Potion of the Turtle Master

by Maggie Marks

  Slowly, as if he were trapped in soul sand, he began to wake up. He wiggled his fingers and toes and then opened his eyelids. They felt so heavy! Two faces peered down at him in the moonlight—two worried faces.

  “Are you okay?” asked Asher. His face was so close that Mason could only look at him cross-eyed.

  “Can you walk?” asked Luna. “We have to get you somewhere safe!”

  But where was Ms. Beacon? As Mason pushed himself to sitting and rose on wobbly legs, he saw her standing by the tree line. Her arms were crossed. Although shadows fell across her face, Mason could see her mouth was set in a firm, tight line. Was she angry?

  He half walked, half stumbled across the soft ground, with Asher and Luna supporting him from either side.

  As he reached Ms. Beacon, he opened his mouth to speak—to ask if she had seen him fight the witch. But before he could say a word, the woman spun around and led them through the dense trees.

  Deeper and deeper into the woods they walked, not back toward the boat but in the other direction. Just as Mason was sure he couldn’t take another step, they reached a clearing. A shack rested in the middle, leaning sideways, as if the slightest breeze might blow it over.

  “Does someone live there?” Luna whispered into the cool night air.

  Ms. Beacon nodded. “Yes,” she said as she strode toward the front door. “I did, long ago.”

  As she pushed her way inside, Mason felt a surge of energy. What did Ms. Beacon’s home look like? Would it be how she remembered it? And did she have any family there still? He hurried toward the door.

  A torch flickered on inside. As Mason stepped through the doorway, his eyes scanned the shack.

  A lopsided table sat in the middle of the room, along with a few rickety chairs and a weathered supply chest. Behind that, along the far wall, was an old furnace and two single beds with rumpled red blankets. In a corner of the room, Mason saw a brewing stand and cauldron. So Ms. Beacon brewed potions even long ago, he realized.

  Then he remembered the witch. Had anyone else seen her?

  He turned to ask Ms. Beacon, who was behind him now. She closed the door with a bang and locked it tight. Luna stood beside her.

  “Did you see the witch? Did you see me fight?”

  He spoke to Luna, but it was Ms. Beacon who responded. Her eyes had taken on that dark, stormy look—the one Mason knew far too well.

  “I saw,” she said, her voice sharp. She pointed her bony finger at Mason. “You were wrong to fight. You should fight only when you need to!”

  Mason shrank backward, as if she had struck him with a sword. His legs wobbled, just as they had back at the swamp. “What?” he managed to whisper.

  Luna reached out to steady him. “Sit down,” she said, leading him to the table.

  He hoped she would defend him, that she would remind Ms. Beacon how brave he had been to fight the witch. But she didn’t.

  “Ms. Beacon is right,” said Luna, sounding stern. “You don’t know how to fight a witch. They’re really good at defending themselves. While they’re throwing potions to hurt you, they’re also drinking potions to heal themselves. You can’t win against them!”

  Asher threw his arm over Mason’s shoulders. “Well, I thought you were brave,” he said sweetly.

  “No,” said Ms. Beacon. “Mason acted too quickly. He put himself and others in danger.”

  Others? Mason thought. She means Asher. She only cares about my brother. She doesn’t care about me at all!

  As hot tears threatened his eyes, he squeezed them back. He started to count again, staring at the wall. One, two, three . . . The oak boards of the back wall had faded, but a bright painting hung dead center. His eyes zeroed in on the golden frame and the picture within: a green field, dotted with tall yellow flowers.

  Sunflowers.

  Mason’s mouth curved into a sad smile. If only he could go home, back to the sunflower plains, just for a little while. Maybe someone there would remember his parents. Someone kind, he told himself. Like Uncle Bart. Not like scary old Ms. Beacon, who has all sorts of rules about fighting—rules I don’t understand!

  The thought comforted him. If only I could go home. But how?

  Mason watched Luna pull a few wrinkly potatoes from the supply chest.

  “Yuck,” said Asher. “We’re not eating those, are we?”

  Luna nodded. “They’re perfectly fine. We’ll add some dried fish and kelp from my pack.”

  Dried this and dried that, Mason thought. When was the last time they had eaten fresh vegetables?

  A memory wavered at the back of his mind, coming in and out of focus. He was holding his mother’s hand as they walked through the market. Everywhere he looked, Mason could see fresh vegetables. Baskets full of orange carrots, their green stems still attached. Barrels full of potatoes. Wagons filled with plump, round pumpkins and melons.

  The market! The thought struck like lightning from the night sky.

  “We should go to the sunflower plains,” he announced. He looked at Luna—not at Ms. Beacon, who was stoking the furnace.

  Luna gave an exasperated sigh. “We already talked about that!” she said. “We’re here to get potion ingredients for Ms. Beacon, remember?”

  “That’s why we should go to the sunflower plains,” Mason repeated, holding his voice steady. He pulled the map from his backpack to show her the outline of the plains, so close now. “We’ll find a village with a market, and we can get Ms. Beacon some fruits and vegetables for her golden carrots and glistering melon.”

  He wondered if Ms. Beacon were listening, if she would give him a grateful smile the way she had when Asher was trying to catch her some pufferfish. Then he shook the thought aside. It didn’t matter anymore what Ms. Beacon thought. What mattered was getting back to the plains.

  “No,” Luna said firmly. “We can find those things at a market closer to home.”

  “Really? Where?” Mason snapped. Frustration bubbled in his chest like hot mushroom stew.

  Luna shrugged. “We already made a plan and mapped it all out. We shouldn’t change our plan now.”

  Mason started to argue, but he knew Ms. Beacon would hear. I don’t need another scolding, he decided. And I don’t need Luna to agree with me. If I want to go home, I will. I’ll go tonight—and I’ll be back tomorrow.

  But what about Asher? Mason glanced at his little brother. He expected to see Asher sorting through his slime balls on the cabin floor. Or maybe staring out the window, hoping for a hostile mob to appear so he could take it down.

  But Asher was staring right back. He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if to say, What are you thinking about? Tell me. I want in!

  Uh-oh, Mason thought. He couldn’t take Asher with him to the sunflower plains just yet. Not if it meant going against Luna’s wishes, and especially not if it would put his brother in danger. So he couldn’t tell Asher about his plan.

  Later, as the boys were lying in bed, Mason waited to hear Asher’s heavy, rhythmic breathing—a sign that he was sleeping. Finally, he felt his brother’s leg twitch. He’s dreaming, Mason thought with relief. Time to go!

  He carefully peeled back the blanket and dropped his feet onto the cold, hard floor. He waited just a moment to be sure Luna and Ms. Beacon were sleeping, too. The room was silent. He slid on his boots and grabbed his trident and backpack. With one last look over his shoulder, he quietly stepped through the cabin door.

  CHAPTER 7

  A few steps into his journey, Mason wished he’d thought to sneak some of Luna’s potions out of her pack. At least potion of swiftness, he thought, so I could get to the plains more quickly. And potion of night vision. He squinted to see through the darkness. Yes, definitely potion of night vision.

  The moon glowed overhead, and his eyes slowly adjusted. He headed north, remembering where the sunflower plains had fallen on the map. He didn’t have the map anymore; he had left it behind, in case Luna and Ms. Beacon needed it. But he used his compass to set a course
due north.

  With every snap and crack of the twigs beneath his feet, Mason jumped. Hostile mobs spawned at night. Any moment now, he might hear the groan of a zombie or the scuttle of a spider.

  “You should fight only when you need to,” Ms. Beacon had scolded.

  I may need to tonight, Mason realized. He rested his fingertips lightly on his trident, just in case. Then he kept his eyes trained ahead, hoping that soon the trees would give way to open fields filled with sunflowers.

  Would he know his old house, even if he saw it? He tried to picture it again—brick, with a front porch and a wooden door. A big yard, bordering on a farmer’s field. And a garden. Yes, his mother had had a garden, where she grew her own tiny watermelons. Mason could remember eating one, the sweet, sticky juice dribbling down his chin.

  That memory carried him forward through the thicket of trees. Instead of tangled vines and rotted logs, he imagined sunflowers. He heard the sound of his father chopping wood, and the hiss of his mother’s garden hose.

  Mason stopped walking and sucked in his breath.

  That was no garden hose. That was the unmistakable hiss of . . . a creeper! And it was close now.

  Mason spun in a circle, trying to see. There it was—a tall green mob sliding out from behind a tree. Mason backpedaled, trying to put some distance between himself and the creeper. But it was too late.

  Boom!

  The blast sent Mason flat on his back, knocking the wind right out of him. While he struggled to breathe, gunpowder floated down like rain. He opened his mouth to cry for help, but nothing came out.

  Finally, his chest released. He took in a shaky breath and blew it back out. Then he took another.

  When his heart stopped racing, he rolled over and pushed himself up to his knees. The creeper was gone, but mounds of gunpowder remained. Gunpowder Ms. Beacon could use for her potions, Mason remembered.

  As he scooped some into his pack, he kept checking over his shoulder. He had nearly walked straight into that creeper. What else was lurking out here in the shadows?

  He quickly closed his pack and strapped it to his back. Then he drew his trident and began walking—no, running—north. If he could just clear the trees, he would be able to see. Mobs wouldn’t be able to sneak up on him the way that creeper had.

  Every few steps, he glanced over his shoulder. Even without potion of swiftness, nervous energy coursed through his limbs. He suddenly felt as if he could run forever.

  Then it happened. He stepped out of the trees and found himself at the base of a grassy hill.

  Mason leaned over to catch his breath. A glimmer of light shone up ahead. A conduit? he wondered. He laughed and shook his head. No, not a conduit—not up here on dry land. It was the sun, peeking over the hill to greet him.

  In that bright light, Mason saw the silhouettes of a thousand flowers. The hill was covered with them! He raced upward, barely feeling the weight of the pack on his back.

  The flowers were just as tall as he remembered, with round yellow faces as big as his head. He hugged a stem, careful not to break it. “I made it,” he said out loud, as if speaking to an old friend. “I made it!”

  He’d found the sunflower plains. But where was his house? As the world around him brightened with early morning light, he scanned the grassy valley on the other side of the hill. He spotted a cluster of tiny buildings, smoke curling from one of the chimneys. It was a village—the first he had seen in a very long time.

  Mason tightened the straps on his backpack and began to walk toward the village.

  Toward home, he corrected himself with a smile. He was almost there!

  * * *

  As the ground below turned from grass to gravel, Mason wound his way into town. He saw villagers bustling about in colorful robes. A farmer in brown pushed a wheelbarrow full of red beets and leafy carrots toward the center of town. A woman in green pulled a bucket from a cobblestone well. As a priest in purple passed by, he nodded at Mason, who immediately looked away.

  Say something! he scolded himself. But it had been so long since he had seen adults other than Ms. Beacon or Uncle Bart. He barely remembered what to say or how to act. All he could think was, Does anyone here know my parents?

  Mason followed the farmer toward the market, hoping to find the courage to ask. At the very least, he might be able to get some fruits and vegetables for Ms. Beacon’s potions. He followed the farmer past a fisherman’s ware—buckets full of fresh salmon and cod. Past a weaver’s table, filled with wool blankets and other home goods. Mason paused only for a moment to admire a bright yellow rug, which reminded him of Asher’s baby blanket. Asher doesn’t remember, Mason thought, but I do.

  As he let his gaze drift across the crowd, he noticed more patches of yellow, dotting the market like flowers in a field. Villagers wore bright yellow vests. Plants grew in glazed yellow pots. Even a tamed wolf, who trotted obediently after her master, wore a golden yellow collar.

  The bursts of color gave Mason the courage to open his mouth and speak to the farmer, who had paused to set up shop. “Um, excuse m-me,” Mason stammered. “May I have a few carrots?”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he didn’t have anything to trade for them. He rummaged around in his backpack, as if a few emeralds would suddenly appear. Instead, he came up with a handful of gunpowder.

  The farmer stroked his chin. “I’ll take a scoop of gunpowder,” he said. “For a bundle of carrots.”

  Mason felt a wave of relief. He poured the gunpowder into the bowl the farmer offered to him, and took the carrots. As he started to turn away, Mason pushed himself to speak again. “Do you have any watermelon?”

  The farmer shook his head. “Not yet, son. It’s too early in the season. Check back next month.”

  Next month? Mason swallowed his disappointment. Then he remembered why he had really come to the village—not for watermelon, but to find his first home. “I won’t be here next month,” he told the farmer. “I’m only visiting my . . .” My what? he wondered. My parents are gone. And my home may be gone by now, too.

  He tried again. “I’m looking for a house that used to be owned by Mr. and Mrs. Gunderson.”

  The farmer gazed upward, as if searching his memory banks. “Yes, I remember them,” he said. “Nice couple. They had two little boys.”

  Mason blew out his breath. “Yes,” he said, trying to stay calm. “They did. Can you point me in the direction of their house—I mean, the house they used to live in?”

  The farmer nodded. “It’s close. Just take the road out of town,” he said, pointing. “You’ll pass a farmhouse and a wide, open field. It’ll be the next house on the left.”

  Mason’s pulse quickened. “Thank you, sir. And, um, thank you for the carrots.” He shoved the carrots into his backpack and turned away, wishing he had a pair of Elytra wings and could fly the short distance between here and his home.

  He was so close now; he could feel it. Would he recognize his house? What would he find there? Memories of the past? Neighbors who had been friends of his parents?

  He quickly passed the library and the butcher shop. As the houses thinned out, a long dirt road stretched out before him. Mason craned his neck to see what lay ahead, hoping to see something familiar. How many times had he walked this road with his parents? He couldn’t remember—he’d been so young.

  He could see the barn now, the farm he would pass just before reaching his house. Crops stretched out before it, tidy plants marching in long, straight rows. From a pen somewhere beyond, a cow mooed a greeting.

  As Mason hurried along the edge of the field, he nearly tripped over a patch of vines. “Someone forgot to weed,” he mumbled. He untangled a leafy vine from his foot, feeling as if he were back in the dense forest surrounding the swamp.

  The swamp. His stomach clutched, thinking of Luna and Ms. Beacon waking up this morning without him. Were they angry? Then he spotted something growing from the “weeds” at his feet. A watermelon!


  The round green ball was the size of a cocoa pod. Is it big enough for Ms. Beacon to use in her potions? Mason wondered. Maybe.

  He crouched low to snap the watermelon from the vine. That’s when he heard the rustle of grass nearby. Someone burst out, barreling straight toward Mason.

  CHAPTER 8

  Before Mason could draw his weapon, a boy knocked him off his feet—then began to laugh. Asher?

  Mason pushed his brother off and sat up straight, doing a double take. “What are you doing here?” he cried. “How did you find me?”

  Asher shrugged as he pulled a piece of grass from his hair. “I followed you.”

  “You did not. You were sleeping when I left!”

  Asher smirked. “I pretended to be sleeping. I knew you were going somewhere, and I didn’t want to be left behind.”

  Mason shook his head, thinking about the long, dangerous journey he had taken from the swamp—through the woods, past the exploding creeper, over the hill of sunflowers, and down into the village. “Why didn’t I see you?” he asked.

  Asher rummaged around in his pack and pulled out a potion bottle. “I had a secret weapon,” he announced proudly. “Potion of invisibility.”

  Mason sucked in his breath. “Ms. Beacon’s potion? Asher, how could you? She and Luna are probably already mad at us for sneaking off. When they find out you used up that potion—the only potion of invisibility that survived the fire—they’ll be really mad.” He pictured the storm clouds rolling across Ms. Beacon’s face and felt his pulse quicken.

  Asher stared at the clear potion sloshing around near the bottom of the bottle. Then he shrugged. “There’s still some left. Besides, we’ll bring lots of potion ingredients back with us.”

  Mason suddenly remembered the watermelon at his feet. “Speaking of potion ingredients, help me snap the melon off this vine. The sooner we get back to the swamp, the better.” He didn’t tell Asher yet that he had almost found their home. I’ll show him instead, he decided.

  With Asher’s help, Mason slid the watermelon into his backpack, feeling its weight on his shoulders. “C’mon,” he said. “Follow me.”