Children of Magic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  He had always gone to school with his cousins, and his cousins’ cousins, and their cousins’ cousins, the School for True Beings. It was a soaring blue and green tower hidden in a little forest of pine trees, with multicolored stone floors, circular rooms, and crazy-glass windows. While the Beings waited for their Talents to emerge, they learned to read and write and do math. When their Talents made themselves known, they practiced using them.

  Most Beings found their Talents when they were eight or nine, although sometimes they were ten, or even eleven. Starchild Wondersmith’s birthdays came and went, eleven, twelve, thirteen . . . but nothing happened.

  He wasn’t an Assembler, like his father, who made various materials fasten themselves together into wonderful birdhouses or sinuous garden goddesses or lacy gazebos. He wasn’t a Cook, like his mother, who could put yeast and flour and water in a bowl and create bread with a flick of her fingers.

  Star wasn’t a Finder, or a Seer, or a Rememberer. He waited. His third cousin twice-removed, Joyful Clearwater, found she could dust an entire house with only a few minutes’ concentration. His second cousin on his grandmother’s side, Seagull Whiteheart, learned he could make any cloud, no matter how small, shed rain just where he wanted it. Star was still waiting when the best Talent of all was bestowed upon Splendor Skychurch, of the honey-colored hair and emerald eyes. Splendor Skychurch could make anything—from a paper clip to a station wagon—disappear. The object, an envelope or a radio or a cherry tree, was still there, safe and sound. It was just invisible.

  Splendor’s whole family had marvelous Talents. Her mother was a Lightbringer, and her father was a Forger. Her great-great-aunt Charm had been that rarest of Beings, a Gatherer, but Star thought Splendor’s Talent was even better than that.

  It happened sometimes, though rarely, that a True Being never developed a special gift. Starchild Wondersmith, unhappily, was one of those. Starchild Wondersmith couldn’t do anything a Normal couldn’t do. And finally, he gave up waiting.

  He decided to become a Normal.

  Walking the corridors of his new school, Star felt as if he were caught in a spiderweb. Everything was in shades of gray, the walls, the floor tiles, the ceilings. The classrooms were perfectly square, and everyone sat in identical desks. Kids stared at Star’s pants, and snickered at his name when he had to speak it. He kept his head down all morning, pretending not to notice.

  Except for his teachers, only one person spoke directly to him. He glanced up at the sound of her voice, and saw a slight girl with dun-colored hair, dressed all in black.

  She held up a fractured pencil. “Do you have an extra?” she asked.

  “Oh,” he said. He groped in his pockets, but he couldn’t find anything except his whistle. If only he were a Fixer. Or a Cutter. He held up his empty hands. “No. Sorry.”

  She said, “Thanks anyway,” and turned away. He sighed, feeling he had missed a chance to make a friend.

  No one else spoke to him. Most kids acted as if he wasn’t there, as if Splendor Skychurch had rendered him invisible. By lunch break he felt miserable and utterly alone.

  He followed the crowd to the cafeteria, where everyone sat at long tables. Here and there a solitary student hunched over a lunch tray. Mostly the kids sat in tight little groups, their backs turned to everyone else. No one met Star’s eyes, or invited him to join them. He decided after a moment that he wasn’t really hungry.

  He turned away, clutching the stack of his new books under his arm. He found a small patch of lawn outside the library, and sat crosslegged on the grass. He opened one of the books and began to turn its pages.

  When a shadow fell across the book, he glanced up.

  Three boys, looking very large in lettered jackets, stood over him. “Who’re you?” one of them said.

  Star closed his book. “I’m Star,” he said. “Star Smith.”

  “Star?” another said scornfully. “What kind of name is that?”

  “And what’s with the pants?” the third said. He wore enormous high-top sneakers, and he tapped Star’s leg with a rubbery toe.

  Star pulled back. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.

  The foot came again, harder, leaving a dusty print. The boys giggled. One of them said, “Twinkle, twinkle, little Star!” and they all laughed loudly at this witticism.

  Star jumped to his feet. Some other boys were throwing a football back and forth on the lawn. Several girls were watching, tossing their long hair and whispering together.

  Just as Star bent to pick up his books, someone threw the football in his direction. It struck him in the chest, and he staggered backward, almost falling. “Hey!”

  The three closest to him whined, “Hey! Hey!” and laughed again, socking each other in the shoulder, glancing at the girls to see if they noticed.

  Star gathered his books, backed away, and retreated into the school.

  He wandered aimlessly until he came upon a tiny open courtyard. It held four concrete benches, all the same shape and size, and a few dispirited shrubs. The girl with the dun hair was there, sitting with another girl whose black hair stuck up in stiff spikes. They looked up as he came out into the sunshine.

  “Hey, look, Emmy,” the spike-haired girl said. “One more for the Losers’ Club.”

  Emmy said, “Shut up, Hannah. He’s new.”

  Hannah squinted at Star. “Didn’t take you long to find us, did it?”

  He had no idea how to answer her. He sat down on a bench with his books beside him, wondering how much time was left before the buzzer sounded. His fourth cousin, Sweetbriar Goodfellow, always knew exactly what time it was in any part of the world, but Star didn’t have that Talent, either. He closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his eyelids, and imagined himself back with the Beings, sitting in a prism of colored light shining through crazy-glass. An idea came to him, and he felt in his pocket for his whistle.

  The only thing special about Star, among the Beings, was his music. When Star took out his whistle, the cousins stopped what they were doing to listen. Even at festivals, the Beings would gather to hear Starchild Wondersmith play.

  His music was new every time, different every day. He never knew what it would be. He wasn’t at all certain even how it worked, but it seemed to him that he breathed in the feelings around him, and then breathed them out through his whistle. Sometimes, when he played at a festival, Splendor Skychurch would dance, in a swirl of scarves and floating honey-colored hair, and those were the best times of all.

  Now, sitting in the little courtyard, Star thought about Splendor dancing. He breathed in the memory, and then breathed out a little flight of notes that swirled like bubbles in a glass, up and up and up, until they escaped from the concrete courtyard to twinkle into the sky above.

  “Wow.”

  Startled, he opened his eyes to the square grayness of his surroundings. The girl called Emmy stood before him. He lowered his whistle. “What?”

  “I mean, wow. You’re really good.”

  His cheeks warmed, and he dropped his eyes. “Oh. Well. Thanks.”

  “What is that thing?”

  Star turned the whistle over in his hand. It was just ordinary, made of tin, with six stops. “A whistle.”

  “Play it again,” she said. “That song.”

  Star hesitated. “I’m sorry—I can’t.”

  Emmy tilted her head. “Why not?”

  “Well . . .” Star hesitated, and then mumbled, “I—I don’t know.”

  “Try,” the girl named Hannah said. Her voice had an edge to it, like a pair of scissors.

  Emmy said, “Hannah, don’t be rude.”

  Hannah grinned at Star. “Don’t talk much, do you?”

  “No.”

  “So who are you, then?”

  Star stood up, a little wary. “Star Smith.”

  “Star?” Hannah laughed. “Star! That clinches it!”

  “What?”

  “You’re definitely in the Losers’ Club!”

>   The buzzer announced the end of lunch break. Relieved, Star put his whistle back in his pocket. It had been an odd way to spend lunch break. But, he supposed, he could tell his parents he had already joined a club. A club of losers!

  The next day Star went to the courtyard again, this time with a plain peanut butter sandwich in a paper bag. He had made it himself, since even Crystal’s cold sandwiches tended to flicker and glow. He sat on the same bench, and was opening his lunch when Emmy and Hannah came into the courtyard, trailed by a tall girl and a thin boy in glasses.

  “Hey, Star,” Emmy said. “Want company?”

  “Sure.” She sat next to him. The other kids took nearby benches, and watched him expectantly. Star slowly put his sandwich back in the bag.

  “Will you play for us?” Emmy asked. She waved her hand at the others. “I was telling these guys about your whistle, and they want to hear it.”

  “Well,” Star said. “The thing is—I never know—I mean, I’m not all that good.”

  “Liar!” Hannah said. She turned to the others. “He’s fabulous. He’s just a big liar.”

  Emmy said, “Hannah!”

  But it was so outrageous Star started to laugh. “First I’m a loser, and now I’m a liar?”

  Hannah grinned, and said in her sharp voice, “You got it, Starman. Now, will you show off for these guys, or not?”

  Star stuck his lunch bag back in his new backpack, and pulled out his whistle.

  “Cool,” the new girl said. The thin boy said, “Yeah.”

  Star put his fingers on the stops of the whistle, and said before he began, “It won’t be the same, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” Emmy said.

  “I never know what it’s going to be. It’s different every time.”

  “Improvised,” Hannah said. “Like in Jazz Band.”

  “I guess.” The word didn’t quite fit, but Star didn’t know a better one. He put the mouthpiece between his lips and closed his eyes.

  It was, as he had warned them, different. He breathed in, and breathed out a long, winding melody that painted the cement of the courtyard with pink and mauve, washed the gray walls of the classrooms and the unrelenting corridors in apricot and lavender. His music turned and twisted until the straight corridors curved, the drab walls shimmered, the plaster ceilings bloomed like flowers.

  He finished, and opened his eyes.

  “Sweet,” the tall girl said. Emmy said, “Yeah.” Star blushed.

  Hannah said, “I told you he was a liar!”

  The next day there were six kids gathered in the courtyard when Star arrived, and the day after that there were ten. The next day there were fourteen, and not everyone could find a seat on the benches.

  Hannah said, “Wow, look how many losers there are at this school.”

  Emmy said, “Hannah! Stop it!”

  Star’s melody that day was broad and slow, like a sunrise, light flaring over the horizon to banish the darkness. As he finished it, and opened his eyes, everyone was smiling.

  Hannah said, “Thanks for the music, Starman,” and several others chimed in. Starman, it seemed, had become his Normal name.

  He smiled back at them. It wasn’t a bad name at all.

  That weekend, there was a festival for the True Beings. Star found a moment to be alone with Splendor Skychurch, who was wrapped in lavender scarves and wore a violet in her hair. When she asked him how his new school was, he said, “It’s okay.”

  “What are they like? The Normals?”

  He frowned. “It’s funny, Splendor. I’ve been there two weeks, but—I don’t have any idea what Normal is.” She nodded, solemnly, but Star wondered if she could possibly understand.

  “You should come to the school,” he blurted. “You and some of the cousins. See for yourselves.”

  She smiled at him. “That’s a nice idea, Starchild. I’ll talk to Seagull and Joyful.”

  By the middle of his third week, the courtyard was so crowded during lunch not everyone could get in. Kids hung about in the doorways and sat on the floor in the corridors. Star’s music was quick, rising and falling like flocks of birds wheeling through the sky, descending in clouds to perch, then rising again, all together, the beat of their wings like a thousand heartbeats.

  He was grateful that the Losers’ Club had set a pattern. No one clapped, which would have been embarrassing. They said short, quiet things like “Yeah, man” and “Love it” and “Cool, Starman.” And then they started talking to each other. No one turned their backs on anyone else that Star could see.

  Emmy said, “Look at them. You can’t tell who the losers are anymore.”

  Star turned to her. “I thought you didn’t like that word.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t. There are still losers, though.”

  Before he could answer, a voice cut through the chatter. “Excuse me. Excuse me, people. Let me through, please.”

  Star looked up. The principal, Mr. Lyne, a big bald man, was coming through the crowd like a boat through water. Conversations died away as he passed, leaving silence in his wake. He stopped before Star.

  Mr. Lyne said, “You’re Star Smith, aren’t you?”

  Star nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well,” the principal said. He rubbed his hands together, and smiled as if he were trying to be pleasant. “Well, I’m sorry, Star, but we can’t have this many people in the courtyard. I know everyone is enjoying your little concerts . . .”

  “Oh, they’re not concerts,” Star began. He felt everyone’s eyes on him, and wished Splendor were there to make him disappear.

  “That’s fine, fine,” the principal said. He waved his hand around the courtyard. “But it’s too crowded here. The fire regulations are very strict about blocked doors. And these people will never get out in time for class. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you not to do this again.”

  A second later, the buzzer sounded. No one, Star noticed uneasily, moved an inch.

  Mr. Lyne scowled. “Look, young man, I’m sure you mean well, but you can’t—”

  Hannah’s voice cut through the principal’s words. “It’s not his fault!”

  Emmy hissed, “Hannah!”

  Mr. Lyne glared at her. “Why are you all still here? Go to your classes!”

  Kids began to move, slowly, the ones in the doorways first, the ones in the courtyard having to wait for them to get out of the way. Star could see that the principal was right. It took several minutes to clear the courtyard. If there were a fire, that could be a terrible thing. One of the Beings was a Douser, but he wasn’t here. The only Being here had no Talent.

  Mr. Lyne stood with his hand on Star’s shoulder, so he didn’t dare move. Emmy and Hannah left last, glancing over their shoulders at him, Emmy with sympathy, Hannah with eyes glinting angrily.

  Mr. Lyne removed his hand, and Star picked up his backpack. The principal said, “What school did you attend before this one?”

  Star said hastily, “Pine Tree Academy.”

  “Ah. Private.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Star, this is a public school, with a lot of young people. We have to regulate activities, gatherings, you know, where a lot of students are together in one place.”

  Star said weakly, “It was just the Losers’ Club.”

  “There are no losers here, Star. We help everyone to succeed.”

  Star looked at his toes, and sighed.

  “You’re new, and I know it’s hard to fit in. But I don’t want to have to call your parents.”

  Star’s heart sank. The strictest Rule of all was that the Beings’ way of life remained private. No one had said he shouldn’t play his whistle, but just the same, this had gotten out of hand. “Okay, Mr. Lyne.”

  “We could arrange for you to play with the band, maybe.”

  Star shook his head. “No, thanks, Mr. Lyne. I don’t think so.”

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy to quash the Losers’ Club meetings. The next day, and
the next, Star left his whistle at home, but the courtyard was crammed with kids anyway, the chess club kids, the punk rock kids, the French club and the Honor Society and even the tennis team kids. They all turned and shouted to him when he came down the corridor. Hannah stood on a bench in the middle, grinning.

  Star tried eating his sandwich on the patch of grass outside the library, but the same bulky jocks were there, hooting his name when he appeared. He went to the back of the school, where the smokers hung out, but what seemed like a hundred students gathered around him, asking where his whistle was. He tried the cafeteria, but someone unplugged the jukebox and started chanting “Starman, Starman” until he fled.

  And so, although Star had kept his part of the bargain, Mr. Lyne called his parents.

  Crystal hung up the phone, looking gloomy. “Star child. We need to talk to your father.”

  They found Puck in his workshop, shaking trails of silvery smoke from his fingertips. A birdhouse with slender, slanting turrets stood on the workbench, blue and gold and vermilion paint still glistening wet.

  Crystal told him about the phone call. Puck took off his apron, and began tidying things. He said gravely, “What’s happening at the school, son?”

  “What do you mean, Dad?” Star gave his mother an anxious glance.

  “You understand the Rules,” Crystal said softly.

  “I didn’t break the Rules!” Star protested. “I just—it was just—” They were both watching him, trusting him, waiting for him to explain. He sighed. “It was the Losers’ Club.”

  “You’re in a club?” Crystal asked, brightening.

  Star shook his head. He had known from the beginning she wouldn’t understand. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “It’s a long story.”

  When Star had explained as best he could, Puck said, “Well, Starchi—I mean, Star. Mr. Lyne said he invited you to join the band.”

  “I can’t play that way, Dad,” Star said. He took his whistle out of his pocket. “My music—it’s like—it’s just—breathing music.”

  “Breathing?” Crystal repeated.

  “Yes. I just . . . breathe. In, and out. And the music is there.”

  There was a pause. His parents looked at him, and looked at each other. Crystal opened her mouth, then closed it when Puck shook his head at her. She excused herself, and got up to draw her fingers over a pitcher of water and sugar and sliced lemons. When she came back with the freshly made lemonade, Star noticed his mother was glowing, not just her fingers, but her face and her hair. She was surrounded by a haze of light. He wondered at that. Making lemonade hardly took any of Crystal’s Talent.