Children of Magic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  “Mama said,” he said, his voice raw, each word like a wound. “Mama said I shouldn’t have made the apple for Speare. That I would ruin everything. That she worked so hard to be sure nobody knew the truth, but I was going to throw it all away. So she told me. She told me the truth.”

  Nalia rubbed his back, gently, like she massaged Speare’s when he was coughing.

  Jemmy lifted bloodshot eyes to Nalia’s. “You know who my father was?”

  She shook her head.

  “He wasn’t a merchant, nor a traveler, nor a thief. He—he wasn’t even human.”

  “Oh, Jemmy,” Nalia whispered.

  “He was a Hamadrian. She fell in love with a Hamadrian, when she was young and the world’s biggest idiot, and then I came along. It’s why I can do woodcraft magic. And why you can’t. It’s the Hamadrian blood in me.”

  “But—why is it bad, that your father’s Hamadrian?”

  “I’m a crossbreed,” he said. “Some of one thing, some of another, but not whole, Nalia, I’m not whole, I can’t be, ever! Mama said—she said there’s a word for crossbreeds like me. Half-things. And you know what happens to half-things when childhood passes, when they grow up? They go crazy. They lose their minds, because they can’t be just human, and they can’t be just Hamadrian. And that makes them dangerous, because of the magic. People know that, and it scares them. They’ll find out, somehow, in town, and when they do—” His voice closed off.

  “What?” she said, full of dread. “When they do, what?”

  “They’ll kill me,” he whispered. “They’ll know I’m rotten inside, I’m broken, I’m a danger to everyone, and they’ll hunt me down. Like a rabid dog.”

  “You’re not rotten or broken! You’re a wonderful person, you’ve already saved two lives!”

  “It’s over for me,” he said, rocking back and forth. “It’s all over.”

  So this was the doom she’d always felt hovering over him. She took him into her arms. He collapsed against her, sobbing.

  Stroking his hair, she said, her voice high and odd, “Everyone said Papa’s life was over, after he lost his leg and Mama died, in the accident. He was a miller then, did you know? They said he was worthless, he’d never be anything but a burden and a cripple. They tried to take Speare and me away—he was just a newborn babe then—and put us in homes with other families. But Papa didn’t buckle. He sold the mill and bought the bakery, he cut down the legs of the worktable so he could sit instead of stand. He remade himself.

  “Papa says you can let other people’s words be the bars of your prison, or you can push free and listen only to the words in your own heart. He says it isn’t easy, it’s like being a fish and trying to swim up a fast river, but you can do it if you just remember that your heart is smarter than the people around you.”

  Pulling back, Jemmy looked away as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  She said, “Maybe those Hamadrians in the forest could help you.”

  Bitterly, he said, “Hamadrians hate half-things too.”

  “But your father, maybe he’s there—”

  “No. Mama moved here from a hundred miles away, just to get away from my father. You know why she became a, a seamstress?”

  Nalia shook her head.

  “So she’d be spending time with lots of men, so no one would suspect who—what—my real father was. She told me so.”

  “Well, maybe you can find your real father, maybe he can help—”

  “When I was born,” he said, his voice tight as a strung bow, “he told my mama to leave me in the forest, let me perish there. He said that was the only merciful thing to do with half-things, that leaving one alive would lead to misery and tragedy. That’s why she left.”

  Nalia could think of nothing to say. She reached over and cradled Jemmy’s hand between both of hers.

  When Jemmy wasn’t at the willow tree the next afternoon, Nalia sneaked around Maven’s house till she could see the little orchard.

  Jemmy lay along the branch of an apple tree, his face smoldering with resentment. But his fingers were gentle as they stroked a piebald apple.

  Without a word, Nalia slipped away again, fetching food and water and blanket. When she handed them up to him, and opened her mouth to thank him, he said, “Shut up.”

  The next day, in the early evening, a haggard Jemmy came to the bakery door. When Nalia opened it, he put the apple in her hand and trudged away, holding up his hand to forestall her thanks.

  Nalia rushed through streets reddened with the setting sun, and was out of breath when she reached the twins’ house. Shona opened the door and stared down at her.

  “May I please come in?” Nalia said. “I have something for Asher.”

  “What?”

  “It’s—” she said, and hesitated. “Something that helped Speare get well.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Nalia held up the apple.

  With a bark of laughter, Shona said, “That’s it? An apple?”

  “It’s a very good apple.”

  “It’s one of that whore’s apples.”

  Whore, Nalia thought, wondering what it meant.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Shona said, her voice rising. “My little boy is sick, and you’re here to play some kind of horrid prank?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Nalia glimpsed Cinda lurking on the stairs.

  “It’s not a prank,” she said. “It helped Speare, I just thought—”

  “Take that thing out of my house,” Shona said.

  Crushed and bewildered, Nalia turned to go.

  Stiffly, Shona said, “And—tell your father thank you. For the bread.”

  Back home again, Nalia got to work. After building up the fire in the oven, she pared and seeded the apple, cut it into small chunks, and boiled them till they were falling apart. With her father’s potato masher, she turned the chunks into puree.

  The mild snores from her father’s bedroom told her he was sleeping, so she dared to pour precious honey and cinnamon, ginger and cloves and nutmeg, into the mashed apple. She fashioned a tart crust, heavy with butter, filled it with the apple mixture, and baked it to golden perfection.

  Papa would chasten her about the expensive ingredients tomorrow, but she already had her excuse: Asher loved sweet treats, so this was a kindness like the potato bread, and how could he scold her for doing what he taught her?

  At the twins’ house, Shona’s face looked colder even than last time. “You’re becoming quite a nuisance, girl.”

  Nalia held up the warm, cloth-wrapped package, peeling back the folds to reveal the tart inside. “It’s pear,” she said, hoping the heavy spice smells masked her little white lie. “His favorite. I felt bad, about earlier.”

  Shona folded her arms. “How much?”

  Nalia shook her head.

  “Why all this sudden generosity?”

  “I just—we thought, if he’s sick, he might like something sweet. Speare had trouble eating, but he got stronger when I found something to tempt him. But if Asher wouldn’t like it. . . .”

  “He’s upstairs,” Shona said. She led the way.

  Nalia followed, but a harsh hiss from behind stopped her.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Cinda stood, face aflame with suspicion, gangly arms crossed. “What are you up to, you nasty little brat? If anything happens to my brother, I swear I’ll pull all your fingers off, one by one.”

  Nalia scurried after Shona, wondering if maybe her father was wrong about the transformative power of kindness.

  Asher looked awful, his skin yellow-gray, his eyes sunken. Head propped up with pillows, he lay in his bed, muffled in thick quilts.

  “The baker has sent over something new, darling,” Shona said, reaching toward Nalia, who surrendered the pastry. “A pear tart. Doesn’t that smell good, hmm? Give it a try, love.”

  She cooed and coaxed till he ate two thirds of it.

  “There’s a good boy,” she murmured, as he rolled
onto his side and closed his eyes. “I’ll leave the rest here by your bed, little sweeting. For later.” Her lip trembled as she ushered Nalia out of the room. “That’s the most he’s eaten in two days.”

  “I hope it helps,” Nalia said, and slipped downstairs and out.

  Nalia spent the rest of the night glowing with a giddy sense of accomplishment. She had helped a boy who’d been nothing but cruel to her, when he needed it most. She was a good person, just like her papa. Better, she’d helped Jemmy be a good person too. Now Asher would recover, and he and Cinda would soften toward Nalia and Jemmy—how could they not?—and everyone would ultimately see Jemmy’s goodness, so maybe Jemmy wouldn’t have to be doomed after all.

  So she was shocked the next morning when a grim-faced Shona, accompanied by the furious Cinda, stormed in through the bakery door. Shona grabbed Nalia’s arm from where she stood at the front counter, hustling her into the back room where her papa labored. Speare had already left with his deliveries.

  “What did she put in this?” Shona demanded, throwing a cloth-wrapped package on the table beside Sabaston’s hands.

  He said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Your daughter brought my son a pastry last night, claiming kindness. She said it was a pear pastry, but it wasn’t, was it? It was apple, the same apple, I daresay, that came from that whore’s orchard, the one your brat tried to give my Asher earlier.” Her voice turned cold as icicles. “A poisoned apple.”

  Nalia was shocked. “But—” She fell silent. If she told the truth, Jemmy’s secret heritage would be exposed.

  Sabaston pulled back the layers of cloth to reveal the remnants of the apple tart. He sniffed it, then lifted a morsel to his mouth and touched it to his tongue. He turned to Nalia. “You made this?”

  She nodded.

  “Why did you tell them it was pear?”

  “Because,” she said, feeling like she was spinning down the white-foamed rapids of the Laskia River, “be cause they wouldn’t take the apple, and I knew it would help, might help him get better—”

  Shona turned on her, mad triumph in her eyes. “Why would that apple help him? What lies did that fey bastard boy tell you?”

  Sabaston’s face tightened.

  Miserably, Nalia said, “Apples are good for you.” Then, “Isn’t he getting better?”

  Cinda cried, “You know he’s not, you evil thing!” and shoved Nalia.

  “Enough!” Sabaston said. “Shona, you will restrain your daughter in my house or you will leave it.”

  “Watch yourself, Sabaston,” Shona said. “When everyone hears of what that brat of yours has done—”

  “All she did,” Sabaston said, “was try to help your ailing son.”

  “With a poisoned apple, given her by a wild boy whose father could have been any one of a thousand drunkards, thieves, or murderers.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or worse.”

  “He didn’t do anything! He only wanted to help!” Nalia ordered her mouth to stop speaking, but it had a mind of its own. “Anyway, it wasn’t even his apple.”

  “Of course it was, you lying brat!” Shona said.

  “It wasn’t! I swear it wasn’t! It was—” Her voice trailed off.

  “Go on,” Shona said.

  “When Speare first got sick,” she said desperately, “I had to do something to help him, so I—Jemmy showed me—there are these people, living deep in the forest, across the river.”

  “People?” Shona said.

  “They live in the trees, they’re called Hamadrians.” Her tongue and teeth formed words so fast she could barely comprehend them. “Jemmy said they knew things, they can do magic, they could make medicine, so I—I baked some of papa’s special potato bread, I brought it to them and begged them for medicine for Speare, and they, they gave me an apple—I mean two apples—they said if one didn’t do the trick, give him the other, but the first cured him, so I still had the second, and when Asher wasn’t getting better, I thought perhaps it would help him too—” The words finally trailed off at the rising looks of horror on her papa’s face and triumph on Shona’s. “What?” she whispered.

  Shona grabbed Cinda’s arm and stalked out so fast the air eddied behind them.

  “Oh, Nalia,” Sabaston said, shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

  But Nalia did know. She wasn’t supposed to mention the Hamadrians at all; the townsfolk hadn’t known about them. Now they’d figure out that Jemmy was half-Hamadrian, a half-thing.

  Now he really was doomed, and it was all her fault.

  She raced to the willow tree, finding Jemmy in its branches, morosely tracing circles on the rough, grooved bark. “Jemmy!” she cried. “Jemmy, they know!”

  At the look on her face, he skittered down to the ground. “What do they know?”

  “I panicked, I was trying to protect you, I told them I got the apple for Asher from the Hamadrians in the forest—”

  His face grew white. Without another word, he took off toward his house. For once, she had trouble keeping up with him.

  When he got to his doorway, he turned to her, out of breath. “Go back,” he said. “Get in their way. Slow them down.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Just go. You shouldn’t be here when my Mama finds out.”

  “But Jemmy. . . .” Her voice trailed off; she knew he was right. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I never meant—”

  “Go!” he snapped, and darted inside, slamming the door.

  Nalia intended to go to Shona’s house, try to explain everything, fix what she had broken, but streams of townsfolk were headed toward the meeting hall, which couldn’t be a good sign. She ran toward the bakery, but a sharp voice cut through the air:

  “There she is! Bring her too.” It was Shona, and before Nalia knew it, both her arms had been grabbed and she was being hustled along.

  “Let my daughter go!” rang out Sabaston’s voice. He came stumping along with his crutches. Nalia, near to tears, had never been so glad to see him.

  “She’s a witness,” Shona said. “And possibly a conspirator.”

  “We don’t know for sure that anyone has done anything wrong,” Sabaston said.

  “Perhaps you don’t,” Shona said. “It’s not your boy barely clinging to life after being poisoned!”

  “Papa, it’s all right,” Nalia said. “I’ll go with them. We’ll straighten all this out.” Get in their way. Slow them down.

  What followed was a blur to her. She found herself inside the town hall, being pelted with questions like small, stinging rocks. She stammered and struggled, clinging to her story about the Hamadrians, which no one believed.

  “What would Hamadrians do with bread, anyway?”

  “Where did you say they lived, exactly? How long a journey? Where did you cross the Laskia River?”

  “Why was the apple splotched with yellow, then? Everyone knows only Maven grows apples like those.”

  “So Jemiah gave you an apple for Speare too?”

  “No!” she said. “The Hamadrians did!”

  “What has Jemiah told you about his father?”

  “Has Jemmy ever told you he was a half-thing?”

  Nalia wanted to scream. She kept saying, “Don’t you understand, it was me, it was my idea, he had nothing to do with it!”

  The truth didn’t matter to these people. She could see from the fervor in their eyes that they were building to a fever-pitch that meant, guilty or not, someone would have to die.

  But still she kept answering as best she could, evading, trying to draw out her explanations, trying to give Jemmy the time he needed to—what? What woodcraft magic would save him from this?

  And then she stood in the meeting hall, alone except for her father. She looked up at him, stricken. After all that talking, she had no more words.

  “Come along home,” he said heavily. “What will happen will happen.”

  She felt exhausted down to her toenails. But sh
e ran out the door, ignoring her father’s shouts.

  An angry throng milled around outside Maven’s house. Sick with worry, Nalia sidled closer to a loud group.

  “. . . believe it? That slattern, gone so fast . . .”

  “. . . left most everything . . .”

  “. . . stable empty, horses and cart gone . . .”

  “. . . crossbreed . . .”

  “. . . half-thing . . .”

  Nalia slipped away, toward Maven’s stables. The door stood open; the cart and both horses were gone.

  Like lines of ants, streams of people jostled their way into the house empty-handed, coming out carrying silk scarves, glittering baubles, anything of value they could find. The killing anger in the crowd seethed around Nalia, only partly sated by the looting. It wasn’t long before someone threw a torch onto the roof, then in through a window, and the house began to burn. Nalia worried that the angry townsfolk might chase after Maven and Jemmy, but they stood transfixed and muttering, staring at the curling flames.

  It dawned on her: He got away. They got away.

  And then: My best friend is gone. I won’t see him again.

  A firm hand settled on her shoulder. She blinked up at Sabaston.

  “Come on home now,” he said.

  She barely remembered walking the streets, but then she was in her own room, Sabaston tucking her into her bed like she was a little girl.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, half to herself. “Why didn’t it work?”

  “What?” Sabaston said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “The apple, it worked for Speare, it worked for Jemmy’s mama—” She stopped, realizing what she’d said, but he looked unsurprised.

  “There was something in those apples,” he said. “Some medicine.”

  She nodded miserably.

  “Sometimes cooking can make medicine not work as well, or even change it into something else.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “Papa, I swear, I only wanted—”