The Language of Spells

by Garret Weyr

  During the day when the rooms grew cold, Grisha kept his spirits up by looking forward to Yakov’s return. Not only would Yakov light a fire and put a warm drink next to the dragon, he was also bursting with stories about his new life, which was both hard and exciting.

  Yakov spoke excellent English, but with an accent. Although his clients at the bank thought he was a fine fellow, he told Grisha how it was hard to make friends in a city that did not, for the most part, like foreigners. People did invite him out, as happens to men with money and no wife, but Yakov often felt alone and as if he were the only Hungarian in London.

  At night, before bed, Yakov wrote letters to his parents, who had stayed in Budapest; to his uncle in Zurich, where the main branch of the bank was; and to his cousin Itzhak, who had gone far, far away to America. Grisha loved to hear the letters, which Yakov read aloud, checking for any mistakes, before slipping them into their envelopes. Yakov wrote about London and how the city was at once beautiful and horrible, full of lavish dinner parties as well as cold homes in which no one had enough to eat.

  Yakov wrote once a month to his father, twice to his mother, and twice to his uncle. But it was the weekly letters to Itzhak from which Grisha learned the most. Those letters were full of news, theater, art, and politics, and also how terribly hard it was to go through life with no one to love.

  London was bustling like never before as everyone rushed to forget the Great War and its bad times. Grisha could feel the energy, longing, and excitement of the city’s residents. It pained him to be in his teapot prison, but in Yakov’s letters to Itzhak, he had the chance to hear all about those who were free.

  Grisha looked forward to these letters in the way he used to look forward to an oak tree’s acorns. He knew Yakov was lonely, and he liked to think that he and Itzhak kept him company as much as a teapot and a cousin in America could.

  Grisha, of course, was also lonely, but by now he had been a teapot for longer than he had been a dragon. He was more used to his loneliness than Yakov was to his. He still missed the forest, and he longed to do more than sit and listen. His desire to take part in life, and to have an adventure of his own, grew with each passing year. For now, though, he loved those moments when Yakov looked at or spoke to him. It was then that Grisha felt alive and free.

  Those moments would pass, of course, and he would remember that he was not alive, but buried alive in gold, ruby, and porcelain. Nonetheless, being with Yakov was, so far, the best part of being a teapot. The apartment in London was a far less bleak place than the emperor’s palace.

  His new owner’s loneliness did not last forever, thankfully. It was in a letter to Itzhak that Grisha first heard important details about a young woman whom Yakov had met at a party. She spoke English with a Hungarian accent, in spite of having lived in Paris for a long time.

  Her name was Esther, and she taught at the Royal College of Music. Grisha listened to this particular letter with special interest—he clearly remembered Yakov’s joyous face the night he’d returned from the party.

  She has studied with Nadia Boulanger and lives with her father in a small apartment that smells a lot like the homes of our childhood. Her father was an accomplished violinist, but his hands are now old and stiff. Sometimes I take her to the moving pictures. Have you been to one of those yet, Itzhak? They are quite marvelous. Please send me stories from your new life.

  The family and I are so proud of you.

  So much love, from your cousin Yakov.

  Yakov and Grisha ended London evenings the same way they had in Budapest. After the news, music, or letter writing, Yakov would take his leave, saying, “Sleep well, may we meet in the morning.”

  And in the morning, after his breakfast and shave, Yakov would take his potion out of the same cabinet that held his writing supplies. He would pour a little into his coffee and look at Grisha while he drank it. “My friend,” Yakov would say, “I don’t know what misfortune turned you into a teapot, but I wish you well.”

  Grisha would have done almost anything for the chance to explain about Leopold Lashkovic and the magic spell, but he took solace in knowing that, even without hearing the details, Yakov was sorry about what had happened. For his part, Grisha wished that Yakov would live forever, as he had no desire to ever again be stored in a warehouse, sold in a shop, or live in a different house.

  Especially not when this one was so interesting. From his spot near the fireplace in the front room, Grisha got to hear when Yakov asked Esther’s father for permission to marry her, and he was there at the big party to celebrate Yakov and Esther’s wedding.

  Esther was small and round, happy and cheerful. She filled the large, empty flat with laughter, love, and more music than ever before. She played the piano for hours during the day, practicing or giving lessons. Her piano was in a different room from Grisha, but its sound soared into every corner of the apartment.

  If the years had dragged for Grisha with the unhappy emperor, living with Esther and Yakov, who took joy in their lives, made time move far more quickly.

  Soon two small children ran through the rooms, their sticky hands grabbing what they could and their little legs tumbling over everything. Their names were Rachel and Ella, and they each had a mix of Yakov’s thoughtful curiosity and Esther’s cheerful manner. Grisha loved watching them as they grew from small infants into one mischievous girl (Rachel) and one serious one (Ella).

  Rachel and Ella adored Grisha and often asked for permission to take the teapot into their room at night. “He will protect us while we sleep,” Rachel announced.

  Having spent many an hour staring at her father’s gold-and-ruby-encrusted dragon, she had concluded that beneath the jewels lay a living, breathing creature. Some people simply know things without understanding or caring how they know, and, as a child, Rachel was one of those people. She easily saw what her father needed a potion to see.

  “We like him,” Ella added, not convinced that the teapot dragon was real, but still anxious to have it in the room at night, as there was no mistaking that she slept better when it kept watch.

  So every night, after the family had eaten and then started up for bed, Grisha would make the journey to the children’s room. And every morning he would be brought back down to the front room. Of all the things Grisha observed from within the teapot, the most thrilling was watching the girls grow from crawling babies to running children, into what Esther called girlhood.

  Although Ella remained uncertain about the actual life inside the small dragon teapot, the curiosity in her eyes when she looked at him was enough to make Grisha feel recognized. She never spoke to him, but Ella’s gaze told him how much he mattered to her.

  “Hello, dear one,” Rachel, who spoke to him often, would whisper in the mornings, as if they shared a secret. And from time to time, she did confess to Grisha all the small misdeeds of her day. They were never more serious than hair pulling, rude thoughts, or messy drawers. The small, trapped dragon grew to view Rachel’s hushed admissions as something as precious as warmth.

  Before the girls were born, the only child Grisha had ever seen had been Leopold Lashkovic in his little-boy form. The dragon had no idea how the girls would turn into fully grown humans, but he hoped that no matter how it happened, they would remain happy, healthy creatures.

  Each day, after breakfast and music class, the girls had their main lessons from a governess, who then turned them over to a maid for walks in the park. Whenever Rachel and Ella came inside from playtime, he was reminded of fresh air, of sun and birds, and of all the things he missed by being in a teapot.

  Sometimes life wasn’t what you wanted, but it was still life. And Grisha, a creature of the forest, knew that being alive was what mattered most. He told himself he was happy, and it wasn’t wholly untrue. But neither was it wholly true.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WET LEAVES AND CANDY

  IN THE EVENINGS, ESTHER AND YAKOV SAT IN THE front room talking about the girls, work, and the news
. They didn’t simply read the paper or listen to the wireless, but discussed in great detail what was happening in the world. Grisha, who so longed to be part of the world, listened with sharp attention. Hard times were everywhere again, and people were losing their freedom along with their jobs and their money.

  One country took over another country, and the letters Yakov wrote to Itzhak now carried almost nothing but bad news. A new war was coming, and this one would be the Second World War, it seemed. The Great War would now be called the First World War.

  I am thoroughly sick of wars, Grisha thought, no matter their names. From listening to Yakov and Esther, he knew that this war would have stronger bombs along with the same bloody battles as the last one.

  Yakov, too, was sick of wars and worried about how hard they were for ordinary people. He sent money and tickets to his parents, urging them to leave Budapest and come to London. From London, Yakov had decided he would send them, along with Esther and the girls, into the countryside. He had already found a home in a small village, far away from any cities. The family would be safe there, Yakov said. His uncle would wait out the war in Zurich, and Yakov would remain in London to take care of the bank.

  Grisha fiercely missed the girls and Esther, but when bombs began to fall over London, he was happy they were gone. Londoners, who were being bombed every three or four nights, called it the Blitz. Sirens, explosions, dust, and terror hung over the city like snow clouds.

  Yakov was able to find tea, butter, bread, and medicines, all of which were in short supply. He sent them not just to his family, but to almost every family he knew. Alarmed by this behavior, his uncle wrote stern letters from Zurich, lecturing on moderation and on not allowing Yakov’s generosity to spend the family into the poorhouse.

  In a letter to Itzhak, Yakov explained his actions.

  I can think of no more satisfying way to lose the family’s money. My children, wife, and parents are alive and safe. How dare we not help those in need?

  As a creature of the forest, where helping any creature in need was the law, Grisha supported Yakov’s thinking. At night, when Yakov sat with Grisha, he read the paper or listened to the radio. When the air-raid sirens rang out, he switched off the lights and drew the blackout curtains. There were shelters, but Yakov disliked them, preferring to take his chances by remaining at home.

  When the Blitz ended, Esther returned to London, but the girls and their grandparents remained in the countryside. Things were safer in the city than they had been, but the war was farther away if you were in a small village. Esther worked at the military hospitals, helping the wounded and the shell-shocked. She gave concerts for grief-stricken families and, with the nursing staffs, kept the supply closets clean, stocked, and organized. Yakov kept giving away supplies. Grisha, as always, kept watch.

  Slowly the tide began to shift. The heavy clouds of war gave way to rumors of peace. Children returned to London, among them Rachel and Ella. Grisha thought he would burst with joy when he saw the girls again, taller and more like young women, but still his beloved girls.

  Other changes were small, but Grisha, in the habit of observing them, saw every difference. Rachel was more serious about her studies than she had been, while Ella spent more time at the piano. It seemed to him that war had made everyone a bit more serious. But it was clear that joy and laughter were part of the family’s lives once again.

  The war, which had dragged on for six years, was finally over. Like all good news, it came with bad. As part of the peace, Europe was cut in half, with the western half going to one of the war’s two winners and the eastern half going to the other. Everyone in every country, east and west, was exhausted and anxious for good news.

  Grisha wondered what had happened to the creatures of the forests. It didn’t sound as if magic had had any role in deciding how to divide the world.

  News about his fellow dragons finally did arrive, but not from Germany. Instead it came from Vienna, where Grisha had lived with the emperor. Yakov’s uncle wrote from a place called the Hotel Sacher—Grisha noticed that on the stationery—where he was staying during a long trip, on banking business.

  The soldiers who are in charge here suddenly have a problem that is literally bigger than all of the others: dragons. No one knows why or how they came to Vienna, or what on earth to do with them now that they are here all of a sudden.

  No one has seen so many dragons in one place in more than eight years. I thought they were residing permanently in Europe’s forests. Almost all of the creatures claim to have followed a sound, but of course no one believes them. What sound behaves like a map to Vienna?

  The soldiers have paid a huge sum to a man who has experience with such problems. He promises that any dragon not in Vienna for registration will be sent in a sealed train to Siberia, beyond the Ural Mountains. Meanwhile, the soldiers have put up the dragons in all of Vienna’s fine hotels. I see them milling around the Sacher’s lobby, waiting to be registered and assigned jobs.

  Siberia is a terrible fate for anyone, and these giant creatures seem harmless to me. They are sad and lost-looking, just like every other refugee you see these days.

  The soldiers clearly hope the man they’ve paid will know how to handle this particular problem, so I expect they’ll sort it out. Now, if they can just get Europe itself restored, all will be well.

  Love to you and Esther, yours, etc., Uncle.

  Yakov read this letter three times—once aloud, once to himself, and then aloud once more. Listening more carefully as Yakov read it a second time, Grisha couldn’t help but be envious of his fellow dragons. It was true that they were far from home, but they had each other’s company. Even though the threat of being sent to Siberia hung over them, they were alive.

  It seemed to Grisha that waiting for jobs and registration, whatever that was, meant that Vienna’s dragons had the chance to become part of the human world once again. He wasn’t even a hundred and fifty years old. If it weren’t for the teapot, he could go to Vienna and have a chance at his own adventure.

  For the next week or two, Yakov was rarely home before midnight. He told Esther he was working late, and when he finally did return, the girls told him that he smelled of wet leaves and candy. Finally, Yakov came home at his normal time on a night when the girls and Esther were out.

  Grisha, acutely aware of all sounds, could hear Yakov eating cheese and toast in the kitchen, and then hunting around until he returned with the old blackout curtains. He hung them in the front room where he normally wrote his letters, and locked the door. From deep within his briefcase, he took out a small, dark-green bottle made of glass. It had an elaborate top of brilliant, almost blinding crystal surrounding a cork.

  Yakov put the bottle on his desk and proceeded to make, on top of the old coal stove, the syrupy coffee he loved.

  Grisha, on the desk with the bottle, recognized it as a smaller version of the bottle that contained the morning potion. He watched as Yakov boiled his coffee, poured it into a small china cup, and carried it back to the table, where he sat drinking and looking at Grisha.

  When his cup was empty, Yakov leaned forward. “Well, my friend, I don’t know if you can hear me. I’ve always liked to think you could, but perhaps it has simply been my fancy.”

  Grisha, somewhat obviously, said nothing, and Yakov continued.

  “You were my companion before I met Esther, and my children have loved you. I used to worry about where in the world you would go if you were free, but at last I have hope of an answer. They’ll know what to do with you in Vienna.”

  He picked up the small glass bottle and said, “I’ve been to a chemist, and together we’ve tinkered with the potion I bought in Istanbul. We think filling you with hot water, nettles, and this newer potion will undo whatever spell put you into your current state.”

  Grisha could hardly believe what he was hearing. He’d spent almost a hundred years longing and wishing to be free, but not ever believing it could happen. Flashing across his
unmoving gold eyes, he saw decades in the unhappy palace and the years in the shop window. He saw twenty-odd years in London that were happy, but marked by imprisonment.

  And now here was Yakov talking about undoing Leopold Lashkovic’s spell. It was hard to grasp. And, even as it was happening, it was almost impossible to believe.

  Yakov boiled hot water, nettles, and the potion, filling the room with the smells of licorice and salty seaweed from the ocean. He poured the mixture into the teapot and then put him on the floor, after moving the chairs, desk, and ottoman out of the way.

  For an hour or so, nothing happened. Grisha, remembering how Leopold Lashkovic had spoken the language of spells when turning him into a teapot, wondered whether a spell was what was missing. At just that moment, his scales tightened as if he needed to sneeze. And sneeze he did.

  It was loud, deep, and forceful, like a cannon booming across a battlefield. It was as if the sneeze from so long ago, back when Leopold’s powder had attacked Grisha’s nose, eyes, and paw pads, had finally found its way out. The melting, bubbling, and dissolving feeling returned, along with a searing pain in his belly and his head.

  Grisha’s muscles uncoiled as unpolished gold made way for scales in shades of green, brown, and orange. Rubies vanished and a hot haze of smoke hung about the room as decades of fiery breath poured from Grisha’s mouth. His wings unfurled and his feet wiggled; they were unbearably happy to be moving. His tail, which had been forced into the curve of a handle, blissfully thumped itself into fullness, knocking over everything that happened to be in its path.

  Yakov was so excited that he grabbed hold of one of Grisha’s paws. “My friend, how good to meet you. Welcome back to the world.”

  “We’ve met,” Grisha told him. “I’ve known you all these years.” He felt warmth and life flooding through his body from where his paw touched his friend’s hand.