Magic

by Audrey Niffenegger

  I watched as a river of old buttons spilled out onto the tray. Mid-Twentieth Century and older, I guessed, watching the array of colors and shapes waterfall out of the jar. Some, made of metal, wood and bone, looked much older.

  I picked up a pencil and used the eraser end to poke the pile of buttons. Using the pencil insulated me from the full strength of the impressions, but didn’t block them altogether. That was helpful when I wanted to keep my wits about me.

  Images flashed through my mind on many of the buttons. The echo of a child’s laugher sounded in the distance when I touched a plastic, heart-shaped button. A round ivory disk yielded a woman’s voice, humming to herself, and an image of rolling out dough in a kitchen. My pencil flicked among the buttons, and in my mind I saw the blackboard in a long-ago school room from a shirt button, memories of a heavy winter storm from a coat’s fastener, and the distant strains of an orchestra from a dainty pearl ball. It went on like that for a few minutes, glimpsing fragments of long-ago lives, until my pencil hovered above one particular button.

  An image came to me so clear and strong that it transported me beyond the back room of my shop.

  Tall grass, dry from the summer heat, slapped at my legs. The air smelled of sweet honeysuckle, mixed with the acrid stench of gunpowder. Not far away, I could hear the thunder of cannons. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweaty. I gripped my rifle more tightly, comforted by the smooth wood of the grip, and the cool metal of the barrel. Hoof beats pounded closer, not just a few men on horseback, but a cavalry unit on the move. Men would die today. The fear that I might be among them seemed to freeze my blood.

  “Cassie! Come on Cassie! Snap out of it!” Gradually, Teag’s urgent voice intruded and the vision receded. I shook my head, and came to myself. Teag stood over me, worried but not surprised. He’d seen me ‘trance out’ enough times to know what to do.

  “I’m OK,” I said, still reorienting. Teag’s glare meant he knew damn well that I wasn’t all right.

  “Do you know which button sent you day trippin’?” He made an effort to sound flippant, but I could hear genuine concern beneath his words.

  “That’s the one,” I murmured. “I’m certain most of the resonance is coming from this button.”

  Teag frowned as he bent over the tray, then picked up the button and held it between thumb and forefinger. “It’s old. Looks military. Might even be Civil War.”

  “I’m almost certain it’s Civil War,” I replied, remembering the images I had seen. “The question is, why are the impressions from this button so much stronger?”

  Teag sat on the edge of my desk. “Did you pick up on anything when we were at the house? Get any visions?”

  I shook my head. “I never went inside, remember? I was working the Oliver estate, and I left the Allendale house in your hands. Other than a peek in the front door, I never got close.”

  “The crew was uncomfortable working there, particularly after dark,” Teag replied. “The lower floors weren’t a problem, but they really didn’t like the attic.” He paused. “A couple of times, when the men were loading the truck, they said they felt like someone was watching them from an upstairs window, even though no one was in the house. And Jorge, one of my best workers, called off sick the last day. He never gets sick, but the day before, he swore he’d been chased by a shadow. I don’t think he wanted to go back in there.”

  “I don’t think this button is a full Spooky,” I said, daring to let the pencil hover a bit nearer to the worn metal button. ‘Spookies’ were malevolent items or objects with a dark magical history. I knew better than to touch Spookies. I turned them right over to Sorren, and he locked them up, neutralized their magic, or sent them off for further study. Sorren had been at this for a lot longer; I was happy to leave those details to him. “Maybe just a strong Sparkler. He doesn’t feel angry just... terribly sad.”

  “Wandering around for more than one hundred and fifty years without being able to rest would make anyone sad, and a mite cranky, too.” Teag looked around the back room and through the door to the loading dock. “Get readings from anything else we brought back?”

  I got up and began to wander among the boxes, letting my hand trail along their sides. I felt the residue of daily life, hopes, fears, hunger and exhaustion, but one box made me stop and examine my impressions. “What’s in here?”

  Teag bent to look at the label, since only he could read his scribbled writing. “Antique baby items. Very good condition.”

  “That’s because they were never used,” I said quietly. “There was a christening gown, embroidered linen with eyelet lace?”

  Teag nodded, his eyes widening. “Yes. Very pretty.”

  “Set it aside for Sorren. The child died right after the baptism. I’d hate to think someone might purchase that and carry the resonance forward to a new baby.”

  Teag moved the box away from the others. “Consider it done. How about anything to go with that button?”

  I had moved among all the new boxes, and none drew me in or offered up impressions that matched those of the button. It’s hard to explain, but when I pick up on ‘residue’ from an object, it’s as if that impression has its own special frequency. Nothing else was on the button’s frequency.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.” I paused, thinking. “Of course, I don’t know what I would have picked up from what the museum took. Maybe that button came from a uniform that was in the boxes for the exhibit.”

  “I am not taking you in the museum again. No how, no way,” Teag said, holding up his hands. “Do you remember what happened when we accidentally ended up in the ‘Plagues and Pestilence’ exhibit?”

  I shuddered. Yellow fever, small pox, malaria, diphtheria, and cholera all wrote their own bloody lines of the city’s history. The impressions from that display were so overwhelming that I passed out and didn’t regain consciousness for a full day. Even then, it had taken some of Sorren’s arcane know-how to bring me out of it. I was happy to donate money to the museum, but there was no way in hell I’d step foot inside again.

  “I remember,” I muttered. “But maybe a family member could provide some details.”

  “Not much family to speak of,” Teag said, consulting the file he accessed on his smart phone. “There’s a niece who drew the short straw, so to speak, on having to clean up after him. No other living relatives.”

  “Got an address?”

  Teag looked at his watch. “What’s it going to be for the rest of the afternoon, until Sorren gets here? Unpack boxes or play ‘button, button, who’s got the button’?”

  “Button hunting,” I decided. “I don’t think the resonance is dangerous, but I’d hate to be wrong about that.” I’d learned the hard way to play it cautious after an unfortunate incident with a trunk full of antique porcelain dolls. I shuddered. That was going to show up in my nightmares for a long, long time.

  “OK then,” Teag said, mustering good spirits for the hunt. He put the button into a plastic box, and he put the box into his pocket. “It’s a pretty day. Let’s head out to see the niece. My notes said she works nights, so if we head over right away, odds are good we’ll find her at home.”

  Teag’s phone had all the contact information, so he handed it over while he drove. It was a glorious day, though hot and humid, something that comes with living in Charleston. If you didn’t grow up here, you either loved the weather, adapted quickly, or packed up and left.

  I called Sullivan Michaels, Mr. Allendale’s niece. She was surprised to hear from me, but agreed to see us, especially when I hinted that we had found something of particular interest among the ‘junk’ she had been happy to sell at auction.

  Teag made a few turns, and pulled into the driveway of a modest, one-story ranch house. Sullivan Michaels’ house dated from the 1950s rather than the 1850s, but it looked neat and well-maintained, a far cry from the run-down state of her elderly uncle’s home. Teag and I walked up to the door and knocked.

  Sullivan Micha
els was a plump woman in her middle years. She looked as if she was just getting ready for work, and judging by her clothing, I was guessing something in the hospitality business, maybe the night manager at a hotel or restaurant. She had a broad, intelligent face, but there was no spark that suggested passionate curiosity. “You made good time,” she said, welcoming us into her home. “I set out some sweet tea and cheese straws if you’d like a bite.”

  I left the cheese straws for Teag, and poured two tall glasses of sweet tea. The dark amber liquid crackled as it flowed over the ice, and I knew that if it had been made to true Charleston standards, it would be strong as a hurricane and sweet as a honeycomb.

  “Thank you again for using Trifles and Folly for your uncle’s estate,” I began. “We were going through the boxes, and we came across something interesting. We wondered if you might know more about it.”

  On cue, Teag held out the box with the uniform button. Sullivan examined it, and then shrugged. “I’m sorry, but there was just so much in the house, I don’t remember things like individual buttons.” Despite her words, she kept turning the button this way and that in the light.

  “Did your uncle keep any records of where he found the items in his collections?” I pressed.

  She gave a weary chuckle. “He picked up a lot at flea markets, and he scavenged other people’s estate sales. When he was younger, he walked battlefields, poked through abandoned houses, and meandered through the woods near where the armies had fought.” She paused. “But for all that, he was almost obsessive about noting down what he got and where he got it. Usually he jotted a note on a scrap of paper and put it with the item. I passed everything to the museum that went along with the items they wanted.”

  “Did your uncle leave any journals or diaries, something that might have recorded his ramblings?” I tried to keep my tone light, but my inner sense told me we were onto something, and that Sullivan held the key.

  Sullivan looked uncomfortable. “He kept a journal throughout his adult life,” she said. “Stuffed them full of newspaper clippings, photos, even letters. I haven’t looked through them, and I don’t know if I’ll even try.” She sighed. “We weren’t very close. My uncle kept mostly to himself and had a rather sour disposition. He’d probably come back to haunt me if he knew I’d donated his belongings to a museum rather than holding out for top market price.”

  Her comment sent a chill down my spine. Hoarders and misers were the most likely to retain an otherworldly attachment to their worldly goods. “I know I’m asking a great deal, but would you be willing to lend me the journals, just for a little while? We try to know the provenance of all the pieces we sell at Trifles and Folly, and something as trivial as where a button was found or purchased means so much to our clients.”

  “My uncle’s life revolved around acquiring items for his collections,” Sullivan said. “I’m guessing you’ll find little more than a journal of his shopping trips, but good luck hunting.” Sullivan looked at turns guilty and relieved. I could guess why. She probably felt a bit guilty turning over a man’s private papers to a total stranger. At the same time, I wondered if, subconsciously, Sullivan picked up a disquieting resonance from the old man’s things.

  “I’ll go get the journals,” she offered, and jumped up. Teag went to help, and a few minutes later he emerged with two mid-sized cartons.

  “One more question, Ms. Michaels,” I said. “Would you mind if we went back into the house, just to see if there’s anything we missed, like a button or two?”

  “I can’t imagine that you’ll find anything but you’re welcome to go. Just drop the key off when you’re finished.”

  Teag put the boxes into the trunk of his car, and we started back to the shop. “You’ve got a feeling about those journals, I can see it in your face.”

  “The button is a clue, but by itself, it’s not dark,” I replied. “But the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that something Edward Allendale brought home with him for his collections turned into a nasty surprise.”

  “There are an awful lot of journals. It’s going to take forever to go through them all.”

  “I have a hunch that the button will narrow it down for me.”

  “Which is why I don’t think you should do it alone.” Teag might be a few years younger than me, but he acts more like the big brother I never had. “Let’s take them back to the shop, order in pizza and a six pack while we wait for Sorren, and work our way through the journals.”

  I tried not to look as relieved as I felt, but I knew Teag was wise to me. “OK, twist my arm,” I laughed. “But are you sure you don’t have something better to do?”

  “I could footnote my dissertation,” Teag replied dryly. “Other than that, no.”

  Within the hour we had the journals spread across my office. Good ol’ Edward had been a compulsive journal writer, and the slim tomes stretched all the way back to the 1930s. We ate, and as the afternoon shadows lengthened, we tackled the stack of books after setting them out in chronological order.

  “Where does your hunch tell you to start?” Teag asked.

  “The early years,” I answered without having to think about it. “I’ll take the oldest ones. He’s got more than seventy years’ worth of books; more than enough for both of us.”

  I cheated, and didn’t start with the oldest volume, but instead I turned my senses inward, and waited to be led. Eyes closed, my hand came to rest on two of the journals. The leather bindings were scuffed and cracked, and the pages had yellowed. Inside, scrawled in a young man’s handwriting, entries had been inked with a fountain pen.

  June 14, 1939 Spent the day down along the river. I know General Beauregard’s troops marched through here, or close to this spot. The man who owns this land says it’s been in his family since the war years, but no one ever did much with it. He thought there were a few skirmishes hereabouts. Wouldn’t I love to find something they left behind!

  I read on, caught up in the old entries. I had braced myself for negative impressions from the journals, but from this volume, I sensed only curiosity and enthusiasm.As soon as I picked up the next journal, the feeling changed. There was a darkness to the journal’s resonance. Something had changed Edward Allendale between 1939 and 1940. I had a feeling our button had something to do with that shift.

  I flipped through it, scanning the dates. Then I realized something. The first half of the book still had the positive feel of the first journal, but toward the middle, a heaviness hung over the pages. I flipped back and forth, trying to find out where the feeling shifted, and this passage caught my attention.

  July 17, 1940. I just don’t seem to be able to leave off walking along the river. I think there’s something here to find, almost like I’m supposed to find it. I can barely sleep at night, thinking about when I can come back and poke around some more.

  On the next page, it felt as if a dark curtain descended. I knew I’d found what I was looking for.

  July 18, 1940. I saw a little cave I’d never noticed before. It was shallow and filled with rocks, but I found bits of an old uniform, mostly gone to mold except for a button, a gold coin, and some yellowed bones and a skull. I’m certain one of our boys in gray made this his last resting place. I left the bones, but I took the button, the coin and the skull. I’ll figure out who to tell about it. Maybe they’ll give old Johnny Reb a memorial parade, and pin a medal on me for finding him.

  “But you didn’t tell anyone, did you, Edward,” I murmured. I riffled through the pages of the journal, and two yellowed letters fell out. I bent down, curious.

  “That’s odd,” I said. “These letters are much older than the journal.” I looked to where the journal had opened, and read another entry.

  September 5, 1940. I think I may have figured out who the Johnny Reb was in that cave. Mr. Johnson at the Historical Society has been letting me go over the lists of the missing and dead from the battles fought near where I found the skull. I could narrow it down some from the type of
button, and today I think I found my man. Some of the dead soldiers’ families bequeathed items to the Historical Society. Mr. Johnson let me go through those, too. When I found the letters, I knew it had to be the man whose bones I found. His name was Jonah Macaulay. I kept the letters for safekeeping, and I’ll give them back to Mr. Johnson along with the skull and other things once I can figure out how to get old Jonah his final rest.

  “Find something?” Teag asked.

  I showed him the entry, glad to get the book out of my hands. The darkness that found Edward Allendale had started closing in around me. “It changed him,” I said. “Before he found those things in the cave, he was just a young guy looking for treasure. But the sense of him shifts from the time he found that grave.”

  “So Edward stole the letters, huh?” Teag said when he finished reading.

  I nodded. “I think he was used to bending the rules, and maybe by this point, the items he found were already getting a hold over him.”

  I fingered the old parchment, but by themselves, the letters had no special resonance. Carefully, I unfolded the yellowed paper. Bold pen strokes told me that the handwriting probably belonged to a man, and the signature confirmed it. “Jonah Macaulay,” I murmured.

  “So what’s in those letters?” Teag’s eyes shone with the love of the hunt.

  I struggled to make out the faded lines. “They were written by Jonah to Elsabeth Bradley, and it appears they were engaged,” I said, working my way through the cramped paragraphs.

  “My dear Elsabeth,” I read aloud. “The sentiment of your gift pleases me, but I am concerned when you speak of its origins. I know that your people come from New Orleans, and many things are done differently there than in Charleston, but I would be a bit more comfortable with the gift of a small cross or even a medallion of one of the saints, like those the Catholic soldiers carry. Nevertheless, I know the intent of your heart, and you may be assured I will carry your token with me into battle, as did the knights of old.”