The Triumphant Tale of Pippa North

by Temre Beltz

  Pippa couldn’t imagine a single good ending that didn’t include them.

  But with the merest flick of Fairy Goodwell’s wrist, an array of dazzling sparks burst forth from her wand. Shades of purple, pink, and blue showered down all around Pippa. The other children (except, of course, for the oh-so-lovely Bumbles) oohed and aahed, and the floor directly beneath Pippa’s oversize galoshes began to glow.

  Fairy Goodwell slowly lowered her wand. She looked apprehensively in Ms. Bravo’s direction. “It’s done,” she said. “For better or worse, it’s done.”

  And poor Pippa did what no other entrant to Peabody’s Academy for the Triumphant had ever done before. She did not whoop; she did not holler. She did not sprint about or execute a series of high-flying joyful leaps. She did not demand an instant interview with a reporter from the Wanderly Whistle.

  No, Pippa stood, with her eyes fixed on the toe of her mother’s galoshes, trying desperately not to cry.

  Huzzah?

  Two

  The Boy Without a Hat

  Far, far away from Pippa, near the southernmost edge of Wanderly, in the remote and muggy “home” of the magicians known as the Swinging Swamp, eleven-year-old Oliver Dash crept through the dark and twisty hallways of Razzle’s School for Meddlesome Boys.

  Oliver was not creeping about for any sinister sort of reason. He was merely devoted to practicing the fine art of subtlety—a hallmark of the most esteemed magicians—at every opportunity he could find. If you are thinking Oliver seems to be as devoted a student as Pippa, I’m afraid you would be wrong.

  There is a stark difference between being a devoted student and being a desperate one, and for the past four years, Oliver had borne the weight of a most unenviable title. Oliver was the oldest boy in the Swinging Swamp not to have received his magician’s hat.

  In Wanderly a magician’s hat was a matter of great mystery. One could not simply stop off at Wanderly’s beloved marketplace, Pigglesticks, and pluck a handsome one off the rack. Absolutely not! A magician’s hat was nontransferable, and attempting to use a bought, borrowed, or even stolen hat brought about the unhappy, and very final, consequence of being turned into stone.9 In the normal course of things, a magician’s hat simply arrived (always unannounced and usually in the dead of night), and along with it came a magician’s ability to perform magic. Indeed, all of a magician’s powers originated from his hat, and without a hat—without magic—it was questionable whether a magician could be considered a magician at all.

  Oliver drew to a halt in front of a door with a shiny gold handle and a shiny gold nameplate. At least, they were supposed to be shiny, but as with most things in the Swinging Swamp, they were instead dusted with a furry coating of the green moss the magicians had long since given up on sloughing away. Indeed, with a steady temperature of absolutely awful, oodles of voracious sinkholes, and nearly three inches of water submerging every exterior pathway, the Swinging Swamp was a most formidable foe.

  The magicians, of course, had as much choice in settling in the swamp as they had in the unalterable amendment of their school’s name from Razzle’s School for Magical Boys to Razzle’s School for Meddlesome Boys. Both were curses ordered by the Chancellor, who remained aggravatingly unimpressed with the magicians’ prowess for performance and was instead bound, set, and determined to demote them from a properly villainous role to that of “nuisance.” Certain there could be no more insignificant role than “nuisance,” the magicians had spent the past three decades trying to slog their way—quite literally—out of this sordid fate, but alas there they still were.

  “Open the door, Oliver! I heard you clunking around a whole two hallways ago!” Headmaster Razzle’s voice rang out.

  Oliver swallowed. He straightened the collar of the ridiculously short cape that fluttered a whole inch above his waistline. Of course, every other boy Oliver’s age had a suave black cape that flowed down to his calves, but every other boy Oliver’s age also had his magician’s hat. They simply didn’t make novice-level capes in Oliver’s size.

  Oliver pushed open the door of Headmaster Razzle’s office and prepared to exclaim in as bright and cheery a voice as he could muster, “Good morning, Headmaster Razzle!” because being called into the headmaster’s office didn’t have to mean he was in a boatload of trouble. Instead he blurted out, “Wh-where did everything go?”

  Because Headmaster Razzle’s office, which had once been filled to overflowing with a lifetime of carefully collected and catalogued trinkets, was empty. Or rather, nearly empty. His desk remained, and he seemed to be sitting on some semblance of a chair, though it certainly wasn’t his beloved jewel-encrusted throne (which everyone secretly agreed was a retired stage prop). The walls, however, were nothing more than an empty vessel for old nails, save for the lone painting that hung just above Headmaster Razzle’s head.

  Oliver squinted at the painting. “Is that the—”

  “Sapphire Sea that laps at the base of Triumph Mountain?” Headmaster Razzle said with a dreamy sigh. “Why, yes, it is. It’s hard to imagine even a spit of water not tainted in green, but it’s not that way everywhere in Wanderly, is it, Oliver?”

  Though Oliver got the sense Headmaster Razzle wanted him to nod his head in agreement, he instead just stood there awkwardly. Like most of the students at Razzle’s School for Meddlesome Boys, Oliver had never set foot outside the Swinging Swamp. From what Oliver could gather from the school’s meager library, it seemed as if there were a great many places in Wanderly that weren’t one bit swamp-like, but he couldn’t know for sure.

  Oliver cleared his throat. “Are you . . . switching offices, sir? Is that why you called me in this morning? You need some help moving?”

  At most academic institutions this would be an odd assumption to make, but Oliver was more than used to it. As the oldest student without a hat, he was reminded quite often about what a perpetual drain his presence was on all. So, every extra chore was immediately handed off to Oliver. While the other boys his age practiced magic, he pretended that slaving away was no big deal and that he didn’t fall asleep every single night asking the same burning question: Why me?

  The jaunty tilt of Headmaster Razzle’s jaw dipped slightly. For a moment, he almost looked as if he felt sorry for Oliver. But that moment passed very quickly.

  “I did not call you in here to discuss my circumstances, Oliver, but rather to discuss yours.” Headmaster Razzle looked long and hard at Oliver. “How long do you think this can go on? How long do you think you should stay at this academic institution? Oliver, what if your hat never comes at all?”

  Oliver had wondered the same thing more times than he cared to admit, but it didn’t seem wise to let Headmaster Razzle know that. “It will come, sir. Perhaps it shall come this week? Tomorrow? Or maybe even tonight? I—I know it shall be soon.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not enough, Oliver. Your predictions are nothing more than wishful thinking, and the other magicians have grown . . . tired of waiting.” Headmaster Razzle lifted his eyebrow in Oliver’s direction as if that was supposed to mean something, but it didn’t. Not to Oliver. It wasn’t like he had any control over the arrival of his hat. If he had, he would have made sure it arrived years ago.

  After a moment or two of silence, Headmaster Razzle let out a long, rattling breath. “Oliver, they want you to leave. They want you to be expelled from Razzle’s School for Meddlesome Boys. And frankly, I don’t see why I should stop it.”

  Oliver’s jaw gaped. “But where would I go? I-I’ve lived here since I was a baby. Since you found me at the edge of the swamp and carried me here yourself.10 Headmaster Razzle, this is my home.”

  Headmaster Razzle’s voice was hollow. “A home is a place where you belong, Oliver. And you”—his gaze flickered up to Oliver’s woefully bare head—“quite obviously don’t.”

  “I just need a little more time.” Oliver’s voice tumbled out quickly. “Please, sir. We’ve already waited this long. I know it will—�
��

  “No!” Headmaster Razzle barked. “There is no more time, Oliver. Change is upon us. Soon, the Chancellor is going to witness the performance of our lives and nothing will ever be the same. Our role is about to change, Oliver. No longer will magicians be seen as merely a sidekick nuisance. Finally, we’ll be placed in the spotlight, where we should have been from the very start. But in order for this to happen, everyone”—he paused and looked pointedly at Oliver—“and I mean everyone, must be in top form.”

  Oliver frowned. The only performances he knew about were the somewhat depressing showcases the magicians performed every month in the Swinging Swamp. They weren’t lacking in effort, but they were severely lacking in audience. In fact, no one outside the Swinging Swamp had ever once bothered to attend, and most especially not the Chancellor. Oliver had heard rumors that the magicians were planning a second showcase for this month, something they’d never done before, but he hadn’t any idea why that should appeal to the Chancellor. Before Oliver had a chance to inquire, however, Headmaster Razzle’s face grew deathly pale. He gripped the brim of his hat.

  “Incoming!” he cried. “Incoming!”

  As wonderful and coveted as a magician’s hat was, it was not without its flaws. For instance, though nearly anything that could fit comfortably inside a magician’s hat (no squishing allowed!) could be made to disappear, the objects didn’t actually cease to exist.

  Instead, they went elsewhere.

  As in, whenever an object disappeared inside one magician’s hat, it promptly reappeared inside another unrelated magician’s hat with little more than a slight bobble as a warning. This wasn’t too terrible in the case of tasty snacks like apples, useful items such as pencils, or soft and fuzzy creatures like rabbits, but not all magicians possessed the same sensibilities and sometimes such reprehensible objects as snakes, beetles, and mud balls went hurtling through the space-magic continuum instead.

  Headmaster Razzle wrung his hands together. The sheen of sweat that lined his forehead manifested itself into big, rolling drops. “Ohhhh, I daresay I never will get used to these obnoxious intrusions! What will it be? What will it—AHHHH!” he screamed and promptly began to flail about his office.

  Oliver didn’t have to wait long to see what it was. Headmaster Razzle’s famously tall hat flew into the air, and there sitting atop his head was a wide-eyed, shivering, and very slimy baby octopus. Oliver took an immediate liking to it, although its tentacles did not seem to be sitting well with Headmaster Razzle. Every time Headmaster Razzle managed to pry one off and move to the next, the former clamped right back on.

  “Help! Help! HELP!” Headmaster Razzle roared.

  Though Oliver tended to be helpful by nature and had been trained to be even more so as a result of his dismal position at school, in this instance, he did not jump to Headmaster Razzle’s assistance. Instead, he waited. He wondered if perhaps the baby octopus was exactly the help he was in need of; if maybe not all magic in Wanderly was against him.

  By that time, Headmaster Razzle had bent fully over with his head pointed toward the floor. He tugged on the baby octopus with all his might, but his hands kept slipping off the octopus’s squishy, pink body.

  Oliver tried to think of something terrifying to say. He thought back through every book he’d ever come across that mentioned octopuses and then—

  “Hurry, sir! Before it inks you!”

  “Inks me?” Headmaster Razzle cried, aghast. “What happens if it inks me?”

  Bull’s-eye! Oliver bounced on his toes as if trying to get a better glimpse of the octopus. “Well, I can’t exactly tell what type of octopus it is, but I think in most cases the resulting blindness is only temporary. Maybe a year or so.”

  “Blind? I can’t go blind! I have showcases to perform! A school to run! We’re finally preparing to turn over a new page, and I refuse to let a slimy invertebrate rip it to shreds!” Headmaster Razzle straightened up. He temporarily stopped his flailing and looked Oliver in the eye. “Get this thing off me, Oliver.”

  Oliver’s heart pounded. This was it. This was the chance he’d been hoping for. “You mean you want me to help you? But I thought I was going to be expelled?”

  “Of course I want you to help me! Why wouldn’t I want you to help me? Why . . .” Headmaster Razzle’s voice trailed off. Ever so slowly he began to nod his head, which made it look like the baby octopus was nodding its head, which all would have been quite funny if Oliver’s very existence didn’t feel as if it were dangling at the end of an extraordinarily thin string. “All right, fine, Oliver. If you get this octopus off my head, you can have one extra week; one extra week to receive your hat and prove you’re a proper magician—”

  “Thirty days,” Oliver said.

  “Thirty days? But that’s—we might be—ugh!” Headmaster Razzle let out a howl as the octopus removed one particularly adhesive sucker from his forehead, leaving behind an angry red welt. “Fine, thirty days it is! But you’re only prolonging the inevitable. If you haven’t received your hat by now, all the days in the world won’t make a difference.”

  Headmaster Razzle bent his head toward Oliver, and Oliver began gently trying to pry the octopus free.

  “I know I’m a magician, sir,” Oliver said. “It’s the only thing I know how to be. And I know, because I learned it from you.”

  “Yes, well, even grown-ups make mistakes, Oliver. And mistakes like you must be done away with.”

  Oliver’s jaw dropped. The baby octopus finally popped free of Headmaster Razzle’s head and slid contentedly into Oliver’s hands. But all Oliver could hear was the word “mistake,” and it pierced so deeply into his heart that it became very difficult to breathe.

  Mistakes were wrong answers on a math exam, showing up ten minutes late to an appointment, or putting on someone else’s cape.

  But people—people—were never mistakes.

  People simply couldn’t be mistakes.

  Could they?

  Headmaster Razzle furiously tried to smooth his mussed-up hair. He scooped his fallen hat off the ground and reached for the baby octopus. But Oliver took a step backward.

  “Give me that wretched creature so I can send it scuttling off to some other sap,” Headmaster Razzle said.

  “That’s all right,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “No need to bother another magician. I know a place where I can take it.”

  Before Headmaster Razzle could respond, Oliver scurried quickly out of his office. Angry tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

  Oliver didn’t actually have a clue what he should do with a baby octopus, but he couldn’t stand the thought of watching it disappear; of watching it be sent away; of knowing it didn’t have any real place to belong.

  A place like Wanderly wasn’t well suited for those who didn’t fit in. In fact, when every role was painstakingly defined, and adherence to that role was required by the Chancellor, belonging was as necessary as breathing.

  Oliver set his jaw. There was simply no other way around it. He didn’t have a choice. No matter what anybody said, the Swinging Swamp was his home, and he had thirty days to prove it.

  Three

  Dear Fairy Godmother

  Way up high on Triumph Mountain, beneath a blue sky full of perfectly puffed marshmallow clouds, Pippa North and Bernard Benedict Bumble V tumbled out from beneath Ms. Bravo’s purple Council cloak.

  No, this is not a dream sequence. I am not a fan of such gimmicks in books, unless they are absolutely necessary. This—and by “this,” I mean Bernard—was a very real turn of bad luck. To be fair, Ms. Bravo hadn’t wanted to choose Bernard for Peabody’s Academy for the Triumphant. Indeed, she argued tooth and nail against the other Council members’ repeated insistence on resorting to the “envelope” Fairy Goodwell had referred to when Pippa was selected. Ms. Bravo must have known what was in that envelope—i.e., the Chancellor’s “strong recommendations” as to who should be selected11—but after five grueling rounds of examination, w
ailing babies, wan children, and the raised eyebrows of nearly every Council member, Ms. Bravo relented.

  Pippa rose slowly to her feet. She squished her toes anxiously inside her mother’s galoshes. She resolved not to think on how a fairy godmother had purportedly changed her destiny forever, and instead focused on soaking up every detail of life on Triumph Mountain. One day soon everyone would realize this was all a giant mistake, and when she returned to her family, at the very least she could have a fantastic story to share. Yes, that’s what this was—a story-building experience.

  “Is Castle Cressida very far, Ms. Bravo?” Pippa asked, referring to the famed home of Peabody’s Academy for the Triumphant.

  “Very far?” Bernard piped up. “Are you a dimwig? Castle Cressida is right there!”

  Pippa was about to inform Bernard that her ponytail was most definitely not a wig, until she realized that he likely meant to say “dimwit.” Not wanting to bolster his arsenal of insults, she kept mum and turned instead in the direction he was pointing.

  But Bernard’s skills of identification seemed to be as skewed as his vocabulary. The structure looming ahead of them was certainly large enough to be considered a castle, but it was covered nearly head to toe in thick, unrelenting ropes of ivy. There looked to be three spires pointing up at the blue sky, but one of them was cockeyed and another had lost nearly all of its roof shingles. The window boxes were full of nothing but rocks, and the entire structure, if a building could do such a thing, was slouching. Pippa was about to tell Bernard as much, when her eyes fell upon the staircase at the very front of the building.

  It was painted in gold. It was chipped, flaking, and peeling, to be sure, but when the sun shifted, it appeared to be trying its best to . . . sparkle. Though the Chancellor never conducted such a thing as public tours of Castle Cressida, he had certainly slapped up enough murals, tapestries, and portraits of it all over Wanderly. Everyone from the ages of zero to one hundred could recognize those stairs. They were a symbol of what life as a Triumphant was supposed to be like: a golden staircase leading all the way to the very top.