Wizard’s Hall

by Jane Yolen

  “Didn’t,” Thornmallow said, all his sorrow and embarrassment packed into the one word.

  “Did.”

  “Didn’t!” he repeated stubbornly.

  “Did!” Gorse made a face at her soup.

  “What Gorse means,” Tansy interrupted, “is that magic can’t happen unless it’s meant. Really meant.”

  “It’s a rule,” added Will.

  “Rule number five,” Gorse said, taking a taste of her own soup and shuddering. “Lizard soup again.”

  “Lizard?” Thornmallow gulped and put down his spoon.

  “Don’t pay any attention to old Gooey,” Will advised. “She likes to be disgusting. I have ten sisters just like her. Ignoring them works wonders.”

  “Lizard,” Thornmallow whispered hopelessly, staring down into the brown soup.

  “Only if you want it to be,” Tansy said brightly, shaking her finger over his bowl. “See!”

  He dared another look. The soup was now bright green, the color of pond scum. That didn’t make it any more inviting. He put his spoon in again and brought it slowly to his mouth. The soup still tasted brown.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” Gorse asked. “She’s only a first-year student, after all.”

  “What Gorse means,” Will explained, “is that first-year students only learn how to change the face of a thing, not the thing itself. And don’t snap, Gooey. We’re meant to help him.”

  Gorse stared at Will. “I can snap if I want to, Sillyweed. I’m not his guardian—you are. I was yours, because I beat you to Wizard’s Hall by a week. That was enough.” She turned to Thornmallow. “Changing the face but not the race. Rule number one.”

  Ignoring Gorse, Will said, “For example, if you wanted to add meat to your soup, you could make it appear as if there were meat there.”

  “We learn to really change one part of a thing at a time in second year,” added Tansy.

  Will nodded. “In second year, you could change one part of the soup to be meat and it would be meat, not just its appearance.”

  Stirring her spoon in the soup, Gorse said in sepulchral tones, “Taste like meat, smell like meat, feel like meat.”

  “It would be meat,” Will continued. “But you couldn’t do vegetables. Not at the same time. You can only change one part, you see. The rest of the soup would still be—”

  “Brown?” asked Thornmallow.

  “You’ve got it!” Tansy said. “But by third year, you’ll know how to change the entire thing.”

  “You mean, then it could be meat and vegetable soup?” asked Thornmallow, so excited he put a hand on Gorse’s shoulder and stared eagerly across at Will.

  “Lizard!” said Gorse, poking at a lizard that was doing a creditable backstroke across the green liquid in her bowl.

  Tansy and Will stared openmouthed at it. “How could he … how could it …” Their words dribbled off.

  “Well, what happens …,” Thornmallow asked withdrawing his hand. The lizard dove expertly to the bottom of the bowl and Will and Tansy both relaxed. “What happens in fourth year?”

  “We graduate,” said Will.

  “Graduate to what?”

  “To roast beef!” Gorse replied, in such hopeful tones that Tansy and Will laughed out loud.

  “It’s a matter of balance,” Tansy said. “Magic is all about keeping a balance. Big with little, dark with light, up with down, soft with loud.”

  “Lizard with roast beef,” Gorse added.

  They laughed again, and this time even Thornmallow joined in. But as suddenly as he started, he stopped.

  “I don’t understand at all,” he said. “If I am a first-year student and we can only change the face of a thing, not the thing itself, how come I was able to call in all that snow and …”

  “And break down the wall …,” said Will.

  “And leave a potted plant,” added Tansy.

  “And a stain,” Thornmallow ended miserably.

  “How indeed?” asked Gorse.

  No one remarked upon the lizard, for it had not resurfaced, and the soup was once again brown.

  The four of them looked at one another for a long moment, the heat of all those questions in their mouths. Then the changing bell shattered the silence and they rose. Whatever answers they might have had were lost in the bell’s thunderous voice.

  6

  MEETING

  They ran out into the hallway, Will dragging Thornmallow by the arm.

  “What …?” Thornmallow began. “Where …?”

  “Just follow me,” Will said. “I am your guardian. Do what I say.”

  They were suddenly part of a sea of students surging along the corridor toward a pair of large wooden doors. The solid babble of voices around them drowned out the rest of Thornmallow’s questions as he obediently followed Will, but it could not drown out his thoughts.

  How could I, a tendril of thought snaked into his brain, a first-year student with only half a class behind me, have done what I did? Perhaps I have a talent for wizardry after all. Perhaps … and here his thoughts took on the character of a whisper … perhaps I am destined to be a great wizard, even the greatest wizard the Hall has ever known. And won’t my dear ma be proud.

  He was grinning broadly by the time Gorse shoved him in the small of the back, and he stumbled forward onto one knee at the foot of a steeply winding iron stairway.

  “Up!” Will ordered.

  Thornmallow wasn’t sure if Will meant him to get up or to go up. But when Tansy pulled him from in front and Will and Gorse pushed him from behind, he realized that up was exactly what Will meant. He got to his feet and began climbing the stairs, though his knee now hurt dreadfully. At the top of the stairs was a balcony overlooking a great meeting room. Gorse shoved him onto one of the many benches, next to a railing. When he put his elbows on the railing and leaned over cautiously, he could see the whole of the room.

  It was the largest single room he’d ever been in, bigger even than his dear ma’s barn. At the far end was a rounded apse with a speaker’s platform below a vaulted ceiling. Behind the platform were three windows made of colored glass pictures. The window on the left showed a wizard in a scholar’s robe; the one on the right, a great winged serpent curled around a globe; and in the center was a staff topped by a golden orb with a series of words on a riband banner beneath. Thornmallow was too nearsighted to read the words.

  The room quickly filled with students, who scrambled for seats on the benches.

  “Upper classes,” whispered Tansy. “First year always gets the balcony.”

  Then a second bell rang. After that, a mighty silence descended upon the students, and Thornmallow found he was holding his breath. Just when he thought he might burst, there was a fanfare of trumpets, and the magisters marched in.

  There were thirteen of them in all, dressed in black robes relieved only by long, colorful scarves around their necks. In the lead was a handsome man with a great shag of shoulder-length red-gold hair rather like a lion’s mane. He carried a staff topped by an ochreous ball that emitted a yellow light on and off. More on than off.

  Thornmallow recognized the staff. “It’s the same as in the window …”

  Will elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Shhhh!” Tansy cautioned from the other side.

  The line of magisters walked solemnly to the front benches and sat. Thornmallow recognized Magister Beechvale, who was the tallest, his gray mustaches almost hidden by a red-and-blue-striped scarf. And surely the small woman with the purple-and-white scarf near the end was Briar Rose. Bringing up the rear, the one carrying the cage, who felt around the bench with his right hand, had to be Register Oakbend. The rest he didn’t recognize.

  When all the magisters were seated, the lion-maned leader stood and climbed the three steps up to the platform. Marching to the podium, he set the staff to one side. It hovered several inches above the ground, the light now burning steadily.

 
“Hail, fellow enchanters,” he said.

  “Hail, Magister Hickory,” they replied.

  Thornmallow marveled at how the sound seemed to grow and grow and grow until it filled the entire room, though no more than those few words were spoken.

  Then Magister Hickory held up his hand. As if cut by a great knife, the sound abruptly ended. Except for a deep sigh.

  Embarrassed, Thornmallow realized that he was the source of that sigh. He put his hand up over his mouth and leaned away from the railing, hoping no one had heard.

  Evidently no one had, for Magister Hickory began to speak. His voice was strong and melodic. Thornmallow not only heard the words; he felt them, as if they’d entered his body somewhere below the breastbone and stayed vibrating there. He leaned forward again.

  “Wizard’s Hall,” said Magister Hickory, “is now full. As of yesterday morning, the one-hundred-and-thirteenth student has entered our doors, taking his place among us.” He muttered something under his breath that might have been “At last.”

  “Aaaah,” came the response.

  Tansy squeezed Thornmallow’s arm. “That’s you!” she whispered. “Number one-thirteen. Isn’t it wandy?”

  “What’s wandy?” asked Thornmallow.

  “Shhhhh!” said Gorse.

  Thornmallow bit his lip and was silent.

  “But as we all know,” Magister Hickory went on, “it says in the Book of Spells: To begin is not to finish.”

  TO BEGIN IS NOT TO FINISH. The words flashed above Magister Hickory’s head, and all around Thornmallow the first-year students nodded in response.

  “Look to your right!” ordered Magister Hickory.

  Thornmallow jerked to his right and stared. There was Will, and beyond him a boy with yellow hair that curled up and into his ears, and beyond him a boy with a strange green streak in his hair.

  “Now look to your left.”

  Obediently Thornmallow turned to the left. Next to him was Tansy and beyond her Gorse, and then a skinny boy sticking a finger into his ear.

  “Now listen!”

  Thornmallow jumped at the thunderous words and focused back on Magister Hickory standing at the rostrum.

  “To begin is not to finish.” The words behind the magister now flickered a warning red. “Not everyone you have just glanced at will graduate from Wizard’s Hall. The course is long. The classes are hard. Some will drop out and become hedge wizards or village herbwives or mere card players in a traveling show. Yet to fail here at the Hall is not to fail in life, only to fail at total deep wizardry.” Magister Hickory paused and looked meaningfully around the room. “You would not be here if you did not have talent. Dr. Mo would not allow it.”

  A strange squeal from the front row came as if in answer, and Magister Hickory smiled down in that direction.

  “Yes, yes, Dr. Mo,” Magister Hickory said, “you are correct, of course. Talent is not enough.”

  Behind the rostrum the letters shifted from red to a fierce icy blue. The words TALENT IS NOT ENOUGH glowed at them.

  “There is something more you must do, and that something more is—”

  “You must try!” Thornmallow cried out the words before he realized what he was doing.

  Tansy slapped her hand over his mouth, and Will’s hand slammed on top of hers. Gorse hissed a frantic warning. But Magister Hickory had heard this time. He glared up at the balcony, his gaze as icy as the flashing words.

  Swiveling in their seats, the upperclassmen searched for the culprit above them, and one by one the magisters, too, turned to stare. All, that is, but Register Oakbend, who sat unmoving, although an excited cluttering came from the cage by his side.

  “WHO SAID THAT?” roared Magister Hickory.

  Slowly Thornmallow disengaged Tansy’s and Will’s hands from his mouth and stood. They were his guardians but not his guards. If Magister Hickory wanted to know, Thornmallow would have to tell him. It was the only decent, the only right, the only proper thing to do. He wondered briefly what his dear ma would say when he returned in the morning. Surely, talent or no, he was about to be expelled.

  “I did, sir.”

  “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” Each word Magister Hickory spoke was an arrow below Thornmallow’s ribs.

  Thornmallow gulped. He wished he could just disappear through the floorboards, out the door, over the Far-Rise Hills, and be home. “Henry, sir.”

  Dr. Mo squeaked loudly. “Squark!” It echoed around the room.

  Tansy yanked on his sleeve.

  “I mean, Thornmallow, sir,” he amended. Then, as if to make up for the awful mistake, he added, “Number one hundred and thirteen, sir.”

  The hall was hushed. Magister Hickory’s eyes bore right into him.

  “Ah. So you are number one hundred and thirteen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thornmallow.” There was such power behind the name when spoken by Magister Hickory that Thornmallow’s knees began to buckle. Will put his hand out to steady him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Repeat what you just shouted out, Thornmallow.”

  Thornmallow drew in a deep breath, so deep he felt light-headed. “You must try,” he said, surprised his voice wasn’t quaking. His knees certainly were.

  There was a long moment of the deepest silence. Thornmallow wished again he could disappear. It needn’t be all the way home. Just outside the room, down the stairs, into the hallway would do. But two days at Wizard’s Hall hadn’t made him a wizard. Yet.

  Magister Hickory pursed his lips and stared up at the balcony. He drew in a great breath. At last he spoke. “Quite … right,” he said. “You are quite right.”

  Behind him a sentence burst into a brilliant green, not unlike the color of the lizard soup: YOU MUST TRY.

  7

  NOT A WIZARD

  They were all dismissed right after, and Thornmallow—his knees entirely water—could scarcely keep standing. But with Will and Tansy and Gorse all helping, he finally made his way down the winding stairs.

  “Nice going, Thornmallow!” came a call as they reached the main floor. The speaker was an upper-classman with the beginnings of a yellow mustache above his lip.

  “Awfully brave, Thorny,” cried an older girl, patting him on the head.

  “Hurrah, number one-thirteen!” shouted another, waving her hand.

  The buzz of student voices was overpowering, and Thornmallow even heard someone say, “Frightfully prickly,” which he decided to take as a compliment, though he wasn’t entirely sure. But he could feel the heat on his face, and his collar was suddenly too tight, and his knees were still liquid. In truth he was a shy boy and not at all used to crowds.

  “I need … I need …,” he began.

  “What you need is air,” said Gorse.

  He nodded because she was right.

  “Make way, make way for the wandy Thornmallow,” Will shouted. And surprisingly, an open path appeared between the students. With Will pushing and Tansy pulling and Gorse shouting for everyone to let him be, Thornmallow soon found himself in front of a small wooden door.

  “Go on,” said Tansy. “Out there. Plenty of air. You need to be alone for a minute. We’ll guard the door, and you can get some good breaths.”

  “Is this—is this what a guardian does?” Thornmallow gasped.

  Gorse opened the door. “Of course,” she said. “What are you expecting—friends?” But she winked at him before pushing him through and gave him a sunny smile.

  Friends, he thought as he walked outside. He’d never actually had any before, just his dear ma and his favorite cow, Bos. Friends. If he left now, just disappeared over the Far-Rise Hills, he wouldn’t have friends anymore. Except Bos. And his dear ma. All of a sudden, Bos and his dear ma weren’t enough.

  He breathed deeply seven or eight times, thinking about Will and Tansy and Gorse, before he had the presence of mind to look around. He was back in the very same courtyard he’d entered only the day before. What a barren place it was
. No trees. No flowers. No birds singing. And that was odd, for surely wizards could conjure such things. Hadn’t he brought in a rosebush on his own? He looked up into the evening sky where the stars had just started to wink on. They stared down at him silently, not at all like the friendly map over his bed, looking as cold and as distant as Magister Hickory.

  Magister Hickory! Thornmallow shivered. Magister Hickory had praised him. Well, not exactly praised, but said that what he’d said was quite right. Everyone else seemed to think that was praise. But—and Thornmallow smiled ruefully to himself—he hadn’t meant to speak out in the meeting any more than he’d meant to bring snow into Magister Beechvale’s class.

  “Perhaps,” he whispered to the barren courtyard, “perhaps I am a brilliant wizard, an enchanter, in spite of myself.” He liked the sound of that. It made a certain sense. So he said it a little louder. “In spite of myself.” After all, he hadn’t made up anything, just repeated the verse he’d been taught in class. And repeated the bit of wisdom that first his mother, then Magister Briar Rose, and Magister Beechvale had said. “Perhaps I am wandy. Whatever that is.”

  Just as a test, he closed his eyes, remembering the little verse about milk and the dry cow. Only, when he opened his mouth and sang it softly to himself, the sound that came out was ghastly:

  There into here,

  Then into now,

  Let down the milk

  From the dry cow.

  When he sang it, it wasn’t a song. It was too hoarse for that. And it didn’t land on any proper note. Or at least any proper single note. It wobbled all over the place. As his dear ma often said of him, Three sounds to the wind and not a one of ’em worth hearing.

  He tried again, a little louder.

  If anything, it was worse.

  And nothing happened.

  “Of course,” he whispered to himself, “there’s no cow here anyway.” But there hadn’t been any roses or any snow before he’d sung the other verse in class, and that hadn’t stopped the avalanche. At the very least, he’d expected a glass of milk. Or a calf. Or a sight of Bos snug in her barn.

  He shook his head. “Not a wizard, then. Except when I don’t mean it to happen, never mind what rule number five says. There can’t be anything quite right about that, whatever Magister Hickory thinks. And if I’m here to fill somebody’s desperate need then that somebody is going to be awfully disappointed.”