Small Magics (8 page)

“Well, it grows late, lad.” Timothy said at last, looking around him. “Or rather it grows early. The moon is down.”

“Aye,” Thomas agreed, looking at the sky. “Darkest before the dawn.”

“It always is,” said the juggler.

Thomas took another sip of his whiskey. He had drunk more than enough already to make him careless of words, and there was something that he really wanted to know. “Timothy, can I ask you something?”

“About what?”

Thomas glanced down at Eileen and George. Both were sound asleep. He lowered his voice and took the plunge: “About what you said today, about the Blessed Daughter…”

Timothy laughed. “It was a story my mother used to tell. Said she got it from her mother. One time, long ago, the Four were equals. Not a family, but Gods together, and they each had names.” He took another drink, mused on his story a moment. “The names are gone now, of course, but she said that, back when they had names, they all created the world together. The Mother created the earth and the sea and all living things. The Father created the sky and the weather and the forces that make the earth shake and the tides roll. The Son put iron in the ground and gave man fire and the knowledge to use it. And the Blessed daughter, well, she gave the world music and joy and magic.

“And the Banished had names, too. They were the first of the Four’s creations; beautiful and immortal and doomed. They tried to overthrow the gods and were driven below ground, to lie in torment until the end of time, able to venture out on the earth only when summoned by those who would use their power.”

Timothy reached forward and stirred the coals of the fire, then sat back. “Then, of course, the Church of the High Father got the ear of the king.” He reached for the bottle again, found it empty, and set it aside. Grinning at Thomas, he said, “What happened next, Scholar?”

“The Church of the High Father began to rise in strength and declared itself to be the one true religion,” said Thomas, remembering the history and theology classes he’d taken. “Took two hundred years and a half-dozen wars.

The other gods were declared to be lesser beings who assisted the High Father in his creation, but who were not worthy of worship themselves. The High Father became creator of all, the Mother was reduced to his consort. The son became the Rebel Son, whose gifts to man were against the will of the High Father. The Daughter became the image of frivolity.”

Thomas took another sip of his drink. “It didn’t work, completely. The nunneries are all dedicated to the Mother. Smiths and miners and carpenters all have shrines to the Son, who brought man tools and taught them to use them. The theatres all have images of the Daughter carved into their stages. Of course,” he added carefully, “I never heard about the daughter giving man magic.”

“No one has, laddie,” said Timothy, raising his empty glass to Thomas. “It makes a great yarn, though.”

“Aye, it does,” said Thomas. “Do you believe it?”

Timothy lowered his glass. His eyes, which had been gently unfocused with the alcohol, were now looking sharply into Thomas’s. “Now why would I believe it?”

“Because you have magic.”

In the dim light of the last flames, Thomas saw Timothy go pale. “I have no magic, boy.”

“You made a ball of light appear out of your hand,” said Thomas. “You made it float, and you made it disappear afterwards.”

Timothy waved the idea away with a harsh slash of his hand at the air. “Nonsense! All I did today was fool the lot of you.”

“I was watching you,” Thomas said slowly, “after the trick to see where you were hiding the ball.”

“Were you now?” Timothy looked away. Abruptly he got to his feet. “And what did you see?”

Thomas suddenly felt nervous. He plunged on anyway. “I saw you take that ball out of your jacket pocket after the trick was over.”

Timothy’s hand was shaking when he raised his mug to drink again. He realized it was empty, and tossed it onto the grass. “Look, lad, I don’t know what you thought you saw—”

“Magic, you said.”

“Illusion,” corrected Timothy. “Tricks to deceive the eye.”

Thomas shook his head, remembering what he saw. “Magic.”

“Dammit, boy!” Timothy snapped, bringing Thomas upright with his sudden vehemence, “It was a trick! It was my best one, but it was still just a trick!”

“It was real,” Thomas insisted.

“It was a ball on a thread!” Timothy was sweating now, “and you’ll get me burned if you keep noising about witchcraft!”

“I’m not talking about witchcraft, I’m talking about magic!”

“And who but a scholar knows the difference?” demanded Timothy. “And who but a scholar cares? Everyone else would be happy to burn a man for witchcraft if they knew about it!”

“They don’t burn you for witchcraft,” Eileen said in a soft, sleepy voice. “They hang you.”

Both men stared at her in surprise and she blinked back at them, her eyes half-open. As they watched, she snuggled her head against the blanket. “Is it time to go home yet, Thomas?”

“Aye, I think it is,” Thomas said, still looking at the juggler.

“Well, tell me when to get up.” Her eyes closed again.

Timothy’s voice was much quieter when he next spoke. “Look, Scholar, you said there’s no such thing as witchcraft.”

“Aye,” Thomas nodded. “I did.”

“There you go, then. There’s no such thing.” He rose up and began kicking dirt into the fire. “It’s time you left.”

“Timothy,” Thomas forced himself to think through the alcohol. “I didn’t say you used witchcraft…”

Timothy said nothing, just kept kicking dirt on the fire until the last of the flames died and the only light was the dim red glow of the embers beneath.

“Please,” Thomas said. “All I want to know is if it’s real.”

Timothy stopped kicking at the coals and stared at the ground for a time. The thin red light made his face old, bringing out every line of worry and strain. “Those three you chased off also asked about witchcraft, lad.”

Thomas heard the fear in Timothy’s voice, saw it in his face. Timothy didn’t say anything more, just stood there, looking into the dying fire. With a sudden movement he kicked once more and smothered the last of the coals.

“I’m sorry,” said Thomas into the darkness. “I won’t talk about it again.”

It took Timothy a long time to answer, his voice floating out of the night to Thomas. “Do you promise?”

“I do. And I’ll swear by the Four as well if you like.”

Timothy chuckled. “No need, lad. If you can’t take the word of a scholar, whose is worth taking?”

Thomas managed a smile back, though he was sure Timothy couldn’t see it. “Will we see you at the fair tomorrow, then?”

“You will. Now let’s wake up that big lump of a friend of yours.”

Chapter 4

The smithy and the house beside it stood on the edge of town. George’s father had built both with his own hands. Thomas, who had spent nearly half his childhood in and around their house, remembered it very well. It was a pleasant home, well lit and sunny, even in the loft that George used as his room. It was also the single worst place in Elmvale to try to sleep off a hangover.

The morning was achingly bright, even through Thomas’s closed eyelids. His mouth was dry and fuzzy all at once, and his head felt like Lionel’s hammer was pounding away inside it instead of on the anvil outside. George’s father had always said, “A smith’s work is never done, from break of day to setting sun,” and true to his word, the man was putting hammer to anvil with what Thomas considered far too much vigour for this time of the morning.

Thomas opened his eyes and discovered that the sun had just cleared the woods and was shining directly into his face. He thought about crawling completely under the blankets, but gave it up. He could escape from the sunlight, but the noise from the forge wasn’t going to stop and it would take far more than the blanket to block it out.

Thomas cursed Lionel’s industriousness and reached for his breeches.

A few moments later, his feet bare and his shirt in his hand, Thomas stumbled through the kitchen, into the backyard, and over to the well. He hauled on the rope to bring up the bucket. It was half-full when it came up. Thomas took the few steps to the trough that George and Eileen’s father kept for visiting animals, bent forward, and poured the contents of the bucket over his head.

The water was cold. Thomas gritted his teeth against the sudden shock of it. His entire body erupted in chills and his head felt like it was simultaneously swelling inside and being crushed from without. He pulled himself away and stumbled back, gasping. After a moment, he forced himself upright.

The headache was still there, but the world was no longer a blur. The yard was as it always had been: a patch of earth stamped hard by continuous foot traffic and cleared of all vegetation for fear of sparks from the forge catching on dry grass. The smithy still had stone walls blackened by flame and soot and doors wide enough to admit a horse for shoeing. They were wide open, now, and Lionel had stopped his hammering to wave at Thomas. George, working the bellows and showing no sign of disability, did the same. Given how much his friend drank the night before, Thomas wondered how he was standing at all, let alone working away.

Thomas waved back, then shook the water out of his hair. The movement sent little jolts of pain through his head. He put on his shirt and headed back to the house, hardly stumbling at all until he reached the threshold and tripped into the kitchen.

Thomas had always loved their kitchen. It wasn’t a large place; the wooden table that served both as eating and working surface took up most of it. The smooth stone floors were always swept clean, the walls wiped free of any grease or soot from the hearth. The shelves were full with plates and bowls and mugs and the pantry off to the side was fairly bursting with food. A good number of Lionel’s customers would pay in barter, and as a result, Thomas had never visited to find a bare pantry. Thomas breathed deeply and smelled what was no doubt a very good breakfast in the making. He turned towards the large stone hearth that took up most of one wall and saw Eileen and her mother both watching him. Her mother shook a spoon at him.

“About time you woke up,” said Magda Gobhann.

Eileen’s mother had red hair like her daughter, and was almost the same size, though the years had added a pleasant stoutness to her build. With great embarrassment, Thomas realized that they must have been standing there when he’d stumbled through the kitchen moments before. He opened his mouth to apologize, but was swept into Magda’s arms for a hug and kissed on both cheeks before he could say anything.

“You are too thin,” she declared, stepping back and looking him over with a critical eye. “We’ll do something about that right now.” She turned to Eileen. “Go fetch your father and brother from the smithy.”

“No need.” George stepped into the kitchen, looking none the worse for wear save for slightly bloodshot eyes. Thomas was amazed and envious all at once. “We spotted him in the yard.” George grinned. “How are you this morning, Thomas?”

“I’ve been better.”

“I’ll bet you have,” laughed Lionel, clapping Thomas heartily on the back and sending him stumbling. The smith was a match for his son in height and several inches wider. His face had the well-earned wrinkles and scorches of a man who spent his years before the forge.

“George told us something of last night,” Magda said, catching Thomas’s arm and pulling him upright. “Though how you ended up here instead of at home with your family is beyond us.” She held up a hand to forestall Thomas’s answer. “You can explain it all to us over breakfast.”

“She’ll have five pounds on you before you leave the house tonight,” said Lionel, smiling. “And good thing, too; your father will never recognize you looking like that.”

How very true,
thought Thomas. “Now go and finish getting dressed,” said Magda. “Breakfast will be on the table when you come down.”

***

Thomas did not do much talking after he sat down at the table. He tried, but the food grabbed his attention and held it. The table was stout enough to knead dough on without making it shake, and strong enough for twelve-year old George to stand on before his mother caught him. Today, though, Thomas was certain he could hear it groan under the weight of the food Magda had put on it. There was crisp bacon and hot, honeyed porridge and fried eggs fresh from the hen-house and a loaf of bread that was so fluffy that Magda must have let it rise on the hearth overnight. Thomas worked his way through two helpings of everything.

“That,” he said finally, mopping up the last bit of egg with a slice of fresh bread, “was the best breakfast I have eaten in two years.”

“Now, surely you exaggerate,” beamed Magda.

“Not in the slightest,” protested Thomas. He held up the bread. “In the city, a warm piece of bread in the morning is considered a luxury.”

“No wonder you’re so thin,” said Magda. “Your mother must be appalled.”

Thomas had managed not to think about his family at all while he was eating. The mention of them brought back all that had happened the day before and turned the taste of the fresh, warm bread to ashes in his mouth. It took him a moment before he could force himself to swallow. “She was.”

If his tone revealed his feelings, Magda hadn’t noticed. “And speaking of your mother, you’ll be heading home right after breakfast,” she scolded. “Your first night home and you spend it here! And did you really think you could all sneak in at dawn without waking us up?”

Magda threw a glare around the room, pinning her own children to their chairs. Thomas, hoping for some defence from his friends, quickly realized none was forthcoming. “One had hopes—”

“Aye, I’m sure you did.” She smacked him lightly on the back of the head with the flat of her hand. “And that’s for not letting us know what the three of you were up to. Bringing my daughter home so late.” She shook a finger at Thomas. “If her brother hadn’t been with you, I’d have had Lionel take the stropping leather to you!”

Thomas wasn’t sure if Magda was actually angry or just teasing him until Lionel caught his eye and winked at him. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon,” he said, giving the best court bow he could manage. “I assure you that nothing of the sort shall happen again while I am a guest under your roof.”