“I never knew there were tree houses,” said Jinx. He was surprised the trees would allow such a thing.
“Part of the ancient treaty.”
“I never heard of an ancient treaty,” said Jinx. The trees had never mentioned it.
“The trees agreed to let humans take deadwood for fuel and building. And to let us have tree houses. And we agreed that if anyone kills a tree, the trees take a human life in revenge.” Simon shook his head. “I never saw the point of that.”
“The trees don’t want to take just anybody’s life,” said Jinx. “But they’re afraid of letting there get to be too many humans.”
For a long time Jinx couldn’t sleep, because of the cold. And he could tell that Simon was awake too by the quiet murmur of Simon’s thoughts. There was a sort of eager galloping feeling of being about to accomplish something new—something to do with magic, Jinx thought. He’d sensed this feeling of Simon’s before, when the wizard was working on a new spell or trying out some magic one of the witches had told him about. But this time there was an odd pucker of guilt around the edge of the excitement.
Maybe the guilt was because Simon was thinking of Sophie and how much she disliked magic. But that didn’t explain why Simon had it about this spell. Come to think of it, Jinx had never noticed him feeling guilty before. Not about magic, not about what Sophie didn’t like, not about Calvin the skull, not about anything.
It was hard to imagine what would make Simon feel guilty, but it would probably have to be something pretty bad.
7
The Bonemaster
It was early the next afternoon that they crossed a two-log bridge over a creek and started down a smaller, snow-covered path dinted with butter-churn tracks.
Soon they came to a little thatch-covered cottage. The house was made of wood, not gingerbread, but the butter-churn tracks went right up to the door, so Jinx knew: They were visiting a witch. Simon had told him that only an idiot wouldn’t be afraid of witches, and one thing Simon certainly did not consider himself was an idiot. But then, Simon had witches visiting in his house all the time.
But going to a witch’s house—that was different.
They had not yet reached the door when it opened, and Dame Glammer stepped out.
“Simon the Wizard,” she said. “Come to see me through long miles of snowy woods. I wonder why.”
“Greetings, Dame Glammer,” said Simon with a smile.
“And the dear little chipmunk is still alive.” She grinned at Jinx.
“May we come in?” said Simon.
“Of course—where are my manners.” Dame Glammer stepped back. “Come in, come in. Take your boots off. Have some brew.”
The house seemed small inside when you were used to Simon’s, but it had a scrubbed wood floor and a fire crackling in the fireplace. They took off their boots and their coats and sat down at a proper wooden table, centuries old and unlikely to offend any living tree—much. Dame Glammer set hot mugs of something in front of them. Leaves floated in it.
Jinx cupped his hands around the mug and breathed in leaf-smelling steam. He listened to Simon and Dame Glammer talk—about the journey, about the weather, not about what they’d come for. And Jinx had no idea what that might be … but the little pucker of guilt that he’d noticed in Simon last night had come back. In Dame Glammer, he couldn’t feel anything at all, no matter how hard he tried.
“Well, I won’t rush you to tell me what you’ve come about, Simon,” said Dame Glammer. “But I don’t think it was to gaze upon my beautiful face. And you, chipmunk, can stop trying to read my mind.”
“I wasn’t trying to read your mind,” Jinx protested. “I can’t! Nobody can.”
“That’s right, chipmunk. Nobody can.”
Confused, Jinx ducked his head down and breathed in steam. He took a cautious sip of the hot drink. It tasted of summer.
Dame Glammer got up and brought some barley cakes, which were crumbly and a bit stale and nowhere near as good as anything that there was to eat in Simon’s house. They ate these and drank their brew, and Simon and Dame Glammer talked a bit about potions and magic and herbs.
“That’s deep Urwald magic, that is, Simon,” said Dame Glammer, nodding at Jinx. “You don’t see that very often. If you want to study Urwald magic, you take a look at that boy.”
“No one can read minds,” said Simon. “Certainly Jinx can’t.”
Dame Glammer grinned. “Ask him.”
“Jinx, what number am I thinking of?”
“Seven?” Jinx guessed.
“Nope.” Simon turned back to Dame Glammer. “I’d have noticed it by now if he could.”
“Hard to notice what you don’t believe in.”
“Jinx, go bring some firewood in,” said Simon.
Jinx put down his empty mug and stood up. It didn’t seem fair—he’d only just got here, and surely Dame Glammer was used to bringing in her own firewood.
“The firewood’s in a shed just around the side of the house, chipmunk,” said Dame Glammer, grinning at him.
He pulled his boots on, put on his coat, and went out. He took a couple of loud, crunching steps in the snow, forward then back, and pressed his ear to Dame Glammer’s front door.
“Of course I don’t,” Dame Glammer was saying. “Do you think I keep something like that in my house?”
“Probably,” said Simon.
“Ha. Nobody ever wanted that for any good purpose.”
“I’d be willing to pay quite a bit for it.”
“And it’s the leaves you want?”
“The roots,” said Simon. “I told you.”
“Root magic’s for things that ought not to see the light of day. Things that were better left undone,” said Dame Glammer.
“Am I supposed to believe you never do that sort of magic yourself?” said Simon.
Dame Glammer chuckled.
“I’ll pay you in gold,” said Simon.
“Gold?” Dame Glammer laughed. “That useless soft metal that you can’t make tools or cooking pots out of? Or am I supposed to hang it in my beautiful ears?”
“Well, not gold then. Anything you like.”
“Anything?” Dame Glammer’s voice was suddenly hungry.
“Within reason,” Simon said quickly. “Anything you care to name right now. No unspecified favors at a later date.”
“Will you give me the dear, trusting little chipmunk?”
“No. Not the chipmunk,” said Simon. “I meant something in the way of money, or, or spices, or—”
“Magic?” said Dame Glammer. “Goodness, don’t you think that chipmunk’s taking an awfully long time with the wood?”
There was the sound of a chair being pushed back from the table, and Jinx turned and ran to get the firewood.
“You’d better stay the night,” said Dame Glammer when Jinx was back inside. “Now that the deepest snow is gone, a lot of folk are out traveling the Path. I expect you might meet anybody.”
“Might we?” said Simon. “Meaning?”
“Meaning there are some people it’s better to meet by daylight.”
Simon nodded slowly. “I see. Right, we’ll stay, then.”
Before they left the next morning, Jinx saw Dame Glammer slip Simon a bundle tied up tightly in a red polka-dot kerchief. Simon tucked it into an inside pocket of his robe. Jinx didn’t see what Simon gave her in exchange.
They walked home by a different route. Every time they came to another path, Simon stopped and looked down it each way, as if he were expecting someone.
“Well, look at that,” said Simon, at the seventh crossing.
There was another wizard coming along the path. He looked like wizards should look. He had a long white beard and blue eyes crackling with sparks, and he wore a blue robe and a matching pointy hat. He was smiling, which didn’t quite go with the flashing pink clouds of fury that gathered around him like a rose-colored thunderstorm.
“What are you doing out of your lair, Bonem
aster?” said Simon.
So this was the Bonemaster! The wizard of horrible tales and bottle-shaped fears. He looked almost kindly. The things boiling in clouds around his head said he wasn’t, though. The pink clouds had knives in them. Jinx had never seen anyone whose feelings came out in cutlery before.
Jinx would have been sure he was about to die, if Simon hadn’t been there.
“Not looking for you, certainly, Simon,” said the Bonemaster. “But since we’ve met so pleasantly, why don’t we go to your house and collect what you stole from me?”
“No,” said Simon. “Not even in exchange for what you stole from me.”
“Did I offer that? Anyway, I stole nothing,” said the Bonemaster. “I took only what was owed.”
“Step off the path and I’ll give you what you’re owed.”
“Big talk, Simon, as usual. But you can’t fight me—you haven’t the power. That burn’s healed nicely, I see.”
The wizards were boiling rage at each other now. The Bonemaster continued to look faintly amused, but the knives in the pink cloud spun about hungrily.
The Bonemaster flicked his eyes at Jinx. “Got a boy, have you? And just big enough to be of use, I see.”
Simon stepped in front of Jinx. “It’s not your business.”
“Well, it won’t work, Simon. You haven’t the power or the intelligence to make it work. Let alone the ability to finish what you start. I always said so.”
They glared at each other, Simon with mounting fury and the Bonemaster with cool disapproval. Three of the knives in the pink cloud were now gently dripping blood.
“Come on, Jinx,” said Simon, turning away.
“Yes, go on, Jinx,” said the Bonemaster. “Don’t stay to—”
“Don’t you call him by name!” Simon snarled.
He grabbed Jinx by the arm and stalked off along the path. Jinx looked over his shoulder, afraid the Bonemaster was going to follow them and suck out their souls. The Bonemaster just stood there looking after them and smiling.
Simon was in a red rage. Jinx waited till it had faded to a dull orange before asking, “Was that really the Bonemaster?”
“Obviously.”
“I always heard he was a really evil wizard.”
“You heard right.”
“He looks—”
“Don’t judge people by how they look,” said Simon. “And don’t ever go near him, Jinx. Ever.”
No fear of that—who would? Nobody could ever be fooled by the Bonemaster’s smile. “He has knives in his thoughts.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“It’s lucky for us we weren’t off the path,” said Jinx.
“Oh, you think he could have hurt us? You think he’s a more powerful wizard than I am? Is that what you think?”
“No,” said Jinx, who had been thinking exactly that.
“Anyone could have power the way he gets it. If they were willing to do the things he’s willing to do. Which I am not.”
“Oh. What—”
“And I don’t owe him a thing!”
8
The Spell with Something Wrong about It
Simon had been behaving strangely, even for him. He didn’t cook and he hardly ate. He spent days on end studying a red leather-bound book and comparing it page by page to other books, and stalking around the floor of his workroom in a circle, then retracing his steps backward, muttering under his breath.
He would not answer Jinx’s questions about the Bonemaster. Jinx particularly wanted to know what the Bonemaster had meant by just big enough to be of use. Somehow it hadn’t sounded like it had anything to do with splitting firewood or mucking out the goats’ shed.
Jinx slipped into the workroom while Simon was gone, hoping to figure out what Simon was up to. He saw Dame Glammer’s knotted polka-dot kerchief up on the highest shelf. Jinx remembered Simon tucking it into his pocket as they left her house after that mysterious talk about root magic. Jinx scrambled up onto the workbench. He reached out for the bundle, but his hand was blocked a few inches away from it. He tried reaching from the top, and from behind. It was as if there was an invisible glass dome surrounding the thing. Simon had put some kind of ward spell around it.
Jinx was sure if he could have reached the kerchief and untied it, he would have found roots.
Root magic’s for things that ought not to see the light of day, Dame Glammer had said.
The ward spell didn’t stop the cold, dead smell that came from the bundle—or the feeling. It felt like injustice. Like wrongs it was much too late to right. It was an icy, creeping nastiness. Jinx thought about the guilt he’d seen in Simon on the way to Dame Glammer’s house. He jumped down from the workbench.
He noticed a book bound in dark red leather. It was the one Simon had spent so much time consulting lately. Usually Simon didn’t leave it lying around.
Jinx flipped the book open. It was in a language Jinx didn’t know. There was a drawing of a bottle. Sketched inside the bottle was the vague outline of a man.
Jinx turned pages. There were illustrations showing intricate symbols—models for chalk drawings, maybe?
Simon’s shadow fell across the page. Jinx looked up.
“Close that book at once,” said Simon.
Jinx snapped it shut and dropped it hastily on the workbench. He expected Simon to be angry—that was the Simon he knew. But this strange new Simon was something else—worried, Jinx thought. Green clouds of something—fear, maybe? Why on earth would a wizard be afraid?
Simon snatched up the book, stuck it into his robe pocket, and left. There was still no anger around his head. Just that weird, rather frightening worry.
Days went by, and then weeks. The book was never left lying around where Jinx could find it again.
Something had changed in Simon. Jinx wasn’t sure if it was because of the roots or because of the spell Simon was getting ready to do. Dame Glammer was wrong—Jinx couldn’t read minds. Minds weren’t like books. They shifted around all the time.
And anyway, everyone could see what was right in front of their faces, surely—the white, implacable wall of Simon’s determination to get this new spell done, the pink stabs of worry that he wouldn’t be able to do it or that it would go wrong. And battering against the white wall was Sophie, with her own brown-blue worry about Simon.
“You’ve changed,” she said. “It’s the Urwald. This place is getting to you.”
“It’s not the Urwald. I’m very busy right now.”
“Why are you cleaning the workshop?” said Sophie.
“Because it needs doing,” said Simon.
“But you never clean your workshop,” said Sophie.
And he wasn’t really doing it now, Jinx thought. Or only a little bit. Jinx was doing most of the work, of course.
“It’s my workshop,” said Simon. “I can clean it if I want. I don’t need to explain everything I do to you.”
This sounded like typical Simon-and-Sophie squabbling, and it didn’t worry Jinx much. The wall around Simon, that worried him more. Usually the wall was much farther inside Simon, and it was kept up to protect him from everyone else, not from Sophie. Jinx worked a dust rag around a pile of books on the floor. The dust crawled up his nose and made him sneeze. An offended spider hurried away.
“You’re doing something different,” said Sophie. “It’s some kind of big spell that you haven’t done before, isn’t it?”
“You don’t want to know anything about magic, so why are you asking?” said Simon, not looking at her.
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” said Sophie, turning to go.
“Good. Don’t.”
A pale shudder of hurt went through the room. “You think I’m in the way,” said Sophie, her voice shaking.
“You’re always in the way,” Simon snapped. But his thoughts didn’t go with his words at all. Jinx was confused.
“He doesn’t mean it, Sophie,” Jinx heard himself saying.
“You mind your own business!” said Simon.
“It is my business.”
“No, Jinx, it’s not,” said Sophie. “Simon, if we could discuss this somewhere—”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“He doesn’t mean it!” Jinx couldn’t stop himself from talking. “He hates himself for saying it. I don’t know why he’s saying it.”
Simon wheeled on Jinx. “Get out of here right now!”
“No, don’t go, Jinx. I’ll go,” said Sophie. Her face was pale.
“Yes, do,” said Simon.
She left, and it felt as if something in the room tore in two.
Jinx felt horrible. He heard Sophie’s footsteps go to the end of the corridor and then keep going—she had passed through the stone wall. Jinx went on dusting the pile of books, although all the dust had transferred itself to his rag or the inside of his nose now. He liked Sophie and he was furious at Simon for being mean to her. He wished he could run after her and tell her that something strange was going on in Simon’s head, that for some reason the new spell that he was working on was so important to him … no, that wasn’t it either. It had to do with the guilt, didn’t it? There was something wrong with this spell, some reason Simon didn’t want Sophie to know about it.
There was a dismal green cloud around Simon that seemed to be making his eyes water.
“I said get out of here.”
Jinx threw down his dust rag and got out of there.
The workroom was spotless. Everything was off the floor and workbench and up on shelves. Everything had been dusted and scrubbed. The room felt cold, mostly because of Simon. Simon didn’t snap at Jinx again—he hardly said anything to him. Sophie hadn’t come back, of course. Jinx didn’t think she would ever come back.
Jinx and Simon set up four braziers in the corners of the room, and then Simon began chalking symbols on the floor. He kept looking at the red leather-bound book as he did this. It took days. Once Jinx accidentally stepped on a symbol that looked rather like a winged fox. Simon shot him an ice-cold gaze that made Jinx want to go put his coat on.
Finally the figures were done. Simon began brewing a potion over a brazier. Jinx sat on the high stool, which he had gotten to by stepping very carefully in between the chalked figures, and watched. A licorice smell came from the potion, and then a sweet smell like apple blossoms. Once a cat came into the room, and Simon fixed it with the same glare he’d given Jinx.
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