Zachary Pill, Of Monsters and Magic

by Tim Greaton

pointing.

  The guard did as asked, placing the large pot next to Zachary’s dangling feet then shuffled out the door. Just before the door closed, Zachary realized the guard’s head nearly touched the top of the doorframe. He was huge but in comparison to Doctor Gefarg looked small.

  “Okay, Pill, take your shoes and socks off.”

  Zachary did as told.

  “Now stick your feet in the pot, and move your toes until they dig into the dirt.”

  He glanced at his father who was still pointing the magic wand—Zachary was now certain that’s what it was—at the doctor. The older Pill nodded.

  Zachary placed his feet into the potted dirt. As he wiggled his toes to bury them, he stroked the ficus’ leaves apologetically for invading its space. Once all ten of his toes were covered with dirt, he watched Doctor Gefarg pour a small pitcher of water into the pot. At first his feet were cold, but soon Zachary felt a warm tingling sensation spreading from the bottom of his feet up into his ankles. It wasn’t long before the pleasant sensation emanated all the way up his legs and throughout his entire body. Ridiculous as it seemed, the throbbing aches in his arm, nose, and the back of his skull began to fade.

  “Read the letters on that chart aloud,” the doctor said to Zachary, pointing at an eye exam poster a few feet away.

  Zachary did as asked and was halfway through the third line when the sinister doctor grabbed his arm and jammed his broken bones together. Like a white hot firecracker, pain exploded in his arm and shot straight to a spot behind his eyes. Zachary gasped for breath and felt himself falling backwards. Then everything went black.

  When he came to a few minutes later, he found his arm encased in a plaster. Though still aching, it did feel better with solid protection around it. At least Doctor Gefarg and his vampire nurse couldn’t abuse it any more. He sat up and realized his feet were still toe-deep in the ficus’ dirt. Though he didn’t know how or why it worked, he could still feel the warm tingle flowing from his feet like waves up into the rest of his body. He stroked the tree’s slender trunk and thought, Thank you.

  He couldn’t say how he knew, but the tree let him know he was welcome.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Doctor Gefarg said.

  Not if you like pain, Zachary thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “You’re welcome,” Doctor Gefarg said—adding, “you little brat,” under his breath so that only Zachary could hear.

  “You can put your socks and shoes back on now,” he said more loudly.

  Zachary attempted to lift his feet, but his toes were stuck in the plant pot.

  “Pull a little harder,” the big man suggested. “And, in the future, I wouldn’t fall asleep on any lawns if I were you.”

  Clueless about what the doctor meant, Zachary pulled harder and his feet came free. The tingling stopped.

  “That’s everything?” his father asked.

  “Everything I know to do,” Doctor Gefarg said gruffly. “He’ll be fine.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Zachary’s father said. He slid the wand back into his front pocket. Zachary noticed the symbols stopped glowing as soon as his hand came away.

  “Do you have paper towels to wipe off the dirt?” Zachary asked.

  “Nonsense,” Doctor Gefarg said. “Leave it the way it is. Wouldn’t hurt you to put a little dirt in your socks every day, actually.”

  Frustrated, Zachary wiped the dirt from between his toes before awkwardly pulling his socks back on with his good hand. He seldom untied his sneakers and was able to slide them on as usual.

  “You ready to go?” his father asked.

  Doctor Gefarg cleared his throat.

  “Don’t expect any thank you,” his father said. His hand swung dangerously close to his wand.

  “I was thinking more about a proper payment,” the massive doctor grumbled. “There is a particular favor I need from you.”

  “I’ll pay in cash on the way out, just like everyone else,” his father said.

  “I don’t need cash!” the doctor spat. “I need access to the Corridors.”

  “I haven’t been near them since I was a kid,” Zachary’s father said. “But even if I knew how to get inside, why would I help you?”

  “Because I just stopped your son’s arm from sprouting branches, for one thing.”

  “That’s your job,” his father said, leading Zachary out into the hall. “I’ll pay at the nurse’s station.”

  Zachary heard Doctor Gefarg yell something, but the deep exclamation was cut off when his father slammed the door shut. Soon, they were in the elevator, on their way up to street level. Though his father didn’t seem in the mood to talk, Zachary had too many questions to remain silent.

  “What are the Corridors?” Zachary asked as they exited the elevator and went in search of Nurse Nightshade’s office.

  “This isn’t the time, Zach,” his father said as they rounded their fifth turn in as many minutes. How his father knew where he was going, Zachary had no idea.

  “Dad, I haven’t even started to ask about your magic wand. Something simple like Corridors should be easy.”

  “Nothing about any of this is easy, Zach, especially a discussion about the Corridors.”

  “So let’s talk about the magic wand,” Zachary suggested.

  “I’m not getting dragged into this, Zach. I had good reasons not to tell you any of this, and those reasons haven’t changed. You should be thankful I kept you out of it this long.”

  “I’m almost fourteen years old,” Zachary said. “I have a right to know about my own family!”

  Suddenly, it seemed to Zachary that his father grew several inches. His shoulders also seemed to grow wider as he grabbed his son’s sleeve. Zachary forced himself to continue staring into his father’s piercing green eyes.

  “We’re in a lot of trouble, here, Zach,” his father said. “And right now, I have to get us someplace safe. Once that’s done, I’ll think about how much I can tell you. But in the meantime, you have to stop asking.”

  Zachary wasn’t satisfied but adjusted his cast in the sling, and nodded. He had no intention of forgetting the discussion, however. One way or another, he would get answers…to all of his questions!

  8) A Really Bad Meal

  The trip home was just as bizarre as the journey to the clinic had been. He and his father took a taxi from Doctor Gefarg’s clinic all the way to Union Station. Once inside Chicago’s central train station, Zachary was awed by the huge curved glass ceiling above what a nearby sign called “The Great Hall.” But Zachary didn’t have time to appreciate the sight because his father immediately led them into a shoving and pushing funnel of people moving down a wide staircase that led to underground trains that came and went every few minutes. Once at the lower level, rather than waiting with everyone else, his father shoved their way to a side door and stairs that delved even deeper below the busy station. They could hear the sound of trains rumbling above as they descended at least seven more flights of stairs to a dimly lit section of basement that echoed loudly with every step they took. They walked for several minutes before coming to a series of benches placed against a concrete block wall.

  “Why here?” Zachary asked as his father motioned him to sit. The truth was that Zachary welcomed the rest. It had been a trying day.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” his father said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. Before Zachary could gather another single thought, his father unscrewed the cap and blew a white cloud into his face.

  Zachary fought it this time but, in less than a second, his eyelids slid shut.

  Waking in his own bed, Zachary glanced toward the dark window. He tried to rub his tired eyes and pain shot from his wrist to his elbow. Wincing, he repositioned the cast in its sling and sat up. The last thing he remembered was his father blowing white powder—sleeping powder—in his face for the second time. He ignored the obvious question of “Since when was sleeping powder real?” and tried t
o focus instead on why his father kept putting him to sleep.

  The heavy aroma of spaghetti wafted in through his partly open bedroom door and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten a single thing since morning—

  Of what day?

  The way his stomach grumbled, he could easily have believed two or more days had passed. He made his way to the kitchen where his father was stirring sauce into a pan of spaghetti pasta.

  “You’re finally up,” his father said.

  “Is this the same day?”

  “If you can call ten at night the same day,” his father said, “I guess it is.”

  Zachary shook his head. It was hard to believe that only eleven hours earlier Billy and his friends had cornered him on the stairs. A lot had happened in a short span of time. It would take several days just to think it all through.

  “Smells good,” he said, reaching up to pull a couple of plates down from the cabinet with his good right arm. From his stretched vantage, Zachary could see the top of his father’s bald scalp. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he had grown during the seventh-grade: at least three inches. It wouldn’t be long before he was as tall as Uncle Ned―as tall but never as muscular.

  “Slop should be ready in a few minutes,” his father announced.

  Zachary smiled. Spaghetti was a veritable feast in comparison to the only-meat meals his mother use to make. The opposite of a vegetarian, she refused to eat a single piece of fruit or vegetable. She refused to even look at plants most of the time, which was one of the reasons she seldom went