Magic or Not?

by Edward Eager

  "Horse," said Deborah again, reaching up to it lovingly.

  So Lydia lifted her onto the horse's neck, while Laura shuddered and turned away.

  But the horse seemed to like Deborah, and its evil eye turned kindly, and Deborah put her arms round its neck and crowed with delight.

  "I'm afraid she's born to the saddle," said Lydia. "I'm afraid she's one of those girls that horseback-riding's going to be her whole life. Like those goons at the riding stable."

  The other half of the cake Miss Isabella had given them was still in its box with the yellow-and-scarlet ribbons, and it was James who suggested they take it with them and present it to Mr. Hiram Bundy as a peace offering.

  "If he gives in," he said, "it'll be his just reward, and if he doesn't, it'll be heaping coals of fire."

  And so they started out, twenty minutes late but with hopes high.

  The hitchhiking proved to be more hiking than hitching at first, because all the cars that went by either Kip didn't know or they had no room for three. And James's and Laura's stiff, citified clothes began to feel hot and scratchy. It was James who tore his jacket on a thorn and it was Laura who stepped into a bog in her best shoes.

  Lydia walked her steed alongside and made conversation for a time, while Deborah called "Get a horse!" at them every few minutes derisively and laughed and laughed. But then Deborah decided she wanted to gallop and was so insistent that Lydia gave in, and they went rocking on far ahead.

  And at last the other three got a ride as far as town with a woman Kip knew who told them all about a cake sale the Methodist Church was giving in aid of indignant widows (or it sounded like that). And that was useful and instructive.

  In the town they found Lydia and Deborah. Lydia had tied her horse to a lamppost and they were both eating strawberry ice cream cones. It was Deborah who had spilled her cone down her front.

  Naturally then, the others had to have midmorning sustenance, too. They stood on the curbstone silently licking and dripping the ends of their cones into the gutter. Several of the passing motorists did not seem to appreciate Lydia's horse's taking up a parking place.

  "It's that crazy Green girl," one woman was overheard to say. "Just running wild all over town. Somebody ought to do something!"

  At this Lydia's face darkened, and she threw the rest of her cone away—but carefully, into a trash can. "Let's go," she said. So they did.

  This time Kip and Laura and James got a ride with a man Kip knew who sold paper clips and stapling machines to the stationery store. He did not seem to want to talk about paper clips or anything else.

  He set them down at the corner of Chickadee Drive, which was the street Mr. Hiram Bundy lived on, at number eighteen. Lydia and Deborah were already waiting at the corner.

  "Chickadee Drive!" said James, as they went up it. "That doesn't sound like a mean old miser. He ought to live in Wolfpit Hollow!"

  "Crooked Lane," said Laura.

  "Skunk Street," said Kip.

  Lydia didn't say anything.

  Number eighteen, when they came to it, didn't look particularly like a mean old miser's house, either. It was a perfectly ordinary contemporary colonial split-level ranch house, just like any other, except maybe bigger and richer. An immense lawn surrounded it, with lots of shrubs clipped to look like other things than shrubs.

  Lydia silently tied her horse to a tree by the road, and they went up the walk.

  A nondescript woman answered their ring. "Well?" she said, looking at Laura's muddy feet dirtying the mat.

  "We want to see Mr. Bundy," said James.

  "Why?" said the woman.

  "It's a business matter," said James.

  "It's a matter of life and death," said Kip, at the same time.

  "It's a life-and-death business matter," said Laura.

  "Mr. Bundy is very busy. I doubt if he's at home," said the woman. "Summer people," she added, under her breath, contemptuously.

  "We're not either! We all own our own homes!" cried Kip, outraged.

  "Newcomers! Commuters!" muttered the woman, disappearing from view.

  While she was gone, Laura tried to clean off Deborah's strawberry-ice-cream front with her handkerchief, but she only made it worse. Then she didn't know where to put the creamy handkerchief. She was hiding it behind a potted plant on the porch when the woman came back and eyed her suspiciously.

  "He can give you three minutes. Follow me," she said.

  The five children followed her stiff back through a hall and into a big study or library. Mr. Hiram Bundy was seated behind a huge desk that was covered with papers. Laura couldn't decide whether he looked like a mean old miser or not. His eyes were shrewd but his mouth was not unkind.

  "Well?" he said, only half looking up from his papers. "If it's banking business, banking hours are on weekdays. If you wish to open an account, you must be accompanied by a parent or guardian."

  "It's not that," said James. He hesitated. "It's kind of hard to begin," he admitted sheepishly.

  Mr. Hiram Bundy put down his papers. His eyes traveled over them all slowly, taking in Deborah's strawberry front and not missing James's torn jacket and Laura's muddy shoes.

  "If you are begging," he said briskly, "I do all my giving through organized charities."

  This was more than Laura could stand. "We're not beggars..." she began. But she was interrupted.

  Lydia had pushed forward and was looking at a big picture in a goldish frame that hung behind Mr. Bundy's desk. "Why, you've got one of my grandmother's pictures," she said.

  Mr. Hiram Bundy's expression changed. "You are Agatha Green's granddaughter?"

  "Yes I am," said Lydia defiantly. "I'm Lydia Green."

  "Dear me," said Mr. Bundy. "I had no idea. Do be seated, all of you." He could not have been more cordial. "Your grandmother," he went on to Lydia, "is a remarkable woman. Without exaggeration I think I may say one of America's truly great women. She paints a maple tree as I've seldom seen it painted!"

  At these words Kip looked at Laura and giggled, but not out loud.

  "Now then," said Mr. Hiram Bundy, "what may I have the pleasure of doing for you?" And he beamed around at them all.

  It was this moment that Deborah chose to very nearly spoil everything. She trotted forward and looked at Mr. Bundy. Then she turned to the others. "Wicked ogre!" she said, pointing at him and grinning from ear to ear.

  The smile left Mr. Bundy's face. "What's that?" he said. "What was that?"

  Throwing precaution to the winds, Laura stepped forward. Now that Deborah had gone that far, she might as well go the whole way.

  "She called you a wicked ogre," she said, "because that's exactly what you are! How can you bear to foreclose Miss Isabella's mortgage and leave her with no home and nowhere to go?" She broke off, her cheeks crimson.

  "I see," said Mr. Bundy. He did not sound angry, only concerned and regretful. "I understand your indignation," he went on, "and it does you credit. I have known Miss Isabella King for many years, though we have not spoken recently. Believe me, I respect her as much as you evidently do. But she is elderly and, if you will forgive me, no longer in full possession of her faculties...."

  James had had enough of this. He stepped forward and put the cakebox with its yellow-and-scarlet ribbons on Mr. Bundy's desk. "Just taste that cake," he said.

  Mr. Bundy looked at him grimly. "Are you giving me orders, young man?"

  "Just taste it," said James. He was deadly serious.

  Mr. Bundy looked down at the cakebox. Something about the yellow-and-scarlet ribbons seemed to strike a chord. He undid them slowly, opened the lid, and looked at the cake. He crumbled off a corner and nibbled. Then he broke off a larger piece and chewed. Then he raised his voice.

  "Mrs. Cheeseman!" he called.

  The nondescript housekeeper appeared.

  "Taste that cake," said Mr. Bundy.

  "Oh, Mr. Bundy!" said the housekeeper.

  "Taste it," said Mr. Bundy.

 
; The housekeeper tasted it gingerly.

  "Notice the texture?" said Mr. Bundy. "Moist, spongy, a bit of substance to it and yet not heavy? And not powdery and dry or bodiless fluff, either!"

  "Very nice, I'm sure," said the housekeeper with a sniff.

  "Very nice. Very nice," mocked Mr. Bundy. "I tell you, there's cake! Now go back to your kitchen and throw away your nasty soulless ready-mixes and cut yourself a real slice of that and eat it slowly and study it! And save me the rest for supper. That will do."

  The housekeeper withdrew, bearing the cakebox and giving the five children a look as she passed.

  "Well?" said James. "Would you say that a woman who can bake a cake like that was in full possession of her faculties or not?"

  Mr. Bundy cleared his throat. "To be sure," he said. "Miss Isabella always had a light hand with a cake. From a girl. But there are other factors to be considered. She has been growing more and more eccentric of late, I hear. I am afraid it runs in the family. She had an aunt who became very peculiar in her old age. Very peculiar indeed. That was many years ago. But now they say Miss Isabella is going the same way. Consider her mode of dressing, for one thing. And her manner of speech has grown quite fantastic at times, they tell me. And then there is that old horse-and-buggy, getting in the way of traffic. Frankly, there have been complaints. Please believe me that this is no mere matter of money. The bank could afford to let the payments slip. And certainly Miss Isabella will not be homeless. Some suitable place will be provided for her. A convalescent home, perhaps."

  "Do you think she'd like that?" said James. "What she wants is to be in her own house, with her own things."

  "And her own silver mine," said Laura.

  "Ah yes, that old mine," Mr. Bundy smiled sadly. "There have been complaints about that, too. Certainly it is an eyesore, if not actually a danger to the neighborhood children..."

  "We played in it and we survived!" said Kip.

  "No." Mr. Bundy shook his head decisively. "I am afraid that from all the evidence we must conclude that Miss Isabella is no longer mentally capable of conducting her own affairs. Of living, in a word, her own life. And so it is with a clear conscience, though with genuine regret, that we have been forced to come to this decision. The place must be sold."

  Lydia had not spoken for some time. Now suddenly she burst into speech, and, once started, it did not seem as if she would ever stop.

  "You make me sick," she said. "You make me sick. Just 'cause my grandmother paints pictures that you like, you don't care what she does or how strange she goes around looking! I tell you, our house is twice as fallen down as Miss Isabella's, and we're not poor! But oh no, that's all right, 'cause Granny's a genius! I'm not saying she isn't. But what about other people who aren't geniuses and remarkable women of America and just don't happen to like everything everybody else likes and just want to go on living their lives in their own way? Oh, I bet you've had complaints! You've prob'ly had complaints about me, too! 'That crazy Green girl. Why doesn't somebody do something?' What I say is, why don't people mind their own business and leave us alone?"

  She stopped, not because she had finished but because something seemed to get in the way of her going on. She turned and looked out the window. Her shoulders seemed to be shaking. Laura ran to her and threw her arms around her. Lydia tried to shake her off, but Laura was tenacious and would not be shaken.

  James and Kip looked at the floor. Mr. Hiram Bundy got up from his chair. "There, there," he said, almost absently. "There, there."

  There was a silence. Mr. Bundy walked up and down the carpet. When he spoke, it was in a low voice. "There may be something in what you say," he said. "I confess you have put the matter to me in a new light, though I can hardly take the responsibility..." He broke off. "What am I saying? Of course I can take the responsibility!" He straightened his shoulders. "I will take the responsibility! I shall tell the board tomorrow morning, and they can like it or lump it!"

  Lydia turned from the window. She did not meet his eyes. But she said, "Thanks."

  James held out his hand in a manly way. "Sir," he said, "you won't regret this decision."

  "Then it's all right?" said Laura.

  "You may tell your friend," said Mr. Hiram Bundy, "that she may disregard the letter from the bank and remain as she is, at least for the time being."

  "Oh!" Laura beamed at the others. "Isn't it wonderful? The magic worked!"

  "Yes," said Mr. Bundy, sitting at his desk again. "I guess it did."

  Deborah had been sitting on the floor playing one of her mystic games with the pattern of the library carpet and some pennies she'd found in her pocket. Now she seemed to sense a change in the atmosphere and looked up and around the room. "Isn't the ogre wicked any more?" she said.

  "No," said Mr. Bundy from his chair, "he is thwarted."

  "Oh." Deborah looked thoroughly disappointed. Then she trotted over to where Mr. Bundy sat and put out her hand and touched his cheek. "Poor," she said.

  Kip giggled and whispered to Laura. "She's soothing the ogre with her baby hands!"

  "Shush," said Laura. It was too solemn a moment.

  "And now," said Mr. Bundy, eying James's jacket and Laura's shoes again, "since you seem to have had rather a desperate journey getting here, perhaps I can offer you a lift home in my car?"

  "Do you drive fast?" said Laura.

  "Yes," said Mr. Bundy with considerable zest, "I do. Will you come?"

  Deborah drew herself up to her full height proudly. "They can," she said, "but I have my horse!"

  And so it was that a few minutes later the town was startled by the sight of Mr. Hiram Bundy's commodious sedan fairly zooming along, with Lydia and Deborah galloping behind it, all the way down Elm Street.

  "It's that crazy Green girl," said a woman passer-by. "She is actually chasing poor Mr. Bundy's car. Somebody ought to do something!"

  When they got back to the red house, first of course there was hunger to be placated (jam sandwiches and milk) and then of course all thoughts turned to Miss Isabella King and breaking the good news to her.

  Deborah had only with difficulty been pried from the horse long enough to take nourishment, and now naturally she had to ride to Miss King's. But Lydia walked the horse all the way on this trip, for every body had far too much to say to everybody else for them to be separated for a moment.

  Magic was the burden of Laura's song. "Now do you believe?" she kept saying.

  "I don't know," James told her finally. "It seemed to me what Lydia said had a lot to do with it. That was some speech, kid."

  "Forget it," said Lydia gruffly.

  "It was a wonderful speech," said Laura. "But maybe it was the magic that helped her say it."

  "Rave on," said James.

  "Mr. Bundy knew there was magic working," said Laura. "He admitted it."

  "Maybe he was just humoring the village idiot," said James.

  They had crossed the bridge now and come to the fork in the road. There was a black sedan parked by the turnoff, and Laura thought it looked familiar. The others seemed too busy puffing up the twisty, dusty, winding trail to notice, and Laura held her peace. After all, one black sedan was very much like another. And if she was right, it was more evidence to store up.

  But when they reached Kingdom House, voices were heard coming from the parlor window. "I knew it!" said Laura, aloud.

  "Shush," said James.

  With one accord the five children tiptoed to the porch and peeked in. Mr. Hiram Bundy sat in the tiny parlor, balanced precariously on the edge of a chair with an empty Wedgwood plate balanced precariously on his knee. Miss Isabella King sat opposite him, pouring tea. Her face was wreathed in smiles, and the children knew somehow that their good news did not need to be broken.

  "Your temper does not seem to have improved with the passing years, Hiram," Miss Isabella was saying.

  "Dang it, Isabella, I'm still out of breath," said Mr. Bundy. "Why will you insist on living off on a rocky crag
where a decent car can't penetrate? Curse and blast it, I have to consider my springs!"

  "At your age, Hiram," said Miss Isabella sweetly, "I should think you would. Have another slice of cake."

  As Laura watched Mr. Bundy take the slice of cake from Miss Isabella, she suddenly gasped (noiselessly) and made excited signs to the others. They all tiptoed off the porch again and ran to the brink of the silver mine, James taking care that Deborah didn't fall.

  The others sat on the edge and dangled their legs over, while Laura walked up and down in her excitement and told them.

  "It is magic. I know it now," she said. "I didn't tell you. Last night I wished on the well. And I said I wanted Mr. Bundy to eat out of Miss Isabella's hand. And you saw what just happened. That proves it."

  "Unless it's a coincidence," said Kip.

  James thought this over. "I guess it's too much of a one," he said. "I guess maybe there is magic, in a way."

  "Of course it's 'in a way,'" said Laura. "It's modern magic. It would have to move with the times like anything else, wouldn't it? The way I figure is, it has to be unselfish. Modern magic is doing good turns to people. Only they always come out right—that's where the magic comes in. Those first wishes didn't work because they were selfish. Then the magic gave us another chance when it sent Miss Isabella. And we came through!"

  "Gee!" said Kip. "If that's right, we can go on helping people right and left, all summer! We can hold the whole town in the hollow of our hand! We can do good turns to everybody!"

  "Whether everybody likes it," said Lydia, a bit grimly, "or not!"

  "We little know," said Laura, "the power we wield!"

  "We can be malevolent despots!" said Kip.

  "This," said James, "will take some thinking out. Let's go back to the house and think right now."

  The five children got up and started away from the mine. They had got as far as the barn when Laura stopped. "Wait," she said. "Look!"

  Mr. Bundy and Miss Isabella had come out onto the porch. Mr. Bundy was bending over in a low bow.

  "What's he doing," said Kip, giggling, "biting the hand that fed him?"