Bad Magic

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  “Huh,” Uncle Ben grunted suspiciously. “Not many boys your age read Shakespeare.”

  “The Tempest is my favorite Shakespeare play.” Clay didn’t mention that it was the only one he knew.

  “I see,” said Uncle Ben. “It was the master’s favorite, too.”

  “The master?”

  “Mr. Price. I believe he related to the story.”

  “Because it’s about a man on an island… with his books… and his daughter?” asked Clay, putting it together for the first time. “Price was with his niece, but I guess other than that…”

  Uncle Ben unclasped a key ring from his pants and motioned for Clay to follow him out of the room.

  “Well, you got in, you saw it, now go,” he said as he limped toward the library’s front doors. They were locked from the inside with a heavy iron chain. “That’s what you came for, right? Bragging rights?” He started unlocking the padlock on the door. “Or were you planning on taking something? I warn you, you won’t get far on this island.”

  “I swear, I wasn’t going to take anything. I just wanted to look,” said Clay.

  “So you say.” The padlock now hanging loose, Uncle Ben started to open the door.

  “Hey, is there any chance—could you show me a book?” Clay asked, stalling. “I mean, since I’m inside anyway? The library looks awesome.”

  He knew he should leave, but he had noticed again the open drawer in the card catalog. He couldn’t get over the feeling that somebody had left that card sticking out as a message for him.

  “I was kinda hoping to see Mr. Price’s memoir,” he said. “He sounds like a real interesting guy.”

  “Name one reason I should let you.” Uncle Ben removed his goggles and stared hard at Clay. His eyes were gray-blue and bloodshot.

  “Um, because I have this?” said Clay impulsively. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed his Price Public Library card to Uncle Ben.

  “Well, well…” Now Uncle Ben looked like he was the one seeing a ghost. “Where did this come from?”

  “Uh, somebody at the camp gave it to me,” said Clay.

  Uncle Ben appeared to debate something with himself.

  “All right,” he said abruptly.

  As Clay watched, Uncle Ben pocketed the library card. Clay knew better than to ask for it back.

  “But remember, this visit never happened. If even one camper knocks on my door saying he heard you were here, I’m coming for you—”

  “Don’t worry, I can keep my mouth shut,” said Clay.

  “Good. I’ll show you that book you asked about, but first I will show you the library,” said the old man. “The library is Mr. Price’s real memoir.”

  The tour was surprisingly formal. Apparently, Uncle Ben had decided that if he was going to show Clay the library, he was going to do it right.

  “The master was very particular about how his books were handled,” he began. “You have to be very careful with the spines.”

  To demonstrate how to treat a rare book properly, Uncle Ben opened a book on one of the velvet V-shaped “cradles” that were found at convenient spots throughout the library.

  “Go ahead—flip through the pages,” he said. “A bit of finger grease is good, the master always said. Helps preserve the paper.”

  The book Uncle Ben had chosen had a very ordinary-looking brown leather cover. The interior, however, was extraordinary, at least to Clay’s eyes. Paging through, Clay saw brooding black-and-white drawings of angels and monsters, and brilliant full-color illustrations of golden suns and silver moons. But what struck him most was the lettering. In some cases, single letters took up entire pages and were decorated with intricate three-dimensional designs, all hand-drawn—graffiti art from hundreds of years ago.

  “What is this book?” he asked.

  “Oh, just one of our illuminated manuscripts,” said Uncle Ben, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Would you like to see some others?”

  “Heck, yeah,” said Clay, who was suddenly much more interested in old books than he ever imagined he’d be.*

  Under Uncle Ben’s guidance, Clay inspected enormous maps of long-gone countries, and manuscripts by long-forgotten authors. He unfurled ancient parchment scrolls, some as simply designed as a rolling pin, others with handles as ornate as the hilt of a royal sword.

  Besides the illuminated manuscripts Uncle Ben had promised, Clay got to see an actual Gutenberg Bible and an early Shakespeare folio, as well as first editions of Robinson Crusoe, Treasure Island, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

  “Have you noticed anything about the way the library is laid out?” asked Uncle Ben.

  “Uh, the books get newer as you walk up, and older as you go down?” Clay guessed.

  “Yes, that is exactly how the master envisioned it,” said Uncle Ben, pleased. “ ‘To walk the length of the balcony will be to see the history of books unfold’—those were his very words.”

  He pointed around the library. “Down there you see the scroll of the ancient world being replaced by the codex—that is, by the bound book of today. There you see how calfskin was replaced by paper from trees. And over there are the incunabula—the first books printed after the invention of movable type.”

  “Am I really the first one to see all this stuff in years and years?” said Clay, who was still trying to get Uncle Ben to admit Mira’s existence. “It’s too bad. You’re an awesome librarian.”

  “Oh, I’m no librarian!” Uncle Ben shook his head as if the idea were totally outlandish. “I have no training, no formal education.… Everything I know, the master taught me. He even taught me to read, if you can believe it. I was just a wild island boy until I met him.… Oh no, I’m just the custodian here. A caretaker, nothing more.”

  He sighed, surveying his domain. “It’s a losing battle, though. Guess what is the single most dangerous place to keep a book, historically? A library.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  The custodian shook his head. “Just think of Alexandria… Pompeii.… Every great library burns down eventually.”

  “Isn’t this building fireproof?” said Clay, thinking of the mysterious lava-free ring around the exterior of the library.

  “Oh, I doubt we’ll be so lucky next time,” said Uncle Ben mournfully. “Of course, the most valuable books are housed in a special vault that the master built.” He nodded to the base of the banyan tree at the bottom of the library.

  “What could be more valuable than a Shakespeare, what do you call it, folio?” asked Clay.

  “I don’t know for sure—the access code died with Mr. Price—but some say there are grimoires in there.”

  “Grimoires?”

  “Magic books.”

  “You mean books about magic or books that are magic?” asked Clay.

  “Maybe both.” The custodian’s eyes twinkled—as much as bulging bloodshot eyes can twinkle.*

  The tour ended in Randolph Price’s office. It was small, considering the size of the library, not to mention his vast wealth. But it was lavish enough, with antique chairs upholstered in red velvet and gold-framed paintings of men and women with enormous ruffled collars.

  “The master barely left this office after his niece died,” said Uncle Ben, his hand on an old library globe that showed the world as it was two hundred years ago.

  Clay looked at the coffee cup and cigar butts on the desk. “And now you work in here?”

  “What? Never!” said Uncle Ben, horrified. “Those are the master’s things.”

  “You mean they’ve been here since he died?”

  “Of course,” said Uncle Ben stiffly. “I wouldn’t dare touch them.”

  Clay nodded, trying not to show how creepy he thought this was.

  “Is there a picture of his niece around?” Clay asked. He figured if they kept talking about her, eventually Uncle Ben would have to get around to the subject of his own niece.

  Uncle Ben shook his head. “The master couldn’t bear to b
e reminded of Mira after she died.”

  “Wait, who?” Clay asked, confused. “You mean Mira was the name of Price’s niece?”

  Uncle Ben’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you knew about her.”

  “Yeah, I did. I just—”

  Clay’s mind raced. What did it mean? If Mira was the name of Price’s niece, what was the library girl’s name? Also Mira? That seemed unlikely, to say the least.

  “What did Mira look like?” he managed to ask.

  “I never met her. They say she was very beautiful, with long red hair.”

  “Red hair?”

  “Yes, and ivory skin, the master said.”

  The custodian was describing the girl in the library! Could the ghost girl actually be a ghost? Clay found himself wondering.

  Or was he going crazy, like everyone else who’d seen her?

  “Is something the matter?”

  “Uh, no. I just… hurt my head today.” In fact, his head was starting to throb again.

  “That’s what happens when you break into buildings.… The only personal item the master kept after the fire was his journal.” Uncle Ben pointed to a glass box on the desk. THE MEMOIRS OF RANDOLPH PRICE, read the brass plaque. “That’s what you wanted to see, isn’t it?”

  Clay glanced at the journal inside. Why did it look so familiar?

  With a start, he realized it looked exactly like the journal Mr. Bailey had given him, the journal that had gotten Clay into so much trouble. Price’s journal had a rust-red cover with a triangular mirror inset in the leather—just like Clay’s had. It even had the same ink-splat stain! Or was this just another sign that his mind was playing tricks on him?

  “Can—can I take it out?” Clay stammered.

  “Sorry, it’s private.”

  “Please. I’d really like to see it.”

  The custodian was adamant. “The master didn’t want anyone coming into this library. Imagine how he felt about his journal. I’ve never even looked at it myself.”

  “You don’t understand. I think it’s mine.”

  “The journal?”

  Clay nodded. “I know it sounds crazy—”

  “Are you pulling my leg? That journal has been in that case for fifty years.”

  “But it has an ink stain, just like mine—”

  “So? There are ink stains everywhere.” The custodian pointed to an ink stain on his shirtsleeve as proof.

  “Please—”

  “No! I shouldn’t have let you stay in the first place. The master would never have approved,” said Uncle Ben, agitated. The loquacious librarian was gone; the churlish custodian had returned. “Now get out before I report you to the director of your camp!”

  He practically pushed Clay out of the office.

  On the way out, his head throbbing with pain, Clay looked up at the highest tower window. There she was again. The red-haired girl in the polka-dot dress who might or might not be named Mira. She raised her hand, parting her fingers slightly, then receded into the darkness of the library.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  THE JOURNAL

  Clay’s mind was a jumble of thoughts as he made his way back to camp through the vog.

  Among the things bothering him: the way Mira had parted her fingers in the window as he was leaving. He could have sworn she was giving him the Star Trek Vulcan hand salute. But if she was, why had she pretended never to have heard of Star Trek? Was there a normal, modern girl hidden inside her, waiting to get out?

  And then there was the uncle, claiming not to know who she was, then describing her exactly. None of it added up.

  An odd idea occurred to Clay: The girl and her uncle—if he really was her uncle—could it be that they were deliberately conspiring to make him think she was the ghost of Price’s niece?

  Yes, Clay was suddenly sure of it. That was why Uncle Ben pretended she wasn’t there; he was trying to make Clay think Mira was visible only to Clay. And that was why she used those old-fashioned expressions and talked about that old actress Clay had never heard of; the girl herself was acting. She was pretending to be a girl from seventy years ago!

  But why would they want him to think she was a ghost? Maybe they thought a ghost would scare away the camp kids. That was the only explanation Clay could think of. But it was hardly a satisfying one—

  Clay didn’t know what to expect when he got back to camp. It was more than three hours since he’d left, and it was likely that everyone would be on red alert, searching for him, the errant camper with the head injury. Then again, maybe Nurse Cora had never signaled that he’d gone. She seemed like somebody who heard only what she wanted to hear and saw only what she wanted to see.

  The camp was quiet, in any event. The vog was so thick that Clay could see no more than ten feet ahead. He had never been so grateful for the cover it provided.

  As he reached Big Yurt, Clay glanced back in the direction he’d come from—and was astonished to see the director’s teepee hovering about two feet in the air. At least, that’s what he thought he saw. He blinked and the teepee was sitting on the ground. He blinked again and it was gone, lost in the vog.

  He rubbed his aching head. Whether it was an effect of the injury or of meeting Mira, something was making him imagine things that weren’t there. What he needed was to lie down and stop thinking so much.

  Thankfully, his cabin was empty.

  By the time he climbed into his bunk, Clay was so tired—and his head was in so much pain—that he almost didn’t see it waiting for him.

  The red journal on his white pillow.

  His first reaction was panic and confusion. He looked around wildly to make sure nobody was watching, then he thrust the journal under his pillow as if it were evidence of a crime.

  Mira must have absconded with it when her uncle wasn’t looking, he concluded when he started thinking rationally. Somehow she’d managed to run it down to camp ahead of Clay. Perhaps she knew a shortcut.

  Unless it was someone else who had stolen it for him? Maybe that same secret benefactor who’d left the library card in his wallet?

  He was just pulling out the journal for a second, calmer look, when somebody entered the cabin.

  “Clay, there you are!” It was Buzz, his expression all concern. “How’s your head?”

  “Uh, it’s okay. I couldn’t rest in the infirmary,” said Clay, slipping the journal back under his pillow. “Too noisy.”

  Buzz smiled. “I know what you mean. That bird always seems to have something really urgent to say.”

  “Sorry, guess I should have told somebody I was leaving.”

  “Well, I’ve got bad news for you,” said Buzz, causing Clay’s heart to skip a beat. Had Buzz already heard about the stolen journal? “Your rest is over. Everybody’s about to come in for Circle.”

  “Oh, right. What’s the topic for today?” Clay asked, relieved.

  “Honesty. With ourselves and with others,” said Buzz, staring Clay down. Clay gulped, but Buzz didn’t say anything further until Circle started.

  Clay didn’t dare look at the journal again until close to midnight, when he was sure his counselor and his cabinmates were all asleep.

  Tense with excitement, Clay turned on his flashlight and shined it on the journal’s cover. The ink-splat was just as he remembered: star-shaped but smeared. If you squinted, it looked almost like a shooting star. How had his journal landed under glass in a library on an island thousands of miles away from where he lived?

  In a week full of mysteries, this was perhaps the biggest mystery Clay had confronted yet.

  No. As soon as Clay opened the journal, where he expected to see the words MAGIC SUCKS!, he instead saw a date and the title

  The Memoirs of Randolph Price

  followed by pages of handwriting—neat, careful handwriting—that looked nothing like Clay’s own. There was no mystery after all; the journal wasn’t his. It was just a coincidence that the journal covers looked so similar. Clay was disappoint
ed and relieved at the same time.

  He sighed and started reading. Maybe he would learn more about the original Mira, or more about the library the pilot had warned him about weeks ago.

  Soon, Clay was sitting up in bed, mouth agape.

  MATH STINKS! the memoir began:

  I was a mischievous miscreant of twelve when my math teacher caught me writing those words on his wall. For me, it was the last straw. In short order, I was sent away to a dreaded reform school in a faraway city.

  What misery! The Ian G. Grantland School for the Moral Improvement of Wayward Boys was a grim, gray place with scary teachers and even scarier students. My classmates included an underage bookie, an anarchist, and a sleepwalker who got into trouble every night trying to knock down his neighbors’ doors. And those were just the boys in my room!

  A bookie, an anarchist, and a sleepwalker? Clay thought immediately of Kwan, Pablo, and Jonah. The parallel with his cabinmates couldn’t have been more obvious. Never mind that MATH STINKS! sounded so much like MAGIC SUCKS!…

  He continued to read with increasing disbelief.

  I spent most of my time hiding in the school library, where I read morning ’til night. I liked adventure stories best, stories like TREASURE ISLAND and ROBINSON CRUSOE, that always seemed to wind up with their hero stranded on a desert island.

  The librarian was an old bald man with bulging eyeballs and a nasty temper, but he took a liking to me for some reason. One day, he handed me a tattered copy of a play by William Shakespeare, THE TEMPEST.

  “Think of it as another desert island adventure,” he said.

  It took me a few attempts before I could make sense of Shakespeare’s flowery language. His THEEs and THOUs and WHATNOTs. But I found that if I read it aloud, I understood it better.

  The other kids had a lot of fun at my expense—they all called me Shakespeare—but I kept at it until I almost had the play memorized. There was something about the story that struck a chord. I guess I wanted to be like Prospero the magician, to control my enemies like puppets.