The Magician’s Land (26 page)

One thing was clear: this was grand magic. It was sorcery on a scale he’d never attempted before, and it was going to test him severely. Until now he’d been a journeyman magician, and a competent one, but if he
could execute it this spell would make him into a master. It would force him to become one. It would accept nothing less.

Early one morning a dawn thunderstorm woke him up, and as he was lying there wondering if he was going to be able to get back to sleep an image of the whole thing appeared in his mind all at once. It assembled itself spontaneously, unbidden, as if it had been waiting for him to just get out of its way and let it form. There it was, dim and shimmering but complete, with all its parts working together.

It wasn’t war magic. The spell didn’t shield you, and it didn’t hide you. It didn’t kill, and it didn’t summon something to kill for you. It wasn’t going to restore Alice either. But it did do something wonderful. This was a spell that created something. It was a spell for making a land.

He actually laughed out loud when he thought of it. It was too funny—too insane. But now that he saw it he couldn’t un-see it. He could follow it like a story that wound crookedly through the various sections and paragraphs and subclauses of the spell like a thread of DNA. This thing was intended to make a little world.

It was ruthlessly ingenious. It wasn’t a cosmic act of creation, a thunderbolt from Olympus, it was much more subtle than that. It was more like a seed, the dry, tear-shaped germ of a little world—tiny, the kind of thing that could fall through a crack in a sidewalk, but full of sand and rain and stars and physics and life, all flattened and dried and compressed into words on a page. If you cast it right it would expand and unfold into a place, somewhere hidden away from the real world. A secret garden.

Quentin could already see it in his mind’s eye, fresh and new and still undiscovered. Green fields of matted grass, deep silent lakes, the shadows of clouds, all spread out beneath him like an Escher etching, the way the Earth looked when he was a goose. Birds flitted between bushes, deer stalked stiff-legged through the woods. You wouldn’t own it, or rule it, but you could take care of it. You could have stewardship of it.

Lying there in bed in the half-light, rain spattering on the window, he forgot all about the bird and the Couple and the money. All that seemed beside the point now. He forgot about Brakebills. He even let himself
forget Alice for a minute. This was new magic: half enchantment, half work of art. He’d spent too long searching for new kingdoms. He wanted to make one of his own, a magical place, a place like Fillory.

But not in Fillory. He would build it here on Earth.

—

“I don’t want to make you sound like a crazy person,” Plum said, “but just then it sounded like you said you were going make a land.”

“I am. Or we are. We could. That’s what it does, Rupert’s spell.”

Plum frowned.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “You can’t just
make
a
land.
”

“It helps if you don’t say it like that.”

“You mean with rocks and trees and stuff?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Wow.” She stretched, then plunked her chin in her hands. They were having breakfast at their brand new Ikea dining table. “Wow. Well, that would be a hell of a spell. Great granddad wasn’t much of a writer, but you gotta admit he was a pretty good thief. Do you think it’s actually possible?”

“I think we should find out.”

“But I don’t get it. Why? I mean it’s cool and all, but it sounds like a gigantic pain in the ass.”

It was hard to put into words. The land would be a good place to hide from the bird, if they needed to hide, but that wasn’t the point. This meant something to him. It would be like Prospero’s island, but in a good way: not a country of exile, a model world, safe and peaceful and private. A magician’s land.

Plum, a highly perceptive person, could see that he wasn’t going to change his mind. She sighed.

“So if we do make a land, what does that make us? Are we like the gods of it?”

“I don’t think so,” Quentin said. “I don’t think this land would have any gods. Or maybe it would. But we’d have to make those too.”

With Plum on board, or at least not actively resisting, things progressed more quickly. Quentin made contact with a very dodgy and
unappealing wizard in the South Bronx who sold him a steaming, lightly buzzing metal box which he swore up and down contained a sample of ununoctium, a synthetic element with an atomic number of 118, the very last entry on the periodic table. Its existence was still mostly theoretical—laboratories had only ever put together a few atoms of it at a time, and ordinarily it decayed in about a millisecond. But the atoms in this sample were chronologically frozen, or at least vastly slowed down. Or at least they were supposed to be. It had cost him a good chunk of the money left over from his first-day payment from the bird.

“Do you think it’s really in there?” Plum studied the box skeptically.

“I don’t know,” Quentin said. “We’ll find out.”

“How?”

“The hard way, I guess.”

Quentin had a very expensive, very cool-looking staff purpose-built for the project. It was made of pernambuco—the dense, black, almost grainless tropical wood cello bows are made of—and shod and chased with silver. Quentin didn’t normally work magic with wands and staves, but in this case he thought he might need it as a last resort, a panic button, if things were coming completely apart.

He had to hide it all, to avoid attracting the bird’s attention, but it went beyond that: Quentin was pretty sure the spell would be highly illegal from the point of view of magical society. There weren’t very many laws among magicians, but synthesizing an entire land and concealing it inside a Manhattan townhouse would violate a goodly portion of them, so as far as magical energy was concerned the house had to be watertight. The power levels required would be massive too, and he could only be grateful they hadn’t used up Mayakovsky’s coins on the incorporate bond. He’d have to use one now. It wasn’t what he’d made them for, but Quentin thought Mayakovsky would like the idea anyway.

Quentin dug seven long lines of Fillorian script into the hardwood floor of the workshop with a gouge and a mallet. He went at the ceiling too, embedding long curls of platinum wire in the plaster. In places he stripped the walls and nailed more wire along the bare studs. The only piece of the puzzle that was completely missing in action was that damned
plant, the one from the Neitherlands page. Incredibly it had turned up in Rupert’s spell as well. Quentin wasn’t sure it was absolutely crucial, but either way he still couldn’t identify it, so they’d just have to scrape by without it.

One night, after they’d both worked themselves into a state of exhaustion, he and Plum were lying limply on couches in the ex-disco room like they’d been flung there in the aftermath of an explosion. They were too tired to go to bed.

“So how big is this land of yours even supposed to be?” Plum said.

“I don’t know yet. Not giant, I don’t think. Ten acres maybe. Like the Hundred Acre Wood in
Winnie-the-Pooh
.”

“Except with ten.”

“Yeah. I’m trying to specify it in a couple of places,” Quentin said, “but it’s hard to know exactly what goes where.”

“But it won’t take up any space in the real world.”

“I hope not.”

“Quentin, why are you doing this?”

He recognized the importance of the question. He was going to fall asleep right there on the couch, he felt like he was melting into it. But he tried to answer it before that happened.

“What do you think magic is for?”

“I dunno. Don’t answer a question with a question.”

“I used to think about this a lot,” Quentin said. “I mean, it’s not obvious like it is in books. It’s trickier. In books there’s always somebody standing by ready to say
hey, the world’s in danger, evil’s on the rise, but if you’re really quick and take this ring and put it in that volcano over there everything will be fine.

“But in real life that guy never turns up. He’s never there. He’s busy handing out advice in the next universe over. In our world no one ever knows what to do, and everyone’s just as clueless and full of crap as everyone else, and you have to figure it all out by yourself. And even after you’ve figured it out and done it, you’ll never know whether you were right or wrong. You’ll never know if you put the ring in the right volcano, or if things might have gone better if you hadn’t. There’s no answers in the back of the book.”

Plum was silent so long that Quentin wondered if she’d dozed off while he was talking. But then she said:

“So—what? So you figured it out, and magic is for making lands?”

“No.” Quentin closed his eyes. “I still have no idea what magic is for. Maybe you just have to decide for yourself. But you definitely have to decide. It’s not for sitting on my ass, which I know because I’ve tried that. Am I making any sense?”

“You have not been making sense for some time.”

“I was afraid of that. Well, it’ll mean something when you’re my age. You’re what, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one.”

“OK, well, I’m thirty.”

“That’s not that old,” Plum said.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Fair enough. So what do you think the land is going to look like?”

“I don’t know that either,” Quentin said. “I try to picture it sometimes, but it’s always different. Sometimes it’s meadows. Sometimes it’s an orchard, just rows and rows of apple trees. Maybe it looks like whatever you want it to.”

“I hope it looks like the Hundred Acre Wood,” Plum said. “I think you should concentrate on that.”

P
lum needed a night off. It was early April in Manhattan, and winter break was almost over at Brakebills, but some of her former classmates were still in the city. Knowing they were so close she was overcome by a fit of longing for her old life. She decided to indulge it.

She wasn’t even completely sure if she was still received in polite company, after her dramatic departure from Brakebills, so Plum was relieved when they turned up. The venue was a basement bar on Houston Street with a low ceiling and a lot of busted couches and a decent jukebox; it had survived untouched by the rage for elaborately perfect artisanal cocktails. Most of the old League was there, plus a few extras, including Wharton—their impending entry into the wider world seemed to have brought him and the Leaguers together, to the point where they were all more or less on the same side. Plum got the impression that the League had pretty much gone dormant in her absence anyway.

Well, time to put aside childish things, as the verse sayeth. At least they’d gone out on top.

They drank pints of IPA and attempted observational humor about the civilians or muggles or mundanes or whatever you wanted to call them all around them. They made bets about what people were feeling, and then Holly, who had a knack for it, did a mind-reading to see who was right. She couldn’t get anything too specific, not words, or images, just the emotional tone, but that was usually enough. Bars were a good
place for it. Alcohol had a way of making people’s minds more transparent, like oil on paper.

Plum knew they were going to talk about Brakebills, and she knew that it was going to hurt. It was partly what she came for, the pain. She was going to test her new sense of herself as someone who was past all that now, who’d had a taste of life in the real world, even though it was turning out to be something of an acquired taste.

Fortunately the pain, when it came, came in bearable quantities of ache. Hearing news from the candlelit bubble-world of Brakebills helped her mourn for the comparatively simple, hopeful Plum who used to inhabit that world. Tonight would be a wake for that other Plum, the Plum who’d never tried that stupid prank. Rest in peace.

She interrogated them methodically for gossip. They were absolutely teeming with it: with graduation coming the Fifth Years were reverting to a state of nature. Everybody who’d been holding their breath for the past five years was letting it out. Even socially anxious, authority-respecting students had begun conducting risky experiments with sass. The candlelit bubble-world was on a collision course with the hard and rocky rogue planet of reality, and when they hit the bubble would pop.

And it was all happening without Plum. She felt like she’d been born too soon—she was a sickly, withered preemie next to a bunch of healthy pink full-term babies.

Most of them already had postgraduation plans. Darcy was going to work for somebody who was working for a judge in the Wizard’s Court (that word,
wizard
, being an anachronism that cropped up mostly in legal contexts). Lucy was going to assist some possibly fraudulent but indisputably famous artist who constructed enormous invisible magical sculptures in the sky above the city. Wharton would be doing environmental stuff. Holly was part of a hard-core quasi-vigilante group bent on anticipating and averting violent crime among civilians.

The others were busy planning to give themselves over to pleasure, or if not pleasure then at least sloth. Life was already sorting them into categories, whether they liked it or not. All they could do was stare at each other dumbly across the widening gaps.

Plum found herself sorted into an extra ad hoc subcategory of one.
Nobody felt comfortable asking her about life after her career-ending and, from their point of view, essentially life-ending disaster. So she volunteered that she was currently working with ex-Professor Quentin Coldwater on an Absolutely Fascinating Research Project the exact nature of which she couldn’t reveal.

Heads turned. This was gossip of the very first water—pure pharmaceutical-grade gossip.

“Oh my God,” Darcy said, hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. Tell me you’re not sleeping with him. Lie to me if you have to, I just want to hear the words.”

“I’m not sleeping with him! Jesus, what an idea.” Fortunately Plum didn’t have to pretend to be appalled at the idea. Quentin was like her know-it-all older brother. “Who do you think I am?”

“So you’re just . . . living and working with this mysterious brooding older man twenty-four-seven,” Chelsea said.

“I have the phrase ‘Girl Friday’ in my mind for some reason,” Wharton said.

“Guys. It’s not anything like as intimate as you’re imagining. We live in the same house. I’m assisting him on a project.”

“Because, see, any amount of intimate there would be, you know—” Chelsea wrung her hands frantically. “Squick.”

“I don’t know,” Lucy said loyally, raising the flag for the backlash to the backlash. “I mean, come on, guys. He’s only what—forty?”

“He’s thirty,” Plum said.

“Sorry. It’s hard to tell with the, you know, the hair. I just meant that we’re not in Humbert Humbert territory here. Not quite.”

“We are not in any territory at all! God! There is no territory!”

“All right, all right.” Darcy held up her hands: we surrender. For now. “I just wish you’d give us a hint about what you
are
doing.”

Plum did. She’d had enough. Something in her wanted to rise to the challenge of defending herself, and Quentin too. At some point, she couldn’t have said when, this had gone from Quentin’s weird impulse project to something she cared about too. She wanted it to work.

“Look,” she said, “I know it sounds weird. And I have total respect
for everything you guys are doing. I do. Even if you’re just going to get high all the time and make light shows on the ceiling.”

Chelsea gave the double V-for-victory sign.

“Those are your paths, and they’re awesome. I’m just on a different one, and it’s definitely a path, but it’s different because I don’t know where it’s going. What Quentin is doing—look, I don’t want to get into details, but it’s pretty brilliant, and he’s after something real. He’s taking a big risk. I like that. I think one day I might want to do something like that too.”

She finished her beer in silence. Everybody was a little embarrassed that Plum had made a speech that wasn’t self-deprecating or funny. Well, so be it, she thought.

“So . . .” Darcy broke the silence.

“So you want to know what we’re doing? We’re doing magic. And if it comes off it’s going to be a fucking masterpiece.”

That was magic for you, right? The thing about magic, the real kind: it didn’t make excuses, and it was never funny.

—

It wasn’t completely true. They hadn’t done any magic yet. But they would soon. The elaborate preparations in the fourth-floor room were starting to have an effect. One morning Plum walked in and noticed something funny about one of the windows, a little square one set in the back wall. It looked dark, like something was covering it from the outside, whereas the others were full of Manhattan sunlight. The window wasn’t blocked, but the view had changed. It looked out at somewhere else now, or maybe somewhen else: a silent steel-gray marshland in early evening. Miles of swaying drowned grass, in fading light, stretching out to the horizon.

Plum touched the glass. Where the other windows were cool, it was unseasonably warm.

“Weird. Where the hell is that?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Quentin said.

Plum was enjoying her stint as a sorcerer’s apprentice more than she
would have thought. Morale was high. Once she’d learned that Fillory really was real, she’d braced herself for an assault from her depressive streak. The revelation seemed like the kind of thing that would give her depression a scary power and substance. But instead she’d found the news left her unexpectedly light, and free, as if maybe it wasn’t her Chatwin-ness at all but rather the bracing-against-it that had caused her so much trouble over the years.

They spent a long cold day up on the house’s flat, sticky tarpaper roof finishing out the magical security up there. If any passing satellite happened to snap a picture, some truly weird shit was going to turn up on Google Earth.

“So tell me about Alice,” Plum said. She was painting sigils, black paint on black roof. “I mean, more about her.”

This kicked off a long pause from Quentin, and Plum wondered if she’d crossed a line. She knew the basic facts, but he hadn’t been forthcoming with a lot of details, probably because he didn’t want to talk about them. But Plum did. She figured since Alice almost killed her, probably, she had the right to subject Quentin to a little exploratory interrogation. He obviously hadn’t given up on his whole Alice project. It was lying fallow for the moment, but Plum wasn’t fooled.

“What do you want to know?”

“What was she like, what kind of stuff was she into, that kind of thing. I mean, I met her ghost or niffin or whatever, but I didn’t get a good sense of her day-to-day interests.”

Quentin stopped working and stood up and massaged the small of his back.

“Alice was great. She was kind, she was funny, she was weird. She was smart—smarter than me, and a better magician too. She did things I still don’t understand. It was sort of part of who she was—there was a force to her, a power, that I’ve never seen in anybody else.”

“Were you in love with her? I mean, I know you were boyfriend-girlfriend, but.”

“Totally.” He smiled. “Totally in love. But I wasn’t ready for her. She was more grown-up than me, and I had a lot of stuff left to work out. I made some mistakes. I thought some things were important that really weren’t.”

Plum stood up too. She was windburned and tired, and the fabric of the seat of her pants disengaged from the roof in such a way as to suggest that the tarpaper had probably wrecked them.

“I feel like you’re talking around something here.”

“Yeah. Probably it’s that I slept with somebody else.” Ah. Kind of sorry she asked there, but Quentin kept going. “Then she slept with somebody else. It was bad, I almost ruined everything. Then just when I was starting to really figure things out, that was when she died.”

“That sucks. I’m really sorry.”

“It took me a long time to get over it.”

Plum’s own romantic history so far had been pretty limited, with minimal drama. It was one area where she felt comfortable lagging behind her peers. But she prided herself on her powerful philosophical insights into other people’s relationships.

“So if you do end up somehow, you know, bringing her back, do you think you’ll be together? I mean are you still in love with her?”

“I don’t really know her anymore, Plum. It was a long time ago. I’m a different person now, or at least I hope I am. We’d have to see.”

“So you’d start over.”

“If she wanted to. Though I feel like we were only just about to get started. We wouldn’t start over, we’d just start.”

Deep orange rays of sunlight meandered past, slowed by the viscous urban air they were passing through, full of floating particulates and toxic emissions. Bubbles popped in Plum’s knees.

“Here’s what I don’t get. If you were so unready, if you had all that stuff left to work out, why do you think she loved you?”

Quentin went back to mixing the smelly reagent he’d been working on before.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I never did know.”

“That would be a good one to figure out. Maybe before you bring her back?”

—

The next morning was the dress rehearsal. They broke the enchantment down into its component spells, running through each of them
individually, then in small groups, being careful all the while not to let them combine into anything that was actually live and volatile. In cases where the spell involved some exceptionally expensive component, or it was physically dangerous, they just mimed their way through it.

Though once Plum forgot and spoke something she was supposed to skip, and just like that there was bright light and heat in the room. For an instant it was unbearable, like when there’s bad feedback in an auditorium.

“Shit!” Quentin bolted, and she heard water running in the bathroom. When he came back his fingernails were still steaming slightly.

“Sorry!” Plum said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Though you could tell he was annoyed. “Start over. From the beginning.”

It was funny about magic, how messy and imperfect it was. When people said something worked like magic they meant that it cost nothing and did exactly what you wanted it to. But there were lots of things magic couldn’t do. It couldn’t raise the dead. It couldn’t make you happy. It couldn’t make you good-looking. And even with the things it could do, it didn’t always do them right. And it always, always cost something.

And it was inefficient. The system was never airtight, it always leaked. Magic was always throwing off extra energy, wasting it in the form of sound, and heat, and light, and wind. It was always buzzing and singing and glowing and sparking to no particular purpose. Magic was decidedly imperfect. But the really funny thing, she thought, was that if it were perfect, it wouldn’t be so beautiful.

On the big day they agreed they would start at noon, but like anything else involving more than one person and a lot of moving parts—band rehearsals, softball games, model-rocket launches—it took about five times longer to get ready than they planned. They cleared away the books and stacked them tidily in the corners, and they laid out all the tools and materials on trays, neatly labeled and lined up in the order they’d be needed in. Quentin stuck a list of the spells on the wall, like the set list for a gig. There were a lot of things that they had, by mutual consent, skipped in the dress rehearsal but which it turned out were really time-consuming, like reading out the full text of one of these old cultic chants ten times.

They started in on the low-hanging fruit, making sure that conditions in the room were optimal and were going to stay that way. Constant temperature; a little extra oxygen; low light from the chandelier; no weird magical incursions. They cast spells on each other to ward off any weird charges or energies and to speed up their reaction times just a touch; some of this stuff you just couldn’t cast right at baseline human speed. Caffeine helped with that too, so they kept plenty of that around.