The Real Boy

by Anne Ursu

  Boom-BOOM. Boom-BOOM.

  Oscar ran ahead, away from everything he knew, deeper into everything he feared. His mind was back in charge, tugging his body along with it. He wanted to be back in the forest, his home, under the protection of trees and shadow and night and magic—but so did the monster. He was hungry, and lonely, and did not fit quite anywhere. And neither did the monster. And so he would keep running.

  The dust was beginning to burn against his skin now—or else that was the sun. Oscar’s muscles were burning, too, and it felt like there was a knife in his side. Maybe the wind was stabbing him.

  He chanced a look over his shoulder. The monster was about twenty paces behind him—the wind taking bits of soil for itself, blurring the outlines of the creature against the sky.

  Boom-BOOM.

  The forest receded in the background, and as Oscar ran he felt something tugging at him and then letting him go—like the thread that connected him to the Barrow had snapped.

  Oscar coughed and ran and stumbled and ran more. He checked over his shoulder, and behind him the monster stumbled, too. Maybe its thread had broken as well. He could hope.

  The creature seemed fuzzier—less defined. And less sure in its steps. The plaguelands were nibbling away at the magic thing, bit by bit.

  But not quickly enough.

  Yes, the creature was diminishing. It could not run like this forever. But neither could Oscar. He would collapse in a heap, and then the thing would have its prize.

  But maybe, maybe, they were far enough away that it couldn’t find its way back.

  Or maybe that was a little farther away yet.

  And so Oscar kept running, hurtling his body into the void.

  He barely noticed when the view in front of him changed from the great cracked barren land. Or when another presence started to hang in the air. So it was some time before he saw the unmistakable truth in front of him.

  Just ahead, the world ended. At least all the world Oscar knew.

  He’d mistaken its sound for that of the wind, mistaken its scent for that of the plaguelands dust, mistaken that strange strip on the horizon for some alteration in the landscape. And the landscape did alter. There was a stretch of sand, and then the fathomless sea.

  Oscar had never seen the sea before. He hadn’t known that it stretched on until it joined with the sky and that after that the world was just some infinite blue. He hadn’t known that the waves looked like hungry beasts themselves, growing in might until they crashed against the shore, grasping at the land and taking whatever they pleased. He had not known that they were like animate thunder. He had thought the worst thing you could drown in was the sky.

  There was a dark brown blotch in the water that matched one on the shore—an old rotting dock with its entire middle missing. There had been civilization here once, but the plague had consumed it.

  He dared a glance back at the creature, and—though it was stumbling and fuzzy and the wind kept taunting it with pieces of itself—it was moving faster. The monster was deep in an alien world, maybe so deep it could never go home, and the only hope it had left was this magic-soaked boy with a little piece of wizard-tree wood in his pocket.

  For it was only now that he was covered with potions that the monster chased him. The monster had not been interested in him at all in the shop; it had thrown him aside like garbage. Because unlike the City children, Oscar was not made of wizard-tree wood and spells, but of flesh and bone and heart and brain and blood. He was a boy—born, not crafted. There were no strings dragging behind him.

  He was just a boy. Just Oscar. That was all.

  And it was Oscar and the monster at the edge of the world.

  If he were magic, maybe he could last a little longer. But his muscles were real and they were gone now—he was empty limbs and bones that would surely collapse into a pile. He did not want to be eaten. And maybe the magic on him would give the monster strength and it would find its way back to the forest, back to the Barrow, to Sophie and Callie. Maybe it would eat everything.

  If he had any muscles left, he could start darting around the shore, seeing if he could outlast the monster. But he didn’t. And he couldn’t. He was human.

  And so he made his choice.

  Oscar closed his eyes and ran forward, and the waves beckoned to him, and still he ran, and then the ground underneath his feet turned soft, and still he ran, and then his feet squelched, and still he ran, and then water sprayed in his face and lapped at his feet, enticing him inside.

  And he stopped. And looked.

  The monster shambled forward.

  Oscar could not breathe, could barely move, but he only had a few things left for his body to do, and then it would be over.

  He kicked off his boots, and immediately the water began to ooze around them to investigate. As the water started to gently pull at his feet, he looked back and took the best breath he could muster.

  “COME. GET. ME.”

  And then he hurled himself into the waves.

  Water pushed against his face and splashed in his mouth, tickling his lungs. It pressed against him everywhere, grabbing him and pulling at his clothes. The sea was not empty at all, but monstrously alive.

  It felt so dark in there.

  He flailed and bobbed, trying to find his feet, trying to find the sky, trying to find anything. Tendrils of slimy plants grabbed at his leg, and Oscar’s foot slammed against the sea floor.

  He gulped in air. He was up to his shoulders in the water. He looked frantically around for the oncoming creature. The water could not take him yet.

  The thing was coming for him.

  Oscar pushed himself toward the remains of the rotting dock. His hands flailed out in front of him and his feet pushed against the uncertain floor. One last push—and his arms wrapped around the dock post.

  It was mostly rotted, but still solid and there, and Oscar held on with everything he had.

  It wasn’t much.

  The monster was at the shoreline now, just a few yards away, batting at the water that hit its face. Oscar’s clothes hung thickly against him—the sea might already have robbed them of their magic, his bait, so he focused all his energy on the little block of cat-shaped wizard-tree wood in his pocket. You are magic, Oscar told it. You are magic. Not made of spells, but magic all the same.

  Bait. Lure. Trap.

  The thing groaned and pawed in his direction, then took an uncertain step into the water. The waves touched it gently, an exploration, an invitation.

  The monster took another step, until half its legs were submerged. Blackness spread out in the water around it.

  Oscar hung on to the dock desperately as the water pressed in around him. He wanted to shout, Come get me, but he had no breath left for words.

  The sea was calling to the creature just as it had called to him. Each wave lapped at it, each one a taunt. And an enticement.

  The monster yowled and lunged forward. Crash, responded the sea. The monster flinched and looked around. Boom, responded the sea.

  A chunk from the monster’s shoulder was missing. But its arm still reached for him.

  I’m here, Oscar thought. I’m here. Come and get me.

  It was only a few feet away now, and even though much of the monster seemed to be gone, the head and the torso and the arms and the horrid rocky mouth were still there, and that was probably enough. Oscar let out some choked plea and then grabbed for the other pole.

  The monster roared and hurtled itself toward Oscar, its body falling into the water entirely. A terrible muffled yowl as the waves lapped and goaded and hungered and consumed, and the monster was gone. A dark thickness lingered on the water, and then that too washed away.

  Oscar clutched at the pole, keeping his eyes fixed on the spot where the monster had been. The creature could rise again, could be in the water now, moving toward him, ready to pull on his leg and take Oscar down down down. And Oscar would not be able to hold on to the pole, he barely could now, and the
sea was grasping at him.

  But the thing did not emerge. Still, Oscar could hear the echoes of its anguished roar—it was a monstrous, miraculous creature, and none of this was its fault. It was just hungry.

  Oscar closed his eyes. Block was in his pocket, shining and warm. He wanted to put the cat in his hands, but he had no movement left. Still, he knew the cat was there, and that was something.

  Water splashed over his head. The wind seemed to beckon to him, or maybe it was echoes in his head. Maybe it was the wooden boy in the floor calling to him. If only Caleb had told him, if only Caleb had transformed the doll in time—Oscar could have taught him things, things about being a real boy. But the water was holding Oscar close and telling him beautiful lies, and since it was the end, he chose to believe them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Land Remembers

  It was a man’s arm that pulled Oscar out of the water—strong and sure. That he remembered.

  There was a great green cloak: it wrapped around Oscar like the sea, like a smile. That was true, too.

  There was something pounding on his back. There was water. The water was certainly true.

  There was a flash of red shoes, and a rustle-swish of skirts.

  That was probably wrong.

  And there was a horse, and he was on it, and there was an arm holding on to him, and that seemed like it couldn’t be true, but probably was.

  It turned out Callie had not believed his note. It turned out it had, in fact, worried her. It turned out she’d remembered where in the forest the chopped-down wizard trees were. And it turned out she’d known that he would go there.

  The night before, Callie had not allowed the men to move Sophie, so the little girl had slept on Callie’s cot while her father and the driver stayed at the tavern. And when the men arrived at Callie’s the next morning, they found Sophie had gotten much better overnight. It was miraculous, really.

  How can I ever repay you? Lord Cooper asked.

  And Callie pointed to the map of the Barrow.

  So Lord Cooper and his driver rode up to the northwestern strip of the forest and found the grove of stumps, a bear trap, and a great mess of vials, tubes, and jars. And some boy-sized boot prints leading away. The prints stopped as soon as the forest did. The men rode around the plaguelands but saw no trace of anything at all until they got to the shore, where two boy-sized boots lay at the water’s edge, without the boy.

  Oscar learned this part of the story later, much later. First there was a cot, a blanket, some tea, and then a long dreamless sleep. And, somewhere, a small warm purring body curled up against his chest.

  Then: Oscar waking up to find himself in the back room of the healer’s, Pebble at his side, Oscar’s hand on her, making sure she was real.

  She was. She was the softest creature. Oscar kept his hand on her back, feeling the purrs rumble through her body, teaching their steady contented rhythm to his mind and heart and breath, and slowly the pieces of him began to move back together, one purr at a time.

  Oscar raised his head. He was alone in the room, excepting Pebble. His old clothes were hanging by the fire—he seemed to be wearing a nightshirt made for a boy several Oscars bigger than he.

  And: next to the fire, his boots and the little wooden cat.

  And flashes: traps, monsters, maws, the beating sun, the endless sea, pumping limbs, pounding feet and heart, pounding waves, sucking breaths, dust in his mouth, water in his mouth, trying to keep running, trying to keep breathing, trying to keep his head above water, trying to hold on to the dock—and, everywhere, the unrelenting footsteps of the monster.

  He closed his eyes and curled up around the cat. Behind his eyes, the monster shambled into the sea while the waves ate away at it, and still it pressed forward. Its hunger was more all-consuming than its need to survive. The hunger mattered more than the monster.

  Oscar shuddered. Pebble chirped and began to press her head against him.

  They were not done yet. There was still a hole in the magic. The earth was still hungry. The monsters would keep coming.

  He squeezed the cat, and then got dressed and put his boots on and tucked Block back into his pocket where she belonged—solid and warm.

  “You’re up!”

  He turned. Callie was in the back doorway—hair tied back, apron on, arms on her hips. Her eyes danced around his face.

  Oscar bit his lip. He could not read her expression. He had worked so hard to learn her—what if the sea had taken that away from him?

  “Are you feeling better?” Callie asked, stepping closer to him.

  Oscar nodded hesitantly. That, at least, was true.

  “Good.” She stared at him. Oscar stared back. Her eyes shimmered. And then narrowed.

  And then she stomped on his foot.

  “Ow!”

  Callie’s eyes flared. “Why did you do that?” she yelled. “You could have been killed!”

  “I didn’t think—”

  Her expression cut him off. “No, you didn’t.”

  “But . . . I didn’t want—”

  “I don’t care!”

  He sucked in his lips. Her arms were wrapped around her body, and her eyes had in them an entire litany of scolding.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You should be. Don’t ever do anything that stupid again without taking me with you.” She squinted at him pointedly. “Now, I am going to give you some tea and some stew with lots of chunks in it and you are going to eat it all and tell me what happened.”

  “But I only eat—”

  Callie narrowed her eyes.

  “I mean, yes.”

  Oscar did his best to tell her the story—he choked out bits as he choked down lumps of stringy meat and slimy, soft vegetables. He tried to tell it like a story he had heard once about a boy somewhere, instead of something that had happened to him. Callie listened, eyes big, and when he was done she gazed at him like she’d watched the entire thing happen. She did not speak, and Oscar swallowed and let his eyes drop.

  “Oscar,” she said finally, “you are very brave.”

  He could not say anything after that.

  Callie got up and served him a second bowl of stew and filled him in on the events of the morning.

  “Lord Cooper will drop by—he wants to tell you how grateful he is. He would have done it before, except you’d nearly gotten yourself drowned.” Callie raised her eyebrows at him meaningfully, and then went on. “But Oscar . . . Sophie is doing so much better. I think she’ll be fine. It worked. Whatever you made worked.”

  Something tickled at his chest, and the lightness floated up. The corner of his mouth went up in a smile.

  “I still need to go up to deliver the remedies to the other children.”

  Oscar frowned—she was supposed to do that when he was going after the monster. That had been his plan.

  “I’ve been a little busy taking care of you,” Callie snapped.

  He quickly made his face as blank as he could. Apparently he was going to be hearing about this for some time.

  “But, Oscar, these are just the children we know about. What if there are more? How do we find them? Remember the lady in the shop the day after Wolf was killed? The one who left Caleb her card?”

  Something’s wrong with her, the lady had said. Oscar had forgotten. He’d been so focused on the card; everything else had been crumpled away.

  “I got a letter from Madame Mariel yesterday,” Callie said, shifting. She leaned toward Oscar, eyes wide. “She’s not coming back.”

  “What?”

  “She is on the continent. She said she’s going to stay there. She wants to set up a healer’s shop there. She says it’s because the Barrow is no longer safe. Of course it can’t have anything to do with the fact that there’s no duke to tax her there.”

  Oscar stopped. “But . . . she won’t be able to work magic.”

  “I don’t think she plans to tell the people on the continent that,” Callie said. “S
he asked me to sell everything and mail her the proceeds.”

  “Are you going to do that?”

  “No.”

  Oscar swallowed. “So . . . what are you going to do?”

  Whatever answer Callie was going to give was interrupted by a sharp knock at the front door, immediately followed by Lord Cooper strolling in, his green cloak trailing behind him. Callie and Oscar stood up.

  “Miss Callie,” he said in greeting. “Mister Oscar.”

  “How are your children?” Callie asked, brushing off her apron.

  “They are recovering well, thank you. Hugo seems much better after we gave him your remedies last night.” He looked over at Oscar. “I wanted to come down myself to check on our boy. Are you feeling better?”

  Oscar nodded.

  Lord Cooper knelt down and put his hands on Oscar’s arms. “It was very brave of you to try to find the bear that attacked my Sophie,” he said. “But next time let adults handle the bears.”

  “Oh, he will,” said Callie quickly.

  “That’s my boy,” said the lord. He ruffled Oscar’s hair, and Oscar did everything he could not to flinch.

  The lord got up to go.

  And Oscar opened his mouth.

  “Why did you do it?”

  The lord froze. Callie’s head turned to Oscar. But she did not stop him.

  “Why did I do what, young man?” the lord asked slowly, turning to Oscar.

  “Why did you get magic children?”

  Lord Cooper appraised Oscar and Callie for a long moment.

  “If we hadn’t figured it out,” Callie interjected softly, “we wouldn’t have been able to help them. It would have been easier if you had told us.”

  The lord exhaled slowly. “Caleb promised children who would never get sick,” he said, voice quiet. “Never suffer, never have any problems at all. A boy got sick and died a few years ago. It was horrible. That wasn’t supposed to happen!” Even at the words, his face darkened. “And this way, we could have what we wanted. A boy and a girl, three years apart in age, and nothing could go wrong with them.” He looked at Oscar and Callie, as if for approval. “We’d never have to see them suffer at all. You want your children to have the best of everything—”