The Misadventures of the Magician's Dog

by Frances Sackett

  Peter’s mom reached out and smoothed his hair. “Is there anything you want to talk to me about?” she asked. “I know you try to take care of me and your sisters when your dad is gone. But you know I’m here for you if you need me, don’t you?”

  Peter felt something twist painfully in his chest. “I know.”

  Peter crawled into bed wanting nothing more than to fall asleep quickly. Instead, as he lay there, tossing and turning every few minutes, he found himself forced to confront the truth he had been avoiding all day. The truth that he wouldn’t tell his sisters. That he could barely admit to himself.

  He had told Celia that he wouldn’t change the magician back because he didn’t think the magician would help them and because he was scared of what the magician would do. And neither of these was a lie, exactly. But the hard and ugly truth that faced Peter now, lying in his bed, was that it wasn’t just these facts that kept him from making the magician human. It was the fear of what performing more magic might do to Peter himself.

  How could he explain to Celia what he had seen when he looked at the magician, who no longer bore any resemblance at all to the boy in the photograph The Dog had shown him? A year, perhaps less, and that might be Peter, too. How could Peter tell Celia that as much as he wanted to save his father, he didn’t want to pay the price?

  Every time Peter closed his eyes, he saw the magician’s face before him, until he finally fell into a restless, dream-filled sleep.

  He woke up some hours later to the sensation that he was being watched. He turned his head to find two large, glowing eyes inches from his.

  “Hey!” he said.

  “It’s just me,” said The Dog. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “If you don’t mean to startle me, you shouldn’t stare at me in the middle of the night.” Relieved to see The Dog up, Peter almost reached out to scratch his ears but then thought better of it. “Are you feeling better?”

  The Dog thumped his tail against the floor. “I didn’t come in here to discuss me. I put a spell on your mom so we could talk without waking her up. I’ve been thinking all day, and there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What?”

  The Dog opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. When he finally spoke, he seemed to have changed his mind about what he wanted to say. “Can I ask you something first? Do you know how you’ve managed to stay you?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What do you mean, how I’ve stayed me?” Peter asked.

  “Peter, do you want to do more magic?” The Dog asked.

  “I . . . I . . .” Peter’s chin dropped to his chest. “More than anything.” It was a relief to finally say the words aloud. “It’s like an ache inside me, wanting to do magic. All I can think about is how it felt to fly last night. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever done. I felt so powerful. And there are so many other things I could do, too, a thousand big and little things; they’ve been eating away at me from the moment I opened my eyes today.”

  “Why don’t you just do magic, then?” said The Dog. “If you want to so much. What’s stopping you?”

  Peter looked at The Dog in despair. “Because I know what’s going to happen. Izzy was right all along. I’m going to end up just like your master, aren’t I?”

  “I don’t know,” said The Dog. “You haven’t done a single spell today, have you?”

  “No,” said Peter. “But it was all I thought about. And I can feel the anger in me still; I spent all day trying to keep myself from losing my temper. The magic, the anger: they’re a part of me now, aren’t they?”

  The Dog looked as if he wanted to disagree—but then he slowly nodded. “I think so, but maybe I’m wrong. You’ve known how to do magic for two days. By the time my old master had known for that long, he’d already left home, and he never looked back. What I know about magic, I know mostly from watching him. So maybe you’re different. Maybe your story will have a happier ending.” He growled, a miserable sort of rumbling that Peter hadn’t heard from him before. “I hope so, at any rate.”

  Ever since Peter had realized the magician was actually a boy, a question had been nagging at him. “How did your master learn magic? Did somebody teach him?”

  “Oh, no. I imagine you’re the first person who’s ever been taught magic. My master figured it out.”

  “What do you mean, he figured it out?”

  “He lost his temper. Which kids do; everybody does. But he was the right age, and his mind, like yours, had a certain aptitude for magic. He was arguing with his mother, and instead of storming off to his room the way he would have on another day, he made the kitchen ceiling collapse onto her.”

  Peter tried to imagine this, but all he could see was his own mother’s face. “Was she . . . ?”

  “His mother was okay,” said The Dog. “Bruised and scraped, mostly. My master wasn’t so lucky. He knew what he’d done, and at first he felt terribly guilty, but within an hour, he couldn’t help himself: he had to try it again. By that night, he’d made it so I could talk. By the next morning, we were on a flying carpet headed west, and he was already a different person.”

  Peter shivered, remembering the boy in the rock. “Celia wants me to practice magic until I’m powerful enough to bring my dad home myself.”

  The Dog’s tail swished restlessly from side to side. “That was actually what I wanted to talk to you about. The reason I woke you up, I mean.”

  For a moment, Peter let himself feel hope. Had The Dog thought of another way to help his father?

  “I haven’t been as honest as I should have,” The Dog continued. “I told you the magician was powerful enough to bring your dad home. And I wasn’t lying, not exactly. But there was something I didn’t explain. Even magic has its limits. You can use magic to make a bone out of a twig, or to make people out of plants. You can use it to dig fossils out of the ground or learn to fly. You can even use it to bring a man from one side of the world to another.”

  “So what are the limits?” Peter asked. He could sense that something bad was coming.

  “You can do all those things,” said The Dog, “because magic is about altering physical details. Remember how I told you that you could change a ficus into a man, but he’d still be a ficus in his heart? Magic can do a lot, but it can’t transform someone’s essence.”

  “What does this have to do with my dad?” But even as Peter said the words, he saw his father’s face that last morning, the flash of frustration when Peter told him he wished he didn’t have to go. No, he thought now. No. No. He felt an urge to bury his head beneath his pillow so he wouldn’t have to hear what The Dog was about to say.

  For a long moment, The Dog just stared at Peter, his eyes dark and solemn. “I think you already know what this has to do with your father. Magic could bring him back. But it couldn’t change who he is.”

  “I don’t want to change who he is,” said Peter.

  “But, Peter,” The Dog said, “your father chose to become an air force pilot. Flying for the air force—isn’t that a part of who he is?”

  It started as a roaring in the distance, like the crash of a river against its banks during a storm. And then the sound grew louder, and louder still, until it was all Peter could hear. There was The Dog in front of him, his tail down, his mouth moving. There was Peter’s familiar room, the room he had found in the magician’s house. Nothing had changed, had it? Except that that terrible roar echoed in Peter’s head and changed it all.

  He might find a way to bring his father home. But no matter what he did, no matter what he sacrificed, he couldn’t make his father stay. That was what The Dog was telling him.

  “I wanted to explain,” said The Dog, his voice distant and small, “because I think what I did to you was wrong. I didn’t lie, exactly, but I misled you. And you’re a good kid, a genuinely good kid. You don’t deserve the fate you’re getting. It was only that I wanted to save my master—”

  And then Angry
Peter broke loose. This time, there was no one to stop him because Normal Peter didn’t care. Normal Peter was angry, too.

  In his mind’s eye, Peter saw The Dog rising up, up, up. And he thought it.

  The Dog’s eyes widened as he shot toward the ceiling. “Hey! What are you—”

  Peter thought, and The Dog’s voice disappeared, as if the Mute button had been pushed on the TV. Pinned to the ceiling, The Dog tried to speak, but no words came out: he twisted and turned his long snout, but nothing happened.

  Peter heard a gasp from the doorway. Looking back, he saw his sisters gazing up at The Dog with horror.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I heard The Dog shout,” said Celia. “What’s going on? Why is he up there?”

  “He’s up there because I want him there,” said Peter.

  “Why?” said Izzy. “I thought you liked him.”

  Peter heard The Dog’s voice in his head again: Isn’t that a part of who he is? “You were wrong.”

  Celia grabbed Peter’s hand. “This is just the bad magic talking. You can’t do this. If you hurt The Dog, he’ll never be able to convince the magician to bring Dad home. You just need to transform the magician, and then—”

  “Enough about the magician!” said Peter, pushing Celia’s hand away. “It’s all you talk about. You don’t care if doing magic will make me evil. You don’t care if I’m going to end up a rock. All you care about—all any of you care about!—is getting what you want.” Suddenly Peter knew what he needed to do. “You want the magician back so badly? I’ll do it. And then maybe you’ll see why I didn’t want to change him.”

  Peter thought, and the rock appeared in the center of the room. Celia gasped, and Izzy’s hands flew to her mouth.

  Peter remembered the boy he had seen in the cave; then, holding that memory, he studied the rock, discovering bits and pieces of that same boy in its whorls of gray and silver. Perhaps it was Peter’s anger, perhaps it was practice, but he was far more powerful than he had been yesterday, he realized as the magic flooded through him.

  And Peter thought the rock back into the magician.

  Standing there on the carpet, the magician gazed around the room in astonishment. Then a triumphant grin split his face.

  “Well, Peter Lubinsky, you did come through for me after all!” he crowed. “I thought after you got out of my trap yesterday that I was stuck in that rock forever. But I guess you can never underestimate a person’s stupidity.”

  “You think I’m stupid?” said Peter. He thought he had transformed the magician because he was angry at Celia, but now he realized what had really driven him: he wanted someone to fight. “I think you’re foolish to still be standing there. I brought you back so that I could show what real power is.”

  The magician raised one eyebrow. Peter braced himself for a spell. But the boy opposite him just laughed. “You’ve changed! Yesterday you were just a kid who could do magic. But today you’re a magician. What fun! I love a good fight with another magician. Let’s see: shall I start with you, or with the spectators?” He glanced at Izzy and Celia, then up at The Dog floating near the ceiling. He frowned. “Actually, I think my dog should be first, don’t you? I see he’s irritated you. He’s irritated me as well, by teaching you how to do magic. His intentions were not, I think, what they seemed. Dog!” he called upward. “I appreciate the fact that I’m not a rock, but your services are no longer necessary! Good-bye!”

  And then The Dog pushed through the ceiling, breaking beams and showering drywall on everyone below.

  “Dog!” shouted Izzy.

  “Please, Peter!” said Celia.

  By the time Peter had wiped the dust from his eyes, The Dog was disappearing into the night, framed by the hole in the ceiling, his small white body dwindling to nothing more than a speck rocketing toward the stars. If Peter didn’t act, and act quickly, The Dog was going to die. Despite his anger, Peter instinctively thought The Dog still.

  It wasn’t easy to do. Peter could feel The Dog straining against the pull of his magic; Peter could slow but not stop the movement of that small furry body.

  At first the magician looked confused. Then his gaze lit on Peter. “Are you . . . ? You are! You’re trying to save him!”

  Peter didn’t say anything. Fighting the magician’s spell was hard, and the longer he tried to do it, the harder it became. He could already feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

  “Very interesting,” said the magician. Unlike Peter, he seemed untroubled by the effort of their magical tug-of-war. “I’m not sure I understand what’s going on after all. You were about to destroy him. Now you’re doing everything in your power to stop him from dying. Why? What is he to you?”

  Peter didn’t know the answer to the magician’s question. It was hard to think and do magic at the same time!

  “We love The Dog,” said Izzy.

  The magician snorted. “Magicians don’t love. Love is for ordinary people. Right, Peter?” He leaned in close to Peter’s face, so close that Peter could feel his breath against his cheek. “Or maybe you’re not all the way a magician yet. Maybe that’s why you’re having such a hard time battling my power. You’re only dealing with a trickle of it, you know. That’s one good thing about being a rock: I’ve never felt so rested in my life.”

  “Peter’s way stronger than you,” said Izzy.

  The amusement left the magician’s face. “Well, aren’t you a sweet little peach of a girl? Only, I don’t like little girls, especially sweet ones. The thing is, I have enough power to take care of you and my dog at the same time. Shall I make Peter choose between you? That might be amusing. Then you can see who the better magician is.”

  Panic filled Peter. High above them in the night sky, The Dog was pulling away from the earth. Peter knew, even if Izzy didn’t, who the stronger magician was. To make matters worse, Peter’s anger was fading by the moment as fear took its place.

  “Peter will save me,” said Izzy, but Peter could hear the tremor in her voice.

  “I guess we’ll see,” the magician growled, and his eyes narrowed.

  “No!” shouted Celia.

  “Stop!” said Peter.

  “For Izzy!” shouted a voice, more frightened than ferocious, as the closet door burst open and a skinny teenage boy threw himself through the air and onto the magician.

  “Henry!” shouted Izzy, clapping her hands in delight.

  “My waiter?” said the magician as he landed on his bottom on the ground, the waiter on top of him.

  Peter felt it the moment the magician’s spell over The Dog broke. He knew it was astonishment, nothing else, that did it: the magician had not expected the mouse-waiter’s sudden attack. Just like that, the upward pull Peter had been struggling against disappeared as The Dog began to plummet back to earth. Peter thought with all the power he had left, and a second later, The Dog stood in the middle of Peter’s carpet. Oh, thank goodness, thought Peter. The Dog will take care of us now. Then he realized that The Dog was blue with cold and shivering uncontrollably. He didn’t look like a force to be reckoned with; he looked as if he needed to be wrapped in a blanket and held.

  The magician pushed the waiter aside, then got up from the floor, shaking his head. “This has been entertaining, but I have a house to get back to. First, though, I need to dispose of the lot of you. Dust or stone? Or—I’ve got it. . . .” He turned to glare at Henry, whose eyes were wide and fearful. “I don’t know how you came to be here, Waiter, but you will no longer have the honor of serving me. I’m thinking you ought to be a mouse again.” Henry began to shrink, pale brown fur sprouting all over his body. At the same time, he clutched at his throat. “Of course, I don’t see any need for you to be able to breathe,” the magician continued.

  “Are you okay, Henry?” asked Izzy. “Peter, something’s wrong with Henry!”

  The magician laughed, a cold sound that cut through the room. “You have bigger problems than a dying mou
se,” he said to Peter. “In fact, you’re going to be very busy. It seems I’m in need of a new waiter, and you should do perfectly. I suspect I’ll be able to find jobs for your sisters as well, perhaps at my carnival.”

  Peter opened his mouth to argue or beg, but no words could squeeze out of his suddenly dry throat. Next to Izzy, Henry, halfway between human and mouse, had dropped to the floor, his paw-hands clawing desperately at his now bewhiskered nose.

  “It will be simple enough,” said the magician. “A mere matter of removing what’s human about you. Your intelligence. Your soul. Your will and desire. Hold still for a minute. I’ve never done this before, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to hurt.” The magician reached out his hand, palm upward, his narrow fingers grasping at something only he could see.

  Anger, Peter thought. I have to get angry, and I’ll be able to do magic. But all he could feel was fear.

  And then all he felt was pain. It was as if the magician had reached through Peter’s rib cage and encircled Peter’s heart with his fist. Squeezing, the magician tugged, and tugged again, more insistently; one more tug, Peter thought, and my heart will slide out, and nothing will ever put it back again.

  “Stop!” cried Izzy, tears streaking down her face. “You have to stop!” But the magician didn’t. As Peter watched, Celia launched herself toward him, but before she was halfway across the room, the magician waved his hand and she froze in her tracks. Somebody help me! Peter wanted to scream. But poor Henry was now more mouse than boy, a small brown blob writhing on the ground; and though The Dog’s teeth were bared, Peter knew he could do nothing against magic as powerful as the magician’s. No one could save Peter: they needed Peter to save them.

  The pressure from the tugging grew and grew and grew, until the pain of it was the only thing left in the world.

  And then he heard something.

  It was soft at first, and he could hardly make it out. Music, he thought as it got louder, and then: Not just music, a woman singing a lullaby. The voice was unfamiliar, and the song was one Peter had never heard. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from.