The Rebirth of Wonder

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “No,” he said. “It didn't seem like a good idea.”

  “Good. Don't.”

  Art nodded. When Maggie didn't immediately continue with her explanation, he asked, “If this is Faerie, where are the fairies, or elves, or whatever it is that lives here?”

  “Shh!” Maggie looked around, worried, but spotted nothing nearby save butterflies and flowers. In the shadows of the trees a few fireflies were rising, like sparks from a fire. The birds were settling in for the night. Nothing larger than a meadowlark could be seen moving.

  Slightly reassured, she said, “I don't know. I don't want to know. I've never been here before, any more than you have; nobody's been able to find a way into Faerie since long before I was born. Nobody knows what's happened in Faerie since... well, since about the First World War, I guess. So maybe the locals are hiding, maybe they've forgotten what humans are, or maybe they're just minding their own business. I don't know. I haven't been here, I've just heard about it.”

  “So why have you heard about it, and I haven't?” Art asked, a bit plaintively. “Why hasn't anyone been here in so long? Why wasn't that door ever there before?”

  “Because...” She sighed. “Because magic is dying. Just like in the play.”

  “Why?” Art asked. “Because nobody believes in it any more, like Tinkerbell?”

  “No,” Maggie said, annoyed. “You've got it backwards, just like people always do. People don't believe in magic anymore because there hardly is any magic to believe in. It's wearing out, getting old and weak. It's been declining for centuries, for millennia, maybe. Whether you believe in it or not doesn't make any difference in whether it works, any more than it matters whether you believe in electricity when you turn on a light – the magic is still there, and still real. But you need to believe in it to control it, you need to know which switch to flip. And if you believe in it, it can control you, sometimes... it's complicated.”

  “So explain it. I'm listening.”

  She glared at him, took a deep breath, and began.

  “Magic comes from two things, from people and from places; everybody who knows anything about it knows that there are places of power, that magic works better some places than other, and everybody knows that magic works better for some people than for others, and the more you know about it, the better it works. That's why the old wizards studied it endlessly. The people grow old and wear out and eventually die – they may stretch their time out with the magic, but they get older and weaker, like anybody else.

  “Well, the places get old and die, too. The Valley of the Kings, in Egypt – it's been dead for thousands of years, all that's left is the memories. Mount Fuji's been dead longer than that, no one even remembers why it was holy. Delphi's gone, Angkor Wat is gone, Obersalzburg is gone. Stonehenge is just stones now, the magic there is an echo of an echo. And... well, I won't go through the whole list, but there's only one left, in Sedona, Arizona. All the magic that remains on Earth comes from the American Southwest – and that one's old and weak, too. It'll probably be gone by next year.”

  Art started to say something, to ask a question, then thought better of it.

  “The people have been getting scarcer and weaker, too,” Maggie continued. “With so few places to draw on, so little strength left, there can't be many true magicians, and we can't do as much. And now we're all that's left – just the twelve of us. All the others, the psychics and miracle-workers and so-called witches, they're frauds and charlatans. There are just the twelve.”

  “The Bringers of Wonder?”

  Maggie nodded. “That's what Myrddin calls us. Twelve of us left, in all the world.”

  “Who's Meer-Then?”

  “Mr. Innisfree. Myrddin's his real name.”

  Art considered that, and accepted it. “And all the magic you people do is real?” he asked.

  She nodded again.

  “So why are you here?” Art asked. “I mean, why are you in Bampton?”

  “To bring the magic back,” Maggie said.

  Art blinked. “You can do that?” he asked.

  Maggie hesitated, then answered, “I don't know.”

  Art waited.

  “You see, there's this spell,” she said. “Or sort of a spell. A ritual, anyway. Someone came up with it long ago – I don't know exactly, some time in the Dark Ages, I guess.”

  “What's it supposed to do?”

  “What it does – well, it creates a new magical place, a new source of power. Or opens one up, anyway – I mean, it doesn't create the magic so much as it finds it and frees it. And there are only certain places that it can possibly work at any given time.”

  “Like Bampton?”

  She nodded. “Like Bampton. Right now, the block of Thoreau Street from Concord Avenue to Dawes Road, right here in Bampton, Massachusetts, is the only place on Earth with the potential to become a mystical power spot.”

  “Seems pretty unlikely. I mean, why here?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Magic doesn't always have nice, tidy laws and reasons; it isn't science. Right now, it's here. We can tell that – or some of them can, like Myrddin and Dr. Torralva; I can't do it myself, I don't understand the techniques at all.”

  Art was going to protest further when a blood-red butterfly landed on his hand, then flew away again. As he watched it go, he decided not to argue. Whatever the reasons, this was happening, wasn't it?

  And why not Bampton?

  “So you people are here to open up this new power source?”

  “Like digging a well,” she agreed. “Or planting a seed.”

  “So you'll do your ritual, and then you'll all scatter again, and that'll be it? There will be a little more magic in the world for you witches and wizards, but the rest of us can just go on as usual?”

  Maggie hesitated, then said, “The others would probably want me to lie to you and say yes, but I'm not going to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it's not that simple. I don't think you understand the sort of difference we're talking about here. There hasn't been a new well of magic in thousands of years – not since Biblical times.”

  “So?”

  “So there won't just be a little more magic in the world. There will be a lot. All the stupid little magical things people do that don't work any more, the hexes and good luck charms – they'll work. At least, the ones that are done right. There will be spontaneous magic, too, things that just happen. And wishing hard enough will make things come true, sometimes. Magic will be so easy that anyone will be able to learn it. Love will be magic again – you people all say it is, but it hasn't really been, not for centuries.” She sighed. “We don't know what it'll be like; there aren't any reliable records, and while some of us have been around a long time, none of us is that old. We don't remember a world where magic was young.”

  For a moment the two of them sat silently side by side, as Art considered this.

  It sounded terrifying – all that magic would cause chaos, everything would be changed, everything disrupted. Somehow, though, it didn't seem real. After all, magic?

  Finally he said, “Sounds dangerous.”

  “It probably is,” Maggie agreed.

  “So why are you doing it?”

  “Because the alternative is worse, of course. If we don't do it, magic is going to die. Forever.”

  “But can't you open one of these wells any time you want?”

  She shook her head. “No, of course not,” she said. “It takes magic to make it work, to plant the seed. When Sedona goes – that's it. That's all, for all of time; no more magic, ever. And the old ones, Baba and Myrddin and... well, really, everybody but me, magic is all that's keeping them alive. When the magic goes, they'll die, too.”

  Art blinked. “They will?”

  She nodded, not looking at him.

  “Why'd they leave it until the last minute, then? Why didn't they start a new one a long time ago? If it's been thousands of years...”

 
; “Well,” Maggie said, “there's a trick to it.”

  “What kind of a trick?”

  “The spell we're using, the play – it needs to include all of the surviving magicians in the world. If any magician, anywhere in the world, doesn't take part, it will fail – not just big-shot wizards, if there's anyone else, anywhere, using magic, then it won't work. And there's always been a holdout, some kind of a problem – some hedge witch or tribal shaman somewhere who wouldn't go along, or someone who couldn't come to the right place. That was the big problem, for about the last thousand years – Myrddin was imprisoned in a cave in England. It was just recently that the spell holding him got weak enough, and the rest of us got organized enough, that we could get him out.”

  The idea of Innisfree being some ancient wizard who had spent centuries in a cave struck Art as patently ridiculous, and he snickered.

  “Really!” Maggie insisted.

  “He got that tan sitting in a British cave?”

  “No, he got that tan in North Africa,” Maggie said. “First thing he did when he got out was go get warm and dry. Wouldn't you? And that's why he picked that name, Innisfree – he's free again. That's why he's so cheerful about everything, and nervous at the same time – he's glad to be out, but he doesn't really understand how the world works anymore.”

  “He hides it well.”

  “It's all bluster.”

  Art still doubted the whole thing, but every time he looked at the world around him, at the black door in the hillside, the wildflowers all around, the huge sun settling on the horizon when he had already seen the sun set once that day, he had to believe that something utterly incredible was happening, and Maggie's explanation seemed to make just as much sense as anything else.

  Maybe it was real.

  And if so, shouldn't he be frightened?

  “So let's see if I have this straight,” Art said. “Magic is dying out, and there are only twelve real magicians left.”

  Maggie nodded.

  “You have a way to bring magic back, big time, but you have to do it before the end of the year, and here in Bampton.”

  “Before the winter solstice, to be exact,” Maggie agreed.

  “You found this theater sitting in exactly the right place, so Innisfree rented it, and you're planning to stage your big ritual on the thirtieth, and for now you're all practicing up for it. And you didn't want any outsiders around because you didn't want them interfering.”

  “Right.”

  Art nodded. “So if magic is so weak, what are we doing sitting in this field? Where'd that door come from?”

  “Well, magic isn't always linear,” Maggie explained. “It can spill back and forth through time. And it's already started here, because we're planning the ritual. Also, I think it started on Lammas Night, when you people put on that play, with the fairies in it – that play, on that night, in that place, it probably started loosening things up a little. And all those things in the cellars, charged with imagination and excitement and youthful fervor – the theater's a natural storehouse for magic. Not to mention that it used to be a church. I'll bet I've seen more real magic in the week we've been here than I'd seen in the last ten years.”

  Art mulled that over, then asked, “So if it's spilling back in time, does that mean you're going to perform the ritual, and it's going to succeed, and nothing can stop you?”

  “No.” Maggie shook her head. “If something stops us, then that magic will all just be a fluke, a passing whim of the universe, a taste of what might have been. If we don't perform our spell when the moon's back in the same phase it was in on Lammas Night, then our chance is gone. I don't know if we'll have another before the solstice.”

  “What's Lammas Night?”

  “August first. One of the four nights of power every year. Candlemas, Beltane, Lammas, and Halloween.”

  “But if I leave you people alone, you'll work your spell, and magic will return?”

  Maggie hesitated, then said, “No.”

  Startled, Art demanded, “Why not?”

  “That's why we needed you in the building, Art; that's why we're here now, I think. You're all tangled up in the magic. Maybe it's just because you were there when we started, or maybe it's something more than that, some connection between you and the mystic-place-to-be, but our spells don't work when you're not here. If you aren't in the building when we perform The Return of Magic, it won't work. And it's even worse than that, now that I've told you all this. It isn't just all the magicians in the world who need to work the spell; it's everyone who knows the spell is being attempted. You asked about magic and belief – belief isn't all that important, but knowledge is. You know about it, now, and if you don't participate, if you don't act out your consent, it won't work.”

  She turned and looked him straight in the eye. “Now that I've told you, Art, it's up to you. If you help us, magic will be loose in the world, new, fresh, powerful magic, magic everywhere, magic dripping from the eaves and shining from the windows of every house in Bampton, blossoming and singing, wild and uncontrolled.

  “And if you don't help us, all magic will be gone from the world forever, and eleven of us will die.

  “So...” She swallowed nervously. “So, will you help?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Art stared at her for a moment, then got to his feet. He brushed off the seat of his pants and looked around.

  “What happens to all this, though?” he asked. “Isn't this all magic?”

  “Of course it is,” Maggie agreed, rising. “And if the ritual fails, it'll be gone forever. I'm not sure if it will all cease to exist, or whether it has an independent reality of its own and will just be closed off from Earth forever, but whichever it is, the effect will be the same – that door there will be gone, it'll just be a stone wall again, with nothing on the other side but dirt and granite.”

  “You're sure of that?”

  She shrugged. “As sure as I can be,” she said. “'The essence of magic is deceit' – that's what Heliophagus of Smyrna said. I think maybe he overstated the case, but it's a tricky business, and we're hardly ever sure of anything.”

  “So you aren't sure that Innisfree would die?”

  Maggie sighed. “Art,” she said, “Myrddin is sixteen hundred years old. It's magic that keeps him young. When the magic's gone, he'll die.”

  “How? Turn to dust, like in a vampire movie?”

  “Maybe.” Maggie put a hand on his arm. “We don't know. There's always been magic in the world, ever since history began; how can we know what the world will be like without it?”

  He turned to face her, startled. “You mean things could be different? For everybody, not just magicians?”

  “Art, I don't know.”

  He looked her in the eye, and noticed that her eyes were deep and green. He pulled away.

  “You can cast spells, can't you?”

  “Some,” she admitted. “More here and now than ever before.”

  “And you want me to help you with this play of yours?”

  She nodded.

  “So why don't you just enchant me, and make me do what you want?”

  Maggie hesitated. “We could,” she admitted. “I could. But Art, magic isn't like electricity or something, it isn't all the same, regardless of where it came from or how it started. Each of the mystic places in the world has its own flavor – or had, anyway – depending on how it was created. And Art, we want this one to be clean and wholesome. We want white magic – and believe me, you want it to be white magic, if it happens at all. There's been black magic in the world before, too much of it, too often. It's gone now – the Sedona source is clean, almost pure white – but we know what black magic is, what it's like. We don't want that.”

  “So what?”

  “So if there's dissension, if there's coercion, the Bampton source will be tainted. It can never be better than gray, it might be black.”

  “You don't want that?”

  “Well, most of us do
n't.” She admitted, “I think a couple might not care.”

  Art immediately thought of Granny Yeager; he doubted she would hesitate an instant over whether the magic was white or black.

  “Besides,” Maggie added, “we're not sure it would work. An enchantment isn't really consent.”

  Art nodded.

  “Let's go back,” Maggie said.

  Art nodded again, and together they stepped back through the door into the theater basement.

  Art paused, and turned back for a final look. The sun was almost down, the trees black silhouettes before it, the first star just visible in the east.

  He closed the ancient door and felt the latch click into place. He stared at it for a long moment, ran a finger over the rough, crumbling finish.

  “Hard to believe this isn't real,” he said.

  “It's real,” Maggie said. “It's magic.”

  He glanced at her, then back at the door. “It looks so old,” he said.

  “It probably is old,” Maggie agreed. “It was probably somewhere else before.”

  “Is that how it works?”

  She spread empty hands. “Who knows?” she replied. “The essence of magic is deceit.”

  The cellars seemed exceptionally dank and gloomy after the fresh air and vivid sunlight of Faerie, and Art hurried to turn off lights and lock up, so as to get back outside. A hot New England night was scarcely going to be as pleasant as twilight in Faerie, but it would be better than the basement.

  Maggie accompanied him silently.

  There was no sign of the other Bringers when they finally made their way back upstairs; that was no surprise. Art set out to make sure that the air conditioning was turned off and everything as it should be.

  When at last he was satisfied, he found Maggie waiting by the stage door. She looked troubled.

  “Will you help us?” she burst out.

  He stepped past her without answering and put his hand on the knob, then paused.

  “I don't know,” he said. “I need to think about it.” He turned the knob.

  Light spilled in, and he blinked in astonishment.