A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic (17 page)

Doodle gasped.

“Oh, no,” Kai whispered.

It was the Celestial Moth.

“You can't kill
that
moth!” Doodle cried. “They're extirpated in this area!”

“Clearly, they aren't,” Pettyfer said smoothly. “Just extremely rare. And I'll show everyone how to pre—”

Kai didn't wait for the rest of the sentence—she lunged at the cardboard box. Pettyfer grabbed her sweater, but Doodle tackled him, shouting, “Save him, Kai!” Pettyfer still had a grip on her shirt, which was choking her. She whacked him with her violin case, and he staggered backward just long enough for her to grip the edge of the plastic wrap. The box fell to the floor, and a corner of the plastic came free.

“Get it!” Pettyfer screeched as the moth zigzagged
out. It paused to land on the American Casket sign, where it sat happily for a moment, until Pettyfer lunged at it. Then it fluttered toward the red flowers that grew in front of the library, paused a moment, and flew away.

There was an electric hum beside Kai, and when she looked over, she saw Professor Hill. He was staring after the moth, which had disappeared around the side of the library.

“I'll sue you!” Pettyfer shouted, jabbing a finger at Doodle.

“Go ahead!” Doodle shrieked. “Do it!”

Kai had never seen Doodle so furious, and was so impressed by it that it didn't occur to her to get in between Doodle and Pettyfer. Luckily, it did occur to Carlos, who hurried over to break up the fight.

Kai looked around for Great-Aunt Lavinia. She stood half out of her booth. She had started to come over, and then decided that she wasn't needed. Instead, she had watched the whole scene with an amused smile. She held up a glass of Luna Juice, a toast. Kai smiled a little and turned back to her friends.

Professor Hill looked up at Kai. “Was that . . . a
Celestial Moth?” he asked, breathless.

“Yes,” Kai replied.

She expected Professor Hill to say,
Oh, wow! I didn't know there were any still around here!
Instead, he reached out and touched the shiny sign where the moth had landed for a moment. He looked back at Kai. “Take the sign,” he commanded, “and follow me.”

Kai didn't ask questions; she grabbed the sign and trotted after Professor Hill, who was rolling away at top speed. The hubbub had gone quiet around them, so quiet that Kai could hear the squeak of the balloons as two were twisted together to form a butterfly.

“Hey! Give that back!” Pettyfer shouted. “Get back here! I'll sue you, too! I'll sue all of you!” Carlos was holding him by the shoulders, so it was impossible for him to give chase.

Not that it would have mattered. Kai had the sign in one hand and her violin in the other, and there was no way that she was giving up either one. Her magic book had taught her one thing: she didn't always need to understand what was happening in order to keep moving forward.

She thought about the latest moment in
The Exquisite Corpse
—the part in which Edwina's letters stopped. Do you know what Kai did when she read that?

She wrote:
Unacceptable. I want a happy ending
.

Then she put the book back on the shelf.

Like I said: keep on moving.

I want a happy ending,
Parker thought as he stared at his sister in her coffin. She was wearing her best blue dress.
I can't believe this is happening.

There were very few mourners at the service. Most of the friends they had made were gone to Simla, including Trix and Ruddy, and Melchisedec had not yet arrived in Lahore. Still, several business associates attended the ceremony, including one man who had been introduced as Melchisedec's attorney, but whose blind eye and scarred face suggested another occupation.

The Cathedral Church of the Resurrection was a beautiful pink sandstone structure, newly consecrated. It was not the largest cathedral Parker had ever seen, but it was large enough to whisper the melancholy echo of footeps as
the few mourners began to shuffle out.

Melchisedec's “lawyer” moved up the aisle, as if to approach the casket.

“Excuse me,” Parker told the man. “I would like a moment alone with my sister before the coffin is sealed.”

The man glanced at the casket, where Edwina lay, perfectly still. “I think it is a very elegant casket.”

“My guardian very generously provided it.”

With a nod, the man donned his hat and turned to leave. His footsteps rang up to the vaulted ceiling.

Parker kneeled at the casket. When the reverend came to speak to Parker, he asked him, too, for a moment alone with his sister.

“Of course,” Reverend Allcott said. “Take your time.”

“Please accept this donation for the church.” Parker passed the reverend a thick roll of bills, and the holy man nodded.

“Thank you,” Reverend Allcott replied. “We hope we will one day collect enough to order bells for our tower from England. This will help us.”

Once he had left, Parker kneeled by the coffin and prayed silently. Several minutes ticked by. Finally, he
whispered, “It's all right.”

“Are you sure he's gone?” Edwina asked. She did not open her eyes. She did not stir, except for her lips.

“They all are.”

Edwina sat up in the casket, and Parker helped her step down. “I felt that man staring at me. I held my breath.”

Parker closed the casket's top.

“This will be buried tomorrow,” he told her. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Melchisedec is coming.” She shook her head. “Do you really think he will wait for me to turn twenty-one, and then allow me to return? You should disappear, too.”

“I'm happy here,” Parker said. “Besides, you know our ‘uncle' has nothing to fear from me. He's bribed every judge in the county; they would never overturn the will. And I don't plan to attempt it.”

Edwina smiled sadly at him until he grasped her hand, and they exchanged a warm embrace.

“Here is the ticket for your passage,” Parker said, “and enough money to live on for a while. I'll wire you more once you're back in the States. Samir has also provided
papers. . . .” Her brother waggled his eyebrows.

“Are you certain that no one will suspect it's me?” Edwina asked.

“You are now Edie Allen,” Parker told her. “Samir has also given money to several . . . interested parties.” Parker handed Edwina a black canvas bag.

“He's bribed them, you mean,” Edwina corrected.

“Really, Edwina. There's no need to be so unsavory.” Parker had a deep practical streak, and he knew that when one was fighting fire, it was often best to use fire. “Your trunk has been packed and sent ahead. A proper trunk; not a casket. Samir really is quite a good man.” Behind him, light streamed in through the stained-glass window, which glowed luminous blue. Edwina thought of her moths.

She would miss her brother, but this was the only way to truly escape from Melchisedec. It was a magic trick. She would return to Ralph, her dear old mole. He would help her.

Edwina kissed her brother's cheek, and hurried toward the side entrance, where Samir stood waiting for her. He was a native man, very handsome in a bowler hat and
smart silver mustache, and he gave a slight bow as she approached.

Edwina clutched her bag in one hand, her violin case in the other. “I'm ready,” she said.

M
AMOO ANSWERED THE DOOR
himself, which surprised Leila so much that she let out a little yelp. Silver eyebrows lifted, Mamoo glanced at Samir. “Are you here for tea?”

“We want a sweet dish!” Wali cried.

Samir hushed his little brother. “Leila wanted to talk to you,” he said, just as Leila said, “I've got to tell you something!”

“And so you brought the whole family?” Mamoo crossed his arms and chuckled. He was beginning to appreciate that Leila's intelligence was not the traditional kind; it was more the romantic, creative kind.

“Samir knew the way, Chirragh is our chaperone, and Wali—I have no idea why he's here,” Leila explained. Once the seven-year-old caught a whiff of the excitement,
he had insisted on coming along. Although it had been explained to him that nothing of interest was happening, he knew a lie when he heard one.

Chirragh went around the house as the children shook off their shoes and hurried toward the long sitting room. Mamoo settled into his chair, Wali bounced on the couch, Samir perched on the end of an ottoman, and Leila stood. The blinds were drawn, but light reached in around the cracks. Mamoo did not turn on a lamp, but there was enough to see by. “Tell me,” he said.

“She didn't die,”
Leila announced. She gestured hugely, as if the whole sitting room were an audience.

“Who didn't die?” Wali asked.

“Edwina Pickle. Everyone thought she died, but she didn't—well, not while she was in Pakistan. India. Whatever.”

“Who's that?” Wali asked. Everyone ignored him. Mamoo sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together.

“Why didn't she die?” Wali asked. “Why did people think she did?”

“She and her brother pretended that she had died, so that she could get away from her terrible guardian!”
Leila's words ran together, as if they were in a rush to get out.

Samir's eyebrow stood at attention. “Are we talking about the woman who was playing the violin?” he asked, pointing to the Dictaphone in the corner.

“Yes! They faked her death!” Leila clapped her hands.

“I know that,” Mamoo said.

“What?” Leila screeched.

“He said, ‘I know that,'” Wali explained.

“That was already in English, Wali, thanks. How could you know?”

Mamoo stood up and crossed the room to the Dictaphone. He pulled open a drawer in the cabinet. “I have her letters.” He pulled out a stack of correspondence tied with a faded blue ribbon. “Her brother saved them all, along with his Dictaphone replies, which, I presume, were then typed by my grandfather. I don't know if my father ever realized that they were in the cabinet, but I found them several years ago. I have been asking your father, Samir, to use some of his contacts at the Lahore Museum to see if they would be interested in having them, but he keeps putting it off.” Mamoo shook his
head. “I don't know why he puts it off.”

“You've read the letters?” Leila cried. “What happened to her? Did she marry Ralph?”

“I really have no idea what we're talking about,” Samir said.

“I'll explain later,” Leila promised, but Mamoo did not want to be rushed.

“My grandfather's employer, Parker Pickle, and his sister, Edwina, were heirs to a very large fortune. Edwina was afraid for her life, and so her brother told everyone that she died of typhoid and had her casket buried in the cemetery. But she returned to the United States, and her brother paid for her to go to college. Eventually, she got married—”

“To Ralph?” Leila cried.

Mamoo looked at her curiously. “To a man named Ralph Flabbergast.”

“I knew it! I knew it!” Leila danced around the room, and Wali took the opportunity to join her, also shouting, “I knew it!” although he had not known it, not remotely.

“At any rate, it's very interesting. It seems that, upon his sister's ‘death,' Parker Pickle
should
have become the
heir to a large fortune—but he never collected it, as he was not formally named in the will. Not that he seems to have tried very hard. So his guardian—”

“Melchisedec!” Leila cried.

“You should say Alhamdulillah,” Wali instructed her, assuming she had sneezed.

Mamoo narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Melchisedec Jonas—he retained control of the company. Parker very clearly hoped that Edwina's daughter would someday inherit the fortune, but I doubt she ever did.”

“Oh, they had a baby!” Leila wished she had brought
The Exquisite Corpse
with her; she would have given it a kiss.

“Well, the whole thing has recently come to my attention because I had the shellac on the cabinet tested, as you suggested, Samir. It contains a derivative of Scarlet Catsbane, which is what the moths so enjoy. It is their primary food. But it can cause respiratory and skin problems for some humans, especially those with lung weaknesses. The American Casket website says that they still use their one-hundred-year-old preservation formula, so I wrote to them, warning them that their shellac might be dangerous,
and I received a rather nasty reply.”

“But—Melchisedec Jonas can't still be alive?” Leila asked.

“The letter,” Mamoo said, pursing his lips, “was from someone calling himself Pettyfer Jonas Sr.”

Leila was shocked. “What a jerk!”

“Indeed,” Mamoo agreed.

The room fell silent.

“Can we have a sweet now?” Wali asked.

Leila looked up at him. She had forgotten he was there. She had forgotten about Samir, too, who was looking at her with an expression of patient bewilderment, as if he wasn't sure what was happening, but understood it was important and had faith that he would hear an explanation later.

In the kitchen, something clinked.

“Do you smell that?” Mamoo asked as a fragrant scent wafted past. “Ah! My cook is quite good. Of course, he can't compare with Chirragh.”

Chirragh makes the best goat in Lahore,
Shireen had said. Leila shuddered when she remembered that Chirragh was supposed to buy a new goat today. There was no way to stop him . . .

“It smells like
gajar halwa
!” Wali cried as a servant opened a door and entered the room pushing a tea cart.

“Oh, good,” Samir said.

But Leila's thoughts whirled. “Wait,” Leila said, holding up a hand. “Wait.”

“Wait for what?” Samir asked, but Mamoo hushed him.

Thoughts were colliding like atoms in Leila's mind; she was burning with the friction of them.
Chirragh is trustworthy—he has been with the family his whole life. Edwina in the coffin. Chirragh's lamb is delicious. Edwina escaped. The goat is under a death sentence.

She looked up at them. Her face was completely changed—it was shining with the light from all those thoughts. “I have an idea,” she announced.

Three days later, Leila was in the Awans' backyard, standing in the shade of the mango tree. Samir, Wali, and Babar Taya stood beside her, and the goat paced, finally letting out a raw bleat. It was her goat, Flower. Chirragh had brought her back.

Chirragh squatted, sharpening a knife on a stone.
Every now and again, he would pause to test the blade against his thumb. To Leila, the blade looked fine as a razor.

“I do not enjoy this,” Babar Taya admitted. “Some people simply lay their hands on the knife, and then allow the servant to butcher the animal. But I don't feel that I should ask Chirragh to do something that I am unwilling to do myself.” He sighed and looked at Leila. “I do hope that this won't be too upsetting for you.”

“It's part of my culture,” Leila said nervously. Her heart throbbed, as if it were tender with a bruise, and the heat made her head buzz. She did not want to stay, either. She would rather be inside with her aunt and Rabeea, but she felt much as Babar Taya did. This mess was her fault. She couldn't just run away now, no matter what.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of rotting mango. The rains had come last night, pouring down thick as snowflakes, hard as gravel. This morning, the ground was wet, and all of the leaves were washed clean.

Finally, Chirragh held up the knife and nodded curtly. He held the blade, offering the handle to Babar Taya. Her uncle's fingers reached—

“What! What's all this?” Mamoo barreled into the yard, closely followed by Asif and another servant, who were weighted down with a large box. “Nephew, I have come to tell you that this is your final chance to review these documents for the Lahore Museum. Otherwise, I will ship them to America today!”

Babar Taya's eyes were wide at the sight of the box. “It's Eid,” he said.

“My friend is traveling to the States, and has agreed to take them. There is a museum that is interested!”

Babar Taya looked distressed. “I had no idea there were so many documents!”

“I have three more boxes,” Mamoo announced. “But it is just as simple to send them to America, where they may be of greater value.”

“Leave them here, Mamoo,” Babar Taya said. “I'll look through them and send them along this week.”

“My friend leaves tonight!” Mamoo pointed to the box. “Either you take them to the museum now, or I will ship them to America today!”

“Mamoo, don't be unreasonable. . . .”

“
I
am unreasonable? This is absurd! I have been asking
about this for three years! I want this taken care of—right now.”

Babar Taya seemed to think it over. Finally, he gave a little flick of the hand. “I think that would be best,” he said. “Yes, send them to America.”

Leila gulped.

Chirragh held out the blade again.

“Eh? What's this?” Mamoo asked. “Am I not the elder? Should not the honor of the sacrifice go to me?”

Babar Taya looked surprised. “You've never wanted to do it before, Mamoo.”

“Nonsense!” He gestured toward Chirragh, who held the knife toward Mamoo.

“Abu?” A screen door slammed, and Samir burst out into the yard. “Abu! I'm sorry, but there's a man on the telephone who insists on speaking with you right away. He says he is calling from Hong Kong. He said it was quite urgent—something about servers being hacked—”

The color drained from Babar Taya's face, and Leila felt a stab of worry. But Babar Taya turned to Mamoo. “You don't mind doing the honor?” he asked, glancing toward the goat.

“I insist,” Mamoo said, in a voice that left no room for doubt.

Babar Taya murmured a quiet prayer, thanked Mamoo—who waved him away—and then darted into the house. Chirragh gave Mamoo the knife, and Mamoo motioned to the servants to place the box on the ground.

Leila untied the goat. “Good-bye,” she said, throwing her arms around the goat's neck. “Don't be afraid.”

The goat let out a terrified scream as Asif picked her up. Mamoo opened the lid of the box, and Asif placed her inside. Mamoo barked directions to Asif, and he and Mamoo's driver lifted the box. Asif smiled at Leila, his dark mustache trembling as if he was laughing very quietly as he carried the box to Mamoo's car.

Chirragh jutted his chin, and Mamoo's whiskers twitched. “I'll be back in time for dinner,” he said, and then turned to follow the box.

Leila smiled after him. “I like that crazy old guy.”

Samir nodded. “He's a good man.”

Wali looked up at Leila. “But what are we going to eat?”

“It's called seitan,” Leila said. “I had Asif pick some up
at the international store. It's made of wheat, but it tastes like meat. Once Chirragh is done with it, you won't know the difference.”

“And what about Allah? Won't he be angry?” Wali's black eyes were huge.

“Mamoo has given money to the poor for our family,” Samir explained. “No one will go hungry because of this goat.” He grinned at Leila. “Furthermore, it was a sadaqa,” he said.

“Sadaqa?” Leila repeated. A blessing. A good thing.
Well . . . it sort of is. Like feeding the pigeons
.

“It was an adventure!” Wali cried, which made Leila giggle, although she guessed it was true. It was small, and it was kind of . . .
weird
. And there were parts of it that she didn't understand.

It wasn't at all like a Dear Sisters adventure, but it was real, and it was magical, and it was hers. She wished she could tell someone about it—Ta'Mara, or Aimee, or even Nadia. But none of them would ever believe it. None of them had the right kind of imagination.

But she did.

Leila looked up at the sky. The clouds were small and
choppy, but the sky was clear. The smoke had lifted; the rain had washed it all away.

           
FALLS RIVER SENTINEL

                
Mark and Ellen Grove (nee Flabbergast) are delighted to announce the birth of their son, Walter Isaac Grove, on July 10, 1968. He weighed seven pounds, ten ounces, and was seventeen inches long.