The Misadventures of the Magician's Dog

by Frances Sackett

  What she said made sense, Peter thought. He had been angry last night when he changed The Dog into a mushroom, and angry, too, today when the magic finally worked. Still . . .

  “But why?” he demanded, looking at The Dog. “Why can I only do magic when I’m mad? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  The Dog scratched his ear, and his eyes shifted uneasily away from Peter’s. “I wasn’t sure you had to be mad,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. There are actually a lot of different emotions that enable magicians to do magic. Greed, hate, anger—those are definitely the three big ones, but there are others, too. My old magician once made a whole house disappear because he was resentful.”

  Peter had about a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but before he could, Izzy spoke up. “Why did he want the house to disappear?”

  The Dog snorted. “It was built closer to his house than he wanted, and it had a pool. The kids were always playing and laughing outside. He could have made it so he couldn’t hear them, but instead one day, poof! The family that lived there thought a freak tornado had carried their home away, but then, most people will believe anything rather than believing in magic.”

  “So he just made their house disappear?” Celia said. The smile on her face faded.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “He sounds like a jerk, your magician,” said Peter.

  “Of course he was a jerk,” said The Dog. “He was a magician.”

  “Can’t magicians be nice?” asked Izzy.

  “A magician can start out a good person,” said The Dog. “I’m sure many of them are very decent kids to begin with. But from what I saw with my master, the more magic you do, the more you want to do magic. And the more you want to do magic, the more you open your mind to the bad emotions that allow you to channel your power. Sooner or later, the bad emotions become a part of who you are. Why, just look at Peter! He’s still shaking with anger, and he probably can’t even tell you why.”

  Peter looked down at his hands. He hadn’t realized it before, but they were, in fact, shaking. He pressed them against his thighs.

  “Are you angry, Peter?” asked Celia.

  “No,” Peter tried to say, but the word shot out of his mouth, sounding, well, angry.

  “Why are you mad?” asked Izzy, moving closer to him.

  “It’s just . . . It’s because . . .” Looking at Izzy, Peter couldn’t actually remember why he was so angry. Celia had said mean things and taken credit for turning The Dog back into a dog. But she’d figured out how Peter’s magic worked, and she had only said the mean things to help him. The Dog had turned Izzy and Celia into birds—but last night The Dog had actually taught Peter how to do magic. Wasn’t that just as good as, if not better than, getting to fly? “I’m not angry anymore,” he said, realizing as the words came out of his mouth that they were true. He took Izzy’s hand. “I’m not sure why I was mad before. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not really Peter’s fault,” The Dog said. “It’s just something that will happen if he does magic often enough. Kind of a side effect, I guess you’d call it.”

  “You mean if Peter does magic all the time, he’s going to end up as mean as your magician?” asked Celia.

  The Dog pawed the carpet. “My master met a few other magicians,” he said, “and he made it sound as though they were just as evil as he was. It seems likely that will happen to Peter, too.”

  “But you aren’t mean,” said Izzy. “And you’re a magician.”

  “Me?” said The Dog. “Magic doesn’t make me angry, but I can only do it because the magician wished it. And my power is only a fraction of his.”

  “So Peter could be even more powerful than you?” Celia said. “He could change us into anything we want? Turn dirt into money? Do our homework? Wish us anyplace we want to go?”

  “With some limits,” said The Dog.

  “I don’t want Peter to do any more magic,” Izzy said.

  “But . . . ,” said Peter.

  “But . . . ,” said Celia at the same time.

  The Dog laughed, a snorty sort of half bark. “Once you’ve started doing magic, it can be hard to stop.”

  Izzy looked as if she were about to cry. “But I don’t want him to turn mean!”

  “Of course I won’t do magic if you don’t want me to,” Peter hurriedly reassured her, the words tumbling from him at the sight of her worried face. “I promise I’m not going to become like The Dog’s magician. Please don’t be upset, okay?”

  “But, Peter . . . ,” Celia objected.

  “Izzy doesn’t need to worry,” said Peter. He raised his eyebrows, hoping Celia would understand.

  Before Celia could respond, a door squeaked at the other end of the hallway. Celia and Peter looked at each other in alarm.

  “Izzy, don’t say anything to Mom about magic, or The Dog talking, okay?” whispered Celia.

  “Why not?”

  “She won’t understand,” Peter said. “And she’s got enough to worry about, with her new job and Dad being gone and all.”

  “All right,” Izzy said, a little uncertainly.

  Peter squeezed her hand, which was still in his. He would do anything to protect her, he vowed to himself. But he would find a way to save his dad at the same time, even if he had to lie to do it.

  Chapter Seven

  Breakfast that morning was awkward and full of long silences. Peter kept waiting for his mother to put down her cup and demand to know what was going on. But she was distracted: a frown pulled at the corners of her mouth, especially when she glanced at the newspaper half open on the counter. A story about the war, Peter guessed; probably more soldiers dead in an attack somewhere. Peter had given up reading about the war. Somehow the descriptions of battles in distant countries made his father seem farther away than ever.

  Now, sitting at the breakfast table, Peter couldn’t tell whether he was relieved by his mother’s preoccupation or not. In a way, it would have been nice to tell her the whole story, to drop this moral dilemma on her lap and let her be the one to resolve it.

  She wasn’t going to make it that easy.

  While Peter nibbled on his toast and scrambled eggs, his thoughts went something like this:

  1. He understood how to do magic and could do it if he wanted.

  2. He had promised Izzy he wouldn’t do magic.

  3. Doing magic might make him angry.

  4. If he did magic, maybe he could bring his father home.

  Four was the sticking point. In those first moments after he’d turned the mushroom back into The Dog, a small portion of Peter’s mind had imagined all he could do with his newfound powers. Once The Dog had explained what happened to magicians, Peter had let go of those dreams. But his father—how could Peter not use magic to get his father back? Maybe, he argued to himself, Izzy would allow him to do one or two small spells (was that what he should call them?) if she knew what he was doing the magic for. But what if she didn’t? Peter knew himself; he knew that although he wasn’t extraordinarily good, he was ordinarily good: the sort of kid who returned lost wallets when he found them; who didn’t cheat on tests or lie to his parents or accept too much change at the grocery store. Surely magic couldn’t change that overnight. Maybe today Peter had been angry after he transformed The Dog back, but it had lasted for minutes only. Wouldn’t being angry for a few minutes be better than risking his father’s life? Yes, he thought. Yes, it would.

  Celia kicked him under the table, and he realized he was nodding vehemently for no good reason.

  “Mom, can I be excused?” he said.

  Peter’s mom glanced at his plate of half-eaten eggs. “Umm, sure. If you’re really done eating.”

  “I think I’m going to take the dog for a walk,” Peter said. “He could use some exercise.”

  The Dog, having finished his breakfast of kibble, was snoring in the sunlight by the kitchen window. “Okay,” Peter’s mother said. “Have a great walk.”

  “
Mom, may I be excused, too?” said Celia in a rush as Peter grabbed the leash they had bought the day before. “Peter, wait for me, I’m coming,” she added before her mother could answer her initial question.

  “Me too,” said Izzy. “I want to come, too!”

  Peter clipped the leash onto The Dog’s collar, then turned back to his sisters. “I thought you had a playdate this morning,” he said to Izzy. “Aren’t you supposed to go to Rebecca’s house?”

  “Oh. That’s right,” said Izzy, her chin sinking in disappointment.

  “And aren’t you going shopping with Mom?” Peter said to Celia.

  “I don’t need to go shopping,” snapped Celia, her eyes sparking as she realized what Peter was doing.

  “That’s not what you said yesterday,” said Peter. “I think your exact words were ‘I’m going to die if I don’t get some new sneakers!’ ”

  Peter’s mom took one last sip of coffee. “Actually, that is what you said,” she reminded Celia. “And I did leave the morning open so you and I could have a shopping date.”

  “But . . . !” said Celia.

  Peter didn’t give his sister any additional time to object. “See you in a while,” he said, walking to the door with The Dog, barely awake, following. “Bye!”

  “Bye, Peter,” said his mom while his sisters just glared after him.

  “I really needed that nap,” The Dog groused as they set off down the sidewalk. Above them, the sun burned in the cloudless sky, bleaching all the color from the morning: under its unrelenting brightness, the stucco houses, the dried-up lawns, even the occasional crimson-filled flowerpots all seemed to be paler versions of their real selves. It was just after nine in the morning, and Peter guessed it was close to ninety degrees already. But the empty street meant that Peter and The Dog could talk in peace. “You’re forgetting that I spent all night as a mushroom. And I’ve never been good at sleeping standing up,” The Dog continued.

  “I’m tired, too,” said Peter, trying not to move his mouth. He’d had a hard enough time trying to make friends at school; he didn’t need to be seen wandering down the sidewalk talking to a dog. “But there’s some stuff we need to talk about, and I thought it was better to talk sooner rather than later—”

  “I know, I know,” The Dog interrupted. “You want me to teach you more magic, right?”

  “Well,” said Peter, “that’s part of it. But I mostly really want to ask you a question.”

  The Dog’s ears perked up. “Yes?”

  Peter took a deep breath. “I want to know why. Why you taught me magic and went to so much trouble to get me to adopt you. None of this is by accident. You must have some sort of plan. I want to know what that plan is and how it involves me.” His voice was wobbly, but he had said it; he had asked The Dog the thing that had been bothering him all morning.

  “My, aren’t we perceptive today,” said The Dog. He stopped to sniff something in the gutter while Peter waited impatiently. “In fact, you’re right,” The Dog continued once he was done smelling. “There is a little favor I’d like to have you do for me.”

  It was what Peter was expecting. It made his heart sink in his chest nonetheless. If The Dog wanted a favor from him, it wasn’t likely to be something pleasant, or The Dog would’ve told him already.

  “So what is it?” Peter asked. “You know how to do magic—can’t you do anything you want?”

  “Do you remember the magician?” The Dog said. “The one who made it so I could do magic? You’ve never asked where he is.”

  “So what’s the answer?” said Peter. Everything The Dog had told him so far had been so strange that he hadn’t thought to wonder about the magician.

  “To put it simply,” said The Dog, “he’s currently a rock.”

  If Peter hadn’t just turned The Dog into a mushroom, this might have shocked him more. Still . . . “You mean, a rock like a stone? A piece of the earth?”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean.”

  “Why? Who changed him?”

  The Dog’s tail swished from side to side. “What do you mean, who?”

  Peter looked at him curiously. “I mean, was it another magician?”

  “Oh. Right. Not exactly. He actually changed himself. It’s a pretty frequent occurrence for magicians—that, and their profound love of secrecy, are the reasons the earth isn’t overrun with them. When you’re doing magic, you have to concentrate; did you feel that when you did it?” Peter nodded. The Dog continued, “After magicians have been doing magic for a while, it gets harder and harder to maintain concentration. If a beginner like you forgets to concentrate, the magic just won’t work. But if an experienced magician loses his concentration, the magic might go wrong. Instead of flying, he might find himself buried deep in the earth. Instead of turning a coyote into a stone, he might find himself transformed into a rock the size of a chicken.”

  “Is that what happened to your magician?”

  “The coyote was howling one night and woke the magician up. My magician hated being woken up.”

  Just then, a jogger turned the corner in front of them. Peter felt almost grateful for her presence, which meant that for a moment he could pretend that none of this was happening, that he was a normal boy taking a normal walk with his normal dog. As the woman drew closer, he watched her legs pump up and down, the sweat beading on her tanned forehead. She was his mother’s age, and she waved at him as she ran by. He forced himself to smile back.

  He didn’t say anything to The Dog until she was well past them. “So what does that have to do with me?” he asked.

  “After my master learned how to do magic, he was curious to know if there were any other magicians in the world. So he set out to find some. Of the three that he found, he got into battles with two that ended with him destroying the other magicians. He didn’t fight with the third, though; instead, they started talking. She’s the one who told him about the inevitability of backfiring spells. That’s when he got his brilliant idea. Once he knew he’d eventually self-destruct, he decided to make it so I could do magic, too. He made me his assistant so I could save him if something went wrong.”

  Peter stopped abruptly. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, having already guessed the answer. There was only one answer, really, that made sense of everything that had happened over the past two days.

  “My best chance at returning him to human form is you.”

  They stood there in silence for a minute or two before Peter’s feet started moving again of their own accord, but faster now, as though by walking he could escape what The Dog had said. “There must be some mistake. How could I help you with something like that? You know how to do magic better than I do. Just wish him back.”

  “I’ve tried,” said The Dog. “I’m just not powerful enough. When I couldn’t turn him back myself, I used the old crystal ball trick, only for me it was a dog bowl full of water. I asked it to show me how to save the magician, and I saw your face reflected back at me. You’re the answer to my problem.”

  “He sounds pretty horrible,” said Peter.

  “That’s perfectly true,” said The Dog. “He might well obliterate you the moment he’s human again. He’s destroyed magicians before.”

  Despite the heat, Peter shivered at the word obliterate. “But why would I help you, then?”

  “Well,” The Dog said, “it takes a lot of power to bring someone back from the other side of the world. If you get it wrong, you might end up with someone’s arm or leg, but not the whole person. I’m not powerful enough to do it, and neither are you.”

  How had The Dog guessed? Was he reading Peter’s mind even now? “So I can’t bring my father home.” Even saying the words out loud hurt.

  “You and I may not be powerful enough,” said The Dog. “But my magician is. And if you make him human again, it’s possible he’ll be grateful enough to help you.”

  Peter didn’t say anything. He was thinking about his father’s arm, freckled and strong and belove
d. The Dog yelped once, the sound splitting the quiet of the morning. “Let me know what you decide,” he said, then ran down the sidewalk. Peter let him go. Their conversation was over, and they both knew it. However it had happened, The Dog had figured out his weakness. Peter had no choice but to help The Dog with his task—and pay the price, whatever it turned out to be.

  Chapter Eight

  On the morning that Peter’s father had been scheduled to leave, Peter had woken up with the sense that someone was in his room. He had opened his eyes to find his father sitting on the edge of his mattress, watching him.

  It was early still; the light that filtered in through his blinds was gray, turning everything to shadows. Peter wanted to smile at his father, but he couldn’t.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said instead.

  “Hey, kiddo,” said Peter’s father. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

  “It’s okay.”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. In the silence, Peter studied his father’s face. What would it be like not to see him again? Peter pushed the thought away.

  “Listen,” said his father, “I just wanted . . . Well, today is going to get busy. And I wanted a chance to say good-bye to you. Just you and me, I mean.”

  Peter blinked away the sudden burn of tears; his father hated to see him cry. “Okay,” he mumbled.

  “I’m going to miss you, kiddo. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah. I know,” said Peter. He couldn’t bring himself to add the obvious: that he would miss his father, too. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said instead.

  It was the wrong thing to say; Peter could tell by the flash of impatience on his father’s face. Peter’s father believed in dealing with reality; no point in fantasizing about what’s not going to happen, he’d once told Peter. “Yeah, well, that’s life,” he said now, glancing down at his watch. “I guess I better get moving. Got a lot to do.”