From his new vantage point, he could see the red high-top sneakers of the trembling waiter, shifting uneasily as if he wanted nothing more than to be off. Looking at those sneakers, Peter realized that he had been following the waiter for a long time. A really long time. He lifted his head, but he still couldn’t see an end to the hallway. What sort of magician created a house where it would take hours for his servants to reach him?
Peter sat up but didn’t get to his feet. “Could you please tell me what’s behind all these doors?” he asked the mouse-waiter.
The mouse-waiter looked confused by the change in Peter’s tone. “Oh, I wouldn’t know that.”
“So which door will we go through?”
The mouse-waiter tilted his head sideways. Peter could almost see quivering whiskers. “Umm . . . the open one?”
“Which open one?” asked Peter.
“There’s only ever one open one.”
“And that’s to the magician’s bedroom?”
“That’s to wherever the magician is. How else could we find him?”
The mouse-waiter’s roundabout logic was beginning to make a certain amount of sense. “So you walk until you see an open door, and then you go through, and that’s how you find the magician?” Peter asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
“When was the last time you saw the magician?”
The mouse-waiter’s dark eyes went wide with fright. “It was the last time I saw him!” he said. “The last time I saw him was the last time I saw him!”
The Dog had played a trick on him, Peter saw at once. He had let Peter leave with the mouse-waiter, knowing full well that the mouse-waiter couldn’t find the magician until the magician opened a door, which the magician—being a rock—couldn’t do. And if Peter hadn’t tripped . . . Well, Peter might have ended up walking down this hallway forever, adrift in daydreams and angry thoughts.
Peter stood up, brushing off his pants, and when the mouse-waiter started once more down the hallway, he didn’t follow. Instead he reached out his hand, grabbed the nearest knob, and twisted.
He half expected it to be locked—in fact, that was probably why he was brave enough to try it in the first place. But the knob turned, and the door swung open.
And that was when the most magical thing of all happened.
Behind the door was a room. But it wasn’t just any room: it was Peter’s bedroom at home, with his piles of moving boxes and his homework half done where he had left it on his desk. There was the model F-117 Nighthawk he’d made with his dad when he was seven. The chessboard he’d gotten for his birthday last year. The fish tank that had been empty since they’d moved.
There wasn’t anything beautiful about the scene in front of him: it was just the slightly messy bedroom of a now-twelve-year-old boy. But seeing it made Peter’s heart light. His mind whirled, trying to put what he knew or thought he knew together in a way that made sense. This was what became clear:
1. His room could not be in the magician’s house.
2. Peter could therefore not be in the magician’s house.
It followed logically that all of this, these crazy events that had seemed so incredible and unlikely, must in fact be incredible and unlikely. Peter had wondered if it was a dream, he remembered, when The Dog had first started talking. And standing in his room, Peter knew he had been right then, and that he was just now waking up to find himself once more at home.
As his certainty grew, he could feel an involuntary smile spread across his face. On the other side of his walls, he thought, Celia, Izzy, and his mother must be at this moment sleeping in their beds. Tomorrow morning he would wake up and eat pancakes with his family; everything would make sense once more. For now, he found his favorite pajamas in his drawer, changed out of his clothes, and crawled between his flannel solar system sheets. His bed had never felt so comfortable and welcoming in his life.
Chapter Twelve
He woke to the sound of dog laughter.
“No,” Peter said, his eyes still closed. “You’re a dream. Go away. I don’t want to dream you anymore.”
The snorty laughter continued, a soft, genuinely amused sound. “Is that what you’re telling yourself now?” asked The Dog.
“That’s what I know,” said Peter. “I refuse to believe in you. I’m not going to talk to you anymore, because you’re not even here.”
The laughter died away, and the room fell silent. Peter, warm between his sheets, thought after a minute that perhaps his words had worked; that all he needed to banish his dream was the sheer willpower to tell The Dog to go. He was just starting to settle back to sleep when The Dog said, “I find it pretty funny that you’re in this room.”
“There’s nothing funny about it,” said Peter, who hadn’t meant to answer. “It’s my room. Where else should I be?”
“It’s not actually your room,” said The Dog. “You know you’re still in the magician’s house, right?”
“I can’t be in the magician’s house,” said Peter, stubbornly unwilling to open his eyes to talk to someone who he knew was just in his head. “Why would the magician build my room in his house? It’s nothing special, just my room. The fact that I found it here means you’re not real and this is just a dream. I won’t let you convince me otherwise.”
“Whatever you say,” said The Dog, and yawned. “If I’m not real, then I might as well take a nap.”
“Fine,” snapped Peter.
“Fine,” said The Dog, and the room got quiet again.
It wasn’t the same quiet as before, though. Try as he might, Peter couldn’t recapture his previous sense of peace. The thing was, it didn’t make sense. Dreams didn’t come to pester you and try to wake you up. They didn’t argue with you. They certainly didn’t take naps. The wise thing to do, Peter thought, would be to see if his sisters and mother were sleeping in their rooms; if they were, he would know that his bedroom was real. Sighing, he opened his eyes, then pushed back his blankets stealthily, hoping The Dog wouldn’t notice.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom,” Peter lied.
“Peter, this is all very sweet,” said The Dog, getting up from where he’d been sitting on the carpet next to Peter’s bed, “but it’s getting close to dawn, and I’m going to need your help with the magician soon.”
“I don’t understand,” said Peter. “What’s sweet?”
“This,” said The Dog, gesturing around the room with his nose. “It’s not your room. Shall I show you?”
The Dog closed his eyes. He made a face as if he were pooping. And Peter found himself sitting on the cold, rough floor of what appeared to be a room-sized concrete box.
And he was naked.
Shivering, Peter scrambled toward his clothes, which were piled in the corner where a few moments before his laundry hamper had been. As soon as he had pulled on his jeans, he turned to The Dog accusingly. “What did you do to my room? Why do you keep doing these things to me? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
The Dog looked surprisingly regretful. “I wish I could. But your room was never here, you know. You were always lying on the concrete. Do you remember when you asked me if the carnival was real or an illusion? Well, the carnival was real, but your room was an illusion, a very fancy illusion.”
“Why would the magician create an illusion of my room?”
“He didn’t. Or didn’t exactly. The spell creates an illusion of whatever a person most desires. Some kids walking in would find themselves suddenly movie stars; others might discover an arcade filled floor to ceiling with video games or other toys.”
Peter tried to imagine the enormous power it would take to create a spell like that. Changing a plant into a person was one thing, but how could someone create an illusion that changed depending on who walked through a door? “That doesn’t make any sense,” he argued. “I didn’t find any of that stuff. I just found my room.”
“I know. That’s what I thought was funny. You could h
ave been anywhere—but the place you most wanted to be was your own house.”
Now that Peter understood, he knew why The Dog had been laughing at him, and it angered him to realize how his innermost self had been exposed for The Dog’s amusement. The anger in turn brought a bit of that other Peter, the mean one. Peter could feel it in the way his back suddenly straightened.
“You’ve had your laugh,” he said, shrugging on his T-shirt. “Now let’s get on with the magician. As you said, it’s close to dawn.” He stalked toward the door.
“Wait,” said The Dog. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“What?” Peter couldn’t help sounding angry. He was angry.
“Do you remember when we were flying? And you were so mad?”
“Yes . . . ,” said Peter, confused by the change in subject.
“Did something in particular snap you out of it? The anger, I mean? Or did it just gradually wear off?”
Peter remembered the moment perfectly. “It was Izzy. I heard her voice asking me for a drink of water. Which didn’t make any sense, because she was miles away, but that was when I started feeling more . . . well, more like me.” Even talking about Izzy now made him feel less angry, Peter realized.
“I wonder . . . ,” murmured The Dog. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
“What’s possible?”
“I’m going to do it,” The Dog said. “It’s worth the risk.”
“What risk? What are you going to do?”
Instead of answering, The Dog closed his eyes and made that face again. Some part of Peter must have sensed what was coming; the moment he realized that The Dog was performing magic, he leapt toward The Dog’s back, as if flattening him might stop him. But it was too late.
As he landed on The Dog, both of them collapsing onto the concrete, Peter saw that sleeping on the floor in front of him was Izzy, her hands cradling her head as if she were grasping a pillow. And behind him . . .
“Finally!” said a familiar voice.
Peter turned. There was Celia, wearing her nightshirt, with a book in one hand and a stick in the other.
“You brought my sisters?”
From under him, The Dog said, “Will you . . . mmph . . . get off me, you oaf?”
“I can’t believe you brought my sisters!” yelled Peter, not budging. “You have to send them back!”
Izzy woke up. “Peter!” she said, smiling. Her smile faltered, though, as she noticed her unfamiliar surroundings. “Where are we?”
“Oh, no,” groaned Peter, not moving off The Dog. “Please send them back. Please. You don’t know what you’ve done.”
“I can’t send them back,” said The Dog smugly.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean I can’t. I’ve done too much magic today. I told you that transporting people takes a lot of power. I can only do it for short distances, and it uses pretty much every bit of power I have. If I tried to send them back right now, it wouldn’t be safe.”
Peter buried his face in his hands.
“So you might as well get off me,” The Dog added.
“Besides,” said Celia, “I don’t want to go back. Not until I know where I am, anyway.”
“What’s going on?” asked Izzy. “I don’t think I like this place.”
“I can’t breathe,” said The Dog. “I’m going to have to bite you if you don’t move.”
Peter moved. He didn’t get off the floor, though. He felt weighed down by despair.
“Obviously you don’t want us here,” said Celia, “but would you tell us what this place is anyway?”
“Yes, please,” said Izzy, looking a little more awake. Creeping closer to The Dog, she entwined her small fingers in the fur at the back of his neck. The Dog didn’t seem to mind. In fact, after a moment, he slumped over so his head was in her lap.
“We’re in the house where The Dog’s master lives,” said Peter, trying to think how to quickly summarize the events of the last few hours. “He accidentally turned himself into a rock, and The Dog wants to change him back. The reason The Dog taught me magic is that he needs my help.”
Celia grinned. “Sounds exciting.”
“It might be exciting,” said Peter, “except for the fact that there’s a good chance the magician will kill us if I manage to make him human.”
“Oh,” said Celia.
Izzy’s hand on The Dog’s neck froze. “You promised you wouldn’t do more magic.”
And there it was: the moment Peter had most been dreading, the real reason, he realized, that he had felt so sick when The Dog had brought his sisters to the magician’s house. There was no hiding the truth. “I lied to you,” he said, more roughly than he intended. “I’ve done magic more than once already, and I’m going to do it again. And it is changing me—making me angrier and meaner, and not just when I’m doing the magic, but all the time.”
“But you knew that was going to happen,” said Celia. “That’s what The Dog told you. But you decided to do it anyway so that you could bring Dad home, right?”
“Is that why you did magic?” asked Izzy. “For Daddy?”
“The Dog says I’m not powerful enough to bring Dad back myself,” Peter said. “But he thinks the magician might help us if I make him human again. Or he might kill us; The Dog doesn’t know. I thought it was worth the chance.”
For a minute, Izzy sat silently. Then she put her face down low, so her nose was right against The Dog’s. “Isn’t there another way Peter could do magic? So he doesn’t have to be mean?”
The Dog gave a barking laugh. “I really, truly wish I knew how.”
“Oh, Izzy,” said Celia. “You’re too little to understand. Peter has to protect Dad if he can.”
Peter felt a wave of gratitude toward Celia.
Izzy looked unhappy, but after a moment she nodded.
“Great! Now that that’s settled,” said Celia, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, “let’s get going! I want to see more of the house.”
“It’s about time,” said The Dog. He gave a shake and stood up with great dignity, as though he had not spent the last five minutes being petted by a six-year-old. He walked to the door with Izzy and Celia following.
Peter came last. He should be happy, he thought: he had gotten Izzy to agree to let him do magic. That was what he wanted, right? But he didn’t feel happy. They were still in the magician’s house, after all, and their father wasn’t even close to being home safely.
When they exited the concrete box that had been Peter’s room, they found themselves in the long hallway once again. The Dog trotted in front, leading the way, with Celia following eagerly. Peter trailed behind, and after a minute Izzy did, too, slipping back to walk next to him. Peter wanted to grab her hand, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. They walked in silence, all four of them, down the empty hallway; each step Peter took required an effort of will.
And then, just as the quiet became more than Peter could bear, he noticed something and burst out laughing.
Izzy, Celia, and The Dog stopped immediately.
“What is it?” asked The Dog. “Is something wrong?”
Peter tried to answer, but he couldn’t squeeze words past the laughter bubbling up in his chest.
“Are you okay, Peter?” asked Celia.
It was hopeless. “You’re . . . you’re holding Harry Potter!
Celia glanced down as if noticing the book in her hands for the first time. A flush climbed her cheeks.
“And . . . and a stick,” he choked out.
“I don’t understand,” said Izzy. “What’s so funny?”
Celia stood there, blushing and watching Peter laugh. Then slowly her shoulders started to shake. The corners of her mouth twisted up. And she, too, was laughing, laughing as uncontrollably as Peter. Her laughter set Peter off again, and his did the same to her, so that for several minutes neither of them could stop.
“Why are you laughing, guys?” Izzy demanded.
>
“Well,” said Peter, wiping his eyes, “I think the funny part is that when The Dog brought Celia here, she was trying to learn to do magic by reading Harry Potter and pretending a stick was a wand.”
“I wasn’t pretending the stick was a wand!” protested Celia. “I was using it to poke myself in the head. To try to find the right spot.”
This made Peter laugh so hard he almost fell down. “But why would you want to learn to do magic anyway?” he asked when he could speak again. “And what made you think Harry Potter would help?”
“I figured anyone who wrote so much about magic probably knew about real magicians,” Celia said, “and I still think I’m right. I bet there’s more hidden in this book than we know. And I wanted to learn to do magic because you were leaving me out, and I was pretty sure you’d need me sooner or later. I know you don’t like me, but I told you: I’m a part of this. The Dog knows it, too; that’s why you brought us here, right?” she asked, turning to The Dog.
“Something like that,” said The Dog. “Although I have to tell you: I doubt if you could learn to do magic.”
“I’m good at using my brain,” said Celia, bristling.
“No,” said The Dog, “I didn’t mean the problem was you. But most people aren’t able to do magic, you know. When my master went looking for other magicians, he only found five in the whole world. Seems unlikely that one family would have two potential magicians in it. What are the odds?”
“Oh,” said Celia. Her lips turned down in disappointment.
Peter was still absorbing what Celia had said. “I like you,” he said. “You’re the one who doesn’t like me. Because I embarrass you.”
Celia rolled her eyes. “You and Izzy leave me out all the time. You only include me when you have to. Like now.”
The Misadventures of the Magician's Dog Page 8