The Wish Master

by Betty R. Wright

  Old Josey. He’d say the name to himself and get goose bumps on his arms. A name didn’t tell you a thing. The meanest-tempered horse at Camp Macaho was called Sweetums.

  What he needed was a miracle. A telephone call from his dad. Anything! The Wish Master was going to have to get busy, if he and Aggie were to be on their way to California before the Fourth of July.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Scrawny Little Nothing

  “It’s no use checking the weather channel every ten minutes,” Corby’s mother teased. “The weatherman won’t call off a rainstorm for tomorrow just because it happens to be the Fourth of July.”

  “I know that,” Corby said. He glared at the weather map on the screen. There was rain moving toward Berry Hill, but it might go to the north and miss them. Or it might not. He wanted all the clouds in the sky to head right for Berry Hill. He hoped the rain would come down in buckets, with so much lightning and thunder that no one would dare go outside. He had a feeling it would take a super storm to make the town call off its parade.

  Grandpa took the remote control out of Corby’s hands and switched to the evening news. “You know how to ride?” he asked, his eyes on the screen.

  “We rode at camp.” Corby squirmed uneasily.

  “That’s no answer,” Grandpa said, but at that moment the telephone rang and the questions stopped.

  “I’ll get it!” Corby’s mother jumped up. “It’ll be your dad, Corby,” she said. “We talked for a few minutes this morning, and he said he’d call again tonight. I think he has big news.”

  Corby shot off the couch as if he were jet-propelled. He reached the kitchen before his mother did, and for the next few minutes he stood on one foot, then the other, listening to her side of the conversation with growing excitement.

  “That’s wonderful!” his mother said. “When?” Then she said, “He’ll be thrilled.” And, finally, “You tell him yourself.” She handed the phone to Corby, looking so pleased that he decided she must have guessed all along how much he wanted to go home.

  “Corby, I wish you were here in Santa Barbara right now.”

  Corby grinned. Those were the words he’d been hoping to hear.

  “I’ve had a promotion at work—a big one! If you and your mom were here, we’d go out to celebrate. But we’ll do it in September for sure.”

  Corby stared down at the kitchen counter. A new job? That was the big news?

  “Great,” he said weakly.

  If he sounded disappointed, his dad didn’t seem to notice. “Looks like we’ll be able to get the new computer you’ve been wanting—how about that?”

  “Great,” Corby said again. “That’s really neat, Dad.”

  “I want to talk to your mom again, and then Grandpa, okay?”

  “Okay.” Corby handed the phone back to his mother and escaped down the hall.

  “Be quiet on those stairs,” Grandpa called in a low voice as he passed the den. “If your grandma’s awake, tell her I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  Corby hurried upstairs. Grandma’s bedroom door was open a crack, and he peeked in. She was sleeping. He closed the door and tiptoed to his own room, stepping carefully around the creaky spots in the floor.

  He pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed. An owl hooted nearby. Any other time, he would have enjoyed the eerie sound, but tonight he hardly noticed it. Tonight there was only one thing to think about. He was stuck here in Berry Hill for the rest of the summer.

  He closed his eyes, and the Wish Master popped up behind his eyelids. Go away, Corby thought. Leave me alone. The ugly smiling mouth moved, and even though he clapped his hands over his ears, he knew what the Wish Master was saying:

  You’re a real loser, Corby Hill. You’re the kind of kid who thinks he rates two wishes when other people get just one. You hardly listen when your dad tells you something terrific. You’re so bad, you even hope it’ll rain on the Fourth of July. You’re a scrawny little NOTHING!

  Corby groaned, and the owl hooted again. This time it sounded as if it were laughing.

  “Glad to meet you, Corby.” Mr. Miller shook Corby’s hand. “Buck says you’re quite a rider. Well, you couldn’t have a prettier day to show everybody what you can do.”

  “Right,” Corby mumbled. His Indian costume, a headband with one feather sticking up in back, kept slipping down over his eyebrows.

  “Buck’s saddling the horses,” Mr. Miller went on. “The parade’ll come down the road any minute now, and Jim Campbell wants you boys to get in line at the end.”

  “Right,” Corby mumbled again. All morning, as he brushed Aggie’s coat and threw sticks for her, he’d practiced saying “No problem” and “Right” in a cheerful voice, but it hadn’t helped much.

  Hooves clattered inside the barn, and Corby felt his stomach turn over. Buck appeared in the wide doorway leading two horses and wearing a cowboy hat and a cardboard badge covered with tin foil.

  “Hey,” he yelled, “your feather’s crooked.” Then he swung up onto the white horse with an ease that made Corby blink.

  “I can’t do that!” he gasped before he could stop himself.

  Mr. Miller chuckled. “Buck’s about six inches taller than you, and he’s been riding since he was four. He says you learned to ride at camp this summer.”

  “Right,” Corby breathed.

  “Well, I’ll be glad to give you a lift,” Mr. Miller offered cheerfully. “After that, you’re on your own.” He stood beside the brown horse and cupped his hands below the stirrup. “Her name is Josey. Up you go, boy!”

  Corby put one foot into Mr. Miller’s hands, and suddenly he was flying. He landed in the saddle with a thunk, gripping the reins with one hand and a handful of Josey’s mane with the other.

  Mr. Miller frowned. “You okay, boy?”

  “No problem,” Corby squeaked. He forced himself to let go of the mane.

  “Here they come!” Buck yelled. “Let’s go out to the gate!” His horse reared and Buck waved his hat. Then both horses were moving down the drive in a jolting trot. Corby grabbed Josey’s mane again. He wondered if he was going to throw up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Disaster

  At the edge of the road Buck reined in his horse. Josey stopped behind him.

  “There’s Uncle Sam,” Buck pointed. “That’s Jim Campbell, and that’s his own beard he’s wearing. He grows it every summer for the parade.”

  Corby stared at the blur of colors moving toward them. Uncle Sam, in red, white, and blue, was driving a pony cart. He waved when he saw the boys. The wave might have been a signal, because a row of drummers just behind him sprang into action. Corby felt Josey tremble at the sudden racket.

  The drummers were followed by a man with a bugle and a girl with a trombone that was taller than she was. That was the band. Next, a half dozen little girls pushed decorated doll carriages over the rough gravel. A lady in a blue and white hoopskirt walked behind them, helping the smallest ones to keep up. Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts followed, grinning at Buck and looking curiously at Corby. A clown on a bicycle wobbled in and out of the ruts in the road.

  “Here comes my 4-H Club!” Buck yelled above the drums. His horse reared again, and the 4-H marchers cheered. Josey shifted nervously.

  Two more clowns, dressed like hoboes and blowing bubbles, marked the end of the parade. Buck gave a whoop and moved out into the road, with Josey right behind him.

  Corby hung on. Hanging on was all he’d done at Camp Macaho, he reminded himself, and he’d lived through that. Of course, the camp horses were used to beginners, and they moved along at a steady pace, paying little attention to their riders. Corby saw that Josey played the follow-the-leader game, too. She stayed a few feet behind the white horse and slowed down whenever Buck slowed to give the marchers more room.

  At first it wasn’t bad at all. The drummers stopped playing, and the parade wound quietly past cornfields and rows of thick green soybean plants. Then Buck yelled and pointed. A small cr
owd was waiting for them at the first crossroads. The girl with the trombone blew one note—a kind of squawk—and the drummers began again. The clowns walked on their hands and did cart-wheels in the dust.

  Corby’s hands were sweaty as they neared the crowd. All that flag-waving and cheering could scare a horse. He held his breath, but Josey seemed unconcerned.

  More people appeared up ahead, some of them sitting on their parked cars. Corby straightened up in the saddle and gave Josey a quick pat. Maybe—maybe it was going to be all right. The parade was pretty corny, but no one seemed to care. It was fun, having people cheer and clap as they passed by.

  “Hey, Corb!” This time Buck stood up in his stirrups to point. Corby saw his mother standing at Grandpa’s gate. Quickly he checked the house to see if Grandma was watching from a bedroom window. If she was, Grandpa would be there with her.

  The windows were empty. He relaxed and pushed his headband off his eyebrows. He’d dreaded having Grandpa see him on horseback, but it wasn’t going to happen. In another minute they would be past the house.

  Then Buck yelled again, just as Corby was about to wave to his mother. Corby’s hand froze. A skinny gray shape was streaking down the road.

  It couldn’t be Aggie! He’d barred the door of the garage that morning. He remembered feeling sorry that the dog would have to be alone all afternoon. Yet there she was, long legs stretched, her tail held high like a plume. And she was aimed like a cannonball at the Berry Hill parade.

  What happened next was worse than anything Corby could have imagined. Aggie darted around Uncle Sam’s pony cart and leaped from one drummer to the next, telling them noisily how glad she was to see them. Pink and white and yellow doll carriages shot off the road on either side as the little girls scrambled for cover.

  “What’s she doing?” Buck roared. “What’s the matter with that dumb dog?”

  “She’s just—just happy!” Corby yelled back and was sorry at once that he’d answered. Aggie had been trying to kiss the lady in the blue and white hoopskirt, but at the sound of her friend’s voice she stopped in mid-jump. Corby scrunched down, trying to hide, but he wasn’t fast enough. The clown and his bicycle went in opposite directions as Aggie hurtled past the Scouts and the 4-H Club to reach the horseback riders at the end of the parade.

  That was when Josey forgot all about playing follow the leader. She whinnied wildly and kicked at the dog leaping around her. Then she reared. Corby struggled with the reins and shouted at Aggie to go away, but it was no use. He caught a glimpse of his mother’s horrified face as the horse bolted through Grandpa’s gate with Aggie yelping joyfully behind her.

  They raced around the yard, crossing the stone walk and its borders of rosebushes a half dozen times before Corby finally lost his grip and flew out of the saddle. The fall seemed to last forever.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “She’s My Dog.”

  “Corby, are you all right?” Corby’s mother threw her arms around him, while the entire Berry Hill parade watched from the other side of the hedge.

  “I’m okay.” Corby struggled to free himself. “No problem.” But he felt sort of wobbly when he stood up, and he almost fell again when Aggie leaped to lick his face.

  “You go away!” Corby’s mother hardly ever shouted, but she was shouting now. “What’s the matter with you, dog? Look at what you’ve done!”

  Aggie danced out of reach while Corby looked around. Most of the rosebushes were trampled into the ground, the pale petals scattered across the lawn. The front gate hung from one hinge. In a far corner of the yard, Josey stood in a flower bed watching Aggie uneasily.

  “Grandpa will kill me,” Corby moaned.

  “Don’t be silly!” his mother said, but she looked toward the house as she said it. Then she turned and smiled at the crowd of wide-eyed marchers. “Thank you all for stopping,” she called, “but don’t hold up the parade any longer. If someone could please just take that horse …?”

  Uncle Sam waved at her and motioned the marchers to get back in line. When they had moved away from the gate, Buck stomped into the yard. He didn’t look at Corby. Still, Corby knew by the way he walked that he was furious.

  “Sorry about the flowers, Mrs. Hill,” he said gruffly as he led Josey back to the road.

  “It’ll be all right,” Corby’s mother said. “Thank you, Buck. Have a good time.”

  Uncle Sam waved again, and the parade moved silently down the road. Watching them go, Corby felt worse than ever. It had been a really good parade until he and Aggie had spoiled it.

  “Where’s Grandpa?” he asked, when the marchers were out of sight.

  “He’s down in the basement making a little windmill for Grandma’s rock garden,” his mother said. “She’s My Dog.” said. “She wasn’t feeling well enough to get up, and he said he wasn’t in the mood for a parade.” She looked at the ruined rosebushes and shook her head. “Come inside, Corby. Your elbow is bleeding and your clothes are a mess.”

  “What’ll I do with—her.” He motioned toward Aggie who had curled up at Corby’s feet.

  His mother rolled her eyes. “Take her out to the road and send her on her way,” she said sharply. “I just hope she won’t follow the parade and cause trouble again.”

  Corby gulped. “She won’t,” he said. “She’s my dog, Mom. Her name is Aggie.”

  “You mean—you mean she thinks she belongs to you? That’s why she chased your horse?”

  Corby nodded. He told his mother how Aggie had found him on the riverbank, and how he and Buck had made a home for her in the Kellers’ garage. “She’s a really great dog, but she likes to dig,” he finished. “She must have dug a hole in the dirt floor to get out.”

  His mother looked ready to cry. “Oh, Corby,” she sighed. “If she’s your dog, then you’re responsible for her and the damage she’s done. Why didn’t you tell me about her?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Just bring her along inside then,” she said tiredly. “We might as well get this over with. I wish your father was here.”

  Corby grabbed Aggie’s rope collar and followed his mother into the house. When they entered the kitchen, they found Grandpa pouring lemonade into a tall glass.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded as soon as he saw their faces. “What’s that miserable-looking animal doing here?”

  Corby gulped. “She’s my dog, Grandpa,” he said unsteadily. “I had her locked up, but she got loose and sort of messed up the parade. And she chased my horse and they knocked down the roses in the front yard.” He stopped for breath. “I’m really sorry.”

  Grandpa strode heavily across the kitchen. Corby and his mother and Aggie all shrank back to let him pass. When he reached the front door, he stood looking out through the screen for several seconds.

  “It’s such a shame—” Corby’s mother began, but then Grandpa turned around. His face was red, and his eyes seemed to shoot sparks.

  “It’ll break your grandma’s heart when she sees that,” he said in a low voice that was worse than a shout. “If you can’t handle a horse you shouldn’t have been on one. And as for that fool dog”—he glared at Aggie, who was checking the floor for crumbs—“get her out of this house right now. I don’t ever want to see her again!”

  Aggie barked and danced away when Corby reached for her. She’s having a good time, Corby thought unbelievingly. Chasing Josey was probably the best fun she ever had. Dumb dog.

  It helped, a little, to be mad at someone besides himself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “It’s My Fault!”

  The escape hole was behind the boxes in the corner of the garage. Corby swept dirt and gravel into the opening, packing it firmly, while Aggie watched.

  She’s probably figuring out how long it’ll take to dig her way out again, he thought glumly, but he kept working until there was no sign of the hole. Then he rocked back and sat, cross-legged, on the floor.

  “Now what?” He scratched Aggie under the chin. For a few minutes he�
��d had something to think about besides the parade and the rosebushes and Buck and Grandpa. Now there was nothing to do but remember.

  “I s’pose we could run away,” he said. “But first we’d have to find another empty garage a long way from Grandpa’s house. My mom might give us food and stuff.”

  Aggie cocked her head and yawned. The pale blue eye shone even though the garage was full of shadows. She looked funny and wise. “Don’t be silly,” was what she seemed to be saying.

  Well, maybe it was silly to imagine his mother would let him live in a garage for the rest of the summer. But if he didn’t do that, and the Wish Master wasn’t going to help him go home to Santa Barbara, what else was there?

  Aggie yawned again, as if she were tired of thinking. She stretched out with her head on her paws, and after a moment Corby lay down, too, using her warm, dusty back for a pillow.

  “Okay,” he sighed, “but sleeping won’t change anything. We’ll just have to think about it later.”

  When he woke, Aggie’s head was up, her ears perked. In the distance a siren wailed. It was a scary sound that grew louder as they listened. It was coming this way.

  Corby stumbled to his feet and peeked through the partly opened garage doors. While they slept, clouds had covered the sun, and now a wind swept the grove of trees between the Kellers’ place and Grandpa’s. Corby felt as if he were still sleeping. The siren and the wind and the heavy gray skies belonged in a bad dream.

  “You stay here!” he ordered when Aggie tried to squeeze past him. “There’s nothing to see. If the fire was around here, we’d smell smoke.”

  He sounded more certain than he felt. Aggie pressed against his knees, trembling, as the high-pitched wail turned into a shriek. Something white hurtled past, bouncing over the rough road.

  White, not fire-engine red. An ambulance.

  Corby squeezed through the narrow opening and slammed the doors behind him. He dropped the wooden bar into place and then he began to run. By the time he reached the road, the siren had stopped. The ambulance was in front of Grandpa’s broken gate, and two men in blue uniforms were walking up the stone walk, carrying a stretcher.