The Magician's Boy

by Susan Cooper

  “Was that really Pinocchio?” said the Boy.

  “I’m afraid so,” said the signpost. “You can’t trust him an inch. He just can’t resist telling lies, and that nose always gives him away.”

  “And are you really the Cricket, from Pinocchio’s story?”

  “I am a signpost,” said the signpost with dignity. “I show people the way. It’s up to them whether they take it.”

  He hopped ahead a few paces. “For instance,” he said, “just up there you will find a cottage, with a very large beanstalk in its garden.”

  The Boy ran up the path, and found himself facing a perfect storybook cottage, with white walls, a thatched roof, and roses climbing round the door. A wisp of smoke rose from a chimney in the roof, and, in the very pretty garden outside the cottage, sure enough, an enormous beanstalk was growing up into the sky.

  The Boy ran to the beanstalk and looked up. It was so tall that its top was in the clouds. The stalk was as thick as a tree trunk, and the leaves were as big as umbrellas. He put his foot on the lowest leaf stem. It was flat and strong, like the first rung of a ladder.

  “Maybe Saint George is up there,” he said. “If this is Jack’s beanstalk, it leads to the Giant’s castle, and Saint George might be fighting the Giant. He fights Giants as well as Dragons, and he rescues Fair Maids. I don’t much care about the Fair Maids, though.”

  The signpost said nothing. It just stood there, pointing as usual in two different directions at once.

  “I’m going up,” said the Boy bravely, and he put his second foot on the second leaf stem of the beanstalk, and began climbing.

  The Boy went up the beanstalk, one leaf after another. It was very much like climbing a ladder, and a lot easier than climbing a tree.

  Partway up, he paused and looked down. The thatched roof of the cottage was just beneath him. Not far away he could see another cottage, with hollyhocks outside the door instead of roses. Walking up the path toward the cottage was a girl. She was wearing a bright red cloak, with a hood pushed halfway back over her long dark hair.

  She looked up, smiled at him, and waved. “Hello, Jack!” she called.

  The Boy didn’t bother to explain that he wasn’t Jack. He was looking at her red cloak. He knew who she must be.

  He called to her, “Are you going to visit your grandmother?”

  “Of course,” called the girl. “It’s Friday. I’ve baked her some chocolate chip cookies, they’re her favorite.”

  “Please be careful,” the Boy called.

  She laughed. “It’s just my grandmother! She’s in bed!”

  The Boy was longing to save her. “No! Listen! It could be a wolf! Make sure her voice isn’t deep! Make sure her ears aren’t furry! And if she has claws and big sharp teeth, don’t stop to say dumb things like ’Oh Grandmama, what big teeth you have’—just run like anything!”

  The girl laughed merrily. “You’re silly! Have some cookies!” she called, and she swung her arm way back and tossed a little bag up to him.

  The Boy caught the bag. “Run! Remember—run!”

  “Sure, sure,” called Little Red Riding Hood, and off she trotted to her grandmother’s cottage.

  “She’s not listening,” said the Boy unhappily, and he went on up the beanstalk. Before long he was so high up that he had a wonderful view over the whole Land of Story, over woods and fields and rivers and high faraway mountains, and beyond them, shining like a lost jewel, the glint of the sea.

  Then there was a shaking in the leaves above him, and down the beanstalk came a boy. He was a cheerful-looking boy with a bulging sack slung over his shoulder, and he was whistling. He stopped when he saw the Boy.

  “Are you Jack, please?” asked the Boy.

  “Of course I am,” said Jack. “What are you doing on my beanstalk?”

  “I’m looking for Saint George,” said the Boy. “I thought he might be chasing your Giant.”

  “Haven’t seen him,” said Jack. “I’m going home to my dinner. You be careful if you go up there. I’ve just pinched a bag of the Giant’s treasure, and he’s hopping mad. An angry Giant is not a thing you want to meet.”

  He grinned at the Boy and went on down the beanstalk.

  The Boy looked up through the big green leaves.

  “Saint George!” he called. “Are you up there?”

  The leaves rustled in the wind, but nobody answered. So the Boy took a deep breath and went on climbing.

  At last the leaves grew smaller and he was at the top of the beanstalk, with blue sky above him. Around him was a field of corn.

  He looked round at the tall corn plants, taller than his head. The beanstalk had chosen a very good place to push itself up into the world of the Giant—nobody could notice it here.

  But there was no sign of Saint George.

  The ground began to shake, as if someone were hitting it with a very big hammer—or walking over it with very big feet. The Boy held his breath, and stood very still, and he heard, coming closer and closer, a huge deep voice.

  “Fee fi fo fum,” boomed the voice. “I smell the blood of an Englishman!”

  And the Giant appeared, tramping through the cornfield with feet as big as sofas. He was about twenty feet high, with enormous shoulders and a nobbly bald head. He had hair all over his nose, and a third eye in the middle of his forehead. He was a nasty sight, and he was coming closer.

  The Boy ran along a row of corn, and out into a grassy field, but the big feet came after him. He looked wildly around. Where could he go? His heart was thumping, thumping, faster than the tramping feet.

  He stood still. This was the end. The Giant was going to squish him like a bug.

  The thumping feet came closer—and closer—and closer….

  Thump, thump, thump, came the Giant’s feet.

  The Boy stood there shaking.

  “Fee fi fo fum,” boomed the Giant, really close now. “I smell—”

  He stopped suddenly, and his voice dropped to a hopeful whisper.

  “—chocolate?”

  The Boy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Very fast, he pulled Little Red Riding Hood’s bag of chocolate chip cookies out of his pocket.

  “Have a cookie, Giant!” he said, and he held one up in the air, reaching as high as he possibly could.

  The Giant bent down, a long long way down, and took the cookie between his finger and thumb. It was a big cookie, but in his big hand it looked like a tiny button. The Giant put out his huge purple tongue, which took the cookie into his enormous mouth.

  “Mmmmm!” said the Giant happily.

  The Boy called up to him, “Please, have you seen Saint George?”

  The Giant snorted. “Saint George? That Dragon-chaser? If he came up here, I’d eat him for breakfast!”

  “Have another cookie,” said the Boy quickly, and held one up. It went away on the tip of the big purple tongue, and the Giant made his happy noise again. It seemed to the Boy a very good time to leave, before the Giant might get cross again.

  “Here, have all of them!” he said, and he emptied the bag of chocolate chip cookies into the grass. With a great crash the Giant went down on his hands and knees, and while he was trying to pick up the cookies with his big clumsy fingers, the Boy ran back into the cornfield, found the beanstalk, and began climbing down.

  He went down from leaf stem to leaf stem, much faster than he had come up. Down, down, down, he went. He was so pleased to be getting away from the Giant that he didn’t look where he was going—until there was a terrible snarling roar below him, and he felt a great tug at the bottom of one leg of his jeans.

  He looked down. A huge wolf was there, right under his feet at the bottom of the beanstalk. It spat out a piece of the Boy’s jeans and turned to jump up again. The Boy hastily climbed back up several leaf stems, and held on tight.

  Snarling, the wolf leaped at him, snapping its jaws. Its teeth looked very big and very sharp.

  “You warned her, you little weasel!” howle
d the wolf. “You told her! And she ran!”

  The Boy was delighted. “Good for her!” he said.

  The wolf snarled with fury. “You spoiled everything! The wolf wants to eat Red Riding Hood!”

  “Not this time!” said the Boy. He held tightly to the beanstalk, as the wolf leaped up at him again, biting at the air.

  “I’ll eat you instead!” the wolf hissed. “I can wait!”

  It lay down at the bottom of the beanstalk, panting. Its long red tongue hung out over its sharp white teeth, and its bright eyes glared up at the Boy.

  The Boy sat down on a leaf stem. Now he was scared. He called out, “Saint George, where are you? Come and help me!”

  But nobody came.

  The wolf lay there looking up at the Boy, showing its teeth. Once in a while it gave a nasty growl.

  “Dinnertime,” it said, and licked its lips.

  The Boy didn’t want to be dinner. The leaf stem was sticking into his leg, and his foot was going to sleep. He kept tight hold of the edge of a leaf, to make sure he didn’t fall off. What ever was he to do?

  He turned his head to look around, and a cluster of bean pods poked him in the eye.

  “Ow!” the Boy said.

  Then he had an idea.

  A very good idea.

  The enormous beanstalk was covered not only with leaves but with bright red flowers and long bean pods. Some of the pods were very fat. They were starting to dry out, and they were nearly ready to pop.

  The Boy often had to pick peas and beans in the Magician’s garden, so he knew that the beans in those dry pods would be hard as stones. And because this beanstalk was so huge, the beans would also be ten times the size of a regular bean.

  He reached up to the nearest dry bean pod, which was as long as his arm. It was far too big and hard for him to pick it, but perhaps he could squeeze it hard enough to make it pop open. He put both his arms round the end of the pod and hugged it, hard—and it opened.

  There inside lay six hard round green beans. They were even bigger than he expected.

  The Boy pulled out a bean, the size of a baseball. He aimed very carefully, and he threw it at the wolf.

  “Ow!” The wolf jumped up in the air, as the bean hit it on the back.

  The Boy grinned. He threw another giant bean, and it hit the wolf full on the nose. The wolf screeched. Then it backed away from the Boy and howled in rage.

  The door of Jack’s cottage swung open and Jack came running out. He was still chewing his dinner, and he had a chunk of bread in his hand. He stared at the wolf, and then up at the Boy.

  “Wolf,” he said, “what are you doing under my beanstalk? Go back to your own story!”

  The wolf snarled at him.

  “Go on,” Jack said sternly. “You know the rules.”

  The wolf bared its teeth, which looked bigger and sharper than ever. “It was him,” it said sulkily. “He broke the rules. He warned Red Riding Hood to watch out for me.”

  “He doesn’t know any better,” said Jack. “He’s a visitor, he’s on a quest. You belong here. Go home! Go on!”

  “No fair,” said the wolf. He looked at the Boy, and bared his teeth again.

  “If you’re not careful I’ll bring my Giant down here,” Jack said. “Wolves are his favorite thing for dinner, if he can’t catch boys.”

  The wolf whined. “No fair,” it said, but it slunk off with its tail between its legs.

  “Thanks very much,” said the Boy to Jack. He climbed down off the beanstalk. “What’s a quest?”

  “Looking for something,” Jack said. “Or someone. You’re on a quest to find Saint George.”

  “And I’m no good at it,” said the Boy gloomily.

  “Cheer up,” said Jack. “Here, have a snack.” He held out his piece of bread.

  “Thanks!” said the Boy. He took a bite. It was very good bread.

  Jack said, “If Saint George is here, he’s in his own story. Everyone is. And his story is ‘Saint George and the Dragon,’ right?”

  “Right,” said the Boy, chewing.

  “Try looking for the Dragon. Dragons are hard to miss. Then you’ll find Saint George with him!”

  “That’s a great idea,” the Boy said.

  “Good luck!” said Jack. “I’m off to bother my Giant again.” He slapped the Boy on the back, and began climbing up the beanstalk.

  “He loves chocolate!” the Boy called after him.

  But Jack was gone.

  A gruff voice said, “So now you’re looking for a Dragon?”

  The Boy looked down. It was the signpost, standing there pointing as usual in both directions.

  “Where have you been?” the Boy said. He took another bite of bread.

  “Right here,” said the signpost. “I can’t climb beanstalks, and wolves don’t eat signposts. Don’t eat that last bit of bread.”

  The Boy was about to pop it in his mouth, but he stopped. “Are you hungry?” he said.

  “Signposts don’t eat, stupid,” said the signpost. “Share it with the birds. They might be useful.”

  The Boy broke his last bit of bread into crumbs, and scattered them on the ground. At once, four and twenty blackbirds came swooping down out of the trees and the beanstalk and pecked them up.

  The Boy looked at them, and remembered. “You be careful!” he said. “Someone wants to catch all of you, and bake you in a pie!”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” said the biggest blackbird. “It’s just the Magician. He doesn’t really cook us. We just sit in this big dish and he puts a baked crust over us. People think they have a yummy pie to eat, but when they cut it, we all fly out, singing. You should see their faces!”

  “I know a Magician like that,” said the Boy.

  “Thanks for the crumbs,” said the blackbird. She looked at him with her head on one side. “You need any bird help?”

  “Yes please,” said the Boy. “Will you tell me if you can see any parts of the wood where the trees have been burned by fire?”

  “Fire?” said the bird.

  “I’m looking for a Dragon,” said the Boy. “Dragons breathe fire all the time, they can’t help it.”

  “Okay,” said the biggest blackbird. She whistled to the others, and all twenty-four of them flew up past the treetops and disappeared.

  The Boy looked at the signpost with respect.

  “The birds were a good idea,” he said.

  “Well, I am supposed to show people the way,” said the signpost. “You just have to choose which one.”

  The birds came flying down again like a fall of black snow. They saluted.

  “Burned trees two miles east, sir,” said one.

  “Black treetops one mile north, sir,” said another.

  “Black trees five hundred yards south, sir,” said a third.

  “Burned trees a hundred yards west, sir,” said the biggest blackbird, “and still smoking!”

  “That’s it!” said the Boy. “The Dragon must be still there! Let’s go west!”

  He looked up to see which way the sun was shining. “This way!” he said, and they all set off. The blackbirds fluttered from tree to tree, singing.

  Soon the Boy could smell smoke. He ran through the trees, and he thought he saw the tip of an enormous tail disappearing ahead of him. Then he began to hear voices calling. Frightened voices.

  “Help!” cried the first voice.

  “Help, help!” cried the second.

  “Save us!” called the third.

  Suddenly the Boy was out in a grassy clearing. A wide strip of the grass was burned black, still smoking, and blackened leaves hung from the lower branches of the trees on the other side.

  It was a very big clearing, the size of a football field.

  The signpost stumped out after the Boy and stood next to him, looking round.

  The frightened shouts grew louder, and then out of the trees on the left side of the clearing three figures came running. The Boy recognized them; they were the people
dressed like the puppets from his play. There was the fat round figure of Father Christmas, the Doctor in his dark coat, and the Turkish Knight with his bright baggy pants flapping.

  “Help!” they cried as they ran. “Save us!”

  And after them came the Dragon.

  He was a huge, handsome Dragon, bright green all over, with red eyes and golden claws. Smoke and flame flew out of his nostrils when he opened his great red jaws to roar.

  “Wow!” said the signpost.

  The Turkish Knight turned bravely to fight the Dragon, waving his curved sword. But the Dragon swung his long scaly neck sideways, and the side of his bony green head knocked the Turkish Knight off his feet and up into the air.

  “Waaaaah!” cried the Turkish Knight, and he flew through the air and into the branches of a big oak tree, where he stuck, upside down.

  The Dragon galloped over to the tree and started trying to climb it.

  The Boy was watching wide-eyed. “Saint George must be here now!” he said.

  “Oh yes,” said the signpost. “He certainly is.”

  “Saint George!” called the poor upside-down Turkish Knight. “Help!”

  “Saint George!” called the Doctor, dodging in and out of the trees.

  The Dragon was too big to climb the tree. He snarled up at the Turkish Knight, showing his enormous white teeth.

  “Saint George!” called the Boy. “Where are you, Saint George?”

  He looked all round him, at the smoking grass and the blackened leaves.

  Then very slowly, one by one, out into the clearing, from behind every tree and bush, came all the people he had met in the Land of Story. The Old Woman was there, with all her children around her, and the Pied Piper, carrying his pipe.

  Little Zoe waved to the Boy. Red Riding Hood was there, with the wolf slinking sulkily behind her. Jack came out onto the sooty grass, and the big head of the Giant popped up behind a tree and looked down at the Boy. Pinocchio moved out stiffly, his nose a normal size now. And around them all the four and twenty blackbirds swooped and fluttered, singing.