Bad Magic

by Pseudonymous Bosch

As the vegetation grew denser and denser, the air turned whiter and whiter. Before he knew it, Clay was ensconced in fog.

  Or vog, he soon realized.

  Like fog, the vog was wet and clammy; like smog, it made his eyes tear and made his throat sore. He got the idea to put his bandanna over his mouth and he breathed more easily for a while, but then the bandanna became so wet, it stuck to his face. He pushed it off.

  The trail broadened and merged with a shallow, mossy stream. Following the llama, who was very deft at avoiding stepping in the water, Clay tried to pick and choose his way on the rocks, even though it was difficult to see them in the vog. He gave up and walked in the stream; the water was cold, but it was only ankle deep.

  “How much farther, Como? Where are you taking me? ¿A dónde vamos?”

  A minute later—or was it ten minutes? The vog had a way of erasing time—the llama suddenly stopped walking.

  He stood stock-still, ears pointed straight ahead.

  “What’s wrong?” Clay asked. “Do you hear something?”

  Then Clay heard it, too: a grunting sound next to the stream.

  His heart beating wildly, Clay looked around, but it was impossible to see very much. There were immense trees in every direction, so tall their treetops were obscured by the vog. It was like looking into a maze—or a misty hall of mirrors.

  He’d almost decided he’d imagined the sound, when the llama reared back, pulling his leash out of Clay’s hand.

  Clay heard another grrunt!!—this time bigger, deeper, and closer.

  Followed by another grrrrunt!!!—this time much bigger, much deeper, and much, much closer.

  And finally by another…

  Grrrrrrrrrrrrunt!!!!!!!!

  There was a splash of hooves… and suddenly an enormous muddy hog with long bristly hair and sharp curving tusks was barreling toward him, water spraying in all directions.

  Clay tried to jump out of the way, but he tripped and fell, landing on his butt in the shallow stream. Terrified, Clay held his arms over his face to ward off the hog.

  Luckily, the hog already had its afternoon meal caught between its teeth. The monstrous animal thundered past without so much as a glance in Clay’s direction, frog legs dangling from its mouth.

  Eventually, Clay’s breathing returned to normal and the llama stopped trembling. They pushed forward, now sticking to dry land.

  A mile or two farther (the distance was just as hard to judge as the time), the trail stopped at what appeared to be a root ball as big as a house.

  When they came closer, Clay saw that it was a tree, but a tree engulfed in roots. Some roots snaked up the tree trunk; others dangled free, twisting this way and that.*

  The main trail turned to the right, bending around this bizarre, inside-out, upside-down tree. But the llama seemed to want to take a smaller foot trail to the left that disappeared in a thicket of ferns.

  While Clay debated which way to go, he put down his backpack and stretched. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired or so sore.

  Modestly turning away from the llama, he peed onto one of the enormous tree roots where it met the ground. Other roots swayed above, repeatedly tapping him on the shoulder, as if trying to distract him from what he was doing.

  Unnerved, he zipped up and turned back around—and frowned. Was the vog getting thicker? Why couldn’t he see the llama?

  “Como, where are you? ¿Dónde estás?”

  He walked around the tree, calling for the llama. There was no response. Then he realized his backpack was missing as well.

  “Hello? Is anybody there?”

  He peered nervously into the vog. Was he being stalked by an animal? Was he being hijacked by island natives? In a second, he feared, a net woven from sticky vines would drop down over his head, or he would be hit by an arrow tipped with the venom of a poison dart frog.*

  The suspense ended when he heard a sound ricocheting through the trees.

  And no, it was not the sound of an animal pouncing or a net dropping or an arrow flying.

  It was the sound of laughter.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  THE CREATURE WHO CAME OUT OF THE VOG

  Did I scare you?”

  As Clay spun around, a short human-shaped figure emerged from the vog. The llama, visible in soft gray silhouette, followed.

  “Uh, not too much,” said Clay cautiously.

  “Oh, shoot. Well, I tried.”

  Laughing merrily, the newcomer tossed the llama’s leash in Clay’s direction.

  “Thanks,” said Clay as he fumblingly caught it.

  At first, Clay thought the mysterious creature approaching him was a boy. Or possibly a dwarf. Clay could just make out a newsboy-style cap, suspenders, and a very muddy pair of dungarees.* But as it came closer, Clay saw that the creature was a girl. A freckle-faced girl with green eyes that seemed to be darting away from him and at the same time daring him to follow.

  “You didn’t see a backpack, too, by any chance?” he asked.

  “You mean this one?”

  The backpack landed at Clay’s feet.

  “Yeah, that one,” said Clay.

  “And I think you’re missing this—”

  The girl tossed him his wallet.

  “That was in my pants!”

  “No kidding,” said the girl, grinning. “Pickpocketing is easy. What you should really be impressed by is the way I snuck old Como C. away. First time I’ve ever stolen an animal. Think I have a future as a cattle rustler?”

  “How do you know Como’s name? Are you from Earth Ranch?”

  “Very astute. Your official greeter, Leira, at your service.” The girl bowed in a mocking fashion. “That’s Leira, L-E-I-R-A. Weird name, I know. What can I say? My parents are nerds.”*

  Clay felt a tremendous surge of relief upon hearing that she was from Earth Ranch. At last, there was evidence that the camp existed and that he might eventually reach it.

  Leira pointed to the tree next to them. “By the way, this banyan tree—you just peed all over Old Will. That’s bad luck, or maybe good, I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t do it again.”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Clay, mortified.

  “It’s one of the oldest and biggest banyans around. It’s like a marker. How you know you’ve reached Earth Ranch.”

  Clay looked around. “This is Earth Ranch?”

  Leira laughed. “I know, it’s kind of weird. There aren’t any gates or fences around the camp—just the Wall of Trust. Once you’re inside, you’re not supposed to go out again, unless it’s an emergency or you have special permission.”

  “Do you have permission now?”

  “No, but I still have one foot inside, so I’m only a half criminal,” said Leira blithely. “Speaking of criminals, sorry about stealing your stuff.”

  Clay shrugged. “No problem.” He didn’t want to pick a fight with the first person he’d met on the island.

  “At least I returned it, right? I always return everything. You know, like those fishermen who throw fish back into the water? They just do it for the thrill?”

  “I think that’s called catch and release,” said Clay.

  “Yeah, catch and release, that’s it. Anyway, I can’t help stealing,” Leira explained. “I’m a kleptomaniac.”

  “You are?” Clay couldn’t tell if she was serious.

  She nodded. “Everybody at this camp is a maniac of some kind or other. What kind are you?”

  “I’m not any kind.”

  Leira’s eyes darkened. He had said the wrong thing.

  “You mean you’re a think-you’re-better-than-the-rest-of-us maniac. An egomaniac.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Clay protested. “I’m not an egomaniac, just boring.”

  But Leira had already disappeared into the vog.

  “Hey—I don’t know which way to go!”

  Clay tugged on the llama, wanting to run after Leira, but Como wouldn’t budge. He collapsed on his hind legs, camel
-style, once more.

  “Por favor… vámonos,” Clay pleaded.

  A second later, he heard Leira’s laugh.

  “I almost forgot to give you this,” she said. She emerged from the vog—and tossed him a fresh bunch of carrot tops.

  “Now follow me, Mr. Not-a-Maniac—”

  Then she disappeared again.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  GUARD BEES

  By the time he caught up with her, the vog had started to lift, and Clay discovered that they were descending into a deep green valley. In the center of the valley was a long turquoise lake shaped like a crescent moon. At the far end of the lake, the base of an enormous black mountain disappeared into a ring of billowing clouds. To the left of the mountain, a milk-white waterfall poured out from behind the clouds in an endless frothy stream. The view was beautiful but ominous, like a postcard that had been deliberately smudged.

  “That dark mountain—it’s the volcano?” he asked as he followed her down the steep trail.

  Leira nodded. “Mount Forge. The lake protects us from the lava flows—supposedly.”

  “And that’s camp?”

  On the near side of the lake, interspersed with pine trees and boulders, stood about a dozen structures of assorted sizes and shapes and colors—none of which resembled any buildings Clay had ever seen before.

  “It looks like a village,” he said. “But like a village designed by someone totally whacked.”

  “Yeah, that about sums it up.” Leira smiled. “C’mon, let’s hurry, before the vog comes back.”

  As if he heard her, the llama strained at his leash, eager to get home. Clay tried to keep up while Leira pointed out the sights.

  “Down there is Big Yurt,” she said, gesturing in the direction of a large round building. It had mud-brick walls and a woven thatched roof. Hanging by the entryway was a bronze gong that looked large enough to announce an emperor. “That’s where we have camp meetings and stuff, and where we eat when it’s raining.”

  Then she pointed to two smaller yurts. They looked just like the larger one, except one was painted with a swirling psychedelic rainbow and the other had a wooden arch in front of its door. “The rainbow one is Art Yurt, which is the arts and crafts studio, duh. The other one is Little Yurt, but we usually call it Sick Yurt, or Puke Yurt. It’s the infirmary. Don’t go in there unless you have to. The nurse, Cora, I think she’s a witch.…”

  Clay eyed the infirmary with curiosity. It didn’t look very witchy, unless you counted the broken wind chimes hanging from the arch. And the giant macramé spiderweb. (Actually, an oversized dream catcher, he would learn later.) The chimes tinkled noisily as they passed.

  Next they reached two green, woodsy-looking cabins with dilapidated tin roofs. A small pond occupied the space between them.

  “That’s your cabin, the younger boys’,” said Leira, pointing to the closer of the two. “It’s officially named Earth Cabin, which is confusing ’cause this whole place is Earth Ranch. So people just call it the Wormhole. You guys are known as Earthworms, or usually just Worms.… The other one is my cabin, the younger girls’. It’s called the Pond, and we’re known as Muds, or sometimes Frogs.… The older girls are up that hill—” She pointed to an A-frame-style cabin that hung precipitously over the hillside just above them. “Their cabin is Falcon’s Perch.… And the older boys are behind that rock over there—in Fire Truck. Actually, it’s a trailer, not a truck, but it’s painted red.”

  “And what about that teepee?” asked Clay, pointing to a canvas teepee nestled among some trees. “Who stays there?”

  “You can see the teepee?” She seemed surprised.

  Clay squinted. “Uh, not anymore…” A cloud of vog had just passed over it.

  Leira nodded knowingly. “You never see it very long.… It’s Over There.”

  Clay looked around. “Where?”

  “No, that’s the teepee’s name. Over There. It’s where the camp director, Eli, lives. It always moves around. So we call it Over There. You know, like, where’s the teepee…?”

  “It’s Over There,” finished Clay, although he wasn’t sure how or why a teepee would move so often.

  “Exactly.”

  She beckoned Clay forward. “C’mon, Como’s getting hungry.”

  “So, where is everybody else now, anyway?” asked Clay. He had just noticed how quiet it was.

  “It’s four p.m. That means everybody’s in Circle,” said Leira. “That’s sort of like your daily cabin meeting—slash—group therapy—slash—everybody says what they think about everybody else—slash—somebody always winds up crying hour.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  Leira snorted. “Why do you think I volunteered to go find you?”

  Leira stopped short just before they reached a rickety wooden gate. Behind the gate, Clay could see two llamas munching on hay, and a chicken running in and out of a big barn painted cobalt blue.

  “Okay, stand still and don’t panic,” said Leira. “They’ll sense it if you’re scared.”

  “Who?” asked Clay, his leg already jiggling with anxiety.

  “The bees.”

  She nodded at a dark undulating cloud that appeared to be getting larger and larger.

  “It’s just that they don’t know you and they’re very protective,” Leira explained. “Kind of like guard bees, you could say.”

  “Guard bees?” Clay had never heard of such a thing. He could feel sweat trickling down his forehead. The dark cloud—now clearly a swarm of bees—was approaching at an alarming speed.

  “Uh-huh.” Leira nodded as if this were perfectly normal. “They usually only sting you if they get mad. Just do as I say and you’ll be fine.…”

  As the bees descended on them, the llama snorted and flattened his ears. One bee flew at his nose, taunting him and forcing him to back away. But the others had no interest in the llama—only in Clay. They started circling his head at a dizzying speed.

  It was like being inside the eye of a tornado.

  “Stop shaking!” said Leira.

  “I’m trying! Jeez!”

  They were the same large type of bumblebee Clay had seen earlier, but now there had to have been four or five hundred of them at least.

  Slowing down now that he was caught in their spinning vortex, they buzzed around Clay, like miniature spy craft examining a potentially hostile alien spaceship. Five or six bees went so far as to land on his face. They crawled across his forehead, his nose, his ears, his neck, investigating every bump and every pore as if they were looking for the best spot to land a sting. They were fuzzy, hairy creatures, and every touch of their legs and wings tickled the nerve endings in Clay’s skin. Certain he was going to cough or sneeze—or scream—Clay held his breath and tried not to move a muscle.

  “That’s it. You’re doing great,” said Leira quietly.

  She pressed something into his hand.

  “Here, take this flower—don’t look down!—and slowly hold it up for them, so they know you’re a friend.”

  He held up what turned out to be a big yellow daisy.

  At first, the flower had no noticeable impact. Then, one by one, the bees that had been crawling on his face flew over to the daisy. They nibbled on some pollen, then rejoined the swarm.

  Finally, responding to some inaudible cue, the bees all rose together in a long, unfurling ribbon and flew back in the direction from whence they’d come.

  When the last bee had left, Clay exhaled, gasping for air. He clutched his stomach, afraid he was going to puke, but all that came out were a few dry heaves. He had never felt so relieved in his life.

  “See. I told you it would be fine,” said Leira. But Clay could tell she’d been almost as nervous as he was.

  As they entered the barnyard, the llama broke free of Clay and dropped to the ground. The cardboard box fell off the llama’s back and tumbled into a pile of straw. Scared chickens squawked and scattered.

  “What’s he doing?” C
lay asked anxiously as the llama started rolling around in the dirt, legs in the air. “Did he get stung?”

  “No, old Como’s just giving himself a dust bath,” said a tall man in a white beekeeper suit and hat. “Llamas always do that after a walk.”

  He dropped a bucket to the ground. A large chunk of honeycomb was inside, oozing golden honey. A few bees hovered over it.

  “Hope my little flying friends didn’t give you a scare.” He pulled the mesh veil up over his hat, revealing a bristly mustache and squinty gray eyes. “They get a bit ornery when I harvest,” said the beekeeper, indicating the honey.

  “Gee, I wonder why,” said Leira. “It’s not like you’re taking their food or anything.”

  “Leira’s a vegan. She doesn’t approve,” the beekeeper explained to Clay. “But don’t let that stop you from taking a taste.”

  “Now?” asked Clay, surprised but hungry.

  “Go ahead, use your finger.”

  Clay wiped his finger on his jeans—it was pretty dirty—then dipped it into the honey.

  “We call it Golden Lava. Best you’ve ever had, am I right?”

  Clay nodded. It was by far the best honey he’d ever tasted. Like liquid gold with a slightly smoky flavor.

  “I’m sorry the director isn’t around right this minute to welcome you officially, but I’ll try.” The man took Clay’s still-sticky hand and shook it ceremoniously. “You’re Clay. Known hereafter as Worm. I’m Buzz, your counselor. Known hereafter as… Buzz, your counselor. I’m also the camp beekeeper, llama wrangler, and general peacemaker.”

  Leira rolled her eyes. “I bet the bees think you’re really peaceful.”

  Buzz held up his finger. A bee landed on it. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  As he looked at the bee, his lips vibrated in a strange, apian fashion.* Then the bee flew off to rejoin its peers. If Clay hadn’t known better, he would have thought that a message had passed between them.

  “Bees are communitarians,” said Buzz. “They could teach us a thing or two about how to live in peace with one another.” Buzz smiled. “Of course, they also eat their young.”