The Real Boy

by Anne Ursu

  And in the middle of it all lay Caleb, eyes open, body broken—just the way Oscar had left him.

  Hands falling on Oscar’s shoulders. Pulling him back. The other adults moving in front of Caleb’s body like a wall. Madame Catherine, voice firm: “Come outside with me.”

  “No,” Oscar said, shaking himself loose. “I want to see.”

  And he stood there taking in the body of Master Caleb, once the greatest magician in the Barrow. He took a slow step forward and got down on his knees in front of the body of his master, his creator.

  This was not Caleb. It was a thing, with all the Caleb-ness gone from it. Death takes the person and leaves his shell behind, like a hollowed-out tree.

  Oscar owed this man everything, even his birth. And tonight he owed him his life. Master Caleb was his father, or the closest to it Oscar would ever have, and now he was gone. Oscar did not know what he was supposed to be feeling right now, what all the adults behind him would be expecting him to feel. He did not even know what he was, in fact, feeling. Except, whatever it was, it was a lot. Too much. More than bodies could hold.

  “Oscar,” said Madame Catherine, who was suddenly next to him, “do you want to come back with me?”

  Oscar shook his head. “Do you have somewhere to go?” Madame Aphra asked.

  Oscar nodded.

  “We’ll come back tomorrow and clean up. Would that be all right?”

  Nod.

  “And maybe you can tell us what happened. Would that be all right?”

  Nod.

  “Would you like us to take Master Caleb now?”

  Nod.

  And soon the adults had wrapped up the shell of Master Caleb and taken him away, and then there was no more Caleb in Caleb’s shop.

  A mewing: a filthy, bedraggled Bear stumbled in from the back room. Her formerly white puffy fur was caked in dirt, and clumps of soil hung off her stomach and sides. Her front legs and her muzzle were entirely black.

  “Oh!” Oscar exclaimed, standing up. “Bear! Are you hurt? Where is everyone?”

  He looked around. Three sets of paw prints led out the front room of the store. But there should have been five. Bear was standing next to the pile of rubble where the counter had been, squawking. Oscar darted over and started moving the rubble aside to reveal Cat pinned at the bottom, as dirty as Bear.

  The animal looked up at Oscar in a daze. Two of his legs were bent in very bad ways. Broken.

  Oscar choked out a noise. “Oh, Cat, I’ll—”

  But Cat yowled and looked pointedly at the back corner of the room. Crow was lying there, curled in a ball on her side, her flank covered in glass and splinters of wood and bits of blood. She was shivering. As Oscar went to her, she blinked up at him and whimpered.

  “I’m going to make you feel better,” he whispered, trying to cover the breaking in his voice. “Wait here. I’ll be back.” He darted downstairs and grabbed a few things from the pantry, and soon he presented the cat with a mixture of milk and valerian root in a bowl. “This is for the pain,” he said, dipping his finger in and letting her lick it off. He did the same for Cat. Then Oscar crouched next to Crow and picked the glass and splinters out of her, one by one. “You’re very brave,” he told her. “You are a remarkable cat.” He washed the soil and blood off her, moving in firm, sure strokes across her flank, and then wrapped her in bandages laced with witch hazel and chamomile.

  Though the shop lay in rubble around him, though Caleb was now just a shell, though the earth had come to life and gone on a rampage—there was a task; there were Oscar’s hands; there were herbs and bandages, and shards to pick out and wounds to treat, and this trembling, trusting cat who needed Oscar not to be afraid.

  “You’re going to be all right,” Oscar said. It was not a lie. Oscar would make her all right.

  He rubbed a salve of oat straw and nettle into bandages and gently set Cat’s legs, then carried first Crow, and then Cat—who did not much like it—down the stairs and placed them both on his bed. It didn’t take too long to find Pebble, who was hiding under Oscar’s bed, or Map, who was behind the chair in the library. Both were filthy, but they were all right. They were all right. With the cats on his bed—Bear had settled there, too, and was beginning to bathe herself, a process that was going to take rather a long time—Oscar took his blanket and pillow and laid them on the floor. He put Block on the table to watch over them all, then lay down on the blanket. After a few moments Pebble had tucked herself into him.

  Oscar put his arms around the kitten. And after a while he started telling her things, though he spoke loudly enough for the rest of them to hear. “Master Caleb was killed tonight,” he said. “He was killed trying to save us. The monster broke his neck, and that broke him forever. Master Caleb—” He paused. “He’s gone now. He did something terrible, but . . . he did good things, too. And he kept us well. And it’s all right if you are sad.”

  Oscar rested his hand on Pebble’s back. “I know it is very scary right now. We don’t know what’s going to happen. But I will take care of you. Maybe I can sell herbs on a cart or . . . or something. I’ll figure it out. But I will make sure you are taken care of, all right? You don’t have to be scared.” He curled up closer to the cat. “You don’t have to be scared.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Shells

  In the morning Oscar got up, got dressed, laid out food for the cats (though in the cellar—a change), and got water from the well. Then it was time to sweep the shop and dust the shelves, in case any dirt had accumulated overnight, and survey the store to see what needed restocking. This was going to be much more complicated than usual.

  Every time his mind flashed a scene from the night before, he closed his eyes and squeezed it away. Every time his mind began to whisper worries at him, he did the same. Sometimes it was helpful to be made of wood.

  Oscar’s head hurt, his body ached, and everything inside him felt very heavy, but still he worked, putting rubble in the wheelbarrow, wiping up liquid, sweeping up pieces of glass. He reached for a clump of soil, and then his hand recoiled.

  After a while, Master Thomas and Madame Catherine came by. They spoke to him in voices that were supposed to be kind but made everything flash and whisper again. They led him into the kitchen and sat him down, and the two adults crouched in front of him just so they would be at the perfect level to stare him in the eyes. Or try to, anyway. They told him they would see if the carpenter could come and build something where the wall used to be, as soon as possible. They did not mention Oscar’s future, probably because they didn’t know what would happen to him, either.

  It would be funny, Oscar thought, if they tried to send him back to the Home, where he’d never been in the first place.

  “Now, Oscar,” Master Thomas said, putting his hand on the back of Oscar’s chair, “can you tell us what happened?”

  Oscar shook his head.

  Master Thomas tried to look deeper into Oscar’s eyes, and it was like he was gouging them out. “I know it must have been awful,” he said, his voice low. “I can understand why you don’t want to relive it. But you’re the only person who has seen this creature, and it’s attacking us, and it killed Caleb, and so we need your help.”

  Oscar squeezed his eyes shut and unfurled the truth before them—a monster made of earth, not fast but big, not smart but strong, smashing down the wall, eating the contents of the shelves. He told them the whole story, and now other people knew it, too, and he could not imagine it was not real. They asked him questions, and he answered as best he could.

  “We’re going to put every magic smith on this,” Thomas said. “We will hurl all the magic of the Barrow at this thing. We will find it and destroy it, and whoever is controlling it, too. Don’t worry.”

  Oscar grabbed on to the words and held them. At least they were paying attention now. Someone was doing something, finally.

  The adults left, and Oscar went back to his tasks of putting Caleb’s shop back together ag
ain. Caleb had always said how important it was that a magician’s shop look impeccable, because if he could not keep his own shop looking good, what good could his magic be?

  “Oscar!”

  He looked up. Callie was standing in the ex-doorway, gaping at the shop. “Are you all right?” She breathed, stepping inside, taking in every last broken bit. “Oh, Oscar . . .”

  Lips mashed together, she took in the whole disaster; she took it in for a very long time and then straightened, picked up the broom, and started to sweep.

  “Where did all the dirt come from?” she asked, after a time.

  “Aren’t you angry at me?” Oscar asked in reply.

  “What?”

  “You were very angry yesterday morning.”

  Callie’s eyes popped. She inhaled, as if about to say something, and then shook her head. “Well,” she said, “I’m not anymore.”

  “That’s good,” said Oscar.

  Every once in a while someone would stop by to gawk at the shop, and each time it made him feel like his skin was rippling. But the fourth person left very quickly, as did everyone after that. Oscar finally figured out that that was because Callie kept glaring at them.

  They worked all day, and finally the shop didn’t look rampaged upon anymore; it just looked abandoned and barren. Half the shelves were either broken or gone altogether, the rest were completely empty. Two of the windows were broken; the counter was gone. The shop was a ghost. A shell. Oscar looked around and tried to make it all work in his head, in his body. But there was no sense to be had.

  “Come on,” Callie said, touching his arm. “We need to eat.”

  Callie led him to the kitchen, got Oscar some water, and then searched the cupboards. She pulled out some potatoes, onions, and carrots and started chopping them.

  “I don’t eat that,” Oscar said.

  “What?”

  “I eat bread. And sometimes cheese. I don’t eat that.”

  She stared at him.

  “It has chunks,” he added.

  She narrowed her eyes, and then kept chopping. “We’re going to need to restock your pantry soon, Oscar,” she said. “There’s not much in here. I can go get you more food.” She tilted her head and asked carefully, “Do you think Caleb left any gold?”

  Oscar hadn’t thought about it. But yes. There was the cash box, and a big Oscar-sized safe filled with coins.

  Actually, there were three Oscar-sized safes. Caleb had probably left a lot of gold.

  Callie finished chopping, and then threw everything into a pot, poured a jar of stock inside, and set the chunky brew on the stove. Then she wiped her hands and sat down next to Oscar. “You need a place to go,” she said, looking at him like he was a bird that might flee if startled. “You can come stay at the healer’s shop if you want. I don’t . . . I don’t know when Madame Mariel is coming back. I don’t know what I’m going to do when she does. But now those children need help, and . . . I’m not leaving them. I could use an assistant. You could stay at the healer’s and be the apprentice’s apprentice.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  A flutter in Oscar’s chest. “This is my home. I can’t leave.”

  “Oscar, there’s a wall missing.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “But—”

  “Caleb has a lot of money. That will keep us for a while.”

  “Us?”

  “The cats and me.” He could feel his voice growing louder.

  “But still. Eventually—”

  “This is where I live.”

  Callie’s face scrunched up, but she didn’t say anything else. Oscar looked through the doorway into the shop.

  It was Caleb’s shop, but now there was no Caleb. A magician’s shop without any magician. Oscar could prepare herbs as he always had, but no one would buy anything that they knew was made by an eleven-year-old boy, even though they’d been buying the same things all along.

  But the shop and the cellar were his whole world. You couldn’t leave the world. Oscar would stay, and tomorrow he would get dressed, feed the cats, get water, sweep and dust the shelves, and see what needed restocking.

  Anyway, Oscar was not a boy like other boys. Without the magician who made him, what would become of him? It wasn’t like he could go to the healer if he got sick. Maybe he wasn’t even supposed to last. Oscar was a puppet with no master now, and he could almost feel the strings dragging behind him.

  Callie sipped her tea and kept glancing over at Oscar, in the manner of someone who has something to say but doesn’t want to say it.

  “Oscar,” she finally asked, “can you tell me what happened?”

  Oscar pressed his lips together. “There was a monster,” he said after a while. There, that was true.

  Silence. Then: “Can you tell me anything about the monster?”

  Oscar looked at the floor. The fluttering in his chest had turned into churning. “Master Thomas said the magic smiths are going to go after it.”

  “About time,” Callie said darkly.

  “So we don’t have to worry anymore,” Oscar said.

  Callie looked at him sideways. He understood. His words sounded as false as when people said them to him.

  She waited. Oscar looked at the floor again.

  “Can you tell me anything else?”

  “They think someone is controlling it. Another magician. They’ll go after him, too. They’ll go after everything.”

  “And,” Callie said, words tiptoeing up to him, “what do you think?”

  Oscar kept his eyes on the floor. “I’m not sure.”

  Callie sipped her tea again. She exhaled and pulled out a pin from her hair. It all came tumbling down, everywhere. Oscar could only barely see her—he did not know if he could ever move his eyes from the floor again.

  “All right,” Callie said. She got up and went to the stove and began to stir the pot. The smell of the food spread through the air, and soon Bear and Pebble appeared from the cellar. Callie kept her back to Oscar and kept stirring. It made it easier to ask what he wanted to ask.

  “Callie?” Oscar began. “When your master dies, how are you supposed to feel?”

  Callie stopped stirring, and looked at Oscar over her shoulder. “I suppose, you might feel a lot of things.” She spoke slowly, picking her words like she would pick flowers. “You might feel sad. You might feel a little scared, too.”

  Oscar frowned. “But . . . what if they’d done something really bad? How do you feel when someone’s done something really bad?”

  Callie turned around fully, and he could feel her eyes prying at him. “Like if they were cruel to you?”

  “No. No. Something else.” His eyes flickered up to Callie. “Something really wrong.”

  Callie took a step forward. “Oscar, what did Caleb do?”

  He hesitated. This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go.

  “Oscar,” she said firmly, “tell me.”

  Oscar paused. It seemed funny to tell her, now that Master Caleb was dead.

  Callie took the pot off the stove, pulled out the chair, and turned it so it faced him. “Listen to me,” she said, eyes focused on his face. “There are strange things happening, there are sick children and a monster is attacking the marketplace, and if the magician has done something terrible, I would like you to tell me.”

  “He cut down the wizard trees.”

  “What?”

  “Not all of them,” he said quickly. “But at least five.”

  Callie gaped. “I don’t understand. Why would he do that?” She was staring at him as if he himself had cut down the trees.

  “Well, maybe it’s only five,” Oscar mumbled.

  “Oscar!” Callie sat up, pushing the chair back. “It doesn’t matter how many! How—how could he do that? Why would he do that?”

  Oscar swallowed. Caleb in his head: appearing in the doorway, swinging the battle flail, telling Oscar to run. Then: Caleb gone, the broken
shell left behind.

  “Well, the wizard-tree wood is so powerful, and—”

  “And what?” She hit the t so hard it felt like a slap.

  A lump rose in his throat. This was not going right. “Well, um, here.” He reached out into his pocket and took out Block. “Hold her in your hand.”

  Callie’s eyes flared, but she took the wooden cat from Oscar. “It’s warm,” she said. “It feels like it’s almost—humming.” She gasped and popped out of her chair, dropping the cat like a burning thing. “That’s wizard-tree wood?”

  “Yes.” That had not gone right, either.

  She looked at him in horror. “Caleb chopped down trees to make little cat figurines? What does it do, tell the future? Grant eternal life? Turn you into a cat god?”

  “No, uh”—he snatched Block off the floor and gripped her tightly—“no. I made this one. It doesn’t do anything. It’s just nice.”

  “I see,” Callie said. She crossed her arms. “So, what did he use it for?”

  “I’ll show you!” Oscar said. “I’ll show you what he was doing.”

  Callie stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Well?” she said.

  And then: “Oscar?”

  So he got up and led her down the stairs.

  When he opened the door to Caleb’s workroom, Callie gasped. She stepped inside and then stood still, her eyes wide, looking slowly around the room like she was memorizing it.

  As he followed her in, he could feel the magic in the room tugging at him, trying to get him to do its bidding.

  Callie took a few steps forward, eyes never stopping their survey. She beheld the books, the potions, the strange contraptions, the vials and tubes and jars, the desk and all the notebooks on it, the animal bits, the blood.

  “It’s under here,” Oscar found himself saying.

  Breath caught, he lifted the rug. Callie was watching him now, mouth open, eyes intent, as still as a cat in the shadows. When he lifted the trapdoor, the wooden doll was there, just as he had left it. So Oscar gathered the doll carefully in his arms and held it up.