Quiet Magic

by Sharon Lee

  "No!" he cried. "I won't look! You can't make me forget! You won't take it away! I'm strong! I can call--Look!"

  Petrie heard it coming, spun to the north and stared up into the sky where--something--was building. Something... A monster wind, black and nearly shapeless, its maw drooling sleet. The grass in the glade flattened in its wake; the curtains in the wagon twisted and snapped. From inside, came the sound of breaking glass.

  Petrie cried out in horror, saw the Master leap forward and catch the boy by both shoulders. Somehow, she heard the murmuring words over the wind's raging, knew that Authberk's saving was the Master's first responsibility. She glanced again at the wagon, saw the flicker of flames on the wild curtains. The oil lamp had broken!

  Petrie cried out again, this time in anger, and heard in that deep portion of herself the hunting cry of an ice-and-feather dog. High up, she saw the pup, nipping at the monster's heels, harrying.

  The monster flipped a careless limb, sending the pup spinning. Petrie threw up both her hands, as she had seen the Master do, and called in that deep part of her, demanding allies to drive the enemy off!

  They came. She felt them surge past her, saw the cat-wind the Master had first hurled at her, and the elephant-wind and the others that must have tried the temper of her Will. Past her they rushed, leaping for the monster roofing the sky, leaving behind the smells of cinnamon, warm fur, wet leaves...

  Surrounded, the monster halted. It flailed out, seeking to break free. The elephant-wind stopped that blow and the cat leapt in, teeth gleaming.

  Petrie slammed her hands against her outer ears, but that did not prevent her from hearing the death-scream of the monster. It reverberated in the depths of her, building until she thought she must scream in answer--and was gone. The other winds drifted for a moment, then they were gone, as well.

  Petrie shook her head, suddenly remembering the burning curtains. She turned toward the wagon.

  "That's taken care of," a warm-taffy voice spoke nearby. "A little damage, mostly to the curtains. Nothing irreplaceable lost. My thanks to you, child."

  She turned toward the Master, blinking stupidly. They were alone. Her head felt heavy, and she put up a hand to rub at the ache in her forehead.

  "Authberk?" she asked.

  The Master gestured. "On his way home. Remembering nothing."

  Petrie frowned. "He was strong."

  "So he was. But he had not the Will to withstand even two of the winds I sent against him. He had no core of strength on which to build." The Master paused, head bent, considering the worn silver band.

  "Only weakness relies on power from without to accomplish its will," he said. He looked up and held out a hand. Petrie slid her own into it.

  "Let us go inside and sleep, child. Tomorrow, we must travel."

  First published in Dragon Magazine #84, 1984

  Candlelight

  Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  THE LUNCH BELL had been a hundred years in ringing.

  He'd been surprised when it did, though he'd been anticipating its song for half the long morning. It sounded no different than any of the other dozen bells that had been ringing without purpose since he had entered the school building that morning. It had been left to his more tenured classmates to note the difference he did not hear, close their arithmetic books as one, and, dragging brown paper bags from their desks, line up at the door to the hallway.

  He closed his own book, grabbed his bag from under the chair and took his place in line behind Sally Benrum, who stuck her tongue out at him. You went nowhere in this school unless you went in a line, it seemed, and he stood as still as he was able, chewing on his lip as Uncle Tulaine always chided him for, until the teacher was satisfied that they were all each behind the other, that there was silence, more or less, and condescended to lead them to the cafeteria.

  Now, red-and-white milk carton before him on the table, he slowly uncurled the top of his lunch bag. Carefully, he took out and unwrapped the sandwich made with Father's good, dark bread and thick slices of Uncle Tulaine's golden cheese. He sighed, resting a moment before reaching into the bag--a small yellow-haired boy in a plaid shirt and blue jeans, sitting just a little apart from the other children on the long bench.

  Dessert was a slice of Aunt Jessie's butter cake and an apple from their own tree. His napkin was linen, which he saw was an oddity among his classmates.

  He reached into the bag once more and brought out the final item; unwrapped it slowly from its parchment twist.

  Mint green it was, with a runnel of blue toward the wick, hardly thicker than the boy's forefinger, yet straight and shiny and smooth.

  He smiled then, shoulders slumping as the tension left them. They had given him one of Elmira's candles.

  He held it in his hands for a moment, eyes half-closed. Elmira was his favorite among the aunts--a tall young woman, flame straight, cool and nearly aloof, quiet with a silence that invited words, should you need to speak them.

  He smiled again, pulled a lucifer from his pocket, scraped it on the underside of the table and touched the flame for an instant to the bottom of his luncheon candle, here on this, his first day of school. He pushed the softened wax onto the spread-out sandwich paper and moved to touch the flame to the wick of Elmira's candle--

  A hand snatched downward, wrestling the match from his fingers, knocking the candle askew--above his head was the sound of air being expelled--perhaps to extinguish a flame--and then a pretty, strident voice:

  "Jeffy Eljensen! Just what do you think you're doing, lighting a match! Fire is much too dangerous for little boys like you to play with!"

  Jeffrey's hand shot out, covering Elmira's candle; pulling it toward him. The teacher pounced, capturing his wrist.

  "What's that? More matches, you bad boy?

  He resisted her attempt to lift his hand, Uncle Tulaine's voice coaching him from memory: "Strength is like a river inside you, that may be diverted where you will. Has someone grabbed your arm, tried to wrest away from you that which you must keep? Well, divert your river of strength to that arm--what matter the rest of the body in such a case?"

  "Jeffrey Eljensen--" panted the teacher, pulling ineffectively at his protecting hand. Jeffrey gritted his teeth, squinted his eyes and concentrated on his river of strength as a new voice broke over his head.

  "Miss Lyle? What seems to be the problem?" A man's voice this, growling deep. The teacher's plump hand dropped away, her voice gobbling of fire and dangers and the dire possibilities that dwelt in what lay hidden. Jeffrey closed his eyes, anticipating the man's assault.

  "Miss Lyle," said the man, softly for so big a voice; "perhaps you could take the rest of your class elsewhere."

  There was startled silence; Jeffrey was tempted into opening his eyes to slits. His teacher protested that the other children had begun their lunches. The growling voice replied that they could move to a table across the room.

  After another hesitation, Miss Lyle began giving orders. A little girl's voice rose clearly above the hubbub:

  "But why should we have to move when it's the new boy who's bad?"

  "Never mind, Sally," Miss Lyle soothed, "Just pack up your things and we'll move..."

  Jeffrey tipped his face a bit sideways, his eyes nearly all the way open.

  The man with the growling voice was very tall--Jeffrey saw brown corduroy trousers, a battered black leather belt and the beginnings of a white cotton shirt.

  By the sounds, the rest of the class had gotten themselves and their lunches in order to move. The table vibrated and shifted as they stood and moved off, one by one, it seemed to Jeffrey, and not in a line at all.

  The man in the corduroy trousers moved, too, bending at the waist to bring a dark unhandsome face into the boy's view.

  "Might I sit down?" he growled.

  Jeffrey licked his lips, managed a curt nod and, a moment later, a croaky, "Please do."

  "Thank you." The bench groaned as he seated himself, back to the t
able, elbows resting on the top, hands hanging loosely at chest height. His shirt was open at the top button, his tie-knot loose and askew. The brown eyes were friendly enough, thought Jeffrey. And at least this person looked at him rather than around him as Miss Lyle and his classmates had done all morning.

  "Jeffy Eljensen, is it?" the man offered, by way of opening the conversation, as Great-aunt Phyllis would say.

  The boy stiffened. "Jeffrey," he said, hearing himself snap. " I told her Jeffrey."

  "Ah," The man beside him nodded. "But she really doesn't listen, you know. She does mean well."

  There was no sensible answer to that. Jeffrey sat quiet, feeling Elmira's candle cool beneath a sweaty palm.

  "My name," the man continued before the silence could grow uncomfortable, "is Rob Davis. Though there are," he sighed hugely here and Jeffrey felt his mouth twitch in a smile he refused to let the man have, "people who call me Robert. My own mother. She means well, too."

  "All my family calls me Jeffrey," the boy said, still snapping. And he added after a moment, in an effort to be fair, "Except Uncle Tulaine'll call me Spider sometimes, 'cause he says I'm always spinning yarns."

  "Is that okay, your uncle calling you Spider?" asked the man.

  "I don't mind. It's not like he's naming me that. It's oh, I don't know, like Aunt Jessie calling everybody from Father on down to the yard sparrows ‘sugar.' It's just a love-name, not a real name."

  The man nodded again. "Miss Lyle said you were playing with fire, Jeffrey."

  "I wasn't playing with fire," and the snap was back in his voice. "I was striking a match so that I could light my candle and eat my lunch."

  "Ah." The silence stretched longer this time, the man sitting with his brown eyes fixed on some point beyond the tips of his outstretched shoes. Aunt Elmira sometimes looked this way when she considered what you'd said, or what might be added to the painting that she was working on. Though he'd said nothing that really needed considering, Jeffrey respected the mood and waited.

  The man came back to himself with a small start, focused on the boy at his side. "Is today your birthday?"

  The winged brows pulled down and the mouth tightened. "No."

  "Oh. It was silly of me, I guess. I just thought that today might have been your birthday and that's why you wanted to have a candle with your lunch."

  The boy shook his head sharply. "We always have a candle with our meals. Even if we're not at home."

  The man blinked. "Oh." Then he grinned. "I should probably apologize for my conversation. I'm usually quite the wit, I assure you."

  This time Jeffrey did smile; the phrase was so like dapper Uncle Tulaine, uttered in that growling voice, coming out of that ugly face. The man smiled back.

  "So tell me," he offered, "since I'm dense: Why is it, Jeffrey, that your family always has candles with meals?" He waved a large hand in a gesture that must have comforted him, for he repeated it. "Is it religious? You know, a belief of some kind? Or is it just nice to have a candle when you eat--a little bit of home when you're not at home?"

  Jeffrey sighed. This was getting very tiring. He was hungry, and there was still the afternoon with its additional dozen bells--all sounding exactly alike and all signifying something utterly different--to be got through. Still, the man did seem harmless, and questions were for answers...

  "It's one of the ways we are a family," he explained, trying not to snap again. "Everybody in the family makes candles. And everybody in the family uses candles at every meal. That way, we remember and feel close and stay--" he waved his own hand in unconscious imitation of his father, "and stay a family. Stay belonging. We've got candles that Great-great-grandfather made, and candles from Jason, who went to Alaska. And Jason's got candles from me and from Phoenix and Elmira and everybody." He stopped suddenly, embarrassed at having shown so much to this large and probably heedless stranger.

  But the big man was nodding again, and smiling easily. "So everybody in the family makes candles--everybody has a different style? They'd have to, wouldn't they?" He answered his own question with a grin. "So you'd be able to tell whose candle you're using?"

  Jeffrey nodded, then sat very still, considering. Slowly he raised his protecting hand, lifted the candle and brought it round so the man could see.

  "This is the candle Aunt Jessie picked for my lunch today," he said, speaking slowly, choosing his words with even more than his usual care. "Aunt Elmira made it. Her candles are mostly minty green or blue--sometimes a kind of frosty pink color. Nobody else in the family makes candles like hers. For one thing, nobody else can get those exact colors. For another, other people like other colors, other styles." He paused; the man beside him made a hand gesture for continuance.

  Jeffrey drew a deep breath. "Uncle Tulaine's candles are yellow like his cheeses, and thick. They burn bright and long. Father's are multicolored, layer on layer of different colors. Phoenix sculpts hers..."

  "And yours?"

  "Mine?" Jeffrey shook himself, laid Elmira's candle carefully back on the wax paper next to his sandwich. "It depends. Sometimes I just make blocks of wax and carve them. I'm not very good at tapers. They never come out right for me." He smiled at the man, feeling very hungry now. "Aunt Elmira says it's because I'm not firm enough when I roll them. Uncle Tulaine says it's because I never know how I want things to turn out."

  Rob Davis sighed. "Thank you," he said, though Jeffrey did not understand what for.

  "It's been nice talking with you," he told the man politely, "But I'm hungry and would like to eat my lunch."

  "Certainly," said the man, getting to his feet and sketching what seemed to be a bow. Jeffrey grinned again at the parody of Uncle Tulaine; turned to his sandwich--recalled.

  "Mr. Davis."

  "Rob," the man corrected.

  "Jeffrey nodded. "Rob. Can you lend me a match, please?"

  "A match?" the man repeated. "To light your candle, Jeffrey?"

  The boy held onto his temper. Really, these people at school were too dense. Hadn't he just explained --

  "I want to eat my lunch," he told the man, dropping each word like a stone. "And my candle is unlit."

  There was a small silence, then a large sigh. The big man hunkered down by the bench, folded his arms on the seat and looked sideways at the boy.

  He sighed again, for the boy was angry, with a controlled outrage that went far beyond his six years, and the explanation that Rob Davis had to give would not satisfy that anger.

  "Okay, Jeffrey, here's the idea. Schools have rules. A great many of them are senseless, taken individually, measured against one person at a time..." He paused to make sure of his audience. Jeffrey nodded curtly, looking pale and angry and more than a little hungry. The bell rang to end the lunch period. Rob shifted his arms, reviewing the explanation that became less reasonable as he unfolded it. "Ah-h-h. One of the rules is that children in the school may not use fire--may not even light the candles on a cake at a classmate's birthday party. The reason for the rule is that fire is dangerous and, should even one person be just a little careless, the building might catch on fire and many people lose their lives. That is the rule and the reason.

  "Thus," Rob concluded, forcing himself to look straight into the boy's angry eyes, "you will not be allowed to light any candles in the cafeteria at lunchtime, or at any other time."

  "So." The single syllable carried a wealth of scorn.

  Rob winced.

  Jeffrey turned away and began to rewrap his sandwich with precise, economical movements. This done, he retrieved the parchment and twisted the mint green and blue candle within. Then he placed it all--candle, apple, cake, sandwich, and linen napkin-- back into the bag and rolled the top closed. The milk carton he lifted after a moment and offered to Rob.

  "It would be shame," he said coldly, "to waste it." He began to stand.

  Rob laid a hand on his knee. The boy stiffened; froze.

  Rob cleared his throat. "One more fact. One--no, two--more rules,"
he said waited for Jeffrey's nod.

  It came, a bare dip of the pointed chin. Rob moved his hand; pausing a moment to order his thoughts.

  "I am what is known as a guidance counselor," he said. "I also teach, in a pinch, but what I primarily do is talk to children who go to this school when they get in trouble or have problems. My job is to help them figure out what the problem is, explain the appropriate rules and see that the rules aren't broken--yes?"

  Again, that uncivil nod.

  "Yes. If the rules continue to be broken after they are explained to the child, it is my further obligation to call in the child's parents or guardians, explain the rules to them and insure they see the child obeys." He paused again, this time for breath.

  "Another rule of the school is that everyone must eat lunch. That is so that no one makes himself ill by becoming excessive hungry. Now that you know this rule and the reason for it I ask you to please eat your lunch and drink your milk. I'll go down the hall while you eat and explain to Miss Lyle that you will be late returning to class."

  Jeffrey sighed. "I eat with a candle, that is the rule of my family. It is--my mother told me--what keeps us a family. Since I may not light my candle, I cannot eat." And he set his jaw and gripped the bag tightly, eyes unwaveringly on those of the man before him, who nodded.

  He had expected nothing else. The boy had a strength of will that was riveting, nearly compelling.

  "You will appreciate," he told Jeffrey, "that I have no choice but to call your family."

  "Please feel free," the boy replied without even a blink.

  Rob considered a moment; grinned at the thought of lighting a candle while sitting beside a fishing pole.

  "Jeffrey, I wonder if you could do me a favor." He raised a hand to fend off the anger--quick, deep, intelligent anger--that flared in those eyes. "Yes, I know you don't owe me a favor. But I would like you to consider one, please."

  "What is it, then?"

  "I wonder if you would walk with me back to your class, and eat your apple and drink your milk as we walk. You don't have to light a candle to have a snack, do you?"