Instead of Three Wishes: Magical Short Stories

by Megan Whalen Turner

  “It sounds wonderful,” said her mother. “Do we have crème de menthe?”

  “Somebody brought some to the Christmas party last year. I think it’s still in the closet over the oven.”

  “Now that we are rolling in dough, so to speak, will you not be making any more scones?” In the past, Selene’s baking had been limited to a weekly batch of scones because their ingredients were affordable.

  “Oh, I’ll make those first thing in the morning, then try the cake,” said Selene, and she got up early on Saturday in order to have the scones ready for her mother’s breakfast. Mechemel woke to the aroma of buttermilk currant scones baking in the oven. He got out of his uncomfortable narrow bed and into his clothes before being pulled irresistibly into the kitchen. Selene was measuring out ingredients for her cake with the precision of a chemist; her mother was having a cup of coffee. Mechemel sniffed, appreciatively.

  “Are those scones?” he asked. He suffered from an elfin addiction to sweet things.

  “Yes,” said Selene, without turning around. There was only half an inch of crème de menthe left in the bottle, and she was looking through the recipe to see if it was enough.

  “May I have one?”

  “Of course.” Selene looked around and smiled at him, before turning back to the recipe. It was not the impersonal smile that she used on customers; it was a real one that she reserved for people she thought she might like.

  Mechemel’s eyebrows went up in astonishment. He remembered that Harold had said she had a smile that would make flowers bloom early, but he had assumed that Harold was exaggerating, as Harold always did. Mechemel sat down at the table. While Selene’s mother watched in amusement, he ate the entire plate of scones. The only one left was the one in Selene’s mother’s hand.

  When Selene was done measuring out the crème de menthe, she looked at the plate, empty of all but crumbs. “You ate them all?”

  Embarrassment colored Mechemel’s face deep pink. “I am terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me…. I, um…It’s been some time,” he explained, “since I had scones. And these really are, were,” he corrected himself, “delicious.”

  He grew still pinker when Selene laughed. “It’s okay. I can make more,” she said, “but see if I offer you any cake.”

  “You’re making a cake?” Mechemel said with delight, then backtracked hastily. “Well, no, no, I certainly wouldn’t trouble you for any.” He stood up from the table and tried not to look disappointed.

  Selene’s mother reached up to pat him on the arm. “No, sit down,” she said. “Selene was only teasing.”

  The elf prince looked at her in surprise. He wasn’t used to being teased, and no one but his mother had ever patted him on the arm.

  So Mechemel sat at the kitchen table and talked to Selene’s mother while Selene made her brittle chocolate crème de menthe gâteau. Selene’s mother told him their version of the week’s events and ended up saying, “In fact, if you had been a present from the elf prince, you would have been perfect.”

  Mechemel winced. If he had known, he could have sent them a real lodger. It was too late now.

  Selene’s mother asked Mechemel about his research project, and he made up answers as well as he could. He gathered that Selene’s mother was writing a dissertation on something called the Battle of Hastings. He drew a strange look when he raised one eyebrow and said, “Which one was that?”

  “Surely you know the Battle of Hastings. When the English lost to the Norman invaders?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me, yes. A friend of mine was there.” He saw another startled look forming and realized his error. “Last year, at the site, not at the battle itself, of course.” After that he thought he had better excuse himself. He went back to his room and didn’t come out until the cake was ready. He ate half of it.

  On Sunday, Selene made another batch of scones for herself and her mother and one batch for Mechemel to eat all by himself. On Monday, he came home in the evening with a bag of groceries and a jar of cloudberry jam. He said that he didn’t think it was fair that they spend all his rent money feeding him.

  “The jam is from my mother’s pantry.”

  “Oh, does your mother live near here?”

  “Not far,” he responded, “as the crow flies.”

  Every week, Mechemel would bring home a bag of ingredients for scones and other delicacies, and on Saturdays, Selene would bake, experimenting with every recipe in her worn-out cookbooks. On weekdays, when Selene and her mother thought he was going to sit in the library at the University of Waterloo, Mechemel went home to talk with his mother. He described Selene’s sugary concoctions in detail and related his conversations with Selene’s mother. Then he and his mother tried to pick a gift that would please Selene. His mother suggested a cubic zirconium tennis bracelet that she had seen advertised on the shopping channel.

  “She doesn’t wear any jewelry. She’d probably sell it to buy cake flour. As nearly as I can tell, baking is the one thing she enjoys.”

  “Buy her five hundred pounds of cake flour.”

  “I can’t. Every time I give her that sort of thing, she makes more cakes and scones and I eat them.”

  “Well, I don’t know which I envy more, your never-ending supply of sweets or the company of that girl’s mother. She seems quite clever.”

  “She is.”

  “We haven’t had a clever person here in years.” Mechemel’s mother sighed, and Mechemel promised that when he had taken care of his obligation to Selene, he’d try to find something that would amuse her, maybe a videocassette recorder.

  He was always back at the house in New Elegance Estates in the late afternoon to share a cup of tea and a long talk with Selene’s mother. While they talked, they ate Selene’s scones. They discussed history, more often than not; it was Selene’s mother’s passion. She was particularly interested in Canadian history, and Mechemel, who had lived through a good part of it, was able to provide eyewitness reports of several events. He, of course, lied about the source of his information.

  So a little of Selene’s mother’s loneliness was relieved, and a little of Mechemel’s mother’s boredom, but Mechemel got no closer to finding a gift to repay Selene. With each passing day, he was more determined to choose a gift without parallel. Money was too easy. He wanted something better.

  In the springtime, New Elegance Estates looked as good as they ever did. All the weeds were blooming. The empty streets were washed clean by nightly rains. Mechemel walked home one evening, avoiding puddles, carrying his bag of groceries. He heard footsteps pounding behind him and turned to wait for Selene. Behind her, the number seventeen bus pulled away.

  Selene didn’t bother to evade the puddles. As she ran, she stamped heavily into each one in her path, spraying water in circles across the pavement. She slowed down before she reached Mechemel, but several especially motivated droplets landed on his shoes. He leaned to look at them over the top of the grocery bag, then looked at Selene with his eyebrows raised.

  “Heavens,” she said, “will you melt?”

  He watched the drops evaporate before he answered dryly, “I think I’m safe. Did you have a good day at school?” He made a hook with his elbow, and she caught her arm through it. They walked shoulder to shoulder toward home.

  “Good enough. Only sixteen more days to go.” When they got to the front yard, Mechemel pointed with his chin.

  “Your bush has rejuvenated.”

  Selene was stunned. She had never finished the job that she’d started the day Mechemel arrived. All winter, the tree had stood with its trunk sawed halfway through. Now that the warm weather had come, tiny shoots of green had sprung from the bark below the cut.

  “I think you’ll find that you can cut away the dead part and those green shoots will grow up into a very pretty bush.”

  “You said it was a bush before, what did you call it?”

  “Salix bebbiana. It’s one of the diamond-barked willows.”
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  “Goodness, you know a lot.”

  “Not everything,” said Mechemel.

  That was the day that the letter came. Selene found it in the mailbox at the top of the ramp to the front door. She dumped her schoolbooks down in the front hall and sat beside them while she read it. Mechemel watched her face grow pink with pleasure and then fade with disappointment.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s a letter from the Boston School of Culinary Arts.”

  “Yes?”

  “I sent them my scones by overnight mail. As a sample of my work. They liked my scones, and they say I can enroll in their school.” She looked up at Mechemel. “They are very exclusive. It’s an honor just to be invited to enroll, especially for the pastry program. Listen,” and she read aloud from the letter. “We thank you for your application. The judges enjoyed your scones and feel that although their charm is rough, you may have talent worthy of cultivation.’”

  “Sounds very pompous,” said Mechemel.

  “They are, but famous, too.”

  “Did you want to go study there?”

  “Lots.”

  “Then why aren’t you more pleased?”

  “No money,” said Selene.

  “Ah,” said Mechemel, suddenly understanding.

  “Besides,” said Selene as she folded up the letter and put it away, “there’s Mother. She’d hate to move to Boston. And I couldn’t leave her here on her own, so it’s no go either way.”

  “What will you do instead?”

  “Probably take the job they’ve offered me at the school cafeteria. It’s full-time.” She collected her books and left Mechemel standing in the front hall.

  After a while, he put his bag of groceries down and went back out the door to visit his mother.

  The next day was Thursday. Selene came home late, but the sunset was not yet over when she closed the front door behind her.

  “Selene,” her mother called, “come into the living room.”

  Selene went to the doorway. “Only fifteen days left,” she said to her mother, who had her wheelchair pulled up to the coffee table. Mechemel was sitting on the couch next to her. “What’s up?” Selene wanted to know.

  “Remember that elf prince?” said her mother.

  “Oh, no,” said Selene. “He hasn’t resurfaced, has he?”

  “He has,” said Mechemel.

  What now? Selene almost said aloud, but thought better of it. She looked at Mechemel and blushed.

  “He’s been slow,” said her mother, “but he has finally selected a present for you.” Mechemel handed Selene an envelope. Inside, a piece of parchment, much adorned with ribbons and seals, informed her that she was the recipient of a centennial scholarship awarded for excellence in the Very Fine Art of Scone Making and that the Mechemel Foundation would pay the tuition and board at the School of Culinary Excellence of her choice, so long as it subscribed to the high standards of the foundation.

  “But I told you—” Selene directed a fierce look at Mechemel.

  “And,” her mother interrupted her, “while you are away at school, Mechemel’s mother has most graciously invited me to stay with her. For as long as is necessary to complete your education,” she emphasized.

  “With her?”

  “And myself,” said Mechemel.

  “Yes,” said Selene’s mother with a smile, “I’ll be able to give Harold your regards.”

  “Zowee.”

  So Mechemel arranged for a dryad to move into the willow in the front yard and keep an eye on the house. Selene went to Boston, and her mother became great friends with the elf queen. In the evening, they sometimes watched television together, but mostly they talked. Mechemel sometimes stopped in, and the three of them discussed the Meech Lake Accord and the French and Indian War. In the summer, Selene came to visit as well and demonstrated what she’d learned in school: cherry coulis, blancmange, clafoutis, mille-feuille, and puff pastry with fresh strawberries picked in the forest by the sprites. And every afternoon, she made a fresh batch of scones for tea.

  The Nightmare

  Summer vacation had long since trailed off into empty days and boredom. Twice that afternoon the boys had been chased away from the bus stop, where they liked to hang out, making boasts and idle plans. The manager of Orly’s deli stepped out of his doorway ready to chase them away a third time; the bus stop benches were for people who used the buses, not for a bunch of near adolescents who had nothing to do with their time but make trouble.

  With their hands in their pockets and their chins in the air, the boys prepared to move on, pretending to themselves that it was their decision, not somebody’s pushing, that was making them go, when a bus pulled up and squeezed out a puddle of tired commuters.

  It was Kevin’s idea to follow the dowdy old woman. He gestured to his friends, and they fell in behind him. Walking tough with their hands still in their pockets and their shoulders rolled forward, they followed her up the sidewalk until she turned off on Fifty-fourth Street. They turned the corner as well and pulled a little closer. The old woman glanced back. She wasn’t really old, not much older than Kevin’s mother. Her skin was smooth, but the hair that pushed out from under her knit hat was streaked with gray. Her dress was gray, as well as the coat she wore. She was dingy and drab and not very interesting. Kevin wasn’t sure why he had chosen to follow her.

  The woman turned left at Blackstone Avenue. When she looked back again, she could no longer pretend that coincidence kept her and the boys on a shared path. She put her head down and walked faster.

  Kevin, stepping along in front of his friends, matched her speed, feeling proud of the anxiety a group of seventh graders could inspire. He and his friends had never done anything like this. Although they’d bullied the younger kids at school, they’d never before intimidated an adult. He thought it was a turning point. No doubt when school started in a few days, Kevin and his friends would be able to make even the high-school kids sit up and take notice. Absorbed in his daydreams of power, he didn’t notice that the woman ahead of him had stopped until he almost ran into her. Startled, he stepped back and bumped the boy behind him.

  “Well, what do you want from me?” the woman snapped with a ferocity that hadn’t been there only a moment before.

  Kevin felt the blood rushing to his face as his daydreams broke up. He felt foolish and was afraid to be laughed at by his friends. He swept his shattered dignity together and said in a cocky voice, “I want whatever you’ve got.” Behind him, his friends stirred nervously. They had been teasing the old woman for fun, and Kevin was pushing things further than they were willing to go. Their hesitation drove him on.

  “Come on, lady, what have you got?”

  “This is what I’ve got and you can have it.” She pulled her hand from her coat pocket and threw something at him. He cupped his hands in front of his chest and caught it there. Something that felt like a blob of Jell-O smacked into his palms, but when he looked, his hands were empty. He looked up again as the woman disappeared into a nearby apartment building. The lock on the door clicked shut behind her.

  Kevin looked down at the sidewalk to see if he had dropped whatever it was. He saw nothing. He shrugged. “Come on, let’s go up to Walgreen’s. Get some candy and stuff.”

  That night, Kevin lay in bed listening to the television that was on in the living room. It was a murder mystery that his parents were watching. Listening to the dialogue, Kevin tried to visualize the story in his head. The lady had told everyone that she knew who the killer was, even though she didn’t. She just guessed. But she thought that if she pretended she had evidence, the killer would come after her and then she would have proof to take to the police. Now she was alone in the house at night and the killer was getting closer. There were long periods of silence broken by little crackling noises and suspense music. Kevin figured the killer was lurking in the bushes outside the house. The lady in the house thought she was safe, but she wasn’t. The killer was
getting closer. He crept up the steps of the back porch. Kevin rolled over on his side. The killer started checking the windows to see which one was open. The killer stepped from the back porch to the ledge of Kevin’s window, but it was safely locked. The killer rattled the frame just to be sure. Then he stepped back onto the porch. Kevin could hear him checking the lock on the kitchen door, turning the knob, and bumping the door back and forth. Kevin wanted to call for help, but he was alone. After a few minutes, the bumping stopped. Kevin relaxed.

  Then he heard the creaking of steps in the stairwell. Somehow the killer had gotten through the front door of the apartment building. He was climbing the stairs to Kevin’s apartment. Terrified, Kevin realized that his front door wasn’t locked. He tried to jump out of bed and run down the hall to the door, but he couldn’t move. Lying there in the dark, he heard the front door opening. He heard the footsteps in the hall, getting closer and closer. The killer was coming. He was bringing something horrible with him. He crept closer with each step until Kevin knew that the killer stood in the dark right outside his own bedroom door. Kevin couldn’t see, but he knew the door was opening.

  Kevin threw the covers off and jumped out of bed, ready to run, but there was no need. It was morning. The sun was coming in his window. The door to his bedroom was still closed. It had all been a nightmare. With his knees still shaking, Kevin got back in bed and huddled under the blankets.

  The next night, giant snakes slid out of the ground all around the apartment building. They slithered through the dark, up the fire escapes, and across the back porch. They curled on the window ledges and pressed their cold bodies against the glass. Each one carried a mirror in its mouth that clicked and scratched against the window.

  In the morning Kevin couldn’t convince himself that the snakes weren’t still there. He wouldn’t leave the apartment until his sister had been outside and down the stairs without being eaten. By the time he found his friends at the basketball court, they had already chosen teams, and there was no room for Kevin to play.