by Temre Beltz
“I said I’m not,” she said between heaving breaths, “going to turn you into a toad—because I’d rather turn you into . . . a PIG!”
The magic swirled off Helga’s fingertips before Oliver had time to blink. He opened his mouth to scream, protest, or just do something, but all that came out was a frantic “Oink, oink!” He watched helplessly as Helga crouched down beside him. The three bundles of magician’s thread had tumbled out of his arms and spilled onto the ground. Helga swept all three of them up with a greedy smile, while Oliver click-clacked furiously about on his four little hooves.
“Oh, quit yer fussin’,” she said. “I’m not about to whip up a perfectly good pig and then turn it loose in the swamp! You are a bit small for my taste”—she paused and narrowed her eyes at Oliver as if he’d had anything to do with the transformation—“but not small enough that I’ll be starvin’ in the morning!”
Piglet hearts, apparently, can thump just as fast as human hearts. Not only had Oliver not gotten the VIP that Master Von Hollow sent him for, not only had he gotten turned into a piglet, but now a wicked witch was planning to eat him for dinner. Everything that Oliver had been working toward—Headmaster Razzle’s awful thirty-day deadline, snagging a role as Master Von Hollow’s assistant, finally getting his magician’s hat and never once having to worry about fitting in again—was over, done for, kaput! This was the end for Oliver and, if you asked him, it really seemed quite tragical. He didn’t know much about those orphan kids stuck up on Tragic Mountain, but maybe that’s why he had never fit in as a magician. Maybe all this time he’d been a Tragical, and his destiny, or rather his doom, was finally catching up to him.
Though Oliver hadn’t realized it, his complete and total despair had translated into a fit of piggy wailing. But he snapped to attention when he felt a prick of sharp fingernails in the soft pink skin of his underbelly. The ground tumbled away as Helga roughly stashed him beneath her armpit. She smelled like old earth, crushed pine needles, and rotten eggs. All of it made Oliver’s head spin, and it was almost tempting to just give in to the “oink, oink” and pretend he had never been an eleven-year-old wannabe magician in the first place. It had all been very hard, and for what? What had come of it?
Helga bent her head low. Her knotty hair swept over his eyes and her breath was hot in his ears. “Quit yer squealin’, you hear? You’re in a room full of witches, and not one of them cares what I did to a pip-squeak like you!”
Oliver turned his wet snout from one end of the dark and shadowy cabin to the other. Helga was right. Everywhere he looked there was raucous and naughty behavior. Three witches beside him were standing on top of a table and using the heels of their witchy boots to grind the peanuts into a very messy layer of peanut butter. A few tables to the left, two witches were playing a heated round of Go Snitch and snarling over a platter of—gulp—enchanted betting bones at stake between them. Just beyond that, two witches were caught in the throes of an evil glaring contest that, judging by their disheveled appearance, very well may have begun a whole two days ago. Frankly, Oliver wondered how he had ever had the nerve to walk into such a place.
Helga, with Oliver firmly secured, replaced her jaunty hat, now bulging with the magician’s thread, on top of her head, and stomped out of the Twisted Goblet. She paused just outside the door and surveyed the row of broomsticks. She impatiently tapped her foot.
“For cryin’ out loud, why do you all have to look so much alike?” she screeched.
Oliver wanted to point out that back at Razzle’s School for Meddlesome Boys he could look down at the boat dock and pick Syd out all the way from his dormitory window, but since he was a pig the only thing that came out was a hearty “Snort!”
“Shut up!” Helga barked.
“Oh,” a voice crooned from behind. “Having a bad day?”
“Oink, oink, oink!” Oliver screamed in agreement. In response, Helga’s fingernails dug harder into his belly, but when she wheeled around to face the mysterious voice, Oliver’s heart soared. There, standing in front of them, was Council member Slickabee! Oliver was certain he’d never been so happy to see another magician in his life, even if Headmaster Razzle did always complain that Council member Slickabee had a “big head” from his years of work on the Chancellor’s Council. Big head or not, he still fit into a magician’s hat and that was good enough for Oliver.
“Oh, it’s you,” Helga Hookeye said with about as much enthusiasm as one greets an old banana peel. But Oliver, pressed tight against Helga’s side, could feel the chilling race of her small, witchy heart. “Whaddya want, Slickabee?”
Council member Slickabee raised his finger in the air. “That’s Council member Slickabee, don’t forget. And”—he reached beneath the lapel of his jacket and pulled forth an envelope—“I’d expect you would be happier to see me. Or maybe you forgot about your little petition to the Council?”
A low growl erupted from Helga. Oliver felt her body tense before she sprang forward and snatched the envelope right out of Slickabee’s hand. But Helga just stared at it. Indeed, it is very hard to open an envelope with one hand, and Oliver wasn’t about to make it any easier. He let out a shrill squeal; he pummeled his tiny hooves into her side and wound up tangled in the raggedy fabric of her black sweater.
Council member Slickabee cleared his throat. “Why don’t you just set your pig on the ground?” he asked.
“Ha! If you were going to be someone’s dinner, do you think you’d sit around and wait to be tossed in the pot?” Helga said. “But since you’re so interested in bein’ helpful, how’s about you hold him?”
Helga didn’t wait for an answer. She thrust Oliver into Council member Slickabee’s arms and began clawing at the envelope. Oliver tried desperately to think of how he could somehow convey to Council member Slickabee that he wasn’t actually a piglet but a student at Razzle’s School for Meddlesome Boys. Considering that his vocabulary merely consisted of “Oink” and “Oink, Oink,” he was having great difficulty.
“Helga,” Council member Slickabee began, his voice suddenly tense.
“Shut yer trap!” Helga said, not bothering to look up. “Can’t you see I’m reading a letter?”
“Yes, but this piglet, it’s—ah, well, it seems to be wearing a cape. Do you always dress up your dinner before you eat it?”
“For goblin’s sake, of course I—” Helga cursorily glanced up from her letter. Her jaw dropped. Though the rest of Oliver’s clothes were sitting in a useless pile on the floor of the Twisted Goblet, Council member Slickabee was right. Oliver was wearing a cape. It had shrunk right along with him and was finally the perfect size! Though Oliver hadn’t turned out to be much of a magician, he had somehow managed to be the most heroic- looking pig in the entire kingdom of Wanderly.
“As I was saying, I certainly . . . do get a kick out of dressing up my dinner. Doesn’t every witch?” Helga finished with an anxious glint in her eye.
Council member Slickabee lifted Oliver up so they were nearly nose to snout.
“Oink, oink, oink, oink!” Oliver squealed.
Council member Slickabee frowned. “You know, Helga, if I’m not mistaken, I think this piglet is trying to talk to me.”
“Heh, I think that says more about you than the pig,” Helga said with a nod of her head. She turned the letter in her hands upside down and dangled it by its tip. “There’re too many words on this blasted thing! Just tell me what it says, why don’t you?”
Council member Slickabee lowered Oliver just a bit. “Fair enough,” he said. “That letter was written to inform you that your petition to engage in an officially monitored Triumphant encounter for a nice reward is denied.”
“WHAAA?” Helga said, her face turning bright red. “You—you—you came lookin’ for me to deliver that garbage? This is my twenty-first petition!”
Council member Slickabee didn’t seem at all sympathetic. “And your twenty-first denial. It didn’t help you much that a witch went rogue during last
week’s demonstration at Castle Cressida. That required a lot of damage control, let me tell you. The Chancellor was hardly motivated to open up the gates to a witch as demonstrably wicked as you.”
“But I thought that’s what witches were supposed to be!” Helga roared.
“Yes, but some witches are simply too wicked to be trusted with the kingdom’s Triumphants. Consider it a compliment.”
Helga fumed. “I’ll consider it a compliment when someone fills my pocket with grubins! Now give me back my piglet,” she said in a low voice. She yanked Oliver so hard out of Council member Slickabee’s hands that she left behind a small piece of Oliver’s cape.
“Oh no. You’ve gone and torn his handsome little cape. That’s a shame,” Council member Slickabee said. But when he looked at the piece of fabric still sitting on his palm, his eyes narrowed in on something. He brought the fabric closer for examination, and Oliver’s piglet heart soared. “What’s this writing?” he said. And then he tried to read it aloud. “Rooster’s . . . no . . . Riddle’s . . . no, that’s not it, either . . . Raz—” Council member Slickabee gasped. His hands balled up into fists at his sides, and his eyes caught fire. “That’s not a pig at all, is it, Helga? That’s a boy! That’s a magician! You were planning to—to—to eat a student from Razzle’s School for Meddlesome Boys! What were you thinking?!”
Was there anything so wonderful as the truth? Oliver didn’t think so, and despite the fact that he was still caught in Helga’s crooked embrace, he was plenty content to sit and let her and Council member Slickabee hash it out because, at the very least, Oliver was certain he would no longer be cooked that night.
“Quit yer finger pointin’!” Helga cried.
“Finger pointing? I hardly have to finger point! You are holding a piglet in your arm that is wearing a cape, and you told me yourself he was dinner.”
“But he was buggin’ me! He wouldn’t leave me alone. Came in demanding I hand over a VIP—”
“A VIP?” Council member Slickabee said. “And what did he have in return?”
Helga licked her lips. “Nothin’!” she said. “Absolutely nothin’!”
Council member Slickabee crossed his arms. He drummed his fingertips against his elbow. “May I see your hat, please?” he asked.
“Why, you don’t like yours anymore?” Helga said with a sneer.
“No, I am a Council member, and I would like to see your hat!”
Helga reached up with one hand. She carefully lifted her hat an inch or two above her head. “Happy?”
“Turn it over so I can see inside it,” Council member Slickabee commanded.
When Helga reluctantly passed it his way, the three bundles of magician’s thread shone in the dim light. “Nothing, hmm?” Council member Slickabee said. “And I suppose you’d have me believe that this thread came from your own wicked hat? Now, I would like you to hand me the pig, along with the VIP, otherwise I will be keeping the magician’s thread and reporting you to the Council.”
Oliver had never seen a defeated witch before. He certainly hadn’t expected such a display from a witch like Helga Hookeye. But apparently not even someone as magical as a witch got everything she wanted. She plopped Oliver into Council member Slickabee’s hands and yanked on the strap of a black knapsack secured over her shoulder. With a snort she rummaged about, sifting through what sounded to be a heap of clinking vials, until she finally emerged with the blackest potion Oliver had ever seen.22 She slipped it into Council member Slickabee’s pocket with an incendiary glare and then stomped toward the row of broomsticks, rudely kicking each one awake until she located her own.
Council member Slickabee shook out the folds of his brilliant purple Council cloak and clutched Oliver a bit tighter beneath his arm. “Come along, then, piglet,” he said. “I have business to attend to at Razzle’s, and I’m sure you are more than ready to go home.”
Though Council member Slickabee hadn’t a clue what those words meant to Oliver, Oliver’s piglet heart thumped.
Home.
Yes, he was more than ready to go home.
He only wished it were as easy as that.
In a whirling, twirling blink of an eye, Council member Slickabee and Oliver tumbled into Headmaster Razzle’s office. When Oliver shook loose from Council member Slickabee’s purple Council cloak he was disappointed to find that he was still a piglet. Headmaster Razzle seemed less than enthused by it too.
“Council member Slickabee,” he said, while seated at his desk, “why have you brought a pig into my office?”
Council member Slickabee tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Razzle. And this is no ordinary pig. He’s one of yours.”
Headmaster Razzle sniffed. “I do not keep pigs, Gulliver.”
“No, not one of your pigs, one of your students. I rescued him out of Helga Hookeye’s curly fingernails.”
“Helga Hookeye?” Headmaster Razzle said with a raised eyebrow and an ill-concealed shiver. He nodded in Oliver’s direction. “Consider yourself lucky, hmm? Now, I wonder which boy you are. I sent Nicholas and Duncan off this morning to work on their super-super-size illusions, but neither one of them is foolish enough to fall into the lap of a witch.”
Headmaster Razzle drew a sudden sharp breath. “Oh no,” he said with a groan.
“What is it?” Council member Slickabee said, leaning in closer.
“I see quite clearly this pig has on a ridiculous cape, but did you notice a hat? If he was wearing a hat, his hat should have shrunk with him too. The essential apparel is bound to him.”
Council member Slickabee frowned. “I don’t remember having seen a hat. Do you think Helga would have stolen it?”
“Because she’s short on magic and particularly eager to turn to stone?” Headmaster Razzle asked with a roll of his eyes. “Of course she didn’t steal it. This pig never had a hat to begin with! This is Oliver Dash, and Oliver Dash’s days here are already numbered! Isn’t that right, Oliver?” Headmaster Razzle bent down to look at Oliver.
Oliver felt like he had swallowed a rock. Deadline aside, messing up Master Von Hollow’s transaction and requiring rescue by a Council member could only hasten his expulsion. Oliver decided that he would just have to use his porcine image to his advantage. He would feign total oblivion. And no one would be able to prove a thing until he had regained his human shape.
Oliver blinked. “Oink!” he squealed.
“I should say so!” Headmaster Razzle said.
“Oink, oink!” Oliver chimed in.
“You got that right—”
“Um, Headmaster Razzle, pardon the interruption, but are you quite certain the pig understands you?”
Headmaster Razzle froze. “He doesn’t?”
“I don’t know—”
“He does?”
Council member Slickabee sighed.
“Oink, oink, oink!” Oliver threw in for good measure.
Headmaster Razzle crossed his arms against his chest. “Hmmm, I suppose it is a bit hard to know for sure, isn’t it?”
“Why don’t you just allow him to stay on here until Helga’s curse wears off?” Council member Slickabee said. “We’re certainly busy enough without the addition of a delinquent boy to trifle with. In any case, I didn’t just come here to drop off a pig. I came because I have news.”
A slow smile spread across Headmaster Razzle’s face. “Now that is far, far more interesting than a pig. Do tell what you’ve learned, Gulliver!”
“For starters, the invitations have been sent out. The venue for Master Von Hollow’s showcase is secured, and it is precisely the night we hoped: September thirtieth! It will be, by far, the largest audience—”
“And the most important,” Headmaster Razzle interjected.
“And the most important audience we’ve had since the Chancellor first shoved us off into the Swinging Swamp and forgot all about how extraordinary we are,” Council member Slickabee finished with a flourish.
“Honestly, Gulliver, it’s a
wonder to me how you’ve managed to last on the Council for so long. The Chancellor’s list of suggested ‘nuisance’ duties alone is enough to make me heave.”
“Yes, but if I hadn’t managed to control my temper all these years, would we find ourselves at last drawing near to the precipice of change? I think not!”
Headmaster Razzle lifted his eyebrow. “Maybe. But I dare say Master Von Hollow would have something to say about his role in the matter.”
“Hmph,” Council member Slickabee said with a pout. “Master Von Hollow can’t even figure out how to pick up his own VIP order. That’s what the boy was doing there, by the way. Master Von Hollow sent him to pick up the . . . oh, what’s that one called again? The one that helps him do that hat trick?” Council member Slickabee tapped the tip of his fingernail on his tooth, deep in thought. “Well, I suppose they’re all hat tricks, but the special one that extends the brim of his hat?”
“The Black Wreath?” Headmaster Razzle choked out. “He sent Oliver to pick up a potion like the Black Wreath? Why would he do such a thing?”
Council member Slickabee shrugged. “My best guess is that he was trying to avoid questions. No one uses the amount of Black Wreath that Von Hollow’s used over the years without being up to something. If Helga ever realizes all those orders are from the same person, you’d better believe she’d use it to her advantage. She certainly needs points with the Council. Anyhow, because I intercepted her, there was no real harm done—”
Headmaster Razzle coughed and thrust his finger in Oliver’s direction. “No real harm done? Gulliver, he’s a pig!”
“Well, not for forever. He’ll probably be back to normal in one to seven days.”
Considering Oliver wasn’t supposed to understand a word of what was going on, he tried very, very hard not to run around the room squealing. True, it was still better than being roasted for dinner, but seven days? He couldn’t be a pig for seven days. The audition to be the assistant in Master Von Hollow’s showcase was in five days. What if he missed it? What hope would he possibly have left then?