “I just want to bring the magic back,” Tom said.

  “So do we all,” the man muttered under his breath. He looked at Tom, his eyes suddenly filled with something that looked like hope. “Can you show me where you learned this?”

  Tom backed away again.

  “Can you bring the magic back?” he asked.

  The man nodded eagerly.

  “If I can learn what you did, I can.”

  Tom came to a quick decision.

  “Come on then. I have to be home by nine, but there should be enough time for what’s needed.”

  #

  A full moon hung over the footbridge, the reflection dancing happily in the creek as they approached.

  “What are we doing way out here” the man asked. He’d got increasingly agitated as they got further from town, as if he was afraid to be so far away from the lights and sounds and comfort of the carnival.

  He ain’t no real magician at all.

  The blue light came to meet them.

  “Tell us a story, Tom,” it said.

  The green joined it.

  “Tell us an old story, Tom, and we’ll give you what you most desire.”

  The silver danced around the startled man’s head.

  “Tell us an old story, sir, and we’ll give you what you most desire.”

  “What is this?” the man whispered. His eyes went wide, his mouth slack. He stepped backwards, as if meaning to flee. Tom put out a hand.

  “Stop,” he whispered.

  Everything went still apart from the three dancing lights.

  “He’s not a real magician,” Tom said. “But he wants to be.”

  “Not a real magician,” the blue said.

  “Not like Tom,” the green added.

  “But he wants to be,” said the silver.

  “So you’ll help?” Tom asked. “Help him find the magic?”

  “If he tells us a story, we will give him what he wants,” the three of them replied in unison. “And Tom shall have his last gift.”

  “Promise?”

  The lights danced and whirled.

  “A last gift for a story, that is all we ask.”

  “Deal,” Tom said. He would have spat on his hand to seal it, but there was no answering hand to shake.

  He turned back to the magician.

  “Start.”

  The man shook his head, as if waking from a dream. His eyes went wide again when he saw the three lights hovering in front of his face.

  “Tell us a story, magician,” the blue said.

  “Tell us an old story,” the green added.

  “Tell us a story and you shall have what you want,” the silver said.

  “A story?”

  “They like the old tales,” Tom said, trying to be helpful. “Goldilocks, Red Riding Hood, that sort of stuff…”

  Just then a voice rang out over the farmland.

  “Tom? Is that you?”

  “I’ll be right there, Ma,” he shouted, then turned back to the magician. “Best be quick about it. Pa ain’t forgotten how to use the belt.”

  The man hunkered down on the bridge and, self-consciously at first, then with more fluency, told the tale of the gingerbread house and the trail of breadcrumbs.

  The dancing lights liked that one, and hummed and sang and danced ever faster as the story came to an end. The man stood and stretched.

  “What now?” he said.

  “A gift for a gift,” the blue said.

  “Whatever you both desire,” the green said, and bounced against Tom’s nose.

  “Just like Tom,” the silver said, and bounced against the magician’s nose.

  #

  Tom blinked, and looked down to see a tousled haired boy look up at him.

  “I’m young again,” the boy said, and smiled.

  Tom lifted his arms, marveling at the feel of the wool suit, the swish of the cape.

  “I can do real magic.”

  Pa shouted from across the farm.

  “Tom Miller, get in here right now, or there’ll be words spoken.”

  The boy looked up.

  “I’d best be going,” he said.

  The magician nodded.

  “He ain’t a bad Pa. But it’s best to stay on his good side.”

  The boy spat on his hand and put it out. The magician shook on it. The lights danced and capered, and followed the boy back to the farm. The magician could still hear them as he turned away.

  “Tell us a story, boy.”

  “Tell us an old story.”

  He smiled, set his gaze on the distant lights of the carnival and started walking.

  The Great Suprendo, the last magician, had magic to give back to the world.

  Restoring the Magic

  Ian Creasey

  WHEN I HAD CLIMBED HIGH enough that my breath came in great panting gasps and the sheep in the valleys looked like tiny flecks of fallen cloud, I heaved off my backpack and looked for the best spot to plant the final sapling. Birch and goat-willow dotted the exposed slopes, hardy species that withstood the storms and chills of the High Tatras. My oak required a more sheltered home. I saw a south-facing escarpment, and scrambled across to investigate. The gray rock felt warm under my hand, retaining the heat of the autumn sun. Behind an outcrop, in a small gully, the wind dropped to a light breeze. I pulled up tussocks of grass to inspect the soil, and found it damp but not sodden, thin but not barren. An earthworm crawled away into the moss and leaf-litter. Instinctively, I felt that a dryad would thrive here.

  I fetched my pack, took out the trowel, and began to dig. Soon I had a hole big enough to receive the sapling's earth-encrusted root-ball. I threw a handful of compost into the bottom, then lowered the tree into the ground and trod down the soil.

  I peered at the sapling to make sure that the tiny young dryad still clung to the stem. I was tempted to get out my magnifying glass for a good look, but I didn't want to risk scorching her in the sunlight like a small boy torching ants. There were hazards enough for a dryad, for a tree, without me being careless. I
staked a large plastic tube around the sapling to protect it from sheep, rabbits, and other nibblers. The plastic looked nasty and artificial in the rugged Slovak countryside, but it would biodegrade in a few years.

  Finally, I recorded the location in my logbook and tied a small metal tag to the tree. The reintroduction zone was secluded, but not secret. The tag contained a project code, a dryad number, and my initials: “BK”. My parents christened me Jeremy Benedict Kemp, but at university I dropped the first name and began signing “Ben” to the emails and Christmas cards I sent home.

  This was my fourth project since graduation, and my second outside England. I looked forward to tagging my initials across the world, as we strove to restore the magic it had lost. I just needed a permanent job with the Phoenix Foundation: I couldn't afford to keep doing voluntary placements.

  My stint in Slovakia had gone well, although I was annoyed at spending so much time on the dryads. Above me, the peaks held dragons' lairs. Alzbeta, the local warden, was fiercely protective of the dragons. She hadn't let me anywhere near them; the closest I'd got was collecting a few scat samples. And I couldn't argue with Alzbeta, because I needed her to give me a good reference.

  After eating my tuna sandwiches, I started back downhill, enjoying the stroll with my backpack now considerably lighter. I scratched my itchy new beard, irritated that it still hadn't grown in properly. All the conservationists on TV had luxuriant beards, as though providing vast hairy habitats for rare mammals. My straggly blond wisps wouldn't even harbor a small beetle.

  I descended via the foothills of the nearest lair, looking for any scat to collect. Over the summer, I'd learned to spot the unobtrusive droppings of our young dragons in their new habitat. As my insect repellent wore off and midges feasted on my neck, I spied a squidgy lump of undigested fur and bone. It looked fresh, so I scooped it into a sample tube. By determining what the dragons ate, we could gauge the suitability of potential release sites.

  On my way back to the car, I discovered some late blackberries ripening in the sun, so I filled a spare sample bag with fruit. They would make a cheap and tasty crumble, especially if I swung by the farmer's orchard to see if any crab-apples had fallen. Working for a conservation charity meant stretching the budget every possible way. Down in the villages they thought we were all rich foreigners, so they tried to overcharge us whenever they could.